A Walk With the Dead (33 page)

‘She's very upset!' Grimes exploded. ‘How do you think
he
feels? I've just had to tell the poor bugger his wife's been killed!'

‘What! Mrs Baxter? Dead! I didn't know.'

The powers-that-be had probably been keeping it quiet until Baxter himself had been informed, Grimes told himself. They often did in situations like this, and he should have thought of that before shooting his mouth off.

‘Listen, don't mention it to anyone until there's been an official announcement,' he told the switchboard operator.

‘I only saw her the other day. It's all a bit of a shock,' the operator said.

‘Yes, I imagine it must be,' Grimes agreed.

‘So I'm to tell this girl to call back in a few days, am I?'

‘Yes, I think that would be best.'

‘Simon spoke to you while Jill was dancing with her brother-in-law,' Paniatowski said. ‘I thought you told me that Simon
didn't
speak to you.'

‘You're splitting hairs,' Liz Duffy said angrily. ‘But if it will make you feel any happier, let's just say that the thought which came into my head
could have been
what Simon would have said.'

‘And what was it that Simon said – or could have said?'

‘He said, “
Now
do you see?”'

‘
Now
do you see?' Paniatowski asked, pouncing on the word. ‘Now do you see
what
?'

A look of real shame came to Liz Duffy's face.

‘I'd been starting to have doubts,' she admitted.

‘Doubts?'

‘I was beginning to think that Simon hadn't been entirely honest with me about what had gone on in Sutton Park. That's why what happened at that wedding reception was almost like an epiphany, because suddenly I could see just what these girls were like – and how helpless the men who fall under their spell are.'

‘How would killing her have helped Simon?'

‘It wouldn't. He was lost. He'd given way, under the strain of all the injustice, and hanged himself in his cell. But he was the kind of wonderful caring man who would have wanted me to save others from the fate that befell him.'

‘So you killed Jill to save her brother-in-law?'

‘Perhaps him, or perhaps some other poor soul who would eventually have fallen into her clutches. All I knew was that she had to be stopped before she did any real damage.'

‘So it was a totally altruistic act?'

‘Yes, I'm an unselfish person by nature – that's why I'm a doctor.'

‘You did it for
yourself
,' Paniatowski said harshly. ‘You had to believe that Jill – and all girls like her – were evil, because that meant that what Simon had claimed was true. And what was the best way to prove to yourself that you really
did
believe she was evil? Why, by killing her – because you're a doctor, and you could never bring yourself to kill someone who was innocent. But it's a circular argument – you kill them because they're guilty, and they must be guilty because you've killed them.'

‘That's what we medics call “pop psychology”,' Liz Duffy said, a little uneasily.

‘And what you've just said is what we detectives call “self-justification”,' Paniatowski countered. ‘You were wondering why you went to the park again, the night after you killed Jill. Well, I'll tell you – it was because once you'd started, you couldn't stop.'

‘Oh, I'd got a taste for blood, had I?'

‘No, it wasn't that at all.'

‘Then what was it?'

And there was at least a part of Duffy that was interested in hearing the answer, Paniatowski thought.

‘You realized that if you'd killed one girl because she was guilty, then you had no excuse for letting other girls – who were equally as guilty – go on living. You saw yourself as an even-handed instrument of justice. You had to – because the alternative was far too terrible to contemplate.'

‘And what alternative might that be?' Liz Duffy challenged.

‘Why, that you'd willingly sacrificed your own personality – your whole sense of self-esteem – on the altar of Simon-worship, and that Simon had turned out to be no kind of god at all. That by looking for a replacement for your darling daddy – and ending up with a pervert – you'd thrown your life away. It really was much easier to keep on killing than face that truth, wasn't it?'

The thunder boomed, the lights flickered – then went off – and the sheet lightning overhead illuminated Liz Duffy's crumbling face in its ghostly yellow glow.

The power came on again, and Liz Duffy gave Paniatowski a look of pure hatred.

‘I want to see a lawyer now,' she said.

‘The kinds of problems that you have can't be fixed by any lawyer,' Paniatowski told. ‘You need to think about what you've done and why you've done it, Liz – it's the only way you'll ever have a chance of finding peace.'

‘Lawyer!' Duffy screamed. ‘I demand to see a lawyer!'

J
o Baxter's funeral took place on a chill March morning. The church – St John's – was packed. Many of the people there were police officers who had not known her personally, but respected her husband, and had come to offer him their support. If Jo was in heaven – and some of those there believed that she was – then she was probably looking down on the service and reflecting bitterly that, even in death, she was not so much
Jo
Baxter as
Mrs George
Baxter.

Once the service was over, and the body laid to rest, George Baxter positioned himself by the lychgate, from where he could thank the mourners individually for putting in an appearance. He looked pretty much as he always did – big and impressive and in charge – except that though his moustache was still like a big ginger caterpillar, his shock of hair had turned quite white.

The team joined the line, which was slowly shuffling forwards. They didn't say anything to each other. Somehow, that wouldn't have seemed quite right.

They finally reached the front of the queue.

‘Thank you for coming, Detective Inspector Beresford,' Baxter said, shaking Beresford's hand firmly. ‘It was good of you to come, Detective Sergeant Meadows.' Shake. ‘I appreciate your kindness, Detective Constable Crane.' Shake.

And then it was Paniatowski's turn.

‘You did a good job with the Liz Duffy case, Detective Chief Inspector Paniatowski,' Baxter said. ‘Well done.'

And though he had made eye contact with the other three, he looked through Paniatowski as if she were not there.

They filed past the chief constable and into the street.

‘A drink,' Paniatowski said firmly. ‘I need a drink.'

And none of the team disagreed.

The pub was just across the street from the church, and was called the Bishop's Arms. They grabbed a table near the window, and ordered a round of drinks.

‘There's a rumour going round that Mrs Baxter committed suicide,' Beresford said.

‘That wasn't what the coroner ruled,' Paniatowski said sharply, remembering the way that Baxter had refused to look at her.

‘The rumours also say that she was doing ninety when she came off the road, and that she had enough alcohol in her to start a distillery,' Beresford said.

‘For God's sake, sir, shut up!' Meadows exploded. ‘The woman's dead and buried – let her rest in peace.'

‘Fair enough,' Beresford said, looking a little shamefaced.

Paniatowski took a sip of her vodka, and thought about the other news she would soon have to break. Her original plan had been to inform Jack Crane, and then tell the others later, but she now decided that it might be better for Crane if he heard it while he was surrounded by his colleagues.

‘Last night, Liz Duffy hanged herself in her cell,' she said.

‘Oh my God,' Crane said, turning white.

Meadows put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Easy, Jack,' she said softly.

‘She wasn't the girl you once knew, Jack,' Paniatowski said. ‘She'd turned into a completely different person.'

‘But she still
could
have been the girl I knew,' Crane said. ‘If only I'd tried to win her back . . . if only I'd warned her about Simon . . .'

Paniatowski's sudden rage took everyone – including herself – completely by surprise.

‘Don't you
dare
blame yourself,' she shouted across the table. ‘Don't you bloody dare!'

‘I'm . . . I'm sorry, boss,' Crane stuttered.

‘If I ever hear you talking like that again, you're off the team,' Paniatowski told him. ‘If I even suspect you're
thinking
like that, you're gone.'

The people at the other tables had turned around to see what all the fuss was about.

Paniatowski stood up.

‘If you'll excuse me, I think I need a breath of fresh air,' she said, and headed for the door.

‘What was that all about?' Beresford asked, when she'd gone.

‘I rather think she might be a little upset, sir,' Meadows said. ‘And you didn't help the situation much.'

‘Me? What did I do wrong?'

‘You kept going on about whether or not Mrs Baxter had committed suicide. Didn't you even notice the way the chief constable avoided the boss's eyes at the lychgate?'

‘I didn't, as a matter of fact, but I don't see what the one thing's got to do with the other,' Beresford said.

‘No,' Meadows agreed. ‘You probably don't.' She stood up. ‘I think I'll grab a little fresh air myself.'

Meadows found Paniatowski in the churchyard, gazing down at a headstone that said:

Arthur Jones

1911–1961

Rest in Peace

‘When I saw you coming in here, I thought you might be visiting your father's grave,' Meadows said.

‘He's buried in the Catholic cemetery, along with my mother,' Paniatowski replied.

So who's this Arthur Jones?'

‘He was my stepfather. He began raping me when I was eleven, and only finally stopped when I'd grown big enough and strong enough to start fighting back.'

‘Oh God, I'm so sorry!' Meadows said.

‘What for?' Paniatowski asked.

‘When we were questioning Liz Duffy, I suggested that her father may have raped
her
.'

‘Yes, you did.'

‘I'd never have done it if I'd known that had happened to you. It must have brought it all back to you. It must have been terrible.'

‘It
did
bring it all back to me, and it
wasn't
terrible,' Paniatowski said. ‘It was exactly the right thing to say – and it got us the result we wanted.'

They stood in silence for a few moments, then Meadows said, ‘Would you mind if I asked you another question, boss?'

‘Not at all.'

‘Why are you here, at the graveside of a man you must hate?'

‘To remind myself that I
don't
hate him any longer – that I've trained myself not to hate him.'

‘I see,' Meadows said.

Paniatowski smiled. ‘No, you don't – not yet.'

She paused, opened her handbag, took out her cigarettes, and then, remembering where she was, returned the packet to the bag.

‘I don't hate the Germans for killing my father, either,' she continued. ‘I used to, but now I just accept that he was in a war, and that in wars, bad things happen. The past is gone forever, and on the journey through the rest of your life, you can't allow the dead to walk beside you and keep spewing their poison into your ears.'

‘You're right, of course – but it's not always an easy lesson to learn,' Meadows said.

‘No, it isn't,' Paniatowski agreed, ‘but if Liz Duffy had learned it, she might have been able to look forward to a useful life and a contented old age. Instead, she ended up swinging from the ceiling of her cell. And she's not the only one who didn't learn the lesson. I've been told about another suicide this morning, and I think that – above all – is what really upset me.'

‘Was it somebody you knew?' Meadows asked.

‘No, we'd never even met, but I knew
of
her,' Paniatowski said sadly. ‘Her name was Susan Williams. She was sixteen years old, and was once raped by a man called Templar – and last night she drowned herself in the river.'