Lambs to the Slaughter (13 page)

‘Exactly! Now stop being so bloody diplomatic, and tell me what you really think.'

‘I'm inclined to go with the inspector's view of the case,' Crane said.

‘And why's that?'

‘Because I don't like coincidences, and it seems to me to be far
too much
of a coincidence that anybody who hated Hopkins for
personal
reasons should have waited until there was this
political
disturbance before killing him.'

‘What a sweet boy you are,' Meadows said, affectionately.

‘You don't agree?'

‘If I was planning to kill someone for personal reasons, I'd wait for just this sort of opportunity – a time when there might be a completely different reason to kill him – precisely so that a bobby like Inspector Beresford would come along and muddy the waters.'

‘So you agree with the boss, do you?' Crane asked.

‘I didn't say that,' she replied, enigmatically. ‘And whichever of them turns out to be right, there's no doubt that our inspector is being a real pain in the arse, is there?'

‘No doubt at all,' Beresford agreed. ‘And we both know
why
he's being a pain in the arse.'

‘We do indeed,' Meadows said.

Roger Hardcastle looked at Lynda Jenkins' face on the monitor.

‘If it had been left up to me, I'd never have let the bloody woman anywhere near a story like this again – not after the cock-up she made on that prostitute murder,' he said. ‘But it
wasn't
left up to me.'

‘So what happened?' asked Phil, his assistant. ‘Has she been waggling her tits in front of the management again?'

‘No, funnily enough, I don't think that's it at all,' Hardcastle replied. ‘When God came in to work this morning – an hour late, as usual, but that's management for you – he told me that I
had to
use her. But he didn't look too happy about it himself, and when I tried to argue with him about it, he said there was no point, because the order had come from higher up.'

‘Who's higher up than God?' Phil asked.

Hardcastle shrugged.

‘Beats me,' he admitted.

‘You never know, she might just make another prize cock-up soon,' the assistant said.

‘That's exactly what I'm banking on, lad,' Hardcastle said. ‘And the moment she does, I'll have her back covering cute pets and exotically shaped vegetables.' He switched on his microphone. ‘Going live in five seconds, Lynda, love. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .'

‘The murder of Len Hopkins has shocked and horrified the quiet mining community of Bellingsworth,' Jenkins said, having used the five-second countdown to acquire a look of intelligent concern. ‘I'm here in the village now to talk to Chief Inspector Monika Paniatowski, who is leading the investigation.'

The camera swung round to focus on Paniatowski and Beresford.

‘Do you have any idea what the motive for this terrible murder might have been, Chief Inspector?' asked Jenkins' voice, off screen.

‘The investigation is in its earlier stages, and we're still considering all possibilities,' Paniatowski replied. ‘What I would like to do now, Lynda, is take the opportunity to appeal to the general public for their help.'

‘Go ahead,' Lynda Jenkins said.

Paniatowski shifted her position slightly, and looked directly and earnestly into the camera.

‘If you knew Len Hopkins, even slightly, then you may be in possession of information which could help us to find his killer,' she said. ‘Whatever you know, and however inconsequential it might seem to you, I urge you to ring Whitebridge Police Headquarters as soon as possible.'

‘She's a little cracker, that Monika Paniatowski, isn't she?' Hardcastle asked his assistant. ‘The camera loves her, and she could warm her feet on my back any night of the week.'

‘She's a bit old for me,' said Phil, who considered any woman over twenty-five beyond the pale. ‘Lynda's more my speed.'

‘Lynda,' Hardcastle repeated in disgust. ‘Comparing her to Monika Paniatowski is like comparing a race horse to a cow. Monika would chew you up and spit you out without even stopping for breath – and I guarantee, you'd love every minute of it.'

‘You do know you're talking like a dirty old man, don't you, boss?' the assistant asked.

‘Thank you for that, Phil,' Hardcastle said. ‘There are not many men who are lucky enough to work with a pimply youth who's brave enough to tell them when they've achieved their ultimate ambition.'

‘Thank you, Chief Inspector Paniatowski, and I'm sure our viewers will do all they can to help you,' Lynda Jenkins said. ‘If I may, I'd now like to turn to Inspector Beresford. Tell me, Inspector, do you have any theories of your own about the murder?'

‘She's doing it again,' Hardcastle groaned. ‘She's bloody doing it again.'

‘You don't ask questions like that!' he bawled into the microphone. ‘Back off.'

‘I thought you
wanted
her to make a mess of things,' his assistant said.

‘I do, but not over anything as important as this murder,' Hardcastle said. ‘I still have some personal integrity, you know.'

‘Do you?' Phil asked.

‘Yes, I do, you cheeky young bugger. If you haven't noticed it before, that's probably because I usually leave it at home – but today, the wife packed it in with my sandwiches.'

Beresford stared into the camera, the muscles in his face twitching as if he really wanted to say something, but was fighting the urge.

‘
Do
you have a theory, Inspector Beresford?' Lynda Jenkins repeated.

‘I have nothing to add to what DCI Paniatowski has said,' Beresford replied, almost forcing the words out of his mouth.

The camera swung back to Lynda Jenkins.

‘Wrap it up – and keep it uncontroversial,' Hardcastle's voice said to her in her earpiece.

‘Whatever DCI Paniatowski might say on the matter, this reporter has discovered that the general feeling here in the village is that Len Hopkins was murdered to stop him campaigning against the proposed strike ballot,' Lynda Jenkins said. ‘Furthermore . . .'

‘Cut her off!' Hardcastle shouted. ‘Take the mad bitch off right now!'

Lynda Jenkins disappeared from the monitor, and was replaced by an image of the anchor man.

‘I want you to say that the opinions expressed by Lynda Jenkins are purely personal ones,' he said into the microphone. ‘Have you got that! They're purely personal.'

The anchor man gave a barely perceptible nod, and Hardcastle reached for a tissue to mop his brow with.

‘That wasn't just the stupid cow losing control in the heat of moment, you know,' he said to Phil. ‘I could tell from the look in her eyes that she was always intending to say it. It's almost as if she'd been briefed.'

Beresford took three quick steps forward, and placed his hand firmly over the camera lens.

‘It's all right,' Terry assured him, ‘there's no need for that, because we're off air.'

‘Do you know what you've just done?' Paniatowski asked Jenkins, in a low, rasping voice which should have worried the reporter much more than an outright scream of rage. ‘Have you any idea how much you may just have harmed my investigation?'

Jenkins smiled complacently. ‘It's called freedom of the press, Chief Inspector. It's something we value quite highly in this little democracy of ours, so you'd better get used to it.'

‘Get her out of here!' Paniatowski told the cameraman. ‘Get her out while I'm still in control of myself.'

‘You can't threaten
me
, you know,' Lynda Jenkins said.

But when Paniatowski took a step towards her, the reporter took an involuntary step backwards, then turned and began to walk quickly towards the Northern Television mobile unit.

‘The bitch!' Paniatowski said.

‘I did warn you, Monika,' Beresford said.

‘Warned me of what?' Paniatowski demanded.

‘I warned you that feelings were probably running high, and that there was an obvious suspect in this murder. You
could have
pulled Tommy Sanders in for questioning by now, and if you'd done that – if you'd been able to announce, on camera, that a man was helping us with our enquiries – Lynda Jenkins wouldn't have been able to say what she did say.'

‘Let's get one thing straight,' Paniatowski said angrily. ‘We've mapped out a strategy for this investigation, and we'll proceed along the lines we've laid down. If that isn't working out – and sometimes it doesn't – then we'll try something else. Have you got that, Inspector?
We'll
try something else? But what I am not prepared to do – under any circumstances – is to let people like Lynda Jenkins dictate what my next move will be. Is that clearly understood?'

Beresford shrugged. ‘You're the boss,' he said.

‘Yes, I am,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘And you'd better not forget it!'

W
hen the school bus pulled up at the approved stop, Becky Sanders was the first one off, and by the time the last of her fellow pupils had disembarked, she was already halfway up the street.

She arrived at her back door panting for breath and almost burst into the kitchen, where her father sat in his armchair reading the evening paper, and her mother was standing up and doing the ironing.

‘Mum, Dad, I came second in the history test,' she said. ‘Second! And I was the
only
one in the whole class who knew why Henry Tudor had a claim to the English throne!'

Her father lowered the paper just a little. ‘Well, I'm sure that'll be a lot of use to you when you're working behind the counter in Woolworth's – I don't think,' he said.

‘I came
second
, Dad,' Becky repeated.

‘I'm not deaf – I heard you,' her father told her. ‘You came second – which means somebody else must have come first, doesn't it?'

Becky felt her lower lip start to tremble.

‘Yes, Dad, Johnny Lewis
did
beat me, but his dad's one of the history teachers, and—'

‘Well, there you are,' her father interrupted. ‘It's not
what
you know in this life – it's
who
you know. Anyway, now you're home, you might as well make yourself useful and put the kettle on. I'm spitting feathers here.'

Her mother looked up from the ironing. ‘Your brother was always good at things like that when he was at school,' she said.

‘Our Tom was always good at
everything
he did,' her father said. ‘And he didn't even have to try – it just seemed to come naturally to him.'

‘Now he's in the youth squad at Whitebridge Rovers,' Becky's mother said, with something like awe in her voice.

‘And that's only the first step,' her father added. ‘You mark my words, Mother, we'll be in the stands watching him play for Manchester United before he's twenty-one.'

Becky's mother suddenly looked slightly guilty.

‘I'm very pleased you did well in your test, love,' she said. ‘Really I am. What did you say the test was in? Was it science?'

‘That's right,' Becky said. ‘It was about that world-famous scientist, Henry Tudor.'

‘Well, there you are, then,' her mother said. ‘And I'm sure your dad's very pleased as well, aren't you, Kevin?'

‘I'm over the moon about it,' Kevin Sanders said. ‘Now where's that cup of tea I was promised?'

Becky, like the dutiful daughter she always tried her best to be, made the tea and then crept upstairs to her room. Once she'd closed the door carefully behind her – her dad didn't like doors banging, although her brother Tom could crash around as much as he liked – she threw herself on the bed, and burst into tears.

It was ten minutes before her sobbing subsided enough for her to think of looking at the note she'd been handed as she entered school that morning. She didn't really need to read it again – she already knew it by heart – but it was from Gary, and so she
wanted
to.

She read it once more, then forced herself to tear the note carefully into small pieces, and ate them.

She should have done that hours ago, she told herself as she swallowed, and it really had been wrong of her to have waited so long.

I'm a good girl, really I am, she thought, but somehow I can never quite be good
enough
.

As darkness approached, the temperature in the village began to plummet. It was going to be a very cold night, and there would undoubtedly be a heavy frost on the ground in the morning.

Paniatowski, standing in front of the church hall, looked at the heavy grey clouds in the sky.

First there'd been the power cuts, then the three-day week, and now it looked as if it was about to snow, she thought.

And what could Lancashire expect to have heaped on it next, she wondered. Volcanic ash? A plague of frogs?

Snow was the last thing this investigation – already being run under pressure – needed. Snow would make a difficult situation even worse.

She looked first up the street and then down it, and found herself wondering where the murderer was at that moment.

Perhaps he was down the mine, finishing off his shift. Or perhaps his shift was over, and he was sitting at home, waiting for his wife to serve him with his tea.

And what was he
feeling
?

Perhaps it was remorse. Perhaps it was satisfaction. Or maybe, after finally eliminating the object of the hatred which had been eating him up inside, he felt nothing but a kind of numbness.

It was as she was musing that she saw the Rover 2000 approaching.

‘Now what the bloody hell is
he
doing here in Bellingsworth?' she asked herself.