Lambs to the Slaughter (16 page)

‘I'm not sure about that,' Lily said.

‘Mum said that ten o'clock would be fine,' Louisa promised. ‘And when I get back, we'll have some of that cake.'

She opened the door and stepped outside. She could, she supposed, have simply sneaked out of the house, but that would have been very bad, and – somehow – telling a few little lies didn't seem quite so bad at all.

T
he Miners' Institute concert room had been the setting for numerous brass band concerts and talent competitions. It had even, on occasion, hosted shows in which professional comedians and singers – some of them with even a few minor television credits to their name – had deigned to perform. But tonight, there was none of the buzz that comes from people expecting to be entertained – tonight, the mood was one of deadly seriousness.

Beresford – standing with his back against the wall, and with PC Mellors at his side – looked around the room. The tables had all been removed to make space for more chairs, and when all the available chairs had been taken, the steward had supplemented them with upended beer crates. And still there was not enough space for everyone who wished to attend, and latecomers had had to settle for standing in the corridor outside.

There was one notable face missing, however. Tommy Sanders was not there. So maybe, after the bravado performance he had put on earlier, the old miner had decided that discretion was the better part of valour.

‘I'm in a bit of trouble with your boss, sir,' Mellors said.

There'd been a time – just after his promotion – when Beresford had found it uncomfortable to be called ‘sir' by men who were older than him, but now he was starting to take it for granted.

‘Trouble?' he said.

‘I told people about the murder weapon.'

‘Ah!'

‘And she says she's going to write up a report on me.'

‘She's pretty much obliged to do that.'

‘The thing is, you've got a lot of influence with her. In some ways, I think she almost looks up to you.'

‘I wouldn't go that far,' Beresford said, though he had not been displeased by the comment, ‘but it's true that sometimes, when she thinks she's doing what
she
wants, she's actually doing what
I
want.'

Sometimes, you can be a complete arsehole, Colin Beresford, said a voice in his head.

Yes, he thought, agreeing with the voice, sometimes I can – and I just don't know what to do about it!

‘I'll have a word with her, and see if I can get her to tone the report down,' he told Mellors. ‘But I'm not promising anything, because she's very much her own woman.'

Is that some sort of long-distance apology to Monika? his inner voice asked. If it is, it's not a very good one. Why don't you tell Mellors that when you hinted you were sometimes in charge, you were talking bollocks?

Yes, that was what he should do, he decided – but he just couldn't force himself to say the words.

He looked around the room again.

‘Do you know which of these men are in favour of the strike, and which ones are against it?' he asked.

‘More or less,' Mellors replied.

‘And could you make a guess at the percentages?'

‘Well, the ones in favour of it are sitting to the left of the room, and the ones against it are sitting to the right, so I'd say it's about half-and-half.'

‘So the left-wingers are on the left, and right-wingers are on the right,' Beresford mused. ‘How very kind of them to make it all so easy for me.'

‘I don't think they've done it for you, sir,' Mellors said, completely missing the point.

‘Who's going to be chairing the meeting?' Beresford asked.

‘The president of the Miners' Institute.'

‘He's a miner himself, I take it.'

‘He used to be, but he's retired now. The president of the Institute is always a retired miner.'

‘And which side is this particular president on?'

‘It's hard to say, because he's a bit like the Queen.'

‘A bit like the Queen?'

‘That's right. When she opens parliament and gives a speech about what the government's going to do in the next year, you never know whether she thinks its bloody brilliant or a load of old cock, do you?'

‘True.'

‘That's because she's supposed to be above politics.'

‘True again.'

‘And it's exactly the same with the president of the Miners' Institute.'

When Paniatowski knocked on the front door of the terraced house, it was opened by a thin pale girl with mousy brown hair, who seemed to be all elbows and knees.

‘Are you Becky Sanders?' she asked.

The girl nodded.

‘I'm Detective Chief Inspector Paniatowski, but you can call me Monika,' Paniatowski said. ‘I'd like to ask you a few questions.'

‘Who is it?' called a woman's voice from inside.

‘It's a policewoman, Mum,' Becky replied. ‘She says that she wants to talk to me.'

‘She'd better come in then,' the woman said.

Paniatowski stepped into the parlour, and saw the thin woman – who could only have been Becky's mother – sitting in an armchair in front of a large television, her eyes glued to the screen as if hypnotized by it.

‘You want to talk to our Becky, do you?' she asked, and took the risk of missing a vital part of an advertisement for washing powder by glancing briefly at the visitor.

‘That's right, I do,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘But since she's only fourteen, a parent or a parent's chosen representative is entitled to be present during the conversation.'

‘You what?' Mrs Sanders said, her attention now clearly focussed on the screen again.

‘If you or your husband wish to be there when I question Becky, that is your right. Alternatively, you may postpone the interview until your solicitor is present – though I don't really think that in this case it will be necessary.'

‘The thing is, you see, her dad's at the meeting in the Miners' Institute, and
Coronation Street
is just about to start,' Mrs Sanders explained.

‘Do you wish to be present while Becky is interviewed?' Paniatowski said icily. ‘I need a definite decision from you.'

‘I don't really know what to say,' Mrs Sanders told her, as she thrilled at the sight of a dog fed on Pal – ‘Prolongs Active Life' – jumping over a gate with ease. ‘You don't really want me there, do you, Becky, love? You're a big girl now. You can manage on your own.'

‘I would strongly advise you to be present,' Paniatowski said.

‘She'll be all right,' Mrs Sanders said. She turned briefly to her daughter. ‘Take the police lady into the kitchen, Becky.'

The kitchen was separated from the parlour by a narrow hallway, in which there was a steep set of stairs leading to the upstairs rooms.

It must be a real bugger getting a coffin down them, Paniatowski thought, irrelevantly.

Once they were in the kitchen, Becky walked over to the range and picked up the heavy black kettle.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?' she asked. ‘I can soon make you one. It'll be no trouble at all.'

‘I'm fine,' Paniatowski said, sitting down at the kitchen table. She patted the table top. ‘Come and join me.'

‘It really won't take a minute,' Becky insisted.

Paniatowski laughed. ‘You're just like my daughter – you won't take no for an answer. But I really
don't
want a cup of tea, Becky.'

The girl put the kettle back on the hob, and sat down opposite Paniatowski.

‘How old is your daughter?' she asked.

‘She's about your age.'

‘And what's her name?'

‘Louisa.'

Becky smiled. ‘That's a nice name.' Then the smile disappeared, and was replaced by a wistful expression. ‘Do you do a lot of things together? Do you go on picnics and stuff?'

‘When we can,' Paniatowski said, feeling vaguely uncomfortable about the number of times that they couldn't.

‘I used to go out a lot with my granddad,' Becky said, ‘but now he's so poorly, we just stay in the house.'

It was about the best opening that she was likely to be offered, Paniatowski decided.

‘My friend Colin was talking to your granddad earlier . . .' she began.

The change in Becky was instantaneous. Her eyes widened, and she looked like a hunted animal.

‘He didn't do it!' she said, in what was almost a sob. ‘He didn't kill Mr Hopkins.'

‘No, he couldn't have, because you were with him all night, weren't you?' Paniatowski said thoughtfully.

‘That's right. I was.'

‘Without your parents' knowledge?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is it true you made your escape by climbing down the drainpipe?'

Becky grinned. ‘That sounds funny.'

‘What does?'

‘You saying I made my escape. It makes it sound like I was in one of them old war films or something.'

‘But you
did
climb down it?'

‘Yes.'

‘That must have been rather difficult.'

‘No, it was easy.' Becky stood up. ‘I'll show you, if you like.'

‘That won't be necessary,' Paniatowski said.

‘I'll show you,' Becky insisted. ‘It won't take a minute.' She moved towards the door. ‘Go and stand in the backyard, and you'll see just how easy it is.'

It was a delaying tactic on Becky's part, Paniatowski thought – a way of putting off the questions which she must know she would eventually have to answer. But as she heard the girl's feet clattering up the stairs, she accepted that she had no choice but to go along with it.

She stood up, stepped into the backyard – which was just like Len Hopkins' backyard and every other backyard in the village – and looked up at the back bedroom window. She did not have to wait long before the sash window slid open, and a pair of thin legs appeared.

Grasping on to the inner edge of the window sill with both hands, Becky slowly lowered her trunk. Then, with her feet both pressing against the pipe, she transferred first her right hand from the window sill to the pipe, and then her left. She came down in a shimmying movement, lowering her hands, allowing her body to drop a little, and lowering her hands again. It looked extremely well practised, and it couldn't have taken more than twenty seconds.

‘You see,' Becky said, once she had reached the ground, ‘I told you it was easy.'

‘You must be very good at gymnastics,' Paniatowski said admiringly.

‘I'm not bad,' Becky admitted, ‘but science is my favourite subject.' She paused, then said hopefully, ‘Is that it, then?'

‘Not quite,' Paniatowski told her. ‘There are just a few more questions I need to ask you.'

The president of the Miners' Institute – who would soon put on another hat and become the chairman of the miners' meeting – entered the concert room and walked over to the table which had been set up for him.

He was in his sixties, with a miner's broad shoulders and compact body, and a mane of grey hair which made him look statesmanlike. He sat down, glanced around him, then slammed his big hand down on the table to call for quiet.

‘Point of order, Mr Chairman,' shouted a man from the left, pro-strike half of the room.

The chairman sighed. ‘We've not even started yet, Walter,' he said. ‘How can you have a point of order already?'

‘I want to know why
they're
here,' Walter said, pointing to the four uniformed constables standing by the door.

‘This is an open meeting,' the chairman explained. ‘Anybody who wants to attend is perfectly entitled to.'

‘Even if they're capitalist running dogs?'

‘I suppose so, although all
I
can see back there is four bobbies,' the chairman said wearily. ‘Now before we get properly started, I want to lay down a few rules. Anybody who wants to speak will be given the chance to speak, and if you don't want to listen to them, then you can just bugger off out. And as for your behaviour in general – I don't
want
to pull down anybody's pants and smack their bare arses for them, but I will if I have to. Is that clear?' He scanned the room for something like assent. ‘Good. Then let's get cracking.'

‘I thought you were talking rubbish earlier when you said he was a bit like the Queen, but it turns out that you were quite right,' Beresford told Mellors with a grin. ‘If I'd closed my eyes just then, I could almost have believed that
was
Her Majesty talking.'

They were back in the kitchen, and Becky was starting to look uncomfortable again.

‘What was it that made you feel you had to go and see your granddad last night?' Paniatowski asked.

‘I wanted to talk to him about my boyfriend.'

‘Do your parents know you have a boyfriend?'

Becky looked down at the table. ‘No, it's a secret.' She raised her head again, and there was a look of panic in her eyes. ‘It really
is
a secret – and you mustn't tell them.'

‘I won't,' Paniatowski promised. ‘But I would like it if you told
me
a little about him.'

‘His name's Gary,' Becky said. ‘He's . . . he's older than me.'

‘How
much
older? A year?'

‘No, a bit more than that.'

‘I see,' Paniatowski said thoughtfully. ‘What's he like?'

‘He's fabulous. He's very handsome, but he's – you know – nice as well.'

‘I bet all your friends are jealous that you've got him, and they haven't.'

‘They don't know about him. Like I said, it's a secret.'

‘But you must have dropped a few hints to them. I know I would, if I was in your place.'