Stone Killer (23 page)

‘So what can I do for you, Constable Beresford?' he asked.

‘That's
Detective
Constable Beresford, sir,' Beresford replied, telling himself that Woodend would probably never find out he'd stretched the truth a little – and
perhaps
wouldn't mind, even if he did.

The manager smiled benignly. ‘Of course,' he corrected himself. ‘
Detective
Constable Beresford.'

Beresford cleared his throat. ‘As you may know, we've re-opened the Judith Maitland case,' he said.

‘
We?
' the manager said, in the tones so often employed by a teasing uncle. ‘Am I to take it, then,
Detective
Constable Beresford, that you played a major part in this decision?'

Beresford felt himself starting to flush. ‘It … it was mainly my boss's decision,' he admitted.

The manager chuckled. ‘Yes, I rather imagined it might have been.'

So now, instead of being treated like a kid in a uniform, he was being treated like a kid in a suit, Beresford thought – and wondered if the manager had somehow learned he still lived with his mum.

‘I am right in assuming that Mrs Maitland was a customer of yours, aren't I, sir?' he pressed on.

The manager wagged his finger playfully. ‘You shouldn't say “customer”,
Detective
Constable Beresford. This is a bank, not an ironmonger's shop, and we much prefer the term “client”.'

‘Then she was a
client
of yours?'

‘Now that sounds better, doesn't it? Yes, she was a
client
of ours.'

Beresford imagined the manager going home after his day's work and having his wife in stitches as he described the way he had made the young constable jump through the hoops.

Well, that wasn't going to happen, he decided, as he felt his earlier humiliation being driven out of him by a growing anger. It wouldn't happen because he'd give the manager such a grilling that the bastard wouldn't even want to
think
about what had gone on once he got home.

He started softly, still playing the role of the stumbling, unsure constable – which was not really quite a role at all.

‘What were your impressions of Mrs Maitland, sir?' he asked diffidently.

‘My impressions? I suppose I'd have to say I thought her a rather personable young woman.'

‘Personable?' Beresford said. ‘That's one of those “dressed-up” words, like client, isn't it?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘It sounds better – more respectable – to say “client” rather than “customer”, and it sounds better to say “personable” than “a real cracker”. But really, they both just mean the same.'

A slight tick had suddenly developed in the bank manager's left eye.

I was right, Beresford thought triumphantly. He fancied her rotten. It was probably her he was picturing when he was lying on top of his missus – thrusting half-heartedly as part of their weekly ritual. But he can never admit it – even to himself – because bank managers are pillars of the community. They're not
supposed
to be dirty old men.

The manager seemed to have got his tick under control. ‘Mrs Maitland certainly had a pleasing aspect to her, yes,' he admitted. ‘But that wasn't what I meant at all.'

‘No?'

‘No. When I called her “personable”, I was referring to her character – to her businesslike attitude and her obvious energy.
Now
do you understand what I'm talking about?'

Beresford grinned, but made no reply.

‘Have I inadvertently said something to amuse you?' the bank manager wondered.

‘Not really. I was just thinking that, if I'd been a bit older, I might have had the hots for her myself.'

‘The
hots
for her?' the manager repeated, horrified.

‘And if I'd been your age – and in your position – I might well have been persuaded to take the same risk you did.'

‘Risk?' the bank manager asked, still flushed from the discovery that this boy in his Sunday suit had somehow managed to learn of his secret yearnings. ‘What risk?'

‘The risk of lending a great deal of money to a young woman with absolutely no experience of running a business on her own,' Beresford explained, with growing self-confidence. ‘Now that's a case of your heart leading your head, if I ever heard of one.'

‘Are you daring to suggest …?' the bank manager began.

‘Still, you didn't completely lose your self-control, did you?' Beresford continued cheerfully. ‘Once she'd charmed you into agreeing to lend her the money – once her spell had worn off a little – you did at least have the good sense to insist that she got a guarantor for the loan.'

‘You're quite wrong in almost all your assumptions,' the manager said heatedly. ‘Mrs Maitland never cast a spell on me, and I most certainly never lent her any …'

He dried up, realizing he had said too much.

‘What was that, sir?' Beresford asked.

Now they were back in the familiar territory of money matters, the bank manager seemed more in control of himself again. He folded his arms decisively. ‘Any dealings which this bank has with any of its clients are an entirely confidential matter,' he said.

‘Perhaps I'm being unfair to you,' Beresford pondered. ‘Maybe there was never a question of a loan from the bank at all. Maybe it was more a case of the bank merely agreeing to manage the money that Mr Thompson had put into Mrs Maitland's account. Have I got it right this time?'

The manager unfolded his arms, and pressed a button on his desk.

‘This interview is over,' he said coldly. ‘And the next time your Chief Inspector wants me to answer any questions, I suggest he sends someone else to ask them.'

By the time Mrs Burroughs returned from the builders' merchant's, Timothy had already become bored with talking to Paniatowski about his father, and had drifted back to his train set in the corner of the room.

‘Were they any trouble?' the mother asked the policewoman.

‘None at all,' Paniatowski replied. ‘Timothy's been playing quietly, and there hasn't been a peep out of Emma.'

‘That's typical, isn't it?' Mrs Burroughs said, sitting down and immediately reaching for the wine bottle. ‘People look after your kids for half-an-hour or so, and go away with the impression that they're little angels. What they don't realize is that when we're alone – just me and them – they can be right proper sods. You probably find the same with your own kids, don't you, Monika?'

‘Absolutely,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘Did you get the delivery sorted out all right?'

‘No problem at all,' Mrs Burroughs said, taking a generous gulp of her wine. ‘It's an easy business to run if you're just a little bit careful. Profitable, too, if you watch the till. But Clive never did.'

‘Are you saying that other people were stealing from him?' Paniatowski asked.

‘No, Clive was too cunning to ever allow anybody else to get one over on him.'

‘Then …?'

‘The problem wasn't the employees – it was him. He couldn't keep his
own
hands out of the till.'

Paniatowski nodded understandingly. ‘He liked to live well.'

‘He liked to have plenty of money in his pocket to lavish on his whores! God knows how much he got through in the last few years, what with posh dinners and expensive presents.'

‘And hotel bills,' Paniatowski suggested.

‘Oh yes, them as well,' Mrs Burroughs agreed, starting to slur her words slightly now. ‘A quick screw in the back of the car wasn't good enough for him and his women. They had to do it in fancy hotels, with silk sheets and private bathrooms. It makes me sick to my stomach just to think about it.'

‘And it wasn't always just the one night in those expensive hotels, was it?' Paniatowski asked.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, I've seen the bills,' Paniatowski explained. ‘They're all in the evidence file.'

‘Oh yes?' Mrs Burroughs said, and now there was a hint of caution in her tone.

‘And if I remember correctly, there was a time, a few years ago it must have been, when he paid for a hotel room in Manchester for a whole month,' Paniatowski continued.

The air in the room had been pleasantly warm, but now its temperature seemed to drop by several degrees.

‘Get out!' Mrs Burroughs said.

‘What?'

‘Get out! I want you out of my house!'

‘Look, if I've said something to offend you, I'm sorry,' Paniatowski told her. ‘Believe me, I certainly never meant it.'

Mrs Burroughs rose shakily to her feet – and her shakiness was only partly a result of the wine, Paniatowski thought – and pointed to the door.

‘Out!' she said firmly.

‘I'll go, if that's what you want. But would you mind if I just finished my wine, first?'

‘Yes, I bloody well would mind!'

It was her house. There was nothing for it but to simply comply with her wishes.

Paniatowski stood up. ‘Perhaps I'll come back later, when you're not quite so upset,' she suggested.

‘You will not,' Mrs Burroughs told her. ‘I never want to see you again,' she continued, a little calmer now. ‘And if you try to talk to me – even if it's only over the phone – I'll immediately put a complaint through to your superior. I'll tell him you came to my house and got drunk.'

‘But I—'

‘Disgustingly drunk. I might even tell him what you called him. Octopus-Man, wasn't it?'

Paniatowski feigned concern. ‘Please don't do that,' she said.

‘I won't – unless I have to,' Mrs Burroughs said. ‘If you can keep your nose out of my business, then I'm perfectly willing to keep mine out of yours. If you don't – well, you know now what will happen.'

As threats went, it was quite forceful, Paniatowski thought, and wondered
exactly
what had turned Mrs Burroughs from an amiable lush into a towering harridan in less than a heartbeat.

T
he landlord of the Drum and Monkey looked across at the corner table in the public bar which, over the years, had become almost an unofficial annex of Whitebridge Police Headquarters.

It was good to see the old team back in action again, he thought. But he couldn't help feeling a slight twinge of resentment that the seat which used to be filled by DI Rutter was now occupied by someone else – a young feller wearing what was obviously his best suit. He seemed a pleasant enough lad, the landlord had to admit. Bright enough, too. But try as he might, he couldn't imagine the lad ever quite being able to fill Bob Rutter's shoes.

Woodend took a swig of best bitter, and lit up a cigarette.

‘I think it'd be a good idea to run through our list of possible suspects,' he said. ‘An' the one I'd like to start with is Sebastian Courtney-Jones – the answer to every young maiden's prayer.'

‘Really?' Monika Paniatowski asked doubtfully.

‘Really,' Woodend confirmed. ‘I know I shouldn't say this – what with justice bein' even-handed an' all that – but I'd be tickled to death if that bastard
did
turn out to be our murderer.'

‘But why should he have killed Clive Burroughs?'

‘Because he was still in love with Judith, and he saw Burroughs as his main rival for her affections. She refused to come back to him, remember, and he might just have thought that with Burroughs out of the way, she'd be more amenable to changin' her mind.'

‘But Burroughs
wasn't
his rival,' Paniatowski pointed out. ‘
He
was having an affair with the landlady of the Philosophers' Arms.'

‘Is there any law which says a man can't be conductin' two affairs at the same time?' Woodend asked.

‘From everything we've learned about both Judith
and
Burroughs, I don't think they'd ever have considered having an affair,' Paniatowski said.

‘I admit it doesn't seem
very
likely,' Woodend conceded, ‘but there's nowt as queer as folk, an' you can never really tell who's goin' to decide to hop into bed with who, can you?'

Oh shit, I shouldn't have said that! Woodend told himself.

Not to Monika.

Not quite so bluntly.

And especially not in the presence of Constable Beresford, who knew nothing about her affair with Bob Rutter.

He risked a quick glance at Paniatowski's face, to see how she'd taken his gaffe.

His sergeant
did
seem to have suddenly fallen into a pensive mood, he decided – but he got the distinct impression that whatever she was thinking about, it wasn't Bob Rutter.

‘An' if Judith wasn't havin' an affair with Burroughs, exactly what hold did he have over her?' the Chief Inspector pressed on. ‘Because there's no doubt that he did have a hold of
some
kind.'

‘I'd like to throw another name into the hat, if I may,' Constable Beresford said, speaking very quickly, as if he'd only just summoned up the courage to speak at all.

‘Go on, then,' Woodend said encouragingly.

‘Giles Thompson.'

‘Giles Thompson!' Woodend repeated. ‘But he's a grand lad, is Giles. I've known the feller for donkey's years!'

‘Does … does that mean he couldn't possibly be a murderer, sir?' Beresford asked.

‘Well, no, of course it doesn't,' Woodend admitted. ‘In my time, I've come across any number of murderers who seemed to be grand lads on the face of it. In fact, I've come across a good few who really
were
grand, an' were just pushed past the point of endurance. So why do you think Giles Thompson might be our killer, Beresford?'

‘For the same reason you think Courtney-Jones might have done it,' Beresford replied. ‘Love!'