A Walk With the Dead (30 page)

But what – apart from their age – connected these three girls?

Jill and Dolly did not, on the surface, appear to have a great deal in common, but neither were they all that different. Maggie, on the other hand, might almost have come from another planet.

‘What
is
the link?' she asked herself.

Whatever it was, it seemed unlikely that these tapes would reveal it.

She was aware that Meadows had just spoken, but had no idea what it was she said.

‘What was that, Kate?' she asked.

‘A cup of coffee, boss,' the sergeant said. ‘Before we run through the tapes again, I think we should go to the nearest café and have a cup of coffee to clear out the insides of our heads.'

Why not have a cup of coffee, Paniatowski thought.

And why not run through the tapes again?

After all, the recordings might not be a good lead – but they were the best lead that they had.

T
he time between throwing up next to the lamppost and waking up in his own bed was a complete blank to Crane, but he assumed that, by some miracle, he had managed to find his way back to his bedsit unaided. Now he was sitting in a corner of the police canteen, hunched over a mug of tea that he had ordered but couldn't face the thought of drinking.

He wondered why he had bothered to come to the canteen at all.

Instinct, he supposed.

He wondered where he would be in a year's time – and discovered that he didn't really care.

The sound of heavy footsteps made him look up, and he saw DI Beresford glowering down at him.

‘Morning, sir,' he said weakly.

Beresford sat down opposite him.

‘You look like death,' the inspector said, and there was not a hint of sympathy in his voice.

‘I know I do,' Crane agreed.

‘And do you also know that you're in a whole lot of trouble?' Beresford asked.

‘I guessed I might be,' Crane admitted.

‘It's the boss's job to give you a right royal bollocking and then tell you what disciplinary action she'll be taking, and I've no doubt she'll do that as soon as she gets back from Woolworths,' Beresford continued. ‘But since she's not here now, I've decided to give you a bollocking myself. Not that that will make any difference to what eventually happens to you – you've probably already kissed your career goodbye – but because it will make
me
feel better.'

‘Fair enough – I deserve it,' Crane said.

‘Bloody right, you deserve it,' Beresford concurred. ‘Monika Paniatowski has been damn good to you, Crane. She plucked you from the ranks and made you part of her team, so that while other detective constables have been doing the grinding footwork, you've been at the very heart of the investigation.'

‘I know,' Crane said.

‘And do you think there's a single one of those other detective constables who wouldn't give his right arm to be in your situation?'

‘No, sir.'

‘To be fair to you, I have to say that you've pulled your weight up until now,' Beresford conceded. ‘You've picked up on things that the rest of us might have missed a number of times. But the key words in that sentence are
up until now
. You weren't there last night – when you were really needed – and if you'd had a reasonable excuse for your absence, you'd have offered it to me by now.' Beresford lit up a cigarette. ‘But you don't
have
any excuse, do you, Jack?'

‘No,' Crane said. ‘None at all.'

Except that my heart was broken last night, he told himself. Except that I saw all my hopes and dreams for the future shrivel up and die in Liz Duffy's living room.

‘By the end of the day, the chief constable will have taken the team off the case, and given it to somebody else,' Beresford continued. ‘Have you any idea how humiliating that will be for the boss? Can you even begin to imagine the harm that will do to her reputation? We'll probably be all right – given time – because we weren't in charge of the inquiry, but I doubt Monika will ever be handed a serious investigation again.'

‘Maybe the chief constable
won't
take the case off her,' Jack Crane said hopefully.

‘Of course he bloody will! In fact, I think the only reason he hasn't done it already is that he's too involved in this Jeremy Templar investigation. But the moment he's got that wrapped up – and knowing him, it won't be long – he'll focus his mind on Whitebridge again, and then it's a pound to a penny that—'

‘What did you just say?' interrupted Crane, who seemed suddenly to come to life.

‘I've just said a lot of things – and I've got more things to say,' Beresford replied.

‘The name!' Crane said urgently. ‘What was the name that you just mentioned?'

‘Jeremy Templar,' Beresford repeated, mystified. ‘The sex offender who hanged himself in Yorkshire.'

‘Oh God, no – not Jeremy Templar!' Crane groaned, as a scene, long forgotten, began to play itself out in his mind.

It is Eights Week in Oxford – that highlight of Trinity Term when, for four hectic days, 158 boats and 1400 rowers compete for the title of Head of the River.

Crane, now in the third year of his degree, has come down to the river to watch the competition.

Quite a festive crowd has gathered on the bank of the Isis, and it includes the three young daughters of one of the dons from Crane's own college, who are wearing white lacy dresses and broad-brimmed hats, just like Edwardian ladies. Crane wanders over to tell them how splendid they look, and they show their appreciation with shy giggles.

And then Templar appears on the scene. He knows the girls too, and they seem very pleased to see him.

‘I've just had a splendid idea for a competition,' he tells the oldest girl, twelve-year-old Isabel.

‘What is it?' the girl asks eagerly.

‘I ask you a question, if you give the right answer, I'll be your slave for the day, and I'll do anything you tell me to.'

‘And what if I get it wrong?' the girl wonders.

‘Ah, then you're subjected to the death of a thousand tickles,' Templar tells her.

Isabel grins. ‘All right.'

‘Now my question is this,' Templar says gravely. ‘Which of the French philosophers is famous for saying, “I think, therefore I am”?'

‘I don't know,' Isabel admits.

‘Then it's the death of a thousand tickles,' Templar says, sweeping her off her feet.

Templar tickles her under her arms and along her ribs. The girl enjoys it at first, but the longer it goes on the more uncomfortable she seems to become.

‘Put me down,' she says.

‘Not yet – you've still another six hundred and seventy-five tickles to come,' Templar says.

‘Please put me down,' the girl pleads.

And Templar does – though he clearly doesn't want to.

‘How could I have seen that, and not understood?' Crane asked himself silently.

And a mocking voice from somewhere in the back of his head replied, ‘You didn't understand because you didn't
want
to understand. You were still
editing
what you saw back then.'

‘Are you all right, Jack?' Beresford asked – and now there
was
concern in his voice.

‘I'm fine,' Crane said, unconvincingly.

‘Only, when I mentioned that pervert's name, you sounded as if you knew him. Have you nicked him or something?'

‘No,' Crane said, burying his head in his hands. ‘I haven't nicked him – I went to university with him.'

‘You've been to
university
?' Beresford said incredulously. ‘Well, that's the first I've heard of it. I don't think even the boss knows that.'

And still the name kept bouncing around Crane's aching head.

Jeremy Templar . . . Jeremy Templar . . . Jeremy Templar.

He had been a sex offender, and now he was dead!

But he
couldn't
be dead, unless . . . unless . . .

Crane stood up. ‘I have to go, sir,' he said.

‘You most certainly
do not
have to go,' Beresford replied sternly. ‘You have to stay here and listen to me tell you how you've let yourself and the whole team down.'

‘Sorry,' Crane said. ‘I really
do
have to go.'

‘Come back here and sit down again, Detective Constable Crane,' Beresford ordered, in his best inspector's voice.

But by then Crane was already halfway to the door.

The cup of coffee had helped – though not a great deal – and now Paniatowski and Meadows were back in the broom cupboard which Sam Houghton called his control centre.

‘Could you run through it again, Mr Houghton,' Paniatowski said, ‘but this time we're only interested in what's happening on the central monitor.'

‘You know, the one where she makes a grab at your crotch,' Meadows said. ‘I mean, where she
appears
to grab at your crotch.'

‘And I'd like it if you could freeze the tape every five or six seconds,' Paniatowski added.

Houghton ran the tape back, and played the first few seconds, in which Maggie was looking at the store detective.

Freeze.

There are several other shoppers – mostly women – in Maggie's immediate vicinity, but from the bland expressions on their faces, it's quite clear they have no idea that anything out of the ordinary is about to happen.

‘Start it again, please,' Paniatowski said.

Maggie, seeing the store detective approaching, moves into the centre of the aisle. The awkward dance follows, as Houghton attempts to get past her, then Maggie throws her flabby arms around him. All the other customers in the area have stopped moving, and are now engrossed in the scene.

Freeze.

There are three shoppers close enough to the incident for Paniatowski to be able to get a clear look at their faces. One, a woman in her seventies, is obviously disgusted by what is happening. Another, a young, heavily pregnant woman, seems to find the whole thing mildly amusing. The third is a man in his thirties, and the expression on his face says that while he feels he should be offering his help to someone, he is not sure whether it should be to Maggie or Sam Houghton.

‘Start it again, please.'

Maggie grabs at Houghton's crotch, the store detective pushes her away and Maggie falls down. Houghton steps over her, and disappears from the screen.

On the previous run-through, Paniatowski's eyes had automatically followed the store detective onto the third screen, but this time she kept them firmly on the middle one.

Maggie is shaken by her fall, but when the man in his thirties steps forward to help her to her feet, she brushes his offer angrily aside. The pregnant woman – who has probably been warned by her doctor that sudden jolts or falls could damage her unborn baby – has reluctantly abandoned the free entertainment. And the older woman – perhaps aware of how easily old bones crumble – has put caution above indignation, and has also gone.

But there is a new woman on the scene now – a woman in her middle-to-late twenties.

Freeze.

The expression on the new arrival's face is chilling. As she looks down at Maggie, there is a hatred blazing in her eyes which comes across even in the grainy black and white image.

‘Jesus!' Paniatowski gasped.

Now she clearly saw the pattern that had been eluding her for so long. Now she understood what had prompted Maggie's murder and the attempted murder of Dolly.

And what about Jill?

What had she done to make the murderer decide that the only suitable punishment was death?

Something must have happened at the wedding reception –
after
Paniatowski had left – that had sealed her fate.

Her lesbianism had nothing to do with the murder – in fact, if the killer had
known
she was a lesbian, she would probably still be alive.

Paniatowski still did not understand why all the killings had had to take place in the park – but that was a detail, a mere tying up of loose ends.

Meadows was still looking at the screen, as if unable to tear her eyes away from the woman.

‘Is that who I think it is, boss?' she asked.

‘Yes,' Paniatowski replied, ‘it's our killer.'

The people who lived in the villages around the edges of the moor liked their fresh bread in the morning, but most of the villages were too small to support a bakery of their own, and Tommy Dawes, who owned an ice-cream van, which was normally only used in the evenings, had seen his opportunity, and set up a bread-delivery business. The new business had its drawbacks of course – the early start, the constant criss-crossing of the moors – but then every business had its drawbacks, and the extra money it brought in was very useful.

That particular Thursday morning, Tommy had started out a little later than usual, and try as he might, he had not been able to make up the time, so it was close to half-past nine as he headed towards the last village in his route.

It was a pleasant morning, the sun was shining, and there were no other vehicles on that stretch of the moors. Feeling very relaxed, Tommy switched on the radio and began to hum along with Suzi Quatro's ‘Devil Gate Drive'.

He would say later that he was not a great lover of nature, and so he had no idea why, instead of keeping his eyes on the road, he turned to look at the vast expanse of open moor. But turn he did – and what he saw made him slam on the brakes and get out of the van.

He was careful while descending the sharp slope that edged the road, but once on the flat ground, he ran as quickly as he could towards the car, which was resting on its roof. He drew level with it, and went into a crouch, so he could look inside the car.