The Dead Hand of History (16 page)

The black rat was six inches long, and two and half years old. With luck on its side, it could live for another two and half years, though – statistically – the chances were that it would be dead within six months. The black rat knew none of this. But it
did
know there were other living things – non-rats – which had periodically posed a threat to its survival, and were therefore to be avoided at all cost.

There were none of these non-rats in the old bakery which the rat had chosen to make its home. Here it was safe, and if it scurried across the floor, it was not through fear but simply because that was what rats did.

Even so, it exercised caution, choosing to make a detour around the large metal structure which human beings would have recognized as a car – and not just any car, but an
E-type Jag
– on the off-chance that something dangerous lurked beneath the chassis.

The objects of the rat's journey were to be found just beyond the car, lying on the ground. One of these objects was over ten times the rodent's length, the other over eleven times. But the rat did not know – or care about – that, either.

What
did
interest it was that both objects were a source of easily obtainable food, and now that it had reached them it was working out – in its little ratty mind – which one it would choose.

Its decision to select the woman had nothing to do with her sex – of which, once again, the rodent was ignorant. Rather, it was motivated by ease. For while both corpses had stumps which had once been connected to hands, the woman also had extensive facial lacerations, which made harvesting the juicy meat so much simpler.

THIRTEEN

A
nnie looked smart in her nurse's uniform, Charlie Woodend thought, gazing fondly at her across the breakfast table.

Very
smart – and
very
competent.

And caring, too. She definitely looked
caring
.

She must surely be an inspiration to her fellow nurses, and it was beyond doubt that her patients would think she was wonderful and all the young doctors would immediately fall in love with her.

That was his opinion, at any rate – and his opinion should count for something, because, having spent nearly thirty years in the Police Force, he had learned how to become almost
frighteningly
objective.

‘You're starin' at me, Dad,' Annie said accusingly. ‘An' I bet you've not heard a word I said.'

‘I heard it all,' Woodend replied indignantly, perhaps half a second before he realized that his daughter was quite right, and – indulgent father that he was – he had no idea what she'd been talking about.

‘You heard it all?' Annie repeated sceptically.

‘Definitely,' Woodend replied, ‘but could you be just a
little
indulgent to your poor old father for once, an' say it again?'

‘I've pulled a double shift,' Annie said. ‘I didn't want to – what with you only being here for a few days an' all – but we're very short-handed in the hospital at the moment, so I couldn't really turn it down. Will you an' Mum be all right on your own?'

‘We'll be fine,' Woodend assured her.

Annie seemed far from convinced. ‘This isn't Whitebridge, you know,' she said. ‘It's
London
– the big city!'

Woodend smiled. Why did the young think that only
they
could handle things? he wondered. What did they think their parents had been doing before they were born, if not experiencing life?

‘I was poundin' the streets of this city an' collarin' villains when you were still in nappies,' he said. ‘An' by the time you started primary school, I knew the East End like the back of my hand.'

Now I'm starting to sound like a borin' old fart, he thought. An' I've only been
retired
for two days!

‘I'll get back as soon as I can,' Annie promised, heading for the door. She turned again, before stepping out into the corridor. ‘There's a newspaper on the table, if you want to read it.'

‘Thanks, love,' Woodend said – but she'd already gone.

The newspaper was lying face down, and so it was the back page – the sports results – which he read first.

Whitebridge Rovers were doing very well, he noted.

Well, that was just typical of them, wasn't it? For over a decade he'd faithfully turned out every other Saturday – investigations allowing – to watch them get thrashed by the visiting team. And now, when he was finally moving away, they'd suddenly decided to improve!

He flipped the newspaper over, and saw the screaming headline of the front page.

There was a further, smaller headline beneath it.

‘Put it down, Charlie,' he told himself.

But even as the thought was crossing his mind, he was beginning to scan the article.

‘I thought I'd hidden that,' he heard his wife say, from the bathroom doorway. ‘Where did you get it from?'

‘Annie gave it to me.'

‘Well, obviously I didn't hide it well
enough
,' Joan said. ‘And now, I suppose, the damage has already been done.'

‘There's been a particularly nasty murder back home,' he said. ‘
Two
nasty murders, as a matter of fact.'

‘Yes, the damage has been done,' Joan confirmed. ‘I
know
there've been two murders, Charlie. That's
why
I hid the paper.'

‘An' Monika's been given the case.'

‘Well, why shouldn't she have been? She
is
a chief inspector now, if you remember.'

‘I do remember,' Woodend agreed. ‘The thing is, it says here that she's got DS Walker for a bagman.'

‘So what?'

‘Well, he's not a bad bobby, in his own way, but he's what you might call a male chauvinist pig.'

Joan laughed. ‘Male chauvinist pig?' she repeated. ‘You want to be careful, Charlie – you're starting to sound frighteningly modern.'

‘But you get the point, don't you?' Woodend asked earnestly. ‘He's simply not the man Monika needs at the moment.'

‘Don't underestimate her,' Joan warned. ‘She's a clever lass, and she'll soon learn how to handle him.'

‘I think I'd better just give her a quick call,' Woodend said, trying to sound casual.

‘You'll do no such thing, Charlie Woodend,' Joan said firmly.

‘She might want a bit of advice.'

‘Well, if she does – an' I do say
if
– she's got the number, an' she only has to ring you.'

‘But she might feel a bit awkward about doin' that.'

‘An' how awkward do you think she'll be likely to feel if you ring her up
without
her askin' you to? If I was in her shoes,
I'd
take that as a sign that you'd got no confidence in me. An' that's the very last thing that Monika needs to feel at this moment.'

His wife was right, he thought. He
hated
the fact that she was right – but she was.

‘She'll do a good job,' he said. ‘Why wouldn't she? I've taught her all I know.'

‘Well, there you are, then! Happy now?'

‘Yes.'

But he wasn't.

In three days' time he would be starting his new life in Spain, and could finally leave Whitebridge CID behind him. But he hadn't quite left it behind
yet
, and he wasn't sure what troubled him more – the thought that Monika needed his help and wasn't getting it, or the possibility that she didn't need his help
at all
.

Sid Roberts was sitting by himself in the police canteen, tucking into one of those northern animal-fat-based breakfasts which – while they may well be bad for the heart – are scientifically proved to provide an excellent stomach lining for any man contemplating sinking a few pints of best bitter later in the day.

Roberts was pushing sixty. He had a shock of white hair, and a complexion which looked as if it had been constructed out of sandpaper. There was a popular saying around the HQ that he'd been a uniformed sergeant since Adam was a lad. But Monika Paniatowski, watching him from the doorway, didn't buy that at all. If Roberts had been on foot patrol in the Garden of Eden, in her opinion, Adam would have been given a clip round the ear and sent on his way – and the forbidden fruit would have stayed on the tree, where it belonged.

Still, there was no disputing the fact that Sid had been there a long time, and there was not a single member of the Whitebridge force who could remember a time when he
hadn't
had those three stripes stitched on his sleeve.

Several times, over the years, his superiors had suggested he apply for a promotion, but he'd always rejected the idea. He liked being a sergeant. He liked the perspective on his home town that the rank gave him. And while life might be said to be passing him by, it certainly didn't do so without him noticing every little detail of it.

Paniatowski walked over to Roberts' table. ‘Mind if I take a seat, Sid?' she asked.

Roberts looked up from his eggs and fried bread. ‘You're more than welcome, ma'am.'

‘Ma'am?' Paniatowski said, with a smile on her lips.

‘Ma'am,' Roberts repeated.

‘Why don't you call me Monika, just like you did back when you were training me up?' Paniatowski suggested.

Sid Roberts shook his head. ‘Nay, lass, that wouldn't be right. You're a detective chief inspector now, an' the proper respect for rank is one of the cornerstones of good policin'.'

Paniatowski grinned. ‘You do know you're talking complete bollocks, don't you, Sid?' she asked.

‘Everybody talks
a bit
of bollocks now and again, ma'am,' Roberts replied mildly.

‘Yes, they do,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘But the difference between you and most of the others is they don't
realize
they're doing it, and you do. Proper respect for rank! Cornerstones of policing! Bollocks of the first order! Remember, Sid, I've worked with you. I've watched you put
chief superintendents
in their place. I've seen them walk away from an encounter with you with their heads bowed, feeling as if they were about five years old.'

‘I think you must be confusin' me with somebody else,' Roberts said seriously, though there was laughter in his eyes. ‘So what can I do for you this mornin', ma'am?'

‘Tell me about the Brunskill family.'

‘The ones who own the bakery?'

‘That's right.'

‘How far do you want me to go back?'

‘Begin with the father.'

Roberts nodded. ‘The Brunskill family fortune started, like most family fortunes in this town, with the mills.'

‘He was a mill worker?'

‘Nay, lass, Seth Brunskill was a pie maker, but his
business
was with the mill workers. At first, when he didn't have a pot to piss in, he used to load an old hand-barrow up with pies and sell them at the mill gates at dinner time. He did so well that eventually he could afford to buy himself a horse an' cart, an' after that he splashed out on a motor vehicle.'

‘And from then on, the business went from strength to strength,' Paniatowski said.

‘Who's tellin' this story, ma'am – me or you?' Roberts asked sharply.

‘Sorry,' Paniatowski said, bowing her head contritely.

‘He got to the point – I think it must have been somewhere around 1953 – when he could afford to employ other people to do his sellin' for him. An' it was about that time, too, that his wife topped herself.'

‘She committed suicide?'

‘That's right.'

‘Does anyone know why?'

‘Not officially, but if you was to ask me to guess, I'd say it was because livin' with a mean-spirited bastard like Seth Brunskill had become such a strain that she simply didn't feel she could carry on any longer.'

‘It must have devastated her daughters.'

‘I very much doubt it. They took their lead from the way their father behaved, you see, and
he
regarded his wife as no more than a redundant baby-making machine.' Roberts took a sip of his tea. ‘Now where was I? Oh yes, after he'd buried his wife, one the first things he did was to buy his new bakery . . .'

‘The one Brunskill's have now?'

‘Nay, lass, that's the
new
new bakery. The one I'm talkin' about is down on Brewer's Street. Anyway, for the next few years, it didn't seem he could put a foot wrong, but then the business started to go into decline.'