The Red Herring (7 page)

‘
Simultaneous with the departure of these military dependants, the base is awaiting the arrival of three battalions of US Marine reinforcements,
' the reporter continued. ‘
Out at sea, eight hundred miles from the island of Cuba, the American Fleet is preparing to establish what
it
says is a “quarantine line”, but which the USSR claims is a military blockade and tantamount to an act of war. As Russian ships steam steadily on towards this quarantine line, the governments in Washington and Moscow hold their breaths – and in this, they have much in common with their own people, and with the peoples of the world. This is Paul Townshend, handing you back to the studio.
'

‘Why the bloody hell can't the Reds stay where they belong?' demanded a middle-aged uniformed constable on the next table to Rutter's. ‘Because they're out to conquer the whole bloody world, that's why,' he continued, answering his own question.

‘I don't see why the Russians can't have missiles on Cuba if they want to,' his companion replied. ‘After all, the Americans have got missiles in Turkey, haven't they?'

‘That's different,' the first constable said. ‘The Yanks haven't put them in Turkey just to protect themselves – they've done it to protect us as well.'

‘Protect us? The Russians haven't got any interest in little England,' the second constable scoffed.

‘That kind of remark shows just what an ignorant, uninformed bugger you really are,' his partner countered. ‘Have you ever heard of a feller called William Vassall?'

‘No, I can't say I have,' the second constable admitted.

‘I thought as much. Well, for your information Vassall used to be a clerk at the Admiralty. An' I say
used to be,
because yesterday he was sentenced to eighteen years behind bars for spyin' for just them people that
you
claim don't have any interest in little England. An' he's not the only one, not by a long chalk. There's Reds in the trade unions, an' Reds in the government. It wouldn't surprise me if there were Reds in this very station – and pretty near the top, as well.' The constable suddenly noticed who was sitting at the next table, and began to look distinctly uncomfortable. ‘No, I take that back. That's probably goin' too far,' he added lamely.

Rutter stood up. ‘If you're wondering if I overheard your conversation, constable, then I have to tell you that I did,' he said.

‘I'm sorry, sir, I got a bit carried away,' the constable mumbled.

‘There's no need to be sorry for your views, because, unlike the Russians, you've got a perfect right to express them,' Rutter told him. ‘If anyone should apologise, it's me – for eavesdropping on your conversation.'

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked towards the exit. The average bobbie in Whitebridge was not known for his interest in current events, he thought. But then they didn't see this particular crisis as something that was happening far away from themselves and their interests – they saw it as a possible lead-up to World War Three! With strategic military targets like the Blackhill aircraft factory and British-American air-force base only a few miles from Whitebridge, they were worried for the safety of their families.

And they had every right to be – he was bloody worried himself!

V
erity Beale's naked body was stretched out on the table, with several of her vital organs lying in stainless-steel dishes beside it. Monika Paniatowski braced herself as she looked down at it, conscious that the uniformed constable in the corner – who was only there because the law required an officer to be present at every autopsy – was watching her closely.

In her early days on the force, Monika had felt it was unfair that she should come under such scrutiny; unfair that while her male colleagues were allowed to look a little queasy when observing a cadaver, she was not – because she was a woman, and even the slightest twitch on her face would be taken as proof positive that women should have nothing to do with murder investigations. Now she regarded such an attitude as merely one more in a long list of obstacles she would have to leap over in order to prove that she was not just a
good
detective – she was one of the
best
.

Doctor Pierson, a hacksaw in his hand, looked up from his work. ‘Just you here, Monika?' he asked cheerfully. ‘Isn't Cloggin'-it Charlie bothering with this one?'

‘He's busy up at Eddie's,' Paniatowski replied. ‘What can you tell me about the stiff?'

The doctor placed his bloody hacksaw on the table, and lit up a cigarette. ‘Aged about twenty-six or twenty-seven,' he said. ‘Very fit, very strong. Almost an athlete's physique.'

‘She must have put up quite a struggle when she was being strangled,' Paniatowski said.

‘She could have done if she'd been conscious – but she wasn't. There's a bump the size of a duck egg on the back of her head.'

‘Any idea of what was used to hit her?'

‘More than an idea. It was a brick. An Accrington red brick, I'd say, though that's really up to your forensic boys to establish for certain. We found traces of it embedded in her skull.'

A brick! Paniatowski thought in disgust. Not a Papuan headhunter's axe or stonemason's hammer, but a bloody brick!

And how many of them were there lying around in Lancashire, just waiting for murderers searching for a suitable blunt instrument? Millions!

‘What else have you got?' she asked.

‘She wasn't killed where she was found. From the bruising which occurred after death, I'd say she'd been driven there, probably sitting in an upright position. Now that's a grizzly thought, isn't it?'

Very grizzly. Paniatowski lit up one of her own cigarettes and inhaled deeply. ‘Time of death?' she asked.

‘Sometime between eleven last night and one o'clock this morning. She last had something to eat at around six o'clock. A cheese sandwich liberally smeared with sweet pickle.'

‘Anything else in her stomach?'

‘She'd been drinking shortly before she died.'

‘To excess?'

‘Depends what you'd call excessive, Monika. Three or four gin and tonics, which probably wouldn't have that much effect on somebody with her build and general fitness. What I can't really tell you is whether she had them
before
–or whether she had them
after
!'

‘Before or after what?'

‘Oh, didn't I mention that?' the doctor said, sounding surprised. ‘She had sexual intercourse sometime during the course of the evening.'

At the mention of sex, Paniatowski noticed, the uniformed constable in the corner of the room ran his eyes quickly up and down her body, then sniggered to himself. She could easily imagine what he would tell his mates when he was back in the canteen.

‘An' when the doc mentioned sex, Sergeant Panties shivered all over. You can tell she's cryin' out for it herself.'

‘Is something the matter, Monika?' asked Pierson, who'd clearly missed the constable's reaction. ‘You surely weren't expecting her to still be a virgin, were you? Not in this day and age? Not now there's the miracle birth-control pill so freely available?'

The constable sniggered again, no doubt refining the story he would recount later. Paniatowski decided to ignore him.

‘No, I wasn't expecting her to be a virgin,' she told the doctor. ‘Not particularly, anyway. What about the sex? She wasn't forced, was she?'

‘Definitely not. It was consensual, and, I would say, it was also rather energetic.'

The smirk on the constable's face was widening by the second, and even when he saw that Paniatowski was looking straight at him, he made no attempt to hide it.

‘Would you mind coming over here for a second or two, Constable?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Me?'

‘You're the only constable I can see in this room.'

The man stepped hesitantly forward, but stopped when he was still a fair distance from the table. He was perhaps a couple of years younger than Paniatowski, and his air of superiority – which he probably thought it was natural for a man to feel in the presence of a mere woman – was rapidly draining from his face.

‘Yes, Sergeant?' he said.

‘Is this the first autopsy you've attended?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Well, yes,' the constable admitted.

‘Then come a little closer,' Paniatowski said. ‘I don't think you can see things clearly from where you're standing.'

The constable took another tentative step.

‘Now, as you can observe, the doctor has sliced off the top of the skull, pretty much in the way you knock off the top of your boiled egg in the morning,' Paniatowski explained, in a dry, clinical voice. ‘That funny piece of meat he's taken out is, in fact, the brain.' She pointed to a spot in the centre of it. ‘If it was
your
brain – assuming you have one – then that's the place where all your dirty thoughts would be born.'

The constable's skin was turning a light shade of green.

‘Now, according to regulations, what the doctor's
supposed
to do before he stitches her up again is to put the brain back in,' Paniatowski continued. ‘But that's a bit of a fiddle, and the brain's not going to be much use to the dead woman now, is it? So as far as Doc Pierson's concerned, it's much easier just to use newspaper as padding instead. You normally use the
Manchester Guardian
for the job, don't you, Doctor?'

‘That's right,' Pierson said, deadpan.

The constable's green colour had deepened.

‘You'll . . . you'll have to excuse me,' he gasped.

Then he clamped his hand tightly over his mouth, and rushed in the direction of the toilets.

‘It'll be a while before he fancies an egg for his breakfast again,' Paniatowski said.

The doctor shook his head in wonder. ‘Wasn't that a bit unnecessary, Monika?' he asked.

‘Perhaps it was,' Paniatowski conceded. ‘But I find it helps to keep me sane if I can hit back at one of the sniggering bastards occasionally.'

The wall phone rang. Pierson picked it up, listened for a second, then handed the receiver over to Monika.

‘That you, Sarge?' asked the voice at the other end.

‘Yes.'

‘About the car you were lookin' for? The victim's black Mini? We've found it.'

‘Where?'

‘On the car park of a country pub on the way to Sladebury. The Spinner, it's called. We're there now.'

‘I'll be right over,' Paniatowski said.

Once he'd been connected to the switchboard at Woolwich Police Station, Bob Rutter identified himself and asked to be put through to the duty inspector. He was told – just as he'd expected to be – that the duty inspector would ring him back, and the call was indeed returned a couple of minutes later.

‘So you really
are
a copper,' said the caller, who identified himself as DI Cyril Hoskins.

‘You get a lot of crank calls being made down your way, do you?' Rutter asked.

‘More than enough. I had a bloke ringing me up last week claiming to be the Pope.'

‘Maybe he really was,' Rutter suggested, grinning.

‘Nah,' Hoskins said dismissively. ‘Not unless His Holiness has acquired a south London accent since the last time I heard him on the telly.' He paused. ‘Do I detect a bit of a London twang in your dulcet tones?'

‘Well spotted,' Rutter said.

‘So what are you doing up there in darkest Lancashire, among all those Northern barbarians?'

‘Trying my best to teach them a little civilisation,' Rutter said.

‘And are you having much luck?'

‘Not so as you'd notice.'

Hoskins chuckled. ‘From the ones I've met, I'm not at all surprised. So what can I do for you, Bob – it is Bob, isn't it?'

‘That's right, Cyril, it is,' Rutter agreed. ‘The thing is, we've had a nasty little murder on our patch, and it seems that, until recently, the victim was living on your manor. I was wondering if you could cut through all the red tape and do us a bit of legwork.'

‘We're always glad to oblige other forces whenever we can,' Hoskins said cheerfully. ‘I'll put some of my boys on the job right away. What's the victim's name?'

‘Verity Beale.'

‘And what's the last address you have for her in Woolwich?'

‘Ruskin Road.'

There was a sudden pause, as if the other man had remembered something which he
should
have recalled a lot earlier.

‘Are you still there?' Rutter asked.

‘Er . . . yes. Sorry,' Hoskins replied. ‘You did say the victim's name was Beale, didn't you?'

‘That's right. Verity Beale.'

‘You're sure about that?'

‘I've talked to several people who know her by that name, and it's what's on her driving licence.'

‘Hang on for a minute.'

There was the sound of the phone being laid down, followed by the noise of several drawers being opened.

‘Sorry about that,' Hoskins said, when he came back on to the line a couple of minutes later. ‘Bit of a local emergency came up as we were talking, but it's been dealt with now. You say this woman's name is Verity Beale and she lived in Ruskin Road?'

How many more times does he want me to repeat it, Rutter wondered. But aloud, all he said was, ‘Correct.'

‘We'll look into it, like I said we would,' Hoskins told him. ‘The only problem is, we're a bit short-handed at the moment, so I can't promise you we'll get on to it right away. Would the day after tomorrow do you?'

‘We are investigating a murder here,' Rutter pointed out, ‘and you know yourself that the more time that's allowed to lapse, the less chance there is of getting a result.'