A Long Time Dead (22 page)

The voice had a refined quality which didn't quite mask the coarser speech patterns which lay beneath it, Rutter thought.

Like the woman herself, it had made a long ascent – and was now on the decline again.

‘I really am most awfully sorry,' Rutter said.

‘So you should be,' Lily Hanson retorted, though not quite so aggressively now that she'd got a good look at him.

‘Let me clean up this mess I've made, and then buy you another drink,' Rutter suggested.

He picked up a napkin, and wiped down the bar. He reached for a second napkin, and dabbed her naked thigh with it. She did not object to this almost intimate contact, though she must have been as aware as he was that none of the gin and tonic had spilled on to her leg. And Rutter knew that the first – and probably most difficult – obstacle had been overcome.

They chatted for over an hour, during which time she gave him a potted autobiography which was only loosely based on the truth, and he returned the favour by telling her one which was a complete bloody lie.

She worked as the chief advisor to ‘a very important politician', she told Rutter.

‘Of course, I can't reveal his name, for reasons of security,' she added, in a confidential whisper.

Of course she couldn't, Rutter accepted.

Her work was very high pressured, she continued, and sometimes the strain got so much that it was necessary to leave it all behind her, and go out for a couple of drinks. But that was only normal, wasn't it?

Absolutely, Rutter agreed. He found the same in his work with the international bank.

Still, as hard as it was, the job did have its compensations, she was willing to admit.

Like what? Rutter wondered.

Well, for example, it did mean that she was able to afford an extremely nice flat, quite close to this very pub.

Interesting she should say that, Rutter replied. He had been thinking of moving into the area himself.

Oh yes?

But he was still not quite sure in his own mind whether or not it would suit him.

Well, why didn't he come up and see
her
flat, just to see how he liked it? Lily Hanson suggested.

That
did
seem like a good idea, if it wouldn't be too much of an imposition, Rutter agreed.

No imposition at all, Lily assured him.

Ignoring the barman's knowing leer, Rutter ordered another round of drinks. When they had finished them, he helped Lily Hanson on with her coat and escorted her to the door.

W
oodend had parked the Wolseley in the driveway to the Parkinson's Farm, and was just reaching for the door handle when he felt Paniatowski's restraining hand on his arm.

‘Best you stay here, sir,' the sergeant said softly.

‘What?'

‘I think it would be better, all round, if you left this particular interview to me.'

‘Oh, so
you're
runnin' the show now, are you, Sergeant Paniatowski?' Woodend demanded.

‘Not at all,' Paniatowski countered. ‘You're the boss. I've never argued with that.'

‘Well, then?'

‘But of the two of us, I'm more equipped to deal with the grieving. We both know that's true.'

‘The grievin'!' Woodend repeated disdainfully. ‘Why should they still be grievin', for God's sake? It's been over
twenty years
since their daughter died, you know.'

‘Do you think
you'd
have got over your own daughter's death in only twenty years?' Paniatowski asked.

Woodend's head jerked back, as if she'd just slapped him.

For perhaps half a minute, he remained silent, then he said, ‘You're right about the grievin', Monika. If Annie died, I don't think I'd ever get over it.' He paused again. ‘But you're wrong about the other thing. It's because I'm a parent – and you're not – that
I'd
be the best person to talk to the Parkinsons.'

‘No, you wouldn't,' Paniatowski contradicted him. ‘You're too involved to do a good job.'

‘Am I now?' Woodend asked, with a hint of his belligerency rising to the surface again. ‘An' would you mind tellin' me just exactly
how
an'
why
I'm too involved?'

‘I don't know the answer to that,' Paniatowski admitted.

‘Well, then?'

‘But I do know it's true. I've never been so sure of anything in my entire life.'

Another silence followed, and when Woodend spoke again there was a catch in his throat. ‘I really need a result on this one, Monika,' he said. ‘I'm
desperate
for a result.'

‘I can see that for myself,' Paniatowski confirmed. ‘And that's why I think you should stay in the car.'

Paniatowski sat in the Parkinsons' farm kitchen, facing Mary's parents. She knew, given the time which had elapsed, that the couple had to be quite old by now, but they looked positively
ancient
– as though, despite still drawing breath, they had both been dead a long, long time.

‘You wanted us to talk about our Mary,' Mr Parkinson said.

‘That's right.'

‘She was the apple of both our eyes, you know. She was a lovely, lovely girl.'

‘That's what I've heard. That's what everybody else I've talked to says about her,' Paniatowski agreed.

‘It was a terrible tragedy that she should lose her life so young,' the old man continued.

‘It wasn't her fault,' Paniatowski told him.

‘Of course it wasn't her fault! How could it be her fault? She died of pneumonia.'

‘Nobody in the village really believes that, you know,' Paniatowski said gently.

‘I don't care what them evil-minded people think,' the old man said bitterly. ‘They can say whatever they like about her, but they're wrong. Our Mary caught pneumonia. That's what she died of – and that's what it says on the her death certificate.'

‘The doctor who signed it was a friend of yours, wasn't he?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Who told you that?'

‘Wasn't he?'

‘Yes, we'd known old Doc Adams for years.'

‘And he'd have written anything on the death certificate that you'd asked him to, wouldn't he?'

‘I want you to leave!' the old man said, as fiercely as his weak voice would still allow. ‘I want you to go right now.'

‘There's no shame in what she did,' Paniatowski said. ‘Your friends will all understand. They won't think any less of her because of it.'

The old man raised a shaky hand, and pointed it across the room. ‘There's the door, Miss,' he said. ‘If I still had the strength to throw you out through it myself, I'd do it.'

‘There were two great wrongs done back then,' Paniatowski said desperately. ‘One was to your daughter, and the other was to someone else. We can't do anything to help Mary any more, but at least we can still right that second wrong. And if you helped me to do that, by telling me the truth, I'm sure Mary would sleep more peacefully in her grave.'

‘What are you talking about?' the old man asked. ‘I've no idea what you're talking about.'

‘I'm not allowed to give you any more details about that second wrong,' Paniatowski said. ‘You'll just have to trust me on it.'

‘Why
should
I trust you?' the old man asked. ‘Why should I help you, if it means blackening my darling daughter's name?'

To hell with the Official Secrets' Act! Paniatowski thought. To hell with all the politics and red tape!

‘Did you know an American Army captain called Robert Kineally, Mr Parkinson?' she asked.

‘Yes, we knew Robert. He was a wonderful young man. He was in love with our Mary, you know.'

‘He disappeared shortly after she died,' old Mrs Parkinson said, speaking for the first time. ‘I don't think he could bear to stay around here after our Mary was gone.'

‘He didn't disappear,' Paniatowski told them. ‘He was murdered.'

‘Murdered!' Mrs Parkinson gasped.

‘I don't believe you,' her husband said. ‘If he'd been murdered, somebody would have told us.'

‘Nobody knew,' Paniatowski explained. ‘They've only just found his body – buried at the old camp. And now we need to find his killer.'

‘Poor Robert,' the old woman said mournfully.

‘It's a terrible thing to have happened,' her husband agreed. ‘But how will talking about our Mary help you to find the murderer?'

‘I wish I could give you a clear answer to that, but I can't,' Paniatowski admitted. ‘We're blundering around in the dark here, and even if you can shed only a little light, it might help us to find our way.'

‘It's very painful for us to talk about it,' the old man said, as tears began to run down his sunken cheeks.

‘You owe it to Mary,' Paniatowski said, hating herself for putting them through so much suffering, but knowing she had no choice. ‘You have to do what she would have wanted you to do.'

The old couple exchanged agonized glances, then the father said, ‘Before Mary died – before Mary
killed
herself – she wrote two letters. The first one was to me and her mother. She … she said she was sorry for all the pain she knew she'd cause us by going like that, but she was so desperately unhappy, and she didn't see any other way out.'

‘Did you keep the note?' Paniatowski asked.

The old man feebly shook his head. ‘No, we didn't keep it. We couldn't bear to. So when I'd lit the bonfire, I burned it, along with all the … the blood-soaked bedding.'

‘And what about the other letter?' Paniatowski asked. ‘What did she say in that?'

‘We don't know. It was in a sealed envelope.'

‘And you didn't open it?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘If Mary had wanted us to read it, she wouldn't have sealed it in the first place. Anyway, it wasn't addressed to us.'

‘So what
did
you do with it?'

‘In her letter to us, she asked us to post it for her. She'd even put a stamp on it. It was her last wish. It seemed … it seemed that the least we could do was to respect it.'

‘Do you remember who you posted it to?' Paniatowski asked.

Just a hint of anger appeared in the old man's watery eyes. ‘I may be old and I may be frail – but I'm not quite senile yet,' he said. ‘Of course I remember who I posted it to.'

‘I'm sorry,' Paniatowski said. ‘I never meant to imply—'

‘Yes, you did,' the old man told her. ‘But it doesn't matter. Nothing much matters now.'

‘So it was addressed to …?'

‘It was addressed to
Robert
. Who else would our Mary have written to in the last few precious moments of her life?'

I
nspector Tom Wright had been no more than accurate when he'd talked about the excellence of the security system which was installed Douglas Coutes's flat, Bob Rutter thought.

The front door was made of a hardwood – possibly mahogany – which would have made it a formidable obstacle even without the steel plate that was probably embedded in it. The locks, with which Lily Hanson was drunkenly fumbling at the moment, would not have looked out of place on the strong-room door of a major bank. The average burglar would have taken one look at this door, and then moved on. Even the expert cracksman – and there were few enough of those about – would have thought twice before taking it on.

Lily, after more fumbling, finally got the door open. ‘Just wait here for a minute, will you, Sweetie?' she said.

‘Have you changed your mind about inviting me in?' Rutter asked, in a flirtatious voice that sounded nothing like his own.

‘Changed my mind? No, not for a minute,' Lily assured him. ‘Only an idiot would slam the door in the face of a good-looking boy like you.'

‘Then why keep me waiting out here?'

‘Because I've got to disable the security system before you can come in.'

‘Really?'

‘Really! If I don't do that, the sensors will detect more than one person in the hallway, and the alarms will go off.'

‘And we wouldn't want that,' Rutter said.

Lily giggled. ‘No, we wouldn't,' she said. ‘Not just when we're getting really close to the interesting bit.'

Lily disappeared into the flat, leaving Rutter with a moment to himself for reflection.

This kind of behaviour wasn't like him at all, he thought. He didn't make up stories about himself, and then feed them to people he was investigating. He
never
pretended to be something he wasn't. That was the sort of thing that only the wonderful – irrepressible – Monika Paniatowski could get away with.

And yet despite all his qualms – despite the odd prick of conscience – he was, for the first time since he'd been told about his wife's death, actually beginning to enjoy himself.

Lily appeared in the doorway again.

‘It's safe to come in, now,' she said. She threw her arms out in an expansive gesture. ‘Welcome to my humble home.'

Rutter followed her into the flat. She led him down the corridor, and from there to a large, luxurious living room.

‘At last!' Lily said. ‘We're finally in my little home, and now we can really start to get comfortable.'

But almost as soon as the words were out, she began to look very
un
comfortable in herself.

‘Excuse me for a moment,' she continued, speaking through a mouth which she was keeping almost entirely closed.

She turned, and staggered back into the corridor. Rutter heard another door open, then close again, and guessed it led into a bathroom. He waited for a few moments, then followed her out on tiptoe.

The second he entered the corridor, he could hear the sound of the woman vomiting her heart up into the toilet bowl. Which meant, he estimated, that he had at least five minutes to look around.