Echoes of the Dead (33 page)

‘A proper man wouldn't complain that the allowance he was getting from his wife's grandfather wasn't enough to keep him in the style he'd expected,' he said, trying – despite everything – to hold up a mirror in which Eccles could see his own worthlessness. ‘A
proper
man would think it was his duty to get a job, so he could support his wife and daughter himself.'

‘Say that last bit again,' Eccles told him.

‘I said a
proper
man would think it was his duty to get a job, so he could support his wife and daughter himself.'

Eccles grinned, revealing a mouthful of rotting teeth.

‘You've got it all wrong,' he said.

‘I have a problem which I think you may be able to help me with,' Dr Shastri told her visitor.

Paniatowski grinned. ‘
You
have a problem? The great Dr Shastri has a
problem
?' she said. ‘The age of miracles has come at last.' Then she saw that Shastri was looking unusually serious, and added, ‘I'm sorry, Doc, what
is
this problem?'

‘Did you know that I was the one who carried out a post-mortem on Frederick Howerd?' Shastri asked.

‘No, I didn't. But now you've told me, I must admit I'm surprised that you didn't assign a straightforward case like his to one of your staff.'

‘I decided to conduct the autopsy myself because I was told the cause of death was almost certainly lung cancer,' Shastri said.

‘I'm not following you,' Paniatowski admitted.

‘I had a number of students observing me that day, and several of them were already – totally foolishly, in my view – heavy smokers.'

‘Ah, and the autopsy was more to do with them than it was to do with Fred Howerd,' Paniatowski said, understanding.

‘Just so,' Shastri agreed. ‘In fact, my dear Monika, I contemplated inviting you along, since you, too, could have done with a salutary lesson.'

Paniatowski lit up a cigarette. ‘I don't know what you're talking about,' she said innocently.

‘Since it was more a demonstration for the benefit of students than it was an examination to determine the cause of death, I was even more thorough than I normally am,' Shastri continued.

‘I see,' Paniatowski said – though she didn't.

‘Let us move on,' Shastri suggested. ‘Let us widen the discussion, and talk in general terms.'

I wasn't aware it was a
discussion
we were having, Paniatowski thought, but she nodded anyway.

‘I have carried out a number of autopsies on the cadavers of the terminally ill,' said Shastri, ‘and I am often faced with the same dilemma.'

‘And what dilemma might that be?'

‘Though I have no personal experience of taking care of a dying relative, I can imagine how hard it must be,' Shastri said. ‘The pain of those about to leave the world must, to a certain extent, be shared by those who are watching them leave it. And that is not the only problem. The dying often need constant attention, and those administering it are only too well aware that
whatever
they do, it is ultimately pointless, and death
will claim
his victory.' Shastri shook her head. ‘The whole process must be completely exhausting. So it is hardly surprising, is it, that some of those loving carers eventually lose all perspective, and behave in a way which they would not normally even contemplate?'

‘Go on,' Paniatowski said.

Shastri hesitated. ‘This conversation is being held in confidence, isn't it?' she asked.

‘Of course.'

‘Very well, then. If there are any questions as to the actual cause of any particular death, I am required by law to report them to the appropriate authorities.' She hesitated again. ‘Yes, that is what I am
required
to do, but sometimes, having considered the circumstances of those left behind, I ignore that requirement. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

‘Yes, I do,' Paniatowski told her gravely. ‘But I promise you that the moment I leave this room, I'll forget I ever heard it.'

‘Thank you,' Shastri said. ‘And now I would like you to tell me about Mrs Eccles.'

‘What do you want to know?'

‘Was she, in your opinion, a good and caring daughter, who would have done everything in her power to make her father's last few days on earth as comfortable as they could possibly be?'

‘You're suggesting that Fred Howerd didn't die from lung cancer at all, aren't you?' Paniatowski asked.

‘I'm not suggesting anything,' Shastri countered. ‘I'm merely asking you if Mrs Eccles was a good daughter.'

‘Aren't you?' Paniatowski persisted.

‘Yes,' Shastri admitted.

‘So what
did
kill him?'

‘The autopsy revealed that he died as the result of being injected with a massive dose of morphine,' Shastri said.

‘
The sergeant, hearing the disturbance, goes upstairs to see what's happened
,' said the tinny voice from the small tape recorder on the chief constable's desk. ‘
Then, when he realizes that what his boss is doing is throwing up, he thinks he might just have a look in the girl's bedroom himself. That's when he sees the pencils – and what particularly attracts him to them is that they have the girl's teeth marks on them. “Hello, that might come in useful,” he tells himself. He pockets the pencil, and goes back downstairs before his boss has finished his business in the lavvy. Then later, when they're in – for example, and still hypothetically speaking – a pigeon loft, he takes the opportunity to drop the pencil the floor
.'

Paniatowski reached across the desk and switched the recorder off. ‘I could have played you this before, but there didn't seem much point,' she said.

‘And there's still not much point now,' George Baxter said. ‘I can think of at least four good reasons why it was a waste of time my even listening to it.' He began to count them off on his fingers. ‘One: you didn't have official authorization to make the recording. Two: there are no witnesses to confirm that it was, in fact, you who made it. Three: Hall says nothing that he can't explain away as being no more than a joke in bad taste. And four: you can't prove that the whole tape isn't a complete fake.' He laid his hand back on the desk. ‘In other words, as a piece of evidence, it has absolutely no value at all.'

‘I know that,' Paniatowski said. ‘But you believe it shows Charlie Woodend's innocence, don't you?'

‘Oh yes,
I
believe it – as a man,' Baxter said. ‘As a man, I'm more than willing to accept that Charlie Woodend is as pure as the driven snow and that Bannerman is a real snake in the grass. But, don't you see, that doesn't make any difference – because, as a
chief constable
, I still know Fred Howerd was wrongly imprisoned for a crime he didn't commit, and that
has to be
investigated. And if the evidence points to Charlie Woodend fitting him up – and apart from this tape, which is
no evidence at all
, it does – then Charlie will just have to take the fall.'

‘I think I may have found a way for you to be able to forget all about the pencil and still be able to sleep at night,' Paniatowski said.

Baxter shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘You're wrong about that,' he said. ‘I know you're so desperate to save Charlie Woodend that you'll believe almost
anything
yourself, Monika, but there's no way in hell that I could ever even contemplate overlooking that pencil.'

‘The pencil doesn't matter,' Paniatowski said. ‘The pencil doesn't
change
anything.'

Baxter looked at her pityingly. ‘A lot of this is my fault,' he said. ‘It was a big mistake to put you in charge of this investigation. It's all been far too much of a strain on you – I can see that now – and that's why, effective from this moment, I'm sending you on sick leave.'

‘The pencil doesn't change anything,' Paniatowski repeated firmly. ‘And once I've explained to you what really happened back in 1951 – and what really happened only last week – you'll see that for yourself.'

Baxter sighed. ‘I'll give you five minutes for this explanation of yours, but you'll have to promise to do something in return.'

‘What?'

‘When the five minutes are up, you'll hand me your warrant card . . .'

‘My warrant card!'

‘. . . and I will keep it here – in my desk drawer – until I decide you're fit enough to return to your normal duties.'

‘That's not fair!' Paniatowski protested.

‘Those are my terms,' Baxter told her. ‘Take them or leave them.'

‘I'll take them,' Paniatowski said resignedly. ‘What choice do I have?'

Baxter had promised her five minutes, but the conversation which followed went on for nearly an hour. When Paniatowski had finally finished explaining, Baxter said, ‘It's just a theory. You do know that, don't you?'

‘It all hangs together, though, doesn't it?' Paniatowski asked.

‘There is a certain logic to it,' Baxter agreed, reluctantly, ‘but there's also very little you can actually
prove
. Most of the evidence is circumstantial, at best.'

But he was weakening, Paniatowski thought – he was definitely weakening, and the time had come to go for all or nothing.

She took her warrant card out of her pocket, and placed it on the desk, as she'd promised she would.

‘Tell me honestly, sir, do
you
think I've got it right?' she asked.

He could have swept up the warrant card in his big hands and placed it in his desk drawer. But he didn't.

Instead, sounding as if the words were being dragged from him, he said, ‘Yes, Chief Inspector, I
do
think you've got it right.'

The warrant card – the magic key to the life she loved – was still sitting there on the desk, but she did not trust herself to look at it.

‘So, in the light of that, might I ask what action you are proposing to take, sir?' she said.

‘The only way you're ever going to make your case is by getting a confession,' Baxter said.

‘The only way
I'm
ever going to make my case is by getting a confession,' Paniatowski said. ‘Does that mean I'm still
on
the case?'

Baxter shrugged awkwardly. ‘You've put so much work into it that it would be both wrong and unprofessional of me to take it off you now.'

She could have kissed him. She
wanted
to kiss him.

But she didn't.

She simply said, ‘Do I have your permission to pick up my warrant card again, sir?'

‘Yes,' Baxter told her. ‘You have my permission.'

She forced herself not to grab at the card, but to reach for it slowly and calmly. Then, when it was safely back in her pocket, she said, ‘There is the other thing, sir.'

‘What other thing?' Baxter asked.

‘Assuming
I
am right about what happened, and I
do
manage to get the confession that's needed . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘. . . then can I also assume that you'll forget all about the coloured pencil which was planted in Fred Howerd's pigeon loft?'

‘Yes,' Baxter said heavily. ‘You can also assume that.'

TWENTY-SIX

T
he sun was just setting as Paniatowski and Beresford pulled into the driveway of Robert Howerd's large detached house on the edge of Whitebridge.

It would soon be setting in Spain, too, Paniatowski thought – and perhaps, if she didn't get the next half hour totally right, it would never
really
rise for Charlie Woodend again.

The chief constable's words kept bouncing around in her head.

They were met at the door by a uniformed maid.

‘Mrs Eccles is expecting you,' the woman said.

‘And Mr Howerd?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Mr Howerd is there, too,' the other woman replied, in a voice which suggested that she thought that really wasn't important.

The maid led them down a polished teak-wood corridor to a large parlour at the back of the house.

Robert Howerd and Elizabeth Eccles were sitting together, on a large leather sofa which must have cost almost as much as the terraced cottage in which Elizabeth had spent the last twenty-two years.

Howerd's appearance came as a shock to Paniatowski. The last time she had seen him, it had been on the television screen, and he had been full of fire – an angry man who knew his own influence and was determined to wield it to maximum effect. But now the fire had gone out, and only the smouldering embers remained. His eyes were dull, a muscle in his left cheek twitched erratically, and even the smart three-piece suit he was wearing hung on him like sacking.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, offered no surprises. Her face was a blank, and she was wearing a simple black dress which gave no clue at all as to what she was feeling or thinking.

She'll deny everything, Paniatowski thought miserably.

Elizabeth simply had no choice in the matter, because she was sitting atop a pyramid which had Lilly's and Mottershead's deaths as its base, and her father's death at its pinnacle – and while she didn't give a damn about the former, she had to do her best to protect that base, or the whole structure would come tumbling down.