Lambs to the Slaughter (11 page)

‘You were going to tell me about the only time you ever heard him lose his temper,' Paniatowski pointed out.

‘And so I will, lass, if you'll be patient for a minute or two,' Susan Danvers said, with a hint of reproach in her voice.

‘Sorry,' Paniatowski said meekly.

‘He sent off the letter to the Department of Education and Science, and they wrote back straight away. They said that they were very interested, and that there should be no problem with a grant.'

‘And you're sure this letter came from the Department of Education and Science?' asked Paniatowski, who was surprised by the willingness of the department to fund what was no more than a hobby, and couldn't imagine
any
government department writing back straight away.

‘Yes, it was from them,' Susan said firmly. ‘Len showed me the letter.'

‘Did it say anything else?'

‘It said they'd be sending somebody round to interview him, and sure enough, last Thursday, a young man did turn up.'

And three days later, Len Hopkins was dead, Paniatowski thought.

‘Did you meet this young man?' she asked.

‘In a manner of speaking.'

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘It was about half past four in the afternoon when I went to Len's house to make his tea, and when I reached the front door, I could see the two of them – Len and the young man – in the front parlour. Well, I didn't want to disturb them – not when they both looked so serious – so I stayed out on the street. And it was while I was standing there that the shouting started.'

‘Were they both shouting?'

‘No, the young man seemed quite calm. It was Len that was making all the fuss.'

‘Did you hear what he was shouting?'

‘Some of it. He was bellowing so loudly, that it would have been hard not to have.'

‘Tell me as much as you can remember of what he said.'

‘He said something like, “You might call it a bursary . . .” That's a grant, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' Paniatowski agreed, ‘it's a grant.'

‘He said, “You might call it a bursary, but I call it a bloody bribe!” Then the young man said something very softly. “These are my people,” Len told him, “and if you think I'll betray them for a mess of pottage, you're off your bloody head.” That's from the Bible, that bit about the mess of pottage.'

‘I know,' Paniatowski said. ‘When he was talking about betraying his people, do you think he was referring to his own family?'

‘No, I don't, because he didn't have any family left, to speak of,' Susan said. ‘And anyway, the next thing he said was, “I've grown up with these people. They're my neighbours. And even when they're wrong, they're a bloody sight righter than you'll ever be, you fancy piece of shit.” And you have to remember that Len never swore – so that shows just how upset he was.'

‘What happened next?'

‘The young man left. He came out of the front door, and walked quickly up the street. I don't think he even noticed me.'

‘He didn't have a car?'

‘He must have done, unless he came by bus – and he didn't look like the kind of person who'd even know how to use a bus – but he hadn't parked it anywhere near Len's house.'

‘Could you describe him?'

‘He was quite tall, and had fairly long blond hair. He looked a bit young to be working for the government, but he was wearing a nice suit – quite an expensive one, if you ask me – so I suppose he must have been what he said he was.'

‘What did Mr Hopkins tell you about him?'

‘Not a thing. He refused to discuss it. But while I was making his tea, he kept muttering the same thing over and over to himself.'

‘And what was it?'

‘He kept saying, “It's all true. You read about it, and you think it's an exaggeration – but it's all true.”'

‘And you have no idea what he meant by that?'

‘Not a clue.'

‘Do you think the young man might have been responsible for Len's death?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Good heavens, no,' Susan said, completely taken aback.

‘Why not?'

‘Because if he'd killed Len – and I'm not saying he ever would have, but
if
he had – he'd have shot him, or maybe strangled him. I didn't see much of him, but I saw enough to know that he'd have thought it far too messy to smash his head in with a short-handled pickaxe.'

‘So you know he was killed with a pickaxe, do you?' Paniatowski asked sharply.

The question seemed to take Susan Danvers by surprise.

‘Of course I know,' she said. ‘Probably everybody in the village knows by now. It was the one Len used himself, when he was working down the mine. He kept it in the wash house, and every week, he'd polish the handle.' Susan gave another sad little smile. ‘Men are funny creatures, don't you think?'

‘Very strange,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘So if the young man wouldn't have thought of killing him with the pickaxe, who do you think would have?'

‘I can't think of anybody,' Susan told her. ‘Like I said, he had no enemies.'

‘But somebody
did
kill him,' Paniatowski said firmly, ‘and I'd still like to know what kind of person you think
would
use a pick.'

‘It could be anybody,' Susan said – conveniently ignoring the fact that there was no great leap from turning a miner's tool into a miner's
weapon.

T
he detective sergeant who would be in charge of coordination was the first to arrive at the church hall. He was a middle-aged man with white hair, and he went by the improbable name of Eddie Orchard.

‘The name's been a burden to me my whole life, sir,' he told Beresford, who he hadn't met before.

It must have been, thought the inspector, who could well imagine the younger Orchard having to endure nicknames like Apple, Pear and – perhaps worst of all – Cherry.

‘Yes, it's been a real curse on me,' the sergeant continued, with a grin. ‘I could never understand why I wasn't called something more sensible – like Frank!'

The detective constables who Orchard would be coordinating arrived in a bunch. They were all young, mostly newly promoted, and clearly very enthusiastic, and as Beresford watched DS Orchard assign them to their places on the horseshoe, he felt an unexpected pang of envy.

Once the constables were seated, Beresford climbed on to the small stage at the end of room, and, aware that all eyes were on him, began his address to the troops.

‘Those of you who are working your first murder inquiry are probably almost bursting with excitement,' he said to them, ‘so here's a bit of advice – get rid of that feeling of excitement now.' He paused, to let the remark sink in. ‘There's nothing thrilling about this kind of investigation,' he continued. ‘It's hard work and it's tedious work. But it has to be
careful
work, too, because one of those tedious little details may be just the one that cracks the case wide open.'

He had them in the palm of his hand, he thought, looking down at their faces. At this stage of their careers, he was the man they looked up to – the man they one day wanted to be. And he'd earned their respect, he told himself, because he was very good at his job, and played a vital part in a well-oiled machine.

So why wasn't that enough for him?

Why did he want more?

He realized he had been silent for several seconds.

‘You're probably asking yourselves how you'll feel when we get a result,' he said, picking up where he had left off. ‘Well, get rid of that feeling, as well, because a result is by no means guaranteed, and the more you're sure it will all eventually come together, the less the likelihood that it will. Assume nothing. Check everything. And then check it again.' He paused, and smiled. ‘But if you
do
get a result, lads, it's a great feeling. It's not better than sex, because
nothing's
better than sex,' he paused again, to allow for the expected laughter which followed the remark, then added, as a kicker, ‘but, let me tell you, it comes pretty bloody close.'

He saw that Paniatowski had entered the hall and was standing at the back with Meadows, and he felt suddenly self-conscious.

‘That's about it, lads,' he said. ‘Sergeant Orchard will assign the streets he wants each of you to cover on the door-to-door, and remember, when you're out there, that though your individual contribution is crucial to the success of the investigation, the most important thing is that you're part of a team.'

He walked down the steps, and made his way to the back of the hall.

‘Lunch?' he asked his boss.

‘Lunch,' Paniatowski agreed.

The landlord of the Green Dragon had spotted the team's approach, and was waiting for them at the door.

‘Welcome, welcome, welcome,' he said effusively, already beginning to compose in his mind the heavily embellished stories of this visit that he would soon be telling to his – until recently much-envied – colleague at the Drum and Monkey in Whitebridge. ‘I've reserved a table in the corner for you.'

‘Thank you,' Beresford said.

‘It's for your
exclusive
use,' the landlord said as they entered the pub, in case Beresford had missed the point. ‘As long as you're here conducting your investigation, there'll be no one else allowed to use it.'

‘Thank you again,' Beresford said – though he couldn't help thinking that since there was no one else in the pub at the time, it was less of a singular honour than it might have been.

‘If there's anything you want – anything at all – then you only have to ask,' the landlord said.

‘There's such a thing as being shown
too
much hospitality, you know,' Beresford said gruffly. ‘In fact, it gets rather wearing after a while.'

The landlord looked puzzled for a second, then smiled and said, ‘Oh, I see, it's your little joke.'

‘That's right,' Beresford agreed. ‘What's for lunch?'

‘You could have Lancashire Hotpot,' the landlord suggested. ‘It's made to my wife's special recipe, and I can thoroughly recommend it.'

‘Sounds a bit fattening,' Meadows said. ‘What else have you got?'

The landlord shrugged. ‘Well, nothing really,' he admitted.

And so the whole team decided that, taking all factors into consideration, they'd have the hotpot.

The landlord's wife's special recipe Lancashire Hotpot turned out to be not that special after all, but it was undoubtedly food, and as they ate it, Paniatowski told Beresford and Crane what the doctor and Susan Danvers had said, and Beresford told Paniatowski about the fight in the Miners' Institute.

When the plates had been cleared away, Paniatowski lit up a cigarette, turned to Crane, and said, ‘Why don't you summarize what you think we've learned so far, Jack?'

‘We know that Len Hopkins went to Accrington to see the regional final of the brass band competition, and that – for some reason – he didn't take Susan Danvers with him,' Crane said. ‘We know that when he got back to Bellingsworth, he paid a visit to the Miners' Institute and got into a fight with Tommy Sanders.'

‘Do we have a time for that fight?' Paniatowski asked.

‘It was at about a quarter past eight, boss,' Meadows said.

‘Who told you that?' Paniatowski wondered.

‘Can't remember, boss – somebody I talked to,' Meadows said vaguely. ‘It's in my notes.'

Or, at least, it will be in my notes, when I can find someone to confirm what I already know from seeing it with my own eyes, she thought.

‘Len leaves the Institute shortly after that,' Crane continued ‘He goes back home . . .'

‘We don't know that for a fact,' Beresford interrupted.

‘No, we don't, sir, but all his mates were still at the Institute – celebrating the victory – and there's nowhere else
to
go in this village.'

‘When did they have their daily power cut?' Paniatowski asked.

‘It started at ten o'clock,' Crane told her.

‘So the village is plunged into darkness at ten. And then, at some time in the night, Len pays a visit to the lavatory,' Paniatowski said. ‘We know it
was
in the night, rather than early morning, because by the time the body was discovered, full rigor had set in. But until we get the post-mortem report, we can't pin it down any more accurately than that.'

‘Have we got an inventory yet, Sergeant?' Beresford asked Meadows.

‘Yes, sir. The SOCOs gave it to me a few minutes ago.'

‘And is there a chamber pot on it?'

Meadows reached down into her bag, pulled out the thick wad of paper, and flicked through it.

‘Yes, it was under the bed, just as you might expect.'

‘So why would he go outside, on a cold night, when he could have used the pot in his bedroom instead?' Beresford wondered.

‘And more to the point, how could the killer have possibly known he would do that?' Crane asked.

‘Perhaps he didn't,' Paniatowski said. ‘Maybe he entered the house, saw that Len wasn't there, and worked out that the lavatory was the only place he could possibly be.' She paused for a second, as she saw the flaw in her own logic. ‘For that to be true, the killer would have had to have a key, wouldn't he? And as it's unlikely that he did . . .'

‘Len Hopkins could have left the front door unlocked,' Beresford said.

‘He could have,' Paniatowski agreed, ‘but he didn't, because when Susan Danvers got there this morning, the door was locked.'

‘She could be mistaken about that,' Beresford said.

‘She seems quite certain,' Paniatowski countered.

Beresford shrugged. ‘She's an old woman, and old women are always making mistakes.'