Stone Killer (16 page)

‘Just what I was thinking myself,' Chief Inspector Baxter said.

I
t had not been an easy night for the loved ones of those unfortunate men and women who were hostages in the Cotton Credit Bank. They, too, felt that they were the victims of the gunman: that even though they were not being physically restrained in the bank themselves, their very
futures
– the lives they and their partners had planned out – were being held hostage.

Their relatives and friends had rallied round them, insisting that they should not spend the night alone. They meant well, these kindly concerned folk, but in some ways their presence only made matters worse. For while they maintained an air of confidence and optimism while speaking to the ‘victims' themselves, their tones quickly changed to urgent and desperate whispers when they were talking about the situation with each other.

Many of the ‘victims' did not wish to go to bed, but their friends and relatives insisted they must –

‘You need the rest. You'll feel better for it.'

And since they somehow could not summon the strength to resist, they meekly did as they'd been bidden.

Once upstairs, they spent the night tossing and turning in beds which had been built for two – but might never accommodate more than one again. And all through that dreadful night – whether fitfully asleep or miserably awake – they listened out for the ring of the telephone bell – or the knock on the door – which could confirm their worst fears.

Dawn finally came – a crisp, clear December dawn – but rather than bringing with it any hopes of a new beginning, it merely served to emphasize the fact that the siege was now entering its second day.

And though the ‘victims' tried their best not to let any negative thoughts into their heads, it seemed to all of them that the longer this went on, the more the chances something would go terribly wrong.

Major Maitland's team had worked in shifts throughout the night – two hours on watch, four hours off, and then two hours on again – and since he knew that if trouble came it was most likely to come at first light, Maitland had reserved the dawn shift for himself.

He looked down at his hostages, huddled together on the floor of the vault, sharing their fear as they shared their body heat. Some were asleep, some were merely pretending to be asleep, and some were so paralysed by their fear that they were neither asleep nor awake.

They didn't deserve to suffer like this, the Major told himself. They were all ordinary decent people, and at this time of the morning they had a right to be at home with their loved ones.

And what about you! screamed a voice from somewhere deep inside his brain – deep inside his soul.

Don't you deserve to be at home with your loved one?

He looked down at his hostages again, and forced himself to redefine their situation.

He was on a mission, far into enemy territory, he told himself, and so different rules applied. Put simply, anyone who was not with him was against him. It was a battle between the Maitlands and the rest of the world – and these hostages were definitely not part of the Maitlands.

He wondered, suddenly, if he'd lost his mind – and decided that he probably had.

No matter! If he had gone mad, it was because he had been forced into his madness. If he had gone mad, he had no choice but to use that madness to achieve his stated objective.

There was no turning back now.

Monika Paniatowski stirred uncomfortably in a bed which did not feel in the least familiar to her, then opened her eyes to gaze at a ceiling she was sure she had never seen before.

She wondered, briefly, if she were dreaming. But her dreams never involved anything as mundane as bedroom ceilings. Her dreams contained labyrinths and pits. They were peopled by goblins with grotesque bodies but familiar faces; with sharpened spikes which threatened to penetrate her, and bombs which exploded to drench her with bitter memories. And when she awoke from these dreams, she was not merely bemused – as she was now – she was sweating and trembling.

She became aware of a slight pressure against her side, and turning, saw that she was lying next to a great barrel of a man's chest which was covered in curly greying hair.

Now
she knew where she was.
Now
she understood that in her weakness – her vulnerability – she had done something she would probably regret.

Joan Woodend was still sleeping when her husband carefully eased himself out of bed. The Chief Inspector tiptoed across the room, and padded downstairs to the kitchen of the hand-loom weaver's cottage where they had lived ever since the powers that be in Scotland Yard had decided they had had quite enough of Cloggin'-it Charlie and sent him into exile, back to his native Lancashire.

It was sometimes a battle to beat his wife down to the kitchen, Woodend thought, as he filled the kettle. Joan was one of those women who still believed that since it was the husband who brought home the bacon, it should be the wife who cooked it. But despite her protests, he still tried – whenever possible – to outmanoeuvre her, to present her with the
fait accompli
of a cup of tea in bed.

‘I like to spoil you, love,' he'd say.

But they both knew it wasn't that at all – were both well aware that he was doing it because, after her heart attack while on holiday in Spain, the doctor had insisted Joan should get as much rest as she possibly could.

Woodend looked out of the window on to the moors, the wild, beautiful moors on which he had walked as a child. It was a view he had never tired of – as relaxing as a pint of best bitter, as soothing as a Capstan Full Strength – but on that particular morning it did nothing at all for him.

The hostages in the Cotton Credit Bank were his responsibility – and his alone – he told himself. If any of them died, it was because he had not done his job properly.

‘
You can't go takin' the weight of the whole world on your shoulders, our Charlie
,' his mother had told him often enough, when he was growing up.

‘
I know that, Mam,
' the young Charlie had replied.

And he
still
knew that – knew it better, in fact, than he had when he was a kid. But it still didn't stop him trying.

Judith Maitland lay in her narrow iron bed, watching the first rays of the morning sun spread across the high ceiling.

Though there was no need – from a strictly medical point of view – to continue confining her in the prison infirmary, the authorities had decided that if a Suicide Watch was to be maintained, then the infirmary was the easiest place to keep it.

The prison psychiatrist had been to see her the previous day.

‘Do you now regret attempting to take your own life?' he'd asked her.

‘Yes,' she'd said.

‘Are you sure? Are you saying it because you mean it, or because you think that's what I want to hear?'

‘I'm saying it because I mean it.'

She hadn't been lying. She should never have
tried
to kill herself – she should have
succeeded
!

Her failure had resulted in the worst of all possible outcomes. She was still alive, and her poor, darling husband – spurred into action by the obvious desperation her attempt had signalled – had embarked on a mad, dangerous course which he hoped would save her.

She thought of the hostages – terrified almost beyond endurance, and starting their second day of captivity.

She thought of her husband, who might, at that very moment, be caught in the cross-hairs of a sniper's rifle.

She could not allow this horrific situation to continue for much longer, she decided – not when she had the solution to it in her own hands.

She would request a meeting with the Governor. They would refuse her at first, telling her the Governor was too busy. But she would persist – claiming that she had something very important to say – and in the end they would have to agree.

She would not tell him
everything
when she had finally been ushered into his presence. She would willingly endure a thousand painful deaths rather than do that. But she was now prepared to confess that she had murdered Clive Burroughs.

T
he origins of the Dunethorpe Industrial Estate stretched back into the time when fine Yorkshire wool had made the whole of England rich, and many of the older buildings on it still bore signs of their previous use as wool mills. There were also other, newer establishments, however – hastily erected prefabricated buildings which would have shocked and horrified the proud stonemasons who built the mills – and Burroughs' Builders' Merchant was one of these.

Monika Paniatowski parked her MGA between a small lorry and a builder's van, and lit up a cigarette. She had come to the estate with two purposes in mind. One was to talk to the nightwatchman from the building opposite Burroughs', a man whose evidence had been crucial in Judith Maitland's trial. The other was to learn what she could from the people who had actually worked with the victim.

She checked her watch. She was not due to meet the night-watchman for nearly an hour. She would make a start with Burroughs' former employees.

The moment Paniatowski stepped through the door of Burroughs' Builders' Merchant, she found her passage blocked by a man in a three-quarter-length khaki coat.

‘Can't you read, love – or are you just stupid?' he asked rudely. ‘The sign outside says we're a
builders'
merchant. That means it's
builders
we deal with, you see. We don't sell to members of the general public.'

‘I'll bear that in mind if I ever
do
want to buy any of the second-rate tat you've got on offer,' Paniatowski said.

‘Second-rate tat?' the man repeated.

‘At best,' Paniatowski told him. She produced her warrant card. ‘Is the manager around?'

‘I'm the manager,' the man said, in a tone of voice that fell neatly between his previous hostility and a new concern. ‘My name's Mr Sanders. Is anything wrong?'

Paniatowski gave him a quick once-over. Middle thirties, black slicked-down hair, quite handsome in a shifty sort of way, but not her type.

No, she thought, not my type at all. Based on the best available evidence, my type now appears to be pipe-smoking middle-aged chief inspectors with hairy chests, whom I seem to be willing to sleep with at the drop of a hat.

‘
Mr
Sanders,' she said, as if pondering the words for hidden implications. ‘Do you know, I don't think I've ever come across anybody with “Mr” as a first name before.'

‘I've no idea what you're talking about,' the manager said. ‘My first name's Alfred.'

‘Well,
Fred
, let's go and have a cosy little chat in your office, shall we?' Paniatowski suggested.

It was not so much an office as a storage place for goods which didn't quite belong anywhere else, but Sanders produced two rickety chairs, and they both sat down in a canyon between boxes of ceramic tiles and stacks of copper piping.

‘Before we go any further, I should tell you that I'm not here to investigate any of your little fiddles,' Paniatowski said.

‘Pardon?' Sanders said.

‘Your little fiddles,' Paniatowski repeated patiently. ‘The merchandise you sell over the counter, but somehow forget to put through the books.'

‘I'm not sure I—'

‘The bricks you pick up cheap, because there's no invoice to go with them, and sell-on cheap for exactly the same reason.'

‘I can assure you, Sergeant, that nothing of that kind goes on here,' Sanders protested.

‘Of course it does,' Paniatowski said dismissively. ‘And given half an hour, I could tell you
exactly
which fiddles you're running. But I don't like doing that kind of work unless I'm in a really bad temper. And I don't
get
into a bad temper when people answer the questions I put to them quickly and honestly. Am I getting through to you here?'

Sanders nodded. ‘Yes, I think you are.'

‘Good,' Paniatowski said pleasantly. ‘Then let's make a start, shall we? How long have you been working here?'

‘Twelve years.'

‘And how long have you been the manager?'

‘Only since Mr Burroughs was murdered. I was the assistant manager until then.'

‘There
are
some people who'll kill for a promotion,' Paniatowski said. ‘You're not one of them, are you?'

‘Now, look here—' Sanders blustered.

‘Only joking,' Paniatowski said sweetly. ‘So you know the business well, do you?'

‘Well enough.'

‘And you must have known Clive Burroughs well enough, too, mustn't you, now?'

‘He was my boss,' Sanders said. ‘You never know that much about your boss, do you?'

‘Oh, I'm not so sure about that,' Paniatowski said airily. ‘I seem to know a fair amount about mine. You were aware, weren't you, that Clive Burroughs was a bugger for the ladies?'

‘I knew he had girlfriends, if that's what you mean.'

‘
Single
men have girlfriends,' Paniatowski said. ‘
Married
men have mistresses.'

‘I knew he had
mistresses
, then,' Sanders said sullenly.

‘And you didn't see the need to inform his wife of the fact?'

‘No. It wasn't my place to.'

‘Quite right,' Paniatowski agreed.

‘What?'

‘I said you're quite right – it wasn't your place to.'

‘Well, in that case, maybe we don't really need to talk about—'

‘Did you know about his last mistress – the one who allegedly picked up a hammer and bashed his brains in?'

‘No, but I knew about … about …'