The Dead Hand of History (12 page)

But what the expression in his eyes said was, ‘You won't be issuing any reprimands,
ma'am
, because even if you
can't
control your own men, you don't want
your
bosses
thinking
that you can't – especially on your first day in the job.'

A small conference room adjoined Jenny Brunskill and Stan Szymborska's office, and it was in this conference room that Monika Paniatowski began taking the first steps in repairing the damage which had clearly been done by DS Walker's bull-in-a-china-shop routine.

‘I thought it might useful to interview you together,' she said, speaking to the two of them, across the conference table. ‘Then, if one you forgets something, the other can fill in the gaps. But it isn't essential that we do things that way, and if you would prefer to be interviewed separately . . .'

Stan and Jenny exchanged rapid glances.

‘We have no objection to a joint interview,' said Jenny, taking on the role of spokesman. ‘Stan and I work together all day, every day, and we have no secrets from each other.'

Everybody
has secrets, Paniatowski thought – from their friends, from their partners, from their business associates, and probably even from their cats and dogs – but now was not the time to point it out.

She studied the two people opposite her.

Jenny Brunskill was a little younger than she was herself, she guessed. It would have been an exaggeration to say she could have become a beautiful woman, however hard she'd tried – but with even a
little
more care, she would certainly have been a rather pretty one.

She had silky reddish-brown hair, which would have looked wonderful if, instead of choosing to have it cropped like a boy's, she'd allowed it grow naturally. She had nice eyes, too, and even applying a smidgeon of make-up to them would have enhanced their natural qualities spectacularly.

It was almost, Paniatowski thought, as if she'd taken a conscious decision not to make the best of herself – as if her appearance was intended to be a clear and unequivocal statement that appearances didn't really matter to her.

Or maybe not, she corrected herself. Maybe appearances
did
matter to her, and maybe the look she had now – a look which almost screamed self-contained office manager – was
exactly
the one she had sought.

And she was probably a
very good
office manager, Paniatowski decided. For while she was not the kind of woman you would ever put at the head of an expedition through the Amazon jungle, you would certainly want her to be in charge of supplies en route.

Stan Szymborska was another case entirely. Where Jenny took great pains to show off her competence, he wore a quiet mantle of confidence. Where she would be painstaking, he would show flair. He was passing through that stage in life in which good looks gently transformed themselves into a distinguished appearance. Paniatowski wondered how his wife felt about this transformation from Greek god into Roman senator. For her own part, she found it very easy –
too
easy – to imagine herself in bed with him.

‘Tell me about Tom Whittington,' she said.

‘What do you want to know?'

‘How long had he been working here?'

‘Fifteen years,' Jenny said, without hesitation. ‘It was my father who first employed him.'

‘And did he get on well with all your staff?'

‘Oh, yes,' Jenny said.

But Stan did not look quite so sure.

‘Would you agree with that assessment of him, Mr Szymborska?' Paniatowski asked.

‘He was our head baker – and a good one,' Szymborska said, as if that explained it all.

‘Yes?'

‘You do not get to be a good head baker with knowing how to run a tight ship. Away from work, he was shy and self-effacing, but once he put on his apron, he became a different man – a man who was quite definitely
in charge
.'

‘So he wasn't exactly
popular
?'

‘He was not disliked, if that is what you're suggesting. A few of our workers might have resented him, once in a while, but they would probably all agree that he was fair, as well as firm.'

‘Was he married?' Paniatowski asked

‘No,' Jenny Brunskill replied.

‘Had he
ever
been married?'

‘No.'

‘So he lived alone?'

‘Yes. He has – he
had
– a flat near the town centre. He was buying it with a loan which the company countersigned.'

‘Did he have a current girlfriend?'

Jenny shrugged. ‘We talk about the people who work in the bakery as a family,' she said. Then she glanced at Stan Szymborska, and continued, ‘Or maybe that's just the way
I
talk about them. But I still think I'm right. We
are
a family, though perhaps not that
close
– not that
intrusive
– a family.'

‘So what you're saying is that you don't
know
about his love life?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Yes, that's what I'm saying,' Jenny agreed. ‘Are you . . .' she continued, with a catch in her voice, ‘are you absolutely certain, Chief Inspector, it's
Tom
's hand that was found?'

‘I'm afraid there's no doubt about it.'

‘But it seems so . . . so very unlikely. People like Tom Whittington don't get
murdered
.'

‘There were no indications that he was in any kind of trouble, were there?' Paniatowski asked.

‘None,' Jenny said.

And, this time, she got an unqualified nod of agreement from her brother-in-law.

‘Do you have any photographs of Tom which you can easily lay your hands on?' Paniatowski asked.

And the moment the words were out of her mouth, she thought, Oh my God, did I really say that – lay your
hands
on?

But Stan and Jenny had not noticed – or perhaps decided it might be better to
pretend
they hadn't noticed – and instead were discussing the problem she had set them.

‘Tom, as Stan has already told you, was quite shy,' Jenny said. ‘He certainly wasn't one for having his picture taken. But I suppose there might be a photograph of him in his personnel file.'

‘Even if there is, it will be fifteen years out of date,' Stan pointed out. ‘What about the photograph we had taken on the last works' outing?'

‘That's clever,' Jenny said, standing up. ‘I've got a copy in the office. I'll go and get it.'

She left the conference room, and returned, less than a minute later, with a framed group photograph.

‘Is this any good?' she asked.

Paniatowski examined the photograph. It had been taken in Blackpool, as evidenced by the fact that the Tower was clearly visible in the background.

It had been in Blackpool that she and Charlie Woodend had first worked on a case together, a million years ago, she thought.

She turned her attention back to the photograph. As in school photographs, the group pictured had been arranged by hierarchical considerations, so that the senior staff were in the foreground, and the more junior stood on benches behind them.

‘That's Tom,' Jenny said, pointing to a man in the front row.

Whittington was standing next to Stan Szymborska, as befitted his position in the company, and the first thing that Paniatowski noticed was how alike the two men looked.

They could have been brothers, she told herself.

Then she examined the photograph again, and decided that she'd been wrong. They were not quite close enough in looks to be mistaken for siblings, but they were undoubtedly handsome in the
same kind
of way, and the main distinction between them was that Stan was unquestionably older.

Her eyes rested next on the two women who were flanking the two men. There was no question here – even if they weren't standing side by side, as Stan and Tom were – that they were sisters, though one sported a cropped pageboy hairstyle, while the other had allowed her hair to cascade over her shoulders and thus display itself in its full glory.

Paniatowski looked at the picture again. This was a company outing, she reminded herself – which meant that everyone in the photograph worked for Brunskill's Bakery.

And that was when she felt her stomach perform a sudden and violent somersault.

NINE

A
full two minutes had passed since she had first noticed the sisters in the photograph. Two minutes – or maybe even three – and Paniatowski was still not sure ho to broach the matter which would quite possibly shatter the lives of the other two people in the room for ever.

‘You seem very interested in the picture,' Jenny Brunskill said, sounding perhaps a little unnerved by the intensity of Paniatowski's concentration. ‘Is there anyone else you'd like me to point out to you?'

There was no easy way to deal with the subject, Paniatowski decided – no way to cushion the blow, if blow there was to be.

‘Is that your sister?' she asked, pointing at the woman with the long hair, standing next to Tom Whittington.

‘Yes, that's our Linda.'

‘And she works here too, doesn't she?'

Jenny smiled. ‘That's right, she does. And not just
works
here. She's the
real
big cheese – the managing director.'

With her stomach continuing to perform aerobatics, Paniatowski said, ‘I'd like to see her, if I may.'

But she already knew that wouldn't be possible, because if Linda Szymborska had been in the building, she would – as managing director – have made her presence known the second the police arrived.

‘I'm afraid that Linda's not here today,' Jenny said. ‘She was feeling sick, so she's stayed at home. Isn't that right, Stan?'

‘She's . . . she may be at home
by now
,' Stan Szymborska said.

‘What do you mean?
By now
?' Jenny asked. ‘She was there when you left this morning, wasn't she?'

‘No,' Stan admitted. ‘She wasn't.'

‘So where
was
she?'

‘We'll talk about this later,' Stan said awkwardly.

‘No!' Jenny insisted firmly. ‘We will not talk about it later – we'll talk about it
now
.'

‘We had a slight disagreement, and she stormed out of the house,' Szymborska told her.

‘When? This morning? Over breakfast?'

‘No, the argument was last night.'

So now the ‘slight disagreement' had become an argument, Paniatowski noted.

‘Last night!' Jenny repeated, incredulously.

‘Yes,' Stan Szymborska agreed.

‘Then I really don't understand what you're saying. Surely, after she came back . . .'

‘She
didn't
come back.'

‘Not
at all
?'

‘No. I thought she'd only be gone for an hour or so, but she still hadn't returned when I was getting ready for bed, so I just assumed that she was still annoyed, and had checked into a hotel.'

‘Does she often stay away all night after you've had a row?' Paniatowski asked.

Szymborska shook his head. ‘No, she doesn't. In fact, she's never done it before.'

‘I don't know what caused this row of yours, but you'd better make up pretty damn quickly,' Jenny said sternly. ‘The last thing we need is for two directors of the company to be at each other's throats.'

She still didn't get it, Paniatowski thought. She still hadn't managed to join up the dots.

‘I'm going to show you both a photograph,' she said aloud. ‘I want you to be prepared for a shock.'

She slid the photograph of the woman's severed hand across the table to Stan and Jenny.

‘Why are you showing us this?' Jenny wondered. ‘You don't think . . . Oh God, you don't think . . .?'

‘If you could just look at it very carefully,' Paniatowski said, in a soothing tone.

Jenny Brunskill gave it the briefest of glances. ‘It's not her hand,' she said. ‘It's
nothing like
her hand.'

‘Please look at it again,' Paniatowski urged.

Jenny did. ‘If it's Linda's hand, where's her engagement ring?' she demanded aggressively. ‘Where's her
wedding
ring?'

‘Mr Szymborska?' Paniatowski asked.

‘I don't know,' Stan Szymborska mumbled. ‘I want to say it isn't, but I just don't know.'

‘Of course you know!' Jenny said, in a voice which was almost a scream. ‘You're her husband. Don't you think you'd recognize your own
wife
's hand when you saw it?'

Szymborska rose shakily to his feet. ‘I think I have to phone home immediately,' he said.

‘That's right,' Jenny agreed. ‘You phone home. You talk to Linda, and put an end to all this ridiculous speculation.'

Szymborska lumbered into his office.

‘It's not her, you know,' Jenny told Paniatowski. ‘I
know
it's not her. If it was, I could tell straight away.'

But when Stan returned, two minutes later, even she must have begun to have her doubts.

‘She isn't there,' Szymborska said flatly.

‘Then she must have arrived back at home after you left, and gone out again since,' Jenny said.

‘I spoke to the housekeeper. Linda hasn't been home all day.'

‘That doesn't mean
anything
,' Jenny said. And then she kept repeating the words, until they became a chant in which hope battled against despair. ‘That doesn't mean anything, doesn't mean anything, doesn't mean anything . . .'