The Dead Hand of History (3 page)

Jenny, on the other hand, would speak volumes on the subject when Stan wasn't there.

‘Stan was the youngest pilot in the Polish Air Force,' she'd remind her older sister.

‘The war was over a long time ago,' her sister would reply.

‘It might be for you and me, but I don't think it seems
that
long ago to Stan,' Jenny would counter. ‘And isn't it only natural that he still gets a thrill out of speed?'

Elaine lifted herself slightly from her seat, so that she could see into the glass-walled office.

Jenny Brunskill was lighting a cigarette. She'd only started smoking recently – probably because she'd decided it would make her look older and more sophisticated – and she still wasn't very good at it. Elaine waited until Jenny had inhaled and started to cough, then sank back down into her chair chuckling, just as the door opened and Stan Szymborska walked in.

‘Good morning, Mr Szymborska,' Elaine said, with the cultivated brightness she used to mask the toad-like venom flowing through her veins. ‘And how are you today?'

‘Fine,' Stan Szymborska grunted.

Well, he didn't look fine, Elaine thought, not without a certain degree of enjoyment. He looked as rough as anything, which meant he'd probably been at the Polish vodka again.

She waited until Szymborska had entered his office, then reached out and clicked down the switch on the intercom.

‘
Good morning, Stan
,' said a crackling voice through the speaker. ‘
Gosh, you do look a little under the weather today.
'

‘
I've got a headache
,' Szymborska replied.

And serves you right, too, thought Elaine, who, while she sometimes got a little squiffy herself, considered
other people
getting drunk to be extremely reprehensible.

‘
Will Linda be arriving soon?
' Jenny asked.

‘
Why do you want to know?
' Stan demanded.

Elaine chuckled again. Normally, they were so very polite to each other, but with Stan acting like a bear with a sore head, today might turn out to be a little more interesting.

‘
I asked why you wanted to know
,' Stan said.

‘
There's . . . there's just something I need to talk over with her.
'

‘
What sort of thing?
' Stan asked, and even through the crackling speaker the suspicion in his voice came over loud and clear. ‘
Something she's been doing that I'm not supposed to know about?
'

Jenny laughed. ‘
Now what could Linda possibly have been doing that you're not supposed to know about?
'

But there was no return laugh from Stan. Instead his voice grew gruffer, and he said, ‘
So if it's not that, what
is
the problem?
'

‘
Sales are down
,' Jenny said.

Elaine groaned. She'd been hoping for something dramatic – a nice juicy scandal – and all that bloody Jenny Brunskill was worried about was that sales were down!

‘
So sales are down and you want to go running straight to your big sister with the bad news?
' Stan asked, almost contemptuously.

‘
Yes, I do
,' Jenny agreed. ‘
Sales matter.
' She laughed again, to signal that a joke was on the way. ‘
Making bread is how we make our bread and butter, you know
.'

Pathetic, Elaine thought. Really pathetic!

‘
Well,
should
we be expecting Linda soon?
' Jenny asked.

‘
I don't know.
'

A sigh from Jenny. ‘
I suppose what I've really been asking, in a roundabout sort of way, is if she was about ready to leave home when you set off yourself?
'

‘
I'm not sure.
'

‘
But she must know we've got an appointment with the catering manager of the Royal Victoria in just over an hour. Landing their business could be very good for us. I'd better give her a ring, in case she's still at home.
'

‘
Don't disturb her
,' Stan said.

‘
I beg your pardon?
'

‘
She's . . . er . . . not feeling very well. She said she might stay at home and try to sleep it off.
'

‘
But this meeting we've arranged
 . . .'

‘
You can handle it.
'

‘
I wouldn't want to
 . . .'

‘
You're better at business than you think you are.
'

Elaine lifted herself from her seat again.

One day they would catch her watching them, and demand to know what she was doing, she thought.

But when they did, she could always fob them off with some story about standing up because the doctor had told her that she had high blood pressure and needed to do gentle exercises while she was at work. Yes, they would swallow that, easily enough. They would probably even be concerned about the state of her health, because
those kinds of people
always were.

Caution counselled only a quick glance, but when she sat down again, she had seen all she needed to.

Stan no longer looked merely rough, he seemed quite worried.

Jenny, on the other hand, was looking much happier. And why? Because Stan had said she was better at business than she thought she was, and now she sat there basking in the rosy glow of his approval.

‘Pathetic,' Elaine Dunston said, for the second time that morning. ‘Really pathetic.'

Whitebridge town mortuary was a squat square building, constructed of large concrete slabs which had started to discolour almost as soon as they'd been slotted into place. It gave all the appearance of having been commissioned by someone with no taste, and built by someone with no pride. But the truth was, Paniatowski thought, as she pulled into the car park, that neither lack of taste nor lack of pride had had anything to do with it. Rather, the mortuary stood as a silent monument – and rebuke – to the blackmail and municipal corruption which had only ended when she and Charlie Woodend had arrested the builder and several town councillors.

Dr Shastri was already waiting for her in the doorway of the mortuary, and was, as usual, wearing a colourful sari.

Her saris had drawn a great deal of comment when, in the wake of her predecessor being sent to prison for – among other things – tampering with evidence, she'd first become the official police surgeon.

‘If you like that sort of thing – and it certainly wouldn't do for me – then I suppose it's comfortable enough in the heat of summer,' people had muttered. ‘But just wait till proper winter comes,' they'd added, with dark satisfaction. ‘Wait till the icy winds start blowin' in off the high moorlands. Then – you mark my words – you'll soon see a change in her. Then you'll see her start to dress more sensibly – more Lancashire!'

But people had been wrong – as folk who understand no one's attitude but their own so often are. When the weather
did
turn cold, Shastri stuck to her sari, but added a heavy sheepskin coat to shield her from the worst of it.

The saris definitely suited her, Paniatowski thought. But then Dr Shastri would have looked good in an old flour sack, because she was undoubtedly a beautiful woman – slim and delicate, with a skin that was a soft coffee colour and shining eyes as black as coal. Looking at her perfect little hands, it was impossible not to imagine them gently tinkling small bells at a Hindu wedding, but put a scalpel in them and they became precision surgical instruments themselves.

‘What a pleasure it is to see you, as always, my dear chief inspector,' the doctor called out, as the new arrival drew closer.

Paniatowski fought the urge to look over her shoulder to see if there was a
real
chief inspector standing behind her.

‘And what an honour it is for me that you have come to visit me on your first morning in your new post, Monika,' Shastri continued, with just a hint of mischief in her voice.

‘It's not an entirely social visit, Doc,' Paniatowski said. Then she grinned, and added, ‘But you already knew that, didn't you?'

‘Of course I knew that,' Shastri agreed. ‘And how is your charming daughter?'

‘Louisa's fine. You must come round and have tea with us sometime,' Paniatowski said. She paused, but only for a single beat. ‘So what have you got for me, Doc?'

Shastri's smiled widened. ‘You are becoming just like your dear Mr Woodend, Monika – immediately down to business, with absolutely no time at all for polite chit-chat.'

‘Sorry to sound so abrupt,' Paniatowski said awkwardly. ‘But I'm under real pressure with this case.'

‘Of course you are,' Shastri replied, with mock gravity. ‘In fact, though I have worked in this dismal cave of a place for over eight years, I cannot recall a single instance in which the police were
not
under real pressure with whatever case they happened to be handling at the time.'

‘Thank you,' Paniatowski said humbly.

‘For what?'

‘For reminding me of the need to keep a sense of proportion.'

Shastri shrugged. ‘Is that what I have done? Being a simple Indian doctor, I know nothing of such things, but if I have assisted you in some way, then I am, of course, delighted. Shall we go and discuss my findings now?'

‘Yes, that would be good idea,' Paniatowski agreed.

The freezer bag was lying on Dr Shastri's dissecting table. It was pale blue, and decorated along the top with darker-coloured blue fish and pork chops, as if the manufacturer believed that his customers would be too stupid, without this information being presented to them graphically, to realize that the bag was intended for food.

At the bottom of the bag were two tears, about three inches apart.

‘I am told it was discovered by a clever doggy,' Dr Shastri said.

‘It was.'

‘Though the dear little doggy was plainly not clever enough to avoid damaging it.'

‘Can I see what was inside?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Of course,' Shastri agreed, opening a refrigerated drawer and taking out a human hand which had been severed at the wrist.

‘How old was she?' Paniatowski asked.

‘
Was
?' Shastri countered. ‘I am not entirely convinced there is any
was
about it.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘My examination has revealed that when she lost the hand, she was still very much alive.'

Paniatowski shivered. ‘But she
could
be
dead by now?'

‘Certainly. If she had a weak heart, the shock might have killed her. And if she was not given medical attention after the amputation, she would quickly have bled to death.'

‘How was it done?'

‘With more enthusiasm than skill, I would say.'

‘And the weapon?'

‘The instrument used could have been
any
sharp, broad instrument, but a meat cleaver is a strong possibility.'

‘And what does the hand tell you about the woman herself?'

‘That she is a Caucasian. That she was – or still is – somewhere between thirty and forty years old. And that while she has obviously not been involved in heavy domestic work for any length of time, she has not been particularly protective of her hands, either.'

‘In other words, you're saying that she was neither a washerwoman nor a fashion model?'

‘Well put.'

Paniatowski took her cigarettes out of her handbag, and offered the packet to Shastri.

The doctor shook her head. ‘I am trying to put a rein on the vices into which you have led me, Monika,' she said. ‘And I have to report, in all modesty, that I am being quite successful at it.'

Paniatowski nodded, lit up a cigarette herself, then said, ‘So what else can you tell me?'

‘I am ashamed to admit that that is the full extent of my knowledge at this moment.'

Paniatowski looked at the palm of the hand, then turned it over and examined the back. It was, she decided, totally unremarkable.

‘Where are the clues?' she demanded.

‘What clues?'

‘The kind you always seem to get in detective novels. The unusually mounted ring which some intelligent jeweller remembers having sold to a certain Mrs X. The expensive manicure which the detective knows immediately is only available in one exclusive salon.'

Shastri smiled again. ‘Or the unusual scar which has undoubtedly been caused by a special kind of hook, and would lead you to search for a woman with an interest in deep-sea fishing?' she suggested.

‘Bloody right!' Paniatowski agreed.

‘I regret there is nothing of that nature. But were you to bring me
another
hand, I would be able to tell you almost immediately whether it came from the same woman.'

Paniatowski shivered again. ‘Now there's a cheerful thought,' she said.

THREE

T
he car park, which was for the exclusive use of those people having business in the Mid-Lancs Police Headquarters, was located at the back of the building. It was roughly oblong, and it was covered with the sort of tarmac which has a tendency to melt a little in warm weather. It served its mundane function perfectly, and though it was not normally a place in which strong feelings were evoked, there was a definite excitement buzzing through the air of the car park on that morning.

The feeling was being generated by a group of five men and three women who all worked for either one of the local nightly newspapers or for the BBC local radio station.