The Dead Hand of History (32 page)

‘So, in a heartbeat, you went from not wanting it done
at all
to wanting to do it
yourself
?' Paniatowski asked sceptically.

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

‘What better way can a man convince himself that he has made the right decision than by making himself responsible for carrying out that decision?'

Stefan shrugs. ‘He has no friends here – no one who wishes to help him. If he can make it to the wire, perhaps his
new
friends, the guards, will save his life. If he cannot . . .'

She was starting to like Stan again, Paniatowski thought. She was starting to
admire
him again!

And that was bad!

‘It's a cracking story, I'll give you that,' she said. ‘But, you see, it just doesn't add up.'

‘Doesn't it?' Szymborska asked.

‘No, it certainly doesn't. If it was true, you'd have been shot the following morning, wouldn't you? Yet here you are, sitting in this room, still alive and telling me the tale.'

‘When Stefan said that we would be shot, he was forgetting one important thing,' Stan told her.

‘And what was that?'

‘Just how much the camp commandant – the man with the power of life and death over us – despised Poles.
All
Poles!'

‘Does the story add up now?' Stan asked.

‘Yes, it does,' Paniatowski admitted. ‘And yes, you were right when you said it would point even more convincingly to your guilt. Tadeujz betrayed you, didn't he, and you cut his hand off.'

‘Yes.'

‘And when Linda betrayed you, exactly the same thing happened to her.'

‘Linda did not betray me,' Stan said.

‘Oh, come on now!'

‘Not in the way that Tadeujz did.'

‘You're surely not going to start denying she had an affair with Tom, are you?'

‘It was a moment of weakness,' Stan said. ‘In my mind – in my heart – I had already forgiven her, even as I stood watching her drive away, the night that she was killed.'

‘Why
did
she drive away?'

‘Because we'd had an argument.'

‘Over the affair?'

‘Yes.'

‘You confronted her about it?'

‘I did.'

‘And what did she say?'

‘She denied it.'

‘And you left it at that? Why? Couldn't you just have said you didn't believe her, but that it didn't matter, because you forgave her anyway?'

‘Yes, I could have – but she wasn't ready for my forgiveness. She needed time alone. Time to come to terms with what she'd done – to conquer her shame.'

‘Conquer her shame!' Paniatowski repeated. ‘That's really a very good line. I really must remember it. But tell me, how do you know she had any shame
to
conquer? How do you know she hadn't fallen in love with Tom, and no longer gave a damn about you?'

‘If she'd had no shame, then what would have stopped her from admitting the truth?'

‘You see, that's where the cosy picture that you've been trying to paint of your marriage breaks down,' Paniatowski said. ‘You say that you loved her and that you trusted her . . .'

‘I did.'

‘Yet when she tells you there was nothing going on between her and Tom Whittington, you refuse to believe her. How much trust does
that
show? And how much does it reveal of a jealous nature which had probably been eating away at you for years?'

‘She
was
having an affair with him,' Szymborska said. ‘You know that yourself.'

‘Yes,
I
know it, because I've got witness statements to prove it. But you had no proof at all, did you? And you didn't need any! Because for a jealous man like you, even the hint – even the merest suspicion – that she'd been unfaithful to you was enough to drive you into a rage.'

‘I
had
proof,' Stan Szymborska said firmly.

‘And what proof might that have been?'

‘Someone – I don't know who it was – sent me a photograph of them together.'

‘Oh, well that's it, then,' Paniatowski said scornfully. ‘Imagine – a photograph of them together! And I've got a photograph of me and my inspector. Does that mean
we're
having an affair? Of course not. But for someone with your nature, even the most inconsequential trifle is proof enough.'

‘They were kissing,' Stan Szymborska said.

‘Ah, I see where you're going now,' Paniatowski said.

‘Do you?'

‘Yes. You've finally given up hope of getting away with murder, and now you've begun the process of justifying yourself. I can almost hear what your brief will be saying in court. “My client is guilty of a terrible crime, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, but he is not accountable for his own actions. Imagine, if you will, how he must have felt when he saw this photograph. He temporarily lost control of himself. And who among us could say, with absolute certainty, that he would not have done the same?” Something along those lines, do you think?'

‘You don't understand me at all,' Szymborska said.

‘Did you show this photograph to your wife?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because in the face of such damning proof she would have been forced to confess.'

‘And you didn't
want
her to?'

‘Not then. I wanted her to confess when she truly believed that it was the
right
thing to do.'

‘Where's this photograph now?' Paniatowski asked. ‘Do you still have it?'

‘No.'

‘Now isn't
that
convenient!'

‘
You
have it,' Szymborska said. ‘It was in my wallet, which your officers took away from me.'

Colin Beresford was reading a copy of the Whitebridge
Evening Chronicle
when Monika Paniatowski finally entered the public bar of the Drum and Monkey, but the moment he noticed her coming towards him, he rapidly folded it up and slipped it on to his knee.

Paniatowski sat down, and held her hand out across the table. ‘Let's have the paper, Colin,' she said.

‘You don't want to spoil a victory piss-up by reading what's written in that rag, boss,' Beresford said, uncomfortably.

‘Ah, but you see, I do,' Paniatowski replied. ‘A good battering from the newspaper is just what I need to round off the day.'

‘Really, boss . . .' Beresford remonstrated.

‘Hand it over,' Paniatowski told him firmly.

The headline said it all, but Paniatowski forced herself to read the rest of the article anyway.

‘He was well out of order writing that – and he knows it,' Beresford said. ‘It wouldn't surprise me if he's already written the apology that will appear in tomorrow night's edition.'

It wouldn't surprise me, either, Paniatowski thought. But the damage is already done.

‘Well, after all, tomorrow is another day,' Beresford said, trying to sound philosophical.

‘No it isn't,' Paniatowski countered. ‘Not for me – because this case isn't over yet.'

‘Not over?' Beresford repeated. ‘How can it not be over? We've got the killer behind bars and . . .'

‘I want the man who
pushed
Stan Szymborska into killing his wife behind bars as well.'

‘Sorry, boss?' Beresford said.

Paniatowski took a black-and-white photograph out of her bag, and handed it to her inspector.

In the background was the Old Oak Tree Inn. In the foreground, a man and a woman were kissing. The woman had long, dark, wavy hair, and was giving the kiss her all. The man – judging by his stance – seemed far less comfortable with this public act of affection.

‘Bloody hell!' Beresford said.

‘It was this photograph – sent anonymously through the post – which tipped poor Stan over the edge,' Paniatowski said. ‘If he'd never received it, Linda and Tom might still be alive today – and I'm holding
the man
who sent it partly responsible for their deaths.'

‘How can you do that, when you don't even know who he is?' Beresford wondered.

‘Because I can make a pretty fair
guess
at his name,' Paniatowski told him. ‘And so can you.'

‘I'm not sure I can,' Beresford confessed.

‘Think about it!' Paniatowski urged him. ‘Who would reap the benefit from causing discord at the bakery?'

‘
Another
bakery!' Beresford exclaimed. ‘Warren Tompkins!'

Paniatowski nodded. ‘Tompkins wasn't directly involved in the murders, as poor deluded Jenny so firmly believes, but he has been responsible for a number of dirty tricks aimed at hurting Brunskill's, and I think this one of them.'

‘Even if that's true, Tompkins couldn't have
known
Stan would go so berserk when he saw the photograph,' Beresford pointed out.

‘That may be your opinion, but a judge and jury might think differently,' Paniatowski said.

‘You're . . . you're actually going to
arrest
him?' Beresford asked, incredulously.

‘I am,' Paniatowski confirmed.

For some moments, Beresford was silent, then he said, ‘You're on a hiding to nowhere with this one, boss. Even if you can get Tompkins to admit to sending the photograph, you'll never be able to make the charges stick.'

‘You're probably right,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘But I'm still going to give it my best shot.'

TWENTY-EIGHT

I
t would have been something of an understatement to describe the managing director's office at Tompkins' Bakery as large. The room ate up almost half of the second floor, with the result that most of the other offices were the size of broom cupboards. Even so, the way that Warren Tompkins had chosen to furnish it – with a huge desk, two big sofas, a conference table, a full-sized snooker table and a rowing machine – made it seem almost cramped.

The term ‘large' would have been a charitable way to describe the man himself, Paniatowski decided. But she was feeling very low on charity that morning, and what
she
saw was a fat man who, though dressed in a sober suit, still reminded her of a dodgy used-car salesman.

‘It's a pleasure to meet you, Chief Inspector,' Tompkins said, standing up and reaching across his desk to shake her hand. ‘May I introduce my associate, Mr Cutler?'

Paniatowski turned towards Cutler, noting his bullet-shaped head and the scar on his cheek. He was a nasty piece of work if ever she'd seen one, she thought, and if she were to learn that he had a criminal record – especially one that involved crimes of violence – she would not be the least surprised.