The Dead Hand of History (8 page)

‘Not without a
second
's thought, no,' Baxter said, choosing his words carefully.

‘But you
would
probably have granted the request.'

‘We're dealing with a hypothetical situation here, so it's impossible to say anything for certain. But yes, I think I probably would have agreed to let the chief inspector have his way.'

‘But because it's
me
, you don't think you can?'

‘Essentially, yes.'

‘So my ability to investigate this case is to be undermined by office politics?' Paniatowski asked bitterly.

Baxter made an expansive gesture with his big ginger hands.

‘That's the way of the world, Monika,' he said. ‘We not only have to
be
squeaky clean, we have to be
seen
to be squeaky clean. Learn to work with Walker. Try to find a way to make him
want
to nail his colours to your mast. And once this particular case is over, we'll reassess the whole situation, and perhaps I'll be able to give you what you want.'

‘Providing that I get a successful result?'

‘Providing that, of course.'

‘Which you're expecting me to achieve with one hand tied behind my back?'

Baxter smiled. It was not exactly an amused smile, though there were elements of amusement in it. And it was far from being a cruel smile – though Baxter would not have been human if he hadn't felt just a
little
satisfaction at seeing the woman who had turned his life completely inside out in an uncomfortable situation for once. Overall, it could perhaps have been said to be a reassuring smile – but with a warning attached.

‘Welcome to the higher echelons, Detective Chief Inspector Paniatowski,' he said.

The phone rang on Baxter's desk.

‘Excuse me for a moment, Chief Inspector,' he said, standing up and crossing the room.

He was always polite, Paniatowski thought. He was always the perfect gentleman.

Why
couldn't
she have learned to love him as he so
deserved
to be loved?

Baxter picked up the phone. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘Yes, I see.'

His voice was growing heavier with every word, Paniatowski thought.

Why
was it growing heavier?

The chief constable put the phone down.

‘Things didn't start out very well this morning, but they've just turned even nastier,' he said gravely.

‘A second body part's turned up?' Paniatowski guessed – because what else could it be?

‘That's right,' Baxter agreed. ‘Another hand.'

‘Poor bloody woman,' Paniatowski said with feeling. ‘We simply have to assume she's dead now, don't we?'

‘I'm afraid it wasn't a woman's hand this time,' Baxter told her. ‘It was a
man's
.'

SIX

M
ike Traynor had been on the phone to the London
Daily Globe
for almost half an hour.

The first five minutes of that half-hour had been highly unsatisfactory. When he'd asked to speak to the editor, he'd been told – by a very bored-sounding minion – that Mr Stevens was not available. When he'd pointed out that he was
the
Mike Traynor, the
Globe
's northern correspondent, the same minion had been completely unimpressed, and it was only when Traynor reluctantly pushed
himself
into the background, and the
story
to the forefront, that things started to happen.

The lackey he'd been talking to had quickly been jerked away from the phone, and returned to whatever cupboard he lived in when he wasn't required for fobbing off provincial reporters. He had been replaced by a man who announced himself as the
assistant
editor, and while it would have been better to talk to the
deputy
editor, Traynor decided to settle for what he'd got.

As he told his story, he sensed that the assistant editor's interest was quickening.

‘Have you still
got
the hand in your possession?' the other man asked.

‘Well, of course I haven't still got it,' Traynor told him. ‘Apart from it
being
a severed hand – which is not exactly something you want to keep around the place – it's evidence of a crime, isn't it?'

‘So what did you do with it?'

‘I phoned the police, and they came round to the office and took it away with them.'

‘Ah,' the assistant editor said.

‘But I've got a
photograph
of the hand, which is all you'd need,' Traynor pointed out.

‘And the note that accompanied it?'

‘I've got a copy of the note, too. They
could
both be on the next train to London.'

The assistant editor paused, as he considered the implications of the ‘could both be'.

‘I suppose we just might be able to use this little story of yours,' he said finally, and in an airy manner. ‘It all depends, you see.'

‘On what?'

‘On how slow the rest of the news is today. If there's an earthquake in China, for example—'

‘You'll put that on page three, like you always do with stories about foreigners,' Traynor interrupted him. ‘And why? Because we both know that your readers don't give a toss about what's happening on the other side of the world. But they
will
care about the story that I'm offering you. It's front-page material – and we both know that, too.'

‘Perhaps it might be front-page material in . . . where was it? . . . you said you were calling from Lancashire, didn't you?'

‘Yes,' Traynor agreed. ‘Lancashire.'

‘But the
Globe
is a national newspaper, and . . .'

‘Perhaps you're right,' said Traynor, who was starting to enjoy himself. ‘Perhaps the story isn't much use to you. I'll tell you what – I'll send it to the
Gazette
instead.'

‘Let's not be too hasty,' the assistant editor cautioned. ‘I'm willing to pay you fifty pounds for the story, whether we use it or not.'

‘I want a
hundred
pounds,' Traynor told him. ‘And I want the story appearing under my byline.'

There was another pause, then the assistant editor said, ‘I think we can agree to that.'

Of course they could, Traynor thought, wishing he'd asked for
two
hundred pounds.

Traynor had only just put the phone down again when the office boy appeared at his door.

‘Chief Inspector Paniatowski just rang up and asked if you were here,' the boy said.

‘And what did you tell her?'

‘That you were. Did I do right?'

‘Of course you did. We should always cooperate with the police. Did she say anything else?'

‘She said she was on her way over, and she'd be grateful if you didn't go out before she got here. Only . . .'

‘Only what?'

‘Only, the way she said it, it seemed like she was really saying that if you weren't in, there'd be hell to pay.'

‘Yes, and I'm sure that's just exactly how she
intended
it to sound,' Traynor said.

And he was thinking, What a difference a few hours can make. Earlier this morning she was summoning me to see her, and now – even if she does do her best to make it seem as if she's still in charge –
she's
coming to see
me
.

‘Is there anything else I can do for you while I'm here, Mr Traynor?' the office boy asked.

‘No,' Traynor said, but as the boy was heading towards the door, he changed his mind and called out, ‘Actually, there is.'

Traynor reached into his drawer and took out a large buff envelope. Then he placed the envelope on the desk top, and hurriedly scribbled an address on it.

‘Take this down to the parcel office at the railway station,' he told the boy. ‘Find out what the quickest way of sending it is, and send it that way. It doesn't matter what it costs. Got that?'

‘Got it,' the office boy said.

When DCI Paniatowski entered Traynor's office she did not look in the best of humours. But then, the reporter told himself, it would have been a bloody miracle if she had.

‘Chief Inspector Paniatowski,' he said jovially. ‘How nice to see you again – and so soon after our last meeting as well. Do take a seat.'

Paniatowski remained standing. ‘I want to hear about the second hand,' she said.

‘Certainly,' Traynor agreed, still on a high at the thought of a byline
and
a hundred pounds. ‘But since I've already given the details to your Sergeant Walker, it's pretty much
second-hand news
, don't you think?'

Paniatowski glared at him. ‘Two people may already be dead, and more could follow,' she said.

‘I know that, but even so, Chief Inspector, if you can't have a sense of humour about things . . .'

‘And if you don't stop pissing me about,
Mr Traynor
, you could be one of them!'

She didn't mean it, of course, Traynor thought. It was just one of those things people said, like, ‘I'll knock your teeth down your throat.' Nevertheless, he found the words were having a sobering effect on him.

‘The note was delivered by hand,' he said. ‘No joke intended,' he added hastily. ‘That's just the way it came.'

‘Delivered?' Paniatowski repeated, questioningly.

‘It was slipped under the door.'

‘Which door? The front door, that opens out on to the High Street?'

‘No, the back door. The one that's in the alley.'

‘Show it to me,' Paniatowski said, holding out her hand.

‘The note?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm afraid I can't do that, because I've already handed it over to your sergeant.'

‘Then you'll just have to show me the copy you made, won't you?' Paniatowski said.

‘But I didn't
make
any—'

‘Now!'

With a sigh, Traynor opened his drawer, took out the copy and laid it on the desk.

The letter had been pasted together with words cut out of magazines . . .

‘You have to admit that whoever he is, he's short and to the point,' Traynor commented.

Paniatowski picked up the note, folded it neatly and slipped it into her jacket pocket.

‘Here, hang on . . .' Traynor protested.

‘Is this the
only
copy? Paniatowski asked.

‘It is,' Traynor replied.

‘Apart from the one that the office boy's taking down to the railway station, even as we speak,' he added mentally.

‘I don't want you discussing the contents of this note with anybody,' Paniatowski said. ‘Is that understood?'

Traynor nodded. ‘It's understood.'

‘Good. And now we've got that out of the way, I'd like to see where you found the hand.'

Traynor stood up. ‘Follow me,' he said.

The alley was wide enough to accommodate any delivery vans which might need access and a row of battered dustbins.

Paniatowski looked up and down the alley. The killer had chosen his spot wisely, she thought. It was true that, in addition to the
Chronicle
offices, it was overlooked by half a dozen shops on either side, but those with a window looking out on to the alley had put up blinds – since no business wants the retail spell it is trying to weave spoiled by the bedazzled customer spotting the dustbins.

She lit up a cigarette. Yes, the killer had been very clever, she thought, because though things can always go wrong
however
carefully they're planned, he could have been reasonably confident that no one would see him when he made the drop.

A uniformed constable was standing, somewhat languidly, at the end of the alley, but the moment he noticed Paniatowski walking towards him, he stiffened up and saluted.

Paniatowski smiled at him. ‘Did you know that I can read your mind?' she asked.

The constable looked confused. ‘Can you, ma'am?'

‘I think so. You were just telling yourself that you didn't join the Force to stand guard over dustbins. Am I right?'

The constable's confusion grew. ‘Well, actually, ma'am . . .'

‘But even a seemingly menial job like this one can play a vital part in an investigation – which is why I hope you've been doing it properly.'

‘I have, ma'am,' the constable assured her. ‘I've not let anybody get near them bins.'

Paniatowski nodded. ‘Good,' she said. ‘We all have to climb the promotion ladder step by step, you know.'

‘I
do
know, ma'am.'

‘And if you're not careful and conscientious, you'll falter on the first one, and then you'll
never
get any higher. That's happened to more officers than you'd ever imagine.'

‘It won't happen to me,' the young constable said firmly.

Paniatowski smiled again. ‘I'm sure it won't.'

‘Thank you for your time, ma'am,' the constable said – and sounded as though he meant it.