The Ring of Death (6 page)

‘Which is?'

‘Poor, ignorant Indian that I am, I do not know the term an English layman would use to describe it, but we in the medical profession would call it “cutting his knackers off”.'

Shastri was quite right, Paniatowski thought. For most men – and this had been a fine strapping specimen of a man – castration would have been the ultimate humiliation.

‘In what little time your demanding police force allows me, I have been studying medieval English church tombs,' Shastri said. ‘You know the kind of thing I mean, don't you? A supine statue of a knight in armour, sometimes with his lady by his side.'

‘I know the kind of thing you mean,' Paniatowski replied, mystified.

‘It is perhaps a little morbid of me, but then I am engaged in a morbid profession,' Shastri continued. ‘And I do find it fascinating, because each tomb tells its own story to those who have the ability to read it. If the knight has his hands clasped in prayer, it tells us one thing about him. If there is a dog at his feet, it tells us another. In other words, it is all carefully constructed, so that to those who understand, it will mean something.'

‘And you're saying that this has been carefully constructed to send a message to someone?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Exactly so.'

‘But what's the message, and to whom is it being sent?'

‘Ah, now we are straying beyond my realms of competence again,' Shastri said.

SIX

T
he stretcher had not been designed to transport frozen, kneeling men, and the two-man ambulance crew struggled to manoeuvre the corpse into such a position that it would not fall off on the journey through the woods.

‘It will be a most interesting post-mortem to perform,' said Dr Shastri, as she watched the process. ‘I have not yet decided whether to conduct it with him as you found him or to turn him over on his back, so he looks like a dead hamster.'

Was she really as flippant as she sometimes seemed, or was it just a defence mechanism, Paniatowski wondered.

And then she remembered how wonderfully sensitive Shastri had been when telling her the results of Bob Rutter's post-mortem, and she had her answer.

‘You could always break his arms and legs before you went to work on him,' she suggested, playing the doctor's game.

Shastri clicked her tongue disapprovingly. ‘Oh dear me, no, that would never do,' she said. ‘I am a scientist, not a pork butcher.'

The ambulance men raised the stretcher. The corpse wobbled slightly, but seemed to be about as stable as could be hoped for.

Paniatowski and Shastri formed part of the cortege as it made its way from the clearing to the waiting ambulance.

‘I'd like your report on the victim as soon as possible,' Paniatowski said, as they reached the road.

‘How unusual to hear you say that,' Shastri replied, with a smile. ‘Normally, you are in no hurry at all.' She sighed. ‘Do not worry, I will work through the night if needs be. I am quite resigned to my slavery. It is a fate which befalls all police doctors.'

‘And you love it,' Paniatowski told her.

An old green Ford Cortina pulled up, and a square man in a blue suit climbed out of it.

‘I was wondering if, once this case is over, you and Louisa would like to come to my house for afternoon tea,' Dr Shastri said.

‘We'll talk about it later,' Paniatowski said, more abruptly than she'd intended to, as she watched Sergeant Cousins slam his car door and begin to walk towards her.

‘Ah, there is trouble in Paradise,' Dr Shastri said, perceptively. ‘And that being the case, I will remove myself from the scene as quickly as possible.'

She turned and walked towards her Land Rover, nodding to Cousins as they passed one another.

When he'd drawn level with Paniatowski, the sergeant came to a stop and said, ‘I'm back, ma'am.'

‘I can see that you're back, but where the bloody hell have you been?' Paniatowski demanded.

Cousins shrank slightly away, as if surprised by the sudden and unexpected vehemence of the attack. ‘I was following a lead, ma'am.'

‘A lead?'

‘The dead man's tattoo.'

‘Tattoo?' Paniatowski thought. ‘
What
tattoo?'

‘You see, I knew immediately that it must mean the victim was, or had been, a member of a—' Cousins began.

Paniatowski put up her hand to silence him. The tattoo – if there actually
was
one – might be interesting, but there were other, more important, matters to be dealt with first.

She looked around her. There were a number of unformed constables still within earshot, and it wouldn't have been right for them to hear what was about to follow.

‘Let's go up the road a little,' she suggested, though from her tone it was clear that it wasn't a suggestion at all.

‘If that's what you want, ma'am,' Cousins said, mystified.

‘It
is
what I want,' Paniatowski replied emphatically.

They walked until they were fifty yards away from the woods, then Paniatowski came to an abrupt halt and said, ‘So you saw this tattoo, and then you thought that you'd just go swanning off, did you?'

Cousins shrugged. ‘Inspector Beresford had arrived by that point, and there didn't seem to be much for me to do here.'

Looking back over her shoulder, Paniatowski saw that both the ambulance and Dr Shastri's Land Rover were in the process of executing three-point turns.

‘You're my
bagman
,' she told Cousins.

‘I know that, ma'am.'

‘And what that means is that you carry my bag and perform any other minor duties I assign to you. What it
doesn't
mean is that you have the right to go off chasing what
you
consider to be leads, without telling me first!'

The ambulance drove passed them, quickly followed by the Land Rover. Paniatowski gave an obligatory wave to Shastri, but the doctor, as if to keep herself above minor police wrangles, had her eyes firmly focused on the road.

Paniatowski turned her attention back to Cousins. The sergeant was looking troubled.

‘Can I speak frankly, ma'am?' he said earnestly.

‘Why not?' Paniatowski asked herself. ‘If we've got problems, let's get them out in the open.'

‘Go ahead,' she told the sergeant.

‘I don't imagine you were exactly as chuffed as little apples when you heard I'd been assigned to your team,' Cousins said.

‘Don't you?' Paniatowski asked, deadpan.

‘No, ma'am, and I expect that had something to do with the fact you're naturally wary of anybody who's spent some time in the nut house.'

‘Show a little basic humanity, Monika – just like Charlie would have done,' Paniatowski advised herself, echoing Baxter's words.

‘You were in hospital,' she said. ‘In much the same way as you would have been if you'd broken a leg.'

‘If you don't mind me saying, ma'am, I don't think you're being entirely honest with me – or with yourself,' Cousins said.

‘And suppose I
do
mind you saying it?' Paniatowski countered.

‘Then I'm very sorry to have offended you, but it had to be said anyway. Look, ma'am, we both
know
they don't put you in a
straitjacket
in any
normal
hospital. We both
know
they don't lock you away in a
padded cell
in a
normal
hospital.' A totally unexpected smile came to his face. ‘That's a little nut-house humour, ma'am,' he explained. ‘I was never in a padded cell. You have to pass
exams
in lunacy before you get one of them.'

‘I don't like having the piss taken out of me, Sergeant!' Paniatowski said angrily.

Cousins bowed his head. ‘You're right, ma'am, I was taking the piss, and I shouldn't have done,' he admitted contritely. ‘But I was trying to make a serious point.'

‘Then make it!'

‘When my wife died, I went to pieces,' Cousins said, with a poignancy in his voice that Paniatowski found almost unbearable. ‘I couldn't cope. I couldn't make decisions. Choosing what to have for breakfast was a major challenge for me, so I ended up having nothing at all. That's when I realized I had to get help. That's when I understood that I needed to be in a place where all my decisions were taken for me, and where there was someone paid to listen to me pour out my misery and – eventually – offer me constructive ideas on recovery. That was all that was involved – no straitjackets, no electric shocks – just time and peace.'

The wave of guilt which swept over Paniatowski almost drowned her. When Bob Rutter – the love of her life – had been found dead at the foot of that steep hill, she'd almost gone insane herself. And maybe she would have, if Charlie Woodend – despite being devastated by Bob's death on his own account – hadn't nursed her through it.

‘I'm so sorry,' she said.

‘For what, ma'am?'

‘For thinking, even for a moment, that . . .'

‘I'm sure you'll have taken a more charitable view of my condition than a lot of my closer colleagues did – and they're the ones who should have been making the allowances,' Cousins said graciously. ‘The point is, I may have been lost for a while, but now I've found myself again.'

‘I believe you,' Paniatowski said.

‘But I don't think that's the
only
problem we have over working together, ma'am,' Cousins continued. ‘You see, I've been on the force longer than you have, and that means—'

‘That means you know how to do my job better than I do myself,' Paniatowski interrupted, as her pity drained away and anger gushed in the fill the vacuum.

‘No, ma'am, it means I've had more of a chance to observe your career than you've had to observe mine. I saw how you worked when you were DCI Woodend's bagman. You took chances. You went out a limb. What I did this morning – following my instincts – is just the sort of thing you'd have done when you were
Sergeant
Paniatowski. I'm right about that, aren't I?'

‘Maybe,' Paniatowski conceded.

‘So why do you fly off the handle with me? I think it's because you're worried that I'll turn out be another Inspector Walker.'

‘
Sergeant
Walker,' Paniatowski corrected him.

‘So you haven't heard,' Cousins said.

‘Heard what?'

‘Walker's been promoted, probably as a result of the part he played in solving the Linda Szymborska murder – or, at least, the part he
claims
to have played.'

They couldn't accept it, could they, Paniatowski thought angrily. The brass – and that probably even included George Baxter – simply
couldn't
accept that she could have solved that murder without the help of a man.

‘The thing is, ma'am, I'm
not
Ted Walker,' Cousins said. ‘I don't mind working for a woman – as long as she's good at her job.'

‘And I am?'

‘Yes. As far as I've been able to tell, from the outside looking in, you're
very
good,' Cousins said.

‘And how about the fact that I'm several years younger than you?' Paniatowski asked sceptically.

‘There was a time when I saw myself as a rising star in the Central Lancs Constabulary,' Cousins said, almost musingly, ‘a time when I thought I was destined for great things. But I was just fooling myself. I simply haven't got what
you've
got, and what young Beresford – sorry, Inspector Beresford –
will have
some day. I'm not senior officer material.'

‘Then
what
are you?'

‘What I am is a bloody good bagman – probably the best you'll ever work with. I take my job seriously – always have done – and now . . . well, now, it's just about all I've got left. So I'd be grateful, ma'am, if you'd give me the chance to show you just what I can do.'

Though he managed to hide the fact well, this whole conversation had been no more than a plea for acceptance on Cousins' part, Paniatowski thought.

‘Welcome to the team, Sergeant,' she said, meaning it.

‘Thank you, ma'am,' Cousins replied – meaning it too.

SEVEN

S
o far, they'd been able to keep a lid on the investigation, Paniatowski thought, as she looked at her team, sitting around the table in the Drum and Monkey. So far, the press hadn't even got a whiff of the fact that the body of a naked man had been found in the woods. But that wouldn't last – because in a town like Whitebridge, nothing was
ever
secret for long.

Still, for the moment at least, they had a breathing space: a time in which they could operate without the local – and probably national – reporters breathing down their necks; a time in which half of Colin Beresford's team of junior detectives w
eren't
out on wild-goose chases, investigating calls from people who were probably cranks, but who just might
not
be.

‘Let's review what we've got so far,' she said. ‘Would
you
like to start, Inspector Beresford?'

Beresford nodded. ‘First of all, we've identified the victim,' he said. ‘The driving licence left at the scene of the crime . . .'

‘Or rather, the place where the body was actually found,' Paniatowski corrected him.

‘. . .  or rather where the body was actually found,' Beresford agreed, ‘belonged to an Andrew Adair, of 32 Palmerston Terrace, and we've been able to establish, by talking to other residents of the street, that the victim is in fact Adair. Further inquiries have established that he's been living there for around six months, that he was the sole resident of the property, and that he seemed to keep pretty much to himself.'