The Ring of Death (7 page)

‘What about the van that's been seen near the woods twice this week?' Paniatowski said.

‘A blue six-hundredweight Bedford van was stolen from the centre of town four nights ago, and was recovered near the Empire Mill this morning,' Beresford said. ‘Unfortunately, before the thief abandoned it, he set it on fire.'

‘And we've no idea who this thief might be?'

Beresford shook his head. ‘Nobody saw him nick it, and nobody saw him burn it.'

Paniatowski turned to Cousins. ‘Tell us what you've found out, Sergeant.'

‘When I was examining the body in the woods, I noticed that the dead man had a tattoo on the inside of the right arm,' the sergeant said. ‘It wasn't very elaborate – just two words in a foreign language. It was all Greek to me, of course,' he laughed, ‘though I later found out it wasn't Greek at all, but Latin.' He laid a single sheet of paper on the table. ‘These were the words.'

‘
Utrinque Paratus
. Ready for anything,' DC Crane said, before he could stop himself.

‘I didn't know you spoke any Latin, Jack,' Paniatowski said. ‘Where did you learn it?'

‘Where else but at bloody
school
,' Crane thought, furious with himself for inadvertently revealing the extent of his education. ‘I studied it at advanced level and got a bloody A!'

‘I can't
speak
it, as such, ma'am,' he said aloud. ‘I've just somehow picked up a few phrases.
Nil illegitimus carborundum –
that's another one I know.' He was wittering, he thought, but didn't know how to get out of it. ‘It means, “Don't let the bastards grind you down”,' he finished lamely.

‘Fascinating,' Paniatowski said, in a tone which clearly implied it wasn't. ‘Shall we get back to “Ready for anything”, Sergeant?'

‘Yes, ma'am,' Cousins agreed. ‘It's apparently the motto of the Parachute Regiment, so thinking it was probably a fair bet that the dead man had been a Para himself, I rang up an old mate of mine in the War Office. He was a bit cagey at first, as you can imagine, but once I'd promised to keep his name out of it, he said he'd have a peek at Adair's file and pass on any information that didn't actually endanger national security.'

‘And what information
did
he pass on?' Beresford asked.

‘That Adair left the army six months ago, after serving for twelve years,' Cousins paused for a second, ‘and that he was one of the Paras involved in the Bloody Sunday shootings in Londonderry.'

If Cousins had been expecting this revelation to be something of a bombshell, he was not disappointed. Bloody Sunday had shocked the whole country, and just the mention of it – in connection with someone involved in their investigation – was enough to reawaken that shock in the team now.

What happens next is still disputed. The soldiers say they came under fire, but the marchers themselves – as well as the spectators and the journalists sent to cover the event – disagree. What
is
beyond dispute is that the Paras fire a hundred rounds of ammunition straight into the crowd.

‘So you think this murder is related to Bloody Sunday, do you?' Beresford asked, breaking the silence that had fallen over the team.

‘Be a bit of a coincidence if it wasn't, don't you think?' Paul Cousins replied. ‘I mean, it's not as if Adair's
just
been murdered, is it? He's been tortured, and then stripped naked. Whoever killed him must have really bloody hated him. And what else could he possibly have done in his life to have brought so much hatred down on him?'

But still Beresford did not seem convinced.

‘The thing is,' he said, ‘there have been IRA executions before, and they've never gone in for anything as elaborate as that. What they normally do is make the victim kneel down and then shoot him in the back of the head.'

Cousins shrugged. ‘Then maybe you're right, sir. Maybe it's not punishment for his part in Bloody Sunday. But in that case, what the hell is it?'

A good question, Paniatowski thought. Dr Shastri had speculated that the killer had posed his victim in that way in order to send a message, but had had no idea what that message might be.

And Dr Shastri was not alone in that!

Paniatowski didn't see the uniformed constable enter the bar, and it was not until he was standing directly opposite her that she even knew he was there.

‘Sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but the chief constable would like to see you,' the constable told her.

‘Did he say what it was about?'

‘No, ma'am, he didn't. He just said that I'm to drive you back to headquarters right away.'

Paniatowski knocked back her remaining vodka, and stood up.

This was the second time in two days she'd been summoned to George Baxter's office, she reminded herself. The first time it had been in order to have Paul Cousins foisted on her. That, it was true, seemed to be working out much better than she'd ever expected it to – but she didn't think she could be so lucky twice.

The moment Paniatowski entered Baxter's office and saw the man sitting across the coffee table from him, she knew that her worst fears had been realized.

The visitor was wearing a herring-bone suit which probably came from one of the best bespoke tailors on Savile Row. He had silvery hair, cut in a deceptively simple way, which shone as if it were
real
silver, and his glowing pink skin was almost entirely free of wrinkles.

He looked the perfect English gentleman, Paniatowski thought.

So smooth, so sophisticated and – above all – so civilized.

And that was exactly what he was – on the surface. But underneath that well-tailored suit and immaculate grooming there lurked a dark savage beast that knew no pity or remorse – that would do whatever was necessary to get its way.

She hated this man, she despised him, and – though she would not admit it, even to herself – she was also, perhaps, a little frightened of him.

The chief constable stood up. ‘Ah, Monika,' he said, with a false heartiness which revealed just how uncomfortable
he
was with the situation. ‘I believe you already know Mr Forsyth, who works for the Ministry of . . .' He paused and looked down at the other man. ‘Which ministry did you say?'

‘Just
the
ministry,' Forsyth replied, enigmatically.

Baxter ran his fingers through his mop of ginger hair.

‘Mr Forsyth would like a chat with you, Monika,' he said awkwardly.

‘A
chat
?' Paniatowski repeated.

‘That's what you said, wasn't it?' Baxter asked the seated man.

The corners of Forsyth's mouth crinkled into a half-smile. ‘I believe what I actually said was “a
cosy
chat”,' he replied.

‘So if you'll excuse me . . .' Baxter said, still addressing Forsyth.

‘Of course,' Forsyth agreed.

Baxter crossed the room in one direction, his chief inspector in the other. As they met in the middle, the chief constable gave Paniatowski a look which said that the last thing he wished to do was leave her alone with Forsyth, but the matter was out of his hands.

Paniatowski kept on walking towards the coffee table. She didn't
want
to do it. What she
wanted
to do was turn around, leave the room, and not stop until she was outside the building and could gulp in some clean, fresh air, free of Whitehall poison. Yet there was no choice in the matter, and on legs which were tingling so much they might almost have been trembling, she
forced
herself to continue until she came to a halt next to Baxter's chair.

Forsyth did not stand up and offer her his hand, though it was not any lack of manners which had prevented him from doing so. Like everything else about him, his manners were impeccable, and what held him back was the knowledge that if he offered her his hand, she would not take it.

As the chief constable stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind him, Forsyth said, ‘Do please sit down, Chief Inspector.'

Paniatowski sat, because, she told herself, not to do so would show Forsyth just how disturbed she was.

‘As if he doesn't
already
know!' she thought, angry with herself.

Forsyth reached into his briefcase, and produced two silver hip flasks and two small glasses. He placed the glasses on the table, unscrewed one of the hip flasks and poured its contents into the first glass.

‘Single malt,' he said.

He unscrewed the second flask, and poured the clear liquid into the second glass.

‘Vodka,' he told her. ‘Zubrowka.'

‘Am I supposed to be impressed by that?'

‘
I
would be, in your position. Many experts consider Zubrowka to be the finest vodka in the world, and I happen to know that it's
your
favourite tipple.'

‘You
know
that, do you?' Paniatowski asked.

‘For a fact,' said Forsyth, with all the certainty of a man who was never wrong, because if he
was
wrong, the rules were quickly re-written to make him
right
. ‘Yes, your favourite tipple. But you can't get your hands on it often, can you, Monika – because it's very much in demand with the bigwigs in the Polish Communist Party?'

It was all games with this evil bastard, Paniatowski thought. And the frightening thing was that, half the time, they worked.

Forsyth took a sip of his malt, and smacked his lips appreciatively.

‘You're not drinking,' he said.

‘No, I'm not, am I?' Paniatowski agreed.

‘I haven't seen you since you were a mere sergeant, DCI Paniatowski,' Forsyth said amiably. ‘If you remember, we met when you were working with Cloggin'-it Charlie Woodend, on that rather nasty little business down at the old Haverton Army Camp.'

Paniatowski said nothing.

‘You
do
remember, don't you?' Forsyth asked.

‘I remember,' Paniatowski said. ‘And I also remember that other
rather nasty little business
, when you personally blocked the criminal prosecution of half a dozen snivelling ex-public schoolboys who worked for the War Department, and who should definitely have been banged up for a long, long time.'

‘Ah yes,' Forsyth agreed. ‘But I was only involved on the periphery of that little affair, and I must admit, I'd quite forgotten it.'

‘You're a liar!' Paniatowski said.

Forsyth smiled. ‘Don't you think you're being a little harsh, Chief Inspector?' he asked mildly.

‘A man like you doesn't forget,' Paniatowski told him. ‘You hoard every dirty trick you've ever pulled in some festering corner of your mind, and when you've got a little time free you re-live each and every one of them, and tell yourself what a splendid patriot you are.'

For a moment it looked as if Forsyth would lose his equanimity, then his face settled back into its bland mask

‘As much as I might enjoy these gentle sparring sessions of ours, we both know that they're of no real consequence,' he said, his voice hardening almost imperceptibly. ‘We both know, in fact, that I'm here for a purpose, that eventually I will tell you what I want you to do to fulfil your part in that purpose, and that you will do it – because you have no choice in the matter.'

He was right, Paniatowski thought. Even Charlie Woodend had had to bend to the might of the Secret Service.

‘Tell me what you want,' she said.

‘I want you to investigate the murder of Andrew Adair as you would investigate any other murder. But I want to be kept abreast of all your findings.'

‘Why?' Paniatowski asked.

‘That's really none of your concern,' Forsyth said dismissively.

‘It might help my investigation to know why you're interested in him,' Paniatowski pointed out.

‘Possibly it would,' Forsyth conceded.

‘But you're still not going to tell me?'

‘No.'

‘I assume he was working for you.'

‘If it makes you happy to assume that, my dear chief inspector, then by all means feel free to do so.'

‘But you're still not going to tell me in what
capacity
Adair was working for you?'