The Witch Maker (24 page)

‘Your downfall?' Paniatowski repeated. ‘What do you mean by that?'

‘We're not here to talk about me,' Zelda tells her. ‘Pat is the one who matters now.'

‘Then tell me about Pat,' Paniatowski said. ‘Tell me about the distraction he hoped to create by attacking my car. What was he trying to distract us
from
?'

‘I can't tell you that,' Zelda said, still hoping that she could find a way to keep the past buried.

‘Why can't you?' Paniatowski demanded.

‘Because – don't you see – if I tell you, then Pat might as well not have done it at all.'

‘If you won't talk, then I can't help you,' Paniatowski said. ‘But perhaps Pat will talk – when he's been in gaol for a few days. Of course, by then we might not need the information, so it won't do his case any good anyway.'

A feeling of unworthiness began to fill her even as she was speaking the words. She was using a trick of the trade which was perfectly legitimate with hardened criminals, she told herself. But what possible justification could she have for employing it with this obviously well-meaning middle-aged woman?

‘Please!' Zelda Todd said.

Paniatowski steeled herself. She was dealing with a murder case here – possibly even
two
murder cases. There was no room for sentiment. No room for understanding.

‘I have to know,' she said.

‘All right,' Zelda Todd agreed reluctantly. ‘But you must promise me you won't draw the wrong conclusions.'

‘I won't draw the wrong conclusions,' Paniatowski promised, adding a mental note to herself that Zelda might well find the
right
conclusions just as unpalatable.

Z
elda meets the man at the edge of the fairground, just beyond the reach of the lights. She can't see him very clearly, but he has made such a big impression on her already that she can picture him even in the dark.

‘I was watchin' you up on that stage,' he says.

She giggles. ‘I know you were.'

‘I can have any woman in the village I want, you know. But the one I want is you.'

He obviously means it as a compliment, but she is not flattered. Stan may be uneducated but he is not crude like this man is, and she is starting to feel sorry that she came.

‘I have to be getting back,' she says.

‘What do you mean?' he asks, obviously puzzled.

‘You asked me to come and see you, and I have,' she says, noting the tremble in her voice. ‘Now I have to be getting back.'

‘You think I wanted you to come here just to
talk
?' he asks.

‘I didn't know
what
you wanted,' she says.

She's lying. She knew what he wanted and thought she didn't mind. But now she does. Now she minds
very much
.

‘Come here!' he says.

It is the voice of a man used to being obeyed, and despite herself, she takes a step closer to him. She has been expecting him to try and kiss her, but he doesn't. Instead, he reaches out and grabs her breasts. And twists them! As if they were not attached to her at all! As if they are there only for his pleasure, and he doesn't care how she feels.

‘You're hurting me!' she gasps.

‘You know you like it.'

‘No, I—'

‘All women like it – however much they shout an' squeal.'

He has a firm grasp of her now, and is pulling her down to the ground. She doesn't scream at first – because she doesn't want the other people from the fairground to know what she has done – but when she feels her back press against the grass, a scream does begin to form in her throat.

It never gets out. It is never allowed to get out. The man clamps his left hand over her mouth, while his right hand is exploring under her skirt. She wants to get away, but his body is pressing down on her, his knees forcing her legs apart.

She tries to struggle free, but the hand which has been under her skirt reaches up and slaps her. Once, twice, three times. She is crying, but she knows he doesn't care. She wishes she was dead.

He enters her roughly, tearing her hymen, bruising her insides. It does not last long – though to her it seems to last for ever. He grunts, rolls off her, stands up, and buttons his trousers.

‘I'll bet you've never had a seein' to like that before,' he says.

And then he disappears into the night, leaving her lying there, sobbing softly to herself.

‘Who was this man?' Paniatowski asked.

‘I don't know,' Zelda said, sobbing again as she had sobbed on that night all those years ago. ‘He didn't tell me.'

A lie!

He had told her his name, right enough. Had not just told her, but actually
boasted
about who he was.

As if he thought she should have known it already!

As if he had failed to understand that however celebrated he might be in his own village, the name meant nothing to those people who came from outside it.

So she knew who he was. But Pat was in enough trouble already, without her passing the information on to this policewoman.

‘Do you know
anything
about him?' Paniatowski asked. ‘Do you know if he came from this village?'

‘Stan thought he did.'

‘Stan? Stan Dawkins? You told him about it?'

‘I didn't mean to. I just couldn't hide it from him.'

She has no idea how long she has been lying there, but she can see the funfair is closing down and knows she must get back to her caravan. It hurts to stand up, but she forces herself. She finds walking painful, too, and despite the need to get cleaned up before her mother sees her, she has to stop and rest at several points in her journey.

It is during the last stop before her caravan that Stan finds her. He doesn't ask her what has happened. He doesn't need to. All he wants is the name, and she – so weak she cannot think ahead, so weak she cannot even imagine the consequences – gives it to him.

‘So Stan didn't come into the village to look for girls, as people at the time thought,' Paniatowski said. ‘In fact, he had quite the opposite purpose – he wanted to avenge you.'

‘Yes.'

‘And got himself killed in the process.'

‘I didn't know that would happen. I never
thought
it would happen.'

‘But after it
did
happen, you didn't even bother to tell the police about it! Why?'

‘It wouldn't have made any difference if I had.
We
didn't matter. We were all just no-good gypsies as far as the police back then were concerned. They'd never have arrested anybody “respectable” for killing one of
us
.'

‘That's not true at all!' Paniatowski said. ‘If you'd told them what you've told me, they'd have taken you into the village and asked you to point out the killer for them.'

‘And how could I have done that – when I didn't even know who he was myself?'

‘But of course you knew! The man who killed Stan must have been the same man who raped you.'

‘He wasn't.'

‘And how can you possibly be so sure of that?'

‘Because, just after Stan had set off for the village, he came back.'

She is still standing where Stan left her when she sees the man has returned. She wants to scream, but he puts his finger to his mouth to silence her, and somehow she cannot bring herself to disobey him.

‘I don't want to hurt you,' he says.

‘You've
already
hurt me,' she tells him.

He looks down at the ground. ‘I know,' he mumbles. ‘It's been pointed out to me.'

She can't believe what she's hearing.
It's been pointed out to him.
It shouldn't have needed to be
pointed out
to him. What kind of a man was he? What kind of world did he live in where he didn't know he'd done wrong until it had been
pointed out
to him?

‘Who told you you'd done wrong?' she asks. ‘Your dad?'

‘No, not my dad.'

‘Who then?'

‘It doesn't matter.' He takes a step closer to her, and when she instinctively shrinks away, he says, ‘I told you, I don't want to hurt you. I'm here to give you somethin'.'

He holds out his hand. There is just enough light for her to see the small piece of brown paper which it contains.

‘A ten bob note,' she says, hardly able to believe it.

‘It's a lot of dosh, is ten bob,' he answers. ‘It'd take you a while to earn ten bob, an' now it's yours after only ten minutes' work.'

So that is the price of her humiliation, she thinks. Ten shillings.

‘I don't want your money,' she tells him.

‘He said I should make sure you took it.'

‘
Who
said?'

‘My ... Look, I don't want it.'

‘And I don't want it either.'

She makes a dash for her caravan, and he doesn't try to stop her.

But he does not go away, either. Not then – and not later.

He stays standing in the shadows, watching her caravan. Nobody else notices, because if you're not looking for him, you can't see him. But she is looking. Several times during the night, she peers through the window and sees the dark form standing there. It is only just before dawn breaks that he finally disappears.

Why did he stay so long? she wonders to herself, when he has finally gone. Not because he was sorry. Not because he wanted to apologize for what he had done. He'd made it quite plain he had no regrets.

So why then?

Because somebody – perhaps the man who gave him the money – had told him to stay away from the village in case there was any trouble. In case someone from the funfair came looking for him.

And somebody had! Stan!

‘I still don't understand,' Paniatowski said.

‘Pat did what he did because he was trying to protect my daughter – the girl he loves.'

‘But what has she—?' And suddenly Paniatowski understood. ‘The man who raped you also made you pregnant!' she said.

Zelda nodded. ‘Yes.'

‘And you never told your daughter about it?'

‘I've never told her who her father was, but I've always let her think that I was in love with him. I was terrified that you and your boss were going to accidentally uncover the truth, and then Hettie would find out. I didn't want her to know she had the blood of a brutal rapist running through her veins. And neither did Pat. He thought ... he thought you'd think it was somebody from the village who'd damaged your car, and that would mean you'd stop looking so closely at
us
and start looking more closely at
them
. It seems like a mad idea now, but it made sense to me when he explained it to me back then.'

‘Why those words?' Paniatowski said, knowing she was asking more for her own sake than for the sake of the investigation. ‘Why “slut”? Why “harlot”?'

Zelda looked at her strangely – questioningly.

As if I've suddenly shown her my secret self, Paniatowski thought. And perhaps I have!

‘There was nothing personal in it,' Zelda said.

Paniatowski knew she should leave it there – but couldn't. ‘It
felt
personal,' she said.

‘What did you want him to write?' Zelda asked. ‘“Bent”? Anyone can see you're not, so that would have had no effect on you. “Ruthless”? You'd have taken it as a compliment. He knew he had to knock you off balance, so he used words that would have worked in his village back in Ireland. But he was wrong. You should never call a woman that – just as you should never
treat
a woman like that. So can you forgive him? Can you let him go?'

‘It's not up to me,' Paniatowski told her. ‘I really think we have to go and talk to my boss.'

T
wo hours in the police house storeroom had eroded some of Pat Calhoun's jaunty self-confidence, and he looked distinctly unsettled by the fact that Woodend had not returned alone but had brought his sergeant with him.

‘Do I need to introduce her?' Woodend asked. ‘Or have you already met the Harlot?'

Calhoun reddened. ‘I'm sorry, Miss,' he said. ‘I didn't like writin' what I wrote, honest I didn't, but it seemed the best way to—'

‘Not so much an apology, more a self-justification,' Woodend said dryly. ‘Still, we've other fish to fry at the moment.'

‘Are you really goin' to have me locked up in Lancaster Gaol?' Calhoun asked.

‘Oh yes, the car's on the way to pick you up even as we speak. The only thing that's changed is what we're goin' to charge you with.'

‘I don't understand,' the Irishman said.

‘Could you hold out your hands, please, Mr Calhoun? I need to handcuff you.'

‘Handcuff me!' Calhoun repeated incredulously. ‘What for? All I did was vandalize a car!'

‘That's where we disagree, you see,' Woodend told him. ‘Hold out your hands, Mr Calhoun. It'll be a lot easier than puttin' up a struggle – an' findin' yourself on the sharp end of the Harlot's nasty temper.'

Calhoun sighed, and held out his hands. Woodend clicked a set of cuffs on to his wrists.

‘That should be enough restraint for the present,' the Chief Inspector said. ‘But if you start makin' things difficult for us, we'll have to cuff your hands
behind
your back. Understood?'