Backlash (22 page)

‘You tried your best,' Paniatowski said, reaching out her hand for the photograph.

But Kershaw was not prepared to relinquish it yet.

‘Wait a minute,' he said. ‘I
do
know him. I couldn't place him at first because he wasn't one of my cases.'

‘You're not doing yourself or the investigation any good here, Tom,' Paniatowski advised.

‘But I
do
know him!' Kershaw insisted. ‘His name's Taylor Jones – or something like that, anyway.'

‘Taylor Brown.'

‘That's right. His name's Taylor Brown – and the only reason he went to jail was because of me!'

‘
Do you know what I most hate about this job, Tom?' Mortimer asks, without any preamble. ‘It's that, for a lot of the time, we have to do it with our hands tied behind our bloody backs.
'

Kershaw smiles. ‘Are you just having a general rant, Walter, or have you got a specific case in mind?
'

‘
I've got the Honourable Reginald George Taylor Brown in mind,' Mortimer says.

‘
An Honourable!' Kershaw says, with mock awe. ‘Well, you certainly seem to be dealing with a better class of criminal than I do.
'

‘
Class?' Mortimer repeats in disgust. ‘Taylor Brown's got no class. Money, yes – his family owns two breweries and half the pubs in Lancashire – but no class. The man's a real scumbag.
'

‘
So what's he done?
'

‘
Tortured his housekeeper!
'

‘
You've got to be joking!' Kershaw says.

‘
I wish I was. It's been going on for months. You wouldn't believe the things he's done to her. He's whipped her, he's stubbed out his cigarettes on her – he's even cut her with a razor. And in the end, when she couldn't take it any more, she came to us.
'

‘
Seems like an open and shut case, then,' Kershaw said.

‘
It would be, if she hadn't withdrawn her statement.
'

‘
Whatever made her do that?
'

‘
His family have got at her. She's Russian, a political refugee, and I think – though I can't prove it – that the family have told her that if she testifies, they'll see to it that she's sent back home. And they probably could do that, you know, because the Taylor Browns have a lot of influence.
'

‘
So you had to let him go?
'

‘
Not yet. I'm going to have one last crack at him, but that's just stubbornness on my part, because I don't really expect to get anywhere.
'

‘
Who's his lawyer?' Kershaw asks. ‘Some expensive brief from Manchester, I expect.
'

‘
He doesn't have a lawyer.
'

‘
What?
'

‘
He's such an arrogant little shit that he doesn't think he needs one. He's laughing at us, Tom! He's laughing at
me!'

Kershaw looks at his watch. ‘I've got an hour or so to spare,' he says. ‘Why don't you let me talk to him?
'

Reginald Taylor Brown has an aristocratic nose and a naturally contemptuous curl to his lip. He looks up with interest when the man in overalls enters the interview room, and says, ‘You seem to have forgotten your bucket and mop.
'

Ignoring him, Kershaw turns to the uniformed constable standing by the door, and says, ‘Go and have a cup of tea, son. Don't hurry back.
'

Taylor Brown chuckles. ‘I knew this country had gone to the dogs since the War, but I never thought I'd live to see the day when a mere cleaner would be issuing orders to a copper – even a lowly one.
'

‘
I'm not a cleaner, I'm a chief superintendent,' Kershaw tells him.

‘
Then why are you wearing overalls?
'

‘
That should become clear later. Tell me about what you did to this girl. Sonia, wasn't it?
'

‘
I did nothing to her.
'

‘
Oh, come on, Reg, she's got whip marks on her back, cigarette burns on her legs and razor slashes on her arms. How did she get them?
'

‘
I don't know. Perhaps her boyfriend liked to treat her roughly.
'

‘
She didn't have a boyfriend. You kept her a virtual prisoner. It's all in her statement.
'

‘
Which she has since retracted.
'

‘
I hear you're a big fan of the Marquis de Sade,' he says.

‘
And I am not alone in that,' Taylor Brown replies. ‘Simone de Beauvoir has claimed that his writings are the earliest examples of existentialism, and Guillaume Apollinaire said he was the freest spirit who ever lived.
'

‘
And who's this Guy . . . Guy . . .?' Kershaw asks.

‘
Guillaume Apollinaire,' Taylor Brown repeats condescendingly. ‘He was a French poet and literary critic, who invented surrealism and died in 1919. And in case you don't know what surrealism is—
'

‘
He didn't invent surrealism, he only coined the term which describes it,' Kershaw interrupts him. ‘And he didn't die in 1919, he died in 1918.
'

‘
You're playing games with me,' Taylor Brown says accusingly.

‘
That's right,' Kershaw agrees. ‘But then I'm only taking a leaf out of your own book, aren't I?' He pauses for a moment. ‘So you think it's all right to hurt people, even if they don't want to be hurt. Is that correct?
'

‘
A man must be true to himself, and seek the liberation of his soul in whatever way is open to him,' Taylor Brown says.

‘
Interesting,' Kershaw muses. Then he takes a piece of paper out of his pocket, and slaps it down on the table. ‘Sign this.
'

‘
What is it?'
'

‘
It's your confession. It's not in your words, exactly, but it is based on the statement Sonia made, so it should be accurate enough.
'

‘
You must be insane if you think I'll sign that.
'

‘
Oh look,' he says, ‘it's your razor – the one you cut Sonia with. How very remiss of the officers not to take it off you when they arrested you.
'

‘
They
did
take it off me,' Taylor Brown says.

‘
They can't have, or it wouldn't be here.
'

‘
You brought it with you.
'

‘
I most certainly did not.' Kershaw opens the razor and holds it up to the light. ‘Very nasty, this blade.
'

‘
Are you . . . are you threatening me?' Taylor Brown asks.

‘
Between you and me, yes, I am,' Kershaw admits. ‘But that isn't the story I'll be telling later.
'

‘
Then what story
will
you be telling?' Taylor Brown asks, as his concern mounts.

‘
I'll say you confessed everything, and said you were very sorry for what you'd done. I may even add that you were weeping tears of remorse. Then I'll say that I left you alone to contemplate your wickedness, and that while I was out of the room, you took out the razor you had secreted in your clothing.
'

‘
Are you saying that you're planning to fake my suicide?' Taylor Brown asks, visibly relaxing because he knows this just has to be a bluff. ‘You wouldn't dare.
'

‘
You're right,' Kershaw agrees. ‘Besides, I have a moral objection to execution, even for scum like you. But that's not the story I was halfway through telling you.
'

‘
Then what is?
'

‘
You're so eaten up by remorse – so determined never to do anything like that again – that you drop your pants and cut your own balls off.
'

‘
You couldn't . . . you wouldn't . . .
'

‘
You wondered why I was wearing overalls, and now you know,' Kershaw says. ‘Ten minutes from now, these overalls will be burning away merrily in the furnace, I'll be back in uniform – and you'll be in the hospital.
'

‘
You'd never get away with it,' Taylor Brown gasps.

‘
Of course I will,' Kershaw says confidently. ‘I'm a senior police officer with an exemplary record. Nobody would believe I'd ever be mad enough to risk my career by castrating a suspect.' He pauses again. ‘Why don't you sign the statement, Reg? It'll save an awful lot of mess.
'

‘It's him, isn't it?' Kershaw said. ‘He's the one.'

‘He might be,' Paniatowski admitted, cautiously.

‘I have to talk to him! I have to make him tell me what he's done with her!'

‘No!' Paniatowski said firmly.

‘For God's sake, woman, it's my wife we're talking about – and I outrank you.'

‘If you try to get anywhere near the suspect, I'll have you locked up,' Paniatowski said. ‘You know I can do it – and you know the chief constable will back me.'

‘He needs to be arrested,' Kershaw said.

‘That's already in hand.'

‘He might have an accomplice. You need to check on that.'

‘I will,' Paniatowski said. ‘Listen, Tom, you have to promise me that you won't try to interfere with the investigation. I need your word on that.'

For a few seconds, Kershaw said nothing, then he looked Paniatowski straight in the eyes and said, ‘You have my word – but you'd better make damn sure you get it right!'

With Beresford driving the lead car, and Paniatowski in the passenger seat, the convoy of five police vehicles shot along the narrow moorland road which led to the village of Lower Yatton.

‘At his trial, Taylor Brown's brief claimed Kershaw forced his confession out of him,' Paniatowski said. ‘Police records, on the other hand, state that Kershaw wasn't even in the building at the time.'

‘So maybe Taylor Brown was lying,' Beresford suggested.

Paniatowski snorted. ‘It was a serious charge, but the judge only gave him two years – which suggests to me that while the jury might have swallowed the police version of events hook, line and sinker, his honour had serious doubts.'

The signpost said they were now only three miles from Lower Yatton. Paniatowski switched off the siren, and the cars behind them followed suit.

‘There's no chance that Taylor Brown was innocent, is there?' Beresford asked.

‘What are you suggesting? Surely not that your great hero – Chief Superintendent St Thomas Kershaw – would actually fit up an
innocent
man?'

‘That was uncalled for, Monika,' Beresford said.

‘You're right, and I'm sorry I said it. But to answer your question, no, I don't think there's much doubt that Taylor Brown was guilty as charged.'

‘So if Mr Kershaw
did
force a confession out of him . . .'

‘I think we can take that as read.'

‘. . . then Taylor Brown must know that, without Kershaw's intervention, he'd never have gone to jail.'

‘Yes, he must.'

‘And that's a powerful motive for revenge.'

It was, Paniatowski agreed silently.

The village was now less than half a mile away, and they could clearly see the large old house on the edge of it, which had been the vicarage in the days when the Church of England was still a thriving concern.

‘That's where he lives,' Beresford said. ‘It must be at least a hundred yards away from any of the other houses.'

‘At least,' Paniatowski agreed.

‘And that gives him all the privacy he needs to do whatever he wants,' Beresford said.

‘Yes,' Paniatowski replied.

And she was thinking, if Elaine Kershaw
is
in there, please God let her still be alive.

SEVENTEEN

F
rom the end of the driveway, they could see the whole of the old vicarage through the windscreen, but as they drew ever closer – Beresford's foot still hard down on the accelerator and the speedometer needle hovering at around sixty miles an hour – the panorama narrowed, and their eyes became focussed on the front door.

There was an old carriage turning circle just yards from the house, and the moment his front wheels crossed on to it, Beresford stamped down on the brake. The car juddered, rocked, and slewed to the right. Gravel chips flew in all directions, some disappearing harmlessly into the undergrowth, some hitting the cars behind with a dull metallic thud.

And as the rest of the convey screeched to a halt behind them, Beresford and Paniatowski were already out of their own vehicle and sprinting desperately towards the house.

The front door resisted the first assault from the heel of Beresford's shoe, but at the second, the wood around the keyhole splintered, and it swung complainingly open.

The large hallway lay ahead of them – the place where, in times gone by, the vicar would have received his guests. There was an elaborate staircase ascending to the left, and a much narrower set of stairs descending to the right. Beyond the stairs was a series of doors.

The first wave of officers from the other cars had already arrived in the hall.