The Ring of Death (11 page)

‘Think no more about it,' Cousins said easily. ‘The problem is, you see, you look as if you're on the way to a wedding.'

‘And how should I look?'

‘As if it's not a suit you reserve for special occasions, but your normal working clothes – the rising young executive's equivalent of a pair of overalls. You need to look at home in it, and you could start by loosening your tie a bit.'

Crane grinned, and loosened his tie. ‘Thanks, Sarge.'

‘I've got another piece of advice for you, lad, totally unrelated to this surveillance,' Cousins said. ‘Well, maybe two pieces, if I'm being strictly accurate. But since they're
not
related to your duties, you don't have to hear them, if you don't want to.'

‘Go right ahead, Sarge,' Crane said, though the words were edged with uncertainty.

‘The first is that if you keep trying to cover your lies by pretending to be a babbling idiot, there's a real danger that people will start thinking that a babbling idiot is just what you are.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' Crane said.

‘Now
that's
better!' Cousins said, with approval. ‘No babbling there – just a blatant straightforward lie. But you might like to consider the other possibility,
which is not lying at all
.'

‘You're talking about the Latin thing this afternoon, aren't you?' Crane asked, miserably.

‘I'm talking about the Latin thing,' Cousins agreed. ‘Just how educated
are
you?'

‘I've got a university degree.'

‘A good degree – or a bare pass?'

‘A good degree.'

Cousins nodded, as if there'd been no surprises so far.

‘And you're keeping it quiet because . . .?' he wondered.

‘Because most bobbies don't trust anybody who they think has had too much education.'

‘
Somebody
on the Force must know.'

‘Somebody
must.
But nobody who I come into regular contact with has any idea.'

‘And that's where I think you're making your fundamental mistake,' Cousins said. ‘You're keeping a secret from the boss, and if she finds out about it – and she may well do – how do you think she's going to feel?'

‘I don't know.'

‘She'll feel as if she doesn't really know you at all. She'll also think that you don't trust her – and if
you
don't trust
her
, how can
she
trust
you
.'

‘But suppose I tell her and she . . . and she . . .'

‘And she
what
?'

Crane shrugged awkwardly. ‘I don't know.'

‘She starts treating you differently – as if you were some kind of freak or something?' Cousins suggested.

‘Well, yes.'

‘Then she wouldn't deserve the loyalty of a smart lad like you.'

‘But then . . .'

‘So the best thing you could do, under those circumstances, is to put in for a transfer and hope that, next time, you get a boss who's worthy of you. But that's not going to happen – not if DCI Paniatowski is the woman I think she is. Tell her, lad! Don't blurt it out like it's a confession – just tell her in a matter-of-fact sort of way. And I promise you, you won't regret it.'

‘Thanks, Sarge, I really appreciate you taking the trouble to talk to me like this,' Crane said.

Cousins shrugged. ‘It's no trouble at all. Helping out junior officers is all part of being a sergeant. But let's not take it too far.'

‘Too far?' Crane repeated.

‘If I ever catch you looking at me like you think I've suddenly become your kindly Uncle Paul, I'll smash your teeth in.'

Crane grinned. ‘Understood,' he said.

Colin Beresford looked around the lounge bar of the Red Lion. The people there were not like the regular drinkers he'd have found at the Drum and Monkey, he thought. For a start, they were all roughly the same age – early to late thirties – and unlike the customers in the Drum, they were either on their own, or with one friend of the same sex.

Other differences were becoming apparent, the longer he stood there. The customers at the Drum might run a comb quickly through their hair before they left home, but that was about as far it went. The people in the Red Lion's lounge, on the other hand, were decked out in all their finery, and looked as if they had spent a good fifteen or twenty minutes staring self-consciously into the mirror before they set out for the pub.

The atmosphere was different, too – and that wasn't just because of the dim lights and the syrupy romantic music which was being pumped out of the speaker system. People who went to the Drum did so because they wanted a drink, whereas the people who came to the Red Lion were on the prowl. The evidence was there for all to see – the way the men assessed every new woman who entered the room, the women's habit of glancing around casually, and then whispering earnest messages to their friends.

All in all, Beresford decided, the Red Lion had earned its reputation as the most infamous pick-up place in the whole of Whitebridge.

And wasn't that why he was there himself – to pick up women?

But it wasn't easy. It wasn't easy at all.

He didn't know how to behave.

He didn't know what to say.

He felt like a man who'd been anaesthetized for the last thirteen years. And, in a way, that was exactly what he was.

He'd
almost
become a non-virgin in his late teens. He'd had a steady girlfriend called Janet – so steady that she'd stopped saying ‘Don't!' every time he'd tried to put his hand up her skirt. A few more weeks, he'd been convinced at the time, and he'd have had it cracked.

Then his mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, and his life had been turned upside down.

At first, he'd spent more time with Mum because he wanted the two of them to share things, while she still could. Later, he'd spent time with her because he was frightened of leaving her alone.

So Janet had broken up with him. It hadn't been a bitter parting – full of screaming and recriminations. It was just that they had both seen the inevitability of the situation, and she had simply drifted away.

She was married now, with three kids. He often caught sight of her in the centre of Whitebridge, but somehow – though he wanted to – he could never quite bring himself to stop and speak.

There had been no more girls after Janet, and that had been his choice – for even if he'd found a girl willing to take on the challenge of his mother, he could never have inflicted Mavis Beresford on someone he cared about.

Now, finally, his mother was in a nursing home.

But where did that leave him?

It left him, he accepted sadly, with the body of a man in his early thirties, but with the experience – at least, as far as dealing with women was concerned – of a spotty teenager.

‘You look a bit down in the mouth,' said a voice to his left.

He turned, and saw the woman leaning against the bar. She was about his age, he guessed. Her hair was blonde, and if it was dyed, it had been well done. She had nice eyes, a smooth complexion, and a body that had all the right contours in all the right places.

It would be wrong to call her a raving beauty, he thought, but she was not half bad.

‘Would you like a drink?' he asked.

‘Yes, I would,' the woman replied, as if the idea had never occurred to her until he mentioned it. ‘A gin and tonic would be nice.'

He ordered her drink, then said, ‘My name's Colin.'

‘And I'm Yvonne,' the woman told him. ‘So what's your story, Colin? Divorced?'

Beresford shook his head. ‘No, I'm single. I never quite seemed to get around to marrying.'

Yvonne smiled at him. ‘Wise man.'

‘You?'

‘Divorced, with two kids,' Yvonne said. ‘But don't worry about them,' she added hastily. ‘They're staying with my mother tonight.'

‘So what do I say next?' Beresford asked himself, in a panic. ‘What the
bloody hell
do I say next?'

‘How old are your kids?' he found himself blurting out.

Yvonne gave him a slightly strange look. ‘This is my one night out a week, love. I look forward to it, and when I
am
out, the last thing I want to talk about is my children.'

Of course it was, Beresford thought. Even an idiot – even a complete
moron
– would know that.

‘I'm . . . I'm not very good at talking to women,' he admitted.

Yvonne laughed. ‘Well, you've certainly made that obvious enough,' she said. ‘But you shouldn't worry about it.'

‘Shouldn't I?'

‘No! Not at all! You make a nice change from the oily sods I usually end up chatting to.'

‘Thanks,' Beresford said, feeling as if he were drowning in his own inadequacy.

‘Tell you what,' Yvonne said softly, ‘why don't we go back to my place for the next drink? It's not as noisy or as crowded as this pub, and you might find it easier to
talk
there.'

‘Thank you, but not tonight,' Beresford heard himself say.

‘You're sure?'

‘Yes, I . . . I've got an early start in the morning.'

Yvonne shrugged. ‘In that case, I suppose I might as well go back to my mate.'

‘Yes,' Beresford agreed mournfully. ‘I suppose you might as well.'

He watched her walk to the far end of the bar, her hips swinging in what was no doubt an attempt to reassure herself that it was his loss, not hers. He continued to watch as she bent over and whispered something in her mate's ear, but when the mate looked wonderingly in his direction, he had to turn away.

He'd wanted to go home with her. He really had. The problem was that it had been all too easy to picture how things would have gone once they'd got there.

But that would be the problem, wouldn't it? He wouldn't be winding her up at all!

Would he ever be able to break the vicious circle, he wondered. And if so, how?

Make his situation into a film, and it would be bloody hilarious, he thought. But when it was your own life, it was a bit difficult seeing the funny side.

The man leaning heavily against the public bar in the Vulcan was in his mid-thirties, and looked the worse for drink.

Paniatowski sat on the stool next to his, ordered a vodka, and said, ‘I'd like to talk to you.'

The man looked at her through bleary eyes. ‘Not tonight, love,' he said. ‘I'm not in the mood for that kind of thing.'

‘Neither am I, Mr Quinn,' Paniatowski said, holding up her warrant card. ‘It's serious matters that
I
want to talk about.'

Quinn shook his head, as if hoping to clear his brain a little.

‘Thought you looked familiar,' he slurred. ‘I saw you on the telly earlier, didn't I? You're the bobby who's investigating Andy Adair's murder.'

‘That's right, I am,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘And what can you tell me about Mr Adair?'

‘He was the best mate a man ever had,' Quinn said mournfully, ‘and now he's dead.' He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. ‘End of story.'

‘I'm afraid it isn't, not by a long chalk,' Paniatowski told him. ‘You were mates in the army. You served together in Northern Ireland, didn't you?'

‘That's right, we did.'

‘And he was discharged a couple of months after you were.'

‘You have been doing your homework.'

‘And you came back to Whitebridge.'

‘Yes.'

‘And why wouldn't you? It's your home town, and besides, there was a job already waiting for you in Dixon's foundry. But Adair was from Oxfordshire, so what made
him
move here? Were you the one who suggested it?'

‘I suppose so.'

‘And what did you say, exactly?'

‘I think I told him it was a nice place to live.'

‘Whitebridge!' Paniatowski said incredulously. ‘You told him
Whitebridge
was a nice place to live? And which part of it did you think a man brought up in the Thames Valley would find particularly enchanting? The factory chimneys – or the derelict mills?'

Quinn shrugged. ‘There's some nice scenery around the town – the moors and that.'

‘You don't look to me like a man who'd go in much for scenery,' Paniatowski said, sceptically. ‘But we're not talking about you, are we? We're talking about Andy Adair – a man who moved here knowing nobody but you. It doesn't make any sense, unless, like you, he had a job to go to.'