The Ring of Death (13 page)

The closer he got to it, the more he thought about how horribly realistic it seemed to be. Then he saw the man's face – and the gash in his throat – and realized there was a
reason
it seemed so realistic.

And it was at that point that he came to a complete – very unsquirely – halt, and vomited.

Though he was sound asleep, there was a warm smile on DS Paul Cousins' face. He was dreaming of the past – a past in which his wife was still alive.

It was a vivid dream.

He could feel her lips press against his as she kissed him.

He could smell her breath brushing gently against his cheek.

It was a long time since he'd had such a dream. Dreams like that didn't come to men who paced the kitchen floor until they had worn out the linoleum. They didn't visit distraught police sergeants who banged their heads against the living-room wall until the pain became so intense that it stopped them thinking about anything else. Only recently – back at work, and with a purpose in life once more – had he rediscovered the level of sleep which had been eluding him for over two years and which now invited the dreams back in.

The dream continued.

And yet . . . and yet . . . something is
already
changing. There is a harsh metallic sound – quite at odds with the peace of the countryside – ringing in his ear, and try as he might, he cannot make it go away.

Even before he'd opened his eyes, he was groping for the bedside telephone.

‘Yes?' he growled into the instrument.

‘Is that you, Paul?' asked a voice on the other end of the line – a voice which sounded
worried
.

And with just those four words, the world that he'd been inhabiting a few moments earlier – and which was already fading from his memory – quite melted away.

‘Ma'am?' he said, although there was no real need to ask. ‘What's happened? Have we got a new lead?'

‘No,' Paniatowski replied. ‘Not a lead.'

‘Then if it's not a lead,' Cousins said heavily, ‘it must be another body.'

‘That's right,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘It's another body.'

‘Well, shit!' Cousins said.

TWELVE

P
aniatowski's gaze was directed at a wall lined with leather-bound first editions, but that wasn't really what she was
seeing
at all.

‘Shit, shit, shit . . . shit!' she kept repeating, silently to herself.

She should have anticipated this, she thought. She should have been able to work out for herself that a killer who took so much care over the details of his first murder would probably not stop at one.

But she
hadn't
anticipated it. She'd been so wrapped up in the details of Adair's murder and the sudden – and unwelcome – arrival of Mr Forsyth that it hadn't even occurred to her that the murderer would strike again.

Would it have taken Charlie Woodend so much by surprise, she wondered. Or would Charlie have been prepared, and already have a contingency plan in place to follow up this new development in the investigation?

She didn't know –
could have
no way of knowing. But one thing she was certain of – when the press heard there'd been a second murder (and learned the details of both the killings) they would have a field day. And, once again, she'd find herself under the microscope, with her competence being questioned every single step of the way.

She turned her attention to Sir William Langley, who was huddled protectively in the wing armchair in front of her.

No one wants to find a naked, murdered man in his own back yard – even if the back yard in question
is
at least a couple of hundred yards from the back doorstep – she thought, but even allowing for that, Langley seemed to have taken it harder than
most
men in his situation would have.

‘Who could have done such a thing?' Langley asked, speaking over the top of a brandy glass which had been nearly full a couple of minutes earlier, and now was almost empty. ‘Who could have done such a thing
to me
?'

‘Quite,' Paniatowski agreed silently. ‘Let's not bother our heads about who could have done it to the poor bugger out there – we should concentrate on who could have done it to
you
!'

‘Did you get a close look at the victim, sir?' she asked.

‘Sir William,' the man in the armchair replied. ‘I would appreciate it if you'd call me Sir
William
.'

So that was how it was going to be, was it? Paniatowski wondered. Nerves shot to hell, but still clinging to his precious title at all costs.

‘Did you get a close look at the victim,
Sir William
?' she said.

Langley shuddered. ‘A closer look than I'd have liked. I didn't know he was dead at first, you see. I didn't even know he was
real
.'

‘And did you recognize him?'

‘How could I possibly have recognized him?' Langley demanded, in what could have been anger, and could have been fear – and just possibly was both. ‘I'm a merchant banker, my good woman.'

‘So?'

‘So I draw my circle of friends exclusively from other merchant bankers and the top men in the professions. So I simply don't come into any contact with that class of person.'

‘Which class of person?' Paniatowski asked.

‘People like him,' Langley said, amazed that she'd felt the need to even ask such a stupid question. ‘People . . . like . . . the . . . dead . . . man,' he added, spacing out his words in case she still hadn't got the point.

‘Ah, I see,' Paniatowski said.

‘I should damned well think you would,' Langley said. ‘After all, you are supposed to be a
chief inspector
.'

‘But what I still
don't
see is how you know he
is
, in fact, “that class of person”.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘We tend to judge people by the clothes they're wearing and the way they speak. But the dead man wasn't wearing any clothes
at all
– and dead men are notoriously silent. So if you don't know him, how do you know he isn't another merchant banker?'

‘He doesn't
look
like a merchant banker,' Langley said peevishly.

‘And how
do
merchant bankers look?' Paniatowski countered.

Langley considered the question for a second. ‘I may have expressed myself badly,' he conceded, ‘but that's perfectly understandable, after the ordeal I've been through.'

‘So you forgive yourself,' Paniatowski said softly.

‘What was that, Chief Inspector?'

‘I said, yes, Sir William, it is understandable. So how did you
mean
to express yourself?'

‘I suppose what I really meant to say was that the people with whom I rub shoulders are simply not the kind of people who get themselves murdered – and, especially, murdered in such a ghastly manner.'

‘So, just to be quite clear on that matter, you're saying that you've definitely never seen the dead man before?'

Langley looked vague – and slightly troubled.

‘I suppose I may possibly have
seen
him before,' he said finally. ‘One sees all sorts of people – hundreds of them, every day – whether one wants to or not, doesn't one?'

One does, Paniatowski thought. But one isn't usually so bloody cagey about it.

‘Sorry to be so persistent,' she said, ‘but I really need you to spell it out for me. You're saying, if I understand you correctly, that even if you
have
seen him, you don't
recognize
him – and you certainly couldn't put a name to him?'

‘Just so,' Langley agreed.

‘Bloody liar!' Paniatowski thought.

The grounds outside the house had been transformed since Langley had taken his early morning stroll. A large section – from the artificial lake to the trees which ran around the boundary – had been cordoned off, and within this roped-in area more than a dozen policemen were already at work.

In the statue garden, several technicians were dusting the metal statutes for fingerprints.

On the lawn surrounding the statue garden, a line of uniformed officers were slowly advancing, carefully examining each blade of immaculately cut grass in front of them before taking a step forward.

There was no sign of either an ambulance or Dr Shastri's Land Rover, but tyre tracks at the edge of one of the flower beds were ample proof that they had both been there.

DS Cousins was standing just outside the cordon, from where he could observe all the other officers at the same time. He had his hands reflectively on his hips, and a cigarette dangled languidly from his mouth.

‘I thought you'd given up smoking, Paul,' Paniatowski said.

Cousins smiled sheepishly. ‘I
had
, ma'am,' he said, ‘but there's nothing like a couple of nasty murders for driving you back to the weed.'

Paniatowski watched the technicians at work for a moment, then said, ‘So what have you got for me, Sergeant?'

‘In most respects, this murder seems to be almost identical to the previous killing, ma'am,' Cousins replied. ‘For example, while Dr Shastri's not prepared to be definite about it until she's conducted a thorough examination, she
thinks
that the latest victim's been dead for about the same amount of time as the last victim was when we found him—'

‘But we didn't really
find
him at all, did we?' Paniatowski interrupted. ‘It's much more a case of us having been
led
to him. The killer dumped his first victim in a place he knew the kennel owner walked past every morning, and left his second where he knew Langley would be bound to come across it on his stroll. It's as if he doesn't just want them to be
found
– he wants them to be found
quickly
.'

‘Maybe it's more a case of him wanting them found
before the rigor wears off
,' Cousins suggested.

‘You may have a point,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘Go on with what you were saying.'

‘In each case, death was caused by the victim having his throat ripped out by some kind of steel claw,' Cousins said, ‘and both victims were – I assume – posed on their hands and knees until rigor set in. The only difference between the first and second killings is that there's no evidence of pre-mortem torture this time.'

‘And how do you explain the fact that the second victim wasn't tortured?' Paniatowski wondered.

‘I can't explain it,' Cousins admitted. ‘If we knew
why
the killer tortured the first one, we might be able to speculate on why he spared the second. But since we haven't got a clue what his motivation is . . .' He waved his hands helplessly in the air. ‘Well, we're a bit stuck for the moment, aren't we?'

‘We are indeed,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘What about the driving licence that was left in front of the body?'

‘That's another point of comparison for you,' Cousins said. ‘It belonged to the victim, just like the first one belonged to Adair.'

‘So who
is
the victim this time?'

‘A feller called Simon Stockwell. He's thirty-two years old – or, at least, he
was
thirty-two years old until sometime last night.'

‘Do we have any details, apart from name and age?'

‘We do,' Cousins said. ‘In fact, I'm amazed at the amount of stuff that Inspector Beresford's team has been able to come up with at this early stage in the investigation.' He took his notebook out of his pocket, and flicked it open. ‘Stockwell lived on the Pinchbeck Estate with his wife and three kids, and he was a painter and decorator by trade.'

Paniatowski looked over Cousins' shoulder at Sir William Langley's home. ‘Find out if Stockwell had ever done any work here,' she said.

‘Here?' Cousins repeated, as if he suspected he might have misheard. ‘At Ashton Court?'