The Ring of Death (20 page)

‘Careful, Monika,' Forsyth urged.

‘Good,' Forsyth nodded approvingly. ‘Very good.'

‘Do you actually
have
a question, Mr Jenkins?' Paniatowski asked, her patience starting to wear thin.

‘It matters how you answer this, Monika,' Forsyth said, almost in a whisper. ‘It's really important.'

Paniatowski hesitated. ‘At this stage in the investigation, we're not prepared to rule
anything
out,' she said finally.

‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,' Forsyth said, disappointedly.

‘You
are
a silly girl, Monika,' he said. ‘And
because
you're a silly girl, I'm going to have to do something I was really hoping to avoid.'

He picked up the telephone, and dialled a number he had only recently memorized.

‘Whitebridge Police Headquarters,' said the switchboard operator. ‘Can I help you?'

‘What a pleasant manner you have about you, young lady,' Forsyth replied. ‘It's almost worth ringing up just to hear your voice.'

‘Why, thank you,' the switchboard operator said, obviously delighted. Then she remembered what she was there for, and continued, ‘What is the nature of your business, sir?'

‘I'd like to speak to Detective Inspector Walker, if that's possible,' Forsyth said.

‘Is it urgent?' the operator asked.

‘Well, no, it's not exactly urgent,' Forsyth admitted. ‘But it
is
quite important.'

Looking out of the picture window of her well-appointed detached home in one of the most salubrious areas of Whitebridge, Mary Dunston was amazed to see her husband's car pulling into the driveway.

Edward
never
came home in the middle of the afternoon.

‘It's the best time of the day to do business,' he always told her. ‘When the clients come to see me, they've already had a heavy lunch and probably the best part of a bottle of wine. The food's making them sleepy, and the alcohol's convinced them they're the sharpest operator in the whole of Whitebridge. So I can run rings round them, and they don't even know it's happening.'

Yet there he was, getting out of his car,
in the middle of the afternoon
.

And didn't he look pale?

She went out to the hallway to meet him.

‘Is something wrong, Edward?' she asked, worriedly. ‘Has your mother been taken ill?'

Dunston brushed past as if she wasn't even there, and started to climb the stairs.

‘Edward!' she called after him.

‘I have to go away,' he said, over his shoulder. ‘It's business – urgent business.'

She followed him up the stairs, and by the time she reached the bedroom he was already throwing clothes haphazardly into a suitcase.

‘What's happened?' she asked, almost in tears by now.

‘For God's sake, woman, have you gone deaf?' Dunston asked, harshly. ‘I said, I have to go away.'

The phone on the bedside cabinet rang, making them both jump.

‘Well, answer it,' Dunston said, continuing to cram the suitcase with his clothes.

Mary picked up the phone. ‘Yes?' she asked in a sniffly voice. ‘Yes, he is. I'll tell him.' She held the phone to her husband. ‘It's for you.'

‘I can't talk to anybody at the moment,' Dunston said dismissively. ‘Take his number and say I'll call him back.'

‘But he says it's very important. He says to tell you that it's about Moors' End Farm.'

Dunston snatched the phone from his wife's hand.

‘Out!' he said to her.

Mary Dunston gasped with amazement.

‘I'm sorry, Edward,' she said, in as dignified a tone as she could muster, ‘but I'm not sure that I quite see what you expect me to—'

‘Can't you understand plain simple English, you stupid bitch?' Dunston asked viciously. ‘I told you to get out! Now bloody
do it
!'

With a sob, Mary Dunston fled from the room.

The man on the other end of the line chuckled. ‘Have I just been inadvertently eavesdroppin' on a bit of a domestic disturbance, Edward?' he asked.

‘I—' Dunston began.

‘Plannin' to do a runner, are you?' the caller interrupted him. ‘Now that really wouldn't be too clever at all – not when they're watchin' the house.'

‘Who's . . . who's watching the house?' Dunston asked, with a tremor in his voice.

‘The people who did for Andy Adair an' Simon Stockwell, o' course. See, Eddie, if you do a runner, they'll just follow you, an' as soon as they get their opportunity, they'll slit your throat. So your best move is to stay where you are, 'cos they can't snatch you without your missus seein' them – an' since they've got nothin' against her, they don't want to hurt her unless they absolutely have to. Course, if you stay there
too
long, they might decide they'll just have to pop her as well. That's why you need a Plan B.'

‘Who are you?' Dunston gasped.

‘Who am I? I'm the bloke who's goin' to save your bacon. Only it's goin' to cost you. How much cash have you got in the house?'

‘I don't know. I have to think. There's probably around two hundred pounds in the safe.'

‘Not enough,' the caller said dismissively. ‘What's your wife's jewellery like? Good stuff?'

‘Well, yes, it's . . .'

‘I'll need that as well.'

‘How do I know I can trust you?' Dunston whined.

The man at the other end of the line sighed heavily.

‘Look,' he said, ‘I can only get away with doin' this once, then for my own safety I'll have to make
myself
scarce. So if you don't want my help, I'll call somebody else on their list. I could try Len Gutterridge, for example. Course, he probably couldn't pay me as much as you could, but since you're clearly not interested . . .'

‘Don't hang up!' Dunston pleaded. ‘I
am
interested. I
do
want your help.'

‘In that case, get all the valuables that you can together, and wait for my next call.'

‘
When
will you call?' Dunston asked desperately.

‘I can't say for certain, Eddie. But it will have to be within the next few hours, won't it? Because if I leave it any longer than that, you'll already be dead when I get there!'

Mr Forsyth had only been in possession of the office he'd commandeered for himself in Whitebridge Police Headquarters for a few hours, but it had already undergone some small – but significant – changes.

The desk had been moved, Paniatowski noted, so that now the person behind it sat with his back to the wall, rather than to the window.

An expensive-looking map of the British Empire in the nineteenth century had been mounted on the wall.

And then, of course, there was the photograph in the silver frame!

In the centre of the picture stood a tall white-haired woman, dressed in a sensible tweed suit, and with a string of pearls slung casually around her neck. She looked perfectly content with life, and the source of that contentment was clearly the two children – a dark-haired boy and a blonde girl – who were standing just in front of her, and had her hands resting comfortably on their young heads. In the foreground was a short stretch of immaculate lawn, and behind the woman's head was a mature oak tree.

It was the positioning of the picture which gave the game away, Paniatowski thought. It had been placed so the visitor could see it as clearly as the man behind the desk could – and what that visitor was meant to think was that this was a photograph of Forsyth's wife and grandchildren.

But it wasn't. She was sure of that.

So why was Forsyth making such a display of these people he had possibly never even met?

She didn't know.

She would perhaps
never
know.

But she still recognized the picture as nothing more than a prop in the elaborate game he was playing – a game whose rules she didn't understand and had no desire to learn.

Forsyth smiled up at her. ‘The reason I summoned you here this afternoon, Monika—' he began.

‘You
didn't
summon me,' Paniatowski interrupted. ‘I can only be
summoned
by people I work for – and I don't work for you.'

‘No, you don't,' Forsyth agreed easily. ‘But you
do
work for people who are prepared to sub-contract you to me – with all that entails.'

‘Just who are we talking about here?' Paniatowski demanded. ‘The chief constable?'

Forsyth laughed lightly. ‘Oh no, my dear. It goes
much
higher up the ladder than Mr Baxter.'

‘So I'm to be your errand girl?'

‘If you choose to see yourself in that light, it's entirely up to you. I would prefer to think of us as two people who are collaborating in the interest of the common good.'

‘Yeah, right,' Paniatowski said wearily. ‘So what is it you want?'

‘I thought I'd already explained that adequately enough. I want you to give me a detailed report on the progress of your investigation into the murder of Andrew Adair.'

‘And on my progress in the investigation into the murder of Simon Stockwell?'

‘Yes, that too, I suppose – but only in so far as it overlaps with the Adair investigation.'

‘In other words, you're not really at all interested in who killed Simon Stockwell?'

‘You could say that.'

‘Which means, by logical extension, that you're not really interested in finding out who killed
Adair
, either.'

‘Andy Adair was a soldier who served his country faithfully and honourably, so naturally I wish to see his killer brought to justice,' Forsyth said, with a hint of rebuke in his tone.

Paniatowski shook her head. ‘Faithfully and honourably,' she repeated. ‘That's just
words
. The truth is that you don't
really
give a shit whether I find the killer or not.'

‘I think you're being rather harsh again,' Forsyth said.

‘Let's cut through all the crap,' Paniatowski suggested. ‘You want a briefing on the investigation, and I'm prepared to give it to you – but I want something in return.'

Forsyth frowned. ‘What you fail to grasp is that you're in no position to make conditions, my dear,' he said.

‘And what
you
fail to grasp is that you can only push me so far, and then I'll dig my heels in and will not be moved another inch – whatever it costs me.'

‘How like your old boss, Charlie Woodend, you're starting to sound,' Forsyth said.

‘Yes, I've been working on it,' Paniatowski countered. ‘And before we go any further, there's one other matter we should get cleared up.'

‘Yes?'

‘I'd prefer it if you addressed me by my official title, which is Detective Chief Inspector Paniatowski, but I'm prepared to tolerate you calling me Monika, if you must. What I will
not
tolerate is being addressed as “my dear”. That's the way creepy old men with bags of sweets in their sweaty hands address gym-slipped schoolgirls in the park – and I'm no gym-slipped schoolgirl.'

‘But I'm a creepy old man with a bag of sweets?' Forsyth asked, with the slightest hint of anger in his voice.

‘If you choose to see yourself in that light, it's entirely up to you,' Paniatowski said, mockingly flinging his own words back at him.

Forsyth sighed. ‘What is it that you want in return for graciously agreeing to brief me?'

‘I want you to get your people to do a comprehensive background check on Sir William Langley. And I mean
comprehensive
. I want information I couldn't get myself, even with a search warrant.'

‘I see,' Forsyth said. ‘And in return for my doing that, I'll get your full cooperation?'

‘Yes,' Paniatowski agreed, perhaps a little too readily.

‘I want to be quite clear on this – I'll get your full and
unqualified
cooperation?' Forsyth pressed.

‘As far as is possible,' Paniatowski said.

‘And what does that neat little twisting of “full and unqualified” mean, exactly?' Forsyth wondered.

‘It means that if I find out that you're attempting to pervert the course of justice, then all bets are off.'