The Witch Maker (12 page)

‘So you're sayin' I know who murdered Dawkins, are you?' Thwaites demanded hotly.

‘No,' Woodend told him. ‘All I am sayin' is that you're pretty sure it was somebody from Hallerton.'

Thwaites' chin quivered slightly. ‘I want to talk to a Police Federation lawyer,' he said.

‘I wouldn't, if I was you,' Woodend advised him.

‘Why? Because you're afraid it'll get you into trouble?'

Woodend smiled disconcertingly. ‘Nay, lad. Not me. You! It'll get
you
in trouble.'

‘I have the legal right to—'

‘We're not talkin' about legal rights here. It's nothin' at all to do with the law. The reason I wouldn't do it if I was in your shoes is because
the village
wouldn't like you bringin' in yet another bugger from outside!'

Thwaites said nothing, but it was clear from the defeated expression which came to his face that the argument had squarely hit its target.

‘Somethin' else you forgot to mention was the suicides,' Woodend said. ‘Now why was that?'

‘They have nothin' to do with the murder.'

‘Know that for a fact? Because if you do, you'll also know
why
those two women killed themselves, won't you?'

‘Nobody can ever really know what goes on in the mind of somebody who takes their own life,' Thwaites said defensively.

‘But you
think
you know, don't you? You think you've at least got an
inkling
?'

‘No,' Thwaites said unconvincingly.

Woodend suddenly stood up – so violently that his chair toppled over and crashed to the floor behind him.

‘I don't like frightenin' the men who serve under me,' he said. ‘I don't like it at all – but I'll do it if I have to. An'
when
I do it, I make a pretty good job of it. You're frightened of me right now, aren't you, Thwaites?'

‘I ...'

‘The problem is, there's somethin' that's frightenin' you even more. But this I promise you, Constable – once I find out what that somethin'
is
, you're finished in the Mid Lancs Police.'

The Chief Inspector turned and left the police house office, slamming the door behind him as he went.

For perhaps two minutes after he'd gone, Constable Thwaites sat there doing all he could to bring his trembling under control. Then he stood up on shaky legs and reached for his keys. He didn't want to go out – didn't want to leave the cosy safety of the police house. But there was no choice in the matter, because Tom Dimdyke needed to be told what was going on – and needed to be told
quickl
y.

F
rom the outside, the caravan had looked like an attractive prospect for someone – say a female detective sergeant – who suddenly decided to jack her career in and take to the open road. Once inside, Paniatowski quickly changed her view about it as a potential permanent home. She didn't like the metal walls, which clanged every time she inadvertently touched them with her elbows. She didn't like the fact that everything so obviously had to be in the place assigned to it, otherwise there would be no room to move. And she was not entirely happy about sitting on a bed, with only a fold-down table between her and Ben Masters.

Masters was around fifty-five, she guessed. He had the tanned skin of a man used to working outdoors, and the yellowing teeth of a man who had never availed himself of the facilities offered by the National Health Service. Two of his fingers were stained permanently brown by nicotine, and the bloodshot lining in the whites of his eyes bore testament to the fact that he liked a more-than-occasional drink. He wore a battered trilby hat on his head, and had a discoloured kerchief tied in a sloppy knot around his neck. He was not, Paniatowski thought, someone she would be delighted to be set up with on a blind date – though from the way
he
looked at
her
it seemed that he wouldn't have minded at all.

‘So why are you here?' Masters asked, giving her what he probably considered to be an engaging smile.

‘I told you that when we first met, Mr Masters. I'm Detective Sergeant Paniatowski and—'

‘What I mean is, why has your boss sent a young woman like you, instead of coming here himself?'

Because I
am
a young woman, Paniatowski thought. Because Cloggin'-it Charlie thinks that fairground folk – who instinctively distrust the law – are more likely to talk freely to me than they would to him.

But aloud, she said, ‘How do you know I've even got a boss?'

‘I know you've got a boss because, as far as I can recall, detective sergeant isn't anywhere near the top rank in the rozzers.'

‘What I mean is, how do you know I've got a boss
here in Hallerton
? How do you know I'm not in charge of this investigation?'

Masters flashed his teeth again. ‘Except when we're doing business with it, we like to keep ourselves apart from the outside world. It's like water and oil, you see – we just don't mix well together. But that's not the same as saying we don't know what's going on out there.'

‘I think I'm beginning to see that,' Paniatowski said.

Masters ran his eyes over Paniatowski's charcoal-grey jacket and skirt, but the lust he had made such a show of earlier seemed to be strangely absent from this new examination.

‘Nice outfit you've got on,' he said. ‘But it's deceptive.'

‘Is it?'

‘Yes. What you should really be wearing is a figure-hugging costume and sparkling tights.'

‘And why's that?'

‘Because you're not the star performer. That job's been given to the big bugger in the tweed jacket who came up from Whitebridge with you. You, my dear, are what we in the trade call “the beautiful assistant”.'

He was playing a game – or perhaps a
series
of games – Paniatowski suddenly realized. He'd been doing it from the moment they entered the caravan.

First, he'd tried to intimidate her by pretending to fancy her. Now he'd changed gear, and was attempting to make her feel worthless. Well, if push came to shove, she was not a bad games' player herself.

‘You must know all about the trade – and the
tricks
of the trade – because you've been with this funfair for a long time, haven't you?' she said.

A hint of caution crept across Masters' face, as if he understood that she was on to him.

‘That's right,' he agreed. ‘I've been with the fairground a
very
long time. Man and boy. I've been running it myself for the last fifteen years, and my old dad – may he rest in peace – ran it before me.'

‘And this
is
the funfair which was here, on this same site, for the last Witch Burning?'

‘Might have been,' Masters said reluctantly. ‘Difficult to remember something like that, don't you think? We go to a lot of places up and down the country – and twenty years is a long time.'

‘Where did the figure of twenty years come from?' Paniatowski asked innocently.

‘You said—'

‘No, I didn't. I took great care not to.'

Masters smiled again, and a hint of grudging respect was starting to creep into his expression.

‘You've got more about you than most of the beautiful assistants have,' he conceded. ‘I seem to recall, now I put my mind to it, that we
were
here at the last Witch Burning.'

‘And do you also recall that one of your workers – a man called Stan Dawkins – was killed while you were here?'

‘Is
this
where Stan died?' Masters asked. ‘I suppose it could have been, now you mention it.'

‘Let's stop sniffing round each other's backsides to see what it smells like, shall we?' Paniatowski suggested. ‘I know that you can help me if you really want to. And you know that, if I went looking for them, I could easily find enough breaches of the health and safety regulations to close this place down.'

Masters shook his head admiringly. ‘You don't pull your punches, do you?' he asked. ‘You'd make a first-class barker at one of our sideshows. Let me know if you ever consider changing careers.'

‘Tell me about Dawkins,' Paniatowski said.

‘What's to tell?'

‘I don't know. That's why I'm asking.'

‘He was raised in a children's home. In Southampton, I think. We get a lot of orphans working in our business.'

‘Why's that?'

‘Maybe it's because they want to taste a bit of freedom after years of being cooped up in an institution.'

‘Or maybe it's because most of them have very little training, and have to take work where they can get it,' Paniatowski suggested.

Masters chuckled. ‘Oh, you're a hard one, all right.'

‘So Stan Dawkins didn't have any family?'

‘None that I know of.'

‘But he must have had friends.'

‘Not that I can remember.'

‘That Big Wheel really
doesn't
look very safe to me.'

‘It's not even properly up yet!'

‘It still doesn't look safe. And I've got my doubts about the bumper cars as well.'

‘I'm telling you the truth,' Masters protested. ‘Carnival folk are very clannish. Dawkins might have made mates – given time – but he wasn't with us long enough for that. He'd only been working here a few weeks when he was killed. Believe me!'

Paniatowski smiled charmingly. ‘I'm not sure I'd believe you if you were on fire and said you were feeling quite hot.' She paused. ‘What can you tell me about the night of the murder?'

‘Nothing! Really!'

‘I find that hard to believe.'

‘What do you think happens when the fairground closes down for the night?' Masters asked.

‘Everyone has a cup of tea, says their prayers, and then is tucked up in bed by the Bearded Lady?' Paniatowski asked facetiously.

Masters threw back his head, and laughed with what seemed like genuine amusement.

‘Not exactly,' he said. ‘It's bloody hard work running the attractions, and when they've finished, the lads want to wind down a bit. So what they do is, they go to one of the caravans and crack open a bottle of whisky.'

‘And Dawkins did this?'

‘Usually.'

‘I thought you said he didn't have any friends.'

‘You don't have to be bosom buddies to get drunk together. We depend on each other on the fairground. It's us against the world. So even if we're not all exactly friends, we're certainly comrades.'

‘I see,' Paniatowski said. ‘I take it, from what you've already implied, that Dawkins wasn't in the “drinking” caravan that night?'

‘Correct. Nobody saw him from the time the fair closed down for the night till the time my dad, as the boss of the place, was called in by the police to identify the body.'

‘The villagers thought someone from the carnival killed him.'

‘They would!'

‘Well, you can't really blame them, can you? I mean, it does seem the most likely explanation, doesn't it?'

Masters' fists clenched, and his face darkened, ‘Of course it does!' he said angrily. ‘More than likely! Almost a dead cert, in point of fact. You can't trust any of these carnival people, can you? They're all thugs and robbers. It's well known. Well, let me tell you something, Detective Sergeant Paniatowski, we've got our share of villains working on the fairground – but it's no bigger a share than you'll find on the outside.'

Paniatowski chuckled. ‘I got right up your nose, didn't I?' she asked. ‘I never thought I'd be able to, but I did.'

Masters hesitated for a moment, then joined in her amusement. ‘You're all right, Sergeant,' he said. ‘And like I told you – any time you want a job on the fairground, just come and see me.'

‘So what do you think
did
happen?' Paniatowski asked, growing more serious.

‘I honestly don't know.' Masters admitted. He fell silent for a moment, as if considering all his options. ‘But I suppose I could make a good guess, if you wanted me to.'

‘Feel free.'

‘Where are you from, Sergeant?'

‘Whitebridge.'

‘Big town. Lots going on. But imagine if you'd spent your girlhood in a place like this. Doesn't bear thinking about, does it? It's so boring that even pulling your own head off could pass for entertainment. And the only lads these girls get to know are yokels who suck on straws and smell of cow shit. Then the girls come to the fair. That, on its own, is more fun than they normally get from one year's end to the next. But as a bonus, there's the lads who work on the attractions. They may not hold much glamour for a city girl like you, but to these lasses they're as exotic as the Sheikh of Araby.'

‘You're saying that the local girls make a play for your lads?'

‘It happens all the time. And our lads are only human. They know they'll be gone the next day or the day after, so what harm is there in grabbing a bit of pleasure while they can? You see where I'm going with this?'

‘Yes, I think I do,' Paniatowski admitted. ‘But I'd still like you to spell it out for me.'

‘It's my guess that Dawkins hit it off with one of the local girls when she was at the fair, and arranged to meet her later. That's why he didn't join the rest of the lads in the drinking caravan. Anyway, he goes to the village, and after he's got what he went for – or even
before
he gets it – he runs into some of the local hayseeds. They know why he's there – and they don't like it. So they decide that they're going to teach him a lesson he'll never forget. Only they go too far, and they kill him. It's as simple as that.'

‘Did you mention this theory of yours to the police at the time?'