Kate switched off the machine, and took out the tape.

  ‘If I were you, I’d get rid of that tape,’ Jane had said.

  It made sense, because although it wasn’t exactly a smoking gun, any halfway competent barrister could make it seem as if it was.

  She ran her finger around the edge of the tape.

  It would be so easy to get rid of it.

  She could burn it in the basement furnace.

  She could drop it in the canal.

  She could even unroll it and feed it through her shredder.

  It was the wise thing to do – the only safe thing. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to actually do it, because her police officer gut – so long dormant she had almost forgotten it was there – had come back to life and was telling her – was insisting – that destroying the tape would be a very bad idea.

  You’re wrong, she told the gut – but the gut would have none of it.

  Very well then, if she was not going to destroy it, what was she going to do with it?

  ‘It has to go in the secret drawer, you idiot!’ said an inner voice.

  The secret drawer! Another relic of her past she had almost forgotten about.

  She pressed the concealed button on her desk, and the drawer slid open. It was not a deep drawer – it would have been much too hard to disguise a deep one – but it was wide, and so much of the history Meadows had chosen to leave behind her was on display. She saw the royal charter, passed down through generations of Clifford’s family, and next to it the newspaper accounts of his death. There was the passbook to the Swiss bank account she had never used, and the ring which the Aga Khan had presented her with on her marriage. There was …

  There was a lot of stuff it was best to ignore. She placed the tape in the drawer and slid it closed.

  She stepped back. There was no indication that the drawer had been there, and it would take a real expert to locate it. The tape could remain hidden forever, if that was what she wanted.

  How long would it take the police to find her, she wondered.

  If the old team had been on the case, it wouldn’t have taken them more than a day to track down the woman with the huge purple wig.

  So what should she do – just sit there and wait?

  She picked up the phone, and dialled a number she had not used for years, but still knew by heart, and when the woman at the other end answered, she said, ‘It’s Kate, boss.’

  Boss?

  Boss!

  She’d never meant to say that!

  ‘This isn’t a social call, is it?’ Monika Paniatowski asked. ‘I can tell from the tone of your voice.’

  ‘No, it isn’t a social call,’ Kate agreed. ‘Can you spare me half an hour, boss?’

  ‘Well, of course I can,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘When and where?’

  ‘Now would be good. At your house, if that’s possible.’

  ‘Yes, that’s possible,’ said Paniatowski, sounding troubled.

  ‘Then I’m on my way,’ Meadows said, dropping the phone back on its cradle and heading for the door.

  NINE

  Kate Meadows and Monika Paniatowski sat facing each other across the table in Monika’s kitchen. Kate Meadows had a glass of water in front of her, and took small nervous sips from it, like a thirsty wild bird recklessly refreshing itself from a garden pond, yet always on the alert for the cat. Monika Paniatowski, in contrast, had a large glass of vodka in front of her, and had thus far taken at least three deep swallows.

  ‘So let me see if I’ve got this straight,’ Paniatowski said. ‘You broke all your own rules by going to a club so near to home, and the reason you let that happen was because you felt so much under stress.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why did you feel under such stress, Kate?’

  Meadows shrugged awkwardly. ‘I can’t exactly say. It was just that after the fight with Lofthouse at Overcroft House, my brain kept sending out messages that something was about to go badly wrong.’

  So you helped it along the way by doing precisely what you shouldn’t have done, Paniatowski thought.

  ‘What precisely did Lofthouse say to you in this Hellfire Club?’ she asked aloud.

  ‘He said I had two choices. Either I accepted that he was going to expose me to Overcroft’s board of governors, or we could go back to his house and discuss alternative arrangements.’

  ‘And you agreed to go with him.’

  ‘Yes, because the way I saw it, there was really no choice at all.’

  ‘How did you get there?’

  ‘He went in his car, and I went in mine.’

  ‘And were you still being Zelda?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what happened when you arrived?’

  ‘He tried to treat it like a date at first, but I wasn’t having any of that. I told him to come straight out with what he had on his mind.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Paniatowski sighed. ‘You came to me, you know,’ she said. ‘It was you who wanted to talk. It really shouldn’t be necessary for me to conduct an interrogation.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Meadows said. ‘It’s not easy to talk about it.’

  ‘No, but it still has to be said.’

  ‘He described a number of things he wanted us to do together, and I said I wouldn’t do them, even if that did mean he’d tell the board of governors all about me. And then I left.’

  ‘What was it he wanted you to do?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about that,’ Meadows said, looking down at the table.

  ‘I need to know,’ Paniatowski insisted.

  ‘It’s not important,’ Meadows exploded in a sudden burst of anger. ‘Move on.’

  ‘Did you see anybody else who might have recognized you in the club?’

  Meadows shook her head. ‘When I’m Zelda, even you wouldn’t recognize me.’

  ‘Did you see anyone who knew Zelda?’

  Another shake of the head. ‘The Hellfire is a third division sort of club. Zelda only ever plays in the first division. But I told the bouncer I was Zelda, and word will have got around, like it does when any celebrity visits a place.’

  She wasn’t boasting, Paniatowski thought. Zelda was famous – if that was the right word for it!

  ‘You’re in deep trouble,’ Paniatowski said. ‘But you already know that – which is why you’re here.’

  ‘Yes,’ Meadows admitted. ‘I had both the motive and the opportunity to kill him. In addition, there was a prior act of violence just a few hours earlier.’

  ‘There are police forces that would look no further for their murderer, but this isn’t one of them,’ Paniatowski said. ‘And you’re particularly lucky this week – although that’s perhaps not the best way to phrase it – because Louisa’s in charge. She won’t let her Auntie Kate be banged up for something she didn’t do. She’ll see to it that a proper investigation is carried out, and the right man tracked down.’

  ‘So you’re saying I should surrender myself at the police station?’ Meadows said, in a dull, flat voice.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Paniatowski replied, surprised that she even needed to ask.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ Meadows said determinedly.

  ‘What!’

  ‘I can’t do it. If I admit I was there, I’ll also be admitting I’m Zelda. And if I admit I’m Zelda, I’ll lose my job. And I can’t live without that job, Monika.’

  There were tears in Meadows’ eyes. It was the first time Paniatowski had seen her cry in all the years she’d known her.

  ‘So what are you planning to do instead? Just sit it out, and hope the investigating officers never learn that you were involved?’

  ‘I did think of that,’ Meadows admitted, ‘but it wouldn’t work, because I’ve left behind so many clues that even the most blundering detective in the world couldn’t miss them. And in a way, that proves my innocence, doesn’t it?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘Does it?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Yes, because if I’d been the killer, I’d have made sure I left no trace of myself behind.’

  ‘On the face of it, that sounds like a sound argument – but only on the face of it,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Over the years, we must have heard suspects make exactly that claim a couple of dozen times, and the fact that it’s you saying it rather than one of them doesn’t make it any more reasonable.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Meadows conceded, ‘and even if you weren’t, it would involve me admitting to going to the Hellfire Club, and I can’t do that. So it just has to be Plan B.’

  ‘And what’s Plan B?’

  ‘I have to find out who killed Andrew Lofthouse before the police find out I was ever involved.’

  ‘You mean we have to find out,’ Paniatowski said angrily. ‘You mean I have to break the law – turn my back on everything I’ve ever worked for – to get you off a hook that you’re only hanging on because of your own stupidity.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Meadows said, sounding both regretful and pained. ‘I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that.’ She stood up. ‘I should never have come here. Please forget I ever did.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Paniatowski said, as Meadows reached for the door handle. ‘You’ll never manage it on your own, you know.’

  Meadows nodded again. ‘I do know,’ she agreed, ‘but Plan B is all I have, and I’ve got to give it a try.’

  ‘Even the two of us couldn’t swing it,’ Paniatowski mused. ‘We’d need the full team to have even a slight chance.’

  ‘Colin Beresford would never—’ Meadows began.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Paniatowski interrupted her. ‘Colin just might.’ She forced a grin to her face. ‘He’s very fond of you, you know – in a can’t-stand-that-bloody-woman kind of way.’

  ‘I can’t ask him,’ Meadows said.

  ‘I know you can’t,’ Paniatowski agreed, ‘but I can. I can ask Jack Crane, too.’

  She ran her eyes up and down Meadows’ body. The woman looked shattered – and that was a first, too.

  ‘Would you like to stay the night?’ she suggested. ‘I can make you up a bed in Louisa’s old room.’

  ‘Chief Superintendent Rutter’s old room, you mean,’ Meadows said, and grinned weakly, to show she could still make a joke.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Rutter’s room,’ Paniatowski agreed.

  ‘I’d like to, but I can’t,’ Meadows said regretfully. ‘One of my clients left today, and that always unsettles the others. Besides, Lizzie Grimshaw’s expecting her baby any day now, and I need to be around when her water breaks.’

  And what happens if you’re in a police interrogation room when her waters break, Paniatowski thought – but she said nothing.

  ‘Here’s how it will work then,’ she said. ‘Be in the Drum and Monkey at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon …’

  ‘The Drum and Monkey!’ Meadows repeated, with something like wonder. ‘Are you sure it’s still there?’

  ‘It’s still there,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘I’ve walked past it several times.’

  And wished I was inside, doing what I did best, she added silently.

  ‘So we meet in the Drum—’ Meadows began.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Paniatowski interrupted her. ‘I said that’s where you should be.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘We may be there – which will mean that the whole team has decided to put its neck on the line for you. Or we may not be there.’

  ‘And if you’re not there, it means that I’m on my own, and you’re all keeping as far away from me as possible, to avoid even a hint of complicity.’

  ‘Yes,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘I’m sorry, but that is what it will mean.’

  For a moment, it looked as if Meadows was about to cry again, then she threw back her head and said, ‘That’s the way it has to be. I can see that. I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ She opened the door and stepped into the backyard. ‘So I’ll see you tomorrow – maybe.’

  ‘So you’ll see us tomorrow – maybe,’ Paniatowski agreed.

  TEN

  Thursday, 3 February, 2000

  Monika Paniatowski had never been a relaxed sleeper – those early years on the run through enemy territory had cured her of that habit – but some nights were worse than others, and the one that followed Kate Meadows’ visit was one of the worst in a very long time. All the usual dreams were there – the German soldiers (who were terrible); the Russian soldiers (who were even worse); her stepfather lying on top of her, his hot stinking breath on her face almost as bad as what he was doing down below; her one true love, Bob Rutter, driving over the cliff and plunging to his death. But that night there was something new – that night she had what, in a more whimsical mood, she might have called a Biblical blockbuster dream.

  She is in a park of some kind, and since she can see a number of olive trees, she guesses it is on the Mediterranean.

  She is not alone. A number of men dressed in robes are there, too.

  Twelve – she counts them and there are twelve.

  And suddenly, she knows where she is. This is the Garden of Gethsemane, and one of these men is Jesus Christ.

  She hears the heavy, regular footfalls of a number of men, drawing ever closer. Some of the men are holding flaming brands to light the way, and as they trot, the flames go up and down, continually changing the pattern of shadows by the side of the path.

  They are almost there, and she knows what she has to do. She steps forward. Jesus is standing with His back to her, but she taps him lightly on the shoulder, so He will turn around and she can deliver the kiss of betrayal.

  The flaming torches draw ever closer, and as Jesus turns, she can see that it is not Him at all, but a woman!

  And she knows her!

  It is Kate Meadows!

  No, it is Louisa!

  No, it is …

  Then the temple soldiers move in, enclosing their target, and though Monika implores them to let her through, they don’t listen.

  She has to see who it is she was about to kiss – about to betray – but she can’t, even when she stands on tiptoe.

  But she has to know – she has to.

  By the time she’d had two cups of coffee, and three Silk Cut cigarettes, she was starting to feel a little better. The weather helped. When she had gone to bed, thick clouds had shrouded the moon, but now the sky was almost a perfect blue, and the air (which she tested through the open window) was remarkably mild for early February.

  It was pointless to allow mere dreams to affect you, she told her herself. It was pointless, too, to deny that though she had woken up weighed down by a blanket of dread, that blanket had been overlaid – ever-so-lightly – with a dash of excitement at being back in the game.

  Monika Paniatowski was the proud owner of a white MG MGA Twin Cam sports’ car. It could accelerate from zero to sixty in nine point one seconds, and once she was behind the wheel, Paniatowski thought of herself as the queen of the road. It was also a gas-guzzling monster, especially at speed, but as she pulled out of her garage and listened to the eager roar of the engine, she knew it was worth every penny she spent on it.

  Paniatowski crossed Whitebridge and headed out along the Preston Road. The road was a dual carriageway, convenient for anyone wanting to get to Preston in the shortest possible time, but very boring for a woman driving an MGA, and the moment she had the opportunity, she turned on to a country lane, where it was possible to do some real driving.

  This was the second MGA she had owned. The first had been back in the olden days, when the only mobile phones you saw belonged to Captain Kirk and Mr Spock on Star Trek, and when DNA, while an interesting curiosity, was still a long way from being of any use in police work. The car had been her pride and joy, and she had only sold it (with a great many sighs and not a few tears) for practical reasons, when she gave birth to the twins.

  She had bought the new one when she retired (though new was scarcely the right word for it, since the last one made had rolled off the production line in 1962).

  This one required considerably more effort to keep it roadworthy than the previous one had, partly because most of the mechanics who understood the intricacies of its engine were either retired or working in the Great Garage in the Sky. Thus, Paniatowski had been forced to enrol in an enthusiast’s course – Mechanics for MGAheads – in order to be able to do some of the work herself, and had been surprised to discover that she quite enjoyed it.

  Parts were also a problem. However careful a driver you were – and Paniatowski had never been one of those – parts did tend to get worn out after more than forty years of use. New parts were no longer being made, so replacements could only be obtained by cannibalizing one of the 5869 other MGAs which had been sold in Britain – and these sad old wrecks might be rusting away anywhere from a scrap yard in southern Cornwall to a decaying barn in northern Scotland.

  Paniatowski did not mind the hassle. After so many years of dealing with the tangled mess which people (including herself) had managed to make of their lives, she thought, it was a relief to have nothing more to worry about than the engine misfiring or the carburettor getting blocked.

  Dealing with the tangled messes which people had managed to make of their lives! she repeated to herself.

  She really thought she’d left all that behind her, yet here was a new one – and, like the MGA, it was a real classic.

  To protect Kate, she – and the rest of the old team – would have to break the law (or ignore it, which, in practical terms, was just as bad) and that was almost unthinkable. To protect Kate, she would be forced to indulge in some actions which might very well undermine her own daughter. And that was unthinkable too. Yet after the way that Kate had supported her all these years, it was equally unthinkable to simply throw her to the wolves.

  It was a relief – or at least a distraction – to turn off the country lane on to a dirt track which had the MGA bouncing up and down and releasing mechanical howls of pain.