‘Yeah, well, I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, but my dad was the meanest son of a bitch who ever drew breath,’ Freddie said.

  Yes, that was a pretty fair description of the man, Beresford thought.

  Bazza Bairstow had been a big feller – bigger even than his son. When he had worked, he’d been a builder’s labourer, but working was a habit he’d done his best to avoid, and he’d spent most of his time either in the pubs or competing in bare-knuckle fights on the nearest convenient patch of waste ground.

  He’d had one other hobby, too, which he practised when the pubs had closed for the night, and that involved beating the crap out of his mouse of a wife.

  Wife beating had been quite common on Inkerman Street back in those days – so common, in fact, that most people (including the victims) hardly gave it a second thought. If they’d been asked their opinion – which they never were – they’d probably have said that it had always gone on, and would always go on. The only three things that were inevitable in life were death, taxes and wife beating – and if you were a crafty bastard, you could avoid paying the taxes.

  What had made Bazza Bairstow’s particular enactment of this ancient rite noteworthy was its viciousness. His attacks on his wife could be so savage that even men who took their belts to their own wives had been moved to call in the police.

  ‘There was this one time you got tired of coming round,’ Freddie Bairstow said to Beresford. ‘Do you remember?’

  It wasn’t so much I was tired of it as that I couldn’t take the poor woman’s suffering any more, Beresford thought.

  But aloud, he said, ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘You told my dad that he’d better stop leathering my mam or else you’d do something about it, and when he asked you what, you told him you’d teach him a lesson by giving him a taste of his own medicine.’

  ‘Oh yeah? And how many other bobbies will you bring with you to teach me this lesson of yours?’ Bazza had sneered. ‘If I was you, I’d make sure it was five or six, or you could end up being the one that gets leathered.’

  He’d have had no difficulty in getting half a dozen other constables to come with him, Beresford had thought. If anything, there’d have been so many willing volunteers that he’d have had to hold a raffle to decide which lucky bobbies got the opportunity to see how well Bairstow’s teeth stood up against their boots. But men like Bazza thrived on pain, and for them there was no shame in getting beaten up by half a dozen boys in blue. If anything, the battered and bloody Bazza would be seen as a hero, even among the men who had formerly despised him for the way he treated his wife.

  ‘I’ve no need to bring any other officers with me,’ Beresford had told the bully. ‘I can deal with a bag of piss and wind like you on my own.’

  He’d sounded confident, but that had been mainly bravado, because Bairstow really was a big, hard feller, and even when they’d been squaring up to each other in the back yard, Beresford had only given himself a forty per cent chance of winning.

  ‘I’d never seen anything like that before,’ Freddie Bairstow said, wonderingly. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it since, for that matter.’

  And you shouldn’t have seen it then, Beresford thought, because it was not something a policeman should ever have done – but every time I looked at that poor woman, I felt as if my heart would burst with pity.

  ‘You gave him a really good battering, didn’t you?’ Freddie Bairstow asked, the admiration in his voice obvious.

  Better than good – or maybe worse than it – Beresford thought. If I’d had even half an ounce less of self-discipline, I’d have not stopped until I’d killed the bastard stone dead.

  ‘And while he was lying there by the bin, you told him that if he ever raised his hand to my mam again, you’d come back for an encore – only next time, you’d do it in the open, where the whole street could see it,’ Freddie Bairstow said.

  ‘And did he raise his hand to her again?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘Not as long as you were on that beat,’ Freddie told him. ‘He did start again once you’d been transferred, but it was never as bad as it had been, because he was frightened of marking her, and you getting to hear about it. And every time he’d given her a belting, he’d buy us all fish and chips, which he’d never done before.’

  ‘So I did make some difference,’ Beresford reflected.

  ‘You made a lot of difference, and my mam was grateful to you until the day she died.’

  ‘And how about you?’ Beresford wondered. ‘Are you grateful enough to answer some of my questions?’

  Freddie Bairstow grinned. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  ‘Ask me anything you want to know, Mr Beresford,’ he said, ‘and if I don’t know the answer myself, I’ll do my best to beat it out of somebody else.’

  ‘Let’s start with Zelda,’ Beresford suggested. ‘She was here the other night, wasn’t she?’

  Freddie Bairstow’s grin widened. ‘Do you know Zelda, Mr Beresford? Well, well, well, I am surprised. I always thought you were a straight in-and-out man.’

  Beresford almost blushed. He’d never been as crude as that in his approach to women.

  Had he?

  ‘Just answer the questions and keep your wisecracks to yourself,’ he said sternly.

  ‘Oh, sorry Mr Beresford,’ the bouncer replied. ‘Yes, she was here.’

  ‘She came alone, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘But did she also leave alone?’

  ‘No, she left with a man.’

  Well, at least Meadows’ story checked out so far.

  ‘Did you recognize this man?’ Beresford asked.

  For a moment, Freddie seemed confused by the question, then he said, ‘Do you mean, had I seen him before? Or do you mean, do I know who he was?’

  ‘I meant both those things.’

  ‘I’d seen him plenty of times before, but I couldn’t tell you his name, because like a lot of the punters, he always wore a mask.’

  Well, that shot down Meadows’ theory that a man couldn’t be both a wife beater and a sadomasochist, because Lofthouse was obviously both, Beresford thought, perhaps a little smugly.

  ‘Did he usually come alone?’ he asked.

  ‘No, apart from last night, he always brought a woman with him.’

  ‘The same woman?’

  ‘No, some nights it was one woman, and other nights it was the other.’

  ‘But only ever one of two women?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I suppose you can’t tell me who they were, either.’

  ‘I’ve got no clue about the younger, prettier one …’

  ‘So she wasn’t wearing a mask?’

  ‘Yes, she was.’

  ‘So how do you know she was pretty?’

  ‘Well, you can somehow always tell, can’t you? And she had a nice body, too.’

  ‘So you don’t know who she is, but you recognized the other one?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘So she wasn’t wearing a mask?’

  ‘She was wearing a mask, too, but she had a voice you couldn’t miss – it was a bit posh, like she had a plum in her mouth, and a bit screechy, like an angry owl.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to do?’ Beresford wondered. ‘Stop every woman I meet to find out if she talks with a plum in her mouth and screeches like an angry owl?’

  Freddie grinned again. ‘Nah, you can’t go doing that Mr Beresford! It would take you forever.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking.’

  ‘And as it happens, there’s no need for any of that palaver, because, as it happens, I came across the woman somewhere else.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the magistrates’ court.’

  ‘So what was she – a shoplifter?’

  Freddie’s grin broadened. ‘No, she’s as far from that as she possibly could be.’

  ‘You’re surely not trying to tell me she’s a bank robber?’

  ‘You’re going in the wrong direction, Mr Beresford.’

  Beresford sighed. ‘This is harder work than pulling teeth,’ he said. ‘Are you going to tell me what she was doing there or not?’

  ‘My cousin Billy was caught in the act of selling half a dozen microwave ovens he didn’t exactly own—’

  ‘You mean, he stole them,’ Beresford interrupted.

  ‘Not him,’ said Freddie, sounding offended. ‘Somebody else stole them – he was just the innocent party who was helping to recirculate them. Anyway, he was hauled up before the beak, and I went along to give him moral support. Well, he told the magistrates that he now realized he’d done wrong, and they went into a huddle – as they do – to decide his fate, and it was just after that I heard the owl woman speak.’

  ‘And what did she say?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘She said, “We’re prepared to give you another chance. On this occasion, we’re fining you one thousand pounds, but if you offend again, you’ll almost certainly go to prison.”’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Beresford said. ‘Are you telling me that the owl woman was one of the magistrates?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Freddie Bairstow agreed. ‘Takes all sorts to make a world, don’t it?’

  But was it all true? Beresford wondered. In fact was any of it true? Well, he could certainly check out the veracity of the first part of the story then and there.

  ‘So you say you don’t know the man’s name?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right, Mr Beresford.’

  ‘His name is – or, more accurately, was – Andrew Lofthouse.’

  For a moment, the name seemed to mean nothing to Freddie. Then a look of shock – which Beresford was convinced couldn’t have been faked – spread across Freddie’s face.

  ‘Andrew … Lofthouse …’ the bouncer spluttered. ‘But isn’t the man who … who …’

  ‘Got murdered a few hours after he left the club?’ Beresford supplied. ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘And that was the night Zelda left the club with him!’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Bloody hell, things aren’t looking too rosy for her, are they?’ Freddie asked.

  No, Beresford admitted gloomily – they weren’t.

  The longer the evening briefing went on, the more despondent DS Boyd felt. He had worked on other investigations which had not made as much progress as might have been expected, but with them there had always been the hope that tomorrow would bring with it the big break – the vital clue that would crack the case open. At this briefing, no one felt optimistic. The investigation lacked life. It lacked purpose. It was going through the motions, but that was all.

  ‘We have more information about vehicle movement on the night of the murder,’ DCI Dawson was telling the team. ‘Previously we only knew about two cars. They arrived together, at about ten o’clock, and one of them left again around midnight, at which time, according to the doctor, Lofthouse was still alive. Now we’ve found a new witness who claims there was a third car.’ He turned to Boyd. ‘Could you give us the details, sergeant?’

  ‘The witness, a Mrs Crabtree, a widow, lives about three hundred yards from Lofthouse’s,’ Boyd said. ‘She went to bed at eleven o’clock, but had difficulty sleeping. She says she woke up several times during the night. On one of those occasions, she heard a car pull up just along the road. She thinks that was at about twelve thirty. Then at one thirty, she heard a car drive away. All the neighbours say it wasn’t them, so the chances are, our killer was in this third car.’

  ‘Of course, it could simply have been the second car returning, in which case it doesn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know,’ Dawson said. ‘Also, I’m not sure how much we can rely on this Mrs Crabtree.’ He chuckled. ‘My wife often claims not to have had a wink of sleep all night, yet when I’ve got up to go to the bog, she’s been snoring like a pig.’

  Why – in God’s name – was he doing this? Boyd thought anguishedly. The new information should have been used as a spur to urge the investigation forward, not as an indication of just how hopeless the whole situation was.

  ‘There’s one more thing before you go,’ Dawson said. ‘The SOCOs have found a hook set into the bedroom ceiling, and on that hook were strands of rope which – according to the lab – match the rope that was used on Lofthouse.’

  Why wasn’t I told about this before? Boyd thought. I’m his bagman. He should have briefed me.

  ‘Now I, for one, have no idea what this means,’ Dawson continued. He laughed again. ‘I’m assuming that Lofthouse wasn’t carrying out executions in his bedroom, so …’

  ‘It’s got to be auto-erotic strangulation, sir,’ Boyd said. ‘It’s the only possible explanation.’

  Dawson looked far from pleased at being interrupted. ‘I’ve noticed that about you, sergeant,’ he said.

  ‘Noticed what, sir?’

  ‘That as soon as you’ve formed an opinion, it automatically becomes the absolute truth as far as you’re concerned. The noose could suggest auto-erotic strangulation, but there could be any number of other explanations for its presence. I suggest you sleep on it, and see just how likely your theory looks in the cold light of day.’

  ‘There’s obviously more to be found in the house, sir,’ Boyd said, choosing to ignore the insult. ‘We need more men there.’

  ‘I disagree,’ Dawson replied. ‘O’Casey and Mason are best left to work alone.’

  ‘With respect, sir, you’re wrong,’

  ‘Am I, indeed?’ Dawson asked, and though there was a large clock on the wall in front of him, he checked his watch. ‘That’s all for today, people,’ he continued. ‘I want you back here at seven thirty sharp in the morning.’

  As the team started to head for the door, Dawson said, ‘Not, you, DS Boyd. I’d like a word with you.’

  Which was just his way of signalling to the rest of the officers that he was about to give his bagman a real bollocking, Boyd thought.

  When they had the room to themselves, Dawson said, ‘You will not contradict me in public, Sergeant Boyd.’

  Boyd was well aware of what was expected of him. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I know that was wrong of me,’ he said, and though he knew he should have left it there, he heard himself continue, ‘the problem was that you were in danger of shifting the team’s focus in the wrong direction, and once that’s happened, it’s very hard to get them on track again.’

  ‘Let me be perfectly clear on this,’ Dawson said angrily. ‘I set the focus of this investigation, not you. And if you can’t live with that, you should request a transfer. I have to tell you that I certainly wouldn’t oppose such a move. So what’s it to be?’

  It would be a relief to be taken off the case, Boyd thought, but the big drawback would be that it would leave Dawson in sole charge – and that couldn’t be allowed to happen. So if the price of staying on the investigation was to eat some humble pie, he was prepared to do it – a whole bakery full, if necessary.

  ‘It’s your case, sir. I fully accept that,’ he said.

  ‘And so you’re willing to follow my lead without further argument?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Boyd agreed, but he was thinking, I’ll follow it right up to the point at which your stupidity and pig-headedness make it impossible to follow it any longer.

  Outside, the weather was doing its best to fulfil the forecaster’s prediction of overnight snow, but so far it had only managed a few isolated flakes, which lay on the ground like light dandruff on a dark jacket, and then were gone.

  Inside, Monika Paniatowski was sitting at her kitchen table, slowly sipping her first drink of the day. Her intention, when she’d sat down, was to think through what they should know – and what they already did know – about the murder of Andrew Lofthouse. Yet somehow, thoughts about homicide kept getting nudged out of her mind by her recollections of the conversation with her eldest son, Thomas, earlier in the day.

  Philip hadn’t wanted to see her because he was ashamed, Thomas had said.

  ‘But that is very convenient for you, isn’t it?’ he’d asked. ‘Because the simple truth is, you don’t want to see him, either.’

  He was right, and in acknowledging that, she was also acknowledging that she was ashamed too – ashamed that though she loved Philip, her love did not seem to be deep enough to give her the strength to face him.

  ‘Have you ever thought about forgiving him?’ Thomas had asked.

  And she had answered that she had – time and again – but after the last time, it was impossible.

  ‘Forgiving is never impossible,’ Thomas had said.

  And then he had told the story of the café name, which had really been more of a modern parable.

  And what was the moral of that parable?

  That you should never draw any conclusions until you knew the full story.

  He’d hinted that he did know the full story, but he couldn’t reveal it, because he’d heard it in confession.

  He’d pleaded with her to go and see Philip, and now she decided that she would.

  The next day!

  First thing in the morning!

  She took a sip of her vodka and tried to redirect her thoughts to the murder of Andrew Lofthouse.

  Jim Hadley was at home. He was feeling insecure – perhaps even frightened – which was strange, because while his house could not exactly have been called a fortress, it was certainly one of the most secure buildings in Lancashire – if not the whole of the British Isles.

  One of his acquaintances once said that nature could be very fair-minded, and that Jim was a perfect illustration of that. Nature had given Hadley a face so lacking in distinction that it was almost as hard to insult it as it was to say something nice about it – a face you could make a real effort to remember, yet forget the moment he was gone.

  To compensate for this, he had been given an exceptional brain, which was both original and quirky. He could have used that brain for anything. He might have written surprising and outstanding books on topics which – until those books appeared – most people didn’t think were worth writing about at all. He might have speculated on the meaning of the universe, or have finally answered the age-old question of exactly what man was for.