It wasn’t fair, she told herself. She could have aborted these seeds of lust – these seeds of mindless, uncaring violence – which had been planted in her womb. No one beyond the church would have blamed her if she had – and even within the church there would have been those who tacitly agreed it was for the best. But she hadn’t had an abortion – she had borne the twins, brought them up as best she could, and given them all the love there was within her.

  And what was the result? Thomas didn’t need her, and Philip didn’t want her. It really wasn’t fair. And though it was wrong to ever think that God got great pleasure from playing malicious practical jokes on the faithful, that was what this felt like – a cruel joke that had the name of the omnipotent trickster all over it.

  ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’ she asked her son.

  ‘I’m sure I’m doing what I have to do,’ Thomas replied.

  And he sounded almost as broken-hearted as she was.

  There were some bouncers who did very little exercise, but relied on their sheer size and weight when it came to dealing with violent situations. Freddie Bairstow was not one of them. He put in five solid sessions at his local gym every week, as regular as clockwork, and it was as he was leaving the gym that late afternoon that he saw the tall, gangly man loitering near the entrance.

  ‘They said I’d find you here,’ the man said.

  ‘And they were right,’ Bairstow replied. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘Not yet, you don’t,’ the man said, producing his warrant card. ‘DS Boyd. I’d like a few words with you down at the station.’

  ‘What if I say no,’ Bairstow asked.

  Boyd shook his head, wonderingly. ‘A man with your record should know the drill by now,’ he said. ‘If you won’t come in voluntarily, we’ll arrest you on some trumped-up charge or other, like walking on the cracks in the pavement, or being a dickhead in a built-up area. We won’t be able to make it stick, of course, and we’ll have to release you again, but not before you’ve spent a night in the cells.’

  Bairstow glanced down at his watch. ‘Look, I’ve got to report for work in about three hours,’ he said.

  ‘Ah yes, your job as doorman to the deviants,’ Boyd said. ‘Don’t worry, if you cooperate with us, we’ll be finished with you long before that.’

  EIGHTEEN

  It hadn’t been a particularly easy birth, the midwife thought, but it would have been an exaggeration to call it a difficult one. Lizzie had been in some pain, but had borne it with unexpected fortitude, and now, half an hour after the birth, the new baby lay cradled in the arms of her triumphant mother.

  ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ Lizzie asked, bursting with pride and love.

  ‘All new babies are beautiful,’ the midwife said, in a voice which was warm and yet professional.

  ‘What do you think, Mrs Maybe?’ Lizzie asked Meadows.

  What did she think? She thought what she did about all newborn babies, which was that they had bodies that looked like dolls’ bodies, and heads like oranges that had passed their sell-by date.

  ‘She’s gorgeous, Lizzie,’ Meadows said.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to call her after you,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘I don’t mind at all.’

  And Meadows was surprised to discover that she was, in fact, rather touched by the gesture.

  ‘What a good idea,’ the midwife said approvingly. ‘Katherine’s such a nice name for a baby.’

  ‘Is it?’ Lizzie asked, sounding puzzled. ‘Well, I’ve already made up my mind what I’m going to call her, and you like your name, don’t you, baby May.’

  ‘But surely—’ the midwife began.

  ‘Is there anything we can get you, Lizzie?’ Meadows interrupted.

  ‘There’s no chance of a bottle of beer, is there?’ Lizzie asked.

  ‘Certainly not,’ replied the midwife, outraged. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing.’

  ‘You don’t even drink beer,’ Meadows said.

  ‘I know, but I thought I might try it,’ Lizzie replied.

  ‘Not while you’re breastfeeding Baby,’ the midwife said. ‘That would never do.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Lizzie agreed. She paused for a moment. ‘If you don’t mind, we’d like to be alone now.’

  ‘That’s out of the question so soon after you’ve given birth,’ the midwife said briskly. ‘You don’t have to talk, if you don’t want to, but there should be someone sitting quietly in the corner, just to make sure that you – and, of course, Baby – are all right.’

  ‘We want to be alone,’ Lizzie said, and though she was not shouting – she was too aware of her baby to do that – it was clear she wished she could.

  ‘It really would be most irregular to abandon you like that,’ the midwife said. ‘What would other people think, when they found out what we’d done?’

  ‘I don’t give a bugger what other people would think!’ Lizzie said fiercely. ‘We want some time alone.’ She turned to Meadows. ‘Please, Mrs Maybe, just give me half an hour. If anything goes wrong, the emergency button is right there for me to press.’

  Meadows and the midwife exchanged looks, and the midwife gave Meadows a reluctant nod.

  ‘All right, Lizzie, you win,’ Meadows said.

  ‘It’s not me that wins,’ Lizzie told her. ‘It’s little May.’

  Meadows and the midwife went down to the office to complete the necessary paperwork.

  ‘Have you got anything to drink?’ the midwife asked. ‘I know I shouldn’t, but I really need one – something strong, I mean.’

  Meadows smiled. ‘Yes, I know what you mean.’ She reached into her drawer and produced a glass and a bottle of Remy Martin brandy. ‘Will this do you, Ruby?’

  ‘It’ll more than do me,’ the midwife said, with some enthusiasm. ‘Won’t you be joining me?’

  ‘I’ll have one later,’ Meadows said, because she had learned from experience that people were uncomfortable drinking in the presence of other people who didn’t drink at all.

  The midwife poured herself a generous shot, and took a sip.

  ‘Beautiful,’ she said. ‘Do you think Lizzie really believes your name is Mrs Maybe?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Meadows replied. ‘But if that’s what she wants to call me, I’m perfectly happy with it.’

  ‘She took me by surprise when she insisted we should leave her room,’ the midwife said.

  ‘It surprised me, too,’ Meadows admitted.

  In fact, Lizzie had been full of surprises recently – insisting on having her baby in the refuge rather than a hospital, demanding that the old wardrobe be brought up from the basement, telling the pair of them they had to leave the room … None of these were actions she would have expected from timid little Lizzie.

  Maybe it was the advancing pregnancy that had changed her. Perhaps, realizing she was going to be responsible for a tiny life, she had also realized that she would have to be more self-assertive.

  Yes, that would certainly make sense – but Meadows had a nagging feeling that it was something else entirely.

  DS Boyd and DC James sat in the interrogation room, facing Freddie Bairstow. The tape recorder was already running, and the caution had been duly delivered. It was time to start digging.

  ‘I’d like to start by reminding you of your situation, Freddie,’ Boyd said. ‘You’ve got a criminal record that’s long enough to wrap twice round the cathedral and once around the boulevard, and you’ve reached that unenviable stage in your career when, even if you come up before the judge on a minor offence, you’re going down for a long time. Have I made myself plain?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Freddie said.

  He sounded frightened – and he was. But it wasn’t Boyd who was frightening him, because as far as he was concerned, Boyd was soft as shit. No, what was scaring him was the person sitting the other side of the two-way mirror. True, he couldn’t see the man, and he couldn’t actually prove there was anybody there at all, yet he knew there was. He could sense the dark presence – the brooding malevolence. And he understood that whoever the man was, he had the power to crush a bouncer with a criminal record like a beetle – and would take pleasure in doing it.

  ‘Was Andrew Lofthouse a member of the so-called Hellfire Club?’ Boyd asked. ‘And before you answer, Freddie, I should tell you that we already know he was.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Freddie said. ‘He was a regular, but he wasn’t a member. We don’t have members.’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’ Boyd demanded, in what he probably saw as his tough cop voice. ‘You must have members.’

  ‘I swear to you, Mr Boyd, we don’t.’

  ‘Isn’t there a book somewhere that has all the members’ names written in it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t they have cards that they show to you, when they want to get in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So who decides who gets in and who doesn’t?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘On what basis?’

  Freddie sighed. There was an art to what he did that required both experience and judgement, but he couldn’t expect this bobby to recognize that.

  ‘If you’re a regular like Mr Lofthouse, I automatically let you in,’ he said. ‘If I don’t know you, then I have to work out whether you’ll fit in, or whether you’ll cause trouble.’

  ‘And you always get that right, do you?’ Boyd asked sceptically.

  ‘Most of the time,’ Freddie said. ‘And if I get it wrong, then I just throw them out, and no harm done.’

  ‘Except, possibly to the people you’ve thrown out,’ Boyd said.

  ‘If they don’t want to get hurt, then they shouldn’t struggle then, should they?’ Freddie asked indifferently. ‘And if they’ve got any complaints, they can always report it to the police.’

  ‘Like that’s ever going to happen,’ Boyd said. ‘Let’s get back to Andrew Lofthouse. Did he usually come alone – or with someone else?’

  ‘The night he was killed, he came alone, but usually he was accompanied by a woman.’

  ‘Always the same woman?’

  ‘No, there were two different ones.’

  ‘And could you describe them to me?’

  I could do more than that, I could tell you where you could find one of them, Freddie thought. But if you think I’m going to drop a magistrate in the shit, you’ve got another think coming, because I’ve got enough enemies already, without having the bench against me.

  ‘I can describe their masks,’ he said helpfully.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Most of the people who come to the club wear masks.’

  ‘What, you mean like the Lone Ranger?’

  Freddie shook his head. ‘Not like that at all. It’s more like a carnival. So Mr Lofthouse always wears a devil mask, and the woman he used to come with quite a lot wore a tiger mask. His newer woman wears a leopard mask.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘One has stripes and other has spots.’

  ‘Are you trying to be funny?’ Boyd growled.

  ‘No sir, I was just answering your question.’

  ‘Is it a rule of the club that members have to wear a mask?’ Boyd asked.

  If that was an attempt to catch him out, it was a very clumsy one, Freddie thought.

  ‘I’ve already told you, Mr Boyd, that there are no members – and there are no rules, either. Customers only wear masks if they want to – and most of them do.’

  ‘Why do they wear masks?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t ask, and they don’t tell me.’

  ‘Take a guess,’ Boyd said – and it wasn’t a suggestion.

  ‘Maybe it’s to hide who they are, or maybe they just think it’s a bit of fun,’ Freddie said.

  ‘So you’re saying they all wear masks,’ Boyd said, setting another clumsy trap.

  ‘No, I said that most of them do. The woman he left with the night he was killed wasn’t wearing a mask, for example.’

  The room was suddenly several degrees colder and dead silent – and Freddie realized he’d just made a big mistake.

  ‘You never mentioned a third woman,’ Boyd said. ‘You told us he came alone.’

  ‘He did,’ Freddie said, almost babbling now. ‘He must have picked Zelda up inside.’

  Another mistake – and this time a huge one.

  ‘You know her, do you?’ Boyd demanded.

  ‘No, I’d never seen her before. But she’s a legend in central Lancashire. They call her the sadomasochist’s sadomasochist.’

  ‘If you’d never seen her before, how did you know she was this Zelda?’

  ‘She told me she was.’

  ‘And you believed her? Just like that?’

  ‘I could tell she was the real thing. I could feel the power coming from her.’

  ‘And she left with Lofthouse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Describe her to me.’

  ‘She’s about five feet seven with a slim build. She was wearing a purple wig. And a lot of make-up – especially round the eyes.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Difficult to say with all that make-up, but she’s been knocking around the clubs for at least twenty years.’

  ‘Does she have a reputation for violence?’ Boyd asked.

  The moment he’d spoken, he realized what a stupid question it was, and that was only underlined by the bouncer’s involuntary chuckle.

  ‘They’ve all got a reputation for violence, Mr Boyd,’ Freddie said.

  The door opened. Chief Superintendent Towers entered the room, and it was clear from the expression on Boyd’s face that this was totally unexpected.

  Towers mimed to Boyd that he should switch off the tape recorder.

  ‘Interview suspended at six thirty-seven,’ Boyd said, clicking the switch.

  ‘Right, I want you, Sergeant Boyd, and you, DC James, out of here,’ Towers said. ‘And don’t come back for at least half an hour.’

  ‘But sir,’ Boyd protested, ‘we were just getting somewhere. We may even have a possible suspect for Lofthouse’s murder.’

  ‘Did I actually issue an order, or am I just imagining it?’ Towers said.

  ‘Sir …’ Boyd began.

  ‘Out!’ Towers bellowed.

  Boyd, accepting he had no choice in the matter, walked towards the door, trying not to look too much like a dog that had just been given a beating. The constable followed him.

  Towers sat down opposite Freddie. ‘Now listen to me, you festering toe-rag,’ he said, ‘I want some information, and you’re going to bloody give it to me.’

  NINETEEN

  There were only three of them at the table in the Drum and Monkey.

  ‘The boss won’t be coming tonight,’ Beresford said.

  Neither Meadows nor Crane asked why, because the answer was obvious – Paniatowski would be visiting her son’s old haunts in the desperate hope that she could find him before the armed police did.

  ‘That being the case, would either of you object if I took the chair?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘No, you’re the obvious choice,’ Crane said.

  But he was thinking that while Beresford was a good solid bobby, he didn’t have Paniatowski’s flair.

  They talked over their day’s discoveries – it didn’t take too long – and then it was time to sum up.

  ‘The overall impression I get is that Andrew Lofthouse wasn’t a nice man,’ Crane said, ‘so although he could be charming when he wanted to be, he got up a lot of people’s noses. Jim Hadley, on the other hand, lived almost like a hermit until he got himself a girlfriend.’

  ‘Or a boyfriend,’ Beresford said. ‘The two men were about as different to each other as it’s possible to be – so what was it about both of them that made the killer select them as his victims?’

  ‘We don’t know for certain they were killed by the same man,’ Meadows said. ‘There may be significant differences which the police have held back which suggest two killers with very different signatures.’

  Beresford frowned. ‘Isn’t that a bit of a negative attitude to take, Kate?’ he asked.

  ‘I prefer to think of it as a realistic one,’ Meadows said, almost snottily.

  There was something going on that he didn’t quite understand, Crane thought.

  ‘We have to have some theory to work from – we always do – and the best one available is that there were two victims and one killer,’ Beresford said.

  ‘I’m not sure the boss would agree with you,’ Meadows replied.

  ‘Before we go any further, can we clear something up that’s been bothering me?’ Crane said.

  ‘Are you trying to change the subject, Jack?’ Meadows asked.

  Yes, I am, Crane thought, because if somebody doesn’t, this meeting’s going to end in chaos.

  ‘No, of course I’m not trying to change the subject,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I’ve got a question I’d like answering, and it slipped my mind before.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Beresford said

  ‘What did Jim Hadley say about his relationship with Jane Lofthouse, Kate?’ Crane asked.

  ‘He said he didn’t know her very well, but he’d run into her at his golf club’s dinner and his lodge’s ladies’ night.’

  ‘Yet when I was talking to Helen Cosgrove, Jim Hadley’s PA, she was willing to swear he never joined the golf club, and being the man he seems to have been, I’d be surprised if the Masons ever even considered him for admission. So why did he lie to you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Meadows said, unhelpfully.

  ‘Perhaps he was working for Andrew Lofthouse,’ Beresford suggested. ‘And here’s a thought – perhaps the girlfriend that suddenly appeared in Hadley’s life was none other Miss Maitland Williams, who was actually Lofthouse’s mistress?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Crane agreed. ‘After all, we already knew that Lofthouse and Maitland Williams were into S&M, and now we’ve learned that Hadley was, too.’

  ‘You’ve just constructed a conspiracy out of fresh air – a conspiracy of three people which has now been whittled down to one – a magistrate, for God’s sake – because the other two have been murdered,’ Meadows said. ‘Brilliant!’