The final beat of the dr.., p.27
The Final Beat of the Drum,
p.27
‘Yes.’
‘It was someone from the Police Authority with some very interesting news. The chief con has been offered a cushy job in the Caribbean, and he’s decided to accept it.’
‘Well, that will mean—’
‘That’s not the really interesting part,’ Louisa said, and turned her attention to a document on her desk.
‘What is the interesting part?’ Towers asked, when perhaps ten seconds had ticked by.
Louisa looked up. ‘The interesting part? Oh yes, I’ve been invited to apply for the post. That’s as good as saying I’ve got the job in the bag, if I want it. It’s not the career move that I was planning, but there are certain advantages that might prove virtually irresistible.’
He waited for her to say more, and when it became plain that she wasn’t going to, he said, ‘Advantages? What kind of advantages?’
‘As chief constable, I’d play a major part in deciding who headed the new regional crime squad – and I’d make certain that someone unsuitable didn’t manage to talk his way into the post.’
She returned her gaze to the document, and when she looked up again, he was still sitting there, as if frozen into his chair.
‘You’re making my office look untidy, and I’d be grateful if you’d withdraw,’ she said. ‘Or to put it another way, bugger off, you devious bastard.’
As she heard Towers’ footsteps recede down the corridor, Louisa smiled to herself.
‘You may be a much better mean streets bobby than I am, Mum,’ she said, ‘but when it comes to office politics, I think I could teach you a trick or two.’
‘We did it!’ Colin Beresford said, after Louisa had phoned the Drum for a third time. ‘We cracked another case. And did we manage it through having the boffins tracking mobile phone calls and analysing DNA? No, we did not. We did it the old-fashioned way – pounding the streets and questioning witnesses.’ He raised his pint glass in the air. ‘So I give you a toast, my friends and colleagues – to old-fashioned detective work.’
The rest of the team clinked their glasses against his. ‘To old-fashioned detective work.’
‘And now, boss, I’ll give you a thrashing at darts,’ Beresford said.
Paniatowski shook her head. ‘My dart playing days are over.’
‘All right then, you can come and watch me,’ Beresford said. ‘I used to be able to hit nine bull’s eyes with twelve darts. Think I still can?’
Paniatowski laughed. ‘I very much doubt it.’
‘You’ll see,’ Beresford said, taking her arm and lifting her to her feet. ‘You’ll see – and then you’ll eat your words.’
Left alone at the table, Crane looked down at Meadows’ glass. ‘I see you’re back on the orange juice,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ Meadows agreed.
‘And you haven’t even touched that Sidecar I bought for you.’
‘True.’
‘Is that all you want to say on the subject?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’d better shut up about it myself.’
‘I think that would be a good idea,’ Meadows said.
At the dart board, Beresford was finding it hard to live up to his boast, since of the six darts he had thrown so far, only two of them had even hit the board.
‘I’m not drunk, you know,’ he said to Paniatowski.
‘Aren’t you?’
‘I can’t be. What have I had – seven or eight pints?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Back in the old days, when we were working a case together, I used to be able to knock that amount back every night. Do you remember?’
Paniatowski laughed. ‘I remember – but we’re all getting older.’
‘Bollocks to that,’ Beresford said.
Meadows and Crane walked over to the board. ‘We’re off,’ Crane said.
‘Don’t … don’t you want to stop for another one?’ Beresford asked.
‘I’ve left my deputy in charge for far too long,’ Meadows said.
‘And my work has rather fallen behind in the last few days,’ Crane said.
‘Work?’ Beresford repeated. ‘You’re a university lecturer. You don’t do any bloody work.’
‘Good old Colin,’ Meadows said. ‘You’ll never change, will you?’
‘And is that a bad thing?’ Beresford asked.
‘Of course not. The world would be very boring without the odd dinosaur rampaging around.’
Once Meadows and Crane had left, Beresford threw another dozen darts at the board before giving up.
‘I suppose I’d better be going home myself,’ he said. ‘My missus will kill me when she sees the state I’m in.’
‘No, she won’t,’ Paniatowski said.
‘No, she won’t,’ Beresford agreed. ‘And she’ll be ever so chuffed when I tell her we’re not going to gaol.’ A worried look flashed across his face. ‘We’re not going to gaol, are we?’
‘We’re not,’ Paniatowski assured him.
‘Right, off I go,’ Beresford said. ‘Are you coming?’
‘No, I think I’ll stay here a while,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘And Colin …’
‘Yes?’
‘Take a taxi home.’
‘Yes, I will,’ Beresford agreed. ‘I’m not drunk …’
‘Of course you’re not.’
‘… but I’ll take a taxi anyway.’
Once he’d gone, Paniatowski returned to the table where their table had once stood.
It had been good to see the old team again, she thought, and it was wonderful that they all seemed to be having fulfilling lives.
She thought about her children. She wondered what Louisa’s next career move would be. She wondered when Philip would be released from gaol, and whether Thomas would ever leave the priesthood.
And she wished she didn’t have to go home to an empty house.
PART THREE
A Happy Ending
Friday, 3 June, 2005
There’d been a time when news of a demolition would generate real excitement, and people would come from all over town – and even from the outlying villages – to witness the spectacle. But those days had gone. Now there were films which featured spectacular acts of destruction on a wide screen – and in vivid colours rarely seen in rain-soaked central Lancashire. Even the television was doing its best to make real life seem boring and, in some ways, scarcely real at all. Thus it was on that June morning, it was a very small crowd indeed which had gathered behind the metal barriers to watch the annihilation of a hundred and fifty years of industrial urban history.
Monika Paniatowski placed her hands on the barrier, and looked across the street at the Victorian facade. She had not been near the Drum and Monkey since the Lofthouse investigation, but she felt a stab of regret at the thought that it was soon to be no more than a pile of unidentifiable rubble. She wondered how many hours she had spent in that pub over the years, and decided that it was probably such a staggering amount that it was better not to even try to calculate it.
‘I thought I’d find you here,’ said a voice behind her, and she turned to see Kate Meadows standing there.
‘I was in the area. I thought I might as well take a look,’ Paniatowski said, but her words sounded awkward, as if she’d been caught out doing something slightly naughty, and felt the need to justify it.
‘I wanted to see it too,’ Kate Meadows said, ‘and I’m glad you’re here to share it with me.’
Paniatowski reached in her pocket for her cigarettes, then remembered she didn’t smoke any more.
‘So how are things, Kate?’ she asked.
‘Busy,’ Meadows replied. ‘The foundation’s bought the house next to Overcroft House to give us room to expand. I’ll have to take on two full-time assistants. And how’s Louisa?’
‘Great!’ Paniatowski said. ‘Whoever would have thought that a daughter of a simple provincial bobby would end up working for Interpol in Lyon?’
‘A simple provincial bobby!’ Meadows repeated, amused. ‘I’d never have thought of you as simple.’
‘I am when compared to her,’ Paniatowski said. ‘She’s collating and analysing information from a hundred and ninety-five different countries. It would drive me insane – I just couldn’t do it – but she thrives on it.’
‘You always said she was the admiral and you were the buccaneer,’ Meadows replied.
A man in young-middle-age, wearing a smart business suit, drew level with them and stopped.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘are you DCI Paniatowski?’
It was strange to hear her title being used after all this time, she thought.
‘Yes, I’m Monika Paniatowski,’ she said.
‘I’m called Brough. I was the last landlord of the Drum and Monkey.’
‘You must be sorry to see it go,’ Paniatowski said, glancing across the road.
‘What?’ the landlord said, as if he had no idea what she was talking about. Then enlightenment seemed to dawn. ‘Oh, I see what you mean. No, I’m not sorry at all, it was very inefficient as a retail unit, and the money raised from the sale of the site will be used to finance the building of a much more cost-effective outlet.’
Jesus God, Paniatowski thought, of course the Drum had been inefficient. Pubs were supposed to be inefficient. It was part of their charm.
‘Anyway,’ the landlord continued, ‘I was going through the store room when I came across this battered old table. I couldn’t figure out why it was there, but the father of one of my barmen – who used to be a barman himself – explained to me that it was the table you and your team of detectives used to use in the old days, and that the then-landlord had kept it for sentimental reasons.’ He frowned. ‘I can’t really understand that myself, but the point is that it’s there, and I wondered if you’d like it.’
‘It’s very kind of you, but I don’t think so,’ Paniatowski said.
The landlord did not seem the least offended that his offer had been spurned.
‘Quite understandable,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want it myself. But I promised I’d ask.’
‘Now that does surprise me,’ Meadows said, when he’d gone.
‘What surprises you?’ asked Paniatowski, patting her pocket for cigarettes.
‘That you didn’t want the table, of course. There’s plenty of room for it in your house.’
‘Yes, there is – but not in my mind,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I enjoy remembering the past now and again, but what I don’t want to do is build a shrine to it.’ She patted her pockets again. ‘It’s a terrible waste to keep looking back, Kate. My gaze is firmly directed towards the future.’
‘There’s a shop just around the corner. Shall I just nip round to it and buy you a packet of cigarettes?’ Meadows said, noticing the pocket patting.
Paniatowski shook her head. ‘No thanks, I’ve given them up.’ She saw the quizzical look come to Meadows’ face, and added, ‘I’m setting an example.’
‘And is your example being followed?’ Meadows asked.
Paniatowski laughed. ‘Of course it is – it’s bound to be at this stage. But I’m looking towards the future again.’ There was a rumbling sound like the hungry growl of a monster, and looking down the road, they saw a large crane with a wrecking ball attached to its arm, making its stately-clumsy progress up the street.
‘Granny, Granny,’ said an excited voice, and a moment later, two small thin arms were wrapped around Paniatowski’s left leg.
‘Let go, May, before you have us both over,’ Paniatowski said laughingly.
The little girl stepped clear. ‘Will there be crumpets for tea? When we go to the zoo, can we see the polar bears? And will you pick me up so I can see better?’
‘Yes, there will be crumpets for tea. Yes, I’ll make certain we go and see the polar bears. And I will pick you up, but not for long because you’re getting quite heavy, and I’m an old lady.’
‘No, you’re not,’ May said. ‘You’re not an old lady at all. You’re my granny, and I live in your house.’
‘All right then, here we go,’ Paniatowski said, hoisting her up.
‘Are you sure you can manage, Mum?’ worried Lizzie, who had followed her daughter through the small crowd.
She had asked Monika if she could call her ‘Mum’ just after the ceremony at Blackheath Prison, when she had become Mrs Paniatowski. Monika had agreed, because, even though she was sure it would feel quite awkward, she hadn’t wanted to hurt Lizzie’s feelings. But, in actual fact, it had only felt awkward for a while, and then, much to her surprise, she found she rather liked it.
Monika rested May on her hip. ‘I can manage five minutes, then I’ll have to hand you back to your mum,’ she told the child.
She looked across to the Drum and Monkey. She must have seen it a thousand times before, but she had never given it the attention she gave it now. Her eyes roved over the upper floor, and rested for a second on the words spelled out in Accrington brick:
Thwaites and Company
The Drum and Monkey
She examined the upper-floors window, which in their proportions would not have disgraced a Renaissance palace, and the smoked plate-glass window which ran the whole length of the lower floor. No one could have described it objectively as a beautiful building, and yet it seemed to hold some beauty that was all its own.
The wrecking ball struck the second floor, and it collapsed inwards. Paniatowski thought she could see the individual letters flying away, a C here and a k there, but knew deep down that it was only a fancy.
The roof just hung there for a few seconds, as if wondering where its support had gone, then it too gave way, falling with a crash and throwing up a cloud of dust.
Bits of the second floor were still standing – sticking out like rotting teeth in a diseased mouth – and the crane driver began to systematically attack them.
‘I’m going to be a crane driver when I grow up,’ May said excitedly.
‘Good for you,’ Paniatowski replied, as she felt a single tear running down her cheek.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
As most readers will have realized by now, this is the last of the Monika Paniatowski series. Monika first appeared in The Golden Mile to Murder, way back in 2001. Since then, she has risen through the ranks, adopted one child and given birth to two more. She has had her problems along the way, but I like to think she has emerged from them bloody but unbowed. As a response to those readers who feel I have heaped just too much misery on her, I have given her an ending of which I hope they will approve.
It feels as if it has been a very long journey – hardly surprising since it bloody well has! – and I would like to thank both those readers who have been with me from the beginning and those who have joined along the way. Your kind comments have been much appreciated, and your constructive criticisms have been taken into account. I’m going to miss you.
Sally Spencer, The Final Beat of the Drum
