Thicker Than Water

By Sally Spencer

'It's good to have Monika back, doing what she does best' - Kirkus Starred Review

DCI Monika Paniatowski investigates a case that could be the making – or, more likely, breaking – of her career

DCI Monika Paniatowski has only been back from maternity leave for three days when she is called in to investigate a nightmare of a case. Not only is the murder victim a mother of three small children, but her husband is a wealthy politician. Monika knows that if she can’t make a quick arrest her career is on the line. It’s lucky, then, that within minutes of meeting Councillor Danbury, she has a bruised face – and a prime suspect.

But then the case takes a nasty twist, and suddenly the investigation is national news. Monika’s sure she has the right man – but how to prove it? Particularly when she’s under pressure from her superiors to arrest anyone other than Councillor Danbury, president of the golf club and friend of her chief constable . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Feb 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781780107240

Sally Spencer

<b>Sally Spencer </b>worked as a teacher both in England and Iran – where she witnessed the fall of the Shah. She now lives on the Costa Blanca with her partner, one rescue cat, two rescue dogs and innumerable fruit trees. Having once been an almost fanatical mahjong player, she is now obsessed with duplicate bridge. As well as the Jennie Redhead mysteries, Spencer is also the author of the successful DCI Monika Paniatowski series, the Chief Inspector Woodend mysteries and the Inspector Blackstone series.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

At first, Jane Danbury had no idea at all of what had just happened.

She knew where she was.

Of course she knew that!

She was in her own lounge.

She could see the expensive wallpaper on the far wall, though it was rather worrying that it was refusing to stay still, but instead insisted on jiggling up and down like a badly tuned television.

So – she knew where she was.

What else did she know?

She knew that she had been talking to someone, only moments earlier …

Why couldn’t she remember who that someone was? she wondered.

Didn’t matter.

Wasn’t important.

Move on!

… and saying things she should have said a long time ago. She knew that she had turned her back on the someone – who was it, for God’s sake? – though she could no longer remember why she’d done that.

And she knew that that was when it had happened.

Whatever it was.

Did she have any clues, from which she might build up a picture of what had occurred? she asked herself.

Well, her head was hurting.

That was for sure.

In fact, it was hurting one hell of a lot.

And she had a vague sensation that something was being pumped out from a spot midway between her ears and towards the back of her skull.

Blood! she thought.

I’m spurting blood!

What was left of her brain had been working in overdrive in the split second after the blow was struck, but now her body had caught up with it, and she felt herself falling forwards.

This is all my fault, she thought as she fell.

I’ve been very stupid, and it’s all my fault.

Her face hit the floor, and as it did, her nose almost concertinaed. It should have been an agonising experience, but she was almost beyond pain now, and she hardly noticed it.

It surprised her – annoyed her, almost – that as she lay dying (and she was sure she was dying) her hearing seemed to be as acute as it had ever been.

But it was. It undoubtedly was.

She heard the squeak of leather shoes, as the someone squatted down beside her.

She heard harsh, irregular breathing.

And she heard the soft swishing sound made by the soles of the shoes on the thick rug, as the someone shifted slightly to get a better angle on the task in hand.

And then she heard nothing – nor ever would again.

ONE

Wednesday, 5th October 1977

The phone call came through at 9.12 p.m., and by 9.14 Monika Paniatowski was already backing her car down the driveway.

Once out on the street, she straightened the vehicle up, and, before pulling off, lit a cigarette.

Paniatowski sighed. She had stopped smoking the moment she’d learned she was pregnant, and had told herself, as the pregnancy progressed, that she would never take up the habit again. But it hadn’t worked out quite like that, and within days of giving birth to the twins – and perhaps because she had given birth to the twins – she had submitted gratefully to the old craving.

The police radio crackled into life, and a metallic female voice said, ‘DCI Paniatowski, are you receiving me? Over.’

Paniatowski’s left hand reached instinctively for where the radio microphone should have been, and found itself cupping empty air.

Different car, she reminded herself – different car, different layout.

For just an instant, she mourned the loss of her little red MGA which her change in circumstances had forced her to trade in for the larger – and far less loveable – Ford Cortina.

‘DCI Paniatowski?’ the metallic voice repeated.

Paniatowski’s reprogrammed hand unhooked the microphone and lifted it to her mouth.

‘DCI Paniatowski receiving you,’ she said. ‘What’s the current operational status?’

‘Inspector Flowers and her team have reached the house and secured the crime scene,’ the voice replied.

‘Has my team been contacted yet?’

‘We’ve called DS Meadows’ beeper several times, ma’am, but she’s still not got back to us.’

‘Shit!’ Paniatowski said.

She’d only been back from maternity leave for three days. Her investigative skills had probably been dulled through lack of use, so the last thing she wanted was to embark on a high-profile murder investigation without her trusted bagman firmly at her side. And this murder just had to be high profile – because it had taken place in Milliners’ Row.

‘Do you want me to try and contact DS Meadows again, ma’am?’ the operator asked.

If Kate Meadows wasn’t responding, it could only be because she’d put her detective sergeant persona on hold and become Zelda, a creature of the night, who recognised no responsibilities and played by no rules but her own.

‘Ma’am?’ the operator said.

‘Yes, beep her again – and keep beeping her until she answers – but get hold of DI Beresford and DC Crane first.’

Milliners’ Row was located near the northern tip of the Whitebridge municipal authority. Though it would have been strictly accurate to call it a private housing estate, it would have also been thoroughly misleading, since it differed, in so many ways, from the housing estates which flanked it – at a respectful distance – on its left and right.

There were twenty-four houses in the Row, and the twelve on the south side looked across at the twelve on the north side over a wide avenue, along the centre of which ran a line of evergreen trees of exotic varieties rarely seen in Lancashire. Each house sat on a half-acre plot, and the plots were each surrounded by high, imposing walls. It was commonly referred to by most people in Whitebridge (often enviously, and occasionally bitterly) as Millionaire’s Row.

There was no need for Paniatowski to count off the houses as she went, in order to establish which one was No. 7 Milliners’ Row – the half a dozen police cars parked in front of it provided ample indication.

As she drew level with No. 3, a middle-aged police constable stepped out into the road, and waved her down with his torch.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to turn around, madam,’ he said, politely but firmly.

Paniatowski held her warrant card out of the window, and the constable shone the torch on it.

‘Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t recognise you,’ he said. ‘Is this your car?’

Paniatowski grinned. ‘Aren’t you only supposed to ask that if you suspect it’s been stolen?’

‘No, what I meant was, where’s your MGA?’ the constable explained hurriedly. He paused. ‘You’ve never got rid of it, have you?’

‘I’m afraid I have,’ Paniatowski admitted.

‘But it was such a lovely little car, and you kept it immaculate,’ the constable said, as if mourning the loss personally.

‘Right on both counts,’ Paniatowski agreed, edging the big, graceless Cortina forward.

The woman standing on the pavement in front of the large ornamental gates was in her early thirties, and had the wiry body of a dedicated hockey player. She wore an expression which said she was fairly confident she had handled the situation well, but that she also recognised, given her relative lack of experience, that there was always a slim chance she had made a colossal blunder.

‘What have you got for me so far, Elizabeth?’ Paniatowski asked, when they’d exchanged greetings.

‘The victim hasn’t been formally identified yet, but she’s presumed to be Jane Danbury. She’s been living here, with her husband and three children, for about four years.’

‘Where did you get this information from?’

‘The au pair, a girl called Gretchen Müller.’

‘Is she the one who found the body?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Was she here at the time of the murder?’

‘No, she gets Wednesdays off, and she’s been out for most of the day. She only came back to change into her party clothes.’

‘When was this?’

‘About three-quarters of an hour ago.’

‘And she was the one who called us?’

‘Yes.’

A lot of young women wouldn’t have the presence of mind to do that, Paniatowski thought. A lot of young women would just have run round to the neighbours’ house in a blue funk. But then, of course, running round to the neighbours’ house was no simple matter in a place like Milliners’ Row.

‘Where’s the girl now?’ she asked.

‘She’s sitting in the back of one of the patrol cars. I gave her a blanket, and a cup of hot sweet tea.’

‘Where did you get the tea from?’ Paniatowski wondered. ‘Did one of the neighbours send his butler round with it on a silver tray?’

Inspector Flowers grinned. ‘No, ma’am. I always carry a thermos flask of tea with me. It’s remarkable how often it comes in useful.’

It was a nice, thoughtful, domestic touch, Paniatowski thought – perhaps just a little too thoughtful and domestic for a woman trying to claw her way up the slippery slope of promotion, where all the short cuts were reserved for men.

‘The flask of tea’s a good idea,’ she said, ‘but, if I was in your shoes, I’d delegate the job to one of my lads in future.’ She paused to light a cigarette. ‘Apart from talking to the au pair, what other actions have you taken?’

‘We searched both the grounds and the house, to establish whether or not the killer was still in the vicinity, and, of course, we checked on the children.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘They’re still in their rooms. The boys share a room, the girl has one of her own. They’re all sleeping peacefully.’

Unlike the twins, who seem to take it in turn to be on bawling duty, Paniatowski thought ruefully.

‘The children’s rooms have been thoroughly searched, like everywhere else, but I thought it best not to disturb the children themselves until social services arrive to deal with them,’ Flowers continued.

‘What if they wake up, and wander downstairs?’

‘I’ve posted an officer at each of their bedroom doors to make sure that doesn’t happen.’

Flowers seemed to have dealt with the situation rather well, Paniatowski decided.

‘Where’s the husband?’ she asked.

‘According to Gretchen, William Danbury is …’

‘Wait a minute,’ Paniatowski interrupted, ‘when you say, William Danbury, are we talking about Councillor Danbury?’

‘That’s right, ma’am,’ Meadows said. ‘Do you know him?’

Paniatowski shook her head. ‘No, but I know of him. He runs one of the few remaining mills in this town, he was the youngest-ever president of Whitebridge Golf Club, and he’s a big wheel in local politics.’

All of which made him the last person she wanted breathing down her neck when she was investigating a murder, she thought.

‘Anyway, you were on the point of telling me where he is at the moment,’ she continued.

‘Gretchen says he’s off on a business trip. He was expected back today, but it’s not unusual for him to stay away longer than he’s said he will.’

Another vehicle arrived on the scene – a battered Land Rover driven by Dr Shastri, the police surgeon and veteran of hundreds of grisly post-mortems.

Shastri parked behind Paniatowski’s Cortina, switched off the engine, and climbed down from the cab – except that ‘climbed down’ was not really what she did at all. Instead, the graceful descent of her sari-clad figure made it seem as if she was almost floating to the pavement.

Shastri smiled at Paniatowski.

‘My dear Monika,’ she said. ‘What a pleasant surprise to find you here. I had heard, of course, that you were back from your leave, but when I did not see your car in the street …’

‘It’s good to see you, Doc,’ Paniatowski interrupted, before there could be any more wailing and gnashing of teeth over the departure of the bright red MGA. ‘The body’s inside. Would you like to take a look at it?’

‘Most certainly,’ Shastri agreed. ‘After all, humble Indian doctor that I am, that is what I am here for.’

As Flowers swung the left gate slightly open, Paniatowski noticed that there was a large sign fastened to it which announced that the house was for sale, and advised anyone interested in buying it to contact Holgate, Jones and Hudson (Estate Agents).

Her first thought was that it was surprising that the inhabitants of somewhere like Milliners’ Row should submit to the same process, when selling their houses, as mere mortals like herself did.

Her second thought – which quickly and brutally elbowed the first thought aside – was to wonder if the proposed sale of the house and the murder were in any way connected. That was improbable, she readily admitted, but if she had learned one thing about murders, it was that they were very often stuffed to the brim with improbabilities.

It was at least a hundred yards from the gate to the house. The driveway which connected the two was wide enough for two large cars to pass each other comfortably, and was cobbled with dressed stone, which Paniatowski guessed had probably been very expensive. At the far end of the driveway, there was a turning circle and a spur which, presumably, led around the side of the house to the garage.

The house itself was fairly new, but had been built in the style of a Georgian mansion. The ground floor was brilliantly – almost blindingly – illuminated, but the upper floor, where the children were sleeping, was in semi-darkness.

‘I want the kids out of the house as soon as possible,’ Paniatowski told Flowers as they approached the front door. ‘The moment you’ve shown us where the body is, get on to social services again, and, if necessary, give them a hard kick up the arse from me.’

‘Right, ma’am,’ Flowers replied.

Detective Inspector Colin Beresford was in bed – enjoying a romp with Lillian, a divorcée who shared his cut-and-run attitude to sexual encounters – when his beeper made its unwelcome intrusion.

‘Don’t stop now,’ Lillian told him throatily. ‘Ignore it.’

‘I can’t,’ he said.

‘Ignore it,’ Lillian repeated, locking her ankles tightly together in the small of his back.

‘I really can’t,’ Beresford told her, gently pushing her thighs apart and slipping free.

Bloody idiot! he told himself as he dressed. If you hadn’t been so keen to show off with your over-elaborate foreplay, you’d have reached the grand finale long before your beeper went off.

But by the time he reached his car, he was thinking neither of his missed opportunity in the bedroom nor of the killing in the posh part of town. He had, instead, turned his thoughts to Monika Paniatowski. They had been friends for a long time – since he was a fresh-faced constable and she was a very determined DS – and he loved her with a love that was only occasionally tinged by the fact that he also fancied the hell out of her. And because he loved her, he worried about her.

He did not know who the father of her twins was, and though he was dying to ask, he had always restrained himself. But their parentage was not really the main issue, he’d decided. What really mattered was Monika’s attitude to Philip and Thomas. Most of the time, she seemed like a typical new mother – fussing over them, fretting about them. And if there were also times when she seemed to resent the fact they had taken much of her freedom away, well, that was normal, too. But what really – really – disturbed him was that, once or twice, he had caught her looking at the twins with a look in her eyes that could only be described as fearful – and why should anybody be afraid of two little babies?

The hallway of No. 7 Milliners’ Row was large enough to throw a fairly impressive party in. It was tiled with granite, and there was a broad spiral staircase at the far end of it which led to the upper storey.

The lounge – though probably, in a mansion like this, they should call it the reception room – opened off the hallway. It was as large as the whole of Paniatowski’s ground floor, and was laid with a polished hardwood which had probably cost as much as her entire house.

Jane Danbury was lying on a large Persian rug in the centre of the room, halfway between a four-seater leather sofa and the marble fireplace. Her face was buried in the rug, and her arms were stretched out in front of her. The upper part of her skull – which, inevitably, the eyes were drawn to first – was a scramble of brains and bone. The parts of the rug close to her head were soaked in blood. Looking up, Paniatowski could find no sign of bloodstains on the ceiling, but that was probably because it was much higher than the usual domestic ceiling.

‘Oh dear, that really is rather unpleasant,’ Dr Shastri said, slipping on her overall in the doorway.

Paniatowski ran her eyes up and down the rest of the dead woman’s body. Jane Danbury had been wearing a loose brown skirt and a fluffy pink sweater when she died. Both articles must have been expensive, but neither of them looked new. In other words, Jane had been wearing the comfortable, casual clothes that anyone might choose in their own home, and if the murderer had been a guest, it wasn’t a guest she’d been trying to impress.

She’d not had a bad figure, either, Paniatowski had decided. The legs were good, and though the waist was not as narrow as it might once have been, well, how many women’s waists didn’t start to thicken a little when they hit their thirties? Perhaps the best way to describe her figure would be to call it curvaceous – except that it didn’t seem quite right to apply the term to a dead woman.

Looking around the room, she saw something glinting in the corner, and when she got closer to it, she could see it was a heavy bronze figure which had clearly been flung across the room, hit the wall (there were indents in the plaster), and fallen to the floor.

The statue was about twelve inches long, and had a square base. Paniatowski squatted down beside it. It was (she read on the base) a representation of Joe Louis, who had been world heavyweight boxing champion from 1937 to 1949. The base itself was heavily stained with blood.

It was the second time in a year that she’d investigated a case in which the murder weapon had been a statue, she thought. In the first case, it had been a statue of Oscar Wilde, the Irish playwright. In this case it was the American pugilist. But what the weapons of choice had in common was that both murderers had been so enraged that they’d grabbed the first thing that would serve their purpose.

She stood up again and walked over to the fireplace. On the mantelpiece were a number of other statues – the Duke of Wellington, Winston Churchill, Rocky Marciano, Joe DiMaggio …

Most of the figures were evenly spaced along the shelf, but there was a significant gap between Churchill and Marciano. That, without a doubt, was where Joe Louis had stood until very recently.

‘I doubt very much if one blow, even delivered from a very strong man, could have produced this much damage,’ she heard Shastri say, from behind her.

She turned around and saw that the doctor was kneeling beside the body.

‘So what happened?’ she asked.

‘I can tell you what I think happened, but I may have to contradict some of what I have said – or perhaps even all of it – once I have conducted the post-mortem,’ Shastri cautioned.

‘I’d still like to hear it.’

‘This is where she was attacked, as is obvious from the blood spatter. The blow struck her on the back of the head, and she fell forward onto the rug.’

‘Was she still conscious after the first blow?’

‘The position of her arms would indicate that she was – that she did her best to try and break her fall. But I have seen corpses with a bullet through their brains in a similar position, and clearly, in their cases, they were dead before they even started to fall.’

‘So she might have been dead and she might have been alive, but whichever it was, he hit her again, to make sure?’

‘Exactly. And in order to deliver the other blows, he must have knelt down beside her.’

‘Other blows? You think there was more than one?’

‘As I told you, my dear Monika, until I have conducted a more detailed examination …’

‘That is what you think, isn’t it?’

‘The human skull is very tough, and the damage is extensive. It is possible it took only two blows, but I would guess it required three or four.’ Shastri paused. ‘I would also speculate that it must have been obvious to anyone – even someone with no medical training – that she was dead after the second blow.’

‘But he kept on hitting her.’

‘Indeed.’

So what did she know? Paniatowski asked herself.

She knew that the dead woman had felt secure enough to turn her back on her killer. She knew that the killer had not brought a weapon with him, but had improvised. And she knew that such was his rage that he’d kept on hitting her even after she was clearly dead.

‘Would he have got any blood on his clothes?’ she asked.

‘I can’t see how he would have avoided it,’ Shastri replied.

That would be a real break in most cases, because people out on the street noticed a man with blood on him. But in this case – on this road – he could have been soaked in blood from head to foot and the chances were that no one would have seen it.

Inspector Flowers appeared in the doorway. ‘Dr Lucas is here, ma’am,’ she said. ‘He’s the family doctor, and he’d like to see Gretchen Müller.’

‘Does he know what’s happened?’ Paniatowski asked.

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Then why is he here?’

‘I … er … rang him.’

‘You did what?’

‘I rang him. I said we needed his help in a police matter, and he wasn’t to discuss it with anyone.’

‘And why would you have done that?’

‘Gretchen said she was feeling cold, and asked to see her doctor. She’s entitled to request medical attention, and I thought it might complicate matters later if I refused.’

It could well have done, Paniatowski thought, picturing a possible future courtroom scenario in her mind.

Paniatowski is in the witness box, and the barrister for the defence is about to question her.

‘Gretchen Müller’s statement was crucial to the way you investigated this case, wasn’t it, Chief Inspector?’ he asked.

‘It was one of several leads we followed,

Reviews for Thicker Than Water

[druidgirl_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The characters are unforgettable. A great, the mystery is solved by using forensics ,proper procedures and of course your brain and common sense.***This book was received in exchange for an honest review****