D. Mitchell - The King of Terrors

Stafford smiled. ‘Can I use your bathroom?’ he asked. ‘A man of my age plans his journeys around toilet stops these days.’

‘Certainly. Top of the stairs, first on the left. Careful on the stairs, they are a little worn and narrow.’

Rayne waited till Stafford had left the room then looked uncomfortably at Styles. ‘Is there something bothering you, Inspector?’

The young man slipped the photographs back into the folder. ‘My interest in history is more around the Second World War,’ he admitted, wandering over to a bookshelf and scanning the spines with his head cocked to one side.

‘An interesting period.’

‘Especially fascinated by the German occupation of France. The Resistance.’ Rayne remained silent. Styles pulled a book from a shelf, slid it back in again after checking the cover. ‘People risking their lives to save others, knowing if they were captured helping Allied prisoners or downed airmen back to safety they’d be subject to the utmost cruelty, their families as well. Very brave people in the face of such overwhelming danger.’

‘Some causes bring out the very best in people,’ he said. ‘And the worst.’

‘I once read a very slim volume that you wrote on medieval symbolism,’ he said, turning to Rayne who raised an eyebrow at the remark. ‘Strange how you conveniently forgot that you’d researched and published a book on the subject, don’t you think?’

‘Age does that to people. I have written many books and forgotten many things.’

Stafford came back into the room. ‘We’ll be leaving you then, Mr Rayne,’ he said. ‘Thank you again for your time.’

Rayne saw them to the door. Styles went out to the car. Unexpectedly, Rayne caught hold of Stafford’s sleeve. ‘I may be a superstitious old man, Inspector, but I know what happened to my grandfather. Perhaps there really is a curse around the damned thing.’

He didn’t know quite how to react to the man’s words, thinking at first he meant it in half-jest, but the man’s face bore the leaden lustre of deadly seriousness. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Rayne,’ he said.

‘Be careful who you trust,’ Rayne said quietly, his eyes flashing mysteriously towards Styles. Stafford’s lids narrowed. ‘An old adage of my grandfather’s,’ he explained, and he smiled and closed the door after the police officer.

He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed it on his forehead. His split lips from forcing smiles were steadily weeping blood.

He’d never really seen eye to eye with Superintendent Maloney, but Stafford guessed you’d never escape that no matter which profession you found yourself in. Never quite agreeing with your superior. Finding them lacking in some respect. Maybe it was all about bolstering yourself at the expense of another; superficial deference in public, unashamed criticism in private. He never really took to the man. Not that you had to like your boss, but you had at least to respect them to get anywhere. Lose respect you’ve lost the plot and never pick it back up. That there was no love lost between them was common knowledge amongst the team, in part down to him because he’d let it be known what he thought of Maloney. Some might say that was unprofessional; he couldn’t give a toss. That’s the way it was. That’s the way he was.

The trouble with that sort of stance is that your boss would relish any opportunity to get one back on you. Sooner or later they’d get even. And that time was now, Stafford suspected as he sat in the chair before Maloney’s desk facing a stern-faced Superintendent with a full reservoir of words dammed up behind his lips that he just couldn’t wait to spill out in a torrent. There was a moment’s silence then Maloney let the dam burst.

‘What the fuck do you think you are doing, Stafford?’

‘Sir?’

‘Don’t give me fucking sir! What the hell are you doing chasing all around Derbyshire with this?’ He slammed the copy of True Crimes onto his desk and a pile of paper fluttered at the edges as if nervous and prepared to fly. Not satisfied with this he pushed the book derisively over towards Stafford.

Superintendent Maloney was a slim man, not very tall, not very broad, white hair clipped real short, like his words, the sort of man who would have been at home in the army if he hadn’t joined the police force. Everything by the book, the rules sacrosanct, a visible displeasure at those who strayed out of line, a pathological hatred of sycophants and men with opinions alike. He told Stafford on meeting him that he encouraged freedom of thought, just not the freedom to express it. That said a lot about him. He was a slight but very tough cookie. A man who was born filled to the brim with naked ambition and looking for something to use it on. Woe betide anyone who stood in the way of that. Stafford had obviously put himself very much in the way, judging from the Super’s puce cheeks. Another one of the reasons he couldn’t wait to finish with the business and climb aboard his camper van.

‘You know why,’ Stafford said. ‘The Rayne case in there and the murdered Polish woman — ‘

‘Don’t give me that bullshit, Stafford,’ he said. ‘Tell it like it is, like a man. You’ve run out of ideas. You’re grasping at straws. Do you know how all that’s going to look if word gets out that we’re chasing a detective story from an old book?’

‘It’s relevant, sir.’

‘Not to me it isn’t.’

‘I have a duty — ‘

‘Your duty, Stafford, is to find the man who murdered that woman, not to go off on wild goose chases that threaten to bring the good name of this place into disrepute, make it a laughing stock.’

‘With respect, sir,’ he said, feeling he’d choke on the word respect. ‘You know as well as I that it is not a wild goose chase. There is a valid connection. We have the deaths of two other men — ‘

‘The historians? One of them a suicide, another a heart attack. You’re beginning to see things, Stafford.’

‘The murder in the book is a dead ringer for the murder of the woman.’

‘A bizarre coincidence, no more. Anyhow, we’re finished with this debacle. The case is over. We have our murderer.’

Stafford’s mouth hung open slightly. ‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t quite get that.’

‘You heard me OK. We have our man. Whilst you’ve been running around chasing smoke and mirrors people here have been doing real police work. We have him banged up.’

‘Who?’

‘Heniek Pawlowski.’

‘Her boyfriend? That’s absurd. We had him in already. He’s in the clear. His alibis stack up.’

‘He lied, and everyone lied on his behalf; they pulled the wool over your eyes and your checks simply weren’t robust enough to see through his little game. He’s got the motive, too. He got jealous and possessive all at once, got angry, killed her. End of story.’

Stafford shook his head. ‘The murder was ritualised, not carried out in a fit of anger. The charge won’t stick, it has too many holes.’

‘Watertight. We have a full confession,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. He took the book and dropped it into the waste paper bin. ‘You’re off the case, Stafford. Thankfully it will all be over and done with before you can do any more harm.’

‘You can’t be serious?’

‘I’m never anything but serious.’ His face twisted into what Stafford presumed was an attempt at compassion, something that didn’t sit too well on his features, as if alien to them and he needed the practice. ‘Look, man, you’re what — two, three months away from retirement? You don’t need this aggro. Let’s call it succession planning for continuity’s sake. Time for a gradual slide into retirement, not thrust into something that’s clearly too much for you at this stage in your career. You’ve had a good innings, Stafford; do you really want to go out with a miserable failure as your last outing? Quit whilst you’re still ahead.’