The Dead Hand of History by Sally Spencer Read Free Book Online Page B

me.’
    â€˜I’m not convinced,’ Paniatowski said.
    â€˜With the greatest respect, ma’am, that’s because you’re a woman,’ Walker countered.
    Of course it was, Paniatowski thought. What did women know about anything? What right had they to even be in the man’s world that was the Police Force? And worst of all, how dare they presume to lead a serious investigation?
    â€˜How would my being a man make me any more convinced?’ she asked, keeping her temper reined in – but only just.
    â€˜If you’d been a man, you’d have done national service,’ Walker explained. ‘And if you’d done your national service when I did, the chances are you’d have been sent to Korea, to deal with the commies.’
    â€˜Oh, you’re the one who was sent off to fight the Red menace, were you?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘I always wondered who it was.’
    â€˜Sorry if I gave the wrong impression, ma’am,’ Walker said. ‘I was only an acting corporal – a minor cog in the wheel.’
    Well done, Monika, Paniatowski told herself. Really well done! You’ve only been in the job for a couple of hours, and you’re already bullying and belittling your subordinates.
    â€˜I’m sorry, too,’ she said. ‘Go on with your theory.’
    â€˜We were given basic training under combat conditions before we ever went out there, so we thought we knew what to expect,’ Walker said. ‘But we were dead wrong, because there’s a big difference between having blanks shot over your head and being exposed to real bullets. The first time we came under fire, I panicked, and if it hadn’t been for my sergeant, who’d experienced it all before, and kept me in line, I swear I’d have done a runner. The second time was easier, and by the third I’d learned how to handle the situation.’
    â€˜So you’re saying it’s not just that the killer kept his nerve, but that, in your opinion, he’d been trained to keep his nerve?’
    â€˜Something like that, ma’am,’ Walker agreed. ‘Of course, he doesn’t have to have been battle-hardened by being in the services, it could simply be that this isn’t his first murder. But if he had done this kind of thing before, we’d have heard about it, don’t you think?’
    â€˜Yes, we’d certainly have heard,’ Paniatowski agreed.

FIVE
    B ack in the old days, the basement of Whitebridge police headquarters had been a repository for all kinds of junk that no one knew what else to do with, and only when there was a major crime was the junk cleared out and the space used as an incident room. All that had changed towards the end of the sixties. Police headquarters was to be extensively remodelled, the town council had proclaimed loudly. It would be turned into a thoroughly modern building which would meet the needs of a thoroughly modern Police Force.
    An incident room – a dedicated incident room – had been central to the planning. And if that meant there was less space for other activities – if the canteen was a little smaller, and the office space more cramped – the council was sure the officers wouldn’t mind, since they would understand that the changes would lead to more effective policing.
    The incident room had been opened with a great fanfare – ‘A show put on by paid officials who know nothin’ about policin’, for the benefit of elected officials, who know even less,’ Charlie Woodend had said sourly at the time – and the ceremony had received extensive coverage in the local press.
    And then the officials and the press all went away, and the incident room was used for major incidents when there were any – and as a repository for junk that no one knew what else to do with when there weren’t.
    The appearance of the plastic-bagged hand on the river bank had ensured that,