Free Death's Dark Shadow--A novel of murder in 1970's Yorkshire by Sally Spencer Page A

in an attempt to meet him halfway, ‘but since I don’t even know her surname …’
    â€˜Jeez, if you don’t know her name, then how do you expect us to look her up?’ Muñoz interrupted.
    â€˜I don’t know her surname, but I have the name and address of someone who I think will know it,’ Paniatowski said.
    â€˜I don’t get it,’ the captain said. ‘If you’ve got a murder on your hands, why don’t you just pull in the usual suspects and give them the third degree until one of them either confesses or rats out one of the others.’
    â€˜It doesn’t quite work like that over here,’ Paniatowski said patiently. ‘What we like to do during an investigation is build up a profile of the victim, and see where that leads us.’
    â€˜Weird,’ the captain said. ‘Listen, I’ll tell you my problem, lady. The Generalissimo has just died, and now that he’s gone, all kinds of low-life have taken their opportunity to come creeping out of the woodwork. There’s murderers, rapists, child molesters, homosexuals, communists – you name it, we’ve got it – all trying to get their dirty business done before we’re organized enough to clamp down on them again. And you want me to waste my men’s time chasing up the details on some old broad who may not even have been a subversive?’
    â€˜Exactly,’ Paniatowski agreed.
    â€˜No can do,’ Muñoz said – and hung up.

SIX
    T he Spanish Consulate in Manchester was located midway between the Central Reference Library on Albert Square and the Piccadilly bus station, and when it opened its doors for business that Monday morning, Paniatowski was already waiting outside.
    Establishing her credentials with her warrant card was enough to get her inside without a prior appointment, and ten minutes later she found herself sitting across a desk from the deputy vice consul, a man in his middle-thirties who looked as if he regarded his present position as no more than a step on the ladder to future diplomatic eminence.
    â€˜We are always willing to cooperate with the English police, Detective Chief Inspector Paniatowski,’ he said, ‘but I am still unclear how we can help you.’
    â€˜I have some questions I need answering about a woman who was found dead in Whitebridge, but who we suspect may have come from the Costa Blanca,’ Paniatowski told him.
    â€˜Then I would suggest that you contact the Cuerpo de Policía Armada in Alicante.’
    â€˜I’ve already done that. They say they haven’t got the available manpower to make any inquiries.’
    The deputy vice consul nodded. ‘Yes, it’s probably true that they haven’t,’ he said.
    It was time to turn up the bullshit meter, Paniatowski decided.
    â€˜I don’t suppose there’s a police force in the world that doesn’t feel it’s short of manpower,’ she said, ‘so it’s usually a case of setting out your priorities. Now you can’t expect the local police on the Costa Blanca to see my investigation as important. Their work, by its very nature, is bound to be parochial. But surely someone with a much wider view of the world – like yourself, for instance – can see the benefits of international cooperation, and could suggest, through the proper channels, that it might be to their long-term advantage to assist us.’
    Not bad, she thought, awarding herself a mental pat on the shoulder. Not bad at all!
    And then she saw the sanctimonious look which had appeared on the deputy vice consul’s face, and realized it had been a waste of effort.
    â€˜You have heard, have you not, that our great leader – the man who has steered Spain through stormy waters of both national and international affairs for almost forty years – passed away last week?’ the man asked.
    The conversation was probably being taped, Paniatowski