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

thought, and when it was over, the deputy vice consul would play it back to his superiors, to prove what a good boy he’d been.
    â€˜Yes, I have heard that,’ she agreed.
    â€˜Well, there you have it,’ the deputy vice consul said, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
    â€˜There I have what?’ Paniatowski wondered.
    â€˜The Spanish people are in a very disturbed and distressed state. Cruelly robbed of their leader, they are wandering around like lost sheep. They need the police to guide them.’
    The game was lost, and she should leave it right there, Paniatowski told herself.
    And then she thought about what Paco had told her of his own experiences – and those of his comrades – after the war had ended, and she heard herself say, ‘So it’s because the people are all so upset over Franco’s death that the police have their hands full, is it?’
    â€˜Certainly.’
    â€˜Not because they’re expecting any kind of trouble?’
    â€˜Why would there be any trouble? The whole nation admired and respected the Caudillo.’
    â€˜I got a very different impression when I was over in Spain recently,’ Paniatowski said.
    â€˜You must have been talking to some of the very few malcontents who live in my country, then,’ the deputy vice consul said. He paused for a moment, before continuing with fake casualness, ‘Who were these people who gave you such a distorted view of Spain?’
    â€˜Why would you want to know that?’
    â€˜Is it not obvious?’
    â€˜No, not to me.’
    â€˜If they are unhappy, it is either because they have a genuine grievance or because they have been misinformed about the true state of affairs. Whichever the case, they must be contacted, so that their grievances can be addressed and their misconceptions corrected.’
    â€˜I must say, you take your job very seriously,’ Paniatowski said.
    â€˜Thank you. I certainly like to think that is the case.’
    â€˜I can’t imagine an English deputy vice consul in Spain having so much concern for the people back home.’
    â€˜Perhaps not, but we Spaniards are very much one big family,’ the deputy vice consul replied. ‘Now, if you could just give me the names …’ he pressed her.
    Paniatowski frowned. ‘Let me see … one of the people who seemed particularly unhappy was called Miguel.’
    â€˜Do you happen to know what his second name is?’ the deputy vice consul asked.
    â€˜I think his second name was El Raton,’ she said.
    â€˜Miguel el Raton,’ repeated the deputy vice consul, glaring at her. ‘That is what we call Mickey Mouse in Spanish. Do you think that is amusing?’
    â€˜No,’ Paniatowski said, ‘but I don’t think it’s particularly funny, either, that you’re trying to pump me for the names of people who are not happy with your government.’
    â€˜This meeting is over,’ the vice consul said coldly.
    â€˜Yes,’ Paniatowski agreed, ‘I rather think it is.’
    George Baxter, the chief constable, had always reminded Paniatowski of a huge ginger teddy bear, but since his wife’s death, that resemblance had all but melted away. In the days between Jo’s car crash and her funeral, his shock of red hair had turned completely white, and whilst he was still a big man, he no longer seemed as solid as he once had. But it was his eyes that told the story best. For most of the time, they were like huge swimming pools of guilt and grief, and when they did express another emotion, that emotion was usually anger.
    He was angry with Paniatowski at that moment, and part of the anger – but only part – was as a result of her early-morning trip to Manchester.
    â€˜I don’t know what you think gave you the right to enter the Spanish consulate and interrogate the deputy vice consul, Chief Inspector,’ he said, ‘but let me