The Dead Hand of History Read Online Free PDF Page A

stomach.
    Though she’d hoped that the press would be kept in blissful ignorance for just a little while longer, it was now plain that they already knew something had happened.
    It was, she supposed, almost inevitable that they would have got a whiff of the fact that something was afoot, given the number of bobbies who’d been involved in the operation on the river bank. But even allowing for that, she was determined that she wouldn’t go into the details of what that something actually was until she was good and ready.
    The reporters finally drew level with her.
    â€˜Tell us about the hand!’ Lydia Jenkins screamed as she waved her microphone vaguely in the right direction. ‘Do you know who it belongs to yet, Chief Inspector?’
    The mild disquiet in Paniatowski’s stomach rapidly transformed itself into a bubbling broth.
    â€˜The hand?’ she repeated. ‘What hand?’
    The reporters looked first at each other, and then back at her. ‘You’re surely not denying that a hand was found down by the river, are you?’ Mike Traynor asked, incredulously.
    â€˜I’m neither denying nor confirming anything ,’ Paniatowski said. ‘When I want to issue a statement, you’ll be called to the press room, just as you always were in the past.’
    But she was thinking, God, I sound so stiff – so formal and ill-at-ease. I’m sure Charlie would have handled it better.
    â€˜Is it a woman ’s hand?’ one of the reporters called out.
    â€˜What happened to the rest of her?’ another shrieked.
    â€˜As I said, I’ll be issuing a statement later,’ Paniatowski said, trying – and failing – to sound a little more natural.
    â€˜Will you be calling on DCI Woodend for help, Chief Inspector?’ a third reporter wondered.
    Great! Monika thought. Bloody great! Will I be calling on Charlie for help? That’s just what I wanted to hear!
    The middle managers were gathered around the large table in Warren Tompkins’ office, and sat in silence – almost holding their collective breath – while Tompkins himself took a leisurely gaze out of the window at the bread-delivery vans parked below.
    Tompkins turned to face the team. He was a heavily built man, but one who knew how to use his excess weight to its best advantage. With his customers – especially the important ones – he was a jovial fat man, a friendly uncle figure who charmed them, and left them with the feeling that he was much more concerned about their interests than he was about his own. With his employees, however, the flab became a mountain of malice which threatened – if they displeased him in any way – to roll over on them and bury their careers.
    â€˜Five years ago, I was a sergeant-cook in the army,’ he announced. ‘A sergeant-cook, for Christ’s sake!’
    The middle managers nodded, in a way which they hoped their boss would view as both serious and interested. But it wasn’t an easy trick to pull off, because they had heard this same story countless times before, and they could pretty much have delivered the rest of it themselves.
    â€˜And look at me now,’ Tompkins continued. ‘I own this bakery, lock, stock and barrel. It’s a big business by a lot of people’s standards – and a lot of people would say that the sergeant-cook had done very well for himself. But I don’t see it that way at all. For me, it’s only the start.’
    He paused, and the managers all nodded again.
    â€˜And how did I build up this big business of mine?’ Tompkins asked.
    The other managers turned towards the dispatches supervisor – whose turn it was to respond – and right on cue, his raised his hand.
    â€˜Yes?’ Tompkins said.
    â€˜By playing by no rules but your own, sir,’ the dispatches supervisor said dutifully.
    â€˜By playing by no rules but my own,’ Tompkins repeated.