The Dead Hand of History Read Online Free PDF

‘And that’s how I want you to play it.’
    (Once, a year earlier, the assistant personnel officer had said, ‘You mean that you want us to play it by our own rules, sir?’ He had intended it as no more than a joke, but when he received his dismissal notice at the end of the week, it had no longer seemed the least bit funny. Since then, everybody had stuck to the script that Tompkins had dictated.)
    â€˜I’m not saying you should do anything that might be described as dodgy,’ Tompkins told them. ‘In fact, if I find you cutting corners, you’re for the chop. But I am saying that if you play it right along the straight and narrow, you’ll never meet your quotas – and if that happens, you’re out as well. Have I made myself clear?’
    The managers nodded again.
    â€˜Right, you can go,’ Tompkins said curtly.
    The managers rose to their feet, and as they walked towards the door they tried to convey the impression that their eagerness to leave was more related to a desire to return to the work they loved than to an urge to quickly put the maximum distance between themselves and their boss.
    One man, however, remained seated, and seemed perfectly happy to do so. His name was Dick Cutler, and he was in his mid-thirties. He had a bullet-shaped head, and a jagged scar running along his left cheek which was a souvenir of his thuggish youth. His official title within the Tompkins Organization was Assistant Maintenance Manager, but he knew very little about maintenance and a great deal about intimidation. He was, in fact, the company’s attack dog – its hatchet man. He had been with Tompkins from the start, and the organization’s success was due, in no small part, to his efforts.
    Once the rest of the managers had left – the last one closing the door firmly behind him – Tompkins turned his attention to Cutler.
    â€˜I wanted to ask you, in general terms, about that thing we were discussing the other day,’ he said.
    â€˜You mean the—’ Cutler began.
    â€˜I mean the thing ,’ Tompkins interrupted.
    â€˜Right,’ said Cutler, who did not count either quick-thinking or subtlety among his talents. ‘The thing .’
    â€˜Well?’ Tompkins demanded. ‘When’s it going to start?’
    Cutler grinned, and the scar on his cheek puckered. ‘It’s already started,’ he said.
    Though Charlie Woodend had been both her hero and her mentor, Monika Paniatowski had always considered his habit of pacing up and down the office to be slightly over-dramatic. Now, filling his shoes for the first time, she not only understood why he’d done it, but found herself doing exactly the same thing. But what she still didn’t understand was how he’d appeared to have all the space in the world for his agitated perambulations, while she herself seemed to be constantly running the risk of banging into the furniture.
    She tried to clear her mind for more important matters, but all that did was to shift her attention from the desks and filing cabinets and focus it instead on an irritating scratching noise which had been coming from beyond her office door for some time.
    No, not from beyond it, from the actual door itself – about halfway up.
    What was the bloody noise?
    She stopped pacing, and looked out of the window. She had hoped the reporters would already have left the scene, but they were still there, bunched around her car.
    â€˜Who tipped them off about the hand, Colin?’ she demanded. ‘Was it the man who found it – the one who was walking the dog?’
    DI Colin Beresford shook his head. ‘He swears he hasn’t talked to anybody – and I believe him.’
    So it had to be somebody on the Force, Paniatowski thought. Somebody, perhaps, who resented her for getting her promotion.
    Well, that certainly narrowed it down!
    The scratching at the door continued.
    â€˜There’s not