Dying Fall by Sally Spencer Page A

majorities – who might be more than willing to listen to him.’
    â€˜Thanks for the warnin’,’ Woodend said.
    â€˜Watch your back, Charlie,’ Polly Johnson advised.
    â€˜I will,’ Woodend told her. ‘In fact, I’ve already sent my sergeant out to collect a bit of body armour.’
    When Pogo had left police headquarters, he had determined to put the offer that the blonde sergeant had made to him firmly out of his mind. It was too late to start getting involved in life again, he argued to himself.
Far
too late. He was drifting slowly into oblivion – and that was just fine with him.
    And yet, despite his own wishes, Monika Paniatowski’s words kept drifting back to him.
    â€˜
It’s the chance to be useful again – the chance to earn your own respect and the respect of others.
’
    She should never have said it, he thought – should never have reminded him of a time when his opinion was sought and his judgement was valued.
    And yet … and yet what was wrong with the idea of travelling a little way along the road she’d suggested? It wasn’t a commitment, it was an experiment, and if he didn’t like it, he could always turn back.
    â€˜Give it a shot, Percy,’ he said aloud.
    And then he realized that, for the first time in a long while, he’d called himself by his real name.
    The pub opposite Lowry Engineering was called, logically enough, the Engineer’s Arms, and by the time the workers knocked off for the day, Monika Paniatowski had already positioned herself at a table in the bar.
    She was hoping for information. Useful information. The sort of information that Elizabeth Driver would have gleefully splashed across the front page of her disgusting newspaper.
    â€˜Factory owner’s three-in-a-bed romp!’ would do nicely, she thought.
    As would ‘Factory owner raids workers’ pension fund!’
    It would, strictly speaking, be blackmail to use such information against Lowry, of course, but blackmail only in the interests of justice – blackmail to protect the community.
    The workers began to pour into the bar. They looked as if they were dying for a drink, and after eight hours’ hard work, they probably were.
    Paniatowski studied the men, wondering which one she should approach. Then it occurred to her that it might be more interesting – and more productive – to wait and see which of them would approach
her
.
    It didn’t take long for an approach to happen. As soon as they paid for their pints, three of the men started to make their way towards her table.
    Paniatowski studied them, and quickly assigned them into rough – but useful – categories. The one leading the group had carefully quiffed hair, and though he was wearing a boiler suit, he
moved
like a man decked out in his best dancing clothes. He was the Romeo of the group, and the others were only there as padding – a necessary backcloth for his performance. The second man had pale well-meaning eyes – and she instantly labelled him the Nice Guy. The third was red-faced, with a mouth which seemed to be permanently set in a look of disapproval – the Complainer.
    Romeo reached the table first, and said, ‘Do you mind if we sit down with you, love?’
    Paniatowski glanced around the bar, making it plain to him that she was well aware there were still plenty of
empty
tables to be had, then she smiled and said, ‘Be my guest.’
    The men sat quickly, before she changed her mind, and Romeo said, ‘What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ in a place like this?’
    â€˜I’m doing research,’ Paniatowski said.
    â€˜Are you? That is interestin’. Into what?’
    â€˜Into pick-up lines.’
    â€˜I beg your pardon?’
    â€˜I wanted to find out if there was one man left in the whole country who still used that corny “pretty-girl-place-like-this” line. And