Dalziel 06 A Killing Kindness

by Reginald Hill

  'What's your interest in Wildgoose?' demanded Dalziel. 'You've heard summat?'

  'That he is odd. Potentially violent. And he teaches English and Drama at Bishop Crump Comprehensive which is, incidentally, Brenda Sorby's old school.'

  'Oh aye,' said Dalziel. 'Was any of that on your report, Sergeant Brady?'

  Brady shook his head.

  'None,' he said with the laconic assurance of one who is not at fault.

  'What's your source, Peter?'

  'Information,' said Pascoe uncomfortably. He didn't mind telling Dalziel privately but saw no reason to label Ellie as a snout before all this lot.

  'Malicious?'

  'Possibly. But also authoritative.'

  'Aye. Sergeant Brady?'

  'Sir?'

  'Come on, lad. You're the only one here that's met the bugger. Don't be coy.'

  Brady lit a cigarette from the one he was smoking.

  'Lives on Wordsworth Drive on the Belle Vue estate about half a mile from Pump Road. Detached house, just.'

  'Garden?' asked Dalziel.

  'Grass, roses, flower-beds. No veg. It's not a vegetable estate.'

  'And you interviewed him at the house?' said Pascoe.

  'Yes.'

  Dalziel looked at Pascoe interrogatively.

  'I heard he was separated from his wife,' said Pascoe. Living apart.'

  'Well, she was there that evening. Mind you, she did shuffle the kids out pretty sharpish when I said what I was.'

  'And her personal reaction?'

  Brady looked puzzled.

  'Was she shocked, worried, indignant, inquisitive? What?' demanded Pascoe.

  'Nothing much. She just showed me into a room where he was sitting with these two kids, said, "Police, for you. Come on children," and that was that. I didn't see her again.'

  Pascoe and Dalziel exchanged glances.

  'Probably just visiting,' said Pascoe. 'And Wildgoose himself?'

  'Ordinary fellow. Just answered the questions. Nothing special.'

  Dalziel said to Pascoe, 'Any ideas?'

  'It might be as well to check when June McCarthy was last on the day shift and ask around if anyone ever saw Wildgoose talking to her as she passed the allotments.'

  'Would he need to talk to her in advance?'

  'He'd need to find out somehow that she'd be passing that way in the early morning.'

  'Right. At the same time check him out on the times of the other killings.'

  Pascoe made a note, saying, 'It'd better be fast. He's off to Saudi Arabia any moment.'

  'Jesus!'

  The briefing proceeded.

  Wield reported on his visit to the Cheshire Cheese and diffidently wondered if there might be any significance in the closeness of the gypsy camp to three locations linked with the murders.

  Dalziel said, 'One scene of killing, two work-places. Not much, is it?'

  Wield muttered something about the widow's mite.

  Dalziel said, 'Let's keep religion out of this. All right. Check on sinister gypsies lurking round the bank or the factory. Anyone else got any straws for us to grab hold of? No? Right, then here's what I think. There's things not being noticed on this case. I say case, not cases, because that's what it is, and that's what the trouble is. Too many of you are acting as if there's four individual investigations going on. Well, there's not, there's one, and when you're asking questions, taking statements, I want you to remember that. Detectives, that's what you're called. From what I've seen and heard, some of you couldn't detect piss in a urinal! So get your fingers out. Let's get back to the beginning. Everything new that happens changes everything that's past. So I want you all looking at what you've done already in that light. We're going to go over all the old ground again, but this time we'll shift around a bit, see what a new eye can do. I want all of you to know all of this case inside out. There's some people reckon getting into the CID means you're licensed to sit on your arse supping pints all hours that God sends. They'd better get disenchanted. Let's get some sodding work done!'

  His right hand which had been scrabbling beneath his shirt like a ferret in a sack suddenly emerged into the light and slapped ferociously on the table top before him. The meeting broke up.

  'Sergeant Wield!' called Dalziel.

  'Sir.'

  'You reckon Ludlam knows something?'

  'That's what I think, sir. But whether it's about Tommy or whether it's about his brother-in-law, I don't know.'

  'I've been talking with Mr Headingley,' said Dalziel. 'He's about as far on as we are. So if you think that Ludlam really is holding back, let's keep up the pressure. Call in at Pickersgill's house, stir things up a bit. You're interested in Tommy Maggs, right. But anything you can get on Frankie Pickersgill will be fine.'

  'Poor sod,' said Wield.

  'Why?'

  'Well, I'm trying to get Ron to grass on Frankie again by threatening to tell Frankie that Ron grassed on him last time!'

  This tickled Dalziel and he bellowed with laughter.

  'There's no chance that the two of 'em could have been on the Spinks's warehouse job together?' he wondered when he had laughed his fill.

  'I doubt it. Frankie puts up with Ron for Janey's sake. He really thinks he's a bit of a halfwit and Frankie doesn't suffer fools gladly.'

  'No. That's what Mr Headingley reckons too. Well, see what you can do, but don't spend more time on it than necessary. The other thing, you didn't have much to do with Brenda Sorby's bank, did you?'

  'I was around, but Mr Pascoe did most of the talking.'

  'Right, Sergeant. I want you to go over all that stuff again. Get pictures of everyone concerned in the case, see if any of 'em mean anything to any of the girl's workmates. Peter, don't look so hurt. I meant what I said just now. New eyes. I want you to check through Mrs Dinwoodie's background again, all right? And I did that in the first place.'

  'Sir,' said Wield.

  'You still here, Sergeant? You want a rest perhaps? Come to think of it, you look a bit knackered. You ought to try getting to bed at a decent time.'

  'I was just wondering, sir. How far do I go with this business of putting the pressure on Ron Ludlam?'

  Dalziel looked surprised.

  'Bluff's for con-men and card-sharps,' he said. 'My rule is, never threaten owt you won't perform.'

  After Wield had left, he turned to Pascoe and said, 'What's the background on this Wildgoose stuff, Peter?'

  Pascoe told him and he nodded sombrely.

  'His wife, eh? Well, women can get pretty bitter when there's a break-up. They don't see straight.'

  He sighed deeply. His own wife had left him many years ago and her reasons for doing so had long since fossilized in his mind in the form of hysterical female delusions.

  'All the same, the bugger needs checking out. Better go and see him.'

  'Wouldn't Brady be better? After hearing me mentioned yesterday, it's going to alert him, me turning up so soon.'

  'If he's our man, the bugger'll be alert enough already,' said Dalziel. 'Which is more than I can say for Brady. No, you go, Peter. Don't worry about alerting him, as long as you bloody well terrify him into the bargain!'

  'Is that such a good idea? Perhaps we should wait till Dr Pottle produces his profile first,' probed Pascoe.

  'That quack! Christ, I'd as lief sit through one of Rosetta Stanhope's seances,' said Dalziel disgustedly. 'It's the sodding ACC's idea, wouldn't you know it? I think that twerp's one of Pottle's best patients.'

  A phone rang on the table.

  Dalziel picked it up and bellowed 'Yes?' as though he wanted to make it obsolete. He listened a moment.

  'Talk of the devil,' he said. 'The sod's here.'

  'Pottle?'

  'Yes. And a pair of linguists. Peter, get them sorted, will you, or at least out of sight. We can't have the public coming into a respectable police station and finding it looking like a senior fucking common room!'

  'Sir, where will you be?' called Pascoe as Dalziel
headed for the door.

  The lat man grinned, brown teeth bared like a moon-touched churchyard.

  'Out of touch,' he said. 'I'll practise what I preach. There was a break-in at the Aero Club bar last night. Just a couple of bottles missing, but there's any number of suspects. That gang of gyppos just across the fence! Me, I don't know any of these buggers yet, but they seem intent on getting in on the act. This gives me a nice excuse to go visiting.'

  Chapter 11

  Sergeant Wield was no intellectual. The only books he owned were the complete works of H. Rider Haggard which he read and re-read avidly. But he knew a prick-teaser when he saw one.

  Janey Pickersgill crossed and recrossed her long legs with maximum slither and maximum exposure. Her skirt had the fashionable side slit and Wield observed that stockings had made a comeback after a decade of tights. She noticed him noticing and stretched sensuously in her armchair, arching her back to obtrude her tiny bust.

  Wield yawned, it wasn't altogether an affectation. There had been a lot of talk, not much sleep, the previous night. Maurice, his friend in Newcastle, had been ill at ease, not wholly welcoming. Their talk had not got to the heart of things but Wield suspected the worst.

  As he did now.

  'Janey, if you're trying to take my mind off my job, forget it,' he said pleasantly. 'I've seen better tits on a Turkish wrestler. Tell me again about that Thursday night.'

  'You can't talk to me like that. I'll tell Frankie,’ she threatened. But she arranged her skirt into more decorous folds and lit a cigarette, holding it and puffing it like a beginner. There was something of the tyro about everything she did. Still in her mid-twenties, she had not yet developed the patina of hardness, or worse, of dreary resignation which is worn by those whose contact with authority is invariably defensive or on visiting days. But it would come, thought Wield. Meanwhile, though there was no chance of his being seduced by her charms, he must be careful not to be charmed by her naiveté.

  She had married Frankie Pickersgill knowing what he was and had lied constantly and vehemently while he was being investigated for the off-licence job.

  'Didn't they tell you at the depot Frankie's driving a load across to Manchester? He won't be back till late this afternoon.'

  'Yes, I know,' said Wield, settling comfortably in his chair. 'What I don't know is what you're trying to take my mind off with all this leg-waving, Janey. I mean, all I'm interested in is Tommy Maggs. Now the three of you were here the night it happened. Right?'

  'The night what happened?' she said warily.

  'Why, the night young Tommy Maggs's girlfriend got killed,' said Wield innocently. 'Did anything else happen that night?'

  'Yes, all right, we were all here, watching the telly. We've told your lot already. What are you bothering us again for?'

  'You see, Janey, Tommy's disappeared,' said Wield earnestly. 'We're worried about him. He's naturally very upset. A young lad like that, wandering around in a distressed state, anything could happen. You can see that, can't you?'

  'I can't see what it's got to do with me,' complained the woman, nervously pecking at her cigarette.

  'No? Well, it's Ron, really. You know what these youngsters are like. False sense of loyalty, not really knowing their friends' best interests, that sort of thing. There's a chance he may know more than he's letting on. I wondered if you could help.'

  'No. I don't know anything. He's said nothing to me.'

  'Are you sure? Throw your mind right back. Back to that night when the three of you were sitting here watching telly together.'

  'Well, he wouldn't be likely to say much then, would he, as nothing had happened yet,' said Janey with the pride of one stumbling on an oasis of logic in a wasteland of feminine intuition.

  'Of course, he wouldn't. You're right,' said Wield. 'Unless he said something about Tommy's state of mind when he left him in the Bay Tree.'

  The woman looked at him in alarm.

  'You don't think Tommy's got anything to do with killing that lass, do you? It was the Choker, everyone knows that.'

  'But who's the Choker, Janey? Who knows that? You've met Tommy?'

  'Couple of times. Ron brought him round to the house.'

  'Nice lad.'

  'He seemed very nice. Very decent,' she said emphatically. A scrap of tobacco had got stuck to her tongue. She picked at it with a scarlet fingernail. The effect was much sexier now that she wasn't trying.

  'And Brenda, did you meet her?'

  'Just the once. She was in the car when Tommy called, so I made him bring her in. Nice girl too. Well spoken.'

  'Bit posh for Tommy, you thought?'

  'No. Just well spoken.'

  'Frankie, did he meet her?'

  'Yes. He said hello.'

  'And what did he think of her?'

  Now alarms were ringing in her mind.

  'What's that mean? He didn't think anything of her. Just for a minute they spoke. What the hell are you driving at?'

  Wield looked at her with a blankness not altogether affected. He had stumbled on this line of questioning by chance just as he was about ready to give up and go. There was no way that Frankie was going to let hints about his brief acquaintance with Brenda Sorby scare him into admitting the Spinks ‘warehouse job. But Janey might let something slip out of sheer indignation.

  'We're interested in anyone who knew Brenda,' he said, suddenly very stiff, very official. 'There's a strong possibility that she was picked up by a car after she left Tommy that night. And for her to get willingly into a car at that time of night, she would almost certainly need to know the driver.'

  She was on her feet leaning over him, so close and so angry that he felt little specks of spittle hit his face as she spoke.

  'Are you pigs so hard up you want to pin this one on any poor sod who's handy? Well, you've come to the wrong shop if it's my Frankie you're after. He was here with me all that night, and I mean all that night, from when he got home till next morning when he went to work. And nothing's going to make me say different, not even if they send a whole battalion looking like you do!'

  'What time did you go to bed?' asked Wield calmly.

  'What?'

  'Bed. You did go to bed? What time.'

  'I don't know. Half eleven, midnight.'

  She was confused as people often are by a lack of reaction to an emotional outburst.

  'What about Ron?'

  'What about Ron?'

  'Did he go first? Or was he still up when you and Frankie went to bed?'

  'I don't know. First I think.'

  'So there was a period when you and Frankie were downstairs by yourselves between eleven and midnight.'

  'I don't know! What's it matter? Mebbe we went first.'

  'Leaving Ron by himself?'

  'No! I mean, most likely we all went up together.'

  'I didn't know you were that close a family,' said Wield.

  She slapped at his face, a full round-arm blow. Wield parried unhurriedly, the chopping edge of his left hand held palm forward at head height like a gesture of peace.

  'Jesus!' she swore as she nursed her wrist.

  'Pick someone your own size,' said Wield.

  He rose, put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down on to the chair he had just vacated.

  There was something here, he was sure. But it was probably something for Chief Inspector Headingley, and he had already spent too much Choker time on it.

  Casting bread on waters was a good exit ploy for a policeman. Leave them worrying. It was often very effective. It was also often very unpleasant but, as any Rider Haggard fan knew, duty must be done.

  'Janey,' he said sternly. 'If your Frankie's relying on Ron for an alibi, he shouldn't sleep too well at nights.'

  'What the hell do you mean?' she said sullenly, still rubbing her wrist.

  'Come on, Janey! Don't be naive. You must know your brother well enough by now. When Frankie got done for the whisky, did you never wonder how we got on to him?
'

  She was with him so quickly he knew he must have touched some deep hidden suspicion.

  'You're lying,' she said. 'Prove it.'

  'Oh Janey,' he said sadly. 'That's the one thing people like you and people like me have in common. We know when each other's lying or telling the truth. It's only juries that need proof.'

  He made for the door. There was nothing else for him here just now. Later, perhaps . . .

  Wield knew he'd taken a risk. It was one thing to threaten Ludlam, quite another to blow the gaff to Janey. But Wield had his intuitions too. It crossed his mind that the last time he had followed one was when he sat in on the seance with a cassette recorder in his pocket.

  He shuddered at the memory and drove to Brenda Sorby's bank.

  Millhill was a typically 'mixed' suburb, middle-class, owner-occupied on the side nearest the river moderating to council house and commercial towards the neighbouring industrial estate. The Northern Bank was in a smallish shopping precinct at about the midway point. The previous weekend after the discovery of Brenda Sorby's body, Pascoe had interviewed the bank staff while Wield had checked round the shops. Only the hairdressing salon a quarter of a mile along the road had provided any witness. Brenda had kept her appointment, been bright and chatty and left just after six-fifteen. Indeed, as they knew that she had met Tommy in the Bay Tree at eight, anything the bank staff or shopkeepers could tell them hardly seemed likely to be significant, but Dalziel wanted the ground turned over again, and Dalziel was Ayesha.

  Wield checked his notebook. A couple of the smaller shops had been closed for the annual holidays. It was surprising how many people still stuck to the old tradition of taking their vacation during the High Fair.

  The first one he tried, M. Conrad, Jeweller and Watch-Repairer, was locked. The second, Durdons Confectioners, was open. Mr and Mrs Durdon had just got back from a week in Spain that very morning, and were clearly bent on recouping their expenses as rapidly as possible.

  Yes, they had read about the killing, they always bought the English papers on holiday. Yes, they had been here that Thursday, they didn't go till early Friday morning. Yes, they remembered the lass vaguely.