'Go? Why?'
'For the children's sake, I mean,' he said quickly. 'Once the press get on to it, they'll be round here straightaway. And they have the same notions of delicacy as a pack of wolves.'
'I'm beyond sensitivity, Mr Pascoe,' she said.
'But not your children, perhaps.'
'You may be right,' she said more soberly. 'Thanks for the advice.'
'If you do go, let us have an address,' said Pascoe. 'Goodbye, Mrs Wildgoose.'
He was glad to get away, less glad when he returned to Danby Row and found the Valentines had just returned from their holiday. They were a tiny couple, at first fragile in grief, but then growing fierce in anger and inclined to talk as if the police were the perpetrators rather than the investigators of the crime. Neighbours were summoned to placate them, neighbours who had already been questioned and had heard nothing unusual from inside the house the previous night though one thought she may have heard a rustling in the garden as she summoned her cat shortly after midnight.
The same woman had seen Wildgoose visit the house a couple of times, but only in daylight and never staying long enough for 'anything to happen'. Sin, she clearly thought, needed working at.
So Wildgoose had been most discreet, a sensible trait in a man of his profession. The sedated Valentines knew him only as one of Andrea's teachers. The suggestion that he might have been having an affair with their daughter seemed to take them aback almost as much as the murder.
Pascoe sneaked away now to ring Ellie. It was six o'clock already and he could see a long night unwinding before him.
There was a worrying delay before she answered the phone, but she assured him she'd just been sunbathing in the garden.
'People used to hire light aeroplanes to fly overhead in the hope of glimpsing my naked flesh,' she said in self-mockery. 'Now they use radar to avoid hitting it. What's new with you, darling?'
He was reluctant to puncture her light mood, but he couldn't stop her listening to the news on the radio.
'Oh Peter,' she said after he had told her. 'How old do you say? Oh Jesus. And Mark Wildgoose is definitely your man?'
'He's certainly top of the list at the moment!'
'Poor Lorraine. I must ring her.'
'Don't use up too much sympathy. I've just seen her. She's got a bad case of the I-told-you-so's.'
'She has to cover up somehow. Peter, listen, I don't know if you've found out yet or if it's useful, but I can tell you where Mark Wildgoose was last night. Presumably that poor girl too.'
'You can? Well, come on, Sherlock!'
'It was Thelma. She was round here today. We were talking about Lorraine and she said that last night she'd seen Lorraine's husband at the disco at the Aero Club. There's one every Friday and Saturday night, evidently.'
'And Thelma goes to discos!' said Pascoe disbelievingly.
'Why not? But no, not really. This was different. There's been a bit of trouble recently, suggestions that kids under eighteen were buying the hard stuff, that sort of thing. Well, Bernard Middlefield JP, you probably know him, he's on the Club committee and he took it on himself to conduct a personal investigation. Thelma heard about this and she doesn't much care for Middlefield or his attitudes, so she took it on herself to turn up too and provide an objective check on his conclusions.'
'Objective!' snorted Pascoe. 'And Wildgoose?'
'She noticed him late on. He didn't do much dancing. In fact she said he didn't seem too happy. Well, surrounded by sixteen-year-olds mainly from his own school, who'd blame him?'
'He could have stayed at home with a good book. Anyway, thanks, love. We'd have got there soon enough, but this saves a bit of leg-work. Now look, just take me when I come, OK? Don't wait up if you get tired. You're sure you're all right now?'
'Yes, I'm fine,' she said irritably. 'Take care, Peter. Don't beat up anyone I wouldn't beat up.'
'Ha ha,' said Pascoe. 'Bye.'
The technicians were finished with the house in Danby Row now and soon it was left to grief and silence. It was a relief to be back in the busy, functional Murder Room.
Dalziel had put the full national machinery of pursuit into motion. Locally, bus stations, railway stations, taxi and car-hire firms were checked thoroughly as were hotels and lodging-houses. Descriptions were issued to the media and, despite the fact that Wildgoose's passport, all visa'd for his approaching tour, was found in his flat, seaports and airports were alerted too.
‘You're sure he's our man?' said Pascoe uneasily.
'I'm sure I want to talk to him,’ said Dalziel, belching. 'Christ. It's after eight o'clock and I've not had a proper meal today. Why shouldn't he be our man?'
'Well, no reason. Except, maybe, the sex. I mean, before there's never been . . .'
'Before he's never killed anyone he's been screwing,' interrupted Dalziel. 'All right, he's not a sex killer, the killing and the screwing don't go together. But that's no reason why he shouldn't enjoy it. I mean, he's having an affair with this kid, with the others he wasn't.'
'Then why kill her at this moment?'
'For fuck's sake, Peter, you know a better moment, you show me it!'
'There was the ring,' stuck in Wield.
'The ring?'
'Yes, sir. On her engagement finger. Mr Pascoe said that Dr Pottle said . . .'
'Pottle snottle!' snarled Dalziel. 'What the hell can a ring have to do with it? Look, let's just find the sod and pull bits off him till he gives us a few answers.'
'Don't let it bother you,' said Pascoe as Dalziel moved away. 'It's the time of the month.'
'Or he's not so sure,' said Wield.
'He's right about the ring, though. I mean, if Wildgoose gave it to her, then he's not likely to kill her for wearing it!'
'And if he did give it to her, he was jumping the gun a bit, wasn't he?' added Wield.
'We'll probably find out at the Aero Club,' said Pascoe. 'Preece! Come here. I want to take you to a disco.'
As he explained in the car, his reasons for choosing Preece were that the DC could pass for a dissolute twelve-year-old in the dusk with the strobe behind him. But in the event, such diplomatic considerations proved unnecessary. As Pascoe had observed before, this younger generation who were supposed to hold the police in greater fear and distrust than any previous age certainly had strange ways of showing it. Though it was still relatively early, the Aero Club was crowded, the curtains drawn so that evening sunlight should not interfere with the electronic glories within, and the whole place throbbing to a violent beat. Once identified as the fuzz, they were rapidly surrounded by a throng of enthusiastic potential witnesses whose demeanour was far from fearful.
'Sergeant, you and Preece pick the bones out of this lot and I'll join my own age group,' said Pascoe.
'Not many bones here, sir,' said Preece, unambiguously enjoying the pressure of a pair of fourteen- year-old breasts whose fullness bore splendid testimony to the benefits of the National Health service.
Pascoe's 'own age group' consisted of Bernard Middlefield, Thelma Lacewing and Austin Greenall, the secretary, who were standing together looking far more distressed than any of the dead girl’s contemporaries. The first two had both heard the news on the radio, recognized its relevance to their own whereabouts the previous night, and been drawn here again by motives which were not yet clear.
'You know Mark Wildgoose, sir?' Pascoe asked Middlefield.
'Not at all. But I noticed him last night. He stuck out, that much older than the rest. I asked who he was.'
'And you know him, sir?' Pascoe addressed Greenall.
'No,' said the secretary. 'He hadn't been here before. But Thelma, Miss Lacewing, she knew him.'
'I'm a friend of his wife. As you probably know,' said Thelma Lacewing.
'Yes. How was he behaving?' asked Pascoe. 'Anything unusual?'
'What's usual at something like this?' asked Middlefield. 'I'm going to be suggesting to the committee that we put a stop to this kind of thing. This
is a flying club, supposed to be, not a sex-maniacs' kindergarten!'
'Most of their parents are members, they are all potential members, and it subsidizes your cheap gin-and-tonics the rest of the week,' flashed the woman.
'He was a bit unusual,' said Greenall, ignoring the other two. 'You sometimes get an older man in. Usually he's trying to show that he's as good as any of the youngsters. Wildgoose hardly danced at all. They came late. I got the impression it was the girl's idea and it came as a bit of a shock to him to see who was here. I heard one or two of the kids calling him "sir". They must have been pupils at the school he taught at.'
'And what about the ring?'
'Ring?'
'The girl was wearing an engagement ring. A large red stone.'
'No, I didn't notice anything of that,' said Greenall. 'Excuse me. The barman's looking a bit distressed. Ages are a bit difficult. I'd better go to the rescue.'
'A bit difficult!' said Middlefield. 'Inspector, you ought to bring some of your squad down here one weekend just to check this lot!'
'Perhaps I will, sir,' said Pascoe mildly. 'Any irregularities could, as you must know, mean that the club's licence might be completely revoked.'
'I saw the ring,' said Thelma Lacewing. 'It looked like a piece of costume jewellery. I noticed the girl showing it to a group of other girls.'
'And was Wildgoose with her?'
'No. He was at the bar. He didn't seem to want to know.'
The picture that emerged when he cross-checked with Preece and Wield confirmed Thelma Lacewing's impression.
Andrea Valentine had been dropping large hints for some time to her contemporaries about her conquest of Wildgoose. More recently she had been talking in terms of a permanent liaison when he finally unshipped his wife. Last night she had clearly set out to demonstrate in public the truth of the present closeness and the hoped-for permanence of their relationship.
'Yeah,' one girl had said to Preece. 'I thought she were just trying it on, like. I mean she could've bought the ring herself, couldn't she? And Wildgoose, he didn't seem all that pleased, did he?'
'Mebbe that's why he killed her?' suggested another girl.
'Yeah,' said the first, bright-eyed, pressing close against Preece. 'Is that why he killed her, mister! And how did he do it, mister? What did he do to her?'
Preece had retreated in disarray.
Before they left the Aero Club, Pascoe got Thelma Lacewing to herself and asked, 'Why did you come back here tonight?'
She answered. 'Another woman killed, this is probably the last place where she was seen alive, where else should I go, Peter? I should have said something to him last night. Perhaps if I had . . .'
'Forget it,' said Pascoe gently. 'You've got enough worries that aren't yours resting on your shoulders without looking for more. Thanks for looking in on Ellie, by the way. She needs company, I think, and I'm very tied up at the moment.'
'So's she,’ said Lacewing. 'So's she.'
At midnight there was still no trace of Wildgoose and in the Murder Room they were running out of jokes about his name.
'Let's wrap it up,' said Dalziel wearily. 'He'll have to show soon. Penny gets you a pound he's spotted in the morning.'
No one took him up, which was as well for the taker would have lost his penny.
Not that Dalziel was precisely right either. Wildgoose was certainly spotted, but not quite as he had implied in his forecast.
Ted Agar cycled slowly into the forecourt of the Linden Garden Centre early on Sunday morning. The dew still sparkled along the lines of rosebushes and the church bells had not yet begun to summon the good people of Shafton to their Sabbath duties of car-washing, lawn-mowing and the like.
Agar was only paid to keep the place ticking over for half a day five days a week, but he liked to keep a closer eye on things, especially at weekends when potential customers, on discovering the Centre was closed, were not above excavating a couple of young bushes and tossing them into the boot before driving off. The previous day, Saturday, he had been otherwise engaged, watching Yorkshire prod their way to a draw in a County Championship match. Today however there was only a one-day game on offer and Agar believed that if God had wanted cricket to end in a day, He'd have rested on Tuesday instead of waiting till the end of the week.
As he propped his bike against the side of the house, his eyes were already checking the rose-plantation. So familiar was he with the silhouette of each row that he instantly spotted someone had been mucking about. Not that there was a gap, but out there in the middle where the orange-vermilion of his Super-Stars ran alongside the dappled apricot of his Sutter's Golds something was awry, the line had somehow altered.
Perhaps just a couple of stray dogs who imagined that no one would disturb the earth except to bury bones.
Dogs, however, didn't put the earth back after digging it out. Nor did they scatter earth regularly and evenly between the rows as though disposing of a surplus.
Four of the Super-Stars were looking a bit the worse for wear compared with their neighbours, a bit askew. A bit raised up.
He prodded the earth with the hoe he had instinctively picked up from the lean-to behind the house. He saw something small and white just alongside the union of one of the bushes. Like the end of a freshly pruned sucker.
He stooped and looked closer. Looked for a long time. Touched. Let out a long breath.
It was a little finger.
He backed slowly away for five or six paces before turning and hobbling rapidly towards the house.
Chapter 24
It didn't take long to identify the body. The name in the wallet was Wildgoose, Pascoe recognized the face instantly, and finally in the interests of bureaucracy Lorraine Wildgoose was asked to make it official.
'Was it suicide?' she asked afterwards, almost casually.
Not unless he could knock himself unconscious, strangle and bury himself, thought Pascoe.
He shook his head.
'No,' he said and when that produced no response, added gently, 'He was killed, I'm afraid, Mrs Wildgoose. But it does mean he probably wasn't the Choker.'
'Does it?' she said indifferently. 'I don't see why.' Then as though making an effort to find a more acceptable response, she added, 'But I'm glad for the children's sake.'
'Well, she's not going to toss herself on to her old man's pyre,' commented Dalziel after a WPC had taken Mrs Wildgoose out to the awaiting car.
'I think she's really broken up inside,’ said Pascoe.
'Like my guts,’ said Dalziel, beating his belly and belching. 'You didn't find out what she was doing early yesterday morning, between say midnight and four A.M.?'
'No,' said Pascoe. 'You don't really believe that. . . no, I'm sorry, sir. I didn't think.'
'You're probably right. Any road, I've told that lass with her to check as best she can, talk to the kids, that sort of thing. Better safe than sorry. She did hate the poor sod and she looks tough enough. That'd be the best solution too. He's the Choker, runs home for solace after killing the Valentine girl, wife bumps him off and buries him. End of case.'
'And who phones the Evening Post on Saturday afternoon?' wondered Pascoe.
'Who knows? Mebbe we've got a Joker as well as a Choker,' said Dalziel. 'We've got at least four voices on tape so far according to Laurel and Hardy, haven't we?'
'Urquhart and Gladmann,’ said Pascoe. 'Yes. But yesterday afternoon only the Choker knew the girl was dead.'
'The Choker and anyone he might have told before he got himself killed,' urged Dalziel gently. 'What do your experts say about yesterday's voice anyway?'
'Nothing,' said Pascoe who had checked that the envelope was still at the desk. 'They must both be away for the weekend.'
Dalziel snorted his derision for people who had weekends away, a derision which included Wield whose day off it was and who had been heading north on his motorbike too early for even the long arm of Dalziel to haul him in.
Wildgoose had been knock
ed unconscious by a single blow at the top of the spine, either a very lucky or a very expert punch. Then he had been strangled. The only other point of significance was that he had had sexual intercourse not long before death.
'If we assume that he himself is not the Choker,' said Pascoe in deference to what he felt was probably a merely provocative theory on Dalziel's part, 'then it seems likely that after he left the girl, the Choker, who was perhaps waiting outside, moves swiftly in and kills her. As he leaves in his turn, he runs into Wildgoose who has returned for some reason.'
'Seconds,' said Dalziel ghoulishly.
'The Choker kills him. Carts him away. Presumably he has transport.'
'But why?' interrupted Dalziel. 'Why not leave the body in the house? I mean, why not lug the guts into the kitchen and take off rather than risk meeting someone in the back lane?'
Pascoe started inwardly. Dalziel was full of surprises. Lug the guts. Despite his mockery, had he too been studying Hamlet closely for whatever clues it might contain? Or was it just coincidence? There was no art to read Dalziel's mind in his ten-acre face.
'Perhaps he felt it would spoil the set-up there.' he answered. 'Girl neatly laid out, all decent and proper. Religious almost.'
'Or perhaps he just wanted to trail a red herring,' said Dalziel. 'Make us think that Wildgoose did it.'
'It's another link anyway,' said Pascoe. 'Burying him at the Garden Centre, I mean.'
'Aye, but what's it signify?'
'That's what we're paid to find out, sir,' said Pascoe sententiously.
If that were so, they did not earn their money that Sunday.
In hospital Dave Lee was well enough to work out that perhaps he could trade off his allegations of brutality against Dalziel's accusations of complicity. Ms Pritchard accompanied Mrs Lee during visiting hours and later to the station.
Dalziel, encountering them in the vestibule, refused a private audience, listened impatiently for a couple of minutes, got the drift and bellowed, 'You do what you bloody well like, my girl. Me, I've got more important things to occupy myself with. Like murder. Like the Choker.'
Dalziel 06 A Killing Kindness Page 21