“Sir . . . ,” he began, but it was too late. The rear door had opened, and the car almost sighed its relief as the Fat Man got out 2 5 0
R E G I N A L D H I L L
and set off toward the house, not once looking back to check he was followed.
“Shit,” said Pascoe, and got out.
They crossed a terrace area where a few people sat at small circu-lar wrought-iron tables, drinking coffee or wine. The early evening air was balmy. The storm had merely freshened things up, not signaled the end of summer. The drinkers could have been guests at an Italian villa watching Il Duce returning from an evening stroll, followed by his faithful bodyguard.
The process ended in a bedroom that looked up to luxury- hotel standards. A couple of stars at least above the Cedars, the police convalescent home. Was Cap footing the bill? Couldn’t see Dalziel going along with that. Maybe he had insurance. Or maybe a grateful criminal community had taken up a subscription to keep him out of the way.
“Look, sir . . . ,” he tried again, but the Fat Man cut across, saying,
“First things first. Sit yourself down.”
He opened a drawer and took out a bottle of scotch and two glasses.
Pascoe lowered himself into the single armchair and watched as Dalziel poured an inch of liquor into one glass, three inches into the other.
To Pascoe’s surprise, he received the larger measure.
“Slainte!” said the Fat Man, flopping on the bed. “Welcome to Zombieland. Good to see you, Pete, even though you’ve not brought any grapes.”
“Like you say, I’m on duty . . .”
“Always mek time to pick the flowers along the way, lad. Or the grapes. Any road, what’s the verdict?”
“Early days and I’ve got an open mind,” said Pascoe.
“Eh? On me, not the case, you daft bugger! You’ve been running your eye over me like an Aberdeen undertaker wondering whether to charge by the inch or the ounce.”
T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 2 5 1
“I think I’ll tell them to put the flowers on hold,” said Pascoe. “Seriously, you’re looking fine. Much more like your old self, and your old self must know that, unless you know something pertinent to my investigation, I should not be here socializing.”
“Pertinent? Socializing? Ee, I’ve missed you, lad, but not a lot.
Right, let’s make it offi cial. Questions?”
“Let’s start with basics. Were you acquainted with the deceased?”
“Buffalo woman, you mean. Daph Denham. Aye, met her a couple of times. First time were in the Hope and Anchor. That’s our local.
Nice drop of ale. Landlord knows his beer and knows how to keep his customers happy. Name of Hollis . . .”
“That’s a name that keeps cropping up,” said Pascoe, looking at his list. “That would be Alan . . . ?”
“Right. Good lad. They’re all relatives of the famous Hog Hollis, tha knows, the Taste of Yorkshire. Any road, that’s where me and Daph first met. Didn’t make a good impression. In fact, she looked at me like I’d just escaped from Dartmoor. Couldn’t really blame her as I’d lost one of my slippers. But things were different when I saw her at Fester’s party day before yesterday . . .”
“Fester’s party?” interrupted Pascoe, seeking sense in this surreal fl ow.
“Lester Feldenhammer’s party. It’s one mad round of pleasure here. Kill or cure, that’s the Avalon motto. Where was I? Buffalo woman. She gave me the glad eye. Naturally I thought mebbe she’d succumbed to me boyish charm—seems she were a bit of a goer, by all accounts—bit long in the tooth, but there’s many a good tune played on an old double bass—”
“Could we stick to the point?” said Pascoe sharply. “Presuming there is one!”
“Ooh, hoity-toity! What’s next? Rubber truncheons? I didn’t talk to her at the party. To tell the truth, I weren’t feeling too clever. But yesterday morning, she came bursting into my room, like a heifer on heat.”
“Just tell me what she wanted,” said Pascoe wearily.
2 5 2
R E G I N A L D H I L L
“Nowt really. Usual daft woman’s stuff,” said Dalziel casually.
“She wanted to tap into my constabulary expertise. She’d got some silly notion into her head that someone were trying to kill her.”
I should have known it, thought Pascoe. The old sod enjoys jerk-ing me around, but he’d not get in my way unless he thought it was important.
“You got details, I presume?” he said.
“Oh yes,” said Dalziel. “I’ve got details.”
He stuck his right hand under the mattress and came out with what looked like an MP3 player.
He’s going to play some music in case we’re being bugged, guessed Pascoe.
“Meet Mildred, memory on a stick,” said Dalziel almost proudly.
“State- of- the-art recorder, more sensitive than a parson’s dick. Present from Fester. Thinks keeping an audio diary could have a benefi -
ciary effect, therapeutically speaking.”
Nice piece of mimicry—if Feldenhammer spoke like W. C. Fields!
What next? wondered Pascoe. Dalziel bragging about state-of- the-art technology was like that first chord from Dylan’s electric guitar.
“And has it?” he asked.
To his surprise, Dalziel didn’t snort a blasphemous denial, but hesitated a moment before saying, “Don’t know. Mebbe it has. Any road, like I say, it’s useful for filling in the gaps till me memory catches up with me bones. More important here, it’ll carry on recording even if I’ve got it stuck in my pocket.”
“You mean you actually recorded what Lady Denham said to you?” said Pascoe, amazed. “But why . . . ?”
“I had it handy when she burst in, and just in case it really were my lily-white body she was after, I switched it on. I’ve got my reputation to think of, tha knows. But for once, I were wrong. Listen.”
He pressed a button and a woman’s voice, strong, deep, authorita-tive, began to speak.
11
I’m sorry to trouble you, Superintendent.
You’re not troubling me, not yet anyway. But if you keep catching me in my dressing gown, people may start talking. Have a seat. Oh, you have done. So what can I do for you, luv?
I think someone is trying to kill me.
Doesn’t surprise me. Nay, don’t take it personal. What I mean is, you’d need to be a saint to get to your age without someone wanting you dead. I can think of a dozen right off who’d dance barefoot on my grave even if I got buried in a midden, which is where the same folk would like me put. But if you’re really worried, I’d get in touch with the police.
You are the police.
Nay, lass, tha’s right and tha’s wrong. I’m an off-duty, convalescing cop. I mean, if I were a convalescing plumber, you’d not ring the Avalon and ask if I could come down to unblock your drain, would you? You want to contact your local station. Who’ve you got in this neck of the woods? Oh aye, I remember. Sergeant Whitby, old Jug.
He’s no speed merchant, but he’s sound is old Jug. He’ll see you right.
He’s a nincompoop. I knew his father and he was a nincompoop too.
In fact, I don’t recollect any of the Whitby family who weren’t nincompoops. If I were going to do this officially, Superintendent, I’d ring Dan Trimble, your chief constable, whose wife I know quite well.
But the effect would be the same as if I called Sergeant Whitby.
2 5 4
R E G I N A L D H I L L
Nay, hang about. I know the chief ’s only three foot tall and he comes from Cornwall, but that’s no reason to say he’s a nincompoop too . . .
That’s not what I’m saying. Only that if I make an official complaint, then this becomes . . . official! Policemen about the place, statements, everyone noticing and asking what’s going on. That’s one thing I know about Sandytown: If they don’t know your business before you do it, they’ll certainly find out the day after. I don’t
want whoever’s trying to kill me to be alerted. I thought that someone like you, who comes with the most glowing testimonials . . .
Must be them rough towels they give us here. Who’s been talking about me, Daph?
I’m not at liberty to say, but I’ve been assured you are one of the best detectives in the country. I think the exact phrase was, If Sherlock Holmes’s elder brother had had an elder brother, it would be Andy Dalziel. There, what do you think of that?
I think you shouldn’t take everything Franny Roote says as gospel.
I didn’t say it was Mr. Roote.
Aye, and the pope doesn’t say he goes to church on Sunday. Listen, here’s what I’ll do. You tell me what’s on your mind and if I think it’s worth bothering busy bobbies with, I’ll pass it on. Don’t worry. I’ve got this lad I’m training up. He’s minding the shop while I’m away and he’s so discreet he’s got murderers serving life who don’t know yet he’s arrested them. That’s the best I can do. Otherwise it’s Jug Whitby.
You don’t leave me much choice.
Don’t fret. It’s overrated, choice. So what’s the tale?
For a start, I’d like you to know you’re not dealing with a silly hys-terical old woman. Over the years I have grown used to being threatened. Antihunt demonstrators and animal rights extremists have T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 2 5 5
been attacking my property and threatening my person almost as long as I can remember. It’s water off a duck’s back. I take precau-tions, I am not foolhardy. But I don’t let them spoil my sleep or my appetite. In addition, when Hollis, my first husband, died—
Him that got et by his pigs?
That’s right. I sometimes think if he’d died trying to save the Queen from drowning, people would have been more likely to forget the circumstances. When he died, I received phone calls and hate mail containing foul accusations and personal threats. Again, when Denham, my second, died—
Remind me. Trying to save the Queen, were it?
A hunting accident. Once more there were phone calls and letters, not the same as before . . .
Well, they wouldn’t be, luv. Better class of abuse when there’s a title involved.
I hope you are taking this seriously, Superintendent.
Of course I am. And stop calling me superintendent. Andy’ll do. And you’re Daph, right? So can we speed things up a bit? I’ve not been well lately and it’s hard to concentrate.
I’m sorry. I’ll try. Eventually the spate that followed Sir Harry’s death became a trickle. The trickle is always there. Graffiti, animal parts through the post. The odd phone call. Those I choose to ignore. Then recently these onslaughts began to take another form, much less aggressive on the surface, but somehow I found it more disturbing.
Oh aye. What were that then?
I started getting communications through the post from various animal charities, the mainstream ones, not just the extremists. They said 2 5 6
R E G I N A L D H I L L
they were delighted to hear I was interested in remembering them in my will and enclosed their bequest packs to show the best way of going about this.
We all get that kind of stuff, luv.
Perhaps. But I must confess it was upsetting. Then last week I got a letter. Its tone was mild, yet I felt more threatened by it than anything else I’d ever received. It said the writer hoped I’d taken the chance of modifying my will along the lines suggested in recent mail shots.
But no specifi c threat?
Judge for yourself. I have it here. I thought you might need it for examination.
Didn’t know I were going to sit one. No, I’m not up to close reading so early in the morning. Just give us the gist.
It says: We all owe a debt to God, and the longer we live, the closer the reckoning comes. A woman of your age would be well advised to have her affairs in order. Then here it says: . . . it is likely that the door by which you will make your exit from this world already stands unlatched. Is that threatening or not?
Poetic, and that can be a bit of a menace. I can see how it might bother someone with a nervous disposition. Can’t see it worrying you overmuch, luv.
You’re right. I put it aside and went about my business. Then a few days ago, the brakes on my car failed. I was coming down the hill from North Cliff and braking to turn into my drive. I managed to change down and come to a halt by sliding into one of my rhododendron bushes.
That’s what the gods invented rhododendrons for, upper-class traffic control. That it?
T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 2 5 7
No, it’s not. A couple of times recently I have glimpsed a trespasser on the grounds of the hall. I realize that these days the law is almost toothless when it comes to dealing with trespass . . .
Aye, not like the good old days when a couple of mantraps and a blast with a shotgun would have got things sorted.
Just so. Nevertheless, I would certainly have confronted this person, but he or she took off very quickly when I shouted.
There you are then. No harm done. Likely some poor peasant taking a shortcut.
Perhaps. But yesterday morning I was going down the cliff path from my garden to the beach. It’s an easy descent to start with, then you reach a long ledge where the cliff falls away sheer for fifty or sixty feet. A guardrail starts here and then follows the path for the rest of its descent. I’d just reached the ledge when I heard a noise and looked up to see a large lump of rock bouncing down the path toward me. I leaned back on the rail to get out of the way, it broke free from its support, and I found myself hanging on for grim life looking down at the rocks below. Fortunately the next support held and I was able to pull myself back onto the path without too much difficulty. I am lucky to have a strong constitution. A frailer woman would almost certainly have fallen.
Aye, lot of frail women around, thank God. So what did you do?
I had a look at the rail. The support is a metal stanchion, but the rail is made of wood. There was some sign of wood rot, but it looked to me as if someone had carefully eased the rail from its support, then put it back so that it looked completely safe.
Don’t know why you need a detective, Daph, when you’re so good yourself. Can we hurry this up? I’m beginning to remember an urgent appointment. What next?
I rang my nephew, Teddy.
2 5 8
R E G I N A L D H I L L
That ’ud be the good- looking lad who fancies himself? So why’d you ring him?
Well, I’m a woman living alone, more or less, so I suppose I naturally turned to a close male relative in time of stress . . .
Bollocks! He’s hot favorite in the inheritance stakes, right? So when you got it into your noddle someone had fixed your guardrail and was hoying rocks down at you in the hope of making you fall, you thought, I wonder where young Ted the Heir is?
Mr. Dalziel, that’s outrageous . . .
No it’s not, and you know it’s not. And it’s Andy. And were he at home?
Yes, he was, though why he was at home when I pay him good money to be at work, I’m not quite sure.
No sense of responsibility, these modern kids. So did you mention your concerns?
No. I got distracted by various things. He told me, I mean he reminded me, about the get-together at the Avalon so I said I’d meet him and Esther there. That’s his sister.
Aye, I met her. What about the broken rail? You get anyone to fix it?
Ollie Hollis was at the hall. I asked him to take a look.
Ollie Hollis? Who’s he? A visiting relative?
Not really, though he is a member of my first husband’s rather exten -
sive family. He was getting the machinery ready for my hog roast tomorrow.
So what is he? Carpenter? Mechanic?
No. He’s a gate man at the pig farm.
By God, you know how to pick your experts, luv! So what did he say?
T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 2 5 9
I didn’t ask his opinion. I had no desire to set tongues clacking. He bound it up with strong twine and put a warning notice on it. Hardly necessary, as it’s a private path and anyone else uses it at their own risk. But with my grounds full of guests for my hog roast tomorrow, it’s better to be safe than sorry.
Good advice, Daph. I think mebbe you should try taking it.
I’m not sure what you mean, Super . . . Mr. Dal—Andy.
What I mean is, likely this is all much ado about nowt. But in the unlikely event someone were trying to top you, I’d say from long experience most likely motive is money. So, though I suspect you’ve nowt to worry about, just to be on the safe side, simple thing is to take away the motive. Change your will, and make sure you let every bugger interested know! That way it makes more sense for them to keep you alive long enough to change it back again! And that’s it, luv. No charge. Now it’s time for me to take a shower and get dressed. No need to rush off, I’m too old to be embarrassed.
Good day to you, Mr. Dalziel!
12
The Fat Man switched off the recorder.
“There we go,” he said. “Don’t know if I’d have said much different if I’d been really on the ball when she came to see me. But I felt right guilty when I heard the news.”
“You sound as if you rather liked her,” said Pascoe.
“Aye, mebbe I did. She were a big bossy woman, used to rolling over folk who got in her way, like an anker of ale, but she must have been a bonny lass once, and she still had a gallon of jimp left in her.
It were a lousy way for anyone to go. For someone like Daph Denham, it were a right shame.”
Pascoe said, “She had a record, you know. Laid into a hunt protester with her riding crop. Fined and bound over.”
“And that means she deserved to end up being grilled on her own hog roast?”
“I didn’t say that, as you well know. I’m just saying there could be more people out there than we think with motives. Did she leave the letter she mentioned?”
“Aye, here it is. Not much good for forensics—I just stuffed it in me dressing gown.”
“Still worth a try,” said Pascoe, taking the crumpled sheet by one corner and slipping it into an evidence bag. He smoothed it out inside the clear plastic. Ink-jet printer he guessed, on good quality A5 paper.
D&P23 - The Price of Butcher's Meat aka A Cure for all Diseases Page 27