The girl moved so quickly that he didn’t catch up till they were outside the theatre.
‘Hold on!’ he said. ‘It must be a good job for you to be so keen to get back to it.’
‘It’s all right.’
He digested this, then said, ‘But not so good as being a solicitor?’
‘You looked in my briefcase,’ she said.
This omission of a couple of steps in the reasoning process was impressive. Or perhaps he’d just forgotten to fasten it up.
‘What’re you doing? A-levels followed by SFE? Or do you want to do a degree?’
‘Whatever I can manage,’ she said indifferently.
‘Mr Thackeray must be pleased.’
It took him a couple of paces to interpret the silence.
‘He doesn’t know? But why? Surely there would be …’
‘I don’t need favours.’
‘Favours? Everyone’s entitled to an education.’
‘Entitled?’ She didn’t raise her little voice, but she was speaking with greater vehemence than he had known in their brief acquaintance. ‘Kids are entitled to what adults let ’em get. And adults are entitled to what they can afford.’
‘And that’s it? You’re over eighteen. You’re an adult. What can you afford?’
Suddenly, transformingly, she grinned.
‘Not much. Choosing for myself mebbe. If I’m lucky.’
They were at the office building. Pascoe glanced back. Seymour was tracking a few yards behind like a Royal bodyguard. Pascoe mouthed ‘Car’ at him and the redhead nodded and turned away.
As they clambered the creaking old wooden stairway, he said, ‘You’d rather I didn’t mention your course to Mr Thackeray?’
She shrugged her narrow shoulders indifferently.
‘You’ll likely do what suits you best,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if Mr Eden’s by himself.’
Thackeray did not look too pleased at being interrupted. His desk was littered with papers and his jacket hung over the back of his chair. But he rose punctiliously and began to put it on as Pascoe entered at Lexie’s behest.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘So busy. Some new development?’
‘Not really,’ said Pascoe. ‘I gather Mr Dalziel’s told you about Mrs Windibanks’s possible identification of Pontelli as Alexander Lomas.’
‘Yes. He rang last night. Extraordinary, quite extraordinary.’
‘Isn’t it? And Mr John Huby confirms it. On the other hand, Miss Keech denies any knowledge of such a mark. But what I really want to get clear is, if Pontelli is Huby, where does that leave us in law?’
‘Oh dear,’ said Thackeray. ‘Let me see, let me see. The situation still retains a certain ambiguity, I fear. At first sight it would seem that with Alexander Huby still being alive after his mother’s death and having made a verbal claim to his inheritance in this very office, then the Huby estate should be treated as his estate.’
‘I see. Now as I understand it, under the rules of intestacy, this would elevate John Huby of the Old Mill Inn to his main heir?’
‘His only heir. But you’re forgetting something, Mr Pascoe. Alexander Huby, if so he be, has been living in Italy for forty years. He may be married with a large family. He may have made a will of his own leaving everything to his local football team!’
Pascoe shook his head.
‘He’s not married as far as the Italian authorities know. And there are no obvious next of kin. In any case, if there were, they would be the real Pontellis, wouldn’t they, if he was Huby and if there was a real Pontelli. I don’t know about a will.’
‘And I don’t know about Italian intestacy laws, assuming his Italian citizenship is genuine,’ resumed Thackeray. ‘But sticking to what we do know, and to English law, the real difficulty still remains with Mrs Huby’s will. It states that PAWS, CODRO, and WFE cannot get the money until 2015 unless her son’s death is proven beyond all possible doubt before that time. I confess it was I who cajoled her into adding that rider, though I wanted “reasonable” not “possible”. But she was on to me, I’m afraid. The thing is, if Pontelli is proven to be Alexander, then it might be argued that under the terms of the will, his death has simply been proven beyond all possible doubt, and the charities get the estate immediately.’
‘But that’s absurd! I mean, he’s the heir.’
‘But did he make proper legal claim to the estate before he died?’
‘Is that necessary?’
‘Not usually, of course. But it would be interesting to argue that Mrs Huby’s sole intention was that her son should be able to enjoy the benefits of her estate while he lived, not that these benefits should be distributed haphazardly around Italy, always supposing that Pontelli has a family there.’
Pascoe left, feeling little the better for his visit.
Seymour was waiting for him, parked recklessly on a double yellow.
‘Where to, sir?’ he asked.
‘The Old Mill Inn,’ said Pascoe. ‘We may get a bite to eat there if you hurry.’
He wished he hadn’t said this. Not even a detailed account of their several other purposes in visiting John Huby could distract the redhead from what he saw as the main one and the need for speed to achieve it. But despite his desperate driving, it looked at first as if Seymour was to be disappointed.
‘Food!’ said John Huby as though it were a four-letter word. ‘We do sandwiches, but they finished half an hour back.’
‘I’ll make some more, Dad,’ offered Jane Huby, fluttering long eyelashes at Seymour who responded with a smacking of lips which had more to do with lust than hunger.
Huby growled a reluctant assent and the girl went off, swinging her haunch provocatively. Seymour sighed deeply. Pascoe paid for their drinks, but decided to postpone his talk with the landlord. The bar was pretty crowded and rustic drinkers were clearly as sensitive to the approach of last orders as Faustus was to his last midnight. Huby and his wife were fully occupied.
Seymour noticed this too and murmured, ‘I’m going for a run-off, sir. I noticed as we came in there was a door marked Private just beyond the Gents. Worth a quick poke around while everyone’s nice and busy here, do you think?’
‘You mean, illegal entry without a warrant in case you might come across something removed from Gwen Huby’s filing cabinet? Or something suggesting collusion with Mrs Windibanks? Or anything else linking Huby to either of these murders?’ said Pascoe. ‘I find that quite outrageous. If I thought that was your intention, I’d forbid you to move.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Seymour. ‘Shall I go and have my pee?’
‘Don’t get lost,’ said Pascoe.
Seymour grinned and left.
A voice said, ‘Inspector Pascoe, isn’t it?’
He turned to find the young blond-haired reporter, Henry Vollans, at his elbow.
‘We met at the Kemble party,’ Vollans said.
‘I remember. What are you doing here? You’re a good way off Leeds.’
‘I had to come across this way this morning first thing for an appointment, only the fellow didn’t turn up,’ said Vollans. ‘Fortunately there were one or two other things to follow up.’
‘At the Old Mill Inn?’
‘Why not? You’re here!’ said Vollans slyly.
‘Even policemen need refreshments. As a matter of interest, your name was mentioned to me earlier this morning.’
The young reporter looked threatened for a moment, then quickly recovered.
‘Complimentarily, I hope?’
‘I gather you were at Maldive Cottage in Ilkley when Mr Goodenough of PAWS called the other day.’
‘Right.’
‘Do you mind telling me what took you there?’
Vollans hesitated, then said, ‘Sammy Ruddlesdin speaks very highly of you, Mr Pascoe.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘He reckons you’re the kind of chap who strikes a fair bargain, not like some who’ll take everything, then renege on the giving.’
‘Sammy says that? I’ll remind him next time he starts moaning at me about non-cooperation! What were you doing there, Mr Vollans?’
‘Sniffing at the edge of a story,’ said Vollans. ‘Mrs Falkingham’s an old correspondent of the Challenger’s so when we noticed WFE might be in line for a big handout, we thought we’d take a look. Mrs Huby’s will of itself was worth a mention, but like my editor says, there’s usually a cuter angle if you care to crawl around for it.’
‘And was there? A cuter angle, I mean?’
‘Well, Mr Goodenough turning up while I was there, that was a bit of luck. Opens up the story a bit.’
‘And Mrs Falkingham’s assistant, Miss Brodsworth, was she able to open it up any more?’
Vollans gave his Redford grin.
‘Not half as much as something else I heard this morning.’
‘Yes?’
‘I heard a rumour that there’s a body in the mortuary which some people reckon might belong to the missing heir.’
Pascoe digested this. They’d kept the Huby connection as quiet as possible, but there were too many people who knew something about it for total leak-proofing.
He said, ‘You’re not the Challenger’s crime reporter, are you? I’ve met him, fat man called Boyle.’
‘No, but I’m here and he’s not. Mind you, he will be soon, I expect, meanwhile I thought I might do myself a bit of good.’
‘And that’s why you’re out at the Old Mill Inn?’
‘Just looking the family over, checking out angles.’
‘You haven’t spoken to them yet?’
‘Not yet.’
Pascoe smiled to himself at the thought of the young man’s still-to-come first encounter with John Huby.
He said, ‘Getting back to Sarah Brodsworth …’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Goodenough gave the impression you might be checking on her background.’
‘Did he now?’
‘Was he right?’
‘Was Sammy Ruddlesdin right?’ grinned the reporter.
Pascoe was beginning to find the grin rather irritating.
‘Tell you what I can do,’ he said. ‘I’m not in a position to confirm or deny rumours, you must see that. But I could, if you like, introduce you to John Huby and pave the way as best I can to an interview.’
It was an offer so ludicrous that only inexperience would even consider it, let alone accept it.
‘All right,’ said Vollans. ‘Yes, I did try to check out Sarah Brodsworth. WFE as far as I can make out is a gang of mouldy-oldies, relicts of the Raj, and I couldn’t see where she fitted in as an individual. But if she’s a member of a group, then there’s some very good security. In fact, I can find precious little about her as a member of the human race!’
‘When you say group, you mean right-wing group, and she could be a plant, after the money?’
‘That’s what I wondered. Right wing, left wing, what’s it matter? The money’s the thing. What about you, Inspector? You got anything on her?’
‘Not yet.’
He saw that the rush at the bar was over. Huby glanced around and looked as if he might be about to retreat to the living quarters. There was no sign of Seymour yet.
‘Take a seat,’ said Pascoe to Vollans. ‘I want a word with Mr Huby before I introduce you. A seat out of earshot, I mean.’
Grinning again, Vollans rose from his bar-stool and withdrew to a table.
‘Mr Huby,’ called Pascoe. ‘Could you spare a moment?’
‘I might’ve known you buggers’d not be here for the beer alone,’ said Huby.
‘It’s very good beer,’ complimented Pascoe. ‘I gather you visited Troy House the other day.’
‘Any reason I shouldn’t?’
‘None whatsoever. I just wondered what the purpose of your visit was.’
‘If you’ve been talking to that cow Keech, likely you’ll know already.’
‘She said something about you being interested in papers or letters or anything post-dating Mrs Huby’s will.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What precisely were you …?’
‘Owt that’d prove that bloody will’s a load of cobblers! You don’t have to be Sherlock bloody Holmes to ravel that out, do you, Mr bloody Inspector? I wanted to have a good look around, that was all.’
‘Did Miss Keech object?’
‘No. She were as nice as ninepence. Why shouldn’t she be, but? She’s come out of it all right, set up for life. Me, what’ve I got but a backyard full of building bricks I’ve not paid for!’
‘And did you find anything?’
‘Not a bloody sausage.’
‘Not even in the filing cabinet?’
‘Not even there.’
‘You did look in the filing cabinet?’
‘Yeah, why not? Here, what’s that old bitch been saying?’
‘Nothing, nothing,’ assured Pascoe. ‘I just wondered how you got in to the cabinet if it was locked.’
Huby thrust his face close to Pascoe’s.
‘With a key, lad. With a bloody key! Keech unlocked it for me and stood over me while I went through it, and if she tells you owt different, she’s a bloody liar!’
Huby’s harangue had drawn the attention of several customers who clearly considered the landlord’s ill-tempered outbursts as a free cabaret act.
Pascoe said gently, ‘She didn’t say anything different, because she wasn’t asked. What she does say, however, is that to the best of her knowledge, Alexander Huby had no birthmark on his buttock.’
‘Does she?’ said Huby indifferently. ‘That’s not what I heard, but she ought to know, I suppose.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Pascoe saw that Seymour had returned and sat down at a table near the window.
‘Yes, I suppose she ought. By the way, that young blond fellow by the fireplace is a reporter from the Sunday Challenger. He’d like a word if you have a moment. Seems a nice young chap.’
Huby looked suspiciously towards Vollans, then came round the bar and made towards him. Pascoe downed his beer. Seymour’s was still untouched on the counter. He offered his own glass to Mrs Huby and asked for a refill.
As he paid, he said casually, ‘Last night, you remember Mrs Windibanks rang while I was talking to your husband. She didn’t say if she was still in town or not, did she?’
It was a flimsy subterfuge but enough for the open honest landlady who replied, ‘No, she didn’t mention where she was ringing from.’
Pascoe said, ‘Well, it doesn’t matter,’ picked up Seymour’s beer and took it to him at his table.
Jane arrived simultaneously with the sandwiches.
‘I’ve done you some crumbly cheese and some nice chicken breast with a bit of my own spicy chutney,’ she breathed into Seymour’s ear as she leaned against him to place the plates on the table.
Pascoe was surprised to note that the DC’s response was on the chilly side of lukewarm. He was also surprised to observe simultaneously that Huby had gone over to Henry Vollans and, far from offering him the anticipated verbal violence, seemed to be chatting almost amicably and was now actually sitting down. Doubtless he was telling him the story of the will and poor old Gruff-of-Greendale, residing in his everlasting sleep by the fireplace, was soon going to be launched into space once more.
‘What’s up with you?’ he said to Seymour as Jane retreated, looking rather piqued. ‘Gone off busty blondes, have we?’
Seymour replied by taking a sandwich and biting it viciously.
‘You were a long time gone,’ said Pascoe. ‘Find anything interesting?’
‘Nothing helpful. I went all over and couldn’t spot anything to do with the case.’
There was more to come, Pascoe guessed.
‘But …?’ he probed.
Suddenly it came out.
‘I got upstairs in her bedroom,’ said the redhead with all the indignant pain of disenchanted idolatry. ‘Didn’t expect to find anything
there, but I like to be thorough. I was poking around some bookshelves and there they were!’
‘What, for God’s sake?’
‘A blonde wig and a bloody great pair of falsies! You can’t trust anything these days!’
Pascoe tried to look sympathetic but a grin tugged at his mouth and finally he laughed so heartily he almost choked on his sandwich.
John Huby in close conference with Henry Vollans was distracted by the sound.
Glaring balefully in Pascoe’s direction he said, ‘Listen to that! You’d think that people came in here to bloody well enjoy themselves!’
Chapter 4
Mrs Miriam Hornsby was sixty-ish, stout, and wore enough make-up to keep the Kemble going for a fortnight. She moved in an aureole of roseate fragrance through which on every breath came a waft of what Dalziel’s specialized nose identified as barley wine.
‘Have you eaten, love?’ he asked solicitously.
‘Yes, thank you. There was a buffet on the train,’ she replied in what to his ear was merely a London accent with a slight overlay of refinement to match the solemnity of the occasion.
None of these observations of voice, scent or appetite was a put-down in Dalziel’s mind. Where there was leisure for refreshment there could still be time for grief; indeed, the barley wine smell tended to predispose him in her favour; he had once enjoyed a robustly meaningless relationship with a well-made lady who favoured strong ales.
‘Well, let’s get it over with,’ he said, intuitively adopting the hearty no-nonsense approach he sensed best suited her emotional make-up.
At the mortuary she clung tightly to his arm in preference to the proffered support of WPC Aster who was chaperoning them, and as she looked down at the still, dark features of the young man whom death seemed to have shrunk back to childhood, he felt the full weight of her distress.
‘Is this your grandson, Cliff Sharman?’ asked Dalziel formally.
She nodded.
‘You have to say it, love,’ he instructed her.
‘Yes, that’s him, that’s Cliff,’ she whispered. Tears came with the words and ran glistening spoors across her powdery cheeks.
As they came out of the chilly steel box of the actual mortuary into the plastic anonymity of the vestibule, Dalziel was surprised to see Sergeant Wield standing there.
Child's Play Page 21