Devices & Desires - Dalgleish 08

by P. D. James

  'If it's about the murder then you ought to be speaking to Chief Inspector Rickards not me. This isn't my case.'

  'But you found the body.'

  'That might in certain circumstances make me a suspect. But it doesn't give me the right to interfere professionally in another officer's case outside my own force area. I'm not the investigating officer. But you know that, you're not stupid.'

  Pascoe kept his eyes on the bubbling liquid. He said: 'I didn't expect you to be particularly pleased to see me. I wouldn't have come if there were anyone else I could talk to. There are things I can't discuss with Amy.'

  'As long as you remember whom you are talking to.'

  'A policeman. It's like the priesthood, is it? Never off duty. Once a priest always a priest.'

  'It isn't in the least like the priesthood. No guarantee of confidentiality in the confessional and no absolution. That's what I'm trying to tell you.'

  They said nothing else until the coffee had been poured into the two mugs and carried by Dalgliesh into the sitting room. They sat, one each side of the fireplace. Pascoe took his mug but seemed uncertain what to do with it. He sat twisting it in his hands, looking down at the coffee, making no attempt to drink. After a moment he said: 'It's about Toby Gledhill, the boy - well, he was a boy really - who killed himself at the power station.'

  Dalgliesh said: 'I've heard about Toby Gledhill.'

  'Then I expect you know how he died. He hurled himself down on top of the reactor and broke his neck. That was on Friday the twelfth of August. Two days before, on the Wednesday, he came to see me at about eight o'clock in the evening. I was on my own in the caravan, Amy had taken the van into Norwich to shop and said she wanted to see a film and would be back late. I was looking after Timmy. Then there was this knock and there he stood. I knew him, of course. At least, I knew who he was. I'd seen him on one or two of those open days at the power station. I usually make time to go to those. They can't stop me, and it gives me an opportunity of putting one or two awkward questions, countering their propaganda. And I think he was present at some of the meetings of the new pressurized water reactor inquiry. But, of course, I'd never really met him. I couldn't think what he wanted of me, but I invited him in and offered him a beer. I'd lit the stove because there were a lot of Timmy's clothes which needed drying so the caravan was very hot and rather damp. When I remember that night I seem to see him through a haze of steam. After the beer he asked if we couldn't go out. He seemed restless as if he found the caravan claustrophobic and he asked more than once when Amy was expected back. So I lifted Timmy out of his cot and put him into the backpack and we set off to walk north along the shore. It was when we had got as far as the abbey ruins that he told me what he'd come to say. He came out with it quite baldly, without any preamble. He'd come to the conclusion that nuclear power was too dangerous to use and that, until we've solved the problem of radioactive waste, we ought not to build any more nuclear power stations. There was one rather odd expression he used. He said: "It's not only dangerous, it's corrupting."' Dalgliesh asked: 'Did he say why he'd come to this conclusion?'

  'I think it had been building up for quite a few months, and Chernobyl had probably brought it to a head. He said that something else had recently happened that had helped to make up his mind. He didn't say what but he promised he would tell me when he'd had more time to think. I asked him if he was merely going to give up his job and opt out or whether he was prepared to help us. He said he thought that he had to help. It wouldn't be enough just to resign his job. It was difficult for him and I could see just how difficult. He admired and liked his colleagues. He said they were dedicated scientists and very intelligent men who believed in what they were doing. It was just that he couldn't believe any more. He hadn't thought about the way ahead, not very clearly anyway. He was like I am now; he just needed to talk it through. I suppose I seemed to be the natural person. He knew about PANUP of course.' He looked up at Dalgliesh and said rather naively: 'That stands for People Against Nuclear Power. When the proposal was put forward for the new reactor here I formed a little local group to oppose it. I mean a group of ordinary concerned local residents, not the more powerful national protest bodies. It hasn't been easy. Most people try to pretend that the power station isn't really there. And of course quite a number welcome it because it does bring in some employment, new customers for the shops and pubs. Most of the opposition to the new reactor wasn't local, anyway, it was people from CND, Friends of the Earth and Greenpeace. Of course we welcomed them. They're the ones with the heavy guns. But I thought it important to get something going locally and I suppose I'm not really a joiner. I like to do my own thing.'

  Dalgliesh said: 'And Gledhill would have been quite a catch for you.' The words were almost brutal in their implication.

  Pascoe flushed then looked him in the eyes. 'There was that too. I suppose I realized it at the time. I wasn't entirely disinterested. I mean, I did know how important it would be if he came over. But I was, well, flattered I suppose that he'd come first to me. PANUP hasn't made much impact, really. Even the initials were a mistake. I wanted something that people would easily remember, but PANUP - a bit of a laugh. I can guess what you're thinking, that I might have done more good for the cause by joining an existing pressure group instead of ministering to my own ego. You'd be right.'

  Dalgliesh asked: 'Did Gledhill say whether he'd spoken to anyone at the station?'

  'He said that he hadn't, not yet. I think that was what he most dreaded. He particularly hated the thought of telling Miles Lessingham. While we walked along the beach with Timmy half asleep bumping on my back he felt free to talk and I think he found it a release. He told me that Lessingham was in love with him. He wasn't gay himself but he was ambivalent. But he did tremendously admire Lessingham and felt that in some way he was letting him down. He gave the impression that everything was a muddle, his feelings about atomic power, his personal life, his career, everything.'

  Suddenly Pascoe seemed to realize that he was holding his coffee mug and, lowering his head, began to drink from it with great slurps, like a man desperate with thirst. When the mug was drained he put it down on the floor and wiped his mouth with his hand.

  He said: 'It was a warm night after a rainy day, the night of the new moon. Funny how I remember that. We were walking just above the tide mark on the shingle. And then, suddenly, there she was, Hilary Robarts, splashing out of the foam. She was only wearing the bottom half of her bikini and she stood there for a moment with the water running off her hair, glistening in that eerie light which seems to come off the sea on a starry night. Then she came slowly up the beach towards us. I suppose we stood there almost as if mesmerized. She had lit a small fire of brushwood on the shingle and the three of us moved towards it. She picked up her towel but didn't wrap it round her. She looked - well, she looked marvellous, the drops of water glistening on her skin and that locket thing she wears resting between her breasts. I know it sounds ridiculous and, well, corny, but she looked like some goddess risen from the sea. She took absolutely no notice of me but she looked at Toby. She said: "Nice to see you, Toby. Why not come down to the cottage for a drink and a meal?" Such ordinary words. Harmless sounding words. But they weren't.

  'I don't think he could resist her. I don't suppose I would have been able to either. Not at that moment. And I knew exactly what she was doing, and so did she. She was asking him to make a choice. On my side nothing but trouble, a lost job, personal anguish, possibly even disgrace. And on hers security, professional success, the respect of peers, colleagues. And love. I think she was offering him love. I knew what would happen in the cottage if he went with her and he knew too. But he went. He didn't even say goodnight to me. She slung her towel over her shoulder and turned her back on us as if absolutely confident that he would follow her. And he did follow her. And two days later, on Friday the twelfth of August, he killed himself. I don't know what she said to him. No one will know now. But after that meeting I th
ink he just couldn't take any more. It was not what she threatened him with, or even if she threatened him at all. But if it hadn't been for that meeting on the beach I think he'd be alive now. She killed him.'

  Dalgliesh said: 'None of this came out at the inquest?'

  'No, none. There was no reason why it should. I wasn't called as a witness. It was all handled very discreetly. Alex Mair was anxious that there shouldn't be any publicity. As^ you've probably noticed, there hardly ever is when something goes wrong at an atomic power station. They all become experts at the cover-up.'

  'And why are you telling me this?'

  'I want to be sure that this is something Rickards needs to be told. But I suppose I'm really telling you because I need to share it with someone. I'm not sure why I picked on you. Sorry.'

  A true, if hardly kind, reply would have been: 'You picked on me in the hope that I'd undertake to pass it on to Rickards and save you the responsibility.' Instead Dalgliesh said: 'You realize, of course, that this is information Chief Inspector Rickards should have.'

  'But is it? That's what I want to be sure of. I suppose it's the usual fear when dealing with the police. What use are they going to make of it? Are they going to get the wrong idea? Could it point to someone who could be innocent? I suppose you have to have confidence in the integrity of the police, you wouldn't go on being a detective if you hadn't. But the rest of us know that things can go wrong, that the innocent can be harried, the guilty get off, that the police aren't always as scrupulous as they pretend to be. I'm not asking you to tell him for me, I'm not that childish. But I don't really see how it's relevant. Both of them are dead. I can't see how telling Rickards about that meeting can help to catch Miss Robarts's killer. And it can't bring either of them back to life.'

  Dalgliesh refilled Pascoe's mug. Then he said: 'Of course it's relevant. You're suggesting that Hilary Robarts might have blackmailed Gledhill into staying in his job. If she could do it to one person she could do it to another. Anything about Miss Robarts could be relevant to her death. And don't worry too much about innocent suspects. I'm not going to pretend that the innocent don't suffer in a murder investigation. Of course they do. No one even remotely touched by murder goes unscathed. But Chief Inspector Rickards isn't a fool and he's an honest man. He's only going to use what is relevant to his inquiry and it's for him to decide what is relevant and what isn't.'

  'I suppose that's the reassurance I wanted to hear. All right, I'll tell him.'

  He finished his coffee very quickly as if anxious to be gone and, with only a final word of goodbye, mounted his bicycle and pedalled furiously down the path, bending himself against the wind. Dalgliesh took the two mugs back into the kitchen thoughtfully. That verbal picture of Hilary Robarts rising like a glistening goddess from the waves had been remarkably vivid. But one detail had been wrong. Pascoe had spoken of the key locket resting between her breasts. He remembered Mair's words as he stood looking down at the body. 'That locket round her neck. I gave it to her on August the twenty-ninth for her birthday.' On Wednesday 10 August Hilary Robarts couldn't have been wearing it. Pascoe had undoubtedly seen Hilary Robarts walking out of the sea with the locket resting between her naked breasts; but it couldn't have been on 10 August.

  BOOK SIX

  Saturday i October to Thursday 6 October

  Jonathan had decided to wait until Saturday to visit London and continue his inquiries. His mother was less likely to question him about a trip on Saturday to visit the Science Museum, while taking a day's leave always provoked inquiries about where he was going and why. But he thought it prudent to spend half an hour in the museum before setting off to Pont Street and it was after three o'clock before he was outside the block of flats. One fact was immediately apparent: no one who lived in this building and employed a housekeeper could possibly be poor. The house was part of an imposing Victorian terrace, half stone, half brick, with pillars each side of the gleaming black door and ornate glass, like green bottle tops, in the two ground-floor windows. The door was open and he could see a square hall tiled with black and white marble, the lower balustrade of an ornate wrought-iron staircase, and the door of a golden cage lift. To the right was a porter's desk with a uniformed man on duty. Anxious not to be seen loitering he walked quickly on considering his next move.

  In one sense none was necessary except to find his way to the nearest tube station, return to Liverpool Street and take the first train to Norwich. He had done what he had set out to do; he knew now that Caroline had lied to him. He told himself that he should be feeling shocked and distressed, both at her lie and at his own duplicity in discovering it. He had thought himself in love with her. He was in love with her. For the past year there had been hardly an hour in which she had been absent from his thoughts. That blonde, remote, self-contained beauty had obsessed him. Like a schoolboy he had waited at the corners of corridors where she might pass, had welcomed his bed because he could lie undisturbed and indulge his secret erotic fantasies, would wake wondering where and how they might next meet. Surely neither the physical act of possession nor the discovery of deceit could destroy love. So why was this confirmation of her deception almost agreeable, even pleasant? He should be devastated; instead he was filled with a satisfaction close to triumph. She had lied, almost carelessly, confident that he was too much in love, too enthralled, too stupid even to question her story. But now, with the discovery of the truth, the balance of power in their relationship had subtly shifted. He wasn't sure yet what use he would make of the information. He had found the energy and courage to act but whether he would have the courage to confront her with his knowledge was another matter.

  He walked quickly to the end of Pont Street, his eyes on the paving stones, then turned and retraced his steps trying to make sense of his turbulent emotions, so tangled that they seemed to jostle each other for dominance: relief, regret, disgust, triumph. And it had been so easy. Every dreaded obstacle from contacting the detective agency to finding an excuse for this day in London had been surmounted with greater ease than he could believe possible. So why not chance one further step? Why not make absolutely sure? He knew the name of the housekeeper, Miss Beasley. He could ask to see her, say that he had met Caroline a year or two ago, in Paris perhaps, had lost her address, wanted to get in touch. If he kept his story simple, resisted the temptation to embroider, there was no possible danger. He knew that Caroline had taken her summer holiday in France in 1986, the year, he too, had been there. It was one of the facts that had come up in conversation on their early dates together, innocuous chat about travel and paintings, the attempt to find some common ground, a shared interest. Well, at least he had been in Paris. He had seen the Louvre. He could say that that was where they had met.

  He would need a false name, of course. His father's Christian name would do. Percival. Charles Percival. It was better to choose something slightly unusual; a too common name would sound obviously false. He would say that he lived in Nottingham. He had been at the university there and knew the town. Somehow being able to picture those familiar streets made the fantasy believable. He needed to root his lies in a semblance of truth. He could say that he worked at the hospital there, a laboratory technician. If there were any other questions he could parry them. But why should there be any other questions?

  He made himself walk with confidence into the hall. Only a day ago he would have found difficulty in meeting the porter's eyes. Now, filled with the self-assurance of success, he said: 'I want to visit Miss Beasley in flat three. Would you say that I'm a friend of Miss Caroline Amphlett.'

  The porter left the reception desk and went into his office to telephone. Jonathan thought, What's to prevent me just going up the stairs and knocking at the door? Then he realized that the porter would immediately telephone Miss Beasley and warn her not to let him in. There was security of a kind, but it wasn't particularly tight.

  Within half a minute the man was back. He said: 'That's all right, sir. You can go up. It's on the
first floor.'

  He didn't bother to take the lift. The double mahogany door with its numeral of polished brass, its two security locks and central spyhole was at the front of the house. He smoothed back his hair then rang the bell and made himself stare at the peephole with an assumption of ease. He could hear nothing from inside the flat and the heavy door seemed as he waited to grow into an intimidating barricade which only a presumptuous fool would attempt to breach. For a second, picturing that single eyeball scrutinizing him through the peephole, he had to fight an impulse to flee. But then there was the faint clink of a chain, the sound of a lock turning, and the door was opened.

  Since his decision to call at the flat he had been too preoccupied with fabricating his story to give much conscious thought to Miss Beasley. The word housekeeper had conjured up a soberly dressed, middle-aged woman, at worst a little condescending and intimidating, at best deferential, chatty, eager to help. The reality was so bizarre that he gave a perceptible start of surprise, then blushed at his own betrayal. She was short and very thin with straight red-gold hair, white at the roots and obviously dyed, falling in a gleaming helmet to her shoulders. Her pale green eyes were immense and shallowly set, the lower lids inverted and bloodshot so that the eyeballs seemed to be swimming in an open wound. Her skin was very white and creped with innumerable small lines except over the jutting cheekbones where it was stretched as fine as paper. In contrast to the skin's unpainted fragility her mouth was a thin gash of garish crimson. She was wearing high-heeled slippers and a kimono and was carrying a small, almost hairless dog with bulging eyes, its thin neck encircled with a jewelled collar. For a few seconds she stood silently regarding him, the dog pressed against her cheek.