Before Ellie could answer, Pascoe rejoined them, saying, 'That's done. Daphne, I hope you haven't been telling Ellie your tale because you're just going to have to tell it to me again.'
'She was just going to start,' said Ellie.
'I was just going to tell you it was all your fault, actually,' said Daphne. 'I had it all sorted. I was going to stroll up to this fellow and distract his attention. Then while he had his back turned on your house (after the count of one hundred, remember?), you were going to get your guardian angel to come scooting along to make an arrest. Except that just as I got to him, you came belting out of your driveway, waving your arms and screaming at that poor policeman in the car. Naturally my man realized something was up and turned to make his getaway. Equally naturally, I attempted to grapple with him and keep him there. Upon which he nutted me, I think is the phrase. It's something I've often seen on the telly and I've always assumed its effect was a touch exaggerated, like people in Westerns being hurled backwards when someone shoots them. Now I know better. It's a funny thing how much closer I've got to the realities of lowlife since I met you, Ellie.'
'It's another funny thing,' said Ellie, 'that now you can't talk down your nose, you sound almost normal.'
'Daphne,' said Pascoe quickly. 'This man, can you describe him?'
'Well, he was furtive, you know. Perhaps not so much furtive as simply loitering. That's what made me notice him, though, as I told Ellie. I wouldn't really have paid any attention if she hadn't told me about her dreadful experience of yesterday
As Daphne Aldermann got older, she sounded more and more like an archdeacon's daughter, thought Pascoe. Or rather the way you expected an archdeacon's daughter to sound in an old black and white play, circumlocutory and slightly prissy, with audible inverted commas appearing round any modernism. She should have been a judge. Or at least a magistrate. Yes, she was precisely the type of woman who, despite valiant efforts to broaden the selectorate, still dominated on the magisterial bench. Not that she'd ever shown the slightest ambition in the direction so far as he knew. And while she might make bath sound like an American novelist, she could pronounce the shibboleth which got you admitted to Ellie's friendship so there had to be more to her than met the eye. Which was probably true of her husband also. A quiet, charming man who lived for roses, he had been in the frame for not one but several apparently accidental deaths. Nothing was ever proved, and in his company Pascoe blushed to recall his suspicions. And yet . . . and yet . . .
'Could you describe him, please, Daphne?' he said.
'Yes, of course. Sorry, I'm jabbering a bit, aren't I? First time I've been assaulted, you see. Comes as a shock, especially when the motive isn't sexual. No, that's a stupid thing to say, it would obviously have been a much greater shock if he'd then gone on to rape me. What I mean is, he just nutted me as if . . . well, as if I were a man.'
'Not an English gentleman then?' murmured Pascoe, winning a Medusa glare from Ellie. 'Sorry.'
'No. You're right. I mean, I'm not saying he wasn't English, or British anyway. As Ellie keeps on telling me, we're a rainbow society now. But he certainly wasn't Anglo-Saxon. He was dark, not negroid, just well-grilled, like Ellie. I wish I tanned like that but with my colouring all you get's a splotchy pink. Still, they say nowadays it's bad for you, too much sun, gives you skin cancer . . . not that I'm suggesting' for one moment, dear, that you're in danger of that. No, I'm sure in your case it's all down to natural pigmentation...’
'Putting aside the interesting question of Ellie's ethnic origins,' said Pascoe, 'you're saying this fellow was well-tanned? Hair?'
'Yes, of course. Sorry, I mean it was black, cut short, I don't mean shaven, not like those - do they still call them bovver boys?'
'The term is, I believe, a trifle passe,' said Pascoe. 'So, short hair. Moustache? Beard?'
'Yes, now I come to think of it, he did have a moustache,' said Daphne. 'Not a big one. Short too. Like his hair. In fact, he was very neat generally, almost dapper. He would have made a very good head waiter at a decent restaurant.'
Was she taking the piss? He glanced at Ellie, who gave him her sardonic smile. She had once advised him, not much point in mocking Daphne when she's so much better at it herself. But it was hard to resist the temptation. And she seemed to enjoy it in a harmlessly flirty kind of way. Harmless because there wasn't the slightest sign he turned her on, and he himself had never gone overboard on English roses, who, in a metamorphosis which might have been of interest to Ovid, often seemed to age into English horses.
Whatever, the technique finally got him a pretty good description. Not very big, five-six, five-seven maybe, slim build, thin face, sharp-nosed, wearing a dark-blue lightweight jacket of good cut (Daphne had an eye for clothes), well-pressed light-grey slacks without turn-ups, wine-coloured loafers (this with a moue of distaste), an open-necked powder-blue shirt, and a gold chain with some sort of medallion round his neck.
'Excellent,' said Pascoe. 'Hang on.'
He raised Control on his mobile and passed on the description. In return he was told that the Audi had been found.
'That's quick,' said Pascoe.
'Didn't get far. Leyburn Road. A shopping parade. You know it, sir?'
'Know it? I owe money there.'
It was five minutes' drive from his house, ten minutes' walk via the recreation ground.
'Who's there?' he asked.
'Sergeant Wield.'
That was good. Everything would be in smooth running order.
'Pass him the description,' said Pascoe, unnecessarily, he was sure, but he said it anyway. Ellie, who'd picked up the gist, was hissing something at him.
'What?'
'The car, is it OK?'
For a second the words who the hell cares about the sodding car? formed in his mind. But the answer was too obvious for them to get near his lips. Ellie cared. Not about the car, but about the fact that her friend had been hurt acting, albeit unasked, on her behalf. Her concern about the car was, literally, a damage-limitation exercise.
'Is the Audi OK?' he asked.
'Far as we know, no problem. Just neatly parked.'
'Thanks.' He switched off and said, 'The Audi's parked in Leyburn Road. It looks fine.'
'That's something, isn't it, Daph?'
Daphne managed a smile at her friend and said, 'Yes, that's something.'
She doesn't give a damn either, thought Pascoe. But she understands what Ellie's on about.
He said, 'OK if we move on? This guy, did he speak at all?'
'Not a word. What in the circumstances do you think he might have found to say?'
'Well, something like, Take that, you bitch, when he hit you.'
'Take that, you bitch? Really, Peter, you're so old-fashioned sometimes. No, he said nothing, or nothing I heard. What I did hear was my Audi revving up and I thought, the bastard's stealing my car.'
'You'd left the key in the ignition?'
'Yes, and my mobile phone on the dash. Is that still there, by the way? No, of course you won't know. Stupid of me, now I come to think of it. If I'd got chummy to the car, he'd have been dead suspicious soon as he realized I could have rung for help, wouldn't he?'
'Not as suspicious as he'd have been when he turned the key and the engine started first time,' smiled Pascoe. 'I'll check out the phone. There'll be a car waiting to take you home soon as you're ready.'
He left Daphne in Ellie's care and went out. Dennis Seymour was waiting for him in the corridor, looking anxious. Reason told him his watching brief hadn't extended to covering all Mrs Pascoe's friends and acquaintance, but he knew from personal experience that in the matter of a man's family, reason did not always apply. But Pascoe was not in the accusing mood.
He said, 'So, Dennis. You been racking your brains for me?'
'Yes, sir. Sorry. Nothing more than what I told you. Like I said, I took a note of every vehicle that went along the street while I was on watch. Nothing acting suspiciously. Control's checked t
he numbers. Nothing dodgy. All good citizens, nothing known.'
'OK. Try this for size.'
Pascoe repeated Daphne's description of her assailant.
Seymour said, 'No. Didn't see anyone like that in any of the cars. As for on foot, I saw nobody except the postman. I'm really sorry.'
'Don't be. It takes up space in your mind and I want every iota of your attention focused on Mrs Pascoe. In your sights at all times, OK?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Right. I'm on my way to Leyburn Road.'
Seymour watched Pascoe go with relief. No bollocking, no attempt to suggest he was at fault. But sometimes Pascoe being quiet and reasonable could be as intimidating as Fat Andy Dalziel on the rampage.
In Leyburn Road he found Wield watching the Audi getting a preliminary going-over by a white-overalled technician. There was a mobile phone on the dash.
'How's Mrs Aldermann?' asked the sergeant.
'Stiff upper lip, literally,' said Pascoe. 'Nose broken, some shock, but still talking. And making sense. What's happening here?'
'I've got a couple of lads checking the shops to see if anyone noticed the car arriving or anyone fitting your description. Also, they're asking if the shopkeepers can remember any of their customers in the last hour in case they can come up with something.'
That was good thinking, but Pascoe didn't say so. Wield would merely be puzzled at being complimented on doing the basics of his job.
Pascoe looked around. The car was parked by the roadside in front of the little shopping complex - grocer, greengrocer, butcher, baker, newsagent, hardware store - which people in the area used conscientiously, aware that letting themselves be lured by the cheaper prices of the superstore only ten minutes' drive away would soon unleash a drowning shower of rain on the Leyburn Road parade. But the shops were rarely so busy that the assistants wouldn't have time to glance outside occasionally.
The technician backed carefully out of the Audi and straightened up with a groan of relief.
Pascoe said, 'Anything?'
The man shook his head and said, 'Sorry. Looks like he was careful. Everything wiped clean.'
'Thanks, anyway,' said Wield. 'What now, Pete? I'm out of ideas.'
Pascoe smiled as if at an absurdity and said, 'OK, let's suppose this guy left his own car here and walked round to watch my house because he felt he'd draw less attention on foot. He steals Daphne's car because he needs to get back here quick, but he isn't panicking. He still takes time to wipe his prints. If he's as cool as that, he wouldn't park next to his own car because that's the kind of thing that draws attention, a man jumping out of one car and getting straight into another. So he parks, gets out, and walks.'
As if doing a reconstruction, Pascoe set off at a brisk pace with Wield in close pursuit.
'Doesn't help us unless we get a witness saw him walking,' panted the sergeant.
'I know. But listen, parking's bad around here. Not a lot of room.'
Wield could see he was right, but not what he was getting at. In front of the shops there was kerbside parking space for only half a dozen cars. In one direction Leyburn Road curved into a double-yellow-line bend and in the other it ran into the busy ring road via a roundabout, beside which stood a pseudo-Victorian shiny-tiles-and-leaded-lights pub, the Gateway.
It was the pub Pascoe was heading for.
As he walked he explained, 'When it's busy here, shoppers often use the pub car park. Billy Soames, the landlord, wants to avoid getting into dispute with the shopkeepers, so he's put up a sign at the entrance: No charge to shoppers, hut it helps if you at least buy a packet of crisps in the bar! Could be that's where chummy parked his own car. Let's ask Billy if he noticed a small suntanned man with a moustache using his facilities this morning.'
'Why not?' said Wield.
His mobile rang. He put it to his ear and listened. When he switched off, Pascoe, who, like an astronomer after a lifetime's study of the pocked and pitted surface of the moon, had learned to interpret a few of the sergeant's expressions, said, 'You look pleased.'
'Something I recalled from house-to-house yesterday. One of your neighbours, Mrs Cavendish, noticed a car stopping at the end of the street then turning back when all the troops had turned up. Didn't seem important then. But it popped into my mind just now when we got Mrs Aldermann's description of the man who attacked her, so I checked it out.'
'And?'
'Her words were, the man was swarthy, moustachioed and sinister.'
'That sounds like old Mrs C.,' said Pascoe. 'And the car?'
'Metallic-blue. Sounds like a Golf. Could be owt or nowt but the description fits, sort of. She half remembered a bit of the number too, so if it turns out there was a blue Golf in the pub car park . . .'
'Anyone ever tell you you're a treasure?' said Pascoe.
'Not since breakfast. By the by, that guy we talked about this morning, the student, Franny Roote. I never saw him. This sound anything like?'
'Not like the way he was back then. Size might fit, but he was blond.'
'Perhaps prison's turned him black.'
'Perhaps. I'll find out tomorrow. Somehow I doubt he's got anything to do with this, but if he has, could be the sight of me will make a good gloat irresistible.'
'You still fancy Cornelius, do you?'
'Don't know. Maybe. There's something odd going on there. You know that they found this message on her computer at the bank? It just said, TIME TO GO. And there was another on her e-mail at her apartment, STILL HERE? OH DEAR. Unsourced, but dated the day she took off. So there's someone in the background.'
'Ollershaw, you think? Trying to scare her into making a run for it? But he didn't want her caught and talking, so now he wants to pressure you to get her out?'
Wield's tone was dubious.
'Doesn't sound likely, does it?' said Pascoe. 'And I tend to agree with Andy about Ollershaw. Slippery but not physical. Anyway, I'm back in court with her tomorrow, so if someone really is trying to twist my arm to go easy opposing the bail application, then they'll need to get in touch soon.'
They had reached the pub.
The landlord greeted them with the wariness all landlords exhibit on spotting the fuzz on the premises, but soon relaxed when he understood the nature of their enquiries. Inured by long experience to disappointment or at best ambiguity, Pascoe was almost taken aback when Billy Soames said instantly, 'Yeah. Sure. I remember them.'
'Them?'
'That's right. I saw them arrive, two of them got out of the car, the little dark one set off down the road and the other one came in and ordered a pint of Guinness and a bag of crisps. First customer of the day. He sat there reading his paper for maybe three-quarters of an hour, then his mate looked through the door and sort of beckoned like he was in a hurry. And the pop-eyed one got up straightaway and went out.'
'Pop-eyed? What do you mean?'
'He had these sort of bulging eyes. Light-coloured hair going a bit thin. About forty. Big scar, newish-looking, along the left side of his head. Pasty complexion, didn't look like he spent much time in the sun.'
'And the car? Did you spot the make, Billy?'
'Merc sports. White.'
'Oh. Not a blue Golf,' said Pascoe stupidly.
The landlord gave Pascoe a long-suffering look and said judiciously, 'Well, it wasn't blue, it was white, and it wasn't a Golf, it was a Merc, so I'd have to say no, Peter, unless I'm deceived, it wasn't a blue Golf. Sorry to be such a disappointment.'
'You've done great,' Pascoe assured him.
Wield said, 'Where was he sitting?'
'Over there. By the window.'
Wield wandered across and picked up a newspaper from the windowsill.
'Was this the paper he was reading?'
'Probably.'
Carefully Wield fitted the paper into an evidence bag.
'Which way did the car go?' asked Pascoe.
'Out onto the bypass,' said the landlord. 'All this any help to you?'
'Oh y
es,' said Pascoe, knowing the value of friendly eyes and ears in public houses. 'Tremendous. Billy, you are a prince among publicans.'
'I'll remember that next time I'm being hassled about after-hours drinking.'
'Anything else you can tell us about the man you served?'
'Popeye? Not really. Didn't have much of a crack, got a delivery just after I served him. Except the way he spoke, that is.'
'And how was that?'
'Well, drinking the Guinness it didn't surprise me. He was Irish.'
viii
spelt from Sibyl's leaves
I'm Popeye the pop-up man . . .
So called because he's harder to keep down than Bounce-back Bill Clinton.
Started way back on Bloody Sunday when eleven-year-old schoolboy Patrick Ducannon, uninvolved son of uninvolved parents got shot by the paras.
Registered d.o.a. at Belfast Infirmary, but sat up and asked for his mammy when the priest dropped some hot candle wax on him. (Well, that's the crack, and why not? No reason the devil and Gaw Sempernel should have all the good stories.)
After that, of course he was involved.
And very unlucky or very lucky depending on how close to him you were standing.
Age twenty: dragged out of an exploded bomb factory in Derry covered with burnt flesh and bleeding offal, most of which turned out to belong to his two fellow ham-fisted bombardiers who in death proved so inseparable they had to be buried in the same grave.
Age twenty-four: shot as he drove a stolen car through a checkpoint. Car crashed through a wall and rolled down a railway embankment. Three passengers killed instantaneously. Popeye crawled out of the wreckage and ran down a tunnel from which he emerged a few moments later pursued by a train. Three days in hospital, three years in jail. Age twenty-nine: shot, stabbed and beaten by a unit of the UVF as he lay in his bed with his girlfriend. She died four days later. He went to her funeral.
Age thirty-three: retired from active service with the IRA, perhaps because of his reputation for outliving everyone he worked closely with. Became a quartermaster, specializing in the acquisition of cutting-edge weaponry which was put in deep storage against the long promised day of total insurrection.
Dalziel 18 Arms and the Women Page 8