Dalziel 18 Arms and the Women

by Reginald Hill

  He showed his teeth in a Jurassic grin.

  What's the old sod up to? she wondered as he lumbered away, all buttocks and thighs. It was like standing behind a rhinoceros. What would it be like to have sex with him? This was a topic with which the female officers of the Mid-Yorks force often teased their fantasies in social hours. Speculation usually ended in hysterical laughter as impossibility piled on impossibility. Yet it was well known he was still active, his current inamorata being a woman called 'Cap' Marvell who, though far from his match, was built on the same generous lines. Must be like the battle of the mastodons in The Lost World, she thought. The image made her giggle. But it also, she admitted, turned her on just a little. Christ, she'd better watch it. Time to offer a few oats to St Uncumber, maybe.

  Unaware, and uncaring if he had been aware, that he was an object of such prurient speculation, Andy Dalziel made his slow way to the magistrates' court. He wasn't technically late, but sufficiently on the cusp of lateness to have provoked the irritation of uncertainty. And not just in the magistrate's clerk, whose thin lips pursed like a tomcat's arsehole as Dalziel humbly explained that Mr Pascoe had been unavoidably delayed, but in a couple of sombre-suited gents, one stocky, one thin, seated at the back of the court, who exchanged a relieved word at his appearance, then settled into blank-faced attentiveness.

  The presiding magistrate was Mrs Nora Broomhill, a woman of indeterminate age but very determinate opinions, one of which was that any police force which numbered men like Andrew Dalziel amongst its senior officers was an Augean stable in need of intensive cleansing.

  The Fat Man gave her a nod and a smile with just a hint of a rueful wink in it. She gave him a glare which would have gone well with a black cap, and instructed the clerk to begin.

  As the rigmarole was gone through, Dalziel looked towards the dock where Kelly Cornelius sat. Hitherto he'd only known her from her picture in the file, which had been taken while her nose was still swollen in the aftermath of the accident. Now she was almost back to normal and he could see what a striking young woman she was. Not beautiful, or rather not possessed of that particular concatenation of feature which men of his generation were conditioned to regard as beauty, her long rather sallow face with its big dark eyes and angled cheekbones nevertheless caught and held his attention. Even in repose, there was something vibrant about her, like a landscape trembling under heat. He suddenly understood what it was that Peter Pascoe had felt he needed to show the world, and himself, he wasn't affected by. Usually when the Fat Man looked at a slim (meaning skinny when translated into York-speak) woman, he thought in terms of force-feeding with Yorkshire pudding and plum duff. This one instead made him think of doing the tango on a moonlit dancefloor with the orchestra invisible and the scent of bougainvillea filling the warm night air . . .

  Watch it, Hamish! he said to himself, full of amazement, particularly as he doubted if he could have picked out bougainvillea from bog myrtle. Tha must be on the turn!

  'Mr Dalziel!'

  Nora Broomhill's tone made it clear she had addressed him once already.

  'Oh aye. Yes,' he said.

  Cornelius's eyes rose to meet his now, either attracted by the intensity of his gaze or merely directed by the magistrate's steely focus.

  'I understand that the police wish to make an application for a further remand in custody in the case of Ms Cornelius?'

  'That's right, ma'am.'

  'Perhaps you would care to share with us the grounds for this application.'

  'Oh aye. Well. . .' He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, produced some dog-eared papers, examined them with a look of faint perplexity while his upper teeth nibbled his lower lip like a hungry dog sampling a discarded tyre, then went on'. . . well, I expect they're much the same as before.'

  Mrs Broomhill's eyebrows rose into a Norman arch.

  'The same as before?' she echoed.

  'Aye. I expect you'll have it written down somewhere, ma'am,' said Dalziel, with a confidential smile.

  'I expect we will, Superintendent. But this court is not a rubber stamp. Each new application is distinct and separate from any previous application. Arguments need to be repeated and where necessary reinforced. It is a citizen's liberty we are dealing with here, Mr Dalziel, a citizen who enjoys that right under the law of being regarded as innocent until proven guilty. So let me hear your arguments.'

  'Well, she thumped one of our lads, broke his nose

  'I understand it is so alleged,' said Mrs Broomhill coldly. 'Am I to understand you are saying members of the police force would feel at risk if Miss Cornelius were set at liberty?'

  'No! Don't be daft. Oo, sorry, ma'am . . . didn't mean . . . what I'm saying is there's other serious charges against her being investigated and we're feart she might flit.'

  'Leave the country, you mean? But I understand Miss Cornelius has voluntarily handed over her passport. Miss Dancer?'

  The young woman solicitor acting for Kelly Cornelius who had been listening to the exchange with growing delight popped up and said, 'That is correct, ma'am.'

  'And what stage has been reached in the investigation of these other possible offences, Mr Dalziel? Is there an end in sight.'

  Dalziel looked round appealingly at the two suits at the back of the court. They studiously avoided his eyes.

  'Couldn't say, ma'am,' he said helplessly. 'Sorry. But I thought someone 'ud have had a private word with you . . . mebbe . . .'

  The arch of the magistrate's eyebrows went from Norman to Perpendicular.

  'Have you finished, Superintendent?' she said coldly. 'Miss Dancer?'

  The solicitor rose and said demurely, 'If it pleases you, ma'am, my client has now been held in custody for nearly three weeks on a charge which, if proven, and without trying to preempt the court's judgement, is unlikely to result in a custodial sentence of such duration. These alleged other offences have not resulted in any further charge, nor, from what the superintendent says, does there seem any likelihood of their doing so in the foreseeable future. Continued detention in such circumstances would seem to be manifestly unjust and unjustifiable. I would therefore ask that the application be denied.'

  Mrs Broomhill consulted briefly with her clerk and then announced, 'I agree, Miss Dancer. The application is denied. In its place I will make an order requiring Miss Cornelius to report daily to her local police station. Failure to do so will result in a further warrant for her arrest. Do you understand this, Miss Cornelius?'

  The defendant stood up.

  'Yes, ma'am,' she said in a low musical voice.

  Then she turned her head towards Andy Dalziel and gave him a heart-stoppingly grateful smile, and he found he was grinning back like an idiot.

  Outside the court, Dalziel saw the two suits in close confabulation. He went up to them and said to the thinner of the pair, 'It's Barney Hubbard, isn't it? We met at that conference in Derby. Is it your lads checking out how deep Cornelius has had her hand in the till?'

  His voice boomed round the crowded vestibule.

  'Yes, Mr Dalziel,' said Hubbard at a much lower level. 'And we would have preferred the woman to continue a little longer in custody. What the devil were you playing at in there? Where's DCI Pascoe?'

  'Got held up so I had to step into the breach last minute. Sorry if I weren't up to speed on things, but finding out what's going on here's like trying to find out who really shot Kennedy. Here, don't I know your friend?'

  The stouter suit had stepped away from the conversation. Now, under Dalziel's benign smile, he said, 'No, I don't think we've met. Hubbard, I think we should be on our way.'

  The thin suit gave Dalziel a glance at once accusatory and promissory and the pair began to move away.

  The Fat Man let them go two or three paces then he called, 'I remember. Didn't you used to hang about with yon funny bugger, Pimpernel, sorry, I mean Sempernel? Aye, that's it. Didn't recognize you without your cloak and dagger. How is old Gawain? Still sifting through wastebin
s to keep us all safe for democracy, eh?'

  The suits slowed momentarily then increased their pace without looking round.

  'Well, give him my regards anyway,' called Dalziel as they went through the door.

  Then he smiled benevolently round the listening room like a medieval pope after a good burning, and said, 'Nice to meet old friends, isn't it? But I can't stay here all day enjoying myself when there's work to be done,' and headed out into the sunshine and towards the Black Bull.

  xvii

  the juice of strawberries

  Rosemont was a house for all seasons, but at summer's height the extensive gardens were a green canvas on which an artist had painted heaven with a palette of roses. From the purity of Iceberg and Virgo, through the faint flush of Felicite et Perpetue and Escapade to the clear-pink of Dandy Dick, the lilac-pink of Yesterday and the salmon-pink of Evensong, the shades ran ever darkening down the red blush of Perfecta, the bright flame of Wilhelm, the dried blood of Kassel, the velvet burgundy of Roseraie de I'Hay, ending in the depths of midnight-purple in the robes of Cardinal de Richelieu.

  A seeker after sensation could voyage long hours across this ocean of colour and scent, uncaring because unknowing whether his fate was directing him to Sweet Repose and Penelope or Clytemnestra and Crimson Shower. As Ellie's car emerged from the tunnel of over-arching hollies which stood sentinel about the main gate, her heart sang at this sense of bursting into a new and golden land. It wasn't true, of course, but somehow it seemed that the sun always shone at Rosemont, as indeed it had seemed to shine always upon the life of its owner, Patrick Aldermann. Ellie was no rose expert but she could identify the long-stemmed sweet-smelling blooms in deep gold, opening to a scarlet flush, which had pride of place in the beds flanking the front door. These were the fruits of Patrick's own breeding and he'd named them after his wife, who was standing alongside them on the doorstep as Ellie drew up.

  Today, however, the resemblance between bloom and eponym was not as clear as it had once been, though there was presumably some sort of scarlet flush beneath the white gauze taped across her nose.

  'Ellie, it's lovely to see you,' said Daphne. 'I hoped you would come.'

  'You mean you've been lurking in the porch all morning on the off chance?' said Ellie.

  'Don't be silly. The noise that wreck of yours makes is identifiable five miles off. Careful!'

  This in response to the kiss Ellie offered to plant on her cheek.

  'It's all right. The danger zone's pretty well signposted. How are you? I'd have brought some flowers only it seemed sort of coals to Newcastle.'

  'Belgian chocolates or exotic fruits didn't cross your mind then? Let's sit outside. Patrick's just making some coffee, or is your alcoholism so advanced you'd prefer a gin?'

  'Coffee's fine. Patrick . . . ? I thought he was on his way to Amsterdam or somewhere?'

  'He should be, but he's come over all macho and says he can't possibly go. I'm working on him.'

  They sat at a handsome round table in delicately scrolled wrought iron. The chairs looked to be made from the same material but proved to be gently yielding and very comfortable. Patrick Aldermann was not inclined to let anything get in the way of his creature comforts.

  'So, how are you feeling today?' asked Daphne.

  'Aren't you getting your script wrong? It's you who's got the cauliflower nose, remember?'

  'Because I got in the way, not because I personally am being terrorized,' she said firmly. 'You're the one who matters here, Ellie.'

  This was one of the things that made Daphne special, thought Ellie. After an audition as violent as hers, few people could have resisted the temptation to be prima donna, if only for a couple of scenes, in someone else's opera.

  'It's the kind of distinction I could do without,' said Ellie glumly. 'Anyway, I came to say I'm really sorry. And I am.'

  'Darling, it wasn't your fault. Not at all. Or not unless there's something you're not telling me.'

  'Don't be stupid. Why do you say that?'

  'Because, being a bleeding-heart liberal and a product of the let-it-all-hang-out state educational system, you are little skilled in the arts of social hypocrisy. What's bugging you? I use the phrase horticulturally, of course.'

  'Nothing. I mean, everything. Oh, what the hell. It's stupid, but it does feel like it's all my fault. Sort of, I mean.'

  'Such clarity, such brevity,' murmured Daphne. 'But perhaps you could expand just a little.'

  Ellie said, 'Before Rosie was taken ill, I was feeling, you know, a bit sort of down. Self-analytical. Looking at my life and asking what it really added up to. I know, I know, in terms of what I'd got, nice home, by my plebeian standards anyway, nice husband, good sex, lovely kid, a fridge full of exotic grub and Australian chardonnay, a decent circle of friends, present company excepted, in terms of all this I was doing OK. And I couldn't moan on about giving up my career, because any time I wanted I could pick up some lecturing work, and if I really got the bug, I could even go back full time, Peter would have fallen over backwards to be supportive. Only I thought about it and realized that attending for a check, or even a cheque, was exactly what I didn't want! So, no complaints there.'

  'Ellie, my dear, I hope this isn't leading up to a confession that you've been screwing the milkman?' said Daphne.

  'Our milkman is a milk woman who, rumour has it, is fully occupied realizing the randy-squire-and-young-dairymaid fantasies of Mr James, the merry widower at number seventeen. No, I flung my fling, or came close, a few years back. But that was in another country and besides, the boy is dead. So, been there, done that, have no desire to pay another visit. I love Peter, and when he's not absolutely knackered running around after the Fat Controller, he can make the earth move and the welkin ring for me like we used to read about in mucky books.'

  'Our educational systems did have some overlap then,' said Daphne. 'So that's sex, love, maternalism, and creature comforts all sorted out. What's your problem, dear?'

  'I just feel that I haven't really done anything,' said Ellie helplessly. 'Not anything that matters.'

  'Come on! When I first met you, you were waving a banner and chanting abuse even though you had a papoose basket strapped on your back. For years you were to protests like Kate Adie is to civil wars, they couldn't really start till you got there.'

  'Oh yes, I marched and made speeches and wrote letters and joined pickets, I did all that. But I never got shot at, or beaten up, or tortured like the people I was protesting for. I never even had to go hungry because I was on strike like the people whose pickets I joined. But it wasn't just social-conscience stuff. I've never lived abroad, I've never bummed my way along the Golden Road to Samarkand. I've never sailed round the world single-handed, I've never been close when something really interesting has happened, like an earthquake or a revolution or a film star getting into a fight in a restaurant. I sometimes read the author blurbs on novels and think that if ever by some miracle I get published, they'll have to have a blank!'

  'Wow,' said Daphne. 'Is this perhaps why you started writing? I don't mean to fill the author blurb blank, of course. Or perhaps I do.'

  Ellie laughed and said, 'I don't care what your therapist says about you, I think you're pretty sharp. Yes, possibly. It's a way of getting a life, isn't it? In fact, an infinity of lives. Plus, if it comes off, you're Ellie Pascoe the novelist instead of just Ellie Pascoe, the policeman's wife. But there's more to it than that, I think. I hope. Anyway, my laboured point is that when Rosie nearly died, suddenly all this crap dwindled away to nothing. There was me, there was Rosie, there was Pete. That was it. Holy Trinity. I even prayed to that other Trinity, the one I don't believe in. And I made promises. Like if we got through this, I'd never be dissatisfied again.'

  'Do promises to something you don't believe in count, I wonder?'

  'More than any other, I'd say. Never cheat something that can't cheat back. Anyway, to cut a marathon story down to ten thousand metres, all that stuff I th
ought had dwindled down to nothing, well, it's like stuff on your computer screen, it goes out of sight but it's really still there. I can feel it. I think I got the first reminder when I got rung up about that Liberata meeting I told you about. Part of me said, I'm finished with this stuff, from now on it's cultivate your own garden, girl. Then guilt clicked in. But worse than guilt. I found myself thinking about old Feenie Macallum. Her life, you couldn't get it on the back of a dust jacket, you'd need a whole thick volume. You see what I'm saying, Daphne? I know I've been changed by what happened, what nearly happened to us. I look at Rosie and Pete and I know that they're so important to me, I'd die for them. And yet I can still feel deep down inside of me the old seeds of dissatisfaction! Lovely character, ain't I?'

  'And you think that this Trinity you don't believe in, having tried to set you right earlier this year by nearly killing your daughter, has decided to give you another lesson by having you persecuted by a bunch of loonies? Come on!'

  Daphne laughed, not a forced superior bray but a bubbling gurgle of real amusement which left you no option but to join in.

  As if at a signal, which indeed perhaps it was, Patrick Aldermann appeared carrying a tray which he placed on the table, then stooped to peck Ellie's cheek.

  'How nice to find you both in such high spirits,' he said. 'I thought you might have come to blows over who should bear most responsibility for yesterday's fiasco.'

  'Patrick, please!' said Daphne. 'We've got that sorted.'

  'Oh yes? And?'

  Ellie said, 'I freely accept complete responsibility, despite the fact that what actually happened to Daphne was her own silly fault.'

  Aldermann considered this as he poured the coffee.

  As he handed a cup to Ellie, he smiled. It was a good smile. His normal expression was an unexpressive blank, brown eyes observing you neutrally from an oval face whose complete regularity of feature enhanced the sense of a mask. Another kind of man, realizing how attractive and juvenating his smile was, might have used it more often and more calculatingly, but Aldermann was the least self-conscious man Ellie knew. She wasn't sure how much she liked him, not because she knew anything about him to dislike, but simply because he gave so little away. People with something to conceal often reveal themselves negatively through the way they wish to be seen, but Patrick was simply . . . Patrick. A man for whom life had seemed to arrange itself with the natural beauty and perfect proportions of this garden. Except, of course, that this garden owed most of its beauty and lay-out to the working brain and working hand of its owner. Which made you wonder about his life . . .