Death's Jest-Book

by Reginald Hill

  ‘Saint Apollonia. Any connection with teeth?’

  ‘Yeah. She had all of hers knocked out or pulled out during her martyrdom. She’s the one to pray to if you’ve got toothache.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s very helpful.’

  Novello left.

  Dalziel said, ‘That got owt to do with owt, or have you just lost a filling?’

  ‘Just something I was curious about.’

  ‘Curious is right,’ growled the Fat Man. ‘I hope you’re not on the turn, lad. One practising Catholic in the squad’s quite enough.’

  ‘Hadn’t you better go and see this Immigration chap? He’s probably hopping round with a scalded crotch by now.’

  Dalziel boomed a laugh and said, ‘We can live in hope. If plonkers like him showed a bit more common humanity then mebbe there’d be fewer poor bastards thinking the only way they can get into the country is curled up in a truck with a lot of frozen ham. Why are you walking funny? Hurt your ankle?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘Just trying to avoid stepping in this milk of human kindness someone’s spilt all over the floor.’

  ‘Ha bloody ha. That’s the trouble witondered what the good Brotheh you poncy liberals. Think you’ve cornered the market in heart.’

  ‘Talking of which, sir, do you really think Wieldy’s right to be concerned about Lubanski?’

  ‘Shouldn’t imagine so,’ said Dalziel.

  ‘Then why did you send him to look for the lad?’

  ‘’Cos if we’re going to start taking this Hoard thing seriously, I wouldn’t mind half an hour with the little scrote myself, see what he really knows. This seemed as good a way as any to get Wieldy to bring him in without coming over all maternal. Can’t abide to see a grown man crying, that’s always been my trouble. So stop worrying, he’ll be back with his likely lad in half an hour and then I’ll really give the young sod something to suck on!’

  But for once Andy Dalziel was wrong.

  More than an hour had passed before Wield returned, and he was alone.

  ‘He wasn’t at his address, I checked out all the other likely spots and there was no sign. Someone thought they might have seen him getting into a car, but couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘There you are then,’ said Pascoe reassuringly. ‘Off with a punter.’

  ‘It’s the middle of the sodding day!’

  ‘Come on, Wieldy! What’s that got to do with anything? OK, maybe it was a mate who picked him up. Your witness said “getting into a car”, not “being dragged” into it. So wherever he is, he’s gone willingly and I don’t doubt he’ll be back in his own good time.’

  Dalziel returned from dealing with the happily unscalded Immigration official.

  ‘Not a bad fellow,’ he opined. ‘Mad eyes and shoulders on him like an ox. Don’t know if that influenced Asif, but he were real co-operative. Put his hand up like teacher’s pet. Likely that call Belch made from his car were to whoever’s behind Turk. Belch and him had had a word, Turk wanted to know what the deal was if he took the rap, Belch passes the word. Up goes Turk’s hand and the buck stops there.’

  Wield said, ‘Let’s hope you’re right.’ But he didn’t sound very hopeful.

  And when six o’clock arrived with still no sign of Lubanski, he re-embraced his first theory with renewed passion.

  ‘I think it’s time we had a word with Belchamber,’ he said forcefully.

  ‘And what’s he going to say? Yes, I fixed for Lee to be kidnapped? Get real, Wieldy.’

  ‘Depends how you put the question,’ said Wield grimly.

  Pascoe and Dalziel exchanged glances.

  The Fat Man said, ‘I can see it’s an attractive notion, Wieldy, taking Belch somewhere quiet and kicking his guts till he spills them. But you’d have to go all the way and kill him ’cos if there’s one person a good cop doesn’t want coming after him with a complaint, it’s Marcus Belchamber.’

  Pascoe, seeking a less basic appeal, said, ‘More importantly, if you’re wrong about this, and Belchamber’s got no reason to think Lee has been grassing him up, you could be dropping Lee right in it, plus we’ll have shown our hands in a big way.’

  Wield considered this then said, ‘Let’s say you’re right. So why’s Lee vanished?’

  ‘Simple,’ said Dalziel. ‘You warned him that what he was doing could be dangerous, right? Told him to take care.’

  ‘Yes, but he wasn’t taking a damn bit of notice,’ said Wield.

  ‘Might give that impression, kids like him live on bravado, eh? Show you’re scared in the streets and you’re knackered. But he trusts you, Wieldy, everything you’ve said about him shows that. So you say something, it’ll have sunk in. Then what happens? He’s sitting with you in Turk’s and suddenly the place is full of cops. I know you explain it’s nowt to do with you, but even if he believes you, it’s a reminder. You may be a wise old father-figure, but you’re a cop as well, and he’s been cosying up to you in public, and God knows who’s been watching. So maybe it’s time he took a little holiday. Business has been good, he’s got a bit in the bank. Wouldn’t surprise me if he wasn’t on his way to Marbella this very moment.’

  It was logical, it was persuasive. Pascoe could see Wield setting the Fat Man’s hypothesis alongside everything he knew about Lubanski and getting a good match.

  Also it gave him real hope and that’s a bait it takes a Beckett to spit out.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You could be right. But if you’re not …’

  He left his threat unspoken, or perhaps he simply hadn’t yet worked out the details but knew it would be the terror of the earth.

  ‘You really think he’s on his way to Spain, sir?’ said Pascoe after Wield had left.

  ‘Fuck knows. But for the sake of argument, let’s assume he’s been kidnapped. Why? ’Cos someone got worried about what he’s been telling Wieldy about Belch’s plan. What has he been telling Wieldy about Belch’s plan? Not a lot. Most of what we think we know about it is loaves and fishes, a big meal based on a few scraps. But if they tret him like yon Saint Aspidistra you were asking Ivor about and pulled his teeth out to find out what he’d said, all they’d hear about were the scraps. And, not knowing what active imaginations Wieldy and you have got, they likely think they’re still in the clear.’

  ‘So if we are right and it’s the Elsecar Hoard they’re after, which is being transported here next Saturday, a week from tomorrow, that doesn’t leave much time.’

  ‘No it doesn’t, but it’s still not a lot to go on,’ grumbled Dalziel. ‘What we need is some silver-tongued bastard full of low cunning who can go down to Sheffield tomorrow morning and sell them this notion in such a way that, if it turns out a dud, it’s all their fault, and if it turns out a winner, we get most of the credit.’

  ‘That would indeed take a huge length of silver tongue and a dizzy depth of cunning,’ said Pascoe. ‘Have you anyone in mind, sir?’

  ‘Belt up and bugger off,’ said Dalziel.

  11

  The Pedlar

  Pascoe liked Sheffield. Everyone with an eye for beauty, a nose for excitement, a taste for variety likes Sheffield. Built on seven hills like Rome, it is possible to pass from spring in its valleys to winter on its heights without ever crossing the city boundary.

  Perhaps it gets its peculiar buzz from being a frontier town, for this is where Yorkshire in particular and the North in general end. After this, wrap it up how you will, you’re into the Midlands. The White Peak bits of Derbyshire may have something of the North in them, but it’s hilly landscape stood on its head. You are looking down from edges rather than staring up at heights.

  DI Stan Rose was certainly looking down rather than staring up. His lost snout had been picked up in London trying to use a dodgy credit card. Rose had gone south to see him. He’d found a very scared man, showing signs of a recent severe beating.

  As Pascoe heard this, he thought uneasily of Lee Lubanski. Mate Polchard didn’t have a reputation for gratuitous violen
ce, but he was up for anything that the situation demanded. And God knows what kind of mindless muscle he was employing.

  Then Rose, unprompted, mentioned the Elsecar Hoard, and his concern for the missing rent boy evaporated.

  Strong hints that further info on the Sheffield job could persuade Rose to put in a word when the Met came to decide how to proceed in the snout’s present difficulty had at first produced only the eloquent comment that he might be better off inside. To which Rose had replied that, in that case, he would make sure he got a conditional discharge, then let it be known around Sheffield that he’d been down for a chat.

  Even then, all he got was a date. January 26th, a week from today, the day the Hoard was being transferred from Sheffield to Mid-Yorkshire.

  ‘But what made you think of the Hoard as a target in the first place?’ asked Pascoe.

  ‘Polchard’s record made me think it might be a security-van hit, so I researched a list of all possibles this month,’ said Rose proudly. ‘When I saw the date matched the Hoard transfer day, I got all the museum security tapes and went through them. And you know what, Polchard’s visited the exhibition twice at least. Coat collar turned up, hat pulled down, but it was definitely him.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s just interested in Roman history,’ said Pascoe drily. ‘You were going to tell me all this, weren’t you, Stan? I mean, we are talking about next Saturday, right?’

  ‘Of course I was. I’ve been putting some ideas together, just wanted to run them by my boss, he’s been off with this Kung Flu, just got back today, so I was planning to ring you. Anyway, it’s still all a bit speculative, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think it’s a bit more than that, Stan,’ said Pascoe.

  As he explained the reasons for his visit, Rose had the grace to look positively embarrassed at the contrast between Pascoe’s speedy sharing of new information and his cards-close-to-the-chest approach.

  ‘Pete, this is really good. This is all I need to get the go-ahead on my … on our op.’

  ‘I’m pleased for you. Though of course if, as seems likely, they’re planning to make the hit during transfer, it’s as likely, in fact more likely to take place on Andy Dalziel’s turf.’

  He paused a moment just to let Rose contemplate the life-threatening perils of a power struggle with the Fat Man, then went on, ‘But the guy who takes the call calls the shots, isn’t that what they say? It’s your show, Stan. You’ll get full backing from our side of the fence – just as long as we’re getting full intelligence from yours.’

  ‘Pete, that’s great. Thanks a bunch. Look, I’ve got a lot of ideas for this oppo. I’m calling it Operation Serpent, by the way. Thought that fitted.’

  He spoke almost defiantly and Pascoe concealed his amusement.

  ‘So why don’t we get down to some hard planning while you’re here,’ the DI continued.

  ‘To be honest, I’d rather get down to the museum and see what all the fuss is about,’ said Pascoe.

  He had seen photographs of various items in the Hoard, but they hadn’t prepared him for its full splendour. It wasn’t a huge collection but it had clearly been put together by a man with an eye for beauty who must have approved the care which had been taken in setting his pieces out on display. Rings, bracelets, brooches, necklaces, each was shown to its best advantage on slowly rotating stands covered with black velvet and lit by shifting lights which moved from the full glare of sunshine to the soft glow of candleshine. At the very centre, set on a fibreglass ovoid, which though faceless somehow invited you to see whatever features you found most beautiful there, was the serpent coronet.

  For a moment as he studied it, Pascoe almost understood Belchamber’s desire for possession. And he could certainly share his indignation that this treasure was being allowed out of the country.

  They saw the Exhibition Director and questioned him about the transfer arrangements at the end of the exhibition. They kept the tone as low-key as possible, stressing that these were just the routine security enquiries any movement of so valuable a cargo would require. Prevention might be better than cure, but neither of them had any desire to alert the gang to their suspicions and warn them off. As Dalziel once put it, with hardbitten pros, the only true crime prevention was prison. Anything else was mere postponement.

  One piece of information caught Pascoe’s interest. The transfer was going to be done by Praesidium Security.

  Rose, with a sensitivity to reaction which boded well for him in his career, noted the flicker of interest and brought it up as they left the Director’s office.

  Pascoe told him about the earlier attack on the Praesidium van and of the link with Belchamber.

  ‘So you think this could have been some kind of rehearsal?’

  ‘Could be. It would certainly explain why they weren’t that much interested in the money that had been on board. Though I must say if they think the crew ferrying the Hoard are going to stop at a caff for tea, they must be seriously thick.’

  Pascoe paused as they passed through the main foyer. On a noticeboard a poster had caught his eye. It advertised the one-day conference being held at the university by the Yorkshire Psychandric Society – and of course today was the day. He wondered how Pottle’s opening address had gone down.

  He went closer to check the details.

  Amaryllis Haseen had been on that morning, so he’d missed her. But Frère Jacques, Roote’s guru, was on after lunch, talking about Third Thought and his new book.

  Back at Sheffield HQ he met Rose’s boss. He didn’t look well and, despite his assurances that he was no longer infectious, whenever his chain smoking brought on a bout of ferocious coughing, Pascoe tried to keep to the windward.

  He was less convinced than his DI that Pascoe’s news meant there was definitely a heist attempt in the offing, but he questioned him closely about Andy Dalziel’s attitude. Obviously the Fat Man’s opinions carried weight everywhere. Finally he gave Rose that conditional blessing which Pascoe well recognized. Interpreted, it meant: your triumph is ours, your cock-ups are your own.

  But Stan Rose was delighted. Outside the smoky room, he said, ‘Pete, let me buy you some lunch. Least I can do. I owe you.’

  Pascoe said, ‘Thanks, Stan, but there’s something I need to do up at the university. Talking of which, there is something … Remember that boy Frobisher, the one Sergeant Wield asked you about way back in connection with that lecturer’s death on our patch … ?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember him. Accidental overdose trying to stay awake to finish his work.’

  ‘That’s the one. Look, while I’m here I’d like to poke around the house he lived in, have a word with any of his mates who are still there, nothing heavy – but if anyone got stroppy, it would be good to say I’d checked it out with you.’

  Rose was regarding him like a poor relation who’d suddenly mentioned money.

  ‘This anything to do with that fellow Roote?’ he asked.

  ‘Distantly.’

  ‘Pete, this is a non-suspicious death, all done and dusted.’

  ‘From what you said, his sister didn’t think so.’

  ‘What are sisters for? Pete, it’s a waste of time.’

  ‘You’re probably right. And I realize I should be devoting all my energies to assisting you in this Hoard oppo …’

  He slightly stressed assisting.

  Rose sighed.

  ‘Be my guest, Pete. I can always say you pulled rank on me.’

  ‘That was my next move,’ grinned Pascoe.

  At the university, Pascoe entered the lecture theatre just as Dr Pottle was concluding his introduction of Frère Jacques. The front rows were full but there were plenty of empty seats near the back. Perhaps the flu bug was to blame. Pascoe seated himself in the rearmost row alongside a trio of world-weary female students who looked like they’d only come in to get out of the cold. Pottle finished and stepped down to take a seat at the front. A woman next to him turned her head to speak and, though he’d only seen a book
jacket photo, Pascoe thought he recognized Amaryllis Haseen.

  Frère Jacques was a surprise. With his cropped blond hair and his tight-fitting black turtleneck, which showed a muscular torso with no sign of fat, he looked more like a ski instructor than a monk.

  ‘Well, hello sailor,’ said one of the girls sitting near Pascoe. ‘Wonder if he’s got a dick to match?’

  It came out perfectly natural, on a par with a young man’s not many of them in a pound on sight of a big-breasted woman. Was this an advance to equality or a backward step? wondered Pascoe.

  Jacques began talking. His English was structurally perfect with just enough of an accent to be sexy. He talked easily of death, his own experiences as a soldier, his belief that Western man’s growing obsession with longevity and wonder cures had foolishly made a foe out of the one fact of nature we couldn’t hope to defeat.

  ‘Pick your friends carefully is a wise motto,’ he said. ‘But pick your enemies even more carefully is a wiser one. Losing a friend is much easier than losing an enemy.’

  His ideas were carefully couched in the language of psychology and philosophy rather than of religion. Only once did he stray in the direction of Christian dogma, and that was when he referred with an ironic twinkle of those luminous blue eyes to the unique comforts of the English Prayer Book ‘which assures mourners at a funeral that “man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower.” No wonder the tradition has grown up after a funeral of heading back to a house or pub and downing as many drinks as are necessary to blot out this cheerful message!’

  A thread of humour ran through all his exposition of the stratagems and disciplines by which Third Thought aimed to make its practitioners more comfortable with that awareness of death which he argued was essential to a full life. But there was never anything frivolous or factitious or tinged with mere bravado in his talk. He ended by saying ‘It is commonplace, as many great truths are commonplace, to talk of the miracle of life. But being born is only the first of the two great miracles which humanity is involved in. The second is of course death and in many ways it is the greater. The fine Scottish poet Edwin Muir understood this, as expounded in the opening verse of his poem “The Child Dying”.