“Right, sunshine,” said Dalziel. “What’s going off then, apart from bloody chaos?”
“How should I know?” retorted Pascoe. “I just got here myself. I’m not psychic.”
“Hoity-toity,” said Dalziel. “See you brought the family. Little Rosie’s in the back of the car, is she?”
“No, she isn’t. I just happened to be picking up Ellie when I heard the call.”
“So none of that lot’s with you?”
“Well actually, Cressida—she’s the one with the hair—it was her house I was picking up Ellie from …”
“So you said, ‘Fancy a lift, luv?’ Kind of you, Peter. Gets the Force a good name. Did you pick up the others en route?”
“Of course not,” said Pascoe indignantly. “They all turned up after I got here, which was when the trouble started. How the hell did they get past Jennison on the gate anyway?
“How owt gets past yon bugger, I don’t know. Man can’t have any self-respect to let himself get in that shape,” said Dalziel sanctimoniously. Perhaps, thought Pascoe incredulously, he sees himself as slim!
“Any road,” he went on, “I gather there’s a body in here and I’d say this gang have all turned up ’cos they’re worried it’s Pal Maciver. So let’s go in and see if we can put them out of their misery. Or do I mean into it?”
He strode towards the front door. As he passed Ellie he said, “What fettle, luv? Enjoying your night out?”
“Always a pleasure watching professionals at their work, Andy,” she replied.
Pascoe said to her, “Look, I’m going to be tied up here for a while. Why don’t you take the car and head off home?”
“Before I find out what’s happened? You’re joking. Besides, Cress might need me.”
“I thought that was why I had to pick you up early,” said Pascoe.
He caught up with Dalziel at the door.
“You all right, Sergeant?” the Fat Man said to Bonnick.
“Fine, sir.”
“Good. And how about you, son?”
Dunn said, “Look, I’m sorry—I was out of … but I was worried—we’d heard that … and he didn’t show, so I thought that … that … that …”
He stammered to a halt. He really was Billy Budd, thought Pascoe.
“What’s your problem, lad?” enquired Dalziel. “Apart from not being able to finish sentences? Here, don’t I know you?”
“I don’t think so—please, I didn’t realize …”
“Yes I do. Rugby club. You sometimes turn out for the seconds, right? Open side? But you can’t play regular because of your work, or summat?”
“That’s right. I teach PE at Weavers and that means my Saturdays are pretty well spoken for.”
“PE, eh? That explains about the sentences. Pity, but. You looked a lot better prospect than yon neanderthal that plays for the firsts. No finesse. Kicks folk right in front of the ref. Any of them ladies back there belong to you?”
“That’s my wife, Helen … the pregnant one.”
“That right? Planning to get all your family over at once, are you? So she’d be Helen Maciver as was, right? Now Mrs Dunn as is. I’m getting there. Mrs Kafka I know. And yon Cressida, I remember her. The other is …?”
“Sue-Lynn, Pal’s wife.”
“Oh aye. All here then. Some bugger must’ve sent invitations.”
“Is Pal in there?” said Dunn pleadingly. “Has something happened to him?”
“I’ve no idea. Any reason to think it might have done?”
“No. I mean, he didn’t turn up … we play squash on Wednesday evenings and when he didn’t show …”
“Stood you up, did he? And that makes you worry something’s happened to him? I see. People stand me up, it’s when they do appear that something’s likely to happen to them. Maycock, you reckon you can keep this mob at bay?”
“No problem, sir.”
“Good lad. Sergeant, lead on. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”
“Please, can’t I come with you?” pleaded Dunn.
“Nay lad,” said Dalziel kindly. “I think most likely you’re under arrest. Often happens when you assault a police officer. That right, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bonnick.
“Don’t worry too much, but. It probably won’t delight the governors at Weavers but it will really impress the kids. Now I’m going to give you a choice. You can either sit in a car handcuffed to the wheel till we’re ready to deal with you, which could be hours. Or you can promise to be a good boy and go and take care of that poor wife of thine before she explodes. Which is it?”
“No more trouble, really. I’m very sorry,” said Dunn.
“Good lad. Off you go. Now, Sergeant, fill me in.”
He listened carefully to Bonnick’s digest of events as they entered the house and climbed the stairs, only interrupting to ask, “What made Tweedledum and Tweedledee come up the drive in the first place?”
There was a slight hesitation before Bonnick said, “Just a random check, I think, sir. Also some of the girls bring their punters up these driveways, I believe, and we’ve been doing a bit of a blitz on kerb crawlers recently.”
“Very conscientious pair of officers, then,” said Dalziel. “You’re lucky to have them.”
The old sod knows that most likely they were skiving, thought Pascoe, but he wouldn’t have rated Bonnick if he’d said so.
When they reached the landing, he saw a uniformed inspector standing by a door with a splintered frame. This was Paddy Ireland, a small, rather self-important man, whose trousers always looked as if they’d been re-pressed after he put them on. He turned and acknowledged Dalziel with a parade-ground salute. Behind him through the doorway Pascoe could see a man in a white coverall whom he recognized as Tom Lockridge, one of a small group of local doctors registered as police medical examiners. He was looking down at a man slumped at a desk. At least Pascoe assumed it was a man. Too little of the head remained to make confirmation certain at this distance.
“Poor bastard,” said Dalziel. “Any ID?”
“Haven’t been able to check, sir,” said Ireland. “Thought it best to disturb things as little as possible till SOCO had got their photos.”
“There’s a car parked round the back of the house,” said Bonnick. “Blue Laguna estate, registered owner Mr Palinurus Maciver, who’s also the designated keyholder of the property, so it seems likely …”
“Let’s not jump the gun, if you’ll pardon the expression,” said Dalziel. “Dr Lockridge, how do? What can you tell us?”
Tom Lockridge had emerged from the room. He didn’t look well.
“He’s dead,” said Lockridge.
“Don’t reckon you’re going to get any argument there,” said Dalziel, peering towards the shattered figure. “But it’s always good to have these things confirmed by an expert. Saves us laymen wasting time with the kiss of life. You wouldn’t like to give us just a bit of detail, but, Doc?”
“Not long dead,” intoned Lockridge dully. “Two to four hours, maybe. Cause of death, probably self-inflicted gunshot wounds to the head …”
“Probably?”
“You won’t know for certain till the pathologist has taken a look, will you?” said Lockridge, sparking slightly.
“Won’t know what? That they killed him or that they were self-inflicted?”
“What? Both. Either. They look to be self-inflicted. He took his shoe and sock off …”
“Why do you think that was?”
“I presume so he could pull the shotgun trigger with his toe.”
“You’re a bugger for presumptions, Doc. Mebbe he were a freemason. Didn’t notice an apron, did you?”
This was a facetious callosity too far, thought Pascoe.
Lockridge evidently thought so too.
“Mr Dalziel,” he said very formally, “as a doctor, I know the therapeutic value of gallows humour, but I still find your tone offensive. I hope you will take pains to control it before
you break the sad news to Mr Maciver’s relations.”
“Mr Maciver? That’s Mr Maciver, is it? How can you tell?”
They all stared towards the shattered head.
“I don’t know … I just assumed, with him going missing … Yes, I’m sure it’s Pal … I used to be his doctor, you see.”
“Is that right? So how about distinguishing marks? Something that ’ud spare us having to give his nearest and dearest a close-up of that?”
“He does … did … does have a distinct naevus at the base of his spine.”
“Naevus? Like in Ben Naevus, you mean?”
“Birthmark,” explained Pascoe, he knew unnecessarily.
“Oh aye. But you’ve not taken a look?”
“No. I assumed you’d want the body left as undisturbed as possible till your SOCO people had finished in there.”
“SOCO? You think there’s been a crime then, Doc?”
“I know there’s been a suspicious death. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way. You’ll have my report as soon as possible.”
He started to peel off the protective overall but Dalziel said, “Hang about, Doc. Do us a favour. Just pop back in there and check out yon naevus thing, just so’s we can be sure.”
For a moment Lockridge looked as though he might refuse, then he turned, went back into the room, pulled the dead man’s shirt-tail out of his trousers, peered down for a moment, then returned.
“It’s him,” he said shortly. “Can I go now?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but removed his overall and hurried away down the stairs.
“Bit pale round the gills, weren’t he?” said Dalziel. “And he didn’t even tuck the poor sod’s shirt back in.”
“He knew the guy. Bound to be a bit of a shock, seeing him dead,” said Pascoe.
“Don’t be daft. He’s a doctor. Spends his life looking at dead folk that were alive on his last visit. Show me a quack who’s not used to it and I’ll pay hard cash to get on his panel.”
“Perhaps he was a friend as well as a patient.”
“Former patient. Aye, that might do it. Someone you think you know tops himself, it makes you wonder about all the other buggers you think you know.”
“Tops himself? Getting a bit ahead of the game, aren’t you, sir?” said Pascoe.
“That’s how you win matches, lad. Any road, door locked and bolted on the inside. Windows with the kind of shutters that ’ud keep a tax inspector out. Gun between his legs, shoe and sock off. Lots of little hints there, I’d say.”
“Nevertheless,” said Pascoe obstinately.
“Oh God, you been at the John Dickson Carr again? What more do you want?”
“A note would be nice, for a start.”
“A note, eh? Any sign of a note, Paddy?”
Inspector Ireland let out a long-suffering sigh. The fact that he was a teetotal Baptist born in Heckmondwyke and able to trace his ancestry back a hundred and fifty years without any sign of Irish blood hadn’t saved him from being nicknamed Paddy, and the more he protested, the more he found himself treated as a fount of knowledge on all matters Eireann.
“Name’s Cedric,” he said. “Couldn’t say. I followed procedure and kept out to minimize the risk of contamination.”
“But you’ve been inside, Sergeant, and I’ve no doubt Tweedledum and Tweedledee went clumping all over the place.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bonnick. “Didn’t see a note though.”
“Pity,” said Dalziel. “There ought to be something …”
“To confirm it’s suicide, you mean?” said Pascoe triumphantly.
“No,” said the Fat Man irritably. “In fact, if you studied your statistics you’d know that seventy per cent of genuine suicides don’t leave a note, while ninety-seven per cent of fakes do … Hang about. Not a note. A book! Now I recall. There ought to be a book. Isn’t that a book on the desk, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bonnick, surprised. “There is a book.”
“Didn’t notice what it was, did you?”
“No, sir. Got a bit splattered with blood and stuff. You’d need to scrape it off first.”
“Not squeamish, are you? Doesn’t come well from a sergeant, squeaming.”
“Just following procedure, sir, touching as little as possible till the scene’s been examined.”
“Which will be when? You did give SOCO the right address, didn’t you, Paddy?”
“Of course I did,” Ireland assured him, looking offended.
Three things were troubling Pascoe. One was the suspicion that the Fat Man had just invented the suicide note statistics. The second was his apparent power of precognition. There ought to be a book. And lo! there was a book!
The third was the still unanswered question of why the hell he was here at all. Off duty, what had there been in a shout to a possible suicide to bring him hurrying from the comfort of his fireside? Even the fact that his inamorata, Cap Marvell, was away at present didn’t explain that.
His speculations were interrupted by noises below. Fearful that Cressida had led an assault, he peered over the balustrade and saw to his relief that the SOCO team had finally arrived. They paused to pull on their white coveralls and then came up the stairway.
“About bloody time,” said Dalziel. “Don’t be all night at it, will you? And try not to leave a mess.”
He set off down the stairs. Pascoe hurried to catch up with him.
“Sir,” he said. “Do I take it you’re assuming control of this case?”
“Me? Simple suicide? Nay, lad, you got here first, you’re the man in charge.”
“In that case, there’s a couple of questions I’d like to ask you …”
“Not now, lad, not when there’s a poor woman out there waiting to be told she’s a widow,” reproved the Fat Man.
So saying, he pulled open the front door, bounced Maycock aside with his belly and stepped out into the night.
11 • SD+SS=PS
Out here, the mist was in total control. It gave bulk while it removed substance. Somewhere in the wooded garden, an owl uttered a long wavering screech that made Pascoe’s nape hair prickle.
Helen and Jason had got back into the Volvo, Ellie was talking to Cressida alongside the Spider, and Kay Kafka was standing to one side with a mobile to her ear.
“Where’s the wife gone?” said Dalziel.
“I don’t know,” said Pascoe. “But as I’m in charge, I think I ought to be the one who breaks the news.”
Meaning, until he knew different, this was a suspicious death and everyone connected with the dead man was a suspect.
“You reckon? Sometimes these things are better coming from a more sensitive and mature figure,” said Dalziel. “Where the hell’s the daft tart got to anyway?”
Pascoe spotted a movement in the front seat of the Audi that had been parked outside the house when he first arrived. Its headlights came on and the engine started as he peered towards it. The front passenger door opened and Sue-Lynn got out. The car pulled away and he recognized Tom Lockridge’s profile as it went past.
“I think the doctor may have saved us the bother,” he said. “He can’t have heard of your sensitive bedside manner.”
“Don’t know how. It’s famous in three counties …”
“… the county court, the county jail and the County Hotel,” Pascoe concluded the old joke. He watched as the Fat Man advanced to meet the approaching woman and heard him say in a gently melancholy voice, “Mrs Maciver, Tom Lockridge has told you the dreadful news, has he? I’m so sorry.”
She looked as if she didn’t believe him and said, “Can I see my husband now?”
“Soon,” said Dalziel. “Come on inside and let’s find you somewhere to sit for a bit …”
He started leading her towards the house.
Pascoe said, “Sir, a quick word.”
“Excuse me, luv,” said Dalziel.
He stepped aside with Pascoe and said in an irritated tone, “What?
”
“You can’t take her inside, sir.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Until we can confirm suicide, the whole house is a crime scene, and you don’t escort a principal suspect on to a crime scene.”
“Principal suspect? You crazy or what, lad?”
“Just quoting you, sir. SD+SS=PS, that’s what you’re always drumming into the DCs, isn’t it? Suspicious death + surviving spouse = prime suspect. Sir.”
“Keep your voice down! You’ll be getting us all sued. What did you have in mind then? Take her down the nick and shine a bright light into her eyes?”
Over Dalziel’s huge shoulder Pascoe saw that Cressida and Kay had advanced to confront Sue-Lynn with Ellie not far behind.
“What’s happening?” Cressida demanded. “What have they told you?”
Sue-Lynn said, “He’s dead.”
“Oh Jesus. What happened? How …?”
“He shot himself. Just like your pa.”
“Shot himself? In there? When?” cried Kay.
“What the hell does it matter when?” exploded Cressida. “Just now. Ten years ago. That’s two down. Are you done now, bitch?”
“Cressida, I’m so sorry, I’m truly deeply sorry … this is dreadful, dreadful …”
Of the three women, it was Kay Kafka who looked the most genuinely distressed, observed Pascoe. The emotion that twisted Cressida’s face was anger, while Sue-Lynn’s features were mask-like which might be the result of shock or just the glazing effect of her complex make-up.
Jason Dunn was out of his car now, once more torn between his eagerness to join the group and find out what was going on and his desire to help his wife, who was also trying to re-emerge from the Volvo.
Sue-Lynn said, “You two want to stay out here and fight, that’s your business. I want to see him. Superintendent, I insist you take me to see him. Right now!”
She spoke in the voice that got waiters and shop assistants jumping.
Dalziel scratched his crotch reflectively, then replied in a fawning Heepish tone, “I’m sorry, Mrs Maciver, I know what you must be feeling, but it’s not my decision. Chief Inspector Pascoe’s in charge here. It’s him who’s calling the shots.”
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