They shared a smile, then Hat recommenced, still with some uncertainty.
“OK. I’m Mr Hat and if I seem to have been behaving a bit odd both times we met, it’s because …”
He paused again, uncertain how detailed an explanation he was expected, or wanted, to give, and again she came in.
“Because you have been very unhappy, doubtless through some deep personal loss which you will never forget but are beginning to get over. I haven’t learnt a lot about human beings during my life, Mr Hat, or not a lot that I care to remember, but what I do know is that where the appetite is healthy, the hurt body or mind is healing. I am not so impertinent to be curious about the details of your loss, but I am delighted to note how much bread you have put away. Talking of which …”
She stooped to the oven, pulled open the door and, using a tea towel to protect her hands, took out a huge cob, brown as a chestnut. As she set it on the table she said, “While this cools, what I’d really like to hear about yourself is how you came to get interested in birds.”
Hat smiled.
“The important stuff, you mean.”
“That’s it, Mr Hat,” she said gravely. “The important stuff.”
She sat down opposite him once more. The two blue tits, Impy and Lopside, fluttered down to sit one on each shoulder, and looked at him expectantly. He knew it was food they were hoping for, but they felt like an audience.
He said, “I think it really began when I was six and we were on holiday on the Pembrokeshire coast and one day I was sitting on the beach and the sea was quite rough and I saw this pair of cormorants hurtle along, only a foot or so above the waves. I remember trying to be them, trying to feel in my imagination what it must be like, moving through the air at that speed and every time you look down, seeing that wild ocean surging and frothing and foaming beneath you, so close that whenever a wave breaks, it must seem like it’s reaching up to pull you under and you can feel the spray spattering cold against your belly …”
“And did you succeed in finding out what it must feel like, doing that?”
“I think I just about imagined it physically,” he said slowly. “But since I grew up, I’ve come to know exactly what it’s like. It’s like living. That’s what it’s like.”
Like living.
She looked at him compassionately for a moment then said, “And then, Mr Hat? Back in Pembrokeshire. What happened next?”
“I suppose I went paddling with my brothers, or we went to buy an ice-cream. But I never forgot. And after that whenever I saw a bird, any kind of bird, I tried to see things as it saw them, and after a while I got interested in what they were really doing rather than just what I liked to pretend they were doing. And that was great too, learning all that stuff. But I’ve never forgotten the cormorants, never forgotten that when I was six I flew with them for a little while. Does that make sense, Miss Mac?”
On the hob the kettle began to sing and the tits, as if recognizing this was a signal for renewed feasting, joined in.
“Oh yes, Mr Hat,” said Miss Mac, standing up to make the tea. “It makes more sense than almost anything else I’ve heard in the last few days. Much more sense.”
3 • going with the flow
“A poem?” cried Dalziel, infusing the word with an astonishment that made Edith Evans’ handbag sound like polite enquiry. “You want me to read a poem? What comes next? Listen to a sonata for two kazoos and a flugelhorn?”
But he read it, and examined the envelope, and checked out the PM report, and listened with nothing more than a steady volcanic rumbling to Pascoe’s account of the other things that bothered him.
Then for a space there fell between them that silence where the birds are dead yet something pipeth like a bird, which in this case was the Fat Man’s fingernails being dragged along his trouser gusset.
Finally he said, with menacing softness, “Twenty-four hours. That’s what you’ve got. To the sodding second.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Pascoe, making for the door.
“Hang about. I’ve not said what I expect you to do in them twenty-four hours.”
“Sorry, sir. I assumed it was to discover whether or not there was any criminal element in Pal Maciver’s death.”
“Nay, lad. Nowt you’ve said makes me change my mind about that. Suicide, plain as the face on your nose, and that’s penny plain. What I need you to do is find me the skulking bastard who sent that letter. There’s someone out there trying to stir things up and I want the pleasure of seeing them face to face.”
“Yes, sir. Then I’d better start at Cothersley, I suppose.”
“Cothersley? Why?”
“Because that’s where Maciver lived.”
Also where Kay Kafka lived. He’d spotted the Fat Man reacting.
“Then it would be bloody funny if you didn’t go there to chat to the grieving widow. Shouldn’t bother with the pub, but. Dog and Duck. Used to serve a decent pint, still came in a jug first time I went there, but it’s all been fancified like the rest of the fucking place. Six kinds of foreign lager, all so cold they taste like penguin piss, and not a pork scratching in the house. So take heed.”
“Engraved on my heart, sir,” said Pascoe. “Any other tips?”
“Aye, just the one. Don’t get carried away. It’s a lot easier to stir crap up than to get it to settle. You might like to engrave that on your arse so every time you sit down, you’ll remember.”
“I surely will, sir. And if I need expert advice on sitting on anything else I might find embarrassing, I’ll certainly know where to come.”
The not very subtle reference to the Maciver tape popped out like a blown fuse button before he could control it.
Far from being provoked, Dalziel reacted as if this were merely confirmation of some course of action he’d been undecided about.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cassette and tossed it to Pascoe.
“Two sides to every tale, Peter. Have a listen to this when you’ve got a spare moment. Which you don’t have. Twenty-three hours, fifty-eight minutes, that’s what you’ve got. Now sod off.”
Pascoe looked at the cassette in his hand as he left the room. It was brand new, so probably a copy of … what? Two sides, he’d said, so this had to be Kay Kafka, which made it very interesting, but it could be very dangerous too. Putting the Maciver tape into his mental recycle bin hadn’t been too hard on his professional conscience. But what if this new tape revealed even more serious breaches of procedure … or worse …?
In any case, he had no time to spare for it now. When the Fat Man gave you a time limit, you took it seriously.
He thrust the cassette into his pocket and bellowed Wield’s and Novello’s names as he passed through the CID room. A Pascoe bellow was a phenomenon unusual enough to make people jump, but by the time the sergeant and DC appeared in his office, he was already on the phone, despatching the SOCO team back to Moscow House with orders to give the whole house a thorough going over, and get everything moveable out of the study down to the lab.
Replacing the phone, he filled them in on the new situation.
“It may still be nothing,” he said, “but I want to be sure everything’s been covered. Let’s give Maciver the full treatment: bank and phone records, credit rating, business deals, the lot. Shirley, you get on to that. Wieldy, that Harrogate PI, Gallipot, check him out, find what that was all about. And get someone talking to the Avenue working girls tonight just in case anyone noticed anything. Oh, and Joker Jennison mentioned one in particular—Dolores, she called herself—who seemed very interested in what was happening in Moscow. I told him to track her down. See what he’s done about it and kick his arse if it’s not enough.”
Novello, looking as if she’d gladly volunteer for the last job, went out.
Pascoe said, “And ring the lab, too, Wieldy. Tell them that everything to do with Moscow House is a priority. Tell them the super wants it done yesterday or he’ll be down there himself to see what’s
holding things up.”
“Right,” said Wield. “Any hint what you’ll be doing while me and Novello are working ourselves into a muck sweat for you?”
“Coming on a bit strong, am I, Wieldy?” said Pascoe. “Sorry, but the fat sod’s given me twenty-four hours and I suspect he’s using a stopwatch. Me, I’m off to Cothersley to talk to the widow. And this time, I don’t care how many clerics or medics get in the way, I’ll gallop right over them if I have to!”
Wield watched him go with a fond smile. Pascoe with a bit between his teeth was as formidable in his way as the Fat Man; not quite so hot at breaking down brick walls perhaps, but certainly better fitted for slipping through narrow gaps.
Novello he was pleased to see was already talking to the phone company.
“No,” she was saying. “This is urgent. I thought people in your line of business might have heard of things like computers and fax machines. Yes, thank you. And some time this morning if it’s not disturbing your social life too much.”
Good telephone manner! he thought.
He went to his own phone and rang the lab. The use of Dalziel’s name got a cheeky reply, but when he offered to bring the Fat Man to the phone in person, the tone changed. Then, being a thorough man, he double-checked that the SOCO team had taken Pascoe’s exhortations as to speed and thoroughness to heart.
Next he found the card with the name Jake Gallipot on it and rang the number.
The phone rang five times before it was answered. Good technique. Never let them think you’ve nothing better to do.
“Gallipot,” said the kind of dark brown baritone that sells things on the telly.
“Jake,” he said. “This is Edgar Wield. Mid-Yorkshire. We met way back when you were in the job …”
“Wieldy! How’re you doing? Great to hear from you, old son. I was just sitting here thinking about the good old days, and how I’d been silly to lose touch with so many old chums, then the phone rings and it’s you! Psychic or what?”
Or what, thought Wield. Old chums? He’d never aspired to such a standing. He recalled him as a tall, craggily handsome man with the sort of reassuring smile that could have sold a lot of insurance if he hadn’t opted for a police career that looked set to spiral onwards and upwards. Rumour and gossip had provided a plenitude of explanation for its abrupt termination, ranging from slipping one to the Chief Constable’s wife to difficulty in explaining a wardrobe full of designer suits and a second car which, as asserted by the comic sticker in the window of his old Ford Prefect, really was a Porsche.
“Nice to talk to you as well, Jake,” he said. “But it’s business, I’m afraid.”
“Private or official, Wieldy?”
“Official. Nothing to worry about. A man called Maciver, Palinurus Maciver, killed himself the night before last. We found your card in his wallet. I’m just tying up loose ends and, when I recognized your name, I thought, nice to give old Jake a ring, see how he’s doing, kill two birds with one stone.”
“Glad you did, Wieldy. I read about Maciver. Tragic.” A pause. For reflection on the mutability of things? Or …? “Any idea what drove him to it, Wieldy?”
Keeps on saying my name like we’re old drinking buddies, thought Wield.
“That’s why I’m ringing, Jake. We just wondered if anything in the work you were doing for him might throw some light on his state of mind.”
Another pause. There’s someone there, guessed Wield. Perhaps just his secretary. Then why hadn’t she answered the phone?
“Sorry, Wieldy,” said Gallipot. “I was just trying to run my mind over my responsibilities re client confidentiality. Not sure how death affects things.”
“Depends whether it’s his or yours, I should have thought,” said Wield drily.
Gallipot’s infectious laugh boomed out.
“Finger right on it as always, Wieldy,” he said. “Hang on. I’ll get the file.”
The phone went quiet, too quiet. He’s not getting a file, thought Wield. He’s sitting at his desk counting up to ten.
He joined in mentally and spot on ten Gallipot said, “Here we are. No, don’t think it’s going to be any help. Some stuff he got offered for his business. He’s in the antiques trade, but you probably know that. Thought it might be a bit iffy and wanted me to check it out. That was a couple of months back.”
“And was it iffy?”
“Not that I was able to find out. I gave him my report, he paid me, end of story. My card must have just got stuck at the back of his wallet.”
No way, thought Wield. It looked pretty new, almost pristine.
“I suppose so. Thanks anyway, Jake. Oh, by the way, how did Maciver come to choose your firm? Yellow Pages job, was it?”
Wield was so casual an old CID man like Gallipot would be on to him like a shot. Slipping in an apparently unimportant question at the end of an interview when the guard was down, a question to which the interrogator already knew the answer, was an old technique. Difference here was Wield didn’t know the answer and hadn’t the faintest idea if it were important or not. But it was slightly curious that Maciver should have opted for a Harrogate PI rather than one closer to home.
Again the pause while Gallipot weighed the risk of giving unnecessary information against the risk of being caught in a lie. Not a risk worth taking, Wield guessed he’d decide. But the hesitation was interesting.
“I did a job for his father many years ago, not long after I went private. I think Mac Junior said he came across my name in his dad’s papers and, being a bit out of the ordinary, it stuck. So after all those canteen jokes about Pisspot and Tosspot, it came in useful, eh?”
“Certainly looks like it, Jake. Thanks for your time.”
“My pleasure, Wieldy. You ever get over this way, give me a ring and we’ll get together and chew over old times. Cheers now, old son.”
Wield replaced the receiver and sat looking at it for a full minute. There was something there, but what? He’d forced Gallipot to give him the truth about how Pal Junior got on to him, but it merely transferred the question back ten years. Why had Pal Senior chosen a Harrogate PI, rather than one located in Mid-Yorkshire? Was this, or anything, worth a trip to Harrogate for a face to face? He weighed time spent against possible gain in the logical balance of his mind. It was no contest. His place was here, doing what he did best, holding things together.
Novello put her phone down, stood up and came towards him.
“That’s that fixed, then,” she said.
He looked at her in slight dismay. If she’d already done all she’d been asked to do, then maybe it was time for him to move over and let the new generation in.
“So what have you got?” he asked.
“Nothing yet,” she said. “Except an appointment in twenty minutes with Maciver’s bank manager. Got his lawyer’s name too, so I thought I’d have a word with him about the will. Better to do it face-to-face, harder for them to pull any client confidentiality crap. Will you be here if I need to check back to you, Sarge?”
He felt a rush of relief. So, not superwoman after all, but she had the makings of a very good detective. Why hadn’t he thought of the lawyer? And she was right about face-to-face, like Pete was right. If you wanted to be sure you were getting the truth, there was no other way.
Every so often granny really needs to be reminded how to suck eggs!
He said, “No, I’ll be out, so you’ll need to ring me on my mobile.”
He picked up his phone, dialled Harrogate Police, and asked for DI Collaboy.
“Jim? Ed Wield here … Aye, it’s been quite a time. Everything OK with you? … Grand. Me too. Listen, Jim, this is a courtesy call to say I’m going to be on your patch later today, visiting an old chum of yours. Jake Gallipot … No, that’s not a courtesy call! It’s just he were working for some guy here who’s topped himself and I’d like to know what exactly he were doing … Just a hunch, probably a waste of time … Owt interesting, you’ll be the first to know … Promise
! See you.”
He put the phone down. Collaboy had been the DI with supervisory responsibility for Gallipot at the time of his resignation. Even though there’d been no specific charges against the sergeant, Collaboy always reckoned it was the fall-out from that affair which had kept him stuck at his current rank. The thought that someone was sniffing around his former colleague would not be at all displeasing to him and, knowing Wield’s reputation, he’d pay little heed to his claim that he was coming all the way to Harrogate on a hunch.
But a hunch was all he had.
So what?
Sometimes you had to say Stuff logic! and go with the flow.
4 • the lily and the rose
The flow Pascoe was going with took him past the Central Hospital on his way out to Cothersley.
It occurred to him that a man on his way to trample on the susceptibilities of a grieving widow need hardly feel inhibited by interrupting the joy of a newly-delivered mother and he pulled into the visitors’ car park. It was crowded. There must be a lot of sick people in Mid-Yorkshire. Of course the majority of people visiting the sick are not too displeased to have an excuse for turning up late, but to a man given twenty-four hours by Andy Dalziel, seconds are precious. He turned towards the main reception area, ignoring a sign which read Staff Parking Only, and slid his Golf between a BMW and a Maserati.
When he got out, he stood for a while looking at the Maserati, not enviously, though it was a beautiful thing, but because it brought something to mind. Then he recalled Ellie mentioning her discussion with Cress Maciver about the problems of sexual congress in the machine. He could see what she meant.
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