Arms and the Women

by Reginald Hill

  ‘What about the language, sir? I thought the DCI reckoned it were in some sort of cod old-fashioned English.’

  ‘Like what Shakespeare wrote, tha means? I hope you’re not turning out to be another of them arty-farty types, Ivor.’

  ‘No, sir. Bored me to tears at school…’

  Except there had been a drama teacher at the comp, after she’d been chucked out of the convent school, shoulders like a draught horse, black hair bubbling out of the neck of his shirt and promising to cascade all the way down to his crotch…

  She shook the memory loose and went on, ‘… but if it is like this revenge stuff Roote’s studying…?’

  ‘Studying Enid Blyton doesn’t make you Noddy,’ he said impatiently. ‘Or mebbe it does. Any road, like I said, I need your help. I bet you did secretarial studies like all the girls, eh? Means you ought to know your way around filing systems. I need the DCI’s notes on Kelly Cornelius and he’s always moaning I leave his room a mess.’

  It took him thirty seconds to get impatient and join in the hunt, and when Novello saw the chaos he managed to create in the further half-minute it took her to unearth the file, she resolved that in the unlikely event he ever wanted something from her handbag, she’d defend it like her honour. Or maybe even harder.

  She said, ‘I think this is it, sir,’ opening the file just to make sure.

  ‘Oh aye? Give us it here then.’

  But something had caught Novello’s eye.

  ‘Sir, what’s a red tab with CCR mean?’

  ‘It means it’s nowt for gabby little girls to be sticking their nebs into,’ said Dalziel, grabbing the file.

  Even from Dalziel, this was intolerable. Perhaps fortunately there was a moment of mental debate between the response verbal and the response physical, each equally violent, which she used to turn away and smother both.

  Her back must have been eloquent, however, for he said, ‘Nay, lass, don’t take on. If it’s any comfort to you, it means hands off to nebby detective supers too. CCR. Chief Constable Refers. Means there’s things going off that are reckoned too important for us poor bloody infantry to mess with.’

  Novello had never hitherto thought of herself as being united with the Fat Man in the ranks, but she wasn’t so braindead as not to accept this apology for an apology.

  She turned back and said, ‘Don’t know much about this case, sir, but I got the impression yesterday you weren’t too happy with the way Fraud was leaving Mr Pascoe to deal with it.’

  ‘Did you, now? Well, sharp ears, sharp eyes and a sharp nose. That’s what makes rattons and detectives.’

  He gave her a nod that was both approving and assessing.

  He’s debating whether to say more, she thought. Treat me like one of the boys. No, that was unfair. She’d got the same treatment as everyone else, i.e. bad. Labelling Dalziel with isms was like calling the wind sexist ’cos it blew your skirt over your head.

  He said, ‘The DCI’s sharp too, lass. Don’t let his poncy manners fool you. Sharpest nose in the place, me excepted. That’s how he got on to Cornelius. He were driving back from Manchester over the Snake one morning couple of weeks back when he came across an accident. Lorry coming down our side had had a blow-out and jackknifed, hit a taxi coming up the other way. Not much damage. Dented the front, driver OK but passenger not wearing seat belt got a bloody nose. That was Kelly Cornelius. Off to Corfu, she says, and right upset at the delay. Peter took a paternal interest, or maybe more. I’ve not seen this lass in the flesh but from all accounts she’s a looker and the DCI goes all balmy-eyed when he talks about her.’

  Balmy or barmy? wondered Novello.

  She didn’t ask, but said, ‘I’ll watch out for it, sir.’

  Dalziel said, ‘Nay, lass, tha’s not his type,’ in a kindly voice. ‘Any road, he starts wondering about her when the taxi driver lets slip he’s booked for the domestic terminal, and when he sees her flight bag luggage, his nose begins to twitch.’

  ‘Why was that, sir?’ asked Novello.

  ‘Well, she’s a lass going on holiday. Women normally need a cabin trunk for a long weekend. Flight bag didn’t seem much, not even for a place where next to nowt looks over-dressed.’

  ‘Spend a lot of time on Corfu, do you, sir?’ enquired Novello.

  ‘Never away since I saw Shirley Valentine,’ said Dalziel. ‘Any road, Pete starts ringing around, finds there’s no Cornelius booked on a flight to Greece, but there is one booked on the shuttle to Heathrow with a tight connect to Quito. That’s in Ecuador. That’s in South America. That’s south of North America.’

  ‘I’ll make a note,’ said Novello.

  ‘You do that. Oh, and the booking’s first class, one way. With just a flight bag. Looks like she’s left in a real hurry. What she’s left, among other things, is a job as Technical Assistant to the Director of Investment Services at the Nortrust Bank, where they think she’s at home with a touch of summer flu.’

  ‘So Mr Pascoe starts thinking fraud?’ said Novello.

  ‘No! Not the DCI. Me, I always think the worst. He’s more the Pollyanna school of investigation. Sees good in everyone. That’s his only failing. Also, like I said, he seems to have taken a shine to Miss Cornelius.’

  Novello said primly, ‘I can’t see the DCI letting that affect his judgement.’

  ‘You reckon?’ He gave her a cynical leer. ‘Best check it out in your little red feminist rule book, luv. About the only thing they’ve got right – it affects all men’s judgements. Except mine. And mebbe Sergeant Wield’s.’

  He suddenly grinned and said, ‘Hey, you don’t think the sergeant’s dad wanted him to marry the Queen of Sicily, do you?’

  A Wield ugly and gay joke all in one. Was this some sort of stamp of approval?

  She said, ‘But Mr Pascoe did start making enquiries, didn’t he?’

  ‘Aye. But likely only ’cos he felt guilty about fancying the lass. That’s another thing that sorts out the good cops from the traffic cones. Doesn’t matter what hang-ups you’ve got so long as they lead you to the right conclusions. Like you. If you were an in-your-face beads-and-incense left footer, you’d be no use to me. But from what Paddy Kerrigan says, you do more back-sliding than a trainee figure-skater, and that means your brain’s covering a hell of a lot of ground.’

  Perhaps she should have felt indignant at what was not the first hint that her own moral failings had been added to the common ground of rugby football and malt whisky on which Father Kerrigan, her parish priest, and the Fat Man met each other. Instead she was experiencing an upsurge of delight at the thought that being talked to like this had to confirm her approval was well and truly stamped.

  But she was wise enough not to let it show.

  ‘I’ll say a novena for you, sir,’ she said. ‘So the DCI checks her out at work and discovers she’s got her hand in the till.’

  ‘Till? Get with it, lass. Bankers nowadays wouldn’t recognize a till if they got their fingers caught in one. But, aye, he makes enquiries at Nortrust and gets told very snootily that Ms Cornelius hasn’t been with them long, but in that time she’s proved herself a hard-working and most trustworthy colleague. Also, she’s a woman, so not bright enough to be on the fiddle.’

  ‘They actually said that?’ interrupted Novello.

  ‘Nay,’ said Dalziel grinning. ‘But I’d lay odds some of ’em thought it. But a cop on the phone is bound to get them scared and I don’t doubt they started counting the spoons straight off. Meanwhile Cornelius has gone home via a check-up at Casualty, and Peter finds that she’s rearranged her flight for the next day. Comes the morning and Nortrust still can’t give him anything to hold her on. If she’d been ugly as sin, Pete would likely have given up by now, but because he’s determined to show the world he’s not susceptible to his hormones, he sends a couple of uniformed round to her place, checking a few points on her statement, but really taking any chance they get for a look around. Burton and Noble, he asks for. Bright lasses. Only Nobl
e gets held up on another case and the duty sergeant, not realizing that brightness is of the essence, assigns Hector.’

  ‘Hector.’

  If into every life a little rain must fall, Hector was Mid-Yorkshire’s monsoon. Shortly after his arrival at HQ and before the full extent of his mental and physical uncoordination was understood, he had been told to take a visiting councillor to the custody area. The man had been locked up for thirty minutes before he managed to attract attention. Thereafter Hector stories proliferated like the Arabian Nights Entertainments, and like the Arabian Nights Entertainments, their eerie fascination often saved their progenitor from violent death.

  ‘Aye, Hector,’ said Dalziel. ‘Burton talks to Cornelius, Hector wanders off. There’s a lot of noise from the bedroom and in the end Cornelius goes through to see what’s happening. Her wardrobe’s open, there’s clothes and stuff everywhere, plus Hector has broken into her flight bag, taken out a pair of panties, and is sitting on the bed, chewing on them.’

  ‘Chewing?’

  ‘Aye. Says he’d read an article about drug smugglers soaking clothes in a solution of coke, letting them dry, then washing the stuff out when they got it through Customs. He claims he were just testing for taste.’

  ‘You believe him, sir?’

  ‘Oh aye. Sexual perversion’s too complicated for Hector. But sight of him with her knickers hanging out of his gob were too much for Cornelius. She hit him with a straight right. Pushed his nose back into the space where his brain should have been. The lass should have got a medal. Instead she got arrested for assaulting a police officer. Next thing we know is a super from Fraud turns up, has half an hour with the Chief, and Pete gets told off to stand up in court and get a remand in custody on the assault charge pending further enquiries. Did the same last week. Today will be the third time.’

  ‘Bit low-key for the DCI, isn’t it?’ said Novello. ‘Simple assault charge. Unless Fraud want her on ice while they have a good scratch around. How are they doing anyway?’

  ‘Bit of a bad smell hanging around her boss, George Ollershaw, it seems, but nowt on her. But they did find some sort of warning messages on her computer at work and another at home. TIME TO GO, summat like that, which could explain why she decided to do a runner.’

  ‘But it doesn’t necessarily mean there’s fraud involved,’ said Novello. ‘And why tie someone like the DCI up in court when anyone could have taken care of it?’

  The Fat Man scratched his nose as if he wanted to remove it.

  ‘That’s what I wondered,’ he said. ‘But when I did a bit of prodding, all I kept on hitting was yon red tab.’

  ‘Suppose Fraud could just want someone with enough clout to impress the magistrate,’ suggested Novello doubtfully.

  ‘Mebbe. Well, let’s see how they like a real heavyweight, eh? Look after the shop, Ivor. I’m off down the courts. Mustn’t be late. Or at least not very late.’

  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 arse-hole 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 Corne
lius 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?’