Hearing was faint and intermittent, like a patrol radio in a dead area. Two voices. A man's. A woman's. HERS:… what… hell.
.. you done… His:… found… here… thought… burg… HERS:… in papers… at Hall… waiting… I..
. to clinic… His:… Almighty… why… told you… what… HERS:…n't let… your name… no diff… thought … said… His:… yeah… Ciss… ruined… thing.
.. back… tell… William… afternoon… HERS:… sure… home… day… HIS:… sure… grab… quick… way… burg… wakes… H ERS:… all right..
. doc… His:… fine… side… barn… move… of here…
Reception was fading. Perhaps all it required was a slight adjustment of aerial direction. He tried to move his head and straightaway went spiralling into a darkness where the only signals were meaningless bleeps from long dead stars, and, beyond them, silence.
SEVEN
'Not a theory; it was a fancy.'
Peter Pascoe read the letter for the tenth time. It was unheaded except for the date, 3 September 1976.
Dear Miss Kohler,
Your letter has reached me, reviving memories of a pain I would rather have forgotten. My first instinct was to ignore completely what you had written, it smacked so much of a mind driven to desperate self-delusion by all those years in prison. But in case silence should be interpreted however insanely as affirmation, I will make this one effort at communication.
Your craziest insinuations I refuse to dignify with a rebuttal, but your suggestion that I must bear some of the responsibility for Emily's death I find so repugnant that I must throw it back at you with scorn. She was in your care and it was because of the failure of that care that she died. Until you are willing to accept fully the burden of your guilt, you will hardly be fit to return to the world at large.
Yet you tell me you are hoping to return in the near future. If this is the decision of the authorities, so be it. I offer no comment except to say I will brook no further attempt to communicate with me.
I have recently remarried and have even taken on a new name, so attempts to harass me will be in vain. My lawyer has been instructed to open all letters addressed care of his office and to destroy any from you.
To wish you luck in the future would seem merely ironic. All I will wish is that you may find a way of forgetting the events of that terrible weekend, or at least the strength to desist from trying to force them back into the minds of others. Yours sincerely, James Westropp. Someone tapped the window of his car. He turned his head, saw the uniform and said, 'Oh shit.' Opening the door, he climbed out.
'Excuse me, sir,' said the young constable, 'but could I see your driving licence?' 'Forget that,' said Pascoe. 'Take a look at this.'
He produced his warrant card. The young man studied it uneasily. 'I'm sorry, sir, but is this official? I mean, should we have been informed?' 'Don't worry,' said Pascoe. 'You haven't blown a stake-out.
I'm in Harrogate on private business, visiting an… acquaintance in those flats. She isn't in, so I was waiting. I take it someone rang in to report a strange man loitering with intent?' 'That's right. A Mrs Wright.' Pascoe looked up, saw the figure watching from a window which he gauged was in the flat next to Miss Marsh's. 'I'm sorry, sir, I'll still have to check this out,' said the constable. 'Of course you will. I may have forged it with my Toytown printing kit. Look, so you don't have to hang around while they buzz through to my patch, see if you can get Mr Dekker to the communications room.' DCI 'Duck' Dekker was an old sparring partner. His sarcasms were infinitely preferable to the risk of alerting Hiller he was back on forbidden territory. He was in luck. A short while later a familiar grating voice said, 'Detective Chief Inspector Dekker here. What's this all about, Tomkin?' Pascoe leaned forward to speak into the mike. 'Duck? Peter Pascoe. Constable Tomkin, who has been most courteous and efficient, needs to know I am what I say I am.' 'Does he now? Mebbe I need to know what it is you say you're doing afore I say what you are.' 'Just visiting, Duck. Private business.' 'Oh aye? Well, I suppose it's better not crapping on your own doorstep, eh?" said Dekker with scant regard for the fact that he was blackening Pascoe's reputation on an open airwave. 'You're a sly one, but! Tomkin, you there? Let Mr Pascoe go with a stiff warning as to his future behaviour. Out.' Pascoe sighed, looked at the young man's face, saw doubt there, said, 'Joke.
Look, why don't we go in and reassure Mrs Wright together?' And perhaps at the same time get some indication of Mavis Marsh's whereabouts. Mrs Wright, a plump, middle-aged, twinset-and-pearls kind of woman, was glad to be reassured, but not herself very reassuring.
'Miss Marsh? Oh, she's in. Of course I'm sure. I can hear her radio in my bathroom. She never leaves anything plugged in when she goes out.
Terrified of fire, you see.' 'When did you last actually see her?' asked Pascoe. 'This morning. Well, heard her actually. I was going out and I heard a man's voice, then Miss Marsh's saying, "Please come in," and I looked, and I saw a man stepping into her flat.' 'What did he look like?' asked Pascoe. Oh, a very respectable kind of man. I mean, not a plumber or meter-reader, nothing like that. Tallish, wearing one of those nice short overcoats that army gentlemen used to wear. I only saw him from behind for a second, but he looked rather distinguished.'
It could of course simply be that Miss Marsh did not wish to receive any other visitor that day but Pascoe was growing concerned. He said to Tomkin, 'Perhaps you ought to try her.' 'Me?' 'It's your patch,' reminded Pascoe. 'I'm just visiting.' They went together and rang the bell, then rapped on the door. Pascoe called, 'Miss Marsh? Miss Marsh?
Are you all right?' Nothing. He looked at the constable, who said, 'Mebbe there's a spare key?' They both looked at Mrs Wright who had silently followed them. 'I don't have one. Probably the managing agents do,' she said doubtfully. Tomkin reached for his personal radio. Pascoe stayed his hand. 'I think it'd be wise not to delay,' he said. 'You reckon? OK, if you say so, sir.' The youngster took a step back. This time Pascoe interposed his whole body. 'It looks a very solid door,' he said. 'And she'll have the security chain on,' said Mrs Wright. 'If she's in, she always has it on.' Pascoe turned to the door. Screening his actions from the woman, he used his Swiss Army knife to remove a small section of the jamb, then inserted the narrow strip of tapered plastic which Dalziel called his Access card. When he felt it catch the tongue, he pushed. The door swung open. It wasn't on its chain. He went across the narrow photo-lined hallway and opened the lounge door. It was the same well-ordered temple of opulence he recalled from his previous visit, and Miss Marsh was sitting in the same deep armchair. The only difference was that this time she was dead. The lolling head, staring eyes and sagging mouth were evidence enough, but he confirmed it at her wrist. There was no sign of violence. The Telegraph she had been reading lay on the floor a few inches below her dangling hand. Beside her chair stood an elegant wine table on which rested a half empty cup of tea and a plate with a currant scone on it. The radio was tuned to Radio 4. 'Is she dead?' He turned to see Mrs Wright in the doorway alongside PC Tomkin. 'Yes.
Tomkin, perhaps you'd escort Mrs Wright back to her flat and ask if you can use her phone. I'd get Mr Dekker down here if I were you.' He waited till they had gone, then using a handkerchief, he quickly checked the other rooms. Bedroom and bathroom were as tidy as you'd expect in a first class hotel. Only the kitchen showed signs of occupation. There was a baking tray with two scones still in it on top of the oven and, poignantly, the sweet evocative scent of baking still in the air. Nowhere could he see any sign of intrusion, struggle, or search. Tomkin returned. 'Mr Dekker's on his way,' he said. 'Sir..
.' 'Yes?' 'This is my first…' Pascoe took pity on him. It wasn't fair having a senior officer of uncertain standing muddying the water.
‘It's your case,' he said. 'I'm just a witness. Have you checked she's dead?' 'No, sir. I mean, you…' 'You'll need to for your report.
Wrist and neck. Fine. Resuscitation?' 'Do you think we should try? I mean, she's cold, there's noth
ing…' 'I agree. But you'll need to put down that you thought of it and your reason for not trying. First because it was clearly far too late, and second because you wanted to cause as little disturbance as possible till the scene-of-crime officer got here. Those were your reasons, right?' 'Yes, sir. That's right.' 'Then you asked me to make sure no one came in while you escorted Mrs Wright back to her flat and reported in. Now you're asking me to wait outside with you. I've not noticed you using your notebook. Do it now. When Mr Dekker starts asking you questions, you'll be amazed at how much you'll instantly forget!' They went out.
Pascoe paused in the hallway. If you want to see my life, look around you. But these photos hadn't been the woman's life, only part of it.
Had she been content with her comforts or had the crying of her lost child disturbed her dreams? And why the hell had she gone to visit Cissy Kohler? Ten minutes later Duck Dekker arrived with a scene-of- crime team. He was a craggily angular man who had played for Yorkshire seconds in his teens till six consecutive ducks had reconstructed both his career and his name. He ignored Pascoe till he had got his team to work, then with a jerk of his head, he invited him to stroll to the far end of the corridor. 'This going to embarrass you with your missus, Pete?' he asked. 'For God's sake!' said Pascoe indignantly.
'You've seen Marsh. She was in her sixties!' 'Aye, well, that'd make it bloody embarrassing, wouldn't it?' said Dekker. 'So what's the tale?' Pascoe told him briefly, concluding, 'So in a way, you're right. Duck. This is going to be embarrassing, but not for the reason you thought.' ‘I see that, my boy. You're in deep crap. Best hope is you can come up with sixpence.' Half an hour later that seemed a vain hope. 'Sorry,' said Dekker. 'This mysterious visitor were probably the man from the Pru. She saw him off, baked some scones, made herself a cuppa, sat down and snuffed it. Our quack found her quack's number and rang him. Seems she had some kind of heart trouble. So looks like you're guilty of the worst crime in the book, my son. Bad timing.'
'Shit,' said Pascoe. 'Can't keep you out of it, I'm afraid. I'll need a statement. You're a witness.' 'OK. But I'd better make sure Dan Trimble hears about this from me first.' 'Bit of advice,' said Dekker.
'You'll get more sympathy from the umpire if the bowler's parted your hair.' 'Hiller doesn't bowl bouncers. He bowls rotten eggs. Hit or miss, you're in a mess.' But he took the advice and, using Mrs Wright's phone, he rang Hiller first. His initial response was coldly professional. 'Anything to suggest foul play?' 'Not yet, sir. But I've got a feeling. The way I see it is -' 'I'm as capable of constructing theories as you, Mr Pascoe,' said Hiller, his words soft and cold as snowfiakes. 'You'll have talked to Mr Trimble?' 'No, sir. Not yet. I rang you first.' 'Ah.' The snow melted a little into surprise. 'Tell Chief Inspector Dekker I'd appreciate a copy of his report and the PM findings at his earliest convenience.' That was it. No rockets, no explosions. He rang Trimble with a lighter heart and a few moments later was reeling from the full blast of the little Cornishman's anger. 'What I really want to say to you, Mr Pascoe, I'll say to your face!' he climaxed. 'Be in my office at nine-thirty tomorrow morning!'
The phone went down with a crash which probably disonnected it. He wandered slowly back to Marsh's flat, empty now except for Dekker.
'How'd it go?' 'There's always emigration.' 'Well, don't go to America. If Andy Dalziel's over there, Yorkshire will have been blacklisted by now! Come on. As you're a mate, I'll seal this place up like a crime's been committed, but it's odds on natural causes.' 'Hold on,' said Pascoe. Someone had been through the escritoire and left the drawer ajar. 'Why have you removed the albums?' 'Albums?' 'Yes. Last time I was here, there were at least two thick photo albums in that drawer.' 'So everything's got to stay the same when you're not around?
She could have put them somewhere else or even thrown them out!' 'No.
Far too precious. Mind if I look around?' They weren't anywhere else.
Dekker, impatient, said, 'OK, if someone wanted to steal the albums, it must've been because of the photos, right? Then why not take them pictures in the hall too?' Pascoe examined the walls. 'Too heavy,' he suggested. 'You could slip the albums in a briefcase. Also, going through the albums would take an age whereas you could check these photos one by one very quickly to see if…' His words tailed off.
He approached within six inches of the wall and moved slowly along it.
'Have you ever thought of specs, Pete?' said Dekker. 'I'm looking for … Here it is! Look, there's a pinhole here where a hook has been removed.' 'So there's a pinhole. But there's no space where a picture's been removed, is there?' 'Yes, there is! Look here. The photos on this row have been rearranged to hide the space, but the gaps between these three aren't quite right and, look, you can see a faint mark on the paintwork, there was a slightly longer photo here.'
And as he reached this conclusion he remembered what it had been. Miss Marsh and a group of her young gentlemen at Beddington College. The photo she had singled out for his special attention as he left. He told Dekker, who said, 'Grasping at straws now, is it?' 'Not straws,' said Pascoe, returning to the kitchen. 'But scones maybe. Look at that tray. How many scones would you say she baked? From the position of these two and the marks on the tray, I'd say at least six. One on her plate half-eaten. That leaves three to account for.' 'So she had a good appetite.' 'Maybe. Or maybe she sat down with her visitor, offered him a cup of tea… The teapot! Let's have a look.' Pascoe picked up the pot, removed the lid, fished inside. 'Three teabags,' he said triumphantly. 'She made a full pot. And it's almost empty. She gave her visitor tea and scones!' 'So what?' So what kind of man when his hostess has a heart attack, reacts by washing up his cup and his plate and sloping off with a briefcase full of photos? What he can't manage, of course, is to put the chain on behind him as Miss Marsh would certainly have done.' Dekker shook his head. Pete, I can think of a dozen simple explanations.'
'Me too,' admitted Pascoe. 'All I'm asking is, dig deep on this one. Make sure the PM's a really searching, suspicious-circs job, not just a quick natural. For a start, ask 'em to check exactly how many scones she'd had. Tell 'em to count the currants.' He crumbled one of the remaining scones in his fingers. 'See. Six… seven… eight … I bet she kept a steady average! Will you do that?'
'Why not?' said Dekker. 'I've nowt but a couple of thousand better things to do. You'll be off home now to a hot supper? Lucky bugger!'
Pascoe was able to smile, but his investigatory euphoria quickly faded as he drove east. He tried to revive it by stopping off at a nice little country pub he knew for a pint and a steak, but the last time he'd been here had been with Ellie, and he left both his meal and his drink half finished.
It was still fairly early when he got home. There was no mail, nothing on his answer machine. He didn't give himself time for thought, fearful of where thought might lead him, but washed two sleeping tablets down with a tumblerful of whisky and went straight to bed.
EIGHT
'… you know there really is so much too much of you!'
Dalziel awoke. He had a pain, not in his neck where he'd been struck, but more frighteningly in his chest. Was this it? The fat man's last farewell? He began to move cautiously, thought: Sod this for a lark; if I've got to go, let's get it over with! and pushed himself violently upright. The pain vanished. He looked down at the bed and saw the cause. Religion, always a pain in the arse, was also a pain in the chest. He had been lying on top of a Bible. Now his head began to ache. He looked at his watch. He'd been out for about fifteen minutes.
All around were signs of hasty departure. He went into the living-room and was glad to discover they'd moved too quickly to take the booze. A three-inch gargle of bourbon made him sit down rather suddenly, but another inch and a half brought him back to life and his feet. He found a notepad by the telephone and started scribbling down everything he could recall of the half-heard conversation. Then he did a thorough search of the flat in case their haste had made them overlook something important. It hadn't, perhaps because they'
d brought so little with them. The only personal relic was Kohler's Bible. He picked it up, opened it and read the inscription on the flyleaf. To Cecily. 'The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul. From your loving mother. Christmas 1951. The Lord hadn't done such a great job so far, thought Dalziel as he riffled through the pages to make sure there was nothing interleaved.
There wasn't. He tossed it back on the bed and made for the door. And stopped. He went back to the bed, picked up the Bible again and opened it at the first chapter of Genesis. He'd been right. There were marks on the page. At first it was an underlining of whole words God… void… darkness… face… waters… As if in despair the woman had started seeking divine comfort and found instead (it can't have been hard) some crazy cipher through which God sent his special condemnation. But gradually this underlining stopped to be replaced from Chapter 12 by small dots under individual letters. Now the Lord had sa?d unto Abram, Get thee out of the country, and from thy kindred, and from thy father's house, unto a land that I??ll??ew thee: And??ill mak? of thee a g??at nation,?nd I will bl?ss thee, ?n? make thy name great;??? thou shalt be a blessing: And I??ll bless??e? that bless thee, and curse h?m that curseth thee:??? in th?e shall all fa?ilies of the earth be blessed. I wish I were dead and with Mic and Em. She had moved from trying to get a divine message out to putting her own in. He flicked through the pages. The dots proliferated. By Samuel 1 they were appearing both under and over letters, and he worked out this meant she was no longer bound by strict sequence, but could move back and forward on the same line which was much more economical. By Ecclesiastes there was a system of annotation almost musical and he guessed that this form of writing had become as natural to her as typing to a trained secretary. It would take some deciphering, but he guessed that here were those memoirs, that journal of her life and thoughts, which the tabloid scavengers would give their best friends' balls to get their hands on. Waggs would probably kick his own if he knew what his panicky haste had made Kohler leave behind. And Kohler herself? How was she going to feel when it dawned on her what had happened? For the first time in twenty-seven years Dalziel felt almost sorry for the woman. He heard the apartment door open. This time he wasn't going to be caught unprepared. He moved silently behind the bedroom door. Footsteps approached cautiously. Paused. Then someone stepped into the room. The second the figure registered on his sight, he moved, launching himself in the kind of tackle which had once turned fleet-footed half-backs into stretcher cases. Fortunately time had slowed his impetus, and place offered a soft bed for landing on rather than a solid patch of earth. Even so, there was no strength for resistance left in the limp body crushed into the mattress beneath his bulk. Nevertheless he raised his hand threateningly, and at the same time recognized that not only the threat but the tackle itself had been unnecessary.
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