TWO
'But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw!
I call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head comes!' They drove up the A1 in silence, if Dalziel's snoring could be called silence. This was the Great North Road, or had been before modern traffic made it necessary for roads to miss the townships they once had joined. Hatfield they passed, where Elizabeth the First heard of her accession, and Hitchin, where George Chapman translated Homer into English and John Keats into the realms of gold;
Biggleswade, where the Romans, driving their own road north, forded a river and founded a town; Norman Cross, near which a bronze eagle broods over the memory of eighteen hundred of Napoleon's dead, not on a field of battle but in a British prison camp; then into what had been Rutland before it was destroyed by little men whose power outstripped their vision by a Scotch mile: and now began the long flat acres of Lincolnshire, and the road ran by Stamford, once the busy capital of the Fens and later badly damaged during the Wars of the Roses; and Grantham, where God said, 'Let Newton be,' and there was light, though in a later century the same town ushered in some of the country's most twilit years… All this and more Pascoe mused upon, uncertain whether such cycles of human grossness and greatness should be a cause of hope or of despair, till the road began to drift westward towards Newark in whose castle, King John, the reluctant signator of that first faint assertion of civil liberties, Magna Carta, died. Pascoe slowed down. Instantly the Fat Man was awake. 'We stopping? Grand. I could murder a pint.' 'Actually I was wondering if you'd mind a short diversion. It's Ellie. She got so worried about her mother, she booked her into the Lincolnshire Hospital for some tests.
She went in yesterday and I know Ellie's going to be down there today, and as it's only a dozen or so miles out of our way, I wondered…' ‘It's your car, lad. The Lincolnshire? That wouldn't be the Lincolnshire Independent Hospital, would it? By gum, that'll mean a knee-capping at least when they get to hear about it back at the Trotsky Fan Club!' Pascoe smiled wanly and wondered if this were such a good idea. The diversion east proved to be rather further than twelve miles but Dalziel offered no comment. In the hospital car park he scratched himself comprehensively, yawned and said, 'They'll have a bar here, I expect.' 'I very much doubt it,' said Pascoe. 'You're joking! What's the point of being independent?' 'I'm sure you'll get a coffee.' 'Nay, I'll drink nowt in these places unless it's been brewed or distilled. More germs than a midden.' They walked together through the serried ranks of cars. Pascoe said, 'Look, sir, I still don't get it. You and Sempernel cooing at each other like a pair of randy turtle doves, what the hell was that really about? And don't give me that crap about searching your case. They could have done that easy enough without letting you loose on the Highland Park!' 'So your brain's not gone altogether maggoty since I left you? Good,' approved Dalziel. 'So what did they get that they couldn't have got any other way?' Pascoe thought, then said, 'Nothing, except you and me together talking…
Good God, are you saying that Sempernel was listening to us?' 'Aye, lad. And he'll likely carry on listening for a bit, which is the reason I'm talking to you now. I can't be falling asleep all the time to make sure you don't start asking daft questions.' This was even harder to take in. 'The car? You think they've bugged my car? Come on!' 'Why not? Whose idea was it for you to drive down to the Smoke with Adolf and back with me?' 'Mr Trimble's.' 'But where did he get it from? Who was it told him which plane I was flying on, for instance?'
'But what the hell did they want to hear?' demanded Pascoe. Dalziel grinned lupinely. 'Exactly what they heard was what they wanted to hear.' 'You mean…' Pascoe's mind raced round a maze of meanings but always found himself forced back to its centre. Dalziel was watching him impatiently like an old- fashioned pedagogue. If he'd had a cane, he would have been swishing it encouragingly against his calf.
'You mean all that about Westropp killing his wife, and the Establishment cover-up, wasn't true?' 'That's right. Like a hen-house floor, all a load of crap.' 'Then who did…?' 'Mickledore, of course. Who else? And for exactly the reasons that Wally worked out.
Poor Cissy almost caught him in the act. He knew about her and Westropp, so he thought quick and invented this cover-up tale. She was so besotted, she bought it. Whether she'd have gone on buying it if it hadn't been for the little girl, Christ knows. But by the time she got her mind together she was months into her sentence and all she wanted to do was blot out that night at Mickledore Hall.' Pascoe shook his head, not in denial but to clear it. 'But this is fine, this is what you wanted to prove, more or less. OK, Kohler got the dirty end of the stick but she grabbed hold of it with both hands and wouldn't let go, so it's no one's fault. And if Mickledore really was guilty, then Wally was right. Where's the problem?' Dalziel now shook his head too, but not for clarity. 'The maggots are back, lad. You're not taking drugs, are you?' Pascoe, whose doctor had prescribed a mild tranquillizer which Pottle had approved, was shocked for a second into thinking Dalziel knew about it. The Fat Man's medical philosophy could be reduced to two propositions: men who made money out of putting people on drugs should be called pushers, not doctors; and anyone going to see a psychiatrist needed his head looked. But it was surely too soon for even his spy system to have spotted Pascoe's visits to Pottle? Therefore he was still being prompted to say why what looked like the end of a problem wasn't… He said, ‘If the Establishment cover-up wasn't to make sure Westropp didn't get done for topping his wife, there has to be another reason, right?' 'Not quite brain dead, then? You're getting there. Now you only need to answer the last question. What is it that's had buggers like Sempernel and his mob running round like blue-arsed flies for twenty-seven years? What was it that made it worth while topping Mavis Marsh and probably poor old Wally himself, just so the boat wouldn't be rocked? What was it they were afraid might really come out if there was too much deep digging?'
'Apart from the Partridge business, you mean?'
'Aye. That came later. That gave Waggs the leverage to get Kohler out. He told her that Westropp was dying and that made her so keen to get to see him, she told Waggs about catching Marsh giving young Tommy a blow job. Once they realized Waggs knew about the alleged baby too, they got worried the whole story might come out, either because he kept digging or through Marsh herself. They knew she'd be very susceptible if the tabloids got a hint of it and came round waving huge cheques.'
'She didn't need it,' said Pascoe. 'Do you know how much she left?
A quarter of a million! God knows what other little scams she had going.'
'And all this lot started when Pip Westropp turned up at Beddington College and Marsh thought she saw a way to get her hands on whatever Kohler had got stashed away in the bank. She were greedy as a guppy, that one, but clever with it. You say Partridge laughed when he heard this handicapped kid had nothing to do with either Marsh or his son? It would be a load off his conscience, assuming he's got one. But the funny buggers must have been furious to realize that they'd been jerked around for years by a little old Scots nanny! I bet they wished they'd cancelled her pass years ago!'
'Yes, but why did they decide to kill her now, after all those years?' ‘I reckon they'd thought they could rely on her keeping her mouth shut for her own sake. She seemed to be co- operating all along the line. When Waggs confronted her with Cissy's story, she probably contacted Partridge who passed it on to the funny buggers. Waggs had enough sense to protect his back so they offered him a deal. Go along with Marsh's original story about the blood, which had never come up at the trial, remember? Cissy would be let loose under safeguards, the Partridge scandal would be kept quiet, and hopefully Westropp would be long dead before she got anywhere near him.' 'So why kill Marsh now?' persisted Pascoe. 'You came along, lad,' said Dalziel. 'Sticking your neb in. Asking questions, looking at photos. That was probably the turning-point, when they heard her asking you to look at the photo that linked her and Pip Westropp.' 'They heard…?' 'You don't imagine th
e place isn't bugged? And once this naughty nanny starts dropping little hints to a clever copper, well, someone's got to go.
Lucky it wasn't you, lad. Except you still knew nowt, whereas they were beginning to wonder just how much Nanny Marsh really did know.'
About what? wondered Pascoe desperately. What could be worse than having a peripheral member of the royal family suspected of killing his wife? 'Got there yet?' asked Dalziel, telepathic as always. 'Think of the year nineteen sixty-three.' 'Got it,' said Pascoe. 'It was Westropp who shot Kennedy.' It was meant as a joke, in rather poor taste perhaps, but they were the kind Dalziel usually liked. But, incredibly, absurdly, far from being amused, the Fat Man was nodding encouragement. 'Warm,' he said. 'You're getting warm. January 'sixty- three, Philby dropped out of sight in Beirut, turned up in Moscow in July. In the autumn the funny buggers fingered Anthony Blunt's collar for the first time. Him they did a deal with. Why? Mainly because he helped clean the pictures at Buck House or something! So how do you think they were going to react if – ' ' – if Westropp, if a Royal, turned out to be another Communist agent. Bloody hell!' 'Well done, Peter. But it's been like squeezing Eskimo Nell out of a nuns' chorus.
You'll need to be sharper than that if you're going to be Queen of the May.' In fact Dalziel's lofty reproof came close to equivocation.
True, he had worked it out, but only after a series of nods and winks which made his own hints to Pascoe look like leaves from the Sibyl.
Westropp was eager, almost desperate to talk. It was, Dalziel decided later, the deathbed confession he was scared he might make to Marilou.
So when Dalziel said, 'You weren't just one of our spooks, you were a bloody commie spy too!' his wasted face had contorted in a congratulatory grin which wouldn't have been out of place in a horror film. 'And they knew about it back in 'sixty-three?' 'They were very suspicious, though of course they simply didn't want to believe it, which helped. I think it was Tony Blunt who gave them the positive confirmation. Oddly, it was Scott Rampling who first came right out with it. No royalist inhibitions, you see. "You know, James," he said,
"It wouldn't surprise me one little bit if you didn't turn out to be one of these Cambridge commies too." I smiled and said, "Indeed? And what would you do about it, assuming it were true?" He said, "Hell, if I got the proof, I'd do nothing. I could use it to jerk you and that bunch of amateurs you work for any which way I like, couldn't I?" He was right, that was the only professional response, but fortunately he didn't get anything like proof till it was far too late. Loquacity is the American disease. Didn't he imagine that my friends would give me something to shut him up with?' 'So what did the funny buggers do with you after Mickledore Hall?' asked Dalziel. 'They whisked me away out of sight. They'd have done that anyway. It's a knee-jerk damage limitation exercise when someone in my position looks like they might get too much publicity. I was in no state to resist, not after Emily's death. It was clear that they didn't give a damn what had really happened, they weren't even particularly interested whether or not I'd actually murdered Pam, they just wanted to be sure I came across as the sympathetic figure, the betrayed friend, widowed husband, bereaved father. They knew about me and Cissy, of course. In a way, what I know now was her lunatic act of loyalty worked out to her benefit…'
'Benefit!' exclaimed Dalziel. ‘Indeed. As Mickledore's mistress, she was safe, well, fairly safe. If she'd been tempted to broadcast that she was mine, I fear that other measures might have been taken to silence her. It wasn't till after the trial and poor Mick's execution that they came to me and put it bluntly – no pun – that I was a Russian agent. I, of course, cooperated fully – I had surprisingly little to tell them – but when they suggested they should put me back on station and work me as a double double, I took off. I'd had enough, you see.' 'That'd not please them.' 'How true,' said Westropp. 'Had I met with, or even put myself within reach of, a simple accident in the years that followed, there'd have been few regrets. But though life was a pretty grey thing to me then, grey is a colour a man can live with, so I kept on the move, until one day in Mexico City I ran into Marilou, and suddenly there was colour in my greyness once more. Since my undergraduate days, I have been a devious bastard, Mr Dalziel. It was part of my job description, it eventually became part of my being.
You cannot imagine the joy I got, and still get, from Marilou's utter openness. I had no right to marry her, I had no resources not to marry her.' 'And you came to settle here? Bit exposed, weren't you? Like a turkey taking refuge in a butcher's shop just before Christmas.
Especially if Rampling had sussed you out way back.' 'On the contrary, Scott was my main reason for being so willing to settle here,' said Westropp gleefully. 'He was by now powerful enough to offer protection.' 'For old time's sake?' said Dalziel sceptically. 'Of course not. Because I had it in my power to undermine him.' Dalziel thought a moment, then said, 'You mean this thing your foreign mates gave you to shut him up with? Something to blackmail him with, it must have been. Christ, I've put men with cleaner hands than you lot away for life!' 'Do I detect a note of disapproval? Of what, precisely?' said Westropp. 'Of someone like you betraying his country for a start,' exclaimed the Fat Man. 'I can thole most things, but not a traitor, especially not one with your fancy background.' ‘It was my background that first got me thinking about the condition of the West, Mr Dalziel. If patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel, perhaps treason is the first resort of an honest man. Take a look out of the window. This town is preserved the way it is because the Americans want to honour their past and their ancestors who fought for their freedoms. My ancestors back in England called these people traitors too.' 'Oh aye? You reckon a hundred years from now folk'll be paying money to gawk at the bed you died in, do you?' Westropp laughed and said, 'You really should have gone into the Diplomatic, Dalziel! I'll tell you what. I had planned to let Rampling off my little hook when I died. I've made him executor of my will and intended that he should find my little prophylaxis among my effects. But having discovered today for the first time how far he has inveigled Pip into his ranks, I begin to wonder if Scott deserves such consideration.' 'You knew the lad worked for the CIA, then?' 'Yes. It amused me to think this was the last stage in his Americanization, but I am not amused to learn how far Scott has got him involved in my affairs.' 'I'd say it were likely the lad volunteered to get involved, 'cos he were worried in case I meant any harm to you,' said Dalziel. 'A touching picture.
Perhaps you're right. So I'll tell you what. As you seem to fancy yourself as a moral arbiter, I'll pass this on to you and leave you to decide what to do with it.' 'And he handed me this old buff envelope,' said Dalziel. 'What was in it?' demanded Pascoe impatiently. 'A photo.
Remember all the talk about the man without a head during the Profumo thing? I think that poor old Partridge were one of them who had to get his doctor to check his tackle with a slide rule to prove it weren't him in the picture. Well, I don't know if it's the same picture that Westropp had, but this one had a head, and it showed young Scott Rampling looking very proud of himself, not without cause, and being much admired by a select audience, with one or two faces showing which suggest it were taken at one of Stephen Ward's little get-togethers.
Now this 'ud mean that not only was Rampling an enthusiastic orgiast but also he didn't mind doing it in a circle which included a Russian KGB officer. The Yanks are about as hypocritical as us when it comes to sex, and even more neurotic when it comes to security. If that photo got loose and Rampling was identified, he'd not get elected as town dog-catcher!' 'So what did you do with this photo? Give it to Rampling?' ‘I thought about it when I finally got to see him. But he were so bloody rude – told me I was a foreign alien and he could have me deported – that I thought: Stuff it! Let the bugger sweat. I can't abide bad manners, you know that, Peter.' 'Of course. Does that mean you've still got it?' 'Want a peep, do you, lad?' said Dalziel lasciviously. 'It would just give you an inferiority complex and by the sound of it, you've got enou
gh bother in the bonking department already. Nay, I tore it up and stuck it in a litter-bin at Washington airport.' 'Oh,' said Pascoe, feeling this was a little bathetic.
Dalziel laughed and said, 'But first of all, there was this fax machine. You pay your money, just like a telephone. There was a directory. I thumbed through it. You've really got to admire them Yanks. There was this number for the White House. When they talk about open government, they really mean it. So I thought: Why not? Rampling was very young on the photo. Mebbe no one will recognize his face. And if they recognize any other bit of him, then it'll be a real test of patriotic zeal, won't it? So I paid my money and I faxed it to the White House.' Pascoe let out a snort of incredulous laughter which made a couple of distant nurses look round in alarm. He said, it's really good having you back, sir.' 'Nay, don't go sentimental on me,' said Dalziel in surprise. 'Hadn't you best be getting off to see that lass of thine? Can't put it off forever.' 'I don't want to put it off at all,' said Pascoe spiritedly. 'What about you? Where will you be?'
'Oh, I'll mooch around. Give us your car key in case I just want to sit out here. Don't rush. No hurry. Give Ellie my best. And the kiddie. I bought her something. A musical banana. Is she musical at all?' 'Not so's you'd notice.' 'Good. It makes a bloody awful noise." 'I'm sure she'll love it.' Pascoe took a few steps, hesitated, came back. 'Sir, if this is all true, then you'd better really take care.
You don't want to end up like Geoff Hiller.' 'Suspended? Not much chance of that,' said Dalziel grimly. 'Suspended's what you get for knowing fuck-all. Knowing what we know gets you what Mavis Marsh got.
I'll take care, lad. You too. Only reason I told you any of this is so you can forget all of it. Now bugger off and see if you can bang some sense into that wife of thine.' It wasn't the most helpful advice he'd ever received from the Fat Man, however you took it. On the other hand, he hadn't worked out any viable alternative course of action. He introduced himself to a receptionist who directed him to a waiting-room. Through the glass door panel he saw Ellie deep in conversation with a white-coated doctor. Rose was straddling a chairback, looking bored. He pushed open the door. It was Rose who spotted him first. 'Daddy!' she screamed. Fell off the chair. Bounced.
Recalled to Life dap-13 Page 29