'That I got into trouble today for throwing stones in the playground,' said Rosie promptly, leaving Pascoe pleased to be off the hook but aghast at the convincing ease with which she lied.
Alone with his daughter, he tried to remonstrate with her.
'Yes, but I did get into trouble for throwing stones,' she said. 'So it wasn't a lie, was it?' This was turning into a problem in logic rather than ethics.
'Even the truth can be a lie sometimes,' he heard himself saying sententiously.
'But can't a lie be better than the truth sometimes?' she argued.
This piece of precocity took his breath away. Having a bright kid was one thing, but childhood could be a long and bumpy road for a smartarse.
Then Rosie yawned and added, 'Like swearing.'
'Have you been talking to Miss Martindale?' asked Pascoe.
'Yes. I got sent to her for throwing the stones. And she said sometimes bad things could be good. Like telling lies. But you have to be careful.'
'And swearing?'
'She said if you dropped something heavy on your toe, it was good to have a special word you could shout out to get the pain out of you, and that's why some words were bad unless you had a pain to get out.'
She was almost asleep now. At the door he paused and said, 'Why were you throwing stones?'
'There was this man walking past the playground with a dog and it wouldn't do as it was told so he started hitting it with the lead and it was yelling. So I threw stones and then he yelled too.'
Downstairs he saw Ellie at the dining-room table with the exercise-book journal open in front of her. As he watched she knuckled a tear out of her eyes. Quietly he went into the kitchen, turned the microwave up, made a green salad, poured a couple of glasses of wine and brought the meal through on a tray.
Ellie said brightly, 'He's got your attitude to punctuation. When in doubt, miss it out.'
'Him and Bernard Shaw.'
'And his writing's worse than yours. I can't make head or tail of this.'
She indicated the small leather-bound volume.
'You need a glass. It's his trench journal. So far as I can make out it stops in spring 1917 when he was home on leave. He probably left it at home for safekeeping and started a new one back in Flanders. God knows what happened to that.'
'And these?' said Ellie indicating the document folder.
'I haven't sorted them out yet, but it looks like a record of Ada's efforts to get some real information about what actually happened to her father. Letters to the War Office, MPs, that sort of thing. And their replies. A record of frustration. But the earlier documents are the ones that signify. Here. Imagine that dropping through your letter box.'
He extracted a folded and faded sheet of paper and laid it before her. It was from the Infantry Records Office, dated November 1917.
Dear Mrs Pascoe
I am directed to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office that your husband, Sergeant Pascoe, Peter, was sentenced by court martial to suffer death by being shot, and this sentence was duly executed on November 20th 1917.
I am, madam, Your obedient servant.
The signature was illegible.
'Oh God,' said Ellie. 'I can't believe they really sent things like that.'
'Only about three hundred of them,' said Pascoe.
'The bastards, oh the bastards,' said Ellie.
'It was all a long time ago, and what's three hundred against the millions who died in those years,' said Pascoe. 'I paraphrase.'
'Don't get clever,' she said fiercely. 'We've barely enough time and energy to fight the here-and-now battles without busting our guts to right old wrongs. But this isn't a principle in here, Peter. This is a person. This is a whole sodding family!'
She banged her hand down on the open exercise book.
'Yeah. Ironic, eh?' said Pascoe. 'Sorry, I'm not doing an I-told-you-so. I've found myself wishing that Ada had done what she felt tempted to do and burnt the whole bloody lot instead of dumping it in my lap.'
'She might as well have done. It's not as if you're going to be able to get beyond the dead end she hit, are you?'
'I don't know. All I know is that somehow I seem to be right in the middle of it. You know what the house was called where Peter was brought up? Wanwood. And the family his mother nursemaided for were the Grindals. And this medical genius Sam Batty, his descendants and the Grindals' still run the company. Look, there's a letter here from Herbert Grindal, commiserating with my great-grandmother. He was an officer in the Wyfies, and when I was looking through the old records at Wanwood this morning I came across his name as a patient there when it was a hospital during the war. I tell you, it's like being out in the Salient with shit coming at you from all sides!'
Ellie hacked a piece out of her lasagne, glad to be back in her role of the voice of reason.
'No shit, just good story lines for a Victorian novel,' she said. 'Where does it get you? Nowhere. Ada hit a barrier. You're going to need more than a bit of creepy coincidence to get you over it.'
'There's always Poll Pollinger.'
'Details of the trial, you mean? Don't build up your hopes. From the sound of it, these things weren't exactly conducted in ideal circumstances with a stenographer making a verbatim record. You know what he was charged with, you know he was found guilty. I suspect that even if Poll manages to wheedle a transcript out of her bent colonel, it'll occupy half a sheet of paper and won't tell you much more. This is personal, Peter. Keep it that way. Read his journals. From what I've seen so far, he sounds the kind of man you can be proud to be descended from. And if the war and the system broke him, then pray that you and yours will never be tested to breaking point. Every day I look at the telly and see things that make me think, that is beyond my endurance. Do that to me, and I would go under. Maybe we can change some of those things. Meanwhile, be proud, be hopeful, and eat your lasagne.'
'Well, bugger me, as our daughter might have said before Miss Martindale waved her magic wand,' said Pascoe. 'I married a philosopher. Here's looking at you, Socrates.'
He raised his glass. The phone rang.
'Shit,' said Pascoe, feeling Miss Martindale would have approved.
He got up and went through into the hallway. Ellie heard his voice distantly but deliberately made no effort to organize sound into sense.
She saw by his face when he returned that she'd been right. This was not something she wanted to know.
'What?' she asked.
'It was Andy,' he said. 'Wendy Walker's died. And they've arrested Cap Marvell.'
xii
By Friday lunch time, Ada's funeral seemed a long, long way away. Presumably Dalziel felt the distance he had travelled in the days between to be just as great if not greater.
Late that Monday night he had set eyes for the very first time on Cap Marvell. During the next couple of days he had, if rumour were right, entered into a meaningful relationship with her.
And on the evening of the third day, he had read her her rights.
The case against her was so far mainly circumstantial. They had found in her Discovery a bicycle clip matching the one found on Wendy Walker's right ankle, plus traces of oil and rust matching those on her cycle. Marvell explained these by claiming that on several occasions she'd given Walker and her bike a lift. In order to fit the machine into the storage area, Walker had removed the front wheel, thus possibly dislodging a considerable amount of rust and oil.
They had also found traces of blood on a rear seat. It was the same group as Walker's. Marvell recalled that one of the group had cut herself on a demo to which they'd been ferried in the Discovery. Tested, this woman proved to be group 'O' also.
There was a fresh scratch on the front bumper of the Discovery, which might have been caused by running over the front wheel of a bicycle, and debris collected from the front tyre treads was being subjected to every test known to Dr Death in an effort to establish a transfer link with either the bike or Ludd Lane.
Cap Marvell's claims to have been at a wedding in Scarborough on the date of the Redcar raid had been substantiated. But closer enquiry had produced the information that a fair proportion of the official guests had been political activists of one sort or another, including Meg Jenkins and Donna Linsey from ANIMA. As for the extra unrecorded guests who turned up for the pub party after the ceremony, it could be assumed though not proven that the proportion here was even higher.
'How far's Scarborough from Redcar? About fifty miles?' said Pascoe.
'Hour's run on a quiet evening in a fast car,' said Wield.
'So someone says, "This party's a bit dead, who fancies a bit of action? Let's head up the coast and liberate a few downtrodden animals.'"
'That would explain the way they acted once they got inside, you know, running riot and wrecking the place. And with the luck of the half-pissed they got away scot-free.'
'After giving poor Mark Shufflebottom a friendly tap on the head to keep him quiet.'
'Only, being half pissed, the tap was a bit harder than intended and the poor sod keels over dead.'
'Not realizing this, they head back down to the party which has picked up again and goes on till the break of day.'
'Which is when they get the news on the radio, after which they split, after taking a vow that everyone in the group can recall seeing everyone else every minute of the party, from the first champagne cork popping till the last piss artist puking.'
The elaboration of lack of intent was for Dalziel's benefit, but the basic scenario had a lot to commend it.
'What about the raid on Wanwood in the summer?' asked Pascoe. 'Same style, lot of vandalism, animals just turned loose to roam the countryside. Does this mean they were pissed again?'
'Why not? Marvell says she had dinner with her son that night. From what you say, sir, that could have seen her well oiled by the time they parted.'
By common consent, they had decided that there was no point in pussyfooting around Dalziel. OK, if they saw a chance to suggest that Marvell's putative fatal assault upon the guard had been accidental rather than premeditated, there was no harm in taking it. But they both knew the Fat Man well enough to guess that any hint on their part that they were marking time on this one would have only served to force him into the painful task of doing the dirty work himself.
He nodded now and said, 'Aye, that's about the strength of it. How about t'others in the group?'
'Alibis for that night? All tight, except for Jenkins and Linsey. The same two as went to the Scarborough wedding. They say they can't really recall so far back, but they think they had a quiet night in.'
'What's one of them when it's at home?' said Dalziel, the tautology coming close to pathos.
Pascoe said brightly, 'OK, so let's look at what we've got. What might or might not have been a dying declaration which fortunately Seymour had the wit to get on tape.'
He pressed the button on the cassette deck on the table before them.
First Ellie's voice.
'Wendy, it's OK, you're in hospital. It's so great to see your eyes open. Wendy, this is Ellie Pascoe. Can you hear me?'
Then Wendy Walker.
'Cap, Cap, Cap ... oh why . .. why . .. why?'
The note of bewilderment was almost unbearable.
Pascoe resumed briskly. 'On top of this we've got our knowledge of what Wendy was up to, the evidence of Marvell's propensity for violence in the TecSec statements, her lack of a watertight alibi for the dates of the Redcar raid and the first Wanwood raid, the physical traces of Walker's bike in the Discovery...’
There was a tap on the door followed by Seymour's bright red hair round it.
'Sorry,' he said. 'But we've found a witness. Terence Oliphant. Lives in one of them bungalows between Ludd Lane and the bypass. He was taking his dog for a walk in the held behind his house - that's the big meadow that abuts on Ludd Lane - when he saw the lights of a stationary vehicle in the lane. As he watched it took off moving very fast eastwards. He says he can't be sure about the make except that it was higher than an ordinary car, more like some kind of van. We showed him the silhouette of a Discovery and he said, yes, that could have been it.'
'Why'd he not come forward himself?' growled Dalziel. 'Doesn't he read the papers?'
'Yes, that was the trouble. All the reports of where the body was found with the bike beyond it suggested she'd been hit by a car travelling westwards so he couldn't see how this might have had anything to do with it.'
'God help us when the sodding citizenry become detectives,' said Dalziel. 'Time?'
'Half nine-ish.'
It fitted.
Pascoe said, 'Good work, Dennis. Thanks.'
When the door had closed he said, 'OK, another piece of circumstantial, but we're still a long way from anything that's going to impress the CPS. We need something more . ..'
'There is something more,' said Dalziel tonelessly.
Oh shit, thought Pascoe. Not pillow talk, this last indignity of a noble 'tec.
'She says she left the university party early to go home and watch her interview on telly. Well, I watched it with Bog-eye at the party. And soon as it were done, I drove off to Marvell's flat. Only it were in darkness. Then I saw her coming from the garage block where she parks her vehicle and going into the building.'
'What did you do then, sir?' asked Pascoe.
'Drove off home.'
Pascoe let out a sigh of relief. CID Chief bonks killer hot from scene of crime was not a headline he cared to envisage.
'Have you put this to her, sir?' asked Wield.
'Not yet. But she's been asked every which way if she went straight home from the party and watched the interview. She says yes every time.'
'It's got to be put to her direct, sir,' urged Pascoe.
'Teach your grandmother,' snarled the Fat Man. Then he passed his hand over his face, putting Pascoe in mind of an eclipse of the moon.
'Sorry,' said Dalziel. 'I were just trying to think how I'd use it if it weren't me but some independent witness that had come forward with the story. I think I'd have still hung on. But I can't be sure. Pete, time I did what I should have done a lot earlier. You take over the running of this case. OK?'
'Good lord, sir, your memory's going,' said Pascoe. 'You disqualified yourself from being in charge yesterday lunch time, the minute that Ellie told us what Walker had been up to. It was only at my personal insistence that you interviewed Ms Marvell yesterday afternoon, because I felt that the personal link would be conducive to getting to the truth. Don't you remember, Wieldy?'
'That's right,' said Wield. 'I mean, any fool 'ud know a man of your experience wouldn't compromise the handling of a case where he was personally involved.'
Dalziel regarded them both blankly for a moment then gave a faint smile.
'Must be mixing my drinks is making me forgetful. I'll cut down on the water,' he said. 'So what's your plan, chief inspector?'
'Question first, sir. This Cap Marvell, I've not yet met her. All I know about her is what I've heard from my wife, and from you. So tell me, in your opinion, could she have done this?'
'By God, give some buggers a little bit of power and it goes right to their heads,' said Dalziel. But there was no force in it. Pascoe could tell he was seriously pondering the question. As presumably he had been seriously pondering it for the past twenty-four hours.
He said, 'Hitting a guard in the heat of the moment and accidentally killing him. Aye, I could see her doing that. Could see meself doing that. You too, Wieldy. Mebbe not you, Peter, though I don't know. But if you did, you'd likely be running forward to confess and make amends.'
'And Ms Marvell?' insisted Pascoe.
'No. Like me she'd think that what's done is done, and why rush forward to suffer for what you didn't intend and can't change? And she'd be bloody good at covering her tracks too. No Lady Macbeth stuff.'
Pity, thought Pascoe. Lady Mac meets Falstaff. Would have made a great play.
He said, 'And if we move on from accident? You say she'd be good at covering her tracks. How far might she go? Cold-blooded murder?'
Dalziel said, 'Two days back I'd have said impossible.'
'And two days on?'
The Fat Man didn't hesitate.
'As a man, still impossible. But I've seen too many poor sods thinking with their cocks to be impressed. As a cop, the old rule's got to apply. Guilty till proved innocent. That's what I hope you'll prove, lad. And because I hope it so fucking much, that's why I've handed things over to you. I need a runoff.'
He rose and left the room.
Pascoe said, 'Set that to music and you'd have one of the greatest romantic arias of all time.'
'Aye, and I know just the guy to sing the part.'
'Who?'
'Pavarotti,' said Wield. 'Mind you, he'd have to put on a bit of weight.'
Dalziel in the corridor heard them laughing. He didn't mind, even if they were laughing at him or his predicament.
Man of my age gets his bollocks in the mangle, he deserves laughing at, he reflected. And they were good lads, eager to do their best to aid the disenmanglement with minimum pain.
Feeling somewhat comforted, he headed to the loo.
xiii
Jimmy Howard was still in police custody but only just.
After the arrival of the TecSec solicitor he had made a statement which completely denied any knowledge of the contents of the envelope found in his car.
In fact, when the lab analysis was complete, it turned out that Howard might have been pretty safe even without his denial, as the capsules contained ketamine hydro-chloride, a mild hallucinogenic which, known as Special K, had a moderate street value, but hadn't yet made it to the banned drugs list.
The small Mid-Yorks drug squad had tossed the case back at Wield, saying they had enough on their plate without wasting time on what looked at best like a case of simple theft and receiving stolen property.
The lab assistant, Jane Ambler, had been interviewed in her home the previous night. She had denied handing any envelope to Howard and showed no reaction to talk of fingerprints, a calmness confirmed when examination revealed only one usable thumbprint on the envelope. This was definitely Howard's and provided Wield with the thin thread by which he kept the ex-constable tethered in custody.
Dalziel 15 The Wood Beyond Page 29