Dalziel 09 Child's Play

by Reginald Hill

  'Yes?'

  'Well, her husband was the Arthur Windibanks who was involved in the big holiday homes scandal in the 'seventies. He got out of it by running his car off the Autostrada. There was a convenient fire at the Company's London office, all papers burnt, so there was no way of tying her in, but I gather it was a narrow squeak.'

  'Aye, she's a cool one,' admitted Dalziel. 'I went down to the morgue with her yesterday afternoon to look at Pontelli's bum. That's it, she said. I'd recognize it anywhere. Never cracked her face! Incidentally, Miss Keech says that no such blemish existed on young Alexander's lily-white body. With Huby that makes two for, one against. Who's lying?'

  Pascoe frowned and said, 'Why should Keech lie?'

  'At the moment she's got a sinecure for life, which mightn't be all that long from the look of her this morning. Mebbe she's afraid that if Pontelli does turn out to be the lost lad, she'd be out in the cold.'

  'That'd mean she was pretty quick-thinking when you asked her the question this morning.'

  'You said you thought she was pretty sharp.'

  'She wasn't ill in bed when I saw her. All right, let's put it the other way. Why should the others lie?'

  'How about, they're the heirs if Pontelli is Huby and dies intestate?' said Dalziel cunningly.

  Pascoe shook his head. 'I don't think so. They're equal closest relations of the old lady, that's true, but it's different with Alexander. John Huby's a full cousin, Windibanks is something removed.'

  'You're sure?' said Dalziel distrustingly. 'Better check it out with Thackeray. One thing I'm sure of, lying or not, that Windibanks woman wouldn't have opened her mouth without good cause.'

  'No. I wonder . . .' Pascoe postponed his idea until he could test it and returned to the main track once more.

  'I also ran Goodenough,' he said. 'He's down as a suspected sympathizer with some of the more extreme animal protection groups. Nothing concrete, but his views have got him into hot water with the ruling council at PAWS.'

  'Scraping the barrel, aren't you, Peter?' said Dalziel.

  'Extremism tends to overflow,' said Pascoe. Some more scrapings. WFE are on a Special Branch list of right-wing fellow traveller groups.'

  This had surprised him. It had also occurred to him to wonder if the list which WRAG had got and which he'd been so satirical about might not also have emanated from Special Branch. Perhaps there was a mole, perhaps there was a controlled leak, or perhaps some leftie hacker was into the police computer.

  It was a packet of microchips he was not about to open.

  'And . . .?' said Dalziel.

  'Nothing on Mrs Falkingham except a lot of memsahib background. And on Miss Sarah Brodsworth, nothing whatsoever at all.'

  'You make that sound like a triumph, lad,' growled Dalziel.

  'Well, it could be. I ran the White Heat lot Wield was on about. He was right. Infiltration's their game. Getting into the system - schools, local Tory parties, voluntary agencies. They like the odd outburst, such as this anti-Chung campaign, just to keep up their status in the wider spectrum of right-wing extremism. But generally it's heads down, let's work from within. So someone like Brodsworth could very well be a plant, slipped into WFE at the first sniff of money, and left to take root till the cash comes through.'

  'And they'd kill Pontelli to get him out of the way, you think? What a mind you've got, lad!'

  'Worth checking, though?'

  'Aye. Check away. Listen, Goodenough said he met that journalist, Vollans, at Mrs Falkingham's place. He seems to be sniffing around this Brodsworth woman's background too. Might be worth seeing if he's come up with anything. These newspaper ferrets aren't bound down by rules and regulations like us. Also they can afford bigger bribes. HALLO!'

  The bellow was directed into the telephone which he had snatched up at first ping.

  'Yes? Who? What? What . . . what? Oh, Watmough! DCC . . . yes, sir, I know you're the DCC. What can I do for you, sir? Well, I'm right busy just now ... all right, sir, soon as I can, sir.'

  He replaced the receiver.

  'Rover the Wonder Dog,' he said. 'Now what's he want? I wonder . . .'

  He picked up the receiver, jiggled the rest, then said, 'Hello, Herbert. DS Dalziel here. How's your missus? Grand! Look, I'm just checking on a call for the DCC, just a matter of timing, it'd be this morning about . . . aye, that's the one. Grand. Thanks a lot.'

  He replaced the receiver, grinning ferociously.

  'Rover had a whistle from the Challenger about half an hour ago,' he said. 'I reckon it's find-the-fairy time. It's his interview next Wednesday and he'll be crapping himself in case something comes up to upset the apple-cart. All right, Peter, I can see you're eager to be off. I'll grapple with Grannie when she turns up, but I'll not forget you owe me one. Meanwhile, I'd best not keep laughing boy waiting else his tiny mind'll forget what he wants to see me about!'

  Chapter 2

  Neville Watmough banged the receiver down, not displeased that the fat superintendent had already contrived to anger him. A good head of fury was the best preparation he knew for an interview with Dalziel.

  So far it hadn't been a happy morning. The news of Sharman's murder had caused deep personal distress. The selection committee weren't going to be impressed by two unsolved killings on his patch at the same time. He had worked out a strategy which would involve discovering from Dalziel where the greatest progress had been made, then taking over the investigation himself with a public statement including a modest passing reference to the Pickford case.

  Then Ike Ogilby had rung.

  'Just to keep you in the picture, Nev,' he said. 'This chap rang again last evening. Same business. Henry Vollans, that's the young chap you met at the Gents, set up a meeting with him for first thing this morning, but he didn't turn up. Must've got cold feet, but he's obviously working up to it. Or maybe he got a better offer.'

  'Offer?'

  'Oh yes. Money was mentioned. He said he could tell us things which would tear Mid-Yorkshire CID apart, but he wanted well paid. Well, maybe he's just trying it on, Nev, but I promised I'd keep you in the picture.'

  'Bastard!' said Watmough as he put the receiver down. 'Thanks for nothing!'

  He had no doubt that if Ogilby had got a story and it was a good one, he'd have planned to run it with little

  reference to himself. This way, the smart bastard was able to put Watmough under an obligation without really doing anything.

  It was time that he, Neville Watmough, took control of the situation and became once more master of his own fate.

  There was a gentle tap on the door.

  'Enter,' he called.

  Another tap. Again he called, 'Enter!' but all he got was another tap.

  Sighing, he rose and opened the door. Dalziel stood there, smiling nervously in a grotesque parody of the naughty schoolboy summoned to see the headmaster.

  'For Christ's sake, come in and sit down!' snarled Watmough.

  Dalziel advanced and sat. The chair creaked like an old ship in high seas. Watmough sought for the best approach and opted for man-of-the-world directness.

  'OK, Andy,' he said crisply, 'It's been brought to my notice there may be a practising homosexual in the CID. I want to know who it is.'

  Dalziel looked unhappy rather than shocked. He glanced around the room, then leaned forward across the desk and said confidentially. 'You really want to find out, do you, Neville?'

  Watmough found himself drawn forward irresistibly until their heads were almost meeting.

  'Yes, I do, Andy,' he said.

  'Then give us a kiss and I'll tell you!'

  Dalziel rocked back in his chair, roaring with laughter. Watmough remained leaning forward, every muscle spanned to breaking-point, knowing that the slightest relaxation might send him hurtling across the desk to strangle the fat man.

  Dalziel's laughter finally subsided, then faded away completely.

  'Here,' he said. 'You're not serious, are you?'

  'D
eadly serious,' said Watmough, slowly straightening up.

  'Well, bugger me. What do you want me to do?'

  'Track him down. Surely I don't need to spell out the implications?'

  Dalziel said, 'I think that mebbe you do, sir.'

  'Very well. Perhaps you're right. I'd like us both to be quite clear what's involved. If there is a gay in CID and you don't know about him, Andy, presumably he reckons it's best that you remain ignorant. Now in my book, that makes him a security risk, right off. Gays, by the very nature of their needs, can find themselves moving in pretty shady areas. Even those who are most open can find themselves mixed up with some pretty dicey characters. As for the ones who try to keep up the pretence of being straight, they are natural blackmail victims. You follow me?'

  Dalziel said, puzzled, 'What would you threaten a gay cop with?'

  'Exposure, of course. It would ruin his career.'

  'Being gay would?'

  'Not having admitted it might,' said Watmough confidently.

  'But if he did admit it, would that ruin his career too?'

  Watmough turned aside from this line of argument.

  'It's not just the job, though it would make things hellish difficult. A gay is susceptible in so many ways. Suppose he's married and his wife and family don't know . . .'

  'A married gay?' said Dalziel.

  'Oh yes,' said Watmough, safe with the support of Sexual Deviancy on the shelf behind his head. 'Didn't you know that Oscar Wilde, for instance, was married with two children?'

  'No. I didn't know that,' said Dalziel. 'Would that be Chief Inspector Wilde at Scarborough?'

  Watmough said in the very quiet voice of a man who knows there is nothing on his diapason between softness and uncontrolled explosion, 'Just do as I ask, Mr Dalziel. Just do as I ask.'

  'Of course, sir,' said Dalziel formally. 'But just so I know for sure what that is, could you mebbe put it down on paper?'

  Watmough regarded him speculatively for a moment, then he smiled. Dalziel thought he was being clever asking for a written instruction, but written instructions worked both ways.

  He pulled an internal memo pad towards him, inserted a carbon and began to write rapidly.

  To: Detective-Superintendent Dalziel A.

  Further to our discussion of today's date concerning allegations of sexual deviancy against an unnamed CID officer, you are instructed to investigate same allegation and report with all reasonable speed.

  He read it through. It was direct without being over detailed; firm evidence, if the worst happened and there was any kind of scandal, that he had been on top of his job. Dalziel, he was pretty certain, would do nothing. Well, that was his lookout. It would be his failure, either through negligence, incompetence, or a cover-up!

  He signed the memorandum and passed it over.

  'I think that ends all ambiguity,' he said.

  Dalziel read the sheet of paper carefully, folded it once and put it in his wallet.

  'Thank you, sir,' he said. 'I'm not sure, though, how I should go about this. I'd be grateful for any ideas.'

  Watmough smiled. He knew that Dalziel distrusted

  above all things psychiatrists, particularly when they affected to be helping in police affairs.

  'Why not have a word with that chap Pottle from the Central's psychiatric unit? He's helped us in the past. Maybe he can give you a few pointers what to look for.'

  Dalziel considered, then grunted noncommittally. He did not look happy. It was rare to have the fat man at a disadvantage and Watmough decided to ride his luck.

  'Now, Andy,' he said. 'Back to real policing. I'd like a full rundown on progress in these murder investigations. Two in less than a week. It's not good, not good at all.'

  He made it sound like Dalziel's personal fault and to his delight the Superintendent rose to the bait.

  'That's nowt to do with me,' he growled. 'The buggers don't consult us when they're going to do a killing, do they?'

  'No, Andy,' said Watmough silkily. 'They don't. But the Police Committee consults us when they want to know what we're doing about it. People get worried, Andy. The public voice. We must liaise closely with them. Public relations is the name of the game nowadays. You'll have studied my directives on this matter?'

  'Oh aye,' said Dalziel unconvincingly.

  'Good. Then you'll know that information and consultation are what the Committee require and what it's our duty to give them. I can't perform my part in that duty unless you consult and inform me too, Andy. You'd do well to remember that.'

  'Consult and inform,' repeated Dalziel as if committing two important phrases in some strange language to heart.

  'That's it. All right. What's the latest on your investigations? How can I help, Andy. That's all I want to know. How can I help?'

  Chapter 3

  OPEN ALL HOURS! announced the placard. TRY A BIT OF CULTURE WITH YOUR BAR-SNACK!

  Pascoe recalled Chung on local radio declaring her hatred of theatres that were locked and barred most of the time.

  'The Kemble belongs to the people, honey,' she'd told the bemused interviewer. 'I don't want to run a place that's barred and bolted like Fort Knox most of the time, with actors slipping in through a side door like bishops visiting a brothel. You can't sell culture if there's no one minding the store!'

  Culture today seemed to consist of a pair of adenoidal folk singers in the foyer who were bewailing the miseries of the weaver's life. Perhaps, as the weaver in question seemed to be a Lancastrian, this catalogue of woes was aimed at raising Yorkist spirits.

  On achieving the bar, Pascoe was gratified to be received like a Butcher of Broadway.

  'Pete, honey!' cried Chung, heading towards him with lesser beings bobbing in her wake like the Blefuscudian navy behind Gulliver. 'I was just talking about you. Could you lay your hands on a dozen riot shields? We're thinking of making our police thing a musical and I can just see this chorus line doing a great rhythmic number with stomping boots and truncheons rattling on the shields.'

  Seymour dropped back in alarm. Inspectors with degrees might be able to survive this kind of thing on their files, but not constables with ambition. Chung, sensitive to stage movement, lowered her voice and said.

  'Shit, listen to my big mouth. Pete, honey, I don't mean to be embarrassing, I just come out that way sometimes. Forgive me?'

  She had lowered her face with her voice so that her breath zephyr'd sweetly on his cheek.

  Pascoe said, 'Some shall be pardon'd and some punished. State the alternatives preferred.'

  Chung laughed like Kipling's temple bells.

  'Is your visit social or are you raiding the joint?' she asked.

  'I wanted a word with Mercutio.'

  'Rod? He's over there in the corner with his cousin.'

  She gave an actressy inflection to the last word which puzzled Pascoe till he caught sight of Lomas in a distant corner of the long bar, seated next to Lexie Huby, their heads so close together they were almost touching. Could there be something going on there? The idea surprised him. There seemed little love lost between the Hubys and the Lomases in general, and these two in particular didn't look cut out to be Romeo and Juliet.

  He excused himself from Chung and went to join the couple. When they spotted his approach they stopped talking. He stood over them.

  'Mr Lomas, Miss Huby,' he said.

  'It was Rod and Lex last time. This must be official,' said Lomas.

  'Can we speak privately, Mr Lomas?'

  'Won't this do?'

  It was true that the noise level of the bar, as conversation within vied with music without, made eavesdropping unlikely.

  He looked at the girl.

  She said, 'I'll go.'

  'No need,' said Pascoe. 'My constable will buy you a drink at the bar, Seymour.'

  The girl rose and went barwards with the slightly bewildered detective.

  Pascoe slipped into the vacated chair and said, 'Just a couple of questions, Mr Lomas. Firs
t, why did you break into the filing cabinet?'

  'What? I didn't! That's absurd!' he protested, emoting surprise and shock in a sub-Stanislavskian style.

  'Missed your line,' reproved Pascoe. 'First comes, what filing cabinet? After I've told you, then the indignation.'

  'You're quite a clown,' said Lomas thickly.

  'Thank you. Look, there are fingerprints outside and inside. They match those on the tumbler by your bed . . .'

  Pascoe was lying about the internal prints. There had been a confusion of overlaps, nothing positive.

  'You've been poking around my bedroom!' said Lomas, genuinely indignant this time.

  'No,' said Pascoe gently. 'We had a look in the late Alexander Huby's bedroom, with Miss Keech's permission. But we're wandering. To return to the cabinet . . .'

  Lomas thought a moment, then gave a frank, open, rather rueful smile.

  'Yes, all right, I did look in the cabinet. But I didn't break in. The lock had been forced already. I was just poking around.'

  'With what end in view?'

  'Nothing, really. No, that's silly. Look, to tell the truth, I just had this daft idea there might be another will, one that old Thackeray didn't know about. Well, it was a possibility, wasn't it? I couldn't really believe the old girl kept on believing her precious boy was still alive right up to the end.'

  'I see,' said Pascoe. 'What you hoped for, I presume, was a will leaving everything to the family?'

  'I was born on St Jude's day,' said Lomas. 'Only congenital optimists become actors.'

  'And did you find anything?'

  'Nothing. Just a lot of stuff confirming dear old Gwen was dotty.'

  'Hardly worth forcing a lock for, then.'

  'Listen. It could have been anyone. Why pick on me?'

  'Hardly anyone. There's just you and Miss Keech. And she had a key.'

  'Other people come to the house, you know.'

  'For instance.'

  Lomas glanced towards the bar rather furtively and lowered his voice.