Deadheads dap-7

by Reginald Hill

  Singh looked disappointed, but clearly Dalziel's praise was some consolation.

  Dalziel led the way with no apparent attempt at concealment, but moving down the stairs with incredible lightness for a man of his bulk.

  As they reached the hallway, a man clutching a sack appeared at the study door. It was Arthur Marsh. He stared at them in complete amazement for a moment, then dropped the sack with a hoarse cry of alarm and turned and fled. The policemen followed in order of seniority, though this was accidental rather than hierarchical. At the study door Wield glimpsed Arthur trying to get out of the window with Dalziel clinging on to his left foot with all the proprietary strength of a hungry bear. A noise behind him attracted Wield's attention. He turned and saw that in one thing Dalziel had been wrong. There was not just one man in the house. Coming out of the dining-room with a silver candlestick in his hand was Jonty Marsh.

  'All right, lad,' growled the sergeant, advancing.

  Jonty feinted to retreat, then suddenly sprinted forward, ducking under Wield's outstretched arms and nearly falling. Wield grabbed and the boy swung the heavy candlestick against his kneecap.

  'Jesus Christ!' cried Wield as Jonty recovered his balance and went dashing up the stairs. On the landing he paused uncertainly. In some little pain, Wield was hobbling after him. The fleeing boy turned once more and rushed into the master bedroom.

  Wield heard a babble of voices, then one voice - Jonty's - screamed, 'You fucking black wanker!' Then there was a crash and a cry and a thud, then silence.

  Pain forgotten, Wield ran up the last flight of stairs and flung himself into the bedroom.

  The window was open. On the floor beneath it lay the crumpled body of Police Cadet Singh. By his head was the silver candlestick and from his head coiled a line of blood like an undone ribbon.

  There was a cry from the window. Wield peered out. Distantly he saw the green van careening down the drive, doors still open and banging against the sides like some discordant cymbals. But it was going nowhere. A police car was gently nosing forward between the avenue of holly bushes, blocking the way.

  The cry was closer at hand. Jonty Marsh had swung himself over the sill and was trying to reach a drainpipe some five feet to his left. He clearly wasn't able to make it. The one hand by which he still clung to the sill was white with the strain, but not as white as the terrified face that looked up towards Wield.

  The sergeant instinctively grabbed the boy's wrist just as the fingers began to slide off the smooth stone. Despite his slight build, he was heavy enough to make Wield gasp as he felt the full weight pulling at his arm. He was leaning too far out for his strong back and leg muscles to contribute much to the effort, but the greatest weakness was in his will. His mind was full of the boy at his feet with his eyes closed and his head bleeding, rather than the boy at the end of his arm with his eyes wide with terror and his mouth piping piteous bird-like cries. The sweat of effort and the sweat of fear lubricated their gripping hands and he could feel Jonty Marsh slipping away and he was not sure that he cared.

  Then Pascoe was by his side, leaning out to grab the boy by the arm, saying 'Come up, you young bastard!' and suddenly he was a feather weight and came plunging back through the window like a hooked trout.

  Pascoe dumped the boy on the floor with a force which knocked the remaining breath out of him and said, 'Lie still, sonny, or I'll chuck you back.'

  Now he turned to help Wield with the injured cadet. To his surprise the sergeant was kneeling by the boy's head, his hands fluttering nervously over but not touching him, his craggy face, in whose rocks and hollows emotion usually lay deeply hid, cracked wide in an earthquake of violent grief.

  'Sergeant!' said Pascoe.

  The stricken eyes turned up to meet his.

  'He's dead,' said Wield in a hoarsely vibrant tone. 'He's dead!'

  Below the moving hands, Cadet Singh's eyelids twitched, then opened.

  'You'd better not tell him that,' said Pascoe. 'Now for God's sake, go and rustle up an ambulance!'

  6

  FÉLICITÉ ET PERPÉTUE

  (Climber.Vigorous, healthy, abundant foliage, profuse white flowers with faint blush, high climbing, sweet-scented.)

  Dick Elgood had not been lying when he said that he liked to relax alone on the night before an important meeting.

  He left the offices of Perfecta at six o'clock, pausing to glance at the old Elgoodware artefacts on display in the vestibule. This is how it had all started. Here were the beginnings of the road which had led him to where he was now. Which was where? He felt uneasy at the thought. It was daft! How could the condition, the achievement, which only a few weeks ago had seemed such a cause for congratulation, for complacency even, now appear hollow, empty, meaningless? Perhaps a man needed more than work. An interest, an obsession. Like Aldermann's garden and his bloody roses! What did he have? Women, a lot of 'em, more than he could recall. That was something, surely. Pleasure; ecstasy; and more to come. His strength was less than it had been, but far from failing. Perhaps he should have arranged for a bit of company tonight. He thought of telephoning around, but decided it was too late. And surely it was best to stick to his plan.

  Nevertheless, the desire for company remained, and he didn't go straight to the cottage but drove first to a favourite restaurant some ten miles up the coast where he had a steak. There was a new waitress, a smiling lass, who caught his fancy and he lingered longer than he intended over his coffee and brandy. But when he judged the moment ripe to ask what time she finished, she replied promptly, as though the question had been anticipated, that her father collected her shortly after eleven. Dick finished his brandy philosophically, guessing that one of her colleagues had played bitch in the manger and warned her off. He had certainly used the place often enough for his reputation to be known, and like most dedicated followers of the fancy, his sexual vanity did not permit him to consider that perhaps the girl simply didn't like the look of him.

  It was after ten-thirty when he arrived at the cottage, much later than he had intended. He felt vaguely dissatisfied as he stood by the white post which marked the furthest encroachment of the sea and gazed down at the darkling shore where a thin white line and a rhythmic susurration signalled the retreating tide. He should have stuck to his original intention and come straight down. Now he would have to forgo his anticipated swim. Food, alcohol and an ebb tide were ingredients which mixed to disaster. And in any case, though usually he regarded the water as simply an alternative element, tonight the moving darkness stretching away to an imperceptible horizon filled him with a sense of menace and being alone. Shivering, he turned and went inside.

  His customary pre-bed cup of cocoa with a shot of rum soothed his slightly ruffled nerves and he soon fell asleep. But he passed a broken night, waking frequently out of ancient dreams of flying and falling to listen to the strange patterns of noise that sea and wind and darkness were weaving all around. He was glad to get up on Wednesday morning, gladder to see that even so early the sun was already beaming promises of great warmth from an untroubled sky. The sea was its old self, dancing invitingly in the little bay below the cliff. He was tempted to go straight down, but at his age such suddenness was to be avoided. He did some stretching and warming exercises, then took his usual little breakfast of pure apple juice and a dry crispbread and black coffee. Then he relaxed and smoked a couple of cigarettes. Finally he was ready.

  He put on his towelling robe and clambered down the broken cliff face to the beach. He removed the robe, looked around, and removed his trunks also. He liked to swim naked but was very careful to do so only when he could be almost completely certain of being uninterrupted. He had no desire to be dragged into court on an indecency charge.

  As always, his swim invigorated him mentally and physically, reminding him of both his fitness and his self-sufficiency. He was hardly puffing as he clambered back up the cliff and re-entered the cottage.

  He went straight into the shower cubicle to wash
off the salt water. Carefully adjusting the jet till he got the perfect temperature, he stepped inside. First he soaped himself all over, then he poured shampoo on to his still thick and vigorous hair and began to massage it to a lather. The water ran steadily, caressing his body. It wasn't for some time that he felt the first prickles of discomfort. It wasn't bad, just as if he were showering after too long an exposure to a burning sun. He raised his head to the streaming water, letting it run over his face. His eyes prickled as if he'd got soap in them. He opened them to wash it out. And screamed as they seemed to burst into flame.

  He staggered sideways out of the shower, but the pain came with him. His mouth tasted acrid, he couldn't see out of one eye and vision from the other was blurred and distorted. He crashed across the living-room, making for the front door. He was twitching convulsively and his mind was hardly able to function beyond his desperate desire to get down to the sea. The sea would cleanse him, soothe him, save him. He was in the little garden now. He hit the white post, reached the edge of the cliff and fell rather than descended down its broken face. Now he could hear the water though sight was almost gone. Even the bold red sun was only a match-head to his unblinking gaze. He staggered on, his feet dragging through the shingle and the sand till he felt the waves lapping at his feet. He kept going a step or two further, then fell forward and let the water take him. After a while he rolled on his back and tried to float. Above him seagulls mewed, but the sound barely touched his ears, like the cry of children playing on a distant shore.

  Shaheed Singh awoke first to the dawn chorus of hospital life and didn't manage to get back to sleep till after nine A.M. When he opened his eyes an hour later, Dalziel, Pascoe, and Sergeant Wield were standing by his bed.

  "Morning, lad,' said Dalziel. 'We've finished your grapes. How're you feeling? Always thought you needed a turban to finish you off.'

  Singh put his hand to the swathe of bandage which crowned his head and smiled, not at the comment but at Inspector Pascoe's undisguised pained reaction to it.

  'They wouldn't let us see you till last night and by then you were asleep,' said Dalziel accusingly. 'You sleep a lot for a young copper.'

  'The doctors say that there's no fracture, just a heavy concussion,' said Pascoe. 'You'll be out in a day or two. Your dad's outside, but he insisted we came in first.'

  'What about Jonty and them others?' said Singh. 'Did we get 'em?'

  'Oh yes. And don't worry, we'll see you get mentioned in all the right places,' smiled Pascoe.

  Wield said, 'I brought you some books. And some chocolate.'

  'Thanks, Sarge,' said Shaheed.

  'Right. We'd best be off. Can't have all the best brains in CID stuck in hospital at the same time, can we?' said Dalziel. 'Thanks for your help, lad. We'll send your dad in now.'

  He and Pascoe turned away.

  Wield said, 'I'll drop in again.'

  Singh said, 'Oh, no need to bother, Sarge. My dad'll be coming. And my mam. And then there's all my brothers. I'll have plenty of visitors.'

  'All right then,' said Wield. 'Cheerio.'

  'Cheers, Sarge.'

  On their way back to the station, Wield was in such a deeply introspective mood that it drew the attention of the others, used though they were to his blank impassivity.

  'You all right, Sergeant?' enquired Dalziel.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Gut rot, is it? The takeaway trots?'

  'No, I'm all right.'

  'You don't look it. You ought to get yourself married and start eating properly.'

  But the news which reached them shortly after their return to the station put all thoughts of Wield's health out of their minds.

  It was Dalziel who was told first and he burst into Pascoe's office without preamble.

  'He's dead! Dandy Dick's dead!'

  'What?'

  'Aye. Found drowned. He should've been at a meeting at ten, didn't appear, they got the local bobby to check down at his cottage, and there he was, bobbing around in the sea.'

  'What caused it? Cramp? Heart-attack?'

  'I don't know. Get on to it, will you, Peter? Check what the quack says.'

  It was early afternoon when Pascoe got back to Dalziel. The inspector was grave-faced.

  'It's not nice,' he said.

  'What ever is it? Get a move on, lad!'

  'The first doctor that got called thought there was something odd about the body and our man's confirmed it as far as he can without pathological tests.'

  'Confirmed what?'

  Pascoe said, 'Dick Elgood had been in contact with a large concentration of some chemical reagent shortly before he died.'

  'What chemical, for Christ's sake?'

  'Oh, I'd say at a guess something like parathion or dieldrin.'

  'You'd say! What's the quack say?'

  'Still checking, but he agrees. You see, I had a good go at our local lad. He was a bit upset he'd noticed nothing queer about the body. The eyes were a bit funny, he thought, but he put that down to immersion in the sea. Well, we went over everything and he recalled that when he first went into the cottage he'd found the shower on. Now that struck me as odd. Why shower,then go into the sea? So I took a look in the attic. You recall that box that Elgood put up there last Sunday?'

  'The garden stuff? Jesus Christ!'

  'That's right. It had somehow found its way into the water tank.'

  'Found its way?' echoed Dalziel incredulously.

  'That's where it was anyway. I got a pair of rubber gloves and lifted it out. There was a real mixture of stuff, some powder, some liquid, all highly concentrated from what I could read on the labels, and a lot of loose tops. I showed the box to the doctor and he said it fitted.

  Parathion compounds can easily be absorbed through the skin without much local irritation, and it's easy to take a bit of water through the mouth when you're showering. The effects of a cocktail like this could be quick and devastating. Disorientation, lack of muscular control, spasms, respiratory problems - the poor bastard probably staggered down to the sea with some notion of rinsing himself clean and simply drowned.'

  'You've organized the tech lads down there?'

  'Of course,' said Pascoe, adding hesitantly, 'not that I think there's much for them to find. Look, sir, it looked to me as if Elgood must have simply rested the box on the edge of the tank. There were some pretty violent winds in that storm the other night and they'd go funnelling through that roof space at a hell of a lick. Over goes the box . . .'

  'Do you really believe that, Inspector?' asked Dalziel harshly.

  'What else? You can't still be thinking of Aldermann? Where's the motive? That's all been settled! And opportunity? He's been away since Monday! And don't say Sunday night. They left Elgood's picnic at the same time as us and we asked them to drop in at our place as they passed. One thing led to another, we had a drink and a snack, and it was after ten when they left.'

  'Very cosy,' growled Dalziel. 'All right. What's to stop him driving his wife and girl home, then taking off back to the coast?'

  'Nothing, I suppose,' admitted Pascoe. 'But his wife would know. I mean, it'd take at least two hours, there and back.'

  'You're going out there today to tie up the burglary business, aren't you?' said Dalziel. 'Ask her.'

  Pascoe hesitated, then said, 'If I must, sir.'

  'Oh yes,' said Dalziel intensely. 'You know you bloody well must.'

  It was three o'clock when Pascoe arrived at Rosemont and its gardens were still awash with the high tide of the sun. All along the road from town he had driven with his windows down, letting the fresh air cleanse his mind, confounding his worries in the green and gold beauties of an English midsummer day. Turning into the gates of Rosemont had meant plunging for a brief moment into a dark tunnel of over shading holly trees. But when he emerged once more into the bright air, it seemed as if he must have stumbled upon the very source of all this richness and warmth. The brick of the house, the green of the lawns, the rainbow spectrum of
bloom curving around the borders - all seemed part of a single design with the great arch of blue sky in which the sun shimmered like a bonfire reflected in a deep lake

  In front of the house a Mini was parked. As he halted behind it he recognized it as Ellie's.

  'Oh shit,' he said aloud.

  He rang the bell. A few moments later Daphne opened the door.

  'Peter!' she cried. 'How nice. Come in. Ellie's here, we're out on the terrace.'

  'Daphne,' he said, 'have you heard about Dick Elgood?'

  Her face shed its smiling welcome and darkened to pain.

  'Yes. The office rang soon after we got back just before lunch. Patrick went in, but there was nothing he could do. It's dreadful, isn't it? No one seemed quite sure what had happened. Was it a heart-attack while he was swimming?'

  She wasn't acting. Pascoe was certain. He steeled himself for the next question whose purpose must seem obvious, but before he could speak, she said, 'Look, you go through. I was just getting some more lemon squash. Will that do for you, or would you prefer a beer?'

  'No, squash will be fine.'

  He walked through the house and out on to the terrace.

  'Hi,' said Ellie. 'So this is what you really do when you ought to be beating up prisoners with a rubber truncheon.'

  'So this is what you do when you should be chaining yourself to the Minister of Employment's left leg,' he said, stooping to kiss her. 'I'm here on business. What about you?'

  'Oh, I rang to say welcome back and chat about the burglary attempt, and Daphne was in a bit of a tizz about Dick Elgood, so when she said come round, I came. It's awful, isn't it?'

  'Awful,' agreed Pascoe. 'Where's Patrick?'

  'In his rose-garden, where else?' said Daphne from behind. She set down a jugful of squash on the table. 'He's rather cut up about Dick, I think, and he always flies to his flowers in time of distress. David, stop bothering your sister!'