‘The pterodactyl girl? Sorry! No, I don’t.’
‘The Bishop Crump Comprehensive!’ said Ellie triumphantly. ‘Which is where Wildgoose teaches.’
‘And did he teach her?’ enquired Pascoe.
‘I don’t know. I don’t see why not.’
‘There are upwards of two thousand kids at that school,’ said Pascoe. ‘These places are so big that some kids never even find out who the headmaster is.’
‘Teacher,’ said Ellie.
‘What?’
‘Head-teacher. Not headmaster.’
‘All right. Head-teacher. I’m sorry. I’ll go round to see Thelma in the morning and get her to drill all my teeth without anaesthetic as a penance.’
‘Oh, don’t be so bloody patronizing!’ yelled Ellie.
The explosion took Pascoe by surprise. There was a moment of quietness.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought I was just being sarcastic.’
‘And I thought I was just being helpful,’ said Ellie.
‘You are. And I’ll look into it, I promise. It’s just that I was trying not to track my work into the house too much, particularly this case.’
‘A woman-killer? This is one case I want to see you solve,’ said Ellie grimly.
‘Yes. You and everyone. Hey, talking of help, I took your advice and got in touch with those linguists, Urquhart and Gladmann. They’re coming in tomorrow.’
‘Both of them? You’ll enjoy that. They make a point of not agreeing with each other.’
‘That is no barrier to true love,’ said Pascoe sententiously. ‘As we should prove.’
‘Yes,’ said Ellie. ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’
Chapter 10
One of Dalziel’s maxims was that briefing sessions should be brief. Nevertheless, after the announcement of new developments and the disposition of forces, he allowed a general airing of ideas while he scratched whatever area of his large frame attracted his roving fingers that morning. End of scratch, end of talk.
The main news of Friday was that Tommy Maggs’s Harlequin mini had been found with its big-end gone in the southbound car park of the Watford Gap service area on the M1.
Dalziel said, ‘He probably hitched a lift in a lorry. He’ll be in the Smoke by now. The locals are checking for sightings at Watford Gap. We’ll need to check with Maggs’s family for likely contacts in London. Relations, friends, the usual.’
Pascoe made a note. It was his task to make a note of everything. This was Dalziel’s idea of not wasting his university education.
The briefing continued. Dalziel was sarcastic about the linguists.
‘We’ve got four calls on tape. We don’t know if anyone of them is really the Choker, so it’ll likely not help us much to know which street in Heckmondwike these four come from.’ Pause for sycophantic laughter. ‘But we’d be daft not to use any expert help we can get. I’ve asked Dr Pottle of the Central Hospital Psychiatric Unit to give us an opinion too. He’s been given all the details we have. Mr Pascoe, perhaps you’d see he gets copies of the tapes as well.’
Pascoe made another note, concealing his surprise. He had encountered Pottle on another case, a small, chain-smoking, rather irritable man with a ragged Einstein-type moustache. Dalziel reckoned nothing to psychology and had the large man’s distrust of little men. ‘Has to be something missing,’ he opined. So there must have been pressure here.
The PM on Pauline Stanhope had confirmed the time of death as between eleven-thirty A.M. and one-thirty P.M. The heat in the enclosed tent had complicated things a little. The cause of death was two-handed strangulation. Bruising to the stomach was probably caused by a violent blow aimed at pre-empting struggle or noise. There were no signs of sexual interference. And wherever else she was going when Mrs Ena Cooper, the penny-roll woman, glimpsed her leaving the tent before midday, it wasn’t to lunch. Traces of a light breakfast were all that were found in her stomach.
Co-ordinating the collection of statements from stall-holders and visitors to the Fair was Sergeant Bob Brady, a gum-chewing taciturn man who always looked more knowing than Pascoe suspected he ever was. But he had a reputation for being methodical and had also co-ordinated the statements from the allotment holders after the McCarthy killing.
As far as the Stanhope murder went, Brady’s method so far had produced only the following: that no one had noticed anything or anyone about the tent during the significant time, and that after Mrs Cooper’s sighting, no one had seen Pauline Stanhope till she was found dead.
‘Just like the Sorby girl,’ said someone.
‘She could have come back with someone. Or someone got into the tent while she was gone and was waiting for her on her return,’ said Brady, lengthily for him.
‘Meaning he got in without being seen, she came back without being seen, he got out without being seen,’ said Dalziel.
‘Why was she killed anyway?’ wondered Wield.
‘Why were any of them?’
‘I know that, sir. But there’s a connection here for the first time.’
‘The girl’s aunt, you mean?’ said Dalziel. ‘You checked they never met, though, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, sir. I contacted Mrs Sorby. She says that she always visited Rosetta Stanhope, never the other way round because of her husband. Not until that last session, that is, and then Mrs Stanhope insisted because of the atmosphere.’
‘And Brenda never went with her mother.’
‘No. Brenda wasn’t interested in that kind of thing. Practical, down-to-earth, sporting type of girl. More like her father.’
When it was clear that no more was going to come from this particular discussion. Pascoe said, ‘Sergeant Brady, could we go back a bit to the June McCarthy case? You interviewed an allotment holder called Wildgoose, Mark Wildgoose.’
‘I remember.’
‘Anything special about him.’
‘It’ll be in my report.’
‘It’s just like the others,’ said Pascoe adding, in case that sounded critical, ‘Just what you’d expect, of course. Though in fact it’s even slighter than the others. He only went down to work on his allotment once or twice a week, if that. He didn’t know June McCarthy and had never observed anyone suspicious around the place.’
‘Same as most of the rest,’ agreed Brady. ‘A few carrots stolen, that’s about all the excitement previous.’
‘A couple did recall June McCarthy from when she was on the day shift,’ said Pascoe. Including Dennis Ribble whose shed she was found in.’
‘Aye. But Ribble and t’other fellow are in their eighties. Couldn’t choke a dead pigeon between ’em,’ said Brady to laughter.
‘What’s your interest in Wildgoose?’ demanded Dalziel. ‘You’ve heard summat?’
‘That he is odd. Potentially violent. And he teaches English and Drama at Bishop Crump Comprehensive which is, incidentally, Brenda Sorby’s old school.’
‘Oh aye,’ said Dalziel. ‘Was any of that on your report, Sergeant Brady?’
Brady shook his head.
‘None,’ he said with the laconic assurance of one who is not at fault.
‘What’s your source, Peter?’
‘Information,’ said Pascoe uncomfortably. He didn’t mind telling Dalziel privately but saw no reason to label Ellie as a snout before all this lot.
‘Malicious?’
‘Possibly. But also authoritative.’
‘Aye. Sergeant Brady?’
‘Sir?’
‘Come on, lad. You’re the only one here that’s met the bugger. Don’t be coy.’
Brady lit a cigarette from the one he was smoking.
‘Lives on Wordsworth Drive on the Belle Vue estate about half a mile from Pump Road. Detached house, just.’
‘Garden?’ asked Dalziel.
‘Grass, roses, flower-beds. No veg. It’s not a vegetable estate.’
‘And you interviewed him at the house?’ said Pascoe.
‘Yes.’
&n
bsp; Dalziel looked at Pascoe interrogatively.
‘I heard he was separated from his wife,’ said Pascoe. Living apart.’
‘Well, she was there that evening. Mind you, she did shuffle the kids out pretty sharpish when I said what I was.’
‘And her personal reaction?’
Brady looked puzzled.
‘Was she shocked, worried, indignant, inquisitive? What?’ demanded Pascoe.
‘Nothing much. She just showed me into a room where he was sitting with these two kids, said, “Police, for you. Come on children,” and that was that. I didn’t see her again.’
Pascoe and Dalziel exchanged glances.
‘Probably just visiting,’ said Pascoe. ‘And Wildgoose himself?’
‘Ordinary fellow. Just answered the questions. Nothing special.’
Dalziel said to Pascoe, ‘Any ideas?’
‘It might be as well to check when June McCarthy was last on the day shift and ask around if anyone ever saw Wildgoose talking to her as she passed the allotments.’
‘Would he need to talk to her in advance?’
‘He’d need to find out somehow that she’d be passing that way in the early morning.’
‘Right. At the same time check him out on the times of the other killings.’
Pascoe made a note, saying, ‘It’d better be fast. He’s off to Saudi Arabia any moment.’
‘Jesus!’
The briefing proceeded.
Wield reported on his visit to the Cheshire Cheese and diffidently wondered if there might be any significance in the closeness of the gypsy camp to three locations linked with the murders.
Dalziel said, ‘One scene of killing, two workplaces. Not much, is it?’
Wield muttered something about the widow’s mite.
Dalziel said, ‘Let’s keep religion out of this. All right. Check on sinister gypsies lurking round the bank or the factory. Anyone else got any straws for us to grab hold of? No? Right, then here’s what I think. There’s things not being noticed on this case. I say case, not cases, because that’s what it is, and that’s what the trouble is. Too many of you are acting as if there’s four individual investigations going on. Well, there’s not, there’s one, and when you’re asking questions, taking statements, I want you to remember that. Detectives, that’s what you’re called. From what I’ve seen and heard, some of you couldn’t detect piss in a urinal! So get your fingers out. Let’s get back to the beginning. Everything new that happens changes everything that’s past. So I want you all looking at what you’ve done already in that light. We’re going to go over all the old ground again, but this time we’ll shift around a bit, see what a new eye can do. I want all of you to know all of this case inside out. There’s some people reckon getting into the CID means you’re licensed to sit on your arse supping pints all hours that God sends. They’d better get disenchanted. Let’s get some sodding work done!’
His right hand which had been scrabbling beneath his shirt like a ferret in a sack suddenly emerged into the light and slapped ferociously on the table top before him. The meeting broke up.
‘Sergeant Wield!’ called Dalziel.
‘Sir.’
‘You reckon Ludlam knows something?’
‘That’s what I think, sir. But whether it’s about Tommy or whether it’s about his brother-in-law, I don’t know.’
‘I’ve been talking with Mr Headingley,’ said Dalziel. ‘He’s about as far on as we are. So if you think that Ludlam really is holding back, let’s keep up the pressure. Call in at Pickersgill’s house, stir things up a bit. You’re interested in Tommy Maggs, right. But anything you can get on Frankie Pickersgill will be fine.’
‘Poor sod,’ said Wield.
‘Why?’
‘Well, I’m trying to get Ron to grass on Frankie again by threatening to tell Frankie that Ron grassed on him last time!’
This tickled Dalziel and he bellowed with laughter.
‘There’s no chance that the two of ’em could have been on the Spinks’s warehouse job together?’ he wondered when he had laughed his fill.
‘I doubt it. Frankie puts up with Ron for Janey’s sake. He really thinks he’s a bit of a halfwit and Frankie doesn’t suffer fools gladly.’
‘No. That’s what Mr Headingley reckons too. Well, see what you can do, but don’t spend more time on it than necessary. The other thing, you didn’t have much to do with Brenda Sorby’s bank, did you?’
‘I was around, but Mr Pascoe did most of the talking.’
‘Right, Sergeant. I want you to go over all that stuff again. Get pictures of everyone concerned in the case, see if any of ’em mean anything to any of the girl’s workmates. Peter, don’t look so hurt. I meant what I said just now. New eyes. I want you to check through Mrs Dinwoodie’s background again, all right? And I did that in the first place.’
‘Sir,’ said Wield.
‘You still here, Sergeant? You want a rest perhaps? Come to think of it, you look a bit knackered. You ought to try getting to bed at a decent time.’
‘I was just wondering, sir. How far do I go with this business of putting the pressure on Ron Ludlam?’
Dalziel looked surprised.
‘Bluff’s for con-men and card-sharps,’ he said. ‘My rule is, never threaten owt you won’t perform.’
After Wield had left, he turned to Pascoe and said, ‘What’s the background on this Wildgoose stuff, Peter?’
Pascoe told him and he nodded sombrely.
‘His wife, eh? Well, women can get pretty bitter when there’s a break-up. They don’t see straight.’
He sighed deeply. His own wife had left him many years ago and her reasons for doing so had long since fossilized in his mind in the form of hysterical female delusions.
‘All the same, the bugger needs checking out. Better go and see him.’
‘Wouldn’t Brady be better? After hearing me mentioned yesterday, it’s going to alert him, me turning up so soon.’
‘If he’s our man, the bugger’ll be alert enough already,’ said Dalziel. ‘Which is more than I can say for Brady. No, you go, Peter. Don’t worry about alerting him, as long as you bloody well terrify him into the bargain!’
‘Is that such a good idea? Perhaps we should wait till Dr Pottle produces his profile first,’ probed Pascoe.
‘That quack! Christ, I’d as lief sit through one of Rosetta Stanhope’s seances,’ said Dalziel disgustedly. ‘It’s the sodding ACC’s idea, wouldn’t you know it? I think that twerp’s one of Pottle’s best patients.’
A phone rang on the table.
Dalziel picked it up and bellowed ‘Yes?’ as though he wanted to make it obsolete. He listened a moment.
‘Talk of the devil,’ he said. ‘The sod’s here.’
‘Pottle?’
‘Yes. And a pair of linguists. Peter, get them sorted, will you, or at least out of sight. We can’t have the public coming into a respectable police station and finding it looking like a senior fucking common room!’
‘Sir, where will you be?’ called Pascoe as Dalziel headed for the door.
The fat man grinned, brown teeth bared like a moon-touched churchyard.
‘Out of touch,’ he said. ‘I’ll practise what I preach. There was a break-in at the Aero Club bar last night. Just a couple of bottles missing, but there’s any number of suspects. That gang of gyppos just across the fence! Me, I don’t know any of these buggers yet, but they seem intent on getting in on the act. This gives me a nice excuse to go visiting.’
Chapter 11
Sergeant Wield was no intellectual. The only books he owned were the complete works of H. Rider Haggard which he read and re-read avidly. But he knew a prick-teaser when he saw one.
Janey Pickersgill crossed and recrossed her long legs with maximum slither and maximum exposure. Her skirt had the fashionable side slit and Wield observed that stockings had made a comeback after a decade of tights. She noticed him noticing and stretched sensuously in her armchair, arching her b
ack to obtrude her tiny bust.
Wield yawned. It wasn’t altogether an affectation. There had been a lot of talk, not much sleep, the previous night. Maurice, his friend in Newcastle, had been ill at ease, not wholly welcoming. Their talk had not got to the heart of things but Wield suspected the worst.
As he did now.
‘Janey, if you’re trying to take my mind off my job, forget it,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I’ve seen better tits on a Turkish wrestler. Tell me again about that Thursday night.’
‘You can’t talk to me like that. I’ll tell Frankie,’ she threatened. But she arranged her skirt into more decorous folds and lit a cigarette, holding it and puffing it like a beginner. There was something of the tyro about everything she did. Still in her mid-twenties, she had not yet developed the patina of hardness, or worse, of dreary resignation which is worn by those whose contact with authority is invariably defensive or on visiting days. But it would come, thought Wield. Meanwhile, though there was no chance of his being seduced by her charms, he must be careful not to be charmed by her naïveté.
She had married Frankie Pickersgill knowing what he was and had lied constantly and vehemently while he was being investigated for the off-licence job.
‘Didn’t they tell you at the depot Frankie’s driving a load across to Manchester? He won’t be back till late this afternoon.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Wield, settling comfortably in his chair. ‘What I don’t know is what you’re trying to take my mind off with all this leg-waving, Janey. I mean, all I’m interested in is Tommy Maggs. Now the three of you were here the night it happened. Right?’
‘The night what happened?’ she said warily.
‘Why, the night young Tommy Maggs’s girl-friend got killed,’ said Wield innocently. ‘Did anything else happen that night?’
‘Yes, all right, we were all here, watching the telly. We’ve told your lot already. What are you bothering us again for?’
‘You see, Janey, Tommy’s disappeared,’ said Wield earnestly. ‘We’re worried about him. He’s naturally very upset. A young lad like that, wandering around in a distressed state, anything could happen. You can see that, can’t you?’
A Killing Kindness Page 9