A Killing Kindness

by Reginald Hill

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he was saying. ‘Both of them. She may be an accomplice.’

  Pascoe scribbled on a bit of paper and passed it over. Dalziel glanced at it. His tone became injured.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ he said. ‘She’s at the hospital now. With one of my sergeants and a WPC. We’re not without feelings, sir.’

  He winked conspiratorially at Pascoe who felt at the same time relieved and uneasy. He was willing to close ranks a bit, but he had no intention of letting loyalty loom larger than legality. That was all right for the public schools, not so hot for the public service.

  ‘That’s all right then,’ said Dalziel, replacing the receiver. ‘Thanks, Peter.’

  ‘For what? I was just tidying up,’ said Pascoe.

  He must have stressed the particle more than he intended.

  ‘As opposed to covering up?’ said Dalziel. ‘Not to worry, lad. I won’t drag you to the scaffold with me! Or mebbe that bugger Lee won’t come out of the anaesthetic eh? They’re mostly black buggers down there, operate with assegais!’

  He roared with laughter.

  ‘Or mebbe he’ll be too busy answering charges to make them,’ he continued.

  ‘I hope you haven’t got him lined up for the Stanhope killing, sir,’ said Pascoe, glad to be back at the job in hand. ‘I think you’ll find he’s about nine inches too tall.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Briefly Pascoe sketched his interview with Rosetta Stanhope.

  ‘Christ, this should have been spotted earlier,’ said Dalziel angrily. ‘This has been bloody sloppy. And it’s not the only thing either.’

  In his turn he related the news about Brenda Sorby’s money and the suspected tie-up with the notes found in Lee’s caravan.

  ‘What made you look in the flour jar, sir?’

  ‘It was out of place up there with his valuables,’ said Dalziel. ‘Silly bugger probably didn’t like to leave it in the kitchen where it’d have been inconspicuous but might have tempted his missus!’

  ‘You don’t think she knew about it?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Dalziel. ‘It’ll be interesting to see whose prints are on the notes, if those idle buggers at the lab ever get round to looking at them! Whether she knows or not, Lee’s got his own subtle methods to keep her mouth shut. Have you seen her face? By the way, talking of battered wives, I had lunch with yours today. Funny company she keeps.’

  ‘It would seem so,’ so Pascoe.

  ‘Aye. That Lacewing. At the Aero Club. The fellow who runs it. Greenall, his name is, do you know owt about him?’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ said Pascoe. ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing really. Just that while every other sod was saying how strange it was for an important fellow like me to be wasting his time on a tuppenny-halfpenny break-in, he just seemed to take it for granted. Still, the world’s full of funny buggers and he pours a liberal Scotch. What else have you been up to that I ought to know about, Peter?’

  Pascoe told him about Wildgoose and his visit to the Linden Garden Centre.

  ‘Odd sod, is he?’ said Dalziel.

  ‘Not by contemporary standards,’ protested Pascoe. ‘In fact, of his type, almost conventional.’

  ‘Abandons his family, screws young girls, dresses like a teenager, and spends his holidays on the golden fucking road to Samarkand? That’s conventional, is it?’ snarled Dalziel. ‘God, give me the Dave Lees any time. At least he was born a bloody gyppo.’

  This interesting sociological discussion was interrupted by a tap on the door. It was the desk sergeant.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there’s a young lady downstairs. Name of Pritchard. She’s a solicitor, sir. Says she’s come about Mr and Mrs Lee.’

  ‘That Lacewing bitch!’ roared Dalziel. ‘Tell her to … no, just tell her the Lees are no longer being held here. If she doesn’t go quietly, ask to see her authorization to represent them. And if she can’t show you that, which she can’t, boot her out.’

  ‘I’m not to mention the hospital then, sir?’ said the sergeant.

  Dalziel clasped his huge grizzled head in his large spatulate hands.

  ‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘No wonder murders get done! You mention the hospital, Sergeant, and you’re likely to end in it. Get out!’

  His bellow almost drowned the telephone bell. Pascoe picked up the receiver. It was Harry Hopper at the lab.

  ‘That fertilizer you sent us. Well, that’s what it is. Fertilizer. Proprietary brand, just like it says on the bag. No usable prints on the bag. Yes, the same stuff as they found on McCarthy’s clothes. But as we know, that doesn’t signify as there were bags of the same stuff in Mr Ribble’s shed.’

  ‘Thanks, Harry,’ said Pascoe. ‘I didn’t expect any more.’

  ‘Is that Hopper?’ demanded Dalziel. ‘Ask him if he’s got owt for me yet.’

  ‘I heard,’ said Hopper before Pascoe could relay the message. ‘There’s a report on the way. Nothing startling, except that the money had been sodden wet, then dried out.’

  ‘Wet?’ echoed Dalziel who had brought his right ear close to the receiver. ‘How wet?’

  ‘The notes had been totally immersed in water and then dried out. Simple as that,’ said Hopper. ‘It’s in the report.’

  Pascoe and Dalziel looked at each other speculatively, then the fat man made a dismissive gesture towards the phone.

  ‘Thanks, Harry,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Hang about,’ said Hopper. ‘I hadn’t finished with you when we were so rudely interrupted. We also had a look at the sack.’

  ‘The sack?’

  ‘The one you’d put the fertilizer bag in. We’re very thorough despite the lack of proper appreciation.’

  ‘And?’ said Pascoe, aware of Dalziel’s imminent impatience.

  ‘Much more interesting. Dust, earth, the expectable stuff. Plus a few soft fibres. And a scattering of small globular achenes. He doesn’t keep canaries, your man, does he?’

  ‘What do you mean? And what’s an achene?’

  ‘A small hard plant-seed. In this case the plant is cannabis sativa. You’ll often find its achenes in bird-food. But if you’re not dealing with a bird-fancier, my boy, you’re probably dealing with a hash-fancier. Someone’s been growing Indian hemp on your patch!’

  Chapter 17

  This Friday seemed to have stretched out long enough to end the world, let alone the week. And it was still a long way from being over.

  Dalziel set off for the lab. He liked to see people face to face when they were telling him something important and the report on the money he regarded as being of the essence. Not even Pascoe’s awkwardly expressed opinion that the notes’ erstwhile wetness was more likely to prove Lee’s innocence than his guilt could deter the fat man.

  ‘The girl was drowned, wasn’t she? Near the fairground. Where the Stanhope girl was murdered. Your idea about the missing clothes is all right, Peter. But it’s only a theory. Lee’s mixed up in it somewhere. There’s too many close connections for coincidence.’

  ‘Close?’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Like I said, there’s the fairground. And don’t forget, Lee and the Stanhope girl were related,’ said Dalziel triumphantly.

  ‘By marriage. And very distantly!’ protested Pascoe.

  ‘There’s no such thing as a distant relation by marriage,’ said Dalziel coldly. ‘If you don’t know ’em, they’re close. And if you do know ’em, they’re here.’

  And off he went, leaving Pascoe to meditate on the Wildgoose connection. When he found himself hypothesizing that the whole of the Linden Garden Centre had been given over to the growth of cannabis and that the murders were in reality a series of gangland killings triggered off by the Mafia’s attempt to muscle in on the Mid-Yorkshire rackets, he shook his head, drank a cup of canteen coffee (the strongest anti-hallucinogen known to science) and got Control to raise DC Preece’s car for him.

  ‘Report,’ he said.

  Wildgoose had left the house shortly after Pasco
e, Preece told him. He had walked about a quarter of a mile to Danby Row, a street of substantial Edwardian semis not yet overtaken by the spread of multiple occupation though on the fringe of the bed-sit area where Wildgoose’s flat was situated. Here he had gone into No 73, where he had remained for forty-five minutes before returning to his flat.

  ‘Was he carrying anything?’ asked Pascoe.

  A plastic carrier bag. Yes, he’d still got it when he left the house on Danby Row. On the way back he had gone into a bread shop and bought a loaf.

  Pascoe said, ‘All right, Preece. We can’t tie up your valuable body like this for ever. Jack it in now. But on your way back here, find out what you can about who lives at 73 Danby Row. Pretend to be a Mormon missionary or something. On second thoughts, the way you look, a trainee window-cleaner touting for business would be more convincing. See me when you come in.’

  Covering up for my superiors, putting down my subordinates, have I finally joined the establishment? wondered Pascoe uneasily.

  He picked up his phone again and got through to the hospital to talk to Wield.

  ‘Any word on Lee yet?’ he asked.

  ‘They reckon it’s a perforated ulcer,’ said Wield. ‘His wife says he’s been suffering with his guts for months. They’re going to cut him open and take a look, but not till this evening. The silly sod grabbed a jugful of water and drank about half a gallon while he was lying around, so they won’t touch him till that’s safely out of the way.’

  ‘Is he still going on about being assaulted?’ asked Pascoe.

  ‘I don’t know. They won’t let me near him. Do you want me to stay?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Pascoe after a moment’s thought. ‘I know it’s a bore, but in the circumstances … And see if you can squeeze anything but abuse out of the wife.’

  He told Wield about the lab report.

  ‘Soaked? But why should the money have got wet?’

  ‘Search me. It may not even be the same money, of course.’

  ‘Perhaps not, sir. But I did have a thought about the other things. The ring and the watch. There’s a jeweller’s near the bank. Conrad’s, I think. Locked up for the holidays, but he’d have been there on that Thursday.’

  ‘Nice thinking,’ complimented Pascoe. ‘Let me know how things go. By the way, if a female solicitor called Pritchard shows up, be polite but firm. She’s got no official standing. All right?’

  ‘None politer, none firmer,’ said Wield.

  Next Pascoe got through to the Department of Education and Science in London, where after various delays and changes of personnel he was told that yes there was a Forces’ school called Devon School near Linden, but for details of personnel he would need to get in touch with the Service Children’s Education Authority at the Institute of Army Education. With a sigh Pascoe obeyed.

  Things were no better here. Pascoe had to repeat himself several times and wonder audibly if there were some clause in the Official Secrets Act which covered Army education before he finally got someone who preferred to remain anonymous but who sounded sympathetic to promise to get back to him as soon as possible.

  ‘Though it may be Monday morning,’ concluded the voice, somewhat spoiling the good impression.

  ‘I didn’t think the Army recognized weekends,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Things have changed. They run a course in weekend recognition at Sandhurst now,’ said the voice. ‘Bye.’

  As Pascoe replaced the receiver, there was a perfunctory knock and Dicky Gladmann came in. ‘They seemed pretty busy downstairs, so I just came on up,’ he said, mouth a-beam above his spotted bow tie, and brightly bloodshot eyes flickering inquisitively round the room.

  ‘So much for security,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Should I have been announced? I’m sorry,’ said Gladmann with cheerful insincerity. ‘But I carry my credentials with me.’

  He held up a Sainsbury’s carrier bag.

  ‘The tapes? Oh good. So Mr Urquart is going to materialize also?’

  ‘I think not,’ said Gladmann, sitting down. ‘We popped across to the University at lunch-time …’

  ‘The University? I thought you said you had all you needed out at the College.’

  ‘Not so. As you must know, being a sort of in-law of the place, the College is very small beer academically speaking, soon to evaporate completely. Our language lab is pretty OK but we felt we would really like to make sonograms of the tapes …’

  ‘To make what?’ interrupted Pascoe once more.

  ‘Sonograms. Oh sorry. I thought the police were so technical these days. A sonogram is an analysis printed out by a machine called a sonograph and it displays the various distributions of energy across the frequency spectrum that occur for different sounds. OK?’

  ‘If you say so. And there’s one of these machines at the University?’

  ‘Plus a rather delectable assistant professor who finds Drew’s intellectual arrogance, social gaucheness and undamped body odour irresistible. God knows what noises they analyse together, but it’s a wonder the machine hasn’t exploded. So, while I have returned post-haste, he has remained. In the interests of science, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally. Is there anything useful you can tell us, Mr Gladmann?’ asked Pascoe.

  ‘Well now. Here we go,’ replied the linguist, upending the carrier bag so that the tapes and various bits and pieces of paper fell on to Pascoe’s desk.

  ‘This is our report,’ said Gladmann, holding up a handful of sheets stapled together. ‘It’s pretty clear, I would say. I could take you through it if you like.’

  ‘I’d be grateful.’

  ‘OK. First, we’re pretty well agreed there are four speakers involved here – or a very high degree of mimicking. There was some resemblance in tempo and pitch range between (A) and (D), that is to say, now get you to my lady’s chamber etc., and the time is out of joint etc. But there are several significant differences. They both use RP, Received Pronunciation, but it’s fairly clear it’s been received in rather different ways, ha ha.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Pascoe. ‘Explain.’

  ‘Well, if we look at the phonetic realization of those phonemes we find in both utterances, we can spot the following. In the word to, (A) uses a central vowel while (D) has a close back vowel. Like this.’

  Gladmann demonstrated, Pascoe looked doubtful, Gladmann repeated the demonstration, Pascoe echoed the sounds, hesitantly at first, then with more certainty.

  ‘By George, you’ve got it. I think you’ve got it,’ said Gladmann.

  ‘I could have danced all night,’ rejoined Pascoe. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Next take (A)’s now and (D)’s out. (D) has the usual RP diphthong in which the glide begins with an unrounded open back vowel, whereas (A) has a diphthong in which the glide begins from much further forward and nearer a half open position.’

  Again the demonstration.

  ‘Note also,’ continued Gladmann, the bit between his teeth now, ‘that where (D)’s stressed-syllable-initial voiceless plosives (as in time and cursed) are aspirated, in (A) they are not.’

  ‘Hang on. What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, when they’re aspirated, they’re said with a little puff of air accompanying the release …’

  ‘I know what aspirated means, also exasperated,’ said Pascoe. ‘But what does it signify?’

  ‘Ah, always the policeman,’ said Gladmann sadly. ‘You could say that the aspiration is normal in RP, and its absence often occurs in Northern regional accents. Similarly, while the one final voiceless plosive we find in (D), that is, in spite, is unreleased, in (A) all the final voiceless plosives are glottalized.’

  ‘You mean, spat out?’

  ‘If you like,’ said Gladmann, as if disheartened.

  ‘So, conclusions please.’

  ‘If you must,’ said Gladmann, ‘(D) is fairly simple. He speaks RP of a kind he probably learned in a middle-class home and during the course of an education, not necessarily private, but ce
rtainly grammar school and probably in the Home Counties. There are a couple of relatively conservative features of his version of RP which underline these conclusions. When he says O, the glide of the diphthong begins with a centralized back vowel quality and in born his pronunciation of the vowel is diphthongal rather than the monophthongal one common among younger RP speakers.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Pascoe impatiently. ‘And (A)?’

  ‘Here we would say there has been a fairly marked regional accent which has been changed, for whatever reason, towards a modified RP. Some regional features remain. Northern, certainly. Drew Urquhart did some field work in dialectology in north Derbyshire last summer and he claims he got an odd echo from those parts, but he tends to be a bit obsessive about his own interests.’

  ‘OK,’ said Pascoe. ‘What about the others.’

  ‘Well, they say rather less, but fortunately say it rather more revealingly in regional terms. One may smile and smile, and be a villain. Note the giveaway one, the diphthongal pronunciation of the vowel in be and the very close articulation of the first vowel in villain. West Midlands, certainly. Birmingham, very likely. And even you, I’m sure, Inspector, spotted that (C) was a Scot. The final ‘r’ in or tells all, though if you want further evidence, you could point to the use of a closer back vowel for not than an educated Englishman would employ.’

  ‘That’s excellent,’ said Pascoe, not sure if it was or not. ‘And these are the sonograms I suppose. What do they tell us?’

  He picked up some lengths of thin paper printed with wavy varying vibration patterns above a scale.

  ‘They help to confirm that four different speakers are involved,’ said Gladmann. ‘And if you’re fortunate enough, or perhaps unfortunate enough, to get another message on tape, they’d help us work out which of these four it might have come from. Do you think that one of these is definitely this Choker chappie?’

  ‘It’s very likely,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Well, I hope you get him. Though incidentally, young Drew asked me to be certain to reiterate his objection to the use of our findings in any but the most peripheral supportive role.’

  ‘Did he?’ said Pascoe. ‘Well, thank him, and tell him we won’t rush into anything, though over the next month we hope to arrest the entire population of Scotland and the West Midlands on suspicion.’