But why would Miss Marsh go to see Kohler in the first place?' asked Trimble. 'Were they friends? Or was it just some purely altruistic motive?'
‘I doubt it,' said Pascoe. 'She struck me as a lady with a keen eye for the main chance.'
'What makes you say that?' said Hiller.
‘Just look at her! Living at her ease in that posh flat by dint of putting the squeeze on Partridge because he'd fathered a child on her!' exclaimed Pascoe. 'I've just told you all about that.'
‘Yes, you did,' said Hiller.’It's been puzzling me. You say the source of your information is some old Welshman who lives on an estate village?'
'That's right.'
'Put not your trust in Welshmen, Mr Pascoe,' said Hiller almost facetiously. 'One other thing Mr Dekker told me the pathologist said. Miss Marsh was not a virgin, certainly. But equally certainly, she'd never had a child.'
Pascoe was taken aback, and before he could recover, Trimble pressed home, 'Perhaps Marsh went to see Kohler to talk about the blood evidence. Perhaps she offered at that time to give testimony and that's what sparked Kohler's interest in getting out.'
'Why wait so long?' demanded Pascoe.
'Perhaps it had been nagging her conscience for years but she'd persuaded herself it made no real difference. Then the coincidence of her being at Beddington College while Kohler was five miles away in Beddington Jail brought it to the surface. But when Kohler killed Bush, that just confirmed to her that she'd been rightly condemned in the first place.'
It made some sense, certainly more than his own theories.
Trimble concluded, 'When the basis of your conclusions proves wrong, change your conclusions. Basic rule of detection, Mr Pascoe.'
In his head Pascoe heard another voice. 'When you're sure of where you're at, lad, who gives a fuck if you started from the wrong place?'
Hiller was standing up. Trimble said in a non- authoritarian voice, 'Do you want a chat, Geoff?'
Looking grey and weary, the DCC shook his head.
'I think it better not. In the circumstances. Mr Pascoe, thank you.'
He left.
Trimble said, 'Well, Peter, it looks like the same angel that's covered Andy Dalziel's tracks all these years has taken you under his wing. But be warned. There are people out there ready and able to blast angels out of the sky if they feel the need.'
It was an odd thing to say. But Pascoe wasn't really listening.
He was looking at the door which had just closed behind Hiller and wondering why he had the sense of having just witnessed a man destroying his own career.
TEN
'One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,
ten, eleven, twelve. Hush!'
Dalziel liked trains, especially he liked trains when the alternative was driving on the wrong side of a road more crowded with maniacs than the corridors of Bedlam. The girl on the travel desk had tried to persuade him that New York was unique and if he let her rent him a car at very reasonable rates, he'd find things much different on the thruway. But Dalziel cocked an ear to Seventh Avenue in full throat outside and said, 'I'd rather sup lager and lime.'
She booked him a seat on something called the Colonial and a room at a hotel called the Plantation, all of which sounded too folksy for comfort. Nor was he much impressed by her assurance that the hotel was on the edge of this 'historic area' she was so reverential about. But he comforted himself with the thought that over here 'historic' probably meant something built before the Korean war.
He left a note for Linda at the desk, explaining where he'd gone. He reckoned she'd come round breathing fire when he stood her up at lunch-time, and a bit of cheque-book journalism would soon loosen the travel girl's tongue, so he might as well tell the truth and keep himself qualified (he hoped) both for her favours and his expenses.
Once he'd made up his mind to head south, professional courtesy took him along to the police in case they needed him in connection with the man he'd caught in his hotel room.
It was like walking into a TV series. He found himself sitting in a room as crowded as the Black Bull on a Saturday night with a detective who managed to look harassed and laid back at the same time. After checking through some papers the man said, 'That's OK. You won't be needed.'
'Now? Or ever?' wondered Dalziel.
'Or ever,' said the man laconically.
'You don't bother with witnesses at your trials, then?' said Dalziel, with real interest in this highly desirable state of affairs.
'Shit, the trial's done. He went into night court, a year suspended. He's long gone.'
'Attempted robbery? A year suspended? Good job he had a gun else you'd likely have had to pay him pocket money,' said Dalziel incredulously.
'His lawyer did a deal. He said he walked into your room by accident and panicked. He had a licence for the gun and no record. Listen, Mr Dalziel, with the lawyer this guy's got, think yourself lucky he's not suing you for felonious assault!'
'This brief, I mean lawyer. Did the court have to appoint him?'
'No. He came running. Rich family probably. We're deep into democracy over here. Can't tell a punk by his clothes any more.'
Dalziel left, deeply dissatisfied. If he'd known the bugger were going to walk free, he'd have hit him harder. Perhaps things would be more normal once he got out of New York.
At Penn Station, though pleased by the absence of horses, he was rather disappointed to find that the Colonial belied its name and looked nothing like the huge locomotives he recalled from childhood Westerns. But Hollywood reasserted itself when a portly black conductor appeared in the doorway above him and said with the easy freemasonry of girth, 'Now let me help you there, Mr Mostel. Am I glad to see you! They told me you were dead.'
Dalziel, confused by the assonance, was slow to catch on.
'What's your problem, sunshine?' he asked.
'Well, pardon me, you mean you ain't Zero Mostel?' said the man, with affected embarrassment. 'I'm so sorry. Let me show you to your seat, sir. Better still, let me show you to two seats.'
'You cheeky bugger,' said Dalziel. 'Move over before we get wedged.'
He'd just got himself comfortable when there was a tapping at the window. He looked up to see Dave Thatcher gesturing him urgently towards the door. Sighing, he rose and returned to the platform.
'How do, Dave?' he said coldly. 'Didn't think I'd see you again.'
'I couldn't talk on the phone,' said Thatcher. 'I called your hotel this morning and they said you were catching the Colonial. Listen, you said something about a woman called Linda. Tell me about her.'
Dalziel, who'd been speculating that Thatcher might be here in the role of jealous boyfriend having got a whiff of the previous afternoon's bonking, was taken by surprise.
'Linda Steele. Black lass, journalist. Says you put her on to me.'
'Why should I do that?'
'Pay a favour. Get yourself on her short list. She's a fancy lass.'
'You mean you fancy her?' Thatcher smiled. 'You want to watch yourself, Andy. I've never heard of her. And I don't sick journalists on cops I owe favours to.'
'She gave me Waggs's address in New York. Kohler was with him."
'She did?' Thatcher took some sheets of paper out of his inside pocket and studied them. 'That clinches it. I thought she might just be some freelance on the make, but if she's got info like that, she's on the inside track.'
'Dave,' said Dalziel patiently. 'I've got a train to catch. How about telling me what's going off here?'
'OK. Listen. After you left the airport, I made a couple of calls I felt I owed you, so I chucked the names Waggs and Kohler at a few people. I've got good contacts. Couple of hours later this guy strolls into my office. I know him vaguely but not half as well as he seems to know me, not a quarter so well as he wants to know you.'
'Me? He wasn't one of your contacts, then?'
'No, he wasn't. I couldn't see any way your little problem could involve national security'.
'Ah,' said Dalziel. 'I've got you. A funny bugger.'
'I'm sorry?'
'We've got 'em too. Funny buggers, I call the lot on em. So what's his sport?'
'These guys don't advertise job descriptions. But ultimately, and this may just be a coincidence, his boss could be Scott Rampling.'
'Stuff me,' said Dalziel. 'So what'd he want to know about me?'
'Everything I could tell him. Which, before you ask, is exactly what I told him. I could see no reason not to.'
'Oh aye? So what's this? A follow-up visit?'
'Yeah. Real subtle, ain't I? In fact, he suggested if you got in touch again, I should be nice to you and see if I could get a line on what you were doing. Which, as well as being surrounded by ears I wasn't sure of, was another reason I choked you off when you rang.'
'So what are you doing here, Dave?' wondered Dalziel.
'Putting the record straight. I don't like being jerked about by these - what-did-you-call-'em? - funny buggers. Especially I don't like the idea of people latching on to you under pretence of being friends of mine. This woman, apart from giving you Waggs's address, what else has she done for you?'
Dalziel scratched his groin reminiscently.
'Oh, odd things,' he said. 'She had a good poke around my room, that's for sure.'
'That seems to be the in-game. Wasn't there something in the papers about you catching a hotel thief?' said Thatcher.
'Aye. So what . . . Hell's bells, you don't reckon he was one of 'em too? Mebbe that would explain . . .'
'What?'
'They slapped his wrist, told him to be a good boy in future, and let him go.'
Behind him doors were slamming. The conductor leaned out and said, 'You coming or not, Mr Mostel?'
Dalziel climbed aboard. It would have been good to spend more time talking to Thatcher but he had the feeling that the important place to be was Williamsburg.
'Mr Mostel?' said Thatcher.
'A joke. This country of yours is full of jokers.'
'Maybe. But jokes can turn nasty. You take care, Andy. Men like Rampling have got long arms and sharp teeth.'
'I'd best buy some bananas, then,' said Dalziel.
The train was moving. Thatcher walked alongside it.
'You might as well have this,' he said, passing his sheets of paper through the window, it's all on Waggs. Kohler's a blank, completely off the record.'
'Thanks,' said Dalziel. 'You've not asked what I'm doing on this train.'
'What I don't know, I can't be accused of withholding,' Thatcher said, smiling. 'Ring me if you need an interpreter Bye!'
As the train picked up speed, Dalziel returned thoughtfully to his seat. He had an unfamiliar sense of things getting out of control. He'd laughed off Thatcher's warning, but now, as he slipped ever deeper into this strange, huge country, it felt less like a laughing matter. Back home in Yorkshire, bearding lions in their dens was run-of-the-mill work for an old white hunter. But here, though he might be worth a headline as Crocodile Dalziel, basically he was nowt more than a fat old tourist with a million quids' worth of medical insurance which a good kicking would probably absorb in a long weekend.
'Ticket, sir,' boomed a voice in his ear.
'What? Sorry, I were miles away.'
'That's what you're paying for,' said the conductor as he examined the ticket. 'You'll need to keep your strength up. Buffet's three cars down.'
'I hope the grub's better than the jokes,' said Dalziel, rising.
It was. He got himself a couple of monumental sandwiches and a matching bourbon. It wasn't the Caledonian cream, of course, but it certainly made your teeth tingle.
Then, the inner man refreshed, he turned his attention to the papers Thatcher had given him.
A quick examination revealed that what he had here was the life and hard times of Jay Waggs as told to a computer. Or rather, a whole family of computers. Some chum of Thatcher's must have accessed all the data storage systems by which the modern pilgrim's progress is charted. Tax, health, education, credit rating, the law, God knows what else. At a glance the picture seemed complete, but a second glance revealed what Thatcher must have spotted on the platform, that none of these mighty memory banks had recorded Waggs's last known address. It had taken Miss Linda Steele to put him on that trail, presumably at the instigation of Scott Rampling.
He shelved speculation as to Rampling's motives and concentrated on Waggs's life. First thing that caught his attention was that the man used two names, but not necessarily for criminal purposes. Born 1957, christened John, the only son of Mr and Mrs Paul Petersen of New York City, he had been orphaned when six and brought up thereafter by his aunt, Mrs Tess Heffernan.
Mrs Heffernan got divorced two years later (cause and effect? wondered Dalziel) and in 1966 married John Waggs of Ann Arbor, Michigan. The couple formally adopted the boy, changing his surname to Waggs, and it was presumably now that he also became Jay to differentiate him from his adoptive father. His recorded life now ran smoothly till he got to college age. He enrolled in a business studies course under his former name of Petersen, switched after a short time to a film-making course, stayed with that rather longer, then completed his formal education with a spell at drama school. Armed with this variety of experience but without any formal qualifications, he now launched himself on the entertainment industry, ready to be anything in the expectation of being rich, wheeling and dealing and picking up flotsam and jetsam along the foreshore of illegality, and only occasionally getting his feet wet.
All this Dalziel was able to decode, not because he knew much about the media world, but because he was long acquainted with the life-patterns of those who exist on the shadowy edges of things. A good pointer was the degree to which Waggs clearly found it useful to have
some legal entitlement to two names. He moved between them with great facility, though generally favouring Petersen till about three years earlier.
His bank balance was low, though his credit rating was OK. He'd had an appendectomy, some expensive dental work (what was it with these people and their teeth?), wasn't HIV positive, was a registered Democrat, had one conviction for attempted fraud (selling an option he didn't own - fine and suspended sentence), several outstanding traffic violations, and a security rating which seemed incredibly low for a man who hadn't actually tried to booby-trap the President's private bog. He was unmarried.
So what did it all add up to? Not a lot, thought Dalziel gloomily.
Sodding useless things computers! The only vague glimmer of light was that security rating, and not all glimmers were equally welcome, as the condemned man said just before dawn.
He shoved the paper in his pocket and took out instead Kohler's Bible. He'd looked at it the previous night but it was slow tedious work following this trail of minute dots, especially when all you got out of it was the introspective ramblings of a woman at the edge of reason. If she had tucked any amazing confessions away in here, it was going to need a steady analytical mind to mine them out. Someone like Wield. He had the patience. Or mebbe the boy Pascoe. He could probably get a computer to do it. But as for himself ... He groaned as he checked the size of the task ahead.
'Lordy, lordy, you are full of surprises!' It was the conductor again. That's a good book you've got there. A really good book.'
Oh aye? I suppose you've read it from cover to cover?' growled Dalziel.
'On my mammie's knee. But don't you worry. I won't spoil it for you by telling how it comes out.'
'Thanks,' said Dalziel. 'Hold on, sunshine, before you run off, you know so much about the Bible, what's your favourite bit?'
'Now there's a question. Now let me see. Psalms, I love the psalms. One-three-seven, that's my favourite. By the waters of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept when we remembered Zion.'
'Thanks,' said Dalziel, riffling through the pages till he reached the psalms. The dots were crowding thick here as Kohler refined her system and it was easy to get lost, but he persevered and af
ter a while a smile spread across his face. When systems fail, ride your luck. When women stop weeping, they start giving you their life-story.
'Thanks a lot,' said Dalziel.
Shaking his head at these Anglo-Saxon oddities, the conductor went on his way, leaving the smiling man to his task. But the smile did not last long.
Midnight I heard the youngest Partridge child cry. I looked in, then went to tell Marsh. She wasn't in her room. I thought I heard a noise from the next door where Tommy was sleeping. Like a cry or gasp of pain. Opened door quietly and looked in. Saw but at first could not believe. Boy naked on bed, kneeling astride him naked woman, his cock in her mouth. She saw me, got off, came to me, spoke. Didn't recognize her till then. It was Marsh. Smiling, her mouth wet. I hit her. Blood from her nose spurted over my hand. Ran from room back to my room, washed hands.
Recalled to Life Page 26