Recalled to Life

by Reginald Hill

  Now there were tears, flowing like the first in all those years. But the voice somehow remained quiet and even.

  'You were right, Mr Dalziel, I was trying to escape. Can you believe I forgot about the children? There was just me and the voice and this one figure above all at the end of the jetty, and the water. Cool, dark, deep. I went over and in. Then I remembered the children. I started searching ... I could see nothing ... I glimpsed something sinking, turning ... I didn't know it was Pip, I just grabbed him and came up . . . the canoe was upside down, there was nowhere to put him while I dived for Emily . . . Pip was spluttering in my arms and trying to cry . . . the water erupted beside me and this man came up holding Emily, and for a moment I felt such joy, everything else was forgotten . . . then I saw her face . . . and I saw your face ... it was you, wasn't it, Mr Dalziel?'

  'Oh yes. It were me,' said Dalziel.

  She nodded. 'I've often seen your face in my dreams,' she said.

  ‘It's the kiddie's face I remember,' said Dalziel grimly.

  The tears had stopped as suddenly as they'd begun.

  She spoke again to Westropp.

  'I've never remembered that properly before. There was a time in the beginning when I genuinely could remember almost nothing. Except that I needed no longer worry about making a decision. I was willing to write anything the police wanted me to write. There's a sort of selfishness in doing something for love, isn't there? But self doesn't come into it in the same way when what you're doing is expiation.'

  “Expiation?" echoed Westropp, mockery in his voice to hide his pain.

  That's right. I've learned all the long words. Remember you used to laugh at me, saying that Americans only used long words when short ones would do? Well, now I've had time to get me a proper English education.'

  ‘I wasn't commenting on your remarkable vocabulary, merely trying to catch your drift.'

  Dalziel was suddenly sick of both her soul-searching and his cold control.

  He said, 'Look, luv, we're both a bit short on time, him 'cos he's going to snuff it, me 'cos I want me lunch. So why not spit it out, whatever you've come here to say?'

  They both turned to him, momentarily united in shock and Marilou Bellmain who had not stirred these several minutes took an angry step forward.

  The doorbell rang.

  'Saved by the bell,' said Dalziel.

  Marilou shouldered past him and went into the entrance hall. They heard the front door open.

  'Pip!' said Marilou. 'I'm glad you've come.' Then, her tone modulating from genuine to formal welcome, 'And John too. How nice.'

  'We met at the gate,' said a young man's voice. 'How's Dad?'

  'Fine. He's got visitors so maybe you should . . .'

  But her stepson had already moved by her into the doorway.

  'Dad, hi . . .' he began. Then his eyes registered Dalziel and Kohler and the smile froze on his lips. 'What the hell are you two doing here?'

  Dalziel regarded him with interest. Seen in this context he was unmistakably Westropp's son, the same thin features, the same dark good looks.

  He was also the young mugger Dalziel had knocked out in his New York hotel, the young CIA man who'd stolen Kohler's Bible.

  But the surprises weren't finished.

  'Pip, it's OK, calm down,' said Westropp. 'John, good to see you. You're looking well.'

  Behind Philip Westropp, Jay Waggs had appeared.

  Kohler looked from him to Westropp and back again.

  'John?' she said. 'Who the hell are you? What's going on?'

  Waggs said, 'I would have told you before we came if you hadn't jumped the gun. I might even have caught up with you but I got sort of held up.'

  He smiled faintly at Dalziel who was scratching his ursine neck in the same way a cat starts washing itself to show the world it's not in the least surprised.

  'So who am I? Hell, Ciss, you've dandled me in your arms! And I told you true, Mr Dalziel, when I said I was mixed up in this business out of family loyalty. You got the wrong family, was all. That's right. I'm John Petersen, Pam Petersen's boy, and I've come to visit my poor sick stepdaddy in the hope that I may find out at last exactly who it was killed my dear dead mother.'

  FOUR

  'In the day when all these things are to be answered

  for, I summon you and yours ... to answer for them.'

  The least surprised person in the room seemed to be Cissy Kohler.

  She nodded as if in confirmation of Waggs's statement and said, 'You never felt like kin but you felt familiar.'

  'You took me in the park a few times,' said Waggs. 'I was five or six. I fell in love with you. Don't worry. I got over it after I decided it was really your fault when my mother dumped me and took off to England with step- daddy here and the squalling brats.'

  'We left you because you'd just started school and it seemed silly to uproot you till I knew where my next posting would be,' said Westropp. 'I explained all that.'

  'So you did. A great explainer, my stepfather,' said Waggs, addressing Dalziel.

  'You've been in touch all these years?' said the Fat Man.

  'No. Not directly. My Aunt Tessa who brought me up told me my mother had died in an accident and that my stepfather lived a long, long way away, but still sent money to help with my upbringing. I didn't find the truth till I was in my teens.'

  'And what was the truth?' asked Dalziel after a pause in which he assessed that the others were quite happy to leave him in the interrogator's chair till they collected their wits.

  'Might as well ask, what was the time?' said Waggs. 'That's one thing I learned in Hollywood. But back in Ann Arbor in the 'seventies, truth was that Mom had been murdered by Cissy here and some English creep. And the other English creep who took her away paid a bit of conscience money through a Washington lawyer.'

  'John, I thought this was settled between us long ago,' said Westropp. 'What's happened to change things? Do I gather you had something to do with getting Cissy released?'

  'You could say that.'

  'But why . . . ?'

  'Hang about,' said Dalziel. 'Me, I'm a tits-first man, everything in its proper order. What did you do when you found out this truth?'

  He glared at Cissy Kohler as if defying her to deny that the truth had been found, but she made no effort to speak.

  'I'd always been a bit wild. Now I had a reason, so I guess I did the whole mixed-up teenager bit. As well as all the usual stuff, I started using my old name, my real name, John Petersen instead of Jay Waggs. I must've been a real pain. I guess my aunt was glad to see me go to college. I messed about there, changing courses, trying anything and everything, not knowing what the hell I was doing. I found it useful having two names though, one backed up by a birth certificate, the other by the adoption documents my aunt and John Waggs took out on me. It meant you could put a bit of space between you and your screw-ups. There were times when I even acted as my own referee and credit reference!'

  So you were a right brainless young shit,' said Dalziel. And you decided to make contact with Westropp here so's you could tap him for a bit of money, right?'

  'No!' exploded Waggs. 'It wasn't like that. There was a car pile-up. Aunt Tessa and old John got killed. I didn't realize how much I needed them. John was so laid back, didn't give a fuck about anything I did as long as I didn't wreck the car. Ironic, huh? But I really liked him. No pressure. As for Aunt Tessa . . . You know, I used to call her mom till she told me what really happened, then I stopped. God, that must have hurt her. What a shitty thing to do. When I wake up in the night and start feeling rotten about things, that's always the first thing in my mind. I stopped calling her mom.'

  'Bloody hell!' said Dalziel. 'No wonder you buggers don't win everything any more. You've gone beyond contemplating your navels, you've got your heads stuck up your own arseholes.'

  Westropp said, 'You're sure you're not from the Foreign Office, Mr Dalziel? I can confirm John's statement. His motive in contacting me wasn't f
inancial. Not the first time anyway.'

  He glanced at his stepson and raised what would have been a quizzical eyebrow if the chemotherapy had left him any hair. Beneath his ochreous pallor there were hectic streaks, like dawn in a monsoon sky. Marilou was watching him, her face taut with concern.

  Waggs said, 'I just felt a need . . . Anyway, I went to the Washington lawyer and told him I wanted to get in touch with my stepfather. At best I expected an address in Singapore or somewhere. When I found he was living down the road, so to speak, all tucked up nice and cosy with a new wife, I felt really angry. Stupid, huh? But he said he'd like to meet me, so I came. And it was OK. Not great, but OK. And they'd brought Pip back from school in England ready to start college over here, so I got a half-brother out of it. And that was OK too.'

  He glanced at Philip affectionately and the younger man's grim expression relaxed for an instant.

  Dalziel said, 'OK, let's skip to when it stopped being OK.'

  Waggs said, 'You're the detective,' challengingly. But also delayingly. He likes Pip, thought Dalziel. The lad's presence bothers him. He doesn't want to bad-mouth his father in front of him.

  He said, 'I don't know how, but I reckon the exchange of letters between Miss Kohler and Mr Westropp had summat to do with it.'

  'What the devil do you know about that?' demanded Westropp.

  'I know Miss Marsh tried to sell your American lawyer's address to Kohler and likely got sent off with a flea in her ear. But then you got to thinking, didn't you, lass? And you sweet-talked Daphne Bush into getting the address from Beddington College somehow, then posting a letter to your old boss. But when his reply came, Bush decided not to show it to you, out of selfishness perhaps, or mebbe out of love. Then you quarrelled, and she did show it, and said some pretty nasty things. And you killed her . . .'

  'It was an accident,' said Cissy Kohler. 'She fell. No one was going to believe me, and in any case I didn't care, so I said nothing . . . How do you know all this?'

  'I've read the letter, lass. Oh yes, it's true. Did you think it got buried with Daphne? But I haven't seen the letter you wrote to him. What happened to that, Mr Westropp?'

  ‘I don't know. I tore it up, I expect, burnt it ... I really can't remember. Does it matter?'

  Oh yes, I think it matters,' said Dalziel, looking at Waggs.

  Jesus, you really get off on this Great Detective thing, don't you?' said Waggs. 'Yes, I've got it. My stepdaddy's right. Money didn't come into things at first, but later ... I came down here a couple of years back when the Hesperides guys were leaning on me hard. I wanted a loan to buy them off. But that was the weekend you got really sick, remember? You were rushed to hospital and I had to act all filial. Funny thing was, I felt really concerned. I got the job of putting some things together to bring on after you, while your real family sat by your bedside. It was like I had a licence to poke around, so I poked. Do I need an excuse? I could say I was looking for some mementoes of my mother. I certainly found one. Cissy's letter. It was creased and faded and it wasn't exactly coherent, but I got its drift. First, you and your pretty young nanny had been screwing around behind my mother's back. And second, and this really blew my mind, she reckoned it was you that blasted her in the gunroom at Mickledore Hall!'

  He paused, for breath, for dramatic effect, it didn't matter.

  All heads were turned to Westropp. Even Marilou had released his shoulders and taken a step to one side as if she needed to see his face.

  He said, 'And if you believed what the letter said, dear boy, why have I been such an unconscionable time in dying?'

  Waggs said, 'Good question. My first impulse was to head down to the hospital and rip the truth out of you, but when I got there you were already being ripped open by professionals. By the time you were well enough for me to take over, I'd done some thinking. What had I got? The hysterical outpourings of a woman banged up for life in a Brit jail. For all I knew she could be sending letters to the King of Siam. I needed to see for myself just how mad or sane she was. But how the hell could I get near her? Then God moved in a mysterious way.'

  He glanced at Dalziel and said, 'It was like I told you this morning. I got so preoccupied with my stepdaddy I forgot to hide and the heavies from Hesperides picked me up. You've got to go with what you've got. I heard myself selling them the story. It was sheer desperation at first, but then I began to convince myself. I needed to make it sound like I really had the inside track, but I didn't want to bring my mother into it, so I claimed I was Cissy's kin. And they bought it! And the way it's panned out so far has kept them happy they'll get a good return on their investment. I've kept them off my back by persuading them we need to wait to see how it all turns out. That's the nature of the story, isn't it? That's what's going to stop the kids from rustling their popcorn or screwing in the drive-ins. I mean, look at us here. No one's leaving till they see the credits roll. So here's your big scene, step-daddy. How're you going to play it?'

  It was all-eyes-on-Westropp time again. Dalziel found himself thinking: This really would make a great movie. Then he thought: Jesus! Keep your hand on your wallet while that young man's around!

  Westropp looked like a man who'd dried in every sense. The eyes in that shrivelled face drifted round the expectant gazes of his audience, touching but never engaging each in turn. Finally they came to focus on the telephone and there they stayed.

  It's going to ring, thought Dalziel. Before I count three.

  One . . . two . . . three . . .

  Shit, thought Dalziel.

  The telephone rang.

  FIVE

  'It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be

  kept from her. It is known only to myself and to one

  other who may be trusted.'

  It was Marilou Bellmain who picked up the receiver.

  'Hello? Look, can you . . . ?'

  Whoever was ringing clearly couldn't. Beaten back by a superior weight of words, she fell silent, listened, then said to her husband, 'It's Scott Rampling. He says it's imperative he talks with you.'

  'In that case . . .' said Westropp.

  He took the phone, looked apologetically around as though a pleasant pre-prandial drink had been interrupted, and said, 'Would you mind . . . ?'

  Waggs looked as if he would very much. Pip too, but Dalziel made for the door, saying, 'OK by me, squire. I'm busting for a pee anyway. Upstairs, is it, luv?'

  Without waiting for Marilou's answer, he went out into the hallway and ran lightly up the stairs.

  The first room he looked in was the toilet. He went on to the next door. A bedroom. By the bed, a telephone.

  Carefully he picked it up, put his hand over the mouthpiece and pressed the receiver to his ear.

  A moment passed, then Westropp said, 'All right, Scott. What is it?'

  'I gather you've got company,' said Rampling's voice. 'They still there?'

  'My guests have kindly stepped outside for a moment,' said Westropp. 'How can I help you, Scott?'

  'I want to know what's going on? You know the Kohler woman kept a diary? In code in a Bible, for God's sake! Well, I've got it and it makes interesting reading. She thinks she's been protecting you.'

  'So?'

  'So nothing. So it's not like they said. So I got to thinking: What is it like?'

  Westropp said gently, 'Scott, these are old, unhappy far-off things and battles long ago. My advice is, let them rest.'

  ‘I tried,' protested Rampling. 'I've had my people on it.'

  'That girl, you mean?' Westropp laughed. 'Oh Scott, you always wanted things all ways. I can just imagine it. Sempernel or someone like him warning you that trouble was on its way and asking you to clean it up. You saying, sure thing, but thinking maybe if it's something they want cleared up, it might be interesting to let it run and see what it's all about. Getting poor Mr Dalziel to do your dirty work for you! Oh Scott, you're so devious, you sometimes fool yourself.'

  'Dying's making you real sassy, James. I
'm in your town at the moment to make some slant-eyed sonofabitch think he's important enough to need protection. I'll call by later to find out what's really been happening. Meanwhile, my advice is, get those people out of there. Guy in your condition shouldn't be entertaining visitors.'

  'Your solicitude is almost unbearable,' said Westropp. 'Do try to keep calm, there's a good chap. As the French aristo said on his way to the guillotine, this is no time to be losing your head. Sorry. I realize in your case the image is rather crass, but you know what I mean. A bientot!'