Eyes less keen than Dalziel's and Wield's could have worked out it wasn't good news.
Pascoe said, Thanks a lot. If anything else comes up ... yes, thank you. Goodbye’
He put the receiver down.
'So?' said Dalziel.
'Nothing suspicious’ said Pascoe. 'As far as they can make out, the fire started in a leather armchair, probably caused by a lighted cigar butt which had slipped down behind the cushion. Only sign of any accelerant was an exploded brandy decanter’
'Aye, well, bunch of drunken dons smoking big cigars in a building that's probably failed every fire regulation laid down over five hundred years, that's asking for trouble’ said Dalziel. 'Well, I'm glad we've got that out of the way’
'For God's sake’ said Pascoe, 'you don't think that someone like Roote was going to get to work with a can of paraffin, do you? No, he was there, he tells us he was there, puffing away on a cigar with the best of them. That's what probably gave him the idea’
'Oh aye? You got second sight now, Peter?' said the Fat Man. 'Pity they don't take account of that in the Criminal Evidence Act. I think that's enough about Roote for one day. I don't mind my officers having a hobby so long as they do it in their own time’
Angrily Pascoe retorted, 'And how do you feel about your officers ignoring prima-facie evidence of crime? Sir?'
'Prima facie? That 'ud be an Italian waiter with his throat cut and Roote standing over him with a knife in his hand? Wieldy, them statistics I'm doing for the Chief, how'm I getting along with them?'
'You've finished them, sir’
'Have I? Jesus, I must've sat up half the night. It's no fun being a superintendent. You'd best come along to my office in five minutes and tell me what I think of them afore I pass them on to Desperate Dan. How's young Ivor settling back in, by the way?'
Ivor was Dalziel's sobriquet for DC Shirley Novello, who had taken a bullet in the shoulder during the summer and only recently returned to work full time.
'Looking fine, sir’ said Wield. 'Very sharp and eager to make up for lost time’
'Grand. Now we just need Bowler back and we'll only be slightly under fucking strength instead of seriously under fucking strength. When's he due to start?'
‘This week, Wednesday I think, sir’
'Not till Wednesday?' said Dalziel incredulously. 'You'd think the bugger had had major surgery. Here, pass us that phone and I'll give him a wake-up call’
Up till now Dalziel had made little effort to hurry Bowler from his sickbed, knowing how easy it was for a convalescent hero to be turned into a gung-ho cop who'd killed a suspect through use of excessive force.
125
But now the Board of Enquiry had finally cleared Bowler of all culpability, the case was altered.
'Shouldn't bother’ said Pascoe. 'I gather Ms Pomona's taken him away for a weekend of rest and recuperation. They won't be back till later today.'
'What? Off with his light o' love, is he? If a man's fit enough to shag, he's fit enough to work, says so in the Bible. Wait till I see him. Wieldy, them figures, five minutes right? By the way, Pete. Chief's taking me out to lunch. His treat for all my hard work. With luck I won't be back till tea-time, so if anyone wants me, you'll have to do.'
'Yes, sir. Except I'll be in court myself this afternoon’ said Pascoe.
'Oh aye, the Linford committal. Nowt to worry about there, we've got the scrote sewn up tighter than a nun's knickers, right?'
'Right’ said Pascoe. 'Though Belchamber will be looking to do a bit of snipping
'Sod the Belcher’ growled Dalziel. 'Nowt he can do long as your witness, the Carnwath lad, stays strong. No second thoughts after that scare on Saturday?'
'Oz is rock solid’ said Pascoe. 'And they can't get at him directly. Not married, no current girl, parents dead. Only close family is a sister in the States. She is coming over for Christmas, but not till Wednesday, by which time it'll be sorted, God willing.'
'Then what are you moaning about? Wieldy, five minutes.'
The Fat Man left.
Pascoe watched the great haunches swing out of sight and said, 'You've made yourself indispensable to Rustybum, Wieldy. Could be a fatal mistake.'
'No, way I look at it is, if the station goes up in flames and Andy can only get one person out, it'll be me over his shoulder and down the drainpipe. Talking of flames
He looked significantly at the letters lying on the desk in front of Pascoe.
'You think I'm overreacting too?'
'I think something about Franny Roote's got to you in a big way. And I think that he knows it and he's enjoying jerking you around’
'So you agree that he's setting out to provoke me with these confessions ... all right, half-confessions?' said Pascoe hopefully.
'Mebbe. But that's all they are, provocations. One thing I'm certain of about our Franny is, he's not going to put himself at risk.'
'So your advice is . .. ?'
'Forget it, Pete. He'll soon get tired and concentrate on manipulating his new friends’
'You're probably right’ said Pascoe gloomily.
Wield observed his friend closely, then said, There's something else, isn't there?'
'No. Well, yes. It's silly but . . . look, Wieldy, if I tell you this, not a word to Andy, eh?'
'Guide's honour’ said Wield girlishly.
Pascoe smiled. Even though he was now living openly with his partner, Edwin Digweed, at work Wield rarely let slip the mask with which he'd concealed his gayness for so many years. This brief flash of campness was a reassurance stronger than a dozen notarized oaths sworn on Bibles and mothers' graves.
He said, 'In the letter, you remember the bit where Roote stands up to give Sam Johnson's paper? He looks at the clock and it's nine o'clock on Saturday morning, and then he looks down and he sees . .. here it is ... it was you, Mr Pascoe. There you were, looking straight at me.' -
He raised his eyes from the paper and looked at Wield with such appeal that the sergeant touched his arm and said urgently, 'Pete, it's just a try-on. It's that German doppelganger stuff he's picked up from Charley Penn. It's for frightening kids with
'Yes, I know that, Wieldy. Thing is, last Saturday I took Rosie to her music lesson in St Margaret Street, and I parked outside the church to wait for her. And I saw him.'
'The teacher?'
'No, dickhead! Roote. In the churchyard, standing there looking straight at me. St Margaret's clock began striking nine. I saw him for two chimes of the bell. Then I started getting out of the car and, by the time I'd got out, he'd vanished. But I saw him, Wieldy. At nine o'clock like he says. I saw Franny Roote!'
It came out more dramatically than intended. Not thought I saw or imagined I saw, the plain assertion I saw! He waited impatient for Wield's reaction.
The phone rang.
Wield picked it up, said, 'Yes?' listened, said, 'OK. Turk's. But not for an hour,' and replaced the receiver. He stood in thought for a long moment till Pascoe said, 'Well?'
'What? Oh, just someone, owt or nowt.'
Normally such imprecision would have aroused Pascoe's curiosity but now it merely aggravated his impatience.
'I mean about Roote,' he said.
'Roote? Oh yes. You thought you saw him but he's in Cambridge. Had your eyes tested lately, Pete? Look, I'd best get along to make sure Andy understands what he's going to be telling Dan. Good luck with Belchamber. See you later.'
'Thanks a bunch,' said Pascoe to the empty air. 'It's bad enough seeing things but it gets worse if you turn invisible at.the same time.'
And was relieved to find he could still laugh.
4
The Newly Wed
It had been the best weekend of Hat Bowler's life, no competition, not even from the winter weekend a couple of years ago when he'd trudged back from a long unproductive stint in a hide looking for a reported Rock Thrush and there it had been, perched on the bonnet of his MG where it stayed long enough to get three good shots with his camera.
It hadn't just been the sex but the sense of utter togetherness they shared in everything they did. Saturday had been a perfect day till dinner when she'd pushed away her plate and said, 'Shit, I'm getting one of my headaches.' At first he'd laughed, taking it as a joke, then had felt a huge pang of selfish disappointment as he realized it wasn't. But this had quickly been blanked by anxiety as her face drained of colour. She'd assured him it was nothing, taken a tablet, and when, instead of retiring to her own room, she lay willingly and trustingly in his arms the whole night through, this had seemed an affirmation of love more powerful than sex. Gradually the next morning the colour had returned to her cheeks and by lunchtime she was as active and joyous as ever, and that night ... if ever joy was unconfined, it was in the boundless universe which was their bed that night. They didn't leave the room till halfway through Monday morning, and only then because they were due to check out. Slowly they drove back into Mid-Yorkshire. They were in Rye's Fiesta - Hat's MG was taking even longer than its owner to recover from the injuries sustained during the rescue mission - but it was lack of volition rather than lack of power which dictated their speed. Both knew from experience that joy is a delicate fabric and life's shoddy sleeve has a thousand tricks up it which can be played to bankrupt poor deluded humans even as they rake their winnings in. This journey was a time-out. In the car with them they carried all the joyous certainties of that hotel room, but what lay ahead could never be certain. Out of some part of Hat's subconscious, the existence of which he had hitherto not even suspected, the Gothic fancy leapt that if they had been driving along a narrow mountain road with a rock face on one side and a precipice on the other, it might have been well to seize the wheel and send them plunging to their deaths. Happily a hawthorn hedge and a turnip field didn't offer quite the same incentive, so it was a fancy easy to resist and one he decided to keep to himself. What after all was he feeling so pessimistic about? Had not Rye promised he would be safe with her, and he certainly intended exerting all his strength to ensure she stayed safe with him.
Impulsively he leaned over and kissed her, nearly bringing the turnip field into play.
'Hey’ she said, 'don't they do road safety in the police any more?'
'Yeah, but some of us get special exemption.' She reached over and touched him intimately. 'And that's a special exemption, is it? Hang on.' The turnip field came to an end to be followed by a meadow full of sheep with a rutted overgrown lane in between. Rye swung the wheel over and they bumped up the lane for twenty yards or so before jolting to a halt.
'Right,' she said, undoing her seat belt. 'Let's have a road safety lesson.'
For the rest of the journey his heart was like a nest of singing birds which permitted no discordant future possibilities to be heard. The world was perfect and all that lay ahead was an eternity exploring its perfections.
But, for all his certainties, he was sorry when the journey came to an end and they turned into Peg Lane where Rye lived. Somehow, cocooned in the car, they had seemed as solitary as Adam and Eve at the world's dawn. Still, God was obviously smiling upon them as there was a parking space right in front of Church View, the big converted townhouse which contained Rye's flat.
He followed her up the stairs, wondered as she inserted the key in the lock whether it would be naff to offer to carry her over the threshold, decided it wouldn't and who the hell cared anyway? put the cases down and stepped forward as the door swung open.
And saw over her suddenly rigid shoulder that the flat had been burgled.
The flat was a mess. It looked as if stuff had been removed from cupboards and drawers and hurled about recklessly in a desperate search, but as far as he could see the only thing that had been broken was a Chinese vase in the bedroom. It lay beneath the shelf it had fallen from. It struck Hat as he stood there looking down at it that this was the first time he'd been in Rye's bedroom. But not the last, he told himself complacently. Then he saw her face and all such smug self-congratulation vanished.
She was staring at the shards of the broken vase, her face as pale as the fine white dust which surrounded them.
'Oh shit’ said Hat.
He could guess what the vase had held. Aged fifteen, her twin brother Sergius had been killed in the car accident which left his sister with the head injury whose healing was marked by a distinctive silver blaze in her rich brown hair. The twins had been close in life, he knew that, but just how close Sergius had stayed in death he hadn't known till now.
How he would have felt about bedding down with Rye in the presence of her brother's ashes, he didn't know. Not that there looked any likelihood of being put to the test in the near future. He tried to put a comforting arm round her shoulders but she turned out of his grasp without a word and went back into the living room.
Personal contact not getting through, he tried professional, urging her not to touch any more than was necessary, but she didn't seem to hear him as she moved around the living room and the kitchen, checking drawers, boxes, private hiding places.
'What's been taken?' he asked.
'Nothing,' she said. 'So far as I can see. Nothing.'
Didn't seem to make her happy. Come to think of it, it didn't make him happy either.
He looked around himself, hoping to find a gap. She didn't own a TV set or hi-fi equipment, the obvious targets. Lot of books, wouldn't be able to check those till they were back on the shelves, but they didn't seem a likely target. He went back into the bedroom. What the hell was she going to do about those ashes? Her clothes, which had been tipped out of drawers, were scattered over them. Not the kind of thing you wanted to find in your undies, he thought with that coarseness policemen learn to use as a barrier between themselves and the paralysing effect of so much of what they see.
There was a lap-top open on a table by the bed. Funny that hadn't gone. Expensive model, easily portable. He noticed it was in sleep mode.
'You always leave your computer on?' he called.
'No. Yes. Sometimes,' she said from the living room.
'And this time?'
'I can't remember.'
He ran his fingers at random over the keyboard and waited. After a while it got the message and began to wake up.
Now the screen came into focus. There were words on it.
BYE BYE LORELEI
then they vanished.
He turned to see Rye had come into the room. She was holding the power cable which she had just yanked out of the wall socket.
'Why did you do that?' he asked.
'Because,' she said, 'if I want a detective, I'll dial 999.'
'And are you going to dial 999?'
She rubbed the side of her head where the silver blaze shone in the rich brown hair.
'What's the point?' she said. 'You lot will only make more mess. Best just to tidy up, get some better locks.'
'Your choice,' he said, not wanting to force the issue. 'But maybe you ought to make'absolutely sure nothing's missing before you make up your mind. You won't be able to claim unless your insurance company sees a police report.'
'I told you, nothing's missing!' she snapped.
'OK, OK. Right then, let's do a bit of tidying up, or would you like a drink first?'
'No’ she said. 'No. Look, I'll do the tidying up myself. I'd prefer it.'
'Fine. Then I'll make us a coffee . . .'
'Christ, Hat!' she exclaimed, her hand at her head again. 'What happened to that guy who was so oversensitive he couldn't make a pass? I'll spell it out. I don't want a fuss, Hat. I've got a headache, Hat. I would rather be alone, Hat.'
Of course she would. He forced himself not to glance towards the shattered vase.
He nodded and said brightly, 'I think I've got that. OK. I'll ring you later.'
‘Fine,' she said.
He went to the door, stood looking down at the lock, and said, 'Thanks for a great weekend. I had the best time of my life.'
She said, 'Me too. Really. It was great.'
&
nbsp; He looked back at her now. She managed a smile but her face was pale, her eyes deep shadowed.
He almost went back to her but had the wit and the will not to.
'Later,' he said. 'We'll talk later.'
And left.
As Sergeant Wield approached Turk's his clear and well-ordered mind, long used to separating the various areas of his life into water-tight compartments, had no problem with setting out what he was doing.
He was an officer of Mid-Yorkshire CID, on duty, going to meet a. nineteen-year-old rent boy who might possibly have information which would be of interest to the police.
He was alone because said rent boy was not a registered informant (which would have required the presence of two officers at any meeting) but a member of the public who had indicated he wanted to speak to Wield only.
So far, so normal. The only abnormality was that he was having to remind himself !
Then through the grubby glass of the cafe window, he saw Lee sitting at the same table they'd occupied on Saturday night, looking like a kid who'd bunked off school, and he broke his stride to remind himself again.
Turk returned his greeting with his usual glottal grunt and poured him a cup of coffee. Lee's face, which had lit up with pleasure or relief on Wield's entrance, had resumed its usual watchful suspicious expression by the time the sergeant sat down.
'How do?' said Wield.
'I'm fine. Survived your sarney then?'
'Looks like it.'
There was silence. Sometimes in such circumstances, Wield let the combination of the silence and his un-readably menacing face work for him. Today he judged that whatever point was going to be reached would require a path of small talk. Or maybe he just wanted to talk.
He said, 'Lubanski. Where's that come from?'
'My mam's name. She were Polish.'
'Were?'
'She's dead. When I were six.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Yeah? Why?' His tone was sceptically aggressive.
Wield said gently, 'Because no age is good to lose your mam, and six is worse than most. Old enough to know what it means, too young to know how to cope. What happened then?'
D&P20 - Death's Jest-Book Page 10