D&P20 - Death's Jest-Book

by Reginald Hill

  ‘That'll be nice’ he said.

  There was a little more desultory conversation, but when the car left the suburbs behind and began to climb eastwards over the Pennines, Young saw in his mirror that the woman's eyes had closed, so he stopped talking and concentrated on driving through a mist which grew thicker as they got higher. After about twenty minutes he turned the car gently down a side road without disturbing his passenger, and some minutes later turned again along a narrow rutted track which the Merc's suspension negotiated without causing more than a restless shifting.

  Finally he brought the car to a halt before a low stone-built farmhouse whose tiny windows, too small to admit a sufficiency of daylight in good weather and useless in these murky conditions, were ablaze with light.

  The cessation of movement woke the woman.

  She yawned, peered out of the window and said, 'Where are we?'

  'Here’ said Young vaguely. He picked up the car phone, pressed some buttons, listened then handed it to her, saying, Thought you might like a word with your brother.'

  'Oz?' she said into the mouthpiece.

  'Meg? That you? Are you OK? Where are you?'

  'I'm fine. Not sure where I am though, looks like a scene from a horror movie. Where did you say we were, Sergeant?'

  'One of our safe houses’ he said.

  'A safe house? I thought we were heading straight for home.'

  'Well we are, but not quite straight. Few hours here till the committal proceedings are over, then we'll be on our way. It's OK, Mr Carnwath knows all about it, ask him.'

  'Oz,' she said into the phone, 'Sergeant Young says I've got to stay here, wherever here is, some safe house, till the proceedings are over. He says you know about it.'

  There was a pause then Oz Carnwath said, 'That's right, Sis. You sit tight till this thing's finished. It won't take long.'

  If you say so, Bro. You're OK, are you?'

  'Oh yes, I'm being well looked after.'

  She handed the phone back to Young. The farm door opened and another man came out and walked towards them, a slightly menacing figure silhouetted against the rectangle of orange light. She tried to open the car door, but found she couldn't move the handle.

  Young said, 'Sorry. Force of habit,' and pressed the lock release.

  The new man held open the car door for her. He was young, leather jacketed, with the bold eyes and leering smile of one who imagines himself irresistible to women.

  'Get the luggage, Constable,' said Young.

  'Luggage? I'm going to be here long enough to need luggage?'

  'Stuff for the baby, maybe. He's very good. Wish I could say the same for mine.'

  'You've got children, Sergeant? How many?'

  'Two. For God's sake, be careful, Mick.'

  The leather-jacketed man had opened the boot and begun to lift out the cases. As he swung them over the boot's lip, one of them burst open, spilling its contents to the ground. His leering smile vanished to be replaced with the uneasy perplexity of a cabinet minister faced by an ethical policy.

  On the ground lay three telephone directories, a Tesco bag full of stones, and a grey blanket clearly marked as the property of Mid-Yorkshire Constabulary.

  The woman undipped her papoose basket, and tossed it to Young, saying, 'Look after baby, will you?'

  He wasn't ready for it. It bounced off his hands and turned upside down and only a desperate panic-driven lunge got it into his grasp a few inches from the ground. From inside came a piercing wail of 'Mummy!'

  Young looked up in shock to discover the woman was paying no attention to him.

  From her pocket she'd taken a small aerosol tube. She was pointing it at leather jacket and giving him a quick squirt. He fell back, cursing and clawing at his face. Young began to rise. The spray turned in his direction. He raised the papoose basket in an effort to protect himself but it was too late. The fine jet hit him right in the eyes. As he twisted away crying out in pain, a plastic doll fell out of the basket, squeaking, 'Mummy!'

  The woman picked up the doll and spoke to it.

  'Novello here,' she said. 'Think you can come and clear up now.'

  Peter Pascoe watched with interest as Oz Carnwath gave his evidence that afternoon, but it wasn't the witness's face he watched, nor that of the accused, though it might have been entertaining to see his cocky anticipation turn to shocked incredulity as instead of the expected hesitations and uncertainties, he heard firm and confident affirmations that he, Liam Linford, had driven his Lamborghini out of the car park on the night in question.

  It was Linford Senior, sitting in the body of the court, that Pascoe watched. His expression of barely contained fury did more for Pascoe's festive feelings than any number of Christmas cards. Marcus Belchamber did all his considerable best to dent Carnwath's certainties, but hardly left a smudge let alone a scratch on them. It came as no surprise to anyone when the presiding magistrate committed Linford Junior for trial in the Crown Court in February. But the journalists present pricked up their ears when, after Belchamber's application for bail had been heard, the prosecuting lawyer stood up to oppose it on the grounds that there had been a serious attempt to interfere with a witness. The magistrate required a full report as soon as possible and ordered Liam Linford to be remanded in custody till she got it. Wally Linford proved harder to lay a finger on. Taken in for questioning as he left the court, he had Belchamber by his side from the start, and simply denied any knowledge of the plan to kidnap Meg Carnwath. The two false policemen and the other two men who had intercepted Oz on his way to Manchester Airport also denied any connection with Wally, but claimed they were old acquaintances of Liam who had been overcome by indignation at what looked like a potential injustice. They had certainly been well schooled as nothing on the recording from the wire Oz had worn, or from Shirley Novello's, actually constituted a direct threat. Belchamber, after studying the account of what had happened to Novello, offered as his opinion that if he were advising the false police officers - which of course he had no reason even to contemplate doing -he would probably suggest an action against the WDC for assault. In the meantime, if they had nothing more to ask his client, he thought it best to bring the interview to a close.

  Pascoe switched off the recording machine and said, 'Something you should understand, Wally. You've tried to fix Oz Carnwath and failed. His evidence is on record. Your attempt is on record. Anything else that happens to that lad, threats, accidents, even dirty looks, will be noted and reported and investigated. And I'll make sure every bugger connected with this case from the judge to the jury knows about it and believes it's down to Liam direct. And I reckon that will mean years on his sentence. Ask Mr Belchamber here if you don't believe me.'

  Belchamber pursed his lips and said, 'This is a conversation I shall of course need to report to your superiors and the GPS, Chief Inspector.'

  'What conversation, Mr Belchamber? I heard no conversation. You hear any conversation, Constable Novello? Sergeant Wield?'

  His colleagues shook their heads.

  'There you are. Three to two. In a democracy, we must be right. So watch it, Wally. After all your big-time stunts, it would be a shame to go down for a domestic, wouldn't it?'

  After the lawyer and his client had left, Novello said admiringly, 'Nice one, sir. That made the bastards squirm. Real hairy-chested stuff.'

  It was a genuine compliment. Novello liked her men muscular and hairy. The willowy Pascoe-type did nothing for her.

  'Not the point,' said Pascoe wearily. I just wanted to warn them off Oz and his family. And talking of hairy chests, that trick of yours with the CS-spray, I've written it up as reaction to direct and sudden threat, which is the only way to justify it when you hadn't told them you were a police officer and issued a warning. The only true words Belchamber spoke were when he said they could be entitled to bring an action against you. What were you thinking of? You didn't even try to sound threatened on the tape!'

  'Well, I felt it. And it wa
sn't my fault the case burst open,' protested Novello.

  'Fault doesn't come into it. Cop on the spot gets the glory and the crap. All we've got is a couple of guys impersonating police officers. No threats, no holding against your will, no direct link with either Linford. I'm very doubtful we'll have enough to persuade the beak to turn down Belchamber when he requests a review of the remand in custody order. So we'll have Liam out and about, all down to you, Novello. Take heed. You've been backed up once. Don't expect it again.'

  With the blank expression which conceals high dudgeon, Novello left.

  'Was I too hard, Wieldy?'

  'On Linford and Belchamber? Not enough. On Novello? Just about right.'

  ‘Thanks. So, this informant of yours came up trumps. Looks like you've got yourself a winner there. Better sign him up official, quick as you can.'

  'Not interested,' said Wield.

  'Who? Him or you?'

  'Him, of course,' said Wield, meeting Pascoe's eyes straight on.

  'Fine. But be careful.'

  It was conventional CID wisdom that there was no such thing as a free tip-off.

  'Yeah. So we'll be taking this Praesidium thing a bit more seriously now?'

  'I expect so. Let's go and see the Mighty Kong.'

  'OK. But, Pete’

  'Yes?'

  'I'd like to keep in the background on this one. I mean, sitting in on the interview with Linford's one thing, but I don't think I should be in the front line if we set up an op on the Praesidium tip.'

  'You think it might help someone make a connection between your informant and us if it looks like you're calling the shots here?'

  'It's possible.'

  'OK. No problem. You'll miss out on the glory though. Could tell against you when you're on the short-list for Commissioner.'

  'It's a risk I'll just have to take,' said Wield.

  In the criminal's Advent calendar, each window opens on a new opportunity.

  Huge truckloads of consumer desirables I crowd the road en route for city centres. Shop shelves groan with goodies. The malls are packed with shoppers whose purses are packed with cash. The tills ring merrily all day and much of the night and large sums of money have to be transferred with forecastable regularity to the banks. The average house soon has several hundred pounds' worth of easily portable presents 'hidden' in the garage or the cupboard under the stairs. In the non-average house, their value might run into thousands. The party season starts, at home and in the workplace. The provident smuggler is ready to supply the huge appetite for cheap booze and fags, while the happy toper is morally susceptible to a whole range of no-questions-asked deals and physically susceptible to anyone who fancies his wallet. To an ambitious policeman, keen to pack his CV with collars felt and cases solved, Advent windows also open upon golden opportunity. Here is the devil's plenty. Here is the year's late harvest. The art is to recognize what's ripe for reaping and what's going to prove indigestible, and with resources stretched to the limit, there is little time for careful consideration. So Pascoe found he had all the encouragement in the world to pursue his resolve to put Franny Roote out of his mind and get on with the job of making sure the better part of Mid-Yorkshire had a happy and crime-free Christmas.

  But God's a merry fellow who once He has set a jest in train doesn't care to see its object drift off the pre-ordained path.

  After the accuracy of Wield's information in the Linford case, it had been decided to take the Praesidium tip seriously. This didn't mean they could offer blanket coverage, but everyone agreed with the sergeant's assessment that the small firms wages delivery was the most likely target, so that's what they focused on. When told of Wield's desire to keep in the background to protect his snout, Dalziel had taken a deep breath, raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, giving the effect of a monkfish that had just swallowed an electric eel, but he hadn't argued, and it was Pascoe who found himself put in charge.

  Thanks, Pete,' Wield .said. 'Not that it should cause you much bother. My estimate is they'll hit it early while it's still carrying most of the cash and you'll have the rest of the day to do the paperwork and still be home in time for a late tea.'

  Of course it hadn't worked out like that.

  The DCI and his team had crawled along the narrow country roads after the van all morning, their hearts sinking with each delivery, for they knew that as the money went down, so did their chances of getting a result. A less conscientious officer might have called things off with a couple of calls still remaining. The villains would not only have to be unambitious, they'd need to be downright stupid to risk hitting the van with a prospective share-out of only a few hundred pounds. But Pascoe had stuck it out to the bitter end. Only when :he last drop had been made on the northernmost boundary of his patch did Pascoe say to his dispirited men, 'Right, that does it. Let's go home.'

  Half a day wasted with no result. These things happened, policemen got used to them, but such philosophy did not dilute his intention of being seriously sarcastic with Wield.

  He saw him on the phone as he entered the CID room. The sergeant made a summoning gesture, then said into the phone, 'He's just come in.'

  'Who?' mouthed Pascoe as he approached.

  'Rose’ mouthed Wield in return, giving Pascoe a moment of fright as he wondered what crisis had got his young daughter ringing him at work. Then Wield, who missed little, saw the reaction and expanded, 'DI Rose.'

  This, though a relief, meant nothing, till he took the phone and said, 'Pascoe.'

  'Hi there. Stanley Rose.'

  'Stanley . .. ? Stan! Hello. And DI! When did this happen? Many congratulations.'

  The last time he'd talked to Rose, the man had been a DS in South Yorkshire and the occasion had been the case which brought Franny Roote back into his life.

  Looking at people who might think threatening Ellie was a good way to pay old scores, he'd liaised with Rose when he discovered Roote was living in Sheffield. It had all been done by the book, but when Pascoe had turned up to interview Roote, he'd found him lying in his bath with his wrists cut. In fact, the cuts were not very deep and he was more likely to have died from hypothermia than blood loss, but naturally rumours of undue pressure had circulated and for a while both Rose and Pascoe looked susceptible to charges of harassment. But Roote was (in Pascoe's eyes) far too subtle a serpent to risk all on a single strike. So he had made no complaint, but his silence was, (to Pascoe's ears) the silence of the snake lurking in the long grass.

  So, no official action or come-back. But in the ledgers of CID, to go on to someone else's patch and cause them embarrassment left you with a debt to pay, and Pascoe guessed it was being called in now.

  'Beginning of the month,' said Rose. They must have been wondering what to give me for Christmas and I'd been dropping hints all year.'

  'I'm delighted. Long overdue,' said Pascoe. 'Remind me to buy you a drink next time we meet. So what can I do for you, Stan?'

  On the surface it was a simple request for liaison and co-operation. Rose had got a whisper from a snout of a job that was being planned in the New Year. The information was vague. The forward planning suggested it was big, as did the fact that it involved the recruitment of a top driving and muscle team - which was how the snout had got the whisper. And though the organizational nerve centre was in South, word was that the job itself could be over the Mid-Yorkshire border.

  'Sorry it's all so waffly,' concluded Rose. 'But it occurred to me that you might spot a few straws in the wind your side, and they might not seem worth much by themselves, but together . . . well, maybe we could make a brick.'

  So, there it was, a more or less token request, a formality which if not quite empty would in the vast majority of cases prove lamentably unproductive.

  But Pascoe, because he owed Rose and because he could recall those early days after he had taken that large step from sergeant to DI, read the sub-text.

  Rose wanted to make a good early impression. He'd been delighted when his snou
t was the first with this sniff. Probably he'd made rather more of it than it merited at that stage and when, after a couple of weeks, nothing more had been forthcoming, he'd begun to feel rather foolish. Certainly his colleagues in the rough and ready ethos of the CID wouldn't be backward in asking him how the great crime of the new century was coming on! Perhaps he'd been provoked into once more overselling what remained an insubstantial maybe. So he looked around for help. Who owed him? DCI Peter Pascoe, one of the famous Andy Dalziel's brightest and best, who happened to work on the patch mentioned as a putative location for the putative job, that was who!

  So it was worth a punt calling in that debt which, furthermore, would be understood to include the major share of credit should anything ever come of this business.

  Pascoe asked questions, made notes and encouraging noises.

  'OK,' he said finally. ‘I’ll pull out all the stops, Stan, believe me.'

  I'm grateful,' said Rose. This is really good of you.'

  'Self-interest,'laughed Pascoe. 'If we don't help each other, we'll be a long time waiting for any other bugger. You see a Samaritan coming towards you these days, it's probably because he fancies putting the boot in.'

  These were Dalziel's views rather than his own; indeed it was possibly the Fat Man's very phraseology. But he felt few qualms about voicing them. Just as Wield had kept his gayness under wraps in order to survive in his chosen profession, so Pascoe had recognized early on that educational achievement and liberal humanism were not exactly episematic qualities in the still very traditional police force. A common soldier may have a field marshal's baton hidden in his knapsack, but he was never going to get the chance to wield it if he didn't learn the language of the barrack room.

  'You're right there,' said Rose. Things don't go away either. I was just telling your Sergeant Wield, that student he was asking about a while back in connection with a possible suicide

  'Sorry?' said Pascoe. 'I don't recall.. .'

  But of course he did. Roote's tutor at Sheffield University, Sam Johnson, had (according to rumour) made his move to Mid-Yorkshire as a result of his reaction to the sudden death of Jake Frobisher, a student he'd put under pressure to bring his work up to date or be sent down. When Johnson himself died in suspicious circumstances, Pascoe had used the possibility that he'd committed suicide to instruct Wield to check up on Frobisher's death, allegedly with a view to providing the coroner with a full picture of the lecturer's state of mind. But he knew, and Wield had guessed, that his real hope had been to find some link, however remote, between Franny Roote and both tragedies.