D&P20 - Death's Jest-Book

by Reginald Hill

  'Bear with me. This is really fascinating stuff,' she said. 'I know how busy you are, but if I could just take up a little more of your time while I get myself together

  It was a good tactic. He smiled and said, 'Of course.' 'These psychotic disorders, what sort of thing's involved there?'

  'In general terms, hallucinatory experiences, visual and’or auditory . ..'

  'Seeing people who aren't there and hearing their voices, you mean?'

  'Yes, that sort of thing. This can be associated with delusional belief, that is an apprehension of situations and relationships which is based on a false premise which resists all centra-evidence. Thought disorders linked to problems of language function or information processing '

  ‘Could not being able to remember my stage lines fit in here?'

  He looked at her curiously and said, 'Yes, I suppose it could.'

  'How fascinating,' she said. 'Just one thing more. My tumour She found she quite liked the possessive. My flat. My books. In my opinion. My boyfriend.

  My tumour.

  '.. . is it in any way, could it be in any way, related to that old brain injury?'

  He frowned as if feeling it was unfair of her to remind him she was going to die, then said, 'Actually, I don't have the faintest idea. Seems unlikely, but lots of things we now take for granted once seemed unlikely.'

  She nodded as if to reassure him that this was the kind of frankness she wanted.

  'But, like an accidental brain injury, is a tumour also likely to cause psychiatric disorders? Or have any effect on the way that the mind functions?'

  'Well, certainly, but I really don't think you need to start worrying about that.'

  'Because it is going to kill me too quickly for any behavioural changes to become significant, you mean?' she said solemnly.

  He frowned again. She gave him a quick grin.

  'Not all bad then!' she went on. 'But it could be having some effects on my behaviour and thought processes, right? In which case, it could be that some of these new effects might actually counterbalance or negate some of the old effects of my head injury, right?'

  He shrugged helplessly. He looked almost vulnerable.

  'Anything's possible,' he said, 'but honestly, I don't think there's much point in concerning ourselves with effects when what we need to do is -'

  She stood up, saying, 'Thanks a lot, Mr Chakravarty. You've been really helpful.'

  'deal with causes’ he concluded, determined to get back to the consulted’consulting relationship. 'Miss Pomona, about your treatment

  'No time for that,' she said crisply. 'Don't worry. I'll pay your bill by return of post.'

  Then, feeling that he hadn't really deserved such a parting sting, she smiled and said, 'And I'm really grateful. Take care now.'

  She went out to the car park. It was curious. She'd been condemned to death and yet what she felt was the kind of euphoria you experience as you leave the dentist's!

  It was five thirty. She didn't want to go home yet. She wasn't ready for Myra's sympathetic questioning and even less ready for the possibility of finding Hat sitting on her doorstep. She turned on the car radio and listened to some Country and Western for a while. Its unsophisticated emotionalism seemed just about right. At six o'clock she drove to the Centre. Most of her colleagues would be homeward bound by now and, in any case, as far as they were concerned, she'd spent the day shopping.

  She made her way to the Centre theatre. Its director had been one of the Wordman's victims. No, one of my victims, she corrected herself. She didn't know if she could bring herself to confess her sins but at least she could confront them. One of the core members of the company, a young woman called Lynn Crediton, had been appointed as stand-in director and, if the current holiday production of Aladdin was anything to go by, the Council might do worse than to make the appointment permanent.

  . In the little theatre there was the usual bustle as they got ready for the evening performance in just over an hour. Rye spotted Lynn in the aisle, checking some lighting adjustments. She waited till she'd finished shouting her instructions, then went up to her.

  They'd met a couple of times before, and Rye's association with the Wordman case underlined the encounters.

  'Hi,' said Lynn. 'You an early punter, or do you fancy being the back legs of a camel?'

  'Both, maybe,' said Rye. 'Look, it probably sounds daft, but I used to do a bit of acting and I wondered if I could try out a few lines?'

  'You want to audition?' The woman regarded her doubtfully, then said, 'Sure, why not? Can you come along say tomorrow morning, about ten?'

  'Well actually, I wondered if I could just go on stage now and do a bit? Just thirty seconds, honestly. I can see you're really busy, but it's just that I feel really up for it. No one has to stop doing anything, then I'll be out of your hair.'

  Lynn shrugged.

  'OK, help yourself. But I can't promise I'll be able to listen, even for thirty seconds!'

  Rye smiled her thanks and stepped on to the low stage.

  She stood there for a moment looking out into the theatre. They came back to her, those days before . . . before Serge died, this is what it had been like, standing in the light, looking into the dark.

  Now here she was again.

  Standing in the light, looking into the dark.

  She cleared her throat, then opened her mouth with no idea what, if anything, was going to come out.

  She heard herself begin to sing.

  Come away, come away death, And in sad cypress let me be laid.

  Fly away, fly away breath,

  I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

  My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

  0 prepare it.

  My part of death no one so true Did share it.

  When she started the theatre was full of noise and her soft voice was like the song of a lark above a cattle mart. But by the time she finished, every other sound had stopped, and all eyes were fixed on this slim young woman stock-still at the front of the stage.

  Not a flower, not a flower sweet On my black coffin let there be strewn.

  Not a friend, not a friend greet

  My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.

  A thousand thousand sighs to save

  Lay me 0 where

  Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there.

  She finished. There was silence. Then Lynn Crediton began to applaud and soon everyone else joined in. Flushing, Rye clambered down off the stage.

  That was great’ said Lynn. 'Maybe not quite the mood for Aladdin, but you got pretty close to the day!'

  'What? Oh, Twelfth Night, you mean. Don't know why I chose that. It was just something we did at school.'

  'And you played Feste?'

  'No. I loved the play so much I think I had the whole thing by heart. I played Viola, who found her lost brother. Maybe I should have played Olivia who knew how to mourn hers.'

  'Lots of time for that. Like I said, can you come tomorrow morning . . . are you OK?'

  She was looking with concern into Rye's eyes, which were brimful of tears.

  'Yes, yes, never better . . . happy and sad . . . lost and found . . . I'm sorry, I've got to go.'

  She hurried away towards the exit. Lynn called after her, 'You'll come in the morning then for a proper audition?'

  Over her shoulder Rye cried, 'No. Sorry. No more auditions, no more acting. Sorry’

  And ran through the exit door, leaving the director uncertain whether she had just played a small role in a comedy, a tragedy, or simply a pantomime.

  On Tuesday morning Pascoe, after several unsuccessful attempts to hack into the Central Police Computer in search of information about Sergeant Thomas Roote, disgraced, deceased, did what any sensible man did when matters of high technology were concerned, he went to see Edgar Wield.

  Usually when faced with such special requests, the sergeant's mosaic features underwent a small rearrangement which experienced Wield-watche
rs took to indicate a certain degree of pleasure at being given another opportunity to go places that neither Dalziel's strength nor Pascoe's subtlety could reach. Today, however, as soon as Pascoe said, 'Can you do me a favour, Wieldy?', he rolled his eyes and ground his teeth and looked unambiguously pissed off.

  'Something bothering you?' asked Pascoe.

  'Just get the impression sometimes that no bugger round here thinks I've got owt better to do than hack into places I shouldn't be,' he replied.

  'Himself, you mean? As well as myself, of course.'

  'Aye, he's on my back to dig up all I can about some guy called Tristram Lilley, but without letting anyone know we're taking an interest. I ask him why he's after this guy and he just growls like a bear that's swallowed a hornets' nest! So it's me fishing blind again, and if I wake some sodding great shark, it's only me that'll get bitten!'

  'Come on, Wieldy, you can't say that. You know full well we'd come and visit you in the prison hospital,' said Pascoe. 'So what have you found out about this Lilley?'

  'That if you want your computer hacked, your phone tapped, your bank account audited and your intimate moments on video, he makes me look like an amateur.'

  'Interesting. But Andy often plays his cards pretty close to his chest till he's ready to thump his Royal Flush on to the table. So why does this one get up your nose so much?'

  Wield looked at him speculatively then said, 'I'm getting as secretive as he is. There's more. He's got me checking on a German called Mai Richter a.k.a. Myra Rogers.'

  'That rings a faint bell.'

  'It should. Myra Rogers lives next door to Rye Pomona and from what Hat's said they've become good mates. He told me not to bother with her official check sheet, so presumably he's got that already. What he wants is how she came into the country, when she changed from Mai to Myra. Well, I took a look at her sheet anyway. She's a journalist, Pete. A ferret. Got some big stories to her credit on the Continent. So what's she doing here, cosying up to the girlfriend of one of my lads, that's what I want to know. That's what I think I'm entitled to know!'

  'Me too,' said Pascoe feelingly. 'And I'm going to find out.'

  He turned for the door.

  Wield said, 'Pete, what was it you came to see me about?'

  'Hardly dare mention it’ said Pascoe. 'At least it's no secret. Roote. And before you start lecturing me, it's not Franny, it's his father and it's something Ellie found out.'

  He explained.

  'Now that is interesting’ said Wield. I'll get on to it. For Ellie's sake, you understand. I still reckon the less you have to do with that fellow the better.'

  'Me too,' said Pascoe. 'But we all have our albatrosses. You seen Lubanski yet?'

  It was a low shot but it hit. Wield, slightly hungover, had attended a conference with Dalziel and Pascoe on Sunday to discuss the implications of the confirmation that Linford, or LB, was backing whatever job Mate Polchard was planning. The Fat Man's reaction to the death of Liam and the others had been, as Wield had anticipated, good riddance. He'd been more interested in the possible effect of the tragedy on the relationship between Belchamber and Linford. 'He'll be looking for some bugger to blame. He had Belchy in his sights already and he'll not be in the mood to take a new aim.'

  'How can he blame Belchamber for getting his son out on bail, which is what he must have been screaming at him to do ever since the committal?' asked Pascoe.

  'Fathers, sons, logic goes out the window, specially when they're dead,' said Dalziel. 'Wieldy, set up a meet with young Lochinvar, see if he's heard owt.'

  'Yes, sir. Can be a bit hard to get hold of,' said Wield, who'd thought it wiser not to mention that he'd sung a karaoke duet with Lee a few minutes after hearing about Liam.

  'Hard to get hold of? He's a rent boy, for fuck's sake!' said Dalziel.

  All of which helped explain the sergeant's state of pissed-off-ness with the Fat Man.

  Now he said to Pascoe, 'Haven't been able to contact him yet.'

  'No?' said Pascoe. 'Wieldy, none of my business, but you're not letting yourself get too close to this lad?'

  For a moment it looked like Wield might explode, then he took control and said, 'I'd like to help him, if that's what you mean, get him out of the life he's leading‘

  'But he's not interested?'

  'No, it's not that. In fact I think I could get him to make a change but only at the expense of letting him think there was something between us. Not sex, I can deal with that, you learn over the years, but some kind of commitment. I'm not sure exactly what he wants me to be, but I know I can't be it. It would be wrong of me to lead him on, only it can't be right to let him stay like he is if I can do owt about it. ..'

  'You try to explain any of this to him?'

  'What's the point? The more personal I let things get in the way I talk, the more he takes it as a signal he's making progress. So all I can do is fall back on being a cop, tell him not to waste my time till he's got something really solid to tell me. Now I wonder if that's not just inciting him to take unnecessary risks.'

  He sounded so unhappy, Pascoe touched his shoulder and said, 'Come on, mate. What's to risk? If Belchamber catches him poking around, all he's going to do is kick him out, which is what you'd like! Don't think Fat Andy would be very happy, though.'

  That bugger's happiness isn't high up my priority list at the moment,' retorted Wield.

  Pascoe went looking for Dalziel but discovered he'd gone out, no one knew where. He retired to his office, leaving the door slightly ajar to make sure he didn't miss the crash of those mighty footsteps, but the Fat Man still hadn't returned an hour later when the door swung open and Wield came in bearing a sheet of paper and a folder.

  Thomas Roote,' he said without preamble. 'Good old-fashioned copper from the sound of it. Started in the Met. Couple of commendations for bravery. CID, then got moved into the Drug Squad. It was a drug scare at Anthea Atherton's school in Surrey that got the two of them involved. Reason the Squad was called in, dad of one of Atherton's posh chums was a distributor in the Smoke and there was a strong suspicion she was keeping the family tradition going in the school. Nothing came of it except Roote got involved with Anthea. Question, would collaring the suspect dealer have meant laying hands on Anthea too? Answer, not proven. But you can be sure when the sergeant married the girl soon as she turned eighteen, there'd be a query set against his name.'

  'So, not a good career move,' said Pascoe.

  'No. He'd made sergeant early and looked like he was set to move smoothly up the ladder. But now he stuck. Could also have been that things were on the change way back then and the PR boys were getting control of the Force. Not the kind of approach Tommy Roote seems to have favoured. Complaints now instead of commendations. Beat up some guy who grabbed a hold of his son in the park. Lucky to get away with an admonishment . . . that mean something to you?'

  'Might do,' admitted Pascoe reluctantly. 'So Sergeant Roote was living dangerously.'

  That's right. Reading between the lines, he was getting increasingly bolshie at work while at home his marriage was in a tail spin. He was also drinking heavily. Crisis point reached when he was so heavy handed on a big bust that another sergeant reported him. When Tommy heard about it, he went for the guy in the locker room. A DI stuck his nose in and asked what the hell was going on. Roote told him to mind his own fucking business and when he didn't Roote decked him. That was that. Rolled into his hearing drunk and bolshie and sent any chance of being retired early with his pension intact up in smoke. After that it was downhill all the way. Guy like him had plenty of enemies outside and, without the protection of his badge, he was easy meat. Ended up in an alley behind a pub, his ribs kicked in. Choked on his own vomit. Death by misadventure. It's all here.'

  He dropped the sheet of paper face-down on the desk.

  'Hell's bells. That's a terrible tale,' said Pascoe.

  'Yeah. Explains a few things about Roote, maybe.'

  'Like why he hates the police,
you mean?'

  'Like why he's so mixed up about his father, I meant. I think it's back.'

  Along the corridor echoed the tread of mighty footsteps and a discordant whistling of something which to Wield's sensitive ears might have been 'Total Eclipse of the Heart'. A moment later Dalziel filled the doorway.

  His two subordinates stared at him so unwelcomingly that he took a step backwards and said, 'Be, I've not been met with looks like that since my dear wife left me. What have I done? Left my dirty socks in the bidet again?'

  'More like dirty fingerprints on the polished table, sir,' said Pascoe, going straight on the attack. 'What's all this about Mai Richter? Or Myra Rogers? More to the point, what's it all got to do with Rye Pomona?'

  Dalziel's response was to advance towards Wield and hold out one huge paw.

  'Before the cock's crowed thrice, eh?' he said, shaking his head sadly. That for me?'

  Silently Wield handed over the folder containing his findings on Richter and Lilley.

  'It was me who asked Wieldy what he were up to’ said Pascoe.

  'Oh aye? Ask him what he were up to at links last weekend and he sings a song, does he?'

  'I just think that anything to do with Rye Pomona and Bowler, I'm entitled to know.'

  'And why's that then?'

  'Because I was with you when we interfered with a crime scene and when we edited Pomona's statement’ said Pascoe baldly.

  The Fat Man backheeled the door shut with a slam that had constables in the canteen three floors below bolting their scalding coffee and heading back out several minutes early.

  'Nay, lad, you weren't with me’ he said fiercely. 'Except maybe in your dreams. And I'd keep quiet about them, even when you're letting it all hang out on yon Pozzo's couch.'

  Jesus, thought Pascoe. Has he got me bugged?

  Wield was staring out of the window at the cloudy sky with an intensity that suggested all his senses except for sight were disengaged.

  Dalziel suddenly relaxed and smiled ruefully, shaking his great head.