‘I dare say so. Or mebbe not. Someone else would need it, wouldn’t they?’
‘I assume so. Wardle and the other man, Dickinson I think it is, seemed uncertain, though on the whole they favoured seeing you leave empty-handed.’
‘It’s funny how people find it hard to remember, you must find that all the time,’ said Farr.
‘Too true. You showered on the way out, I suppose.’
‘Bloody right! And it were a bloody sight hotter than it normally is at proper knock-off time.’
‘And you’d normally leave your pit-black in the dirty lockers?’
‘I’d hardly take it with me, would I?’ said Farr but his scornful assertiveness faded even as he spoke. ‘Hold on. You mean it’s not there? And you think I hid it in case there were traces of blood or anything on it?’
Now it was Wishart’s turn to smile.
‘That’s very sharp for a poor working lad,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you go home?’
‘What?’
‘You were ill. Why not go home and seek rest, relief, medical advice?’
‘The fresh air made me feel better. I didn’t want to worry my mam by getting back early. I thought I’d just go for a ride around till it were my normal time for getting back.’
‘But you were already well past that when you rang Mrs Pascoe.’
‘Look, she’s got nowt to do with any of this.’
‘I don’t suppose she has. Why did you ring her in particular?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I just wanted to talk to someone who had nowt to do with Burrthorpe or the pit.’
‘And she came to mind first?’
‘First and last,’ said Farr savagely. ‘All the other buggers I know on the outside are likely tossing around in the Bay of Biscay. And I’d not have rung ’em anyway.’
‘Why?’
Farr answered hesitantly, as if dealing with a question of his own.
‘I made some good marras but not for talking to, you understand. Oh, if I got into a fight or into bother with the pigs or if I were strapped for cash, they’d stick by me, no question. But sorting things out in your mind, that takes something … different.’
‘Like Mrs Pascoe?’
‘Aye. She might be a bit stuck up and a bit of a do-gooder, but she’d know what I was on about and be able to listen and not end up by saying another pint would put me right, or I ought to get active in the Union, or wasn’t it time I found a nice girl and settled down and had a family?’
‘So you rang her. Her husband answered, I believe.’
‘Aye.’
‘But you didn’t ring off?’
‘Eh?’ Farr looked puzzled, then he laughed scornfully and said, ‘I’m not her fancy man, if that’s what you’re thinking. Why the hell should I ring off?’
‘Husbands can misunderstand things,’ said Wishart, watching him closely. ‘For all you knew, Mr Pascoe could have been a short-tempered heavyweight boxer.’
‘Could have been. I doubt it, but. Women like her usually end up married to teachers, them kind of twats.’
‘So you never talked about Mr Pascoe?’
‘No. Why should we? Hey, he’s not a heavyweight boxer, is he?’
Wishart smiled and shook his head. It had bothered him that Farr, possibly on the run after committing murder, should ring up the house of a police inspector and be unconcerned when a man answered the phone. But Ellie had obviously decided that her close links with the filth wouldn’t create a climate of confidence in her class.
‘What did you want to talk to Mrs Pascoe about?’ he inquired.
‘What?’
‘You rang her because you wanted to talk to someone with a different outlook from your marras. That was what you said, wasn’t it? All right. Talk about what?’
‘That’s my business,’ retorted Farr.
‘It could be mine,’ said Wishart.
‘How’s that?’
‘If you wanted to talk to her because you were confused about what to do after bashing Harold Satterthwaite over the head and dumping his body in the gob, that’d be my business, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Aye.’
‘So?’
‘So ask Ellie … Mrs Pascoe, if that’s what I wanted to talk about, and when she says no, you’ll see I’m right and it’s none of your sodding business, won’t you?’
Wishart regarded him shrewdly and said, ‘I dare say the truth is what with the booze and that bang on your head, you can’t really be sure yourself what you did talk about.’
It was a subtle bait. Amnesia must look a very tempting escape route from these persistent questions, but once taken it was damnably hard to follow.
Farr shook his head, winced and said obstinately, ‘No, I don’t forget things, not even them I’d like to forget.’
He sank down against his bank of pillows and his eyes closed. If his smile bore him back to boyhood, this weariness was more regressive still, turning him into a lost child. Wishart felt a sudden pang of conscience. The doctor had set a strict time-limit on questioning his patient and Wishart had assured him that at the first sign of fatigue, he would desist. But his professional instinct was to press on now while the defences were weak.
But before he could speak, there was a sound of voices outside and the door burst open. Wishart looked round guiltily, sure it was the doctor, come to accuse him of the third degree. Instead he saw two strangers, one male, middle-aged, balding, dressed in a creased blue suit and clutching a battered briefcase in nicotine-stained fingers. The other was female, in her thirties, with spiky red hair, dressed in an apple-green jump suit, and carrying a glossy leather document case under her arm.
Wishart, suspecting Press, rose instantly and prepared to be outraged.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.
They both spoke at once and as neither seemed prepared to concede the primacy it was only the coincidence that they were both saying more or less the same thing that allowed Wishart to grasp at their thread.
‘You’re both his solicitor?’ he said incredulously.
‘Wakefield,’ said the man. ‘Neil Wardle asked me to come on behalf of the Union.’
‘Pritchard,’ said the woman. ‘A friend of Mr Farr’s was concerned that he might be unrepresented.’
Wishart felt like Solomon called to judgement. Perhaps he should offer the patient to be dissected. After all, they were in the right place for it. But before he could pronounce, a third figure appeared, like Jove in a masque, rising to mend mortal destinies. It was Dalziel, flushed and breathing hard after climbing the stairs to avoid the concentrated contagion of a hospital lift.
‘’Morning, Chief Inspector Wishart,’ he said. ‘What’s this? A public meeting?’
During Wishart’s explanation, it seemed to him that Dalziel’s flush pulsated like a nuclear core as he looked at Pritchard. But there was nothing but sweet reason in his tone as he said, ‘No problem, is there? The client chooses the lawyer, not the lawyer the client. Mr Farr, which of these legal eagles would you like to crap on you?’
Colin Farr, who had kept his eyes resolutely closed during all that had passed hitherto, recognized in Dalziel’s voice that summons which cannot be denied.
He sat up, regarded those present with unwelcoming eyes, and said, ‘None of ’em. You can all fuck off. And that includes you, Porky!’
Chapter 11
In the hospital car park Adrienne Pritchard climbed into an ancient green Mini.
‘What happened?’ demanded Ellie. ‘You’ve been gone hardly any time.’
Laconically the solicitor told her tale. When she got to the bit when Colin Farr called Dalziel Porky, they both laughed.
‘I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time,’ said Ellie. ‘I shouldn’t have dragged you out here.’
‘You did rather give the impression your boy was being held in a dungeon with no access to legal aid, whereas … well, never mind. He looked fine, by the way.’
‘Did he?’
‘Adi, there is nothing going on!’
‘I’ll see you in court,’ said the other disbelievingly, opening the car door and struggling out over the coils of unreconstructed seat-belt. ‘Ellie, why don’t you get a decent car? Two minutes in this heap and your husband would be on his way to the car showroom – by taxi!’
‘Are you going back to town?’ asked Ellie.
‘You’ve guessed. There’s nothing for me here. If young Lord Byron up there does decide he needs a lawyer, he’ll be all right with that shark the Union sent along. Are you heading back too? I’ll drive along behind you if you like, to pick up the pieces.’
‘No, thanks, I’ve got a couple of things I want to do here.’
‘By yourself? Well, as long as you don’t frighten the horses. See you.’
Ellie watched Adrienne get into her shiny red sports car and roar away.
‘At least mine’s British,’ she muttered, turning the ignition key to produce a pneumonic wheeze. Before she could try again, a fist like a fender rapped against the passenger window which was almost immediately filled by a face like a flitch.
‘I thought it were you,’ said Dalziel with delighted surprise, opening the door and climbing in. ‘Just visiting, I hope? A rich relative, is it?’
‘Don’t muck around, Andy,’ said Ellie irritably. ‘You know it was me that got Adi Pritchard to visit Colin Farr. So Peter was right when he said you lot might get landed with this case.’
‘Yes. I’ve got him working on it himself. But don’t worry. He’s a long way away from here.’
He tapped his nose in a gesture both salacious and conspiratorial. Ellie was not certain which element most offended her, but what she was sure of was that in-fighting with Dalziel was like trying to tickle a grizzly to death. The only valid approach was with a flame-thrower from fifty yards.
She said, ‘I hope you get the man who killed Mr Satterthwaite very soon. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’
He didn’t move but said, ‘Reckon we’ve got him already. Your friend, Farr. Bird in the hand, like they say.’
‘What evidence do you have?’ she asked angrily.
He smiled and said softly, ‘I didn’t say we’d got any evidence yet. Just that we’ve got him. Evidence’ll turn up. Weapon. Bloodstained clothes. Something he did or said on his way out of the mine. Or later when he got himself kaylied and came off his bike. Said nothing significant to you, did he?’
‘You’ve read my statement,’ evaded Ellie.
‘Aye, I’ve read it,’ said Dalziel. ‘Funny, that, I thought. Here they were, sitting in a car – it’d be this car, would it? very cosy – and neither of ’em said owt to the other. Some people might take that the wrong way, of course.’
‘You dirty-minded old sod,’ said Ellie, her resolve not to be provoked bending as easily as it usually did.
He looked at her in amazed indignation, and said, ‘Nay, Ellie. You’ve got me wrong. I never meant owt like that. All I was trying to say was, if you don’t fill in the detail of what you and him did say, some folk might think you were trying to cover up for him. Now I know how easy it is to think things aren’t worth putting down in a statement, all the ordinary trivial chat. “Nice weather we’re having, have you seen the price of eggs in the market? That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing, my sister in London had one just like that four or five years ago.” The sort of thing you and your mates pass the time of day with over your morning coffee.’
I’ll kill him! thought Ellie wildly.
Steadying her voice she said, ‘No, we didn’t talk about the price of eggs or the dress he was wearing.’
‘No? Then what did you talk about?’ asked Dalziel. ‘No, don’t answer me now. Have a good think about it and then you can broaden out your statement when you call in at the local station later on.’
‘At the station?’
‘Aye. That was why you drove all the way down here, wasn’t it? To modify your statement and mebbe check up on the result of your blood test.’
Her expression showed him that she had forgotten all about the test and also that Pascoe hadn’t been in touch with her since he called at the lab that morning. Probably because she had already left to winkle out Pritchard. Possibly because he felt in the mood to let her sweat a little longer. Well, it was none of his business to interfere between man and wife. Yet.
He said, ‘Aye. Could be serious that, Ellie. Lose your licence, big fine. They’re really cracking down. So I’ll see you later likely. Cheers now.’
He opened the door and unwedged himself from the low seat. As he got out, Ellie saw with anticipatory delight that the coil of seat-belt had wrapped itself round his ankles.
Dalziel stood upright, stretched, raised a huge arm in farewell, and walked away. Around his legs the belt tightened, tautened, and snapped, as without a stumble or a hesitation he strode towards the hospital.
Disappointedly, Ellie turned the key again. The engine came to life with the reluctance of one who has gone happily to his long rest after a race well run. Adi was right, it was time she had a decent car, it was time she asserted herself in a hundred ways.
It was also time, she told herself with a return to humour as she nosed out of the car park, that the Women’s Movement recognized that five minutes with Andy Dalziel was worth a month’s budget of professional propaganda.
Fifteen minutes later without any conscious debate or decision she found herself parking round the corner from the terraced house in which May Farr lived with her son.
She felt herself observed as she approached the front door and not just by the police car parked further along Clay Street. Burrthorpe must be abuzz with what was going on. They might close ranks against outsiders but within the tribe there would be no shortage of slanderous speculation, prurient analysis and malicious gossip.
The door opened before she could knock.
‘Come in,’ said May Farr, ‘before the whole street clocks you.’
She led the way into the little front room. Ellie had a sense of someone else in the house, probably in the kitchen.
‘Right,’ said the woman after checking that the net curtains were draped for maximum obfuscation. ‘What do you want?’
She stood facing Ellie, her arms folded under her breast in the classic working-class pose of female aggression.
Ellie said, ‘I was up at the hospital and I thought I’d come and see you.’
‘Did you see Colin?’
‘No, but I gather he’s all right, physically I mean.’
‘You didn’t see him? I’d’ve thought they’d’ve let you in.’
‘Because my husband’s a policeman?’
‘You said it.’
‘Mrs Farr, you’d be surprised how few privileges being married to a copper brings you. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. Nor am I apologizing for Peter. It’s his job. It’s what he is. And if he did something else, it’d be a loss to the police and the public alike. A loss to people like you and Colin, Mrs Farr.’
‘And what are people like me and Colin like?’ asked the woman with undiminished aggression.
‘In trouble,’ said Ellie gently.
May Farr digested this.
‘Sit down,’ she said finally. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea. There’s some massed.’
Ellie would have preferred coffee or better still a stiff scotch, but she knew that the offer of tea was like salt in a Bedouin’s tent. Also it gave May an excuse to go into the kitchen and update whoever it was she had in there.
The tea appeared in the same delicate china cups that had been used on her previous visit. Conversation waited till the ceremony of milk, sugar and tasting was complete.
‘Right, Mrs Pascoe,’ said May Farr. ‘I admire the way you’ve stuck up for your man, but if you’re not ashamed of him, wh
y’d you lie about him when I asked you last time?’
‘Because it didn’t seem to matter then. I mean the truth would have mattered perhaps. It might have set you and Colin against me.’
‘You think we all hate the police, do you?’
‘A lot of you have had some cause, I think.’
‘Is that what your man thinks too? No, forget I asked that. It’s your business, married business. What I do want to know is why you’re so keen to stick your neb into our business, Colin’s and mine?’
‘I didn’t so much stick it in as have it rubbed in,’ retorted Ellie, with whom a little humble pie went a long way. ‘He rang me last night, asked me to help him. I didn’t volunteer.’
‘You didn’t refuse either. You’re not after Colin, are you, missus? He’s not your what-do-they-call-it? bit of rough, is he?’
‘I wouldn’t call your son a bit of rough, Mrs Farr,’ said Ellie steadily. ‘I like him but I’m not after him. As for him, he could be after me but I’m not sure he likes me.’
‘It was you he rang.’
‘I don’t know how surprising that was because I don’t know who else he might have rung,’ said Ellie. She was aware of the ambivalence and evasion at the heart of nearly all her answers, but her main concern was to keep things simple and straightforward as far as her own part in this drama went. Back home she might be Cressida, but here in the Greek camp she was just a walk-on part.
May Farr frowned, then nodded and said, ‘You’re right. Not many.’
She relaxed noticeably, perhaps because the odds on Ellie being a predatory middle-class nymphomaniac had lengthened.
‘What’s going to happen to him, Mrs Pascoe?’ she asked suddenly. ‘What have they got on him, can you tell me that? I rang the police station and they told me nowt, then I rang the hospital and they didn’t tell me much more. So what’s happening, Mrs Pascoe?’
Ellie was saved from reiterating her ignorance by a knock at the front door.
‘Now who’s that?’ said Mrs Farr irritably without making any move to find out. But someone was moving. Ellie heard the door being opened, the sound of voices, then the sitting-room door was pushed ajar and a head appeared wearing what she had thought of last night as the expression of an anxious horse. She reached for the name. Downey.
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