'Why's that?' said Patten, matiness gone.
'In case ALBA fancy bringing charges. Trespass is no good as far as the house goes, as technically they were invited in, so they'd need to go for criminal damage, assault even. So we'll need statements.'
'Save you the bother,' said Patten delving into his desk. 'We got our system too. Full reports on any incident. Here, take a look, all signed and sealed.'
He handed a thin file across. Wield looked inside. The reports were all there, full of necessary detail of time, place, duration.
'Everything in order?' said Patten. 'Jimmy Howard keeps us straight on rules of evidence. Useful having an ex-cop around.'
'Must be,' said Wield. 'From a quick glance, doesn't seem to have been any real damage either to person or property.'
'More by luck than judgment,' growled Patten. 'That fat cow, the one called Cap, she belted one of my lads in the belly with them cutters and looked like she was going to have a swing at my head with them till that skinny lass caught a hold of her.'
'Walker?'
'Aye. The one who found the bones in the first place. Got the impression your fat boss knew her. She been in trouble for this kind of thing before?'
'No. Not animal rights. She was one of them Women Against Pit Closures lot that got going during the Strike.'
'Is that right?' Patten pulled at his lip and said, 'Didn't think you lot, CID I mean, got mixed up with that. Thought it was all uniformed out there beating up the pickets.'
'Preserving the peace,' corrected Wield gently. 'No, we got involved because there was a murder, out at Burrthorpe, you might have read about it.'
'No, I don't recall. 1984, it'd be? I was nobbut a lad, not long in the army, still pretty much a lily.'
'A what?'
'Lily. What we called a sprog in our mob. So, this Walker woman, she's had a change of heart, has she? Moved from miners to monkeys?' "
'Some folk need a cause,' said Wield. 'And we like to keep a close eye on all of them. Perhaps I'd better have a word with Jimmy Howard just to make sure I've got the full picture.'
'Sorry, he's gone off duty,' said Patten.
'When's he back on?'
Patten swivelled round to examine a wall chart which wouldn't have disgraced the Pentagon. Next to it hung a photo of three men smiling into the camera. On the left was Patten, wearing TecSec uniform. The man on the right – small with a round smiling face beneath tightly packed blond curls – was similarly dressed. His name tag was too small to read except for the initial R. In the centre, elegant in a well-cut, dark grey pinstripe suit, was a lean handsome man who looked as if he might have a very good opinion of himself, not altogether unjustified.
'Should have gone off at six this morning in fact,' added Patten, 'but did an extra stag 'cos of all the excitement, so I shouldn't bother him at home till he's had time to catch up on his beauty sleep.'
'Oh, shan't need to do that,' said Wield negligently. 'Likely these reports you've given me will do. Seems a well-organized firm, TecSec. Good mob to work for, are they?'
'I don't work for 'em,' said Patten, 'I'm a partner.'
'Sorry. I thought seeing you out here in the uniform…'
'Like the army, guys who really run the show are out there in the field getting shot at. My partner's out most of the time drumming up business while I'm out making sure the business we've got gets done properly. There's a girl back in the office knows where to get hold of us.'
'Sounds good,' said Wield rising. 'If ever I need security I'll know where to come. Thanks for the tea.'
'My pleasure.'
At the door Wield paused and said, 'Your security fence, the inner one, you say they'd not have got through that with a pair of wire cutters. Why not use the same stuff for the first lot of wire?'
'Expense,' said Patten. 'Costs a fortune that stuff, and you'd need a lot more 'cos it's a bigger circle. Also…'
'Yes?' prompted Wield.
'No use fighting people unless you let 'em close enough to get shot,' said Patten, this time with no attempt at a grin. xiii
The atmosphere in the Pascoe household had remained definitely overcast with poor air quality till Rosie on her return from school burst in on it like the wild west wind. She flung herself on her father as if he'd been away for a decade not a day and gripped him in a stranglehold which would have won style points from a Thug, the whiles rattling off a stream-of-consciousness account of all that had happened to her during their long separation.
Also in there somewhere were expressions of gratitude for her prezzie which at first he took to be creatively predictive, and he was seeking a form of words which would explain why fathers after such a short absence on such a sad mission should be allowed to come home empty handed when it dawned on him that the thanks were for a present received not a gift anticipated.
He glanced at Ellie who mouthed, 'The secretaire.'
'Eh?'
'Rosie saw the secretaire in the hall and she asked me if you'd brought it for her to keep her things in and I said you may very well have.'
After a recent and ideologically very dubious spat between Ellie and her daughter about the state of her room, Pascoe had asserted his paterfamilial authority with the promise of a large gin and tonic for his wife and a large storage chest for his Rosie. He had in mind something in puce plastic, but the little girl's refined taste could sometimes be as surprising as her occasionally fluorescent language.
'You like it, do you?' said Pascoe.
'Oh yes. I think it's bloody marvellous,' she answered very seriously.
He caught Ellie's eye again and she gave him an I-don't-know-where-she-gets-it-from look. Since going to school Rosie had moved up a linguistic gear and like Caliban, her profit on it was she now knew how to curse. The problem was to stop her from cursing without letting her know that she had been.
Pascoe said, 'It belonged to Granny Pascoe and she wanted you to have it.'
'Granny who's dead?'
'That's right.'
'Is she a ghost?' asked Rosie uneasily.
'You know there's no such thing as ghosts, so she can't be, can she?' said Ellie briskly.
'No,' said Rosie without conviction.
Pascoe put his mouth to her ear and said, 'And if she is, she'll be a ghost down in Warwickshire, because everyone knows ghosts have got to do their haunting round the place where they died.'
The little girl looked greatly relieved though he saw Ellie grimace at this betrayal of rational principles. But she was as pleased as he was at this solution to the problem of Ada's writing desk.
'Told you it would find its place,’she gasped as they collapsed on Rosie's bed after lugging the secretaire upstairs.
'Clever old you,’ he said, grinning, and the truce might have been sealed with more than a loving kiss if Rosie hadn't demanded their help in tidying away all her dolls, toys and other impedimenta into her new store cupboard.
At seven o'clock with Rosie safely stowed in bed and Ellie making ready for her party, Pascoe was in the kitchen pouring himself a lager when the doorbell rang. He heard Ellie's footsteps on the stairs and her voice calling, 'I'll get it.'
Wendy Walker again? he wondered. No. She'd just said she wanted a lift back. Or this time, perhaps it was the Fat Man, come to see for himself that he'd got safely home. Bastard!
But when Ellie came into the kitchen she wasn't wearing her Apocalypse Now face, though she was wearing a silk dress which struck him as being a touch showy for such a proletarian celebration.
'Chap called Hilary Studholme to see you,' she said.
'Eye patch, one arm, and a limp?' he asked.
'Or grey hair, his own teeth and a nice smile,' said Ellie. 'Could it be the same guy?'
'Not in court, it couldn't,' said Pascoe. 'Let's see.'
The major was standing by the fireplace looking rather ill at ease.
'Nice to see you again,' said Pascoe remembering to offer his left hand. 'Do sit down. I was just pouring myself a
drink. Can I get you anything?'
'Orange juice, anything non-alc. There are those of your colleagues who feel I shouldn't have a licence. Mustn't always help the police, must we?'
He smiled his nice smile. From the doorway Ellie said, 'I'll get the drinks.'
Seating himself opposite his visitor, Pascoe said, 'So what brings you into my neck of the woods, major?'
'Dining out this way with friends. Was going to ring you in the morning, but thought face to face better. Especially as I wanted to show you something.'
He picked up a large envelope which he had set down on a coffee table, flicked the flap open with his thumb and shook some photographs out.
They were all of soldiers in Great War uniform. Two were formal groups, the other was informal, showing four men resting against a gun limber. Their clothes were mudstained and their efforts to look cheerful sat on their fatigued faces like prostitutes' smiles.
'Anyone you recognize?' said Studholme.
'Good lord,' said Ellie who'd returned with the drinks which she was setting down on the table. 'There you are again, Peter.'
This time, even Pascoe couldn't deny the resemblance between himself and one of the exhausted soldiers. It was less clear in the group pictures, but Ellie went with unerring accuracy to a face which had Studholme nodding his agreement.
'So what's your point?' said Pascoe. 'You think this is my great-grandfather, is that it?'
It didn't seem to him a particularly exciting discovery, certainly not one to bring Studholme even a short distance out of his way.
The major said, 'You mentioned a photograph you had?'
With the perfect timing she had inherited from her mother, Rosie pushed open the door and came in, barefooted and nightgowned, carrying the photograph from Ada's secretaire.
'Look what I found, Daddy,' she said.
'Good God,' said Pascoe, taking the photo. 'I was twice your age before I learned how to open that drawer.'
'Girls mature quicker,’ observed Ellie. 'But that doesn't mean they don't need their sleep. Come on. Back to bed with you, Lady Macbeth.'
'But why is Daddy wearing those funny clothes?' asked Rosie who had learned early on that the way to delay her mother from any undesirable course of action was to ask as many questions as possible.
'It's not me, darling,' interposed Pascoe. 'It's your great-great-granddad, and he just happened to look a tiny little bit like me.'
'He looks the spitting image of you,' said Ellie. 'Doesn't he, dear?'
'Fucking right he does,' agreed Rosie.
Pascoe winced and glanced an apology at the major whose one visible eyebrow arched quizzically. Ellie caught the girl up in her arms and said, 'Off we go. Say goodnight.'
There was a moment's pause which had Pascoe wondering if his daughter was rifling her word-horde for one of the less conventional valedictory forms such as, 'Don't let the bastards grind you down' or 'Up yours, arsehole', but she contented herself with a long-suffering 'Goodnight then' over her mother's shoulder.
'She is making surprising progress at school,' said Pascoe when the door had closed.
'Indeed,' said Studholme dryly.
He took the photograph from Pascoe's hand and studied it, then set it alongside the ones he'd brought.
'Might be doubles,' he said. 'Such things happen. Anything can. But chances are they're the same. Wouldn't you agree?'
'Well, yes. But so what? Do you have a name for the chap in your pics?' asked Pascoe.
'Yes. Names for nearly all of them. One of my predecessors was very thorough back in the twenties. Double-checked with survivors. That's why I came.'
'Because this is definitely Corporal Clark?'
'Sergeant at the end. And not Clark. Here. Look.'
He produced a sheet of paper on which someone had patiently traced one of the groups in outline with numbers instead of faces. Below was a key.
Pascoe checked the number of his lookalike. Twenty- two. Then he dropped his gaze to the key.
He was glad he wasn't standing. Even sitting he felt the chair lurch beneath his behind and saw the air shimmer like the onset of migraine. He blinked it clear and reread the entry.
No 22. Pascoe Peter (Corporal).
'Is this your idea of a joke?' he said steadily.
'No joke,' said Studholme regarding him closely and with concern.
'Then what? Can't be right. My grandmother was Ada Clark who became a Pascoe by marriage, so how could this be her father? Hang on though. Didn't you say there was a Pascoe in the Wyfies at Third Wipers? Surely this is just a mix up of names?'
'That was Private Stephen Pascoe. He got wounded not killed. This Corporal Peter, later sergeant, is someone else.'
Ellie came back in.
'I think she'll go to sleep now but don't let her play you up. I'd better be on my way. Peter, you OK?'
He forced a smile.
'Yes. Fine. I'll check in a little while. Enjoy yourself.'
'I'll try. Major Studholme, nice to meet you. Sorry I've got to dash. 'Bye.'
She was gone. She was good at exits thought Pascoe with the envy of one who usually made an awkward bow.
Studholme was standing up.
'I'd better be on my way too,' he said. 'Bad form, being late.'
Pascoe didn't rise but studied the other from his chair. With Dalziel breathing down your neck for all those years, one thing you practised till it became instinctive was the art of detailed observation. He let his gaze drift down Studholme's clothing from his collar to his toecaps. He was beginning to feel something which if not anger, had a deal of anger in it.
'Late for what?' he asked. 'If I had to make a guess, major, I'd say you weren't going anywhere. All that about having dinner with friends in this neck of the woods is a load of baloney, isn't it?'
Studholme brushed his forefinger across his moustache and said in a voice which had more of interest than indignation in it, 'And on what would you base such an unmannerly speculation?'
'You haven't changed from when I saw you this morning. Same shirt, same tie, same jacket, same trousers. You haven't even given your shoes a rub. Oh you look tidy enough, don't misunderstand me, but I'm certain a man like you wouldn't go to dine with friends without changing your shirt at least.'
'Man like me? Little presumptuous on such short acquaintance, isn't it?'
Again mildly curious rather than outraged.
'You've known me exactly the same length of time,' said Pascoe who could play this game till the cows came home and went out again. 'Yet you feel you know me well enough to decide that whatever it really was that you came here to say might be best left unsaid. How's that for presumption?'
'Pretty extreme,' the major admitted with the hint of a smile. 'All right. May have been wrong. Still can't be sure.'
'There's only one way to find out,' said Pascoe. 'Like another drink?'
Studholme shook his head.
'Thanks but I'll wait till I get home and can treat myself to a real nightcap. No offence, excellent orange juice.'
He sat down again, easing his right leg straight out in front of him. Did he have a prosthesis or just some muscle damage? wondered Pascoe. He felt a sympathetic twinge in his own leg damaged when he'd been trapped down Burrthorpe Main. Theoretically he'd made a complete recovery from that traumatic experience. His mind had other ideas.
He said, 'So what's the big mystery, major?'
Studholme said, 'Tell me first of all. Your grandmother, why do you think she wanted her ashes scattered at regimental HQ?'
It was honesty time.
'Not as a mark of respect, that's for certain,' said Pascoe. 'She hated all things military, and the Wyfies in particular. If I had to guess, I'd say it was the nearest she could get to spitting in somebody's face.'
'Any idea why she felt so strongly?'
'She lost her father in the war.'
'Millions did.'
'We all find our own way of dealing with things.'
'Ind
eed,' said the major frowning. 'Though this was extreme.'
'But you think you know why.'
'Not absolutely certain-'
'I think you are,' interrupted Pascoe. 'Perhaps not when you arrived, but now… yet you were going to go without saying anything. Why?'
'Because of your face when you saw the name on that list. You looked like a man looking at his own tomb. I felt, perhaps it would be better…'
'Better, worse, we're past that now,' said Pascoe brusquely. 'Spit it out.'
'All right. Like I said, the name rang a bell. Your name, Pascoe. I checked through the regimental records, found those photographs. Saw your face. Coincidence – the name, the resemblance? Possibly. I had to see the picture you had. That clinched it, though it didn't explain it.'
'Clinched what, for God's sake?'
'This man with your face, and your name, got killed at Ypres in 1917.'
'But you said his name wasn't on the casualty list?'
'No. He didn't die in battle.'
Studholme took a deep breath and fixed Pascoe with his one unblinking eye.
He said, 'Sergeant Peter Pascoe was court-martialled for cowardice in face of the enemy. He was found guilty and in November 1917 he was executed in the Ypres Salient by firing squad. Mr Pascoe, are you all right?' xiv
The first person Ellie saw as she entered the party was Andy Dalziel, clutching a glass in one hand and a Professor of Divinity in the other to whom he seemed to be explaining some point of canon law.
When he saw Ellie he relaxed his grip and called, 'Hey up! Young Woodley back then?'
'Safe and sound. What are you doing here?'
Hurt crinkled the Fat Man's face like interference on a twenty-five-inch screen and he turned in search of support, but the professor, who knew the workings of divine providence when he saw them, was speeding towards the bar.
Robbed of its audience, Dalziel's face resumed normal service as he said, 'I were invited. So where's he at?'
'Baby-sitting. Who invited you?'
It was none of her business but Dalziel as usual had pressed her armed-response button.
'Friend,' he said vaguely. 'He'll be in tomorrow but?'
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