'Eh? You're losing me.'
'I do hope not. All right, let me put it simply. Suppose Patten bought in with blackmail? He knew something about Sanderson's past which the good captain preferred kept out of the papers? Or suppose he bought in with information? He knew something about ALBA which would help TecSec get taken on there?'
Wield sought for a reply that wouldn't be a put down. These were the kind of airy-fairy speculations he was happy to take from Peter Pascoe because he knew that behind them all was a real cop's mind, centred on the need for proof.
'Not a great deal I can do to check them ideas out, but,' he said. 'Thanks all the same.'
'You could check out whether in fact Patten during his dead time took a perfectly ordinary job to keep the wolf from the door,' suggested Digweed. 'It sometimes seems to me that you chaps are so busy digging the dirt that you forget to look around you at clear eye level.'
Having delivered himself of this Holmesian utterance, Digweed returned his attention to his book.
Wield supped his tea and grimaced. Still had a lot of acquiring to do. But Edwin had a point about the job. Not that it would help much if it turned out Patten spent six months on a checkout at Sainsbury's. But if, as Wield suspected, there was a complete blank, then that would prove… nothing. But it would be a big encouragement!
Bravely he swallowed the rest of his tea and got out of bed again.
'Off so soon?' said Digweed.
'Aye, I've got some checking to do. And before you start looking so smug, think on. I've counted the books in that pile. There's nine counting the one you're reading. Gets to double figures and it's bonfire time. Right?'
'You're a hard man, sergeant. And don't forget that this is a meatless day.'
This was a weekly lowlight of the Corpse Cottage dietary regime.
'I didn't know what unnatural practices meant till I met you,' said Wield.
Once he got to the station his checking didn't take long, which was just as well as the outcome didn't seem worth waiting for. He'd short-cut official channels by ringing a contact in Social Security Investigations and asking her to punch up Patten's National Insurance Number and checking on employment from November the previous year till June this. The answer was so obvious that Wield felt a pang of resentment towards Digweed as if his partner had deliberately wasted his time.
Patten, feeling the pinch when his gambling had emptied his account, had looked for a job to suit his talents and training, and been taken on by Task Force Five, the Manchester-based security firm who, from small beginnings in 1979, had burgeoned with the eighties crime figures into one of the top three national firms.
'So he's done their training course, and had seven months to see how they get things done, when he runs into Sanderson who's got a business he'd like to turn into the next TFF,' growled Dalziel. 'Makes him a good man to hire.'
'Didn't get hired, became a partner,' said Wield obstinately.
'So he'd had a bit of luck with the bookies somewhere out of Mid-Yorkshire. Or maybe making him a partner was compensation for not being able to afford to pay him wages. How much does it cost to buy into nowt anyway? This all you've got, Wieldy?'
'There's Rosso, that's Les Rosthwaite.'
'Who the hell's he when he's at home?'
Wield told him.
Dalziel said, 'Am I missing something here? Sanderson's batman came out with him and worked for TecSec till he got himself killed in a car accident?'
'That's right, sir,' said Wield, uneasily aware that Dalziel more than anyone recognized the sound of the bottom of a barrel being scraped.
'Anything suspicious?'
'Well, no, actually. I checked with Traffic. He was more than twice over the limit and he'd got previous for drunk and disorderly. ..'
'Thank God for that. I thought you were going to say they found curare in his bloodstream and somehow I'd missed hearing about it. Are you done now?'
'Yes, sir, I'm done. Are you saying I should drop it now?'
'You've got to have got hold of summat afore you can drop it, lad,’ said Dalziel. 'As far as TecSec goes, we've got nowt. OK, it's odds on that there was some kind of fiddle went on for Sanderson to get the ALBA contract. Old boys' network with mebbe a bit of old boys' blackmail thrown in, but without a complaint there's nowt criminal in that. So let's fry the fish that are in the pan, eh? The women in ANIMA who went on the raid, I want them all interviewed again.'
Wield examined this then said reasonably, 'I thought we'd decided there was no way they could have anything to do with the remains, except finding them
'Don't start telling me what I know, Wieldy,’ said Dalziel irritably. 'This is something else. You've not heard? No, of course, you were off enjoying yourself yesterday afternoon. It's a bloody good job there's someone round here puts in an honest day's work. It's Wendy Walker.'
He told Wield the story.
'How's she doing?' asked the sergeant.
'Still unconscious,' said Dalziel. 'If she wakes up, mebbe she'll be able to tell us exactly what happened. Until then all we can be sure of is she weren't knocked down the way someone tried to make it look like she was knocked down.'
'Could be the driver just wanted to shift the scene of the accident a bit further from home.'
'Yeah, even Seymour managed to work that one out,' snapped the Fat Man. 'Well that's a serious crime in itself. It would mean the driver knew she was alive still. And the way she was dumped face down in a ditch full of water suggests he didn't much care if she stayed that way. So it could be attempted murder we're dealing with.'
'So we're interviewing all known associates to see if we can pick up any pointers,' said Wield.
'By gum, you're sharp today, sergeant. I've got Seymour checking out her fellow lodgers in the house she lives in. Some kind of lefty commune by the sounds of it, so I doubt we'll get much cooperation there. And the other major bunch of contacts we know about are the ANIMA women, so if you can spare a bit of your precious time, sergeant
The probable cause of Dalziel's bad temper was beginning to be clear, but Wield liked to have things completely clear.
'Does that include Ms Marvell, sir?'
'She's one of them, isn't she?'
'Yes, but I thought, mebbe knowing her personally…'
He faltered under a gaze as obstructive as a road block.
'That's why I'm telling you off to do it,' said Dalziel softly. 'Unless you've got any objection?'
'Not the least in the world, sir,' said Wield. Then he thought, hey, that sounds more like Edwin speaking than me. But the Fat Man didn't seem to have noticed. He was looking at his watch.
'You seen Peter this morning?' he asked.
'No, but I may have missed him. I didn't look in his room…'
'Don't go all defensive cover-up on me, Wieldy,' said Dalziel. 'I doubt if I've seen him for more than two minutes since he got back from his gran's funeral. He claims he didn't cop for owt, but the way he's acting, you'd think he'd turned into a gent of independent means! I don't know what's happening to this department, but it's coming apart at the seams, and I'm the bugger to stitch it up again, even if it means drawing a bit of blood in the process. So put that into your grapevine and spread it, lad.'
'Yes, sir,' said Wield. 'I'll spread it like margarine.' ii
Peter Pascoe awoke.
It was black dark and the darkness pressed on him like a wall of dank earth which a very little undermining would bring sliding down on top of him. His nostrils flared and his mouth drew in desperate draughts of air, and he turned on his side and reached out his hand in search of he knew not what possible comfort. His fingers found flesh, still, cold, naked. He cried out in shock and tried to withdraw his hand, but before he could, it was seized in a grip irresistibly strong and out of the darkness a voice said, 'You've kicked the sodding duvet off again. God, I'm frozen solid!'
Then Ellie drew him close and held him across her shivering body.
'Purely thermal,' she murmured wa
rningly. 'Don't get any ideas.'
He didn't answer and after a while she became aware that his shivering wasn't all down to temperature.
'Hey, are you OK?' she said.
'Yes. Just a bad dream.'
'Don't tell me. This court-martial thing still?'
'Sort of… in a way… not about it though… about me… I feel like I'm there… in the Salient…'
'For Christ's sake, Peter,' she exclaimed sitting up. 'I know I said I thought you should go on with this, but if this is what it's doing to you, don't you think you should give it up?'
'Don't think it would make any difference. Thing is, this salient feeling, it's not new… I've been there before… feeling out at the limit, exposed, utterly vulnerable.'
'You're talking about after Burrthorpe, aren't you? And Chung?' Ellie's belief in open government started at home.
'I suppose so. But other times too. In some ways all of my life. I've always looked for… strength. Maybe that's why I joined the Force. Married you even.'
Attempt at lightness? Or truth in jest?
'You mean, me and Fat Andy are on a par? Thanks a bundle! Peter, I know there've been rough times, but we talked… at least I thought we talked, I thought we'd got things sorted.'
'No, please, understand me, this has nothing to do with you… without what we've got, God knows where I'd be.'
'But you've never told me, not fully. I thought we'd agreed to share everything…'
'We do. But that doesn't mean just unloading all the time. You've had bad times too without unloading all your stuff on me.'
She was silent for a while then said, 'Sounds to me maybe I was. Pete, I know you've talked to Pottle in the past and it helped. Have you thought of trying him again?'
'I called to see him last night, on my way back from Kirkton.'
He could feel her hurt at what must come over as another exclusion but all she said was, 'So what happened?'
'He listened, then said, "It seems to me that what we've got here is stress related directly to an investigation, a not uncommon syndrome in your profession. The successful conclusion of the investigation usually solves the problem of the stress also. Let us hope it does so here.'"
He caught exactly the precise tone of the psychiatrist's pronouncement, emerging from the usual cloud of cigarette smoke which he justified by saying, 'If I gave up this one disgusting habit, who knows what others would rush in to fill the gap?'
Normally Ellie might have been amused by the closeness of his mimicry. Now all she said was, 'But what is it you're investigating, Pete? Do you really know?'
'That, I suspect, is Pottle's point. Look, I was going to tell you all this last night, when we got to talking about it. Then you came up with your alternative therapy…'
After seeing Pottle he hadn't bothered to go in to the station, justifying himself with the argument that if there was anything more important waiting for him there than the usual pile of paperwork on his desk, the radio would have been foaming with his call sign all afternoon.
At home there hadn't been a chance to talk with Ellie about his day till Rosie was safely stowed in bed. She'd demanded a further episode of a bloodthirsty serial Pascoe had been inventing intermittently for longer than either could remember. Rosie sometimes went weeks without wanting a further episode but when she did, she had total recall of every detail of plot and personnel, and any variation was instantly and savagely corrected. With her editorial help he'd steered the latest instalment to its usual cliffhanging conclusion and she'd smiled up at him blissfully, murmured, 'Fucking great, Dad,' and fallen asleep.
'Ellie, we need to do something about this swearing thing,' he'd said when he got downstairs.
'I'm seeing Ms Martindale tomorrow,' said Ellie.
This was Rosie's head teacher, a charming smiling young woman, who came across as cooperative and conciliatory till you collided with her will of steel.
'Best of luck,' said Pascoe.
'So how was your day?' she asked.
'I'll tell you over dinner,' he said.
He'd started light-heartedly, making her laugh as he recounted his meeting with Polly Pollinger. But when he tried to carry on the mood into his account of his visit to Kirkton, he failed miserably.
'Let me get this straight,’ said Ellie. 'Your great-grandfather, Peter, was married to Alice Clark, both of Kirkton,’
'Yes.'
'Also living in Kirkton was his cousin, Stephen Pascoe, who was married to Mary Quiggins.'
'Yes.'
'And this Stephen was making it with Alice and when Peter was executed for cowardice on the Western Front, Stephen left his wife and child and ran off with Alice.'
'So the old Quiggins woman claims. The other one is too young to have any personal knowledge, but she confirms that was the family tradition.'
'Did Ada ever say anything about having a new dad? Or an uncle called Stephen?'
'Not that I heard.'
'And why did she grow up with the name Clark, her mother's maiden name? If Alice was shacking up with a man who had the same name as her husband's, wouldn't it have been easier just to carry on as Mrs Pascoe?'
'I'd thought about that before all this came up. I was theorizing that she'd gone off and changed her name out of shock and shame. From what I've seen of Kirkton, it can't have been much fun living round there once it got out that your man had been executed by his own side for cowardice. But if she ran off with Stephen, she might have a double reason for changing her name. Shame, and the police.'
'Why the police?' asked Ellie puzzled.
'Because la Quiggins called Stephen a deserter. I know from what Studholme said that he was wounded during the Ypres campaign in 1917. Presumably if he had recovered enough to be having an affair with Alice by late autumn, he'd recovered enough to be returned to duty. Perhaps he didn't fancy it.'
'Hold on,' said Ellie. 'Before you start tarring all the Pascoes with the same brush, Studholme didn't say anything about this Stephen being a deserter, did he?'
'No.'
'Don't you think he'd have mentioned that? Perhaps he ran off with Alice, had a couple of days with her, then when it was time to report back, he went off like a good little soldier back to the Front and got killed.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Because clearly he didn't go back to his wife and family, and equally clearly if Ada's silence means anything, he didn't go back to Alice. So, unless he was a real shit and treated his fancy woman like he treated his wife, it seems likely he didn't make it.'
'Yeah, maybe.'
Pascoe passed his hand over his face as if trying to rub something off, a gesture of weary despondency Ellie recognized and deplored. It meant that, quite unnecessarily in her view, he was letting this ancient history get to him in a big way. Damn Ada, she thought. What right did she have to let her life's obsession spill over into her grandson's?
This was the point at which Pascoe had felt ready to bring up his visit to Pottle but before he could start Ellie excused herself and went into the kitchen returning a moment later with an open bottle of his precious Nuit St Georges which she set alongside the already half-finished Hungarian Chardonnay.
Pascoe raised an eyebrow and said, 'Thirsty?'
'You could say. You know how a big red oils my wheels.'
'I can't say I'd noticed them creaking.'
'That's because you're not close enough to listen yet,' she said sultrily. She was very good at sultry when the mood was on her.
They finished the bottle in bed. Of all the teetering tightropes alcohol sets a man to tread, that between desire and performance is perhaps the most perilous, but it seemed to Peter Pascoe that for once he'd got the balance perfectly right, moving forward steady as Blondin, till the air exploded in a blast of nuclear light, sending him plunging joyfully over the edge into what had been a welcome and welcoming darkness.
Then had come that other darkness, and the waking dream which was not all a dream… but at least it had spar
ked off this talk… he felt better now… Ellie had turned away from him, snuggling into the reclaimed duvet. He put his arms round her and cupped her breasts
… twin salients these but full of comfort and promise… I too am Homo Saliens, he thought, Salient Man posted here for the duration.. .
'Hey, I said no ideas,' Ellie murmured drowsily. 'Far too early. .. your hands are cold… let us sleep now…'
Next time he awoke it was to the sound of the postman whose way with a doorbell marked him as a frustrated fireman. He sat up quickly, wished he hadn't, looked at the alarm clock, wished he hadn't done that either, and rolled out of bed, dragging the duvet with him.
'For God's sake,' said Ellie. 'You're doing it again.'
'We've slept in,' he said. 'I'm late for work, Rosie's late for school, and you're late for… something.'
'Life,' she groaned. 'Jesus, what do those fucking Frogs put in their booze?'
Catch her unawares and she could be deliciously politically incorrect. But no time now to enjoy the sound, not to mention the sight, of her, sprawled across the bed in a state of naked abandon which even in his present haste brought the familiar lustful tightness to his throat.
The doorbell had long stopped ringing. He dragged on his dressing gown and staggered onto the landing, shouting, 'Rosie, love, get up, will you? You're late.'
'No I'm not,' said his daughter from the foot of the stairs. 'I've had my breakfast and I've been making yours.'
She was all dressed ready for school, neat and tidy as could be, and in the kitchen the percolator was bubbling, the toaster toasting, and two bowls of muesli sat on the table.
By his there was a bulky package.
'I had to sign for it,' said Rosie proudly. 'The postman said really you or Mummy should sign but I said you were busy.'
That at least was something, thought Pascoe. On recent evidence, he'd not have been surprised if she'd told the man her parents were pissed out of their minds and probably bonking their eyeballs out.
He said, 'You've done really well, darling. But you should have waited. You know you oughtn't to be playing around with electrical things in the kitchen.'
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