The wood beyond dap-15

by Reginald Hill

  'You make it sound very cynical.'

  'Do I? Well, I rather think it was. It got him noticed and also provided somewhere for my other great-grandfather, Sam Batty, to try out his medical innovations without too much comeback if they went wrong.'

  'So even then the Battys were into animal experiments at Wanwood,' said Pascoe.

  'Very sharp,' laughed Batty. 'Yes, I recall last time we met thinking, here's a one to watch. Does it help if I tell you that the animals being experimented on back then were exclusively officer class? Old Arthur reckoned that by sticking to officers there was more chance of winning the notice and gratitude of families with influence. Don't misunderstand me. The old boy was as virulently patriotic as everyone else was in those days. He wanted to do his bit, and more than his bit. But he reckoned the labourer was worthy of his hire and he estimated his own worth as a knighthood. I can just imagine what he felt like when his name appeared with hundreds of others in the new honours list, and he found he'd got an OBE!'

  'Devastating,' observed Pascoe.

  'The family story is he wanted to tell them to stuff it, but calmer counsel prevailed and he set about getting in peace what he hadn't managed in war. Contributions to party funds, being in the right places on the right committees at the right times – he even gave Wanwood to the nation as a hospital. That made a big splash.'

  'That was generous,' admitted Pascoe.

  'Not really,' smiled Batty. 'What actually happened was some of the medical staff who worked there during the war approached him with a view to making it a permanent clinic. He didn't much care for the place any more, it was going to cost a bomb to refurbish it to domestic habitability, so he did a deal and sold them a ninety-nineyear lease. Only somehow it came out in the papers that he'd given the place away.'

  'And it was a private clinic, right? Hardly a gift to the nation.'

  'There were public beds for qualifying locals. It did quite well, I believe, till the NHS got under way. Then it might have gone under if an independent company hadn't taken it over. A company in which, purely by chance, old Arthur had a controlling share.'

  He watched Pascoe's reaction almost gleefully. Why's he doing this? wondered Pascoe. Paying off some old score against his dad who clearly wanted to keep all this under his hat? And what's it got to do with anything anyway?

  He said, 'Dr Batty…'

  'David. Do call me David. Your elephantoid boss does and I see no reason why I should be on less familiar terms with the civilized face of policing than with its rump.'

  Pascoe smiled, not just at the joke though it wasn't bad, but at the value judgment it contained. You'd think a doctor of all people would know the dangers of under-estimating a rump.

  'David, this is all very interesting, but the fact that your great-grandfather was a wily old bird hardly seems relevant to my enquiries. Though of course if what you're saying is that somehow ALBA bought what it in fact owned already, the DTI might be interested

  'I thought I made it clear. ALBA didn't own it. This other company did. True, old Arthur's shares in it were inherited by my… mother, so when the company, that's ALBA, decided that Wanwood would make an ideal site for its research centre, there was little problem about putting the clinic, which was already in terminal decline, into liquidation. It was all perfectly legal and above board. You saw the papers yourself.'

  Pascoe had registered but could see no significance in the curious little hesitation about Mrs Batty's ownership of the controlling share. Perhaps that's where the weakest point of the fiddle lay. Not that he believed there was one chance in a million of proving an illegality. This was peanuts compared with the billions that vanished every year in the great world of commerce, leaving no trace but the anguish of impoverished shareholders and the frustration of the Serious Fraud Squad. But for all that, he knew what common sense, not to mention common decency, told him, that there had been a fiddle.

  'Yes, I saw the papers. But I saw nothing there to indicate ALBA was buying what the wife of its chairman owned already and had helped put into receivership in order to facilitate her husband's acquisition,’ said Pascoe coldly.

  'Well, you wouldn't, would you? As for my father, he's got rather the same ambitions as old Arthur, and this is one skeleton he prefers to keep buried deep in the family cupboard. Why he should worry I don't know. In the present climate a history of good old honest sleaze is probably a recommendation!'

  'Sleaze? Would you care to be a little more specific without of course incriminating yourself?'

  'Nice one, Peter,' said Batty chuckling. 'Well, you see, by 1930 Arthur was becoming really impatient. He reckoned he'd dropped enough strong, and expensive, hints. So he entered into direct negotiation for what, after all, he truly believed was no more than his due. And everyone was at it. Alas, he'd waited too long. He got caught up in the wave of indignation and investigation which ended up with Maundy Gregory's conviction in '33 for touting honours. That was it. He escaped prosecution, but his name was tainted for evermore. You can see why my father would prefer that old story wasn't dredged up when he's so close to the short list himself.'

  No, thought Pascoe. I can't really. And I can't see why I've spent so much time sitting here listening to this sordid saga of life in the commercial fast lane.

  He said, 'Will you have any objection to one of my men coming along and taking a closer look at those files in your cellar?'

  'No, of course not,' said Batty. 'If you care to take them away and burn them when you're finished I'd have no objection to that either. So tell me, Peter, what was it you actually wanted to see me about?'

  'Well, about the files, I suppose,' said Pascoe.

  'But you didn't know the files existed till you got here,' said Batty amused.

  Pascoe smiled too.

  'ESP,' he said. 'I'm famous for it, didn't you know?' v

  Ellie Pascoe's appointment with Miss Martindale was at midday. She wasn't looking forward to it. Not many people intimidated her, but Miss Martindale was high on the short list.

  In appearance the head teacher was far from formidable. With her flowered dresses, flattish shoes, bare legs, bobbed hair and round, smiling, glowing, almost make-up-less face, she wouldn't have been out of place at a Betjeman tennis tourney. But when you tried to stick labels on her, that healthy pink skin was like Teflon.

  Politically, from loony left to rabid right, nothing fitted. Socially she moved with an automatic gearbox up and down the classes. Sexually she gave no clue whether she was vestal or venereal, straight or gay. Her manner was easy and friendly yet she observed the formalities as rigidly as any old-fashioned schoolmarm. To Ellie's invitation at an earlier meeting to use her first name she'd replied, smiling, 'I'll think of you as Ellie but in the interests of consistency it had better stay Mrs Pascoe.'

  'And how shall I think of you?' enquired Ellie.

  'If all goes well, I hope as little as possible,' had come the reply. So, difficult to lay a glove on. But if she floated like a butterfly, she could also sting like a bee.

  'After we spoke on the phone, I had a word with Rose's class teacher who couldn't recall a single instance of Rose using inappropriate language.'

  No language was 'bad' of course. On that at least they were agreed.

  'Perhaps,' said Ellie, 'because in reference to the learning situation no occasion arose when it would seem appropriate.'

  'We have also monitored as far as is humanly possible her speech outside of the classroom. In play. During fairly fierce disputes with her friends about some point of information or order. The same.'

  'What are you saying, Ms Martindale?' The 'Ms' was the closest Ellie could get to establishing some control of the relationship. 'That I'm imagining this inappropriate language?'

  'Of course not.' That natural irresistible smile. 'Simply that you and your husband are, to the best of our knowledge so far, the only ones who have shared an occasion on which Rose felt the language in question was appropriate.'

  It took
Ellie an incredulous microsecond to pick the bones out of this.

  'You mean it's our fault?'

  'Please, Mrs Pascoe, I didn't think we were talking faults here. I thought we were meeting to discuss what you see as a problem, not to deal with what others might see as a complaint.'

  Ellie pulled herself together.

  'You're quite right,' she said. 'I do see it as a problem. And if, as seems likely, the problem originates here, then yes again, I am making a complaint.'

  'Fair enough. The complaint being that your daughter is learning new words and phrases at school?'

  Ellie stiffened in her seat and pursed her lips. Then she thought in horror, I don't purse my lips! That's what Mum used to do when she felt a fit of righteous indignation coming on!

  She saw Miss Martindale regarding her gravely but with just the hint of a held-back smile on that generous mouth. Their gazes locked. And gradually the tension ebbed from Ellie's shoulder muscles and she relaxed in her chair.

  'Oh shit,' she said.

  'Is that exclamatory or descriptive?'

  'It just seemed the appropriate thing to say.'

  Miss Martindale considered and the smile broke loose.

  'Bugger me,' she said, 'if I don't believe you're right.'

  When she left ten minutes later, Ellie offered her hand and said, 'Thank you, Miss Martindale.'

  The smile flickered in acknowledgment of the 'Miss'.

  'Always a pleasure, Ms Pascoe,' she said.

  As she drove away, Ellie was still smiling. That was something you tended to forget about Miss Martindale. You rarely came away from an interview feeling victorious. But you usually came away feeling good. She drove into the town centre. Street-level parking was almost impossible and she disliked the multistorey. On impulse she turned into the Black Bull car park. This was CID's favourite drinking hole and normally she'd have steered clear, but today the thought of bumping into the gang didn't bother her, and she might even be lucky enough to catch Peter there by himself, though of course he claimed it was only the iron grip of Fat Andy that dragged him into the place. The other attraction was that for the price of a sandwich and a beer, plus a nice smile at Jolly Jack the lugubrious landlord, she could get free parking while she did her afternoon shopping.

  She was rather disappointed to find the place almost empty.

  'Long time no see,' said the landlord as she curled her long legs round a bar stool. 'Thought you must've left him.'

  'I can see how my absence has aged you,' she replied. 'Half of best and a beef and mustard please.'

  There was a copy of last night's Evening Post on the bar and she glanced at it idly as she waited. Then a name caught her eye.

  And for the second time that morning 'Oh shit!' seemed the only appropriate response.

  She slid off the stool and headed for the telephone by the door. The infirmary number had been etched into her memory bank during the time Peter had been in there recovering from his injuries down Burrthorpe mine. She got through straight away.

  'I'm ringing about a friend who's in Intensive Care,' she said. 'Wendy Walker.'

  There was a hesitation, then a new voice asked, 'Are you a relative?'

  'No. A friend.'

  'Could I have your name, please?'

  For a moment she came close to explosion.

  Then she said, 'Is this just mindless bureaucracy or a police job?'

  That did it.

  'Is that Mrs Pascoe? Dennis Seymour here.'

  'Dennis, great. How is she?'

  'She's still not recovered consciousness yet, Mrs Pascoe, but they're hopeful. Er, is it yourself you're ringing for or the guv'nor?'

  'It's myself, Dennis. The guv'nor, as you so archaically call him, hasn't seen fit to mention Wendy's accident.'

  That was unfair. Of course Peter would have told her if he'd known.

  She said, 'What exactly happened, Dennis?'

  'Oh, looks like hit and run,' he said vaguely. 'Knocked her off her bike.'

  'It said in the Post it was on Ludd Lane.'

  'That's right.'

  Ellie considered. There was something not right here.

  She said, 'Dennis, what are you doing there?'

  'Just waiting. Mr Dalziel said he wanted to know soon as she woke up.'

  'Oh yes.' Which was really English for the more expressive American 'Oh yeah?!' She knew her Dalziel and he didn't waste valuable CID time letting his officers hang around hospitals waiting for traffic accident victims to wake up. Not even when it was hit and run. That was a job which even PC Hector, Mid-Yorkshire's contribution to Care in the Community, could manage with a more than even chance of success.

  She knew it wasn't fair to browbeat Seymour into telling more than he should, but if that's what it took to get at the truth…

  Then behind her she heard a voice say, 'Jack, one Scotch pie and some mushy peas, and a lettuce sandwich for my rabbit.'

  Ellie said, 'Thanks, Dennis. Regards to Bernadette. See you.'

  She turned to see Andy Dalziel inserting his buttocks into the only chair in the pub fit to receive such a generous offering. With him was Wield. The landlord was already advancing from the bar with a foaming pint in either hand. Not even a cabinet minister at the Ritz could command better service.

  'That lettuce, Mr Wield, you want something with it?'

  'Tomato 'ud be nice, Jack. And mebbe a slice of onion.'

  'Jesus, just because you're living like a vegetable, there's no need to eat the bloody things,' said Dalziel in disgust. 'Well, hello, lass, is that you? By God you're looking well. Take heed, Wieldy. You don't fill your jeans like that on peas and parsnips!'

  'Hello, Andy. Don't get up. Hi, Wieldy.'

  Wield who had half risen sank back into his seat, smiling. Dalziel, who hadn't moved, said, 'Take the weight off your feet, lass. Have you got a drink?'

  He's only spoken a couple of sentences, thought Ellie, and twice he's implied I'm getting fat!

  'I've ordered something. Oh thanks, Jack.'

  The landlord had arrived with her gill and sandwich.

  'Is that the beef?' said Dalziel. 'Jack, tha's not been buying them carcasses from the Ministry vet again, have you?'

  Quickly Ellie bit into her sandwich.

  'It's fine,' she said. 'Andy, what's going off about Wendy Walker? I'd ask Peter-'

  'Aye. Didn't he once used to work for me? How's he finding retirement?'

  '-only as he didn't mention it last night, I assume he knows nothing about it.'

  'Surprised it's taken you so long to catch on. Happened the night afore last, same evening as that university do. Didn't you say you thought she'd be coming? Well, she were found knocked off her bike in Ludd Lane, so mebbe she was on her way.'

  'Not from home, she wasn't,' said Ellie. 'Her place is in exactly the opposite direction. And she said she wasn't coming on her bike because she wanted a lift back.'

  'Lift back don't mean you can't arrive on a bike,' objected Dalziel.

  Ellie said quietly, 'Andy, what's going on? She's my friend. Why're you playing with me?'

  'Nay,' said the Fat Man taking a long pull at his beer. Seems to me like it's you doing the playing. Friend gets knocked down, you don't start thinking foul play, not without reason. Now in polite conversation, it's ladies first. And in police conversation, it's witnesses first. Either way, that's you, luv.'

  It's not fair, thought Ellie. Only two people who can outpunch me, and I've got to take 'em both on in the same day!

  Wield said, 'Hello, Pete. Get you a drink?'

  A hand touched her shoulder and she looked up to see her husband's pleased but puzzled face. She smiled at him and he stooped to kiss her.

  'So where've you been then?' said Dalziel menacingly. 'Somewhere interesting I hope?'

  'I thought so,' said Pascoe sitting down. 'Jack's bringing me a pint, Wieldy. Incidentally, I've got a nice little job, right up your street. Out at Wanwood House. Which is where I've spent a not uninteresting morni
ng.'

  'It'll keep,' said Dalziel. 'We were just talking about Wendy Walker's accident.'

  'Good lord. What happened?' asked Pascoe glancing anxiously at his wife.

  She'd never doubted his ignorance but it was good to have it confirmed nonetheless.

  Dalziel gave the bare facts, paused, then went on. 'But we've got reason to think it's mebbe more than a simple hit-and-run. Could be she were hit, in one sense or another, a long way off Ludd Lane, and just dumped there to die.'

  He's decided the best way to get me talking is to give it straight, thought Ellie. And as usual the fat bastard's right! Well, I just hope he likes it when he hears it.

  She said quietly, 'I may have some information which can help.'

  Pascoe looked at her in surprise. Dalziel said, 'All contributions gratefully received.'

  'Wendy came to see me the afternoon of the uni party. She had something she wanted to tell me, or at least talk over with me. But it wasn't convenient then.'

  She glanced at her husband who was wearing that little frown of concentration which made him look like Thomas Aquinas. Should she have waited till they were alone before telling him this? In other words, was she doing that most unwifely thing of making your husband look foolish in front of his peers? She didn't think so, but there were still areas of the male psyche which remained terra incognita. Too late to draw back now. And in any case all she'd really have done talking to him privately would have been to off-load the perilous task of putting Andy in a quandary.

  She went on, 'Walker is Wendy's married name. She kept it when she split with her husband partly because she liked the alliteration but mainly because she had no desire to relive the childhood embarrassment of her family name. Shufflebottom.'

  She paused and looked at the three men. Pascoe frowned a little harder. Dalziel said, 'Nowt wrong wi' Shufflebottom. Good honest Yorkshire name.'

  Yes, thought Ellie. If you're a good honest Yorkshire lad, with shoulders like an ox-yoke and fists like hams.

  And Wield, whose mind sorted out connections like Bradshaw, said, 'Same name as that guard that got killed up at Redcar.'