Pictures of Perfection

by Reginald Hill

  ‘So he is. Let’s go and have a chat, shall we?’

  The door was opened by Mrs Hogbin whose ‘turn’, Pascoe recollected, had saved the WI from further exposure to the Squire’s balladry. Her bright eyes and rosy cheeks suggested that the ‘turn’ might well have been theatrical rather than medical.

  She waved aside Pascoe’s attempts at explanation with the unflattering assertion, ‘Makes no matter who you are. He doesn’t get far with the frame, so I push in anyone who comes a-calling. Witnesses, travellers, insurance men, he don’t mind so long as he gets a bit of crack.’

  Mr Hogbin was standing in the shallow window bay, leaning into his aluminium walking frame as if it were a pulpit, and peering down at the nodding daffodils with all the noble intensity of Doctor Donne about to say something striking about bells. He didn’t move or turn his head even when his wife said, ‘Here’s someone to see you, luv. Bobbies they say they are.’

  ‘Mr Hogbin,’ said Pascoe. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Pascoe and this is Detective-Sergeant Wield. We’re trying to get hold of Constable Bendish and I gather you saw him yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Aye. I told Sergeant Filmer all about it.’

  His voice was strong and slow, with a discernible pause between words, though whether this was an aftermath of the stroke or just a natural habit wasn’t easy to say.

  ‘Can you tell us, please?’

  The old man turned his head now. He looked at Wield without recognition, which probably meant his long sight was good enough for action but not for detail.

  He said, ‘I saw our Madge come running out of the bushes slap bang into this motorbike.’

  ‘Oh dear, that must have been a shock,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Nay. Fellow were hardly moving. It were her own fault and I could see she weren’t hurt. So she runs on into the house. Then Mr Bendish appears …’

  ‘How? I mean, where did he come from?’

  ‘Out of the shrubbery,’ said Hogbin.

  ‘The same bit as your Madge comes out of?’

  ‘Aye. Likely she’d been up to some mischief and he were chasing her. They’re good chums mainly, but she can be a cheeky little monkey when she wants.’

  ‘So you saw the Constable and this motorcyclist talking …’

  ‘Aye. I got the impression Mr Bendish were giving him a rollicking.’

  Pascoe smiled and said, ‘He probably deserved it. And what happened then?’

  ‘I got called for me tea.’

  ‘So you didn’t see the end of this … discussion?’

  ‘No, but likely it came to nowt. Not like in old Chaz Barnwall’s day. Clip a kid’s ear just for looking cheeky, would old Chaz. As for someone taking a swing at him, he’d have parted their hair with his truncheon!’

  Pascoe exchanged a puzzled glance with Wield, then said, ‘What makes you think PC Bendish wouldn’t defend himself?’

  ‘Saw him, didn’t I? Not long back. Bang! Down he goes, hits the ground, gets up, all bleeding. And what’s he do? Goes off meek as a lamb, doesn’t even look back.’

  ‘Where was this? Who hit him?’ asked Pascoe.

  But the old man’s only response was to shut his lips tight and shake his head, and his wife came forward saying, ‘Now don’t overtax yourself, Jocky. I think he’s had enough for now, gets tired easy, you shouldn’t pay too much heed to what he says, past and present gets all mixed up …’

  On this tide of words the two detectives found themselves washed out into the kitchen, a pleasant light room full of spicy baking smells and with its walls lined with childish pictures.

  ‘Did Madge do these?’ guessed Wield.

  ‘That’s right. Always painting and drawing, our Madge. They do a lot of art at school. Mrs Pottinger’s a right good painter herself, so I reckon she thinks it’s important.’

  ‘But you don’t?’ said Pascoe, smiling.

  ‘So long as it doesn’t interfere with spelling and arithmetic, I suppose there’s no harm in it. But such odd things she paints. That’s one she did herself last evening. Now what’s that meant to be, I ask you?’

  Pascoe looked at the painting Wield was peering at. To his eye it looked like two figures clad in blue having a fight.

  ‘A wrestling match?’ he guessed. ‘What do you think, Wieldy?’

  But Wield said nothing. He was recalling his gently lustful thoughts as he watched Harold Bendish strutting his stuff around the motorbike yesterday, and wondering if little Madge Hogbin was gifted with ESP. For to his guilty eye the painting showed quite clearly two policemen locked in a passionate embrace!

  Refusing Mrs Hogbin’s offer of a cup of tea, the detectives left.

  Outside, Pascoe said, ‘What do you make of that? How confused is the old boy?’

  ‘Not much, I’d say, and his missus even less,’ said Wield. ‘It ’ud explain Bendish’s bruise and cut hand if he’d been in a ruck.’

  ‘But his hard-man image doesn’t make it sound likely he’d back down.’

  ‘Depends how in the wrong he was,’ said Wield.

  ‘Maybe. But it still sounds out of character. Like this flashing. From the sound of things, the only flashing this fellow is likely to do is with his roof light when he flags down some mum for pushing her pram too fast … Bloody hell!’

  It wasn’t a pram that came speeding up behind them but a Land Rover, horn blaring, driver grinning broadly as he sent the two policemen tumbling into the lower reaches of a rhododendron bush.

  ‘Who the hell was that?’ cried Pascoe as the vehicle swept out of sight down the drive with no diminution of speed.

  ‘Guy the Heir, I think,’ said Wield, standing up gingerly and testing his limbs and trousers for damage.

  ‘Right. Let’s go and talk to the lunatic,’ said Pascoe grimly.

  They found the Land Rover in front of the Hall. Three young men and a green-haired girl had got out and were busy unloading boxes of equipment. Identifying their leader as the athletically slim man wearing a Barbour jacket and a superior air, Pascoe approached him and said, ‘Excuse me, sir, could I see your driving licence?’

  Guy Guillemard looked him up and down insolently and said, ‘Are you selling brushes or have you brought your chum for the cure? Don’t think we do plastic surgery.’

  His acolytes laughed appreciatively.

  ‘You might care to look at this, sir,’ said Pascoe, holding his warrant before the man’s eyes. ‘Now, your licence, please.’

  Guillemard examined the warrant with mock awe, then he said, ‘No, I don’t think I want one, so why don’t you just piss off?’

  Taken aback, Pascoe checked to make sure he hadn’t pulled out his library card by mistake. He hadn’t.

  ‘Perhaps you can’t read,’ he said. ‘The name’s Pascoe. Detective Chief Inspector Peter Pascoe.’

  ‘You were one of the oiks littering the drive, right?’

  ‘I was one of the pedestrians you almost ran over.’

  ‘Can’t hit gold every time, can we? But if you are a cop, you ought to be aware that as this driveway is not a public highway but private property, whatever breach of the road traffic regulations you are alleging doesn’t apply. I could be a one-eyed epileptic fifteen-year-old, and drunk as a skunk to boot, and you couldn’t touch me. So why not give it a rest, Sherlock, and if you want to block the traffic, go and do it on a busy motorway.’

  Pascoe looked at the smiling, self-assured face and felt an almost irresistible impulse to punch the man’s nose through the back of his neck. Worse, he found he did not wish to resist the impulse. In front of all these witnesses to cut through the knotted ambiguities of his attitude to his career with a single blow! To exit not with a whimper but a bang! It had all the allure of simplicity.

  A cloud of smoke had formed in the doorway of the Hall. Out of it emerged Girlie Guillemard. She advanced towards them, saying, ‘There you are, Guy.’

  The man turned, opened his arms as if in anticipation of an embrace and said, ‘Girlie, my sweet. What do
es a thirsty man have to do to get a drink round here?’

  The woman hit him full in the face, an open-handed smack which sent him staggering back against Pascoe.

  ‘You watch your manners for a start,’ she said mildly. ‘Your let’s-pretend fights are fine for consenting adults, but not when you start picking on folk who can’t fight back.’

  Pascoe was so close he could see the muscles on the back of Guy’s neck clench like a fist. Then Girlie kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, ‘By the way, I thought you were staying last night. What happened?’

  Slowly the neck muscles relaxed.

  ‘Sorry, I got held up, in a manner of speaking. I did try to ring, got the engaged signal, then I got cut off altogether. That thing of yours must be on the blink.’

  Girlie looked at the mobile phone around her neck and said, ‘You were probably too drunk to dial the right number. I need to talk to you, Guy. After you’ve finished with Mr Pascoe, that is.’

  His face now composed to rue, the man swung round, reached into one of his many pockets, and pulled out a wallet from which he took a driving licence.

  ‘There you are, Inspector. Sorry to have been an arsehole. And sorry if I got a bit close on the drive. Will take more care next time. Sorry.’

  The smile was no longer superior but almost childishly appealing.

  Now might be an even better time to punch it off, thought Pascoe.

  He resisted the temptation. Or missed the opportunity.

  Studying the licence, he said, ‘This your vehicle, sir?’

  ‘Indeed. Well, the business’s really. You’ll find everything in order. Taxed, tested, and insured. What brings you here, anyway, Chief Inspector? You don’t look like a traffic man to me.’

  ‘One of their constables is missing,’ said Girlie.

  This sounded like an irresistible cue for laughter, but Guy the Heir kept his face straight and said, ‘Not the estimable Bendish, I hope?’

  ‘You know PC Bendish, sir?’

  ‘Oh yes. We’ve had contact.’ His lips twitched momentarily, then he became serious again as he said, ‘Look, if it comes to beating the moors or anything like that, give us a yell. This baby can go anywhere, and so can the ugly buggers who travel in her.’

  Now they all laughed and the atmosphere eased enough for Pascoe to feel able to withdraw with dignity.

  He said, ‘I hope it won’t come to that, but thanks for the offer. And in future try to observe your own speed limit.’

  The warning went unheard or at least unacknowledged. At some point Frances Harding had appeared on the scene. Guy headed towards her, crying, ‘There she is, my little celandine! Fran, have you heard? Dear Constable Bendish has taken French leave and can’t be found anywhere. We must all keep our eyes open for him, mustn’t we? In case he comes to harm.’

  He reached her and aimed a kiss at her lips but she ducked her head evasively and inadvertently dealt him the painful blow with her brow that Pascoe had been tempted to with his fist. At least he assumed it was inadvertence, though the colour flooding her pale cheeks seemed this time to have more of the cranberry of wrath in it than the apricot of embarrassment.

  He looked towards her. Their eyes met. He smiled and she looked away.

  ‘Time to be off, Wieldy,’ said Pascoe. ‘Let’s get down to Church Cottage. Could be our wandering boy’s home now.’

  ‘Could be,’ said the Sergeant.

  ‘You don’t sound optimistic. What’s up? Got a bad feeling about this place?’

  Wield’s forte was facts, so if he started getting bad vibes it was unusual enough to be worth noticing.

  ‘I don’t know. If it’s bad, I mean. I’ve certainly got a feeling that something has happened … or is happening … or is going to happen here … something big. Mebbe I should book in at this Health Park!’

  ‘I certainly shouldn’t mention it to Fat Andy,’ said Pascoe. ‘He’d likely dose you with cod liver oil.’

  He spoke lightly, reluctant to admit that Wield’s premonition chimed with his own sense of atmospheric disturbance. Such presentiment on an Adriatic beach sent the attendants scurrying to furl the parasols, though to the holiday visitor they brought merely a thrill of pleasure at the storm to come. It all really came down to how he saw his function here. Was he an involved attendant or just an idle tourist?

  Wield looked as if he’d chosen the latter role, standing by the car door, rubbernecking the northern sky like it was the dome of St Mark’s. He let his own gaze drift upwards. At first he could see nothing but the wind-torn clouds above the lowering moor. Then he caught a movement.

  A bird … no, two birds … very high … circling, circling …

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘I like him very much. I am sure he is clever & a Man of Taste. – very smiling, with an exceedingly good address & readiness of language – I am rather in love with him. – I dare say he is ambitious & Insincere.’

  As he shaved in the morning, or saw his elegant profile on the Arts Page of the Evening Post, or played a video of one of his TV shows, Justin Halavant usually congratulated himself on being Justin Halavant.

  Best of all he liked to see himself mirrored in the envious eyes of his acolytes, those who, for a mere tithe of his wit, looks, style, taste, and success with women, would have traded their sister’s virtue, which he’d probably already had gratis anyway.

  But there were times when he had to acknowledge that, though what he had he had perfectly, he did not have everything.

  For instance he had no talent for burglary.

  It had started well enough. Getting into Corpse Cottage was surprisingly easy. He turned the door handle and it opened.

  Just for the show of the thing, he called, ‘I say. Constable Bendish!’ twice. Then he stepped inside.

  Now the trouble started. A burglar would presumably know where to start looking. He opted for the deep alcoves found by the chimney breast which Bendish clearly used as his office. Here was a bureau with all the necessary forms of his business carefully pigeonholed. But the drawers were locked, and the cupboards beneath also, and though in tele-fiction such things burst open at the touch of a nail file, in real life they proved much more obdurate.

  In any case, it was surely a waste of time searching in an office for what all the evidence suggested had remained unofficial.

  He went upstairs. Bedrooms were the opposite of offices. Here a man was at his most private. Here he would hide what touched him most closely.

  But where? No locked drawers here, but nothing in them save socks and shirts and vests and pants. The shelves of the wardrobe were no more productive. He lifted the pillows off the bed, then in desperation raised the mattress to check beneath.

  It was while he was thus occupied that he heard the car pull up outside.

  Had he shut the front door? He couldn’t recall. In any case it made no matter; what he had done, anyone could do. Car doors opened, slammed. Voices floated upward. He had to act, but action belonged to another world than this. He was a figure in a painting, caught on canvas forever, the raised mattress in his hands. The whence and whither others must decide as they shuffled past in judgement with their catalogues at the high port.

  Then he was seized from behind, the mattress fell back on the bed and he on top of it with his attacker straddling him. Rape! Oh God! Was this what it felt like? Had Caddy perhaps felt like this as he flung her down on the stairs in the Gallery?

  This rare pang of guilt was immediately rewarded with the idea of dealing with his attacker as she had dealt with hers. But to do this he needed to twist round to bring his knee into play and his assailant had a lock on his neck which held him helpless.

  Then he heard footsteps on the stairs and felt rather than saw other men racing into the room.

  ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ demanded Peter Pascoe.

  In strict terms what was going on was clear for all to see. A man dressed as a vicar was pinning Justin Halavant to the bed with what looked lik
e a professional wrestling hold.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded the holy wrestler, turning to look at them.

  ‘Police,’ said Pascoe. ‘Do you mind standing up?’

  The Vicar relaxed his hold. Immediately the underling twisted round and brought his knee up in what would have been a vicious assault on the clerical crutch had not its owner slipped easily off the bed before contact was made.

  ‘Good Lord,’ he said as he saw his victim’s face. ‘Mr Halavant.’

  And equally amazed, the now supine man said, ‘Lillingstone! What the hell are you playing at?’

  ‘A better question might be, what are you both playing at?’ said Pascoe sternly. ‘This house is police property. Would you mind explaining what you’re doing here?’

  ‘In my case, that’s very easy,’ said Lillingstone. ‘I’m doing what I imagine is your job. I was coming down the drive from the vicarage when I saw a movement up here. I’d heard about Mr Bendish’s absence, so naturally I was suspicious. I came in …’

  ‘How?’ interjected Pascoe.

  ‘Through the front door. It was ajar,’ said the Vicar. ‘I came upstairs and saw what I thought was a burglar stooping over the bed lifting up the mattress. So I performed a citizen’s arrest.’

  ‘Very civic-minded of you,’ said Pascoe. ‘And you, Mr Halavant. How was it for you?’

  ‘An outrage!’ said Halavant, standing up and checking his body for damage, his clothes for disarray. ‘I had come in search of Constable Bendish. Finding the door open, I came in and called his name. There was no reply but I thought I heard a noise upstairs, so I came up.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Pascoe.

  ‘In case the Constable was in trouble. He might have had a fit or a fall. It was my duty.’

  ‘Enscombe is positively awash with civic concern,’ murmured Pascoe. ‘And you were raising the mattress in case the Constable had somehow slipped beneath it during his fall or his fit?’

  ‘I thought he might have rolled beneath the bed.’

  ‘In that case, wouldn’t it have been easier simply to stoop and look?’

  ‘I choose never to stoop,’ said Halavant. ‘I’m puzzled why you should be so puzzled by my concern when you yourself are clearly concerned enough to bring in reinforcements to investigate your constable’s absence.’