Dalziel 06 A Killing Kindness

by Reginald Hill

  'I drink anything now,' she said. 'If it poisons the system, then I suppose my system's done for.'

  Pascoe took the can from her thin nervous fingers, opened it, poured the beer and chose his words carefully.

  'Mrs Wildgoose, from what you said to Ellie yesterday and what you've just said to me, would I be right in saying you think your husband may know something about these so-called Choker killings?'

  'Yes,' she said in a low voice, followed almost immediately by a No! in a semi-scream that startled Pascoe into spilling some drops of beer.

  'How could I say that?' she demanded. 'I don't know. He just seems so odd, so fearful. In everysense. So frightening and so full of fear. Do you follow me?'

  'I think so,’ said Pascoe, more in response to her compellingly intense gaze than the dictates of reason. He could recall a junior schoolteacher whose urgent questioning had similarly seemed to preclude a negative response. He could also remember her wrath when, inevitably, he had had to admit his real ignorance.

  It was time to take the initiative.

  The door burst open before he could speak and a girl of about thirteen rushed in, closely followed by a slightly younger boy. They stopped dead as they saw Pascoe.

  'Oops, sorry,' said the girl.

  'This is my daughter, Sue. My son, Alan. This is Inspector Pascoe, dears. We won't be long. If you're finding time's hanging a bit heavy, you might like to finish off the front lawn for me.'

  The girl made an unenthusiastic face and withdrew. Neither she nor her brother looked much like their mother in their features, though they shared her dark colouring. At least they were obedient, thought Pascoe when almost instantly the whine of the electric mower was heard. A desirable quality in children, one which he and Ellie would look for in their own family. He hoped.

  'Mrs Wildgoose, your husband's mental state may be relevant, but it's not primary, not yet. Think carefully. Is there anything at all, anything concrete, which links your husband to June McCarthy - or any of the other girls for that matter?'

  Her eyes opened even wider in amazement at his denseness. Doesn't she ever blink? wondered Pascoe.

  'The allotment,' she said.

  'We know about the allotment,' said Pascoe patiently. 'Did he ever mention June McCarthy? Or any girl he'd met or seen when he was in Pump Street?'

  'Why should he?' she demanded. 'He'd want to keep something like that pretty quiet, wouldn't he?'

  'Like an affair, you mean?' said Pascoe doubtfully. 'You're suggesting he could have been having an affair with this girl?'

  'It wouldn't have been the first,' she retorted bitterly. 'He's got a little greenhouse down there. Very handy.'

  'A greenhouse is not the most discreet of places to have an affair in,' observed Pascoe pedantically.

  'The wall panes are whitewashed,' she said triumphantly. 'So you can't see in. And the children went down there once and he wouldn't let them in.'

  Pascoe had a quick mental vision of Wildgoose fornicating among the tomato plants. Green thoughts in a green house.

  'And that's all?' he said.

  'What else do you want? Photographs?' she flashed.

  'Did he ever drink in the Cheshire Cheese, do you know?' asked Pascoe.

  'We have done,' she said. 'Of course that was before we went off alcohol.'

  'Was your husband back on alcohol before you broke up?'

  'Yes, he was,' she said. 'I remember he came home one evening and I smelt it on his breath. It was round about then that I felt things were beginning to go desperately wrong.'

  'In what way?'

  'This hate I told you about. This resentment. It seemed to flare up then.'

  'Then being?'

  'Earlier in the summer. I don't know. End of May, I think.'

  Pascoe took out a diary and thumbed through it.

  'And you actually left him when?'

  'June 14th,' she said promptly. 'I remember that. It was Alan's birthday. Mark was late. I complained. There was a great row. Mark flew out of the house. He didn't come back till after midnight, in a worse mood than when he'd left and stinking of drink. I slept in the spare room that night with the bed pushed against the door. First thing next morning I got out with the children and went round to Thelma Lacewing's flat. You'll know her, I expect.'

  'Oh yes.'

  'She's marvellous, isn't she?'

  'Uh-huh. And your husband . . . ?'

  'Still sleeping, of course. The drink did that for me at least. That at least. Yes, the fourteenth. Just a month. Christ.'

  Pascoe regarded her keenly and waited.

  For a woman so eager to suggest her husband might be the Choker she was missing a golden opportunity.

  Or perhaps she was clever enough to know that some things don't need underlining. Perhaps she felt she could rely on even the most bumbling of bobbies to recall that it was on the night of June 14th that Mary Dinwoodie had been choked to death behind the Cheshire Cheese.

  He asked one last question as he rose with Mark Wildgoose's new address in his notebook.

  'Despite your suspicions of your husband you still see him. Why's that?'

  'He's entitled to access to the children. In any case, I certainly don't want him to think I suspect,' she said defiantly.

  It didn't ring true.

  'How was your trip yesterday?' he enquired idly as she escorted him to the open front door.

  The girl was in the garden propelling the electric mower. She seemed to have made very little progress, observed Pascoe.

  'Fine,' said Lorraine Wildgoose. 'It was OK. The children enjoyed it. Oh, excuse me.'

  Behind her a telephone was ringing. She retreated, closing the door firmly.

  Pascoe walked down the path. The girl was standing still watching him. The mower blades had a different note when it wasn't in motion.

  Pascoe paused and smiled at the girl.

  'Your mother's upset,’ he said. 'Don't take notice of everything she says. It's a bad time for her.'

  The girl didn't return his smile but she made no effort to deny her eavesdropping.

  'Are you going to arrest Daddy?' she said.

  'No. Why should I? But I'm going to talk with him.'

  'It's not always his fault,’ she said. 'She spoilt it yesterday.'

  'Yesterday?'

  'Yes. She went into some woman's house first of all and didn't come out for ages. We were roasting in the car. Then when we got to the seaside she nagged all the time. Daddy wanted us all to have tea together later and not come home till the evening, but she started to row with him and we were back home by tea-time.'

  'So it wasn't a very good day for you?' said Pascoe thoughtfully.

  'It could have been,' she retorted.

  Pascoe dug into his pocket and came up with a 50p piece. In the distance he could hear the carillon of an ice-cream van.

  'It's a funny old world,' he said. 'But the grass keeps on growing. Why don't you find your brother and share a cornet or whatever else you can buy with this nowadays?'

  The silver coin spun through the air. She caught it two-handed, smiled with great charm, said 'Thank you!' and ran off out of the garden gate.

  Pascoe watched her go and suddenly felt sick that he might be close to solving this case.

  Chapter 13

  Though Dalziel rarely showed he was impressed by anything his subordinates suggested, nothing went unnoticed. Pascoe he was always very attentive to. Wield also. He hadn't yet quite fathomed the sergeant, but he seemed to have his feet planted on the ground, the seance aside, that was.

  So he drove slowly round the locations and wondered whether indeed there might be a significance in the relative closeness of Brenda Sorby's and June McCarthy's places of work.

  Wield's car was parked outside the bank (Dalziel had spent an hour at his desk before setting off on his travels) so the superintendent did not pause. But he sat outside the entrance to the Eden Park Cannery for long enough to attract the gateman's attention.


  'Can I help you?' enquired the man in a belligerent tone.

  'What do you think I'm doing, casing the joint?' said Dalziel. He held out his warrant card. The gateman was not particularly impressed but when Dalziel heaved his bulk out of the car, he became a little more respectful.

  'You knew June McCarthy?' enquired Dalziel.

  'Sure,' said the man. He was rising sixty, grey-haired, with a cynical mouth and a knowing eye.

  'How well?'

  'Not well enough to choke her,' said the man.

  'How well's that?'

  'With some women, just one look at 'em's well enough,' laughed the man. 'But she seemed a nice enough lass.'

  'Liked the boys, did she?'

  'Not really. She went steady with that soldier lad. He was a big burly chap, knew how to handle himself. So I reckon the others kept clear even when he was away.'

  Dalziel knew all this from the records.

  'Are you going inside?' asked the gateman.

  The fat man stood there undecided. A blue Mercedes drew up alongside the kerb and the electrically operated window slid silently down.

  'Andy!'

  Dalziel went across to the car.

  'Hello,' he said.

  It was Bernard Middlefield JP, not a man he cared for all that much, but a friend to the police who needed all the friends they could get these hard days.

  'Thought it was you,' said Middlefield.

  'Well, you wouldn't think it was Fred Astaire,' said the fat man.

  'What brings you round these parts? That poor girl, is it?'

  'Sort of. What about you Bernard?'

  'Me? That's my works next door,' said Middlefield in a pained voice.

  'So it is,' said Dalziel, looking towards the long single-storied brick and glass building. 'You didn't know her, by any chance, did you, Bernard?'

  'The dead lass? No. But I see enough of them. What a sample you get in this place! It's like the flight out of Gomorrah when the hooter goes.'

  'Oh aye. Aren't yours the same?'

  'No. I employ skilled labour! Electrical assembly's a lot different from canning peas. Why don't you come in, have a cuppa and a look round?'

  ‘Too busy, Bernard, thanks all the same. How's Jack? Business OK?'

  'Fine, both fine. Will I see you at the Mansion House tomorrow?'

  The High Fair holiday fortnight traditionally ended with a civic luncheon on the last Saturday, a custom some ratepayers thought might be more honoured in the breach.

  Dalziel shook his head.

  'Pity. It's usually a good do. By the way, I hope your lot are going to clamp down on those tinkers a bit more promptly this year.'

  'Tinkers?'

  'The gypsies. It's always the same. Give some people an inch. Because they've been coming for centuries, we put up with them for a couple of weeks while the Fair's on. But is that enough? Oh no. It was nigh on September when they got shifted last year, and then half of them were back before Christmas. There's no shortage of wet wonders in this town, either, that'd like them to be let stay here permanent. What I say is, they call themselves travellers, well, let them travel. You got the message?'

  'Did I? What was that?' asked Dalziel.

  'The other day. One of their ponies got loose by the Aero Club, nearly killed me as I was taking off. It's not the first time either. I told one of your men to let you know. A funny-looking bugger. Wouldn't have been out of place in a caravan himself!'

  'Aye. I think I did hear something,' said Dalziel.

  He glanced at his watch. He was going round to the encampment anyway, but Middlefield didn't know that. There was no harm in making a virtue out of it. There'd come a time when he might want to trade off favours with Middlefield.

  'I've got a moment now,' he said. 'I'll look into it myself.'

  'Will you? Good man. I knew I could rely on you, Andy. I often say, if men like you and me had the running of this country, we'd soon set it right!'

  The Mercedes purred away.

  Dalziel raised a hand and smiled after it. Running this country from a kraut car! It took a lot to make him feel liberal, but Middlefield could manage it.

  'Get fucked,' said Dalziel.

  'Pardon?' said the gateman at his shoulder.

  'Not you,' grunted the fat man, climbing into his car.

  'Though on second thoughts,' he added as he closed the door, 'why not?'

  The Aero Club seemed deserted but as Dalziel was peering through the club house window a voice behind him asked him civilly what he wanted.

  Dalziel didn't like to be crept up on and was ready to reply most uncivilly till he turned and saw the man was wearing a tracksuit and gym shoes which explained the quietness of his approach.

  'Police,' he said, showing his warrant card.

  'About the break-in? I'm Greenall, CFI.'

  'Eh?'

  'Chief Flying Instructor. To tell the truth,' added the man, smiling slightly, 'the only Flying Instructor. I've got an assistant, Roger Minstrel. But he's away on a course. So I do everything. Including tending bar when our girl doesn't turn up or she's rushed. Will you have something for the heat?'

  He had opened the club house and led Dalziel into the bar as he spoke. The fat man's estimate, lowered by the track suit for he despised joggers, rose sharply.

  'Nice place,' he said, looking round after he'd reduced the level of his malt by an inch.

  'You haven't been here before?'

  'There's few places that serve drink round here that I've not been to,' said Dalziel. 'But it's many a year since I was in here. It's been tarted up since then.'

  'I dare say. It's the social side that makes money in clubs,' said Greenall. 'Any club. You need to be packed at night to be viable.'

  'That doesn't sound as if it makes you happy.'

  'I'm a flier,' said Greenall. 'I came out of the RAF and wanted to stay in the flying business. Running discos for teenagers isn't my idea of the flying business.'

  'I thought all you lot ended up flying Jumbos, earning millions, and putting the smile on those air-hostesses you see in the ads.'

  'I failed my last air-crew medical, that's why I came out,' said Greenall, sipping the grapefruit juice he'd poured for himself. 'They're just as strict at the commercial end. Light planes and gliders is all I'm good for.'

  'You look fit enough to me,' said Dalziel, glancing from the fruit juice to the track suit.

  'I live in hopes. A bit of jogging, bit of squash. With a bit of luck, I might get back to the real stuff one of these days.'

  'You don't like gliders, then?'

  'Oh, the gliders are all right. That's something quite different. But the small planes are like getting into a rubber dinghy after you've been captaining a battleship.'

  'Still, at least they must go slow enough so that you can see things as you pass.'

  'They do that,' agreed Greenall. 'Useful for some kinds of police work, I dare say. Though choppers are better. Still, if you ever fancy a trip, just say the word.'

  Dalziel smiled at the unlikelihood of this and finished his drink.

  'Let's have a look at the damage?' he said.

  Entry to the store-room had been through a forced window, not much more than eighteen inches square.

  'Kids, your constable reckoned. They only took a few bottles, about as much as a couple of youngsters could carry. He went along to the gypsy encampment and had a look round, but naturally he didn't get anywhere.'

  'Naturally?'

  'Well, they're fairly expert in hiding things, I should imagine.'

  'You've had some other bother with them, I gather. Or with their livestock.'

  Greenall grinned and ran his fingers through his blond hair, looking younger than his forty years.

  'You heard about Mr Middlefield? He was very upset. Not that he wasn't right. It could have been very dangerous. It's happened a couple of times, horse straying I mean. But this was the first time there'd nearly been an accident.'

  They went outside togethe
r and looked towards the distant encampment.

  'I'll have a word with them myself,' said Dalziel.

  'Can I get through that fence without rupturing myself?'

  'There isn't a gate, if that's what you mean. But kids and ponies don't seem to have any difficulty.'

  Dalziel looked down at his ample girth.

  'It's not the eye of a needle, is it?' he said.

  'No. And it's not much like the kingdom of heaven over there either,' said Greenall.

  But the scene as the two men strolled together across the grass had something idyllic about it. There were a couple of traditional wooden caravans, brightly coloured. But even the modern trailers were not unattractive as their polished surfaces gave back the morning sun. There was scarcely any movement. A fillet of smoke hung almost straight in the still air. Half a dozen dogs lay in the shade under the wheels. Ponies grazed. A trio of children wrestled in the grass. Distantly the sound of other children at play drifted from somewhere out of sight.

  Only when they reached the picket fence did the scrap and the litter which surrounded the caravans become truly apparent.

  'Here we are,' said Greenall, pulling back the fence where it had been detached from one of the main stakeposts.

  'Thanks,' said Dalziel. 'You not coming along?'

  'I don't think so. I mean, if you find anything, then of course I'll co-operate. But I don't want to be always appearing on the side of the complainers.

  They're a nuisance, I know, but they've got a right to exist, haven't they? And at least they try to stay free, you've got to admire them for that.'

  'Free?' said Dalziel. 'I've seen better-looking gaols!'

  He strode away, pleased to feel his political equilibrium, upset by Middlefield's extremism, had been restored by Greenall's liberalism.

  As he approached the caravans, the dogs and children watched him warily, but he could see no sign of adult life. He made no particular effort at stealth, but he could move extremely lightly for a man of his bulk, and as he slipped between two caravans, it amused him to think of a fat, urban policeman being able to steal up on these sons of nature unobserved.

  Then he was seized from behind, his arms pinioned at his side, and he was thrust so forcefully against the side of a caravan that the vehicle shook.