'In this e-mad age, perhaps. But there's something rather touching about someone taking the time to write a good old-fashioned long narrative letter. And I don't see how your detective neuroses can find anything even vaguely threatening in this one. In fact he goes out of his way to warn you to watch out for Charley Penn who, I must admit, has been rather odd since Dee's death. Not that he ever says anything to me about it, being as I'm compromised by shagging one of the chief conspirators, but I can tell there's something simmering down there somewhere.'
Ellie knew Penn much better than Pascoe. She'd been a member of a literary group he ran, and with the publication of her first novel scheduled for the spring, he had admitted her to the adytum of real writerhood and their acquaintance had taken a step towards friendship till Dee's death had brought the barriers down.
'You don't think Charley's going to come after me with a poisoned ballpoint, do you?' said Pascoe.
'There you go, paranoid every time. If he does have a go, he's more likely to start sniping at you in print. That would be his way of attack. He's a word man, after all.'
She realized what she'd said even as she said it. The last Wordman who'd touched their lives had used more than words to dispose of his many victims.
'Well, there's a comfort,' said Pascoe. 'So you think I should write to Roote and thank him fulsomely for his kind concern? Maybe invite him over for supper so that we can have a heart to heart about his love life?'
'Could be interesting,' said Ellie as if she took him seriously. 'I think I could help him. There was a piece in one of the supplements not so long back about famous mothers and disaffected daughters, you know, the kind of thing hacks dredge up when they don't have an original idea in their heads, which is ninety per cent of the time.'
'And you treated it with the contempt it deserved, of course.'
'No, I devoured every word avidly on the grounds that a few years hence, when I'm a rich and famous author, it could be my revolting child they're writing about. Loopy Linda and her Emerald got a couple of paras. That girl sounds like she's made it her life's mission to disoblige her parents. So it could be Fran's right and she's just using the fornicating frere for her own ends.'
He said, 'She'd better watch out if she tries that on Roote. She'll need to get up very early in the morning to use that clever sod.'
'From what he says, all she'll need to do is go to bed very early in the evening,' said Ellie. 'But no need for you to lose any sleep, love. Even if he is planning to destroy you, Franny Roote is safely stowed in faraway Switzerland for the rest of the month, so we can concentrate all our attention on trying to survive the more conventional perils of Christmas, to wit, bankruptcy, mental breakdown and chronic dyspepsia.'
'To wit?' said Pascoe. 'I hope getting published isn't going to turn you precious.'
'Piss off, noddy,' said Ellie, grinning. That basic enough for you?'
'I hear and obey,' said Pascoe, finishing his coffee. He rose, stooped over Ellie to give her a lingering kiss which she much appreciated. But her appreciation didn't prevent her from noticing that during its execution, he slipped Franny Roote's letter into his pocket.
In his office he read it again. Was he over-reacting? There was nothing in this letter which a just and rational man could interpret as a threat. And he could see how his attempt to turn the account of the fire at St Godric's into a mockingly oblique confession of arson might appear to have more to do with neurotic prejudice than rational thought. He hadn't got anything from the Cambridge Fire Department to back up his suspicions of criminality. The call he'd made to the Cambridge police had been more diplomatic than detective, just to put it on record that he'd been talking to the fire people. He'd spoken briefly to what sounded like an overworked sergeant, referred vaguely to a couple of cases of suspected arson in Mid-Yorkshire educational establishments and the usefulness of correlating statistics nationally, and asked to be kept informed of any developments. No mention of Roote. Why risk feelers being put out along that intricate net of unofficial police contacts which is just as important to the Force as the National Computer, resulting in the firm establishment of Franny Roote as dotty DCI Pascoe's King Charles's head?
He unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out an unlabelled file. When during the course of a couple of recent cases Roote had drifted back into his ken – or, as some might say, been dragged back – Pascoe had quite legitimately collated all existing material on the man. That remained in the official records. But this file, for private consumption only, contained copies and digests of that official material plus much unofficial stuff including all the recent letters, carefully marked with date of receipt.
It occurred to Pascoe that if it hadn't been for the very first case of all, his path and Ellie's, so divergent since their student days, might never have crossed again.
So Roote could claim to be their Cupid. Or Pandarus.
Not that he'd ever made such a claim, Pascoe rebuked himself. Stick with the facts.
And the facts were that this man had served his time, been a model prisoner earning maximum remission, co-operated fully with the services administrating his release programme, and settled down to a couple of worthy jobs (hospital portering and gardening) while pursuing a course of studies which would settle him eventually in the academic world, a shining example of the regenerative powers of the British penal system.
Hooray. Wild applause all round.
So why am I the only person sitting on his hands? wondered Pascoe.
In his eyes, Roote was neither reformed nor deterred, he was just a lot more careful.
But no defences are impregnable, else the country wouldn't be full of ruined castles.
The phone rang.
'DCI Pascoe.'
'Hello. DCI Blaylock, Cambridge here. You were talking to one of my sergeants yesterday about the fire at St Godric's and I gather you've been asking the local fire people about the way the fire started too. Something about possible parallel cases involving educational establishments on your patch? Would that be at one of the Yorkshire universities then? I don't recall reading anything recently.'
It was little wonder. The allegedly possibly related cases with which Pascoe had salved his conscience had been two junior school fires, one of which had been set by disaffected pupils while the other had been started by an errant rocket on Bonfire Night.
Pascoe felt it was time to come at least partially clean.
He explained in measured rational tones that, happening to know that one of the delegates at the St Godric's conference was an ex-con to whom the destruction of Professor Albacore's research papers might afford some small advantage, he had thought it worth enquiring if there were any suspicious circumstances.
'My sergeant picked you up wrong then?' said Blaylock.
'Let us rather say that I could see no reason to add to your CID workload by suggesting otherwise without any supporting evidence. Therefore my call, which was in the nature of a courtesy marker rather than a passing on of information, perhaps erred on the side of underplaying my slight and distant interest. The fault if any is mine.'
Such circumlocution might bamboozle a plain-speaking Yorkshireman, but those working in the shadow of our older universities are more practised in threading their way through verbal mazes.
'So you had a hunch but didn't want to put it upfront because Fat Andy thinks it's a bladder full of wind,' said Blaylock.
'You know Superintendent Dalziel?'
'Only like a curate knows Beelzebub. Heard a lot about him, but hope I'll never have the pleasure of meeting him personally.'
Something defensive almost formed on Pascoe's lips, but he let it fade unspoken. As Dalziel himself once said, when offered the sympathy vote, sigh deeply and limp a bit.
'Anyway, sorry I stuck my nose in without talking to the main man. Incidentally, are you so overstaffed down there, they put DCIs in charge of non-suspicious fire cases?'
'No, just something one of the smart young chaps who
wants my job mentioned, so I stuck my nose in and found to my surprise that it rubbed against yours. Thought it worth giving you a bell just in case you knew anything I ought to.'
'So what was it your smart young chap mentioned?' said Pascoe, trying to keep the hopeful excitement out of his voice.
'It's probably nothing. You know how keen these youngsters are to make mountains out of molehills so they can climb up 'em.'
Blaylock had a deep reassuringly mellow voice reminding Pascoe of the kind of actor cast in the role of Scotland Yard inspector in black-and-white thrillers made before the war. Perhaps he wore a tweed jacket and smoked a pipe. Cambridge, city of dreaming squires, gleaming in the wide flat fens like a jewel on the brow of a submerged toad. How nice to work there. What beauty in your daily life, what sense of history, what opportunity for cultural contact and intellectual stimulus…
Jesus, I'm even sharing dreams with Roote now!
'I quite like mountains myself,' said Pascoe.
'It was just that the PM on Albacore showed death from smoke inhalation, but it also mentioned some possible damage to the back of his head. Hard to be sure though as the body was badly burnt. In any case, as he was overcome by smoke, he'd probably go down pretty hard and might well have cracked his head.'
'What about the way he was found?' said Pascoe. 'What I'm getting at…'
'I know what you're getting at,' said Blaylock in a kindly voice. 'We read all the training manuals down here too. My bright boy checked. Albacore was found lying face-down across the threshold of his study, facing in. But the experts assure me it means nothing. Unable to see and choking, victims often end up so disorientated they head back towards the source of a fire, and once they go down they may roll over several times in their efforts to escape.'
Pascoe was now very excited indeed, but he put a lid on it and asked negligently, 'So you found yourself wondering if someone could have whacked Albacore on the head and left him to die in the burning study.'
'That's what my bright boy wanted me to wonder. But he couldn't get anything out of the arson experts to suggest the fire had been started deliberately. So I made a note in the file and was getting on with more pressing matters, till I heard about your interest, Mr Pascoe. But if in fact all you've got is the vague notion you just outlined to me, then it's not much help, is it? Nothing plus nothing equals nothing, right?'
Not if, deep down inside, you know you're right, thought Pascoe. But what was the point of trying to explain to a man he didn't know a hundred plus miles away what his nearest and dearest face to face had listened to with unconcealed scepticism?
'You're right,' he said.
'I've been glancing through the file as we talked’ said Blaylock. 'I see this man Roote made a statement, just like all the rest of them. Any point in reeling him back in and putting a bit of pressure on him, do you think?'
Pascoe thought of Franny Roote, of that pale still face, of those eyes whose surface candour concealed what lay beneath, of that quietly courteous manner. Pressure applied here was like pressure applied to quicksand. It either sucked you in and destroyed you, or, if you managed to withdraw, it showed no sign that you'd touched it.
'No point whatsoever,' he said. 'Listen, it was just a passing notion. If I did find anything positive, I'd get straight in touch. And perhaps you could keep me posted if…'
'Don't worry, you'd hear from me,' said Blaylock, his mellow voice taking on a slight edge of menace.
So that was that, thought Pascoe as he replaced the phone. The unofficial network would be alerted. The news would soon be out. Hieronimo is mad againe.
'So what?' he said aloud.
'Does my heart good to see a man too deep in his work to hear a knock at his door.'
Dalziel stood on the threshold, had been standing there God knows how long.
The unofficial Roote file was open on the desk. Pascoe closed it, not, he prayed, over-casually, and said, 'Must be going deaf. Come in, do.'
'Owt interesting going off?' said Dalziel, his eyes fixed on the unlabelled file.
Taking the bull by the horns was better than waiting to be gored.
'Got another letter from Roote this morning. Would probably have binned it, but I've just had an interesting call from a DCI Blaylock at Cambridge.'
'Never heard of him.'
'He's heard of you,' said Pascoe.
He gave the gist of his conversation, convinced Dalziel had heard his half of it anyway.
As he spoke, the Fat Man ran his eyes over the letter, and Pascoe took advantage of the distraction to slide the file into a drawer. When he'd finished reading, he dropped the letter on to the desk, farted gently and asked, 'So what's this Bollock decided to do next?'
'Blaylock. Nothing. No evidence of crime. Leave it alone.'
'But you reckon Albacore caught Roote with a flamethrower in his hand, and then the lad whacked him on the head and left him to barbecue, right? What do you think he's confessing to in his latest, then? Plans to scupper the Swiss Navy?'
'No,' said Pascoe, aiming at reasonableness. 'Nothing concrete to bother us here.'
'You reckon?' said Dalziel. 'This stuff about Charley Penn, doesn't that bother you?'
'No, not really,' said Pascoe, surprised. 'Nothing new there, is there? We all know how hard it's been for Penn to accept that his best mate was a killer.'
'How about what young Bowler said yesterday?'
Pascoe looked blank and the Fat Man said accusingly, 'I told you all about it in the Bull, but I could tell it weren't going in.'
'Yes it did,' protested Pascoe. 'Something about a break-in at his girl's flat. You can't think Penn had anything to do with that? He may be a bit stretched out at the moment, but I can't see him breaking and entering, can you? Anyway, didn't Bowler say there was no sign of forced entry? I don't see Charley as a dab hand with a picklock!'
'Always got a trick or two up his lederhosen, your Hun. Frogs thought the Maginot Line 'ud keep 'em out in 1940, look what happened there. Any road, he's a writer. Learn all kinds of dirty tricks, them writers. It's the research as does it. Look at yon Christie. All them books, all them murders. Can't touch pitch and not get defiled, lad.'
An idiot might have been tempted to suggest that maybe he was confusing his Christies, but Pascoe knew that Dalziel in frolicsome mood was like an elephant dancing, the wise man did not complain it was badly done, he just steered well clear.
But he couldn't resist a dig.
He said, 'I see what you mean. But it's a bit like this Roote thing, isn't it? No complaint, no evidence, so no case. How do you see yourself proceeding, sir?'
Dalziel laughed, ran a massive finger round the space on the desk where the file had been, and said, 'Like the Huns in 1940. Blitzkrieg! Seen owt of Wieldy?'
'Got another mysterious call and went out.'
'God, I hope he's not going to come back with another half-baked tip.'
'You reckon there's nothing in this Praesidium business then?' said Pascoe, determined to show how closely he had been listening in the Bull.
‘I’m not holding my breath’ said the Fat Man.
'He's usually a pretty good judge,' said Pascoe loyally.
'True. But hormones can jangle a man's judgment worse than a knock on the head. Look at Bowler. Love's a terrible enemy of logic. I think I read that in a cracker.'
'Love… I don't see how Edwin Digweed can have anything to do -'
'Who mentioned Digweed? What if our Wieldy's playing away? Nay, don't stand there like a hen with the gapes. It happens. Is it coffee time yet? I could sup a cup.'
Pascoe, uncertain how serious Dalziel was about Wield, but knowing from experience that the Fat Man's basic instincts sometimes got to places that a cruise missile couldn't reach, recovered his composure and said brightly, 'Going down to the canteen, sir?'
'No way. Buggers stop talking when I show my face there. I like a bit of Klatsch with my Kaffee. Pardon my Kraut, must've picked it up off Charley Penn. If anyone wan
ts me, tell 'em I've gone down the Centre in search of a bit of cultural enlightenment. Ta-rah!'
6
The Ship
Dalziel was right. If you wanted your coffee with Klatsch, not to mention Schlag, latte, or other even more exotic additives, then you headed for Hal's cafe-bar on the mezzanine floor of the Heritage, Arts and Library Centre.
If on the other hand you wanted it with a cloaking background of distant train noises and all too close punk rock, then Turk's was the only place to be.
At least, thought Wield sourly, Ellie Pascoe wouldn't need to agonize over the working conditions of those who had picked the beans to produce this social experience. Anyone with a hand in the process which led to this muck deserved everything they got.
His sourness was caused by the fact that Lee Lubanski hadn't turned up. Twenty minutes of sitting alone in this atmosphere listening to this racket under Turk's indifferent gaze made you wonder if the life you enjoyed outside this place wasn't just a dim memory of people and places long lost. You began to fear that if you stayed too long you might lose all power of decision and end up a permanent fixture like the silent, solitary men hunched over empty cups who surrounded him.
Time to go. He should feel relieved. But he didn't.
He pushed the cup away and began to rise. The door opened and Lee came in.
His young face was twisted with anxiety. He looked like a child who's lost contact with his mam in a supermarket and is experiencing a fear teetering on the edge of panic.
Then he saw Wield and his face lit up. He came straight to the table and apologies began to tumble out of him at such a rate the detail was lost in the torrent.
'Shut up and sit down afore you do yourself an injury’ said Wield.
'Yeah… sure… sorry…'
He sat down and stopped talking but his face still glowed with pleasure at finding Wield waiting. Time to switch off the light.
'Passed on that so-called tip of yours to my boss’ growled Wield. 'He wasn't much impressed. Like I said to you, we don't have the men or the time to follow every bleeding Praesidium van for a whole day. You got any more details?'
Death dap-20 Page 15
