Hill, Reginald - Dalziel and Pascoe 14 - Asking For The Moon (HTML)

by Reginald Hill

  Rawlinson looked angry when he came into the room and Pascoe prepared to deal with a bout of uxorious chivalry.

  'What have you been saying to Peter?' demanded the limp­ing man. 'He's in a hell of a state.'

  'Nothing,' said Pascoe, taken by surprise. 'Why should anything I say disturb him?'

  The question seemed to give the man more cause for rumi­nation than seemed proportionate as he subsided into an armchair and Pascoe moved swiftly to the attack.

  'Tell me about falling off the church tower,' he invited.

  Rawlinson gripped his right knee with both hands as though the words had triggered off more than the memory of pain.

  'Have you ever fallen off anything, Inspector?' he asked in reply.

  'Yes, I suppose so. But not so dramatically. A kitchen chair, I recall, when replacing a light bulb.'

  'Chair or church, it's all the same,' said Rawlinson. 'One second you're on it, the next you're off. I must have over­reached.'

  'What precisely were you doing?' asked Pascoe.

  'Watching a pair of owls,' said Rawlinson. 'I'm a draughts­man by training, a bird illustrator by inclination. I watch, note, photograph sometimes, and then do a picture. It had never struck me as a dangerous hobby.'

  'It's enthusiasm that makes things dangerous,' observed Pascoe sententiously. 'The Reverend Davenport found you, I believe.'

  Rawlinson frowned at the name.

  'Yes. It was a good job he came when he did. There was

  a sharp frost and if I'd lain there till morning, I'd probably have died of exposure.'

  'And immediately before falling, you remember nothing?'

  'I remember arriving at the church, unlocking the door to the tower. Nothing more.'

  'How did you get to the church that night?'

  'I walked along the old drive, I suppose. I usually did. My bungalow's right alongside.'

  'Mr Kingsley didn't mind?'

  'Boris?' said Rawlinson in surprise. 'Why should he? I don't think I ever asked him.'

  'Technically a trespass then,' smiled Pascoe. 'Do you recall seeing or hearing anything unusual along the drive or in the churchyard that night?'

  'Well now,' said Rawlinson slowly. 'I'm not quite certain it was the same night - it's a long time ago - but once I rather thought I heard a crossbill in one of the cypress trees over the lych-gate. Probably I was mistaken.'

  He spoke perfectly seriously, but Pascoe did not doubt he was being mocked.

  'Your father built the bungalow, you say,' he said abruptly. 'So there's money in the family.'

  'A little. He was a jobbing gardener by trade. I earn my own living, if that's what you mean.'

  'I'm pleased to hear it,' said Pascoe, faintly sneering. 'Mr Kingsley now, does he also have to find ways to eke out the family fortune?'

  If they start being funny, hit 'em hard, was a favourite maxim of Dalziel's.

  'I don't see what this has got to do with anonymous letters, Inspector,' said Rawlinson.

  'Don't you? Well, I'll explain. I want to get a clear picture of the missing woman. One thing that's starting to emerge is that she came from a very different background from most of the people she called her friends in Wearton. Just how different isn't quite clear to me yet.'

  Rawlinson looked unconvinced but replied, 'All right,

  there's no secrets. Me you know about. Boris has some inherited money, but not much. I believe it came as some­thing of a shock to find out just how little when his father died earlier this year. But in addition he's a "company director", whatever that means. You'd better ask him. John you'll know about, too . . .'

  'Not his family. What did his father do?'

  'He was a solicitor, rather older than Mrs Swithenbank, I believe. He died ten years ago. The Davenports — well, Ursula's my sister, of course . . .'

  'And therefore shared in the family fortune?'

  'We split what little there was,' said Rawlinson acidly. 'When I married, I bought out her share of the bungalow. Shortly after­wards she married Peter, who is also one of the family. A cousin. His family live in Leeds. He had delicate health as a child and used to come down here for the good country air nearly every holiday. No real money in the family, and a damn sight less in his job! Now, let me see. Anyone I've missed out?'

  'Yes,' said Pascoe. 'Your wife.'

  'I thought you'd have quizzed her yourself,' said Rawlin­son. 'Stella's from farming stock, one of the biggest farms in the area.'

  'Well off?'

  'Oh yes. Though show me a farmer who'll admit it!'

  Pascoe laughed, though the attempt at lightness came awk­wardly from Rawlinson's lips.

  'So I'm right to say that Kate Lightfoot was the odd one out? Everyone else had some kind of well-established financial and social background.'

  'Village life is surprisingly democratic,' protested Rawlin­son. 'We all went to the same schools, no one bought their way out.'

  'Democracy works best where there's a deep-implanted pecking order,' observed Pascoe cynically. 'Everybody can be equal as long as we all know our places. What was the Lightfoots' place, do you think? Her father was an agricultu­ral labourer, I believe.'

  'That's right. He used to work for Stella's father, in fact. Not that he was much of a worker at the end. He boozed himself to death. The mother took off soon after and there was some talk of putting Kate in care, but she made it clear she wasn't going to leave her brother easily. He was about twenty at the time, working on the farm like his father. Then suddenly he gave up his job and the tied cottage that went with it and bought up a smallholding just on the edge of the village, opposite the war memorial, you might have noticed it as you drove in?'

  'No,' said Pascoe. 'The way you said "suddenly" sounded as if you meant "surprisingly".'

  'Did it? This was a long time ago. I was only a lad, but in a village you learn early that all business is conducted in public. There was some talk of insurance money from his father's death. But knowing the old man, it didn't seem likely.'

  'And what were the other speculations?' asked Pascoe.

  Rawlinson looked at Pascoe as if for permission, then poured himself a glass of sherry.

  'If you were a farm labourer in those days, you didn't save. The only handy source of a bit of extra income was fiddling your employer. Bags of spuds, petrol for the tractor, that sort of thing. Not that it could come to much, and with a Yorkshire farmer like my father-in-law watching over you, I hardly believe it could come to anything! But Stella, my wife, believes wholeheartedly that Lightfoot's fortunes such as they are were based on robbing her father rotten!'

  'So he brought his sister up,' said Pascoe. 'Were they close?'

  'You might say so,' said Rawlinson cautiously.

  'What would you say?'

  He shrugged and rubbed his knee again.

  'Kate was — is - very much her own person, Mr Pascoe. I was — am - very fond of her. We went out together for a while - nothing serious, all our gang tried various combinations till we settled as we are. I think I got to know her as well as

  anyone, but there were points beyond which you were not permitted to go.'

  'Physically, you mean?' said Pascoe, acting stupid.

  'Physically you went precisely as far as Kate was in the mood for,' replied Rawlinson drily. 'But I mean mentally, emotionally even. She shut you out. It was difficult to guess what she felt about Arthur, even when they were together.'

  'And about the rest of you?'

  'Friendly tolerance.'

  'Even John Swithenbank?'

  'No. No,' said Rawlinson, a spasm crossing his face as he rose suddenly to stretch his leg. 'John was different. I'd have said she disliked and despised him with all her heart.'

  'I thought as host you'd have saved me for last, Inspector,' said Boris Kingsley in a hurt voice.

  'Why? Aren't you ready for me?' asked Pascoe.

  Kingsley laughed.

  'On the contrary, I'm perfectly rehearsed. What do I know about th
e letter and phone calls? Nothing at all. What do I know about Kate's disappearance? Ditto. Do I think John might have mur­dered her? No. Do I think anyone else here tonight might have murdered her? Improbable but not impossible. Who am I not one hundred per cent sure about? Mind your own business.'

  He sat back looking vastly pleased with himself.

  'Why were you left on the shelf, Mr Kingsley?' asked Pascoe as if the man hadn't spoken.

  'What do you mean?'

  'The Wearton Six. Rawlinson gets his Stella, Swithenbank gets his Kate. Symmetry requires that you end up with Ursula, Mrs Davenport. But she opts for an outsider.'

  'Hardly an outsider,' protested Kingsley. 'Peter spent most of his hols here. And he's Ursula's cousin. We knew him almost as well as each other.'

  'Almost,' said Pascoe. 'Still, you did end up unattached.'

  'What the devil's this got to do with anything?' demanded Boris.

  ,

  'I don't know,' said Pascoe. 'Probably nothing. But if, say, you didn't get married because all your life you'd nursed a passionate but unrequited love for Kate Lightfoot, it might mean much.'

  'Who's been talking to you? Has someone been saying something? Who was it? Geoff?' He sounded genuinely angry.

  'No,' said Pascoe. 'That wasn't one of the things Mr Rawl­inson told me. Where were you a year ago tonight, Mr Kingsley?'

  The anger subsided and Kingsley shook his head like a boxer who has walked into a sucker punch and now means to take more care.

  'I can't be sure. I'd need more notice of that question.'

  'I'd have thought by now everyone here had notice of it,' remarked Pascoe drily. 'It was the weekend Mr Rawlinson fell off the church tower. Remember?'

  'Of course. Yes. Dreadful business. I remember wonder­ing ...'

  'What?'

  'Mustn't even hint these things, of course, but Geoff had been behaving rather oddly for some time before. You know, very moody. Self-absorbed.'

  He paused invitingly. Pascoe made a note. He distrusted invitations.

  'You mean he may have been upset because his affair with Kate was coming to some kind of climax, so when they met on the Friday evening he killed her, hid the body and then tried to commit suicide in a fit of remorse?' he asked with mild interest.

  It was a long time since he'd seen a man splutter, but Kingsley spluttered now.

  'Please. No! Don't say such things!'

  'All right,' said Pascoe indifferently. 'What about you? What were you doing that night?'

  'I've no idea. I didn't hear about it till next day, so I wasn't directly involved. Probably sitting in front of the television at home.'

  'Alone?'

  'If that was what I was doing, yes. Surely people who have the alternative of human conversation never watch television, do they, Inspector? It's a kind of mental masturbation, essen­tially a solitary pursuit.'

  He had stopped spluttering. Pascoe yawned widely.

  'Where do you think Kate Swithenbank is now?' he asked through the yawn.

  Boris rolled his eyes upward and slapped the arm of his chair.

  'I do wish you'd stop trying to confuse me with these changes of direction,' he said. 'They're irritating without being effective. Unless, of course, your aim is merely to irritate.'

  'Do you think she's dead?'

  'I've no idea. How should I know?'

  'I didn't say know. I said think. Only one person could really know. Except her brother, of course.'

  'Why him?' said Kingsley sharply.

  'Hadn't you heard? He's seen her ghost.'

  Kingsley laughed merrily.

  'What a cretin!'

  'Why do you dislike him, Mr Kingsley?'

  'Who says I dislike him?'

  'He says. It hardly seems worth denying. I mean, is there anyone who can really be said to like him? I'm just interested in reasons. Irrational Dr Fell prejudice? Aesthetic repug­nance? Or perhaps, like Mrs Rawlinson, you think he cheated your father?'

  The reaction was astonishing.

  'What the hell do you mean?' demanded Kingsley, his face suddenly twisting in porcine ferocity. 'What've they been say­ing to you? Come on, Inspector, spit it out. You'd do well to remember this is my house and you'd be wise to watch what you say!'

  There seemed to be something contradictory in this simul­taneous demand for frankness and caution but Pascoe, who

  had been completely innocent of subtle intent, was not long in finding a hypothesis to resolve the contradiction.

  'Come on, Mr Kingsley,' he said with the weary certainty of one who knows exactly what he is doing. 'I'm a policeman, remember? That means I've a job to do. It also means that I know all about discretion. In any case, there can't be any question of charges, not now. Not either way.'

  He held his breath and hoped he was making sense. Kings-ley's features gradually resumed a more normal colour and expression.

  'You're right,' he said. 'I'm sorry. It's just that it makes me angry, even thinking about it.'

  'How long have you known?' enquired Pascoe, still feeling his way.

  'I never liked the man,' said Kingsley, 'but it wasn't till after Father died. I was going through his papers. The figures told the story. Then there was a diary . . . well, God, he was wrong, of course. But to suffer like that all those years!'

  'This was how Lightfoot bought his smallholding?' pursued Pascoe.

  'That's it. And how he's compensated for its inefficient running ever since! You wouldn't think he needs money to look at the man! But he's got expensive habits - drinking, women, too. God, he'd need to pay well to get any half decent woman near him!'

  Ignoring the curious scale of values this suggested, Pascoe went the whole hog and said, 'So Arthur Lightfoot steadily blackmailed your father ever since he discovered he'd been interfering with an under-age girl, to wit, his sister Kate.'

  Kingsley nodded. It seemed to be some relief to the man to hear someone else say it openly.

  'I went to see him, of course, when I realized. I didn't know what I was going to do, but it was going to be bloody extreme!'

  'And.'

  'And he said nothing. Admitted nothing. Denied nothing.

  He just sat there cleaning that blasted shotgun of his. I ran out of words! There was nothing to do. I couldn't get him through the law - there was some evidence, but nothing cer­tain enough, and besides even though he was dead, my father had paid for peace and quiet and a good name.'

  'So what did you do?'

  'Do, Inspector? Do? I did nothing.'

  Kingsley was now back in full control.

  'I hope one night I may catch him poaching on the bit of land that remains to me. Or that he might catch food poison­ing from his own disgusting cooking. Yes, I can only sit and pray for some happy accident.'

  'Like his cottage burning down, for instance?'

  'Yes, that was a real tonic when I heard about it. A pity our fire service is so efficient.'

  'He didn't come to see you afterwards?'

  Kingsley regarded him shrewdly.

  'Now why on earth should he do that? You're not sug­gesting I had anything to do with the fire, Inspector?'

  'Of course not,' smiled Pascoe. 'But he'd need money for repairs. He doesn't sound as if he'd carry much insurance.'

  'You may be right,' said Kingsley indifferently. 'He cer­tainly wouldn't get it here. I only wish he'd had the cheek to try!'

  'And now we come to the sixty-four-thousand-dollar ques­tion,' said Pascoe.

  'And what's that?'

  'Did Kate Swithenbank have any idea what her brother was up to all those years?'

  There was a long silence.

  'And if she did, what then, Inspector?'

  'What indeed, Mr Kingsley? Something perhaps that some people might call a motive.'

  There was a knock on the door.

  Jesus! thought Pascoe. They time their interruptions here better than a French farce!

  'Come in,' called Kingsley.

  A wizen
ed old head with eyes like a blackbird's thrust itself round the door.

  'Can ah see thee about t'supper?' it demanded.

  'Just coming, Mrs Warnock,' said Kingsley.

  The blackbird's eyes regarded Pascoe unblinkingly for twenty seconds, then the head withdrew.

  'Mostly duty calls,' said Kingsley, rising. 'Motive, you say? Hardly for me, though. I mean, I didn't find out about Lightfoot's bit of nastiness till six months after Kate dis­appeared, did I?'

  'So you say, Mr Kingsley,' agreed Pascoe.

  'But as for the others, well, I'll leave you to find your own motives there, you're clearly so good at it. Must fly now. Work up an appetite, dear boy. I'll send Ursula in, shall I? That should start the juices running!'

  "Boris seemed very pleased to get away from you,' said Ursula, rippling into the red leather armchair. 'What were you talking about?'

  'I'm not sure,' said Pascoe. 'He was on occasion a trifle obscure. Though he seemed to find no difficulty in accepting that someone in your little group might have been capable of murdering Kate Swithenbank. But he wouldn't say who he had in mind.'

  'Me,' said Ursula promptly.

  'Really? Why should he think that?'

  'He likes playing Noel Coward, does Boris, but in fact he's terribly straightforward and conventional. His wisdom is proverbial in the strict sense. I mean his mind works in maxims. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned has all the ring of eternal truth to Boris.'

  'Meaning you have been scorned by . . . ?'

  'John Swithenbank, of course. And it's true. I was furious. But only for a time.'

  'How long a time?'

  'Till the wedding. John so clearly regarded the whole business as farcical and whatever Kate regarded it as just as

  clearly had nothing to do with all those loving vows they made at the altar. Resentment has to have an object. I seemed to have lost mine on that day.'

  'So you don't think the marriage was happy?' said Pascoe.

  'What's happy?'

  'I don't know what, but I know where. It's somewhere this side of either running off or committing murder,' said Pascoe.