D&P23 - The Price of Butcher's Meat aka A Cure for all Diseases

by Reginald Hill

  Well, all that were changed now. If Ruddlesdin were right and they’d got their man, they’d have spent the night grilling him and if he cracked, the celebration could just be beginning!

  And if Ruddlesdin were wrong, Pete ’ud need all the help he could get.

  I told Pet I needed to get down to the hall tootie-sweetie, and she said right off she’d give me a lift. I’d like to think it were me manly charm that made her so willing to help, but I soon realized it were interrogation time again, and having me in her car were easier than having me in the shower. She tried hard to fi nd out if I thought the investigation were really over. Mebbe she’d lain awake all night, worrying that, faced with the choice of topping or tupping old Daph, Fester had gone for broke! She must really be hot for the bugger.

  Has to be true love, being willing to jump into bed with me for his sake! Or mebbe I’m being romantic, and she’s got something to hide herself.

  As she dropped me off at the hall, she said to be sure to give her a 2 8 4

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  ring if I needed a lift back, so she were certainly keen to have a second bite at the cherry.

  Wouldn’t have minded a second bite at hers if I hadn’t vowed to be a good boy.

  There was a uniform outside the front door, having a quiet fag.

  Nearly swallowed it when he saw me getting out of the car. Name of Mick Scroggs, I recalled. Nice enough young lad, even if he does come from Mexborough. I asked him where I’d find the DCI. He said he’d called a briefing in the incident room. I were surprised to hear that weren’t in the hall itself. Typical Pete that. Me, I’d have been in one of them big drawing rooms with the comfy sofas.

  I tapped the young Scroggs’s chest afore I moved on and said, “Listen, lad, if I get there and find I’m expected, I’ll come back and by the time I’ve finished relocating your personal radio, you’ll be able to get Five Live by farting, right?”

  He didn’t say owt but I think he got the message.

  When I shoved the incident room door open, I thought it ’ud be like old John Wayne coming into a bar, everyone freezing, then diving for cover. Instead, after a moment of shock, it were big smiles all round and folk telling me it were good to see me and shaking my hand, and I started to feel a right old Scrooge. Mebbe Pete’s smile were a bit strained, and it’s hard to tell if Wieldy’s grinning or passing a hard turd, but I swear young Bowler had tears in his eyes and Ivor Novello even gave me a hug!

  I could see at once that this was no breakfast celebration, confirmed when Pete said, “Good to see you, sir. I presume you’ve seen this morning’s News ? You probably won’t be surprised to learn that the report of my apotheosis has been slightly exaggerated. So sit yourself down, and if you’ve got anything you’d like to say, I know we’d all be delighted to hear it.”

  The lad’s good, no denying it. If he’d gone into politics, he’d be prime minister by now.

  The room setup were great, just what I’d have expected from them T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 2 8 5

  two. I clocked the display boards. Everything neatly laid out, connections made with different-color ribbons, just what the troops need. All right having everything correlated on computers, but a screen’s a glass darkly. Seeing it up on a display board is what brings you face- to-face.

  Couldn’t fault the way Pete ran the briefing either. Wieldy were a great help, of course, specially when Pete started using words of more than three syllables. He’d got everyone there, even Jug Whitby for local knowledge. Good thinking. A wise cop makes sure his team can see the wood as well as the trees. Let the buggers compartmentalize and they can miss connections. Pete knew that.

  Well, he would, wouldn’t he? He’d had a wise cop teaching him!

  I don’t think any on ’em can have slept much, but Wieldy had got a coffee machine or ganized and there was plenty of it, thick and black and sweet the way cops like it, none of this modern fi fty-seven variet-ies and all piddle.

  Naturally Pete started with Ollie Hollis. Everyone there knew there was a suspect in custody, but they could see as well as I could that no one was popping champagne corks and they had to be told why. Or, because it were Pete, made to work out why.

  He said, “The needle driven into his back damaged the spinal cord between vertebrae C-three and C-four, causing paralysis of the legs and arms. Also the shock may have triggered a violent asthma attack. Unable to move from his prone position because of the paralysis, he would have experienced grave difficulties in breathing, which eventually led to asphyxiation.”

  It had taken me a while to realize Pete talking like this were deliberate. Me, I like to give it straight in language the dimmest plod could understand. Pete prefers to make the buggers concentrate real hard, ask questions, draw conclusions. The bright ones like Bowler and Novello knew this was a chance to shine.

  Bowler got in first here. Found out later from Wieldy the silly young sod were beating up on himself for not having got to Witch Cottage 2 8 6

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  afore Ollie Hollis got killed. Mebbe that’s why he were so pleased to see me—thought I looked like a friendly face!

  He said, “You mean there was a significant gap between him being stabbed by the needle and dying?”

  “Possibly as much as thirty minutes,” said Pete. “Which means . . .”

  What it meant to Hat was, the earlier the attack had taken place, the better for his guilt feelings! But he’s too bright a lad to say that.

  He said, “Then it’s hardly likely that guy Godley would have hung around all that time with his hand on the needle, is it?”

  “No, it’s not,” said Pascoe. “Which means his story of discovering Hollis and trying to remove the needle could well be true.”

  Even though it was what they’d all been expecting, there was a moan of disappointment.

  “We cutting him loose then?” asked Bowler.

  “Not yet,” said Pete. “He may be telling the truth about Hollis, but several witness statements mention him having a violent altercation with Lady Denham and until we get a satisfactory explanation of that, he’s going nowhere.”

  Understandable but dangerous. When the rest of the press, who’d be feeling a bit disgruntled at being upstaged by a provincial rag, realized Ruddlesdin had got it all wrong, they’d likely put his continued deten-tion down as spite.

  Now Pete moved on, or back, to Daph’s murder.

  Wieldy had the PM details and laid them out with his usual preci-sion.

  Cause of death strangulation. Contusion on brow looked more likely to have been sustained by, say, falling against a hard object rather than being hit by a weapon. Whatever, someone had almost immediately decided to finish the job off with his bare hands. Or, seeing as Daph weren’t in a state to fight back, with her bare hands. Good news were that she was dead afore she started grilling. Heat made establishing an exact time of death hard, but they reckoned between thirty minutes and an hour before she’d been discovered.

  And there were seminal traces in her vaginal passage.

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  “You mean she’d been raped?” interrupted Novello, not clever, as Wieldy prides himself on saying what he means.

  Pete cut in, “There were no signs of violence around the genital area, and the estimate was that the coitus had occurred some hours before death, so it seems likely it was consensual.”

  Wield resumed.

  Clothing was charred but a large red stain on the front of her dress had been identified as red wine. Spatter pattern suggested it might have been thrown rather than simply spilled. No glass found at scene, though a champagne cork, some silver foil, cigarette stubs, and food remains were recovered from the hut. Possible DNA samples from food. Partial fingerprint on the foil.

  “So we’ll need prints from everybody who was at the party,” said Pete.

  “In hand,” said Wield.

  “Where else would
they be?” said Pete.

  They did a nice double act, those two, and it got an appreciative laugh.

  “Questions, comments,” Pete invited.

  Bowler got in quick.

  “Sounds like someone had been having a bit of a party in the hut, then did a tidy up, got rid of any glasses or bottles. Wonder why.”

  “And what’s the result of your wondering, Hat?” asked Pete.

  “Could be there was someone else there as well as Ollie Hollis, but they didn’t want to draw attention to it,” he offered.

  “Good point,” said Pete. He’d got there already, of course, but like I say, he loves to make the buggers think.

  Novello now got in on the act. Nothing like feeling upstaged by your rival for putting the brain cells into overdrive.

  She said, “If Ollie Hollis suffered from asthma, it’s not likely that he smoked, is it?”

  I was pretty sure Pete would have worked this out for himself too, but he gave Ivor a big smile and said, “Excellent point. We’ll check it out.

  Not so many smokers around these days. Something to ask everyone you 2 8 8

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  interview. Now let’s think about motives in both cases, which may or may not be connected. I don’t want anyone making assumptions till we have firm evidence of a connection. So, motive.”

  According to Pete, there were two main lines, the most obvious the usual one: money. Who profited? Daph’s lawyer, Beard, wouldn’t discuss the will over the phone but was on his way north already. Meaning there has to be serious dosh involved. Them London briefs charge an extra one percent for every mile they go north of Hampstead.

  Till he got here, the only person definitely benefiting from Daph’s exit was Hen Hollis. (When he were mentioned, Novello shot young Bowler a grin and I saw him wince. Besides not getting to Witch Cottage early enough, seems he’d also run into Hen last night without knowing it. Crap never hits you in single dottles, it comes in volleys!) Jug Whitby, who it seemed to me were a lot guiltier than Bowler for not getting to Ollie earlier, were told off to fetch Hen in. Don’t hold your breath, I thought.

  The other line was animal rights activists. Hollis’s Ham had been targeted, Daph herself had been personally threatened, and various alleged attempts on her life were being examined. (Caught my eye as he said this, like he were signaling, Keep quiet about your part in this—so I did.) Placing her body in the hog roast cage suggested a possible link here.

  Now Pete paused again for questions and comments. Straight off, the young ’uns were at it again, scoring brownie points. Bowler tried to make up some of his lost ground by bringing up Tom Parker’s bro, Sidney. Way he dresses, the car he runs, obviously lives high on the hog. Pete winced—doesn’t like jokes in bad taste—but I reckon it were an accident. Happens to me all the time. Bowler pressed on: As the victim’s financial adviser, maybe it was worth looking at the way he was handling her money? Novello chipped in with the notion that maybe Sid Parker and Ted Denham had some deal cooking behind Lady Denham’s back. She just happened to know that they’d had a secret meeting at Denham Park, and she speculated that it could have T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 2 8 9

  been about the possibility of turning the Denhams’ stately home into a gambling casino or a care facility. Instead of asking her where the fuck all this were coming from, Pete nodded approvingly, so he must have some idea.

  “Let’s look hard at these Parkers,” he said. “Lots of connections with the victim, with some suggestion of tensions in the Sandytown consortium between its two leading members, Tom Parker and Daphne Denham.”

  Seems Seymour had interviewed dotty Diana and her chum. Dennis had been sitting there, playing with his laptop, not getting involved as the younger DCs bickered about who were king of the castle. Pete asked rather sarcastic if he had owt to add to the “somewhat pithy” statements he’d taken. It didn’t faze the lad. He just gave his big friendly grin and said, “Not really. Struck me Miss Parker were a flush short of a toilet, but harmless with it.”

  “Well, thank you for your always helpful analysis, Dennis,” says Pete, and I saw Novello and Bowler glance at each other, this time in harmony, agreeing that old Dennis weren’t a threat in their private little Olympics.

  Then Seymour said, “One thing, though, sir, this animal rights angle . . .”

  “Yes?” said Pete.

  “I were looking through the case file earlier and I noticed that stuff about Lady Denham having a record . . .”

  I could see this were news to most of them there.

  Wield said, “Hit a hunt protester with her riding crop, got bound over to keep the peace. This were thirty years ago, don’t see how it can be relevant now, unless you can tell us different, Dennis?”

  With Pete, that would’ve sounded sarcastic, but with Wieldy you never can tell.

  “Just thought I’d check it out,” said Seymour. “The protester were a sixteen-year-old lass, Alexandra Lambe. She were squirting some spray stuff up the hounds’ noses to put them off the scent when Lady Denham 2 9 0

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  hit her. Back then she’d likely have got off, case dismissed, except the girl turned up in court with a severely blackened left eye.”

  “Dennis, I’m losing the will to live,” said Pascoe. “Get to whatever point there is to your tale, will you?”

  Seymour said, “Thing is, sir, this Mrs. Griffiths I talked to at Seaview Terrace, her first name’s Sandy.”

  He paused and gave us his smile, like he were expecting a kiss on both cheeks and a medal.

  “The point,” said Pete wearily.

  “I got a niece called Alexandra, she always gets Sandy,” said Seymour.

  “And your niece is relevant how? Convictions for murder? An urban terrorist, perhaps?” said Pete.

  I saw Novello and Bowler grinning like a pair of chimps.

  “No, sir. She’s only eight,” said Seymour. “It were just that this Mrs.

  Griffiths had a funny eye. Not funny ha ha, but it didn’t move in sync with t’other.”

  I thought, Christ, that explains her weird stare. Here’s my big ego putting it down to meeting me, while uncomplicated Dennis spots straight off it’s her eye! Not only that, he jumps to a connection, ’cos now he was saying, “When I checked out this Lambe girl, it turned out a few years later, she lost the use of the same eye that got blacked. On the record

  ’cos she wanted to claim compensation and her brief asked for court records of the case and police evidence. Never came to anything. Too much time had passed, and they couldn’t find a doc to swear that was the cause anyway.”

  Now the DCs had stopped grinning and Pete’s voice had lost that sarky edge as he said, “So what you’re saying is, maybe this Sandy Griffiths and this Alexandra Lambe are one and the same person?”

  “No, sir. Not maybe. Just got confirmation on my laptop. Defi nitely,”

  said Seymour. “Got married in 1987, widowed eight years later. Bit more too, sir. She’s got a record. Animal rights activities, so she didn’t grow out of it. Bound over a couple of times, three fines, four weeks community T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 2 9 1

  service, and six months suspended for harassment. She’s a member of some group called ANIMA. So unless it’s just a coincidence she’s holidaying in Sandytown . . .”

  Got to admire Pete. Not the slightest eye flicker in my direction even though he knew as well as I did that ANIMA were the protest group founded by my Cap!

  “Good work, Dennis! The rest of you take notice. You can’t make this kind of useful connection unless you’ve taken onboard all the facts.

  Let’s have her in, see what she has to say for herself. Dennis, it’s your shout, you do the honors.”

  “Should I go too, sir?” said Ivor Novello. “A woman’s touch might come in handy.”

  Doesn’t want to miss out, I thought.

  “No,” said Pete. “I’ve got another job for
you. Okay, people. That’s it.

  Check with Sergeant Wield here if you’ve any doubts at all about what you’re doing. And, like I said, let Dennis be your shining example. I want results! Shirley, a word.”

  He gathered his bits of paper together, jerked his head at me, and wandered off through a door behind him. Novello followed. So did I.

  Must have been the flat’s bedroom. No bed now, just a table, couple of chairs, and a recorder. Made our interview rooms back at the Factory look like suites at the Ritz.

  Pete registered my presence but said nowt.

  To Ivor he said, “I want you to head on up to Kyoto House and invite Miss Heywood down for a chat.”

  Ivor said, “Yes, sir. Sir, about the e-mails . . .”

  “No need to mention them, Shirley,” he said. “Off you go.”

  The lass left.

  “What e-mails?” I said.

  “A Miss Heywood, whom I believe you have met, is presently a guest of the Parkers and she has been sending a fairly detailed e-mail account of her time here to her sister. She is, it seems, a psychology student, and Novello, thinking that her outsider’s view of the setup 2 9 2

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  here in Sandytown might be of interest, persuaded her to let her glance at the e-mails. And very interesting they are too, for all kinds of reasons.”

  He patted a stack of printouts on the table.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Ivor did the all-girls- together thing and got a hold of those on the understanding they were for her eyes only. No wonder she ain’t looking forward to seeing young Heywood again.”

  “Shirley’s a Catholic, they know how to deal with guilt,” said Pete indifferently. “She is also, I’m glad to say, a very sharp, very ambitious young detective. Anyway, Andy, it’s really good to see you here. You’re looking a lot more like your old self this morning. You slept well?”

  “Yes, I did. And yes, I’ve been, and yes, I take sugar,” I said. “Nice of you not to worry me poor invalid mind with more bad news afore you took off last night.”