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

by Reginald Hill

  “You need any help there?” demanded Bowler.

  “No. I’ve got him,” said Seymour, irritated to realize he was much more out of breath than Godley. “Just check that she’s okay, will you?”

  He glowered at his unresisting captive till the nurse said, “Everything looks fine. No harm done.”

  “Good,” said Bowler. “Well done, Dennis. You got him before he had time to do anything.”

  “Thank Christ for that,” said Seymour, shuddering to think of Pascoe’s reaction if he’d been too late.

  But Mr. Godley was shaking his head.

  “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “It felt like I had plenty of time.”

  “For what, you bastard?” demanded Seymour, alarmed once more.

  “What were you trying to do to her?”

  Then the nurse cried, “Look!”

  4 3 6

  R E G I N A L D H I L L

  He turned, fearful of what he might see.

  Clara Brereton had opened her eyes. They were moving rapidly, taking in the room, the people there. She brought her fingers up to the tube down her throat as if she wanted to speak.

  The nurse said, “I’ll get a doctor,” and pressed a button on the wall by the bed.

  Seymour looked back at Godley.

  The man was smiling and nodding his head.

  “There,” he said. “I knew I’d had time.”

  10

  Seymour was by nature and by nurture an honest, straightforward man, so much so that it never even occurred to him, as many of his colleagues theorized, that if he’d had just a little capacity for devious-ness, he might have risen a lot higher in his career.

  When Pascoe turned up at the Avalon, the DC made no attempt to conceal the dereliction of duty that had allowed Godley access to Clara Brereton, only perhaps slightly overstressing in mitigation the miraculous nature of the woman’s recovery.

  But Pascoe was in no mood either to administer bollockings or to debate miracles.

  “Is she talking yet?” he demanded.

  “Don’t know. Dr. Feldenhammer made us leave the room.”

  Another thing Pascoe wasn’t in the mood for was being obstructed by doctors whose professional expertise was no match for the mumbo jumbo of a hairy healer.

  He strode into the intensive care unit. Clara Brereton was lying there, still looking very pale, but unencumbered by breathing or feeding tubes. He saw her intelligent eyes register his arrival.

  There were several nurses and doctors around the bed. One of them said indignantly, in an American accent, “Now see here, whoever you are—”

  “Pascoe. DCI Pascoe. It’s Dr. Feldenhammer, isn’t it? I’ve seen your photo.”

  “That’s right. So you’re Pascoe. I’ve heard about you.”

  “And I about you,” said Pascoe significantly. “I’d like to speak to Miss Brereton.”

  4 3 8

  R E G I N A L D H I L L

  “Not possible till my people are done here.”

  “If she can talk, it’s possible,” said Pascoe.

  The men glared at each other, but the struggle was ended by a whisper from the bed.

  “Mr. Pascoe . . .”

  “Yes. I’m here, Miss Brereton.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes full of tears, “but I can’t remember anything. . . . What happened to me? . . . I can’t remember. . . .”

  Pascoe allowed himself to be escorted out of the room by Feldenhammer.

  “So what’s the prognosis?” he asked, his tone now conciliatory.

  “Surprisingly good. As you saw, she can breathe unaided and though her fractures and possible internal injuries will probably keep her bedridden for some time, her mind seems unimpaired. Memory loss is common in such cases. Often it returns eventually, at least in part, but you’ll just have to be patient.”

  “One of my officers will be with her, or close to her, at all times.

  I’d like your assurance that anything she says to any of your staff will be passed on immediately.”

  “We have a duty of confi dentiality, Mr. Pascoe—”

  “I’m glad to hear you take your responsibilities to your patients so seriously, Doctor,” said Pascoe heavily. “Regardless of race or creed.

  It’s a concept I may need to discuss with you sometime in the future.

  Meanwhile, if I can have your assurance . . .”

  Feldenhammer looked at him uneasily, perhaps recalling the remark about seeing his photo. Finally he said, “Yes, of course, we’ll be happy to cooperate. Now excuse me.”

  He went back into the room.

  Pascoe said, “Dennis, no cockups this time, right? Next time you may not be so lucky.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now where’s Hat?”

  Bowler was sitting in the visitors’ room, drinking coffee.

  T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 3 9

  “Like a cup, sir?” he asked. “It’s really good.”

  “No thanks. I take it from your demeanor, Hat, that you’ve got some news for me.”

  “Yes, sir. The lady in the picture is Miss Indira Bannerjee, a former patient here. Her problems were psychological, my source didn’t have any detail, and in any case she didn’t want to say—”

  “Yeah yeah, patient confidentiality, I know all about it,” said Pascoe.

  “But she didn’t mind a bit of gossip. Evidently, Miss Bannerjee was what you might call hot stuff . . .”

  Pascoe noted the young man’s effort to find an idiom he might understand.

  He said, “You mean, she put it about a bit?”

  “Yeah,” grinned Bowler. “Started young, I gather. She was only seventeen when she was here. Evidently the nurses called her the Bannerjee Jump.”

  “Very witty. And her and Feldenhammer?”

  “Oh yes. There were rumors. Nothing positive, but it was generally agreed that what Indira wanted, Indira got.”

  “What about the family? If they suspected . . .”

  “They might have been suspicious, but they wouldn’t have been surprised,” said Bowler. “What they weren’t going to do was demand an investigation and encourage the tabloids to dig up all the others.

  So they simply took her away.”

  “Great. Well done, Hat. Another job for you. You seemed to get on all right with Sidney Parker? Well, get yourself up to the hotel and talk to him again.”

  “Yes, sir. Sir, is it right what they’re saying, that he’s gay?”

  “Doesn’t bother you, does it?”

  “No, sir,” said Hat indignantly.

  “Oh, I get it. You thought he liked you for your cultural depth and witty conversation! Don’t brood on it, Hat—use it! Undo another button on your shirt if it helps. I want to know precisely when he and Ted 4 4 0

  R E G I N A L D H I L L

  Denham stopped screwing in their little love nest on the cliff. Maybe Sid likes to keep check of how long it takes. He is, after all, an accountant. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hat unhappily.

  “If he doesn’t want to be cooperative, you might like to wonder why, when his niece Minnie told him she’d stumbled upon Dr.

  Feldenhammer performing an act of indecency with an underage girl who also happened to be his patient, he didn’t inform the authorities.”

  “But Miss Bannerjee was seventeen, sir,” objected Hat.

  “You know that and I know that, but there’s no reason for Sidney Parker to know that, is there?” said Pascoe. “Call me if you get anything.”

  He rose and went out to his car. When he got back to the Hall he found as expected that Dalziel and Novello had returned with the Denhams. He’d left instructions with Wield to keep them separate, Ted in the Incident Room, Esther in the Hall.

  Dalziel was sitting on the lawn talking to Charley Heywood and her brother. There was another figure with them. Sammy Ruddlesdin.

  “What the hell’s he doing there?” Pascoe demanded of PC

/>   Scroggs.

  “Said he was waiting for you, sir. Said you were expecting him.”

  In a sense it was true. But he was in no mood to exchange pleas-antries with the journalist just now.

  Dalziel had spotted him and rose not without effort from the grass. Ruddlesdin started to get up too, but the Fat Man put his hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down.

  “So what’s she say?” he asked as he joined Pascoe on the steps.

  “A convenient CRAFT moment,” said Pascoe.

  “Nay, don’t be cynical,” said Dalziel. “Experience like that, nasty knock to the head, does funny things to the mind, as I know. Even now, most of what happened afore I got blown up is like an old movie T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 4 1

  I saw years back and didn’t much care for. Any road, why should she lie?”

  “Because she’s not yet sure which way the wind is going to blow,”

  said Pascoe.

  “Which wind’s that?”

  “The wind that Ted Denham blows out of his mouth when he talks. How did he look when you picked him up? Any problem?”

  “Came like a lamb. When I mentioned his watch, he went and got it for me. Gave it to yon Frodo to check out, but you were right, the broken catch were dead fl imsy.”

  “Excellent. And Esther?”

  “No problem either. At a guess I’d say being brought in didn’t come like a bolt from the blue to either of them.”

  “Meaning they’ve probably been doing a bit of rehearsal,” said Pascoe. “With the woman as director and scriptwriter. Be interesting to see if Ted can remember his lines. I think I’ll start with Esther. That way I’ll know what the lines are.”

  Dalziel said, “Pete, about Ted and Clara, you’re forgetting one thing, aren’t you? When me and Ivor went off to Denham Park, you didn’t know then the will wasn’t valid.”

  “So?”

  “So that fancy tale you wove doesn’t make sense if, soon as the bart mentions the will to Clara, she says, ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ I mean, once he catches on that her signature must be a forgery, he’s home and clear, isn’t he? Let them find the will! It changes nowt!”

  Pascoe was unconcerned.

  “Makes no difference. Clara’s a very bright girl. I can imagine Denham rattling on at great length, putting on the charm, imagining he was overcoming her scruples with his subtle arguments, while all the time he was only giving her space to get her head round what he was saying. She tells him she’ll need time to think. He thinks she means whether to be a good honest citizen or to tear up the will. Whereas 4 4 2

  R E G I N A L D H I L L

  what she’s really thinking is: I need to see this will. And by the time she finds it, she’s worked out it doesn’t matter if it’s valid or not, as long as Sir Ted thinks it is! Like I say, a bright girl.”

  “Not all that bright,” said the Fat Man. “Else she’d have also worked out Ted were the person benefiting most from Daph and Ollie’s deaths, so maybe it weren’t so clever meeting up with a possible killer on an empty beach. And another thing, if Ted thought he’d been disinherited, why the fuck would he want to kill his aunt anyway?”

  “I don’t know, Andy,” said Pascoe, irritated. “Perhaps it was a spur of the moment thing. I’ll ask him about it when I interrogate him, shall I? By the way, was Ruddlesdin here when you brought the Denhams in?”

  “ ’Fraid so.”

  “Shit. Tell him I’ll kill him if he prints anything before he gets my say- so.”

  “Pete, it’s no use gagging the Mid-York News. By now the national vultures will be dropping down on Sandytown. If I were you, I’d think about a press conference.”

  “Never thought I’d see the day when you suggested that, Andy.”

  “Never thought I’d see the day when you didn’t, Pete.”

  The two men looked at each other in silence for a while, then Pascoe forced a smile and said, “Well, I’d better not keep Esther waiting any longer.”

  “You don’t want me to sit in then?”

  Pascoe said, “I think not. But thanks for the offer.”

  “Anytime,” said the Fat Man. He turned and walked away to rejoin the trio on the lawn. As he reached them, he said, “Twang!”

  “What?” said Charley.

  “Nowt. Just the sound of an umbilical cord snapping.”

  “So what’s happening, Mr. Dalziel?” said Ruddlesdin. “How soon can we expect to hear that Sir Edward’s been charged?”

  “Don’t think you’ll be able to hear owt for the sound of my stom-T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 4 3

  ach rumbling,” said Dalziel. “I’m fair clemmed. Charley, George, you can’t lie around here all day, cluttering up a crime scene. On your feet. We’re all off to the Hope and Anchor. Mr. Ruddlesdin’s treat.”

  Sammy Ruddlesdin looked ready to object. Then he looked up at Dalziel’s bulky figure, looming over him like the Old Man of Hoy.

  “My pleasure, Mr. Dalziel,” he said. “My pleasure.”

  11

  Pascoe had his strategy all carefully worked out as he made his way to the big drawing room. Esther would be sitting on the sofa that Beard had occupied, her expression a mix of weary indifference and intellectual superiority. Novello would be sitting watchfully opposite her. On his entrance, the DC would rise and vacate her seat. He would sit down, smile, apologize for keeping Esther waiting. And then he would take her through her initial statement, getting her to reconfirm every last detail. Eventually he would start gently nudging her into making alterations. Why, if she’d avoided the storm, had she felt the need to change her clothing? How, if she hadn’t been among those who removed the body from the hog roast basket, had she come to burn her arm? What was that? You haven’t burnt your arm? Perhaps you’d care to roll up your right sleeve . . . ?

  Eventually she would have to abandon her script and move on to his and then the drama was ready to unfold.

  But when he pushed open the door, he realized that he’d been rehearsing the wrong play.

  Esther Denham wasn’t sitting on the sofa but was at the open bureau, writing. She wasn’t wearing an arm-concealing blouse, but a sleeveless top, revealing a neat dressing on her right forearm. Novello, standing behind her, looked round at Pascoe’s entry and shrugged helplessly.

  “Miss Denham,” said Pascoe.

  “Almost finished,” said the woman without looking up. “When they said you were delayed, I thought it would speed things up if I wrote out my revised statement. There, that’s fi nished.”

  T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 4 5

  She signed her name with a flourish, gathered together the sheets of notepaper and handed them to Novello.

  “Shouldn’t you sign as a witness?” she inquired. “I think we’ve probably had enough problems with forgeries for one day.”

  Novello glanced at Pascoe again. He nodded, and she took the pen and signed, then handed the papers to Pascoe.

  How cooperative everyone was being in this case, he thought.

  Roote had had a statement prepared for Wield; Feldenhammer had handed his to Dalziel: now here was Esther Denham getting in on the act.

  He sat down on an armchair. The woman came from the bureau and declined elegantly onto the sofa.

  So now the scene was physically as he’d envisaged it, but even before he studied the sheets in his hand, he guessed that his prepared script was out of the window.

  Written on Sandytown Hall–headed notepaper in an elegant cursive hand, the new statement was both confession and rebuttal. To Pascoe the style bore the mark of the lamp.

  Making my way back to the Hall after a stroll round the grounds, I stumbled upon the body of Lady Denham concealed in some long grass in the vicinity of the hog roast machinery. Having ascertained that she was dead, my first thought was to call for help. Then I became aware of a man’s wristwatch snagged on her blouse. On closer examination, I realized that it belonged to
my brother, Sir Edward Denham.

  Knowing that earlier he had been involved in an angry altercation with Lady Denham over changes she had made to her will, I began to fear that he might have something to do with her death. Marks around the body’s neck made me suspect there had been foul play. With time for leisurely thought, I am sure I would have reached the conclusion that my brother was incapable of such an act, but I did not have this time. My only 4 4 6

  R E G I N A L D H I L L

  thought was for Edward. I removed the watch. Then I tried to think of other ways in which I could misdirect any investigation. Knowing of her long-standing feud with animal rights extremists, I looked for a means to suggest their involvement here. The hog roast machinery was close by. It occurred to me that substituting Lady Denham’s body for that of the pig in the basket could be seen as a clear statement of the motives behind the murder. There was no sign of Ollie Hollis, who was in charge of the actual roast, and the developing storm made it unlikely that anyone else would come this way to disturb me, so I winched the basket off the pit, and, using the heavy insulated gloves I found in the hut, I managed to remove the pig and substitute the cadaver, burning my forearm slightly in the pro cess.

  I then made my way back to the Hall, entering unob-served by a rear door, and went to the room I knew my brother used for changing in when he went swimming. I found him there, toweling himself down. It soon became clear to me as I told him what I had done that he had no idea what I was talking about. He in fact had spent the last hour or so in the company of Sidney Parker, his homosexual lover. He was completely bowled over when I told him about Lady Denham. I was convinced of his innocence, and I realized the presence of his watch on the scene meant that someone was trying to point the finger of suspicion his way. Not knowing what other false clues might have been deposited, it seemed best to say nothing but to try to outthink the perpetrator. To this end, we agreed that Edward must be among the first on the spot when the body was discovered so that any other physical evidence of his involvement that might have been planted could be explained by contact made in removing it from the basket. Edward, though not the clearest of thinkers, has always had a great deal of self-possession in try-T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 4 7