‘No,’ I agreed. ‘There wasn’t. So you infiltrated WFE?’
‘That’s not a word I’d use,’ she said. ‘I joined and started helping the old lady. I quite liked her. She was daft but harmless, and a lot nicer with it than Great Aunt Gwen. Yes, I liked her. I was sorry when she died last year, but it did make things a bit easier.’
‘Easier to rob her, you mean?’
Lexie Huby regarded me curiously.
‘There was no question of robbing her,’ she said patiently. ‘The money wasn’t going to Mrs Falkingham and she was far too scrupulous ever to have used a penny for herself. No, all I meant was that after she died, I was left solely in charge of WFE. I had only myself to worry about. No one could get at her any longer.’
‘You mean like Henry Vollans and White Heat?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You knew about Vollans?’
‘At first I just thought he was a nosey journalist. That was worrying enough. Then I began to get a sense that it wasn’t just a story he was after. He was sounding me out. So I sounded him out too.’
‘And finally, you reached an understanding,’ I said.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He didn’t mention you when he did his deal with the law, did he?’ I said not without bitterness.
In my opinion, Vollans should’ve been done for murder. But in the end he’d pleaded to manslaughter and got sent down for seven years. There is no such thing as plea bargaining in English law, but the list of White Heat members covering all four estates which Vollans had provided must have influenced somebody somewhere.
‘He wanted us to stay friends,’ said Lexie.
‘You write to him in jail.’
‘You’ve checked? Yes, the occasional note.’
‘And he sits there looking forward to getting out and sharing the loot, is that it?’ I said
‘I expect so. Why do you sound so put out?’
‘Because I think that, having got the money, you’re going to be Lexie Huby again full time and Vollans is going to find that his friend Sarah Brodsworth has vanished from the face of the earth! In time he may even work out that it was you who turned him in.’
‘You think so?’
‘Who else could it have been that rang Mr Dalziel?’
She nodded.
‘You’re right of course. I’d got a date with Vollans the night the coloured lad was killed. He didn’t turn up. Then I found out he was the reporter due to meet Sharman the next day and I got to wondering.’
‘How did you find out all this stuff?’ I asked.
‘I was Eden Thackeray’s secretary, remember? Everything that came into that office came through me. I led Vollans on a bit. He always thought I must be fronting for some other extremist lot, so when I started swapping nigger-bashing stories with him, he wasn’t surprised. He as good as admitted killing Sharman. So I rang you lot and let you sort it out.’
‘Like a good citizen,’ I said. ‘And also it got Vollans out of the way of your little scheme, didn’t it? Very handy.’
‘Yes,’ she said calmly. ‘Having him sniffing around didn’t make it any easier for me to make sure I got full control of the money.’
‘Yes. At last. The money. Why did you do it, Lexie?’
I realized I was hoping she’d find some form of excuse for herself. I was even willing to hint a couple of possible mitigating factors. I said, ‘Was it because you felt your family had been cheated? Was it to help your dad?’
‘Oh no,’ she said, amused. ‘I warned Dad he were daft to rely on any money coming from the old girl, but he never paid any heed to anyone else, least of all me! But I wasn’t worried about him, not even when he went ahead with all them extensions on borrowed money. I know my dad better than anyone, Mr Pascoe. If he doesn’t get what he wants one way, he’ll get it another. No use going against him. I learnt that early on. Have you been out to the Old Mill recently? Most of the work’s finished now, without a penny of Huby money to help him. He’s bullied and bribed and done half the work himself but he’s got there and the place is doing well, believe me. You know what really brings the people in? It’s Dad himself! He’s rude, he’s vulgar, he’s sometimes downright abusive, but they love it! What the regulars like best is watching newcomers’ faces when he gets on about Aunt Gwen’s will and ends up by booting Gruff-of-sodding-Greendale up the chimney. They think he’s still really mad about it, but he got past that long ago. It’s part of the show now. He’s even had Gruff reupholstered twice to keep him looking realistic!’
Her pride in her father was touching. Also it struck me how like him she herself was. If she didn’t get a thing one way, she had the drive and wit to get it another, whether it was higher education or her great-aunt’s money.
‘I’m glad he’s doing well.’
‘Yes. And now he’ll be getting the money Mr Goodenough promised him if the will got overturned,’ said Lexie. ‘So everything’s grand down at the Old Mill.’
‘So,’ I said ‘the money is just for you. How did you think you could get away with it?’
‘With what?’
‘Fraud.’ I spelt it out. ‘Misappropriation of funds. I’m sure the Fraud Squad will have half a dozen other charges. Not forgetting impersonation.’
‘By me? Who of?’
‘Sarah Brodsworth,’ I said.
‘But she is me,’ said Lexie. ‘I even changed my name by deed-poll when I got to eighteen. There’s no problem. I’m officially Alexandra Sarah Brodsworth-Huby. How can I impersonate myself?’
‘Don’t quibble,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t become you. Your aunt had a purpose for this money. There is no way in which you will be able to claim it came into your possession legally.’
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘There wouldn’t be. But it’s not in my possession.’
‘Transferring it to a Swiss account isn’t going to alter matters, Lexie,’ I said. ‘Who advised you? Lomas?’
‘Why do you mention him?’
‘I just thought he might have inherited some of his father’s expertise about fund-laundering,’ I sneered.
She said, ‘How’d a nice lady like Mrs Pascoe get herself married to a mind like yours?’
For the first time I got angry.
‘Don’t try to be smart with me, young girl,’ I said grimly, launching into my Dalziel impersonation. ‘You think it’s all a game, don’t you? A little play with you in the lead? You should’ve been the family actor, Lexie. From what I’ve seen of Lomas you could knock him into a cocked hat, which is probably where he belongs! Well, your next big part will be in court. What’s it to be? Simple little Lexie Huby, the office mouse? No, that’ll hardly do, not now you’re almost a fully-fledged solicitor. How about, clever Miss Huby, the self-educated working class lass, who’s overcome all obstacles and reads poetry and listens to opera? But when I tell them that behind the poetry and the opera, there’s a blonde wig and a pair of false boobs and a sharp little, greedy little mind at work, they’ll look closer at you then, Lexie, and save their applause for the judge who sends you down.’
She said, amused, ‘My wig’s better than his, I think. But you’ve not got it quite right, Mr Pascoe. The poetry and the opera, yes, I acknowledge that, and I couldn’t live without ’em. But I’ve known for a long time that behind the poetry and the music there’s a world full of horrible, ugly things that can’t be disguised, that can hardly be avoided.’
‘Unless you’ve got the money to build a big enough barrier,’ I concluded for her. ‘And that’s your justification?’
‘What do I need with money?’ she snapped suddenly. ‘I need money like my dad needed it. It was thinking he needed it that nearly ruined him. Knowing he wasn’t getting it just put him on the right road. Like Rod. He’ll never be a great actor, mebbe, but unless someone gives him a lot of money, he’ll have to work so hard he’ll become a very good one.’
‘And you?’ I said, somewhat taken back.
‘Oh yes
. Money’d spoil me too,’ she said. ‘I don’t need to cheat to get it, Mr Pascoe. I can’t see any trick to making a lot of money if that’s what you want. It’s a talent I’ll have to be on my guard against as long as I live, I suspect. Here take a look at this. I’ve got a class to go to, and I’ve wasted too much time here already.’
She thrust a piece of paper at me.
On it the Yorkshire Commercial Bank acting on behalf of the East African Famine Relief Fund acknowledged receipt from the accredited representatives of Women For Empire of six hundred and eighty-nine thousand, three hundred and seventy-four pounds and thirty-eight pence.
‘Do me a favour,’ she said. ‘Stick it in this envelope and post it for me, will you? I’ll not have much time to get down to the Post Office now you’ve made me so late.’
She handed me an envelope, I glanced down at it.
It was addressed to Henry Vollans, c/o HM Prison, Wakefield, Yorkshire.
‘Lexie,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I thought that …’
‘Yes,’ she said, and grinned. It was like an internal light being switched on and for the first time through the outer layer of disguise I could see the unmistakable and true Lexie Huby.
I said, ‘Was this what you planned from the start?’
‘Planned? No plans, Mr Pascoe,’ she said. ‘I’m getting to the age of plans now, because that’s how adults get things done, but I wasn’t an adult when all this started. I don’t know. Mebbe it started when I was a child and I first heard about Alexander, about him being dead, and not dead. I never liked Great Aunt Gwen but I could see how desperately she wanted Alex not to be dead, and I thought of all the other mothers who wanted their children not to be dead, well, not thought, because that means plans, doesn’t it, but imagined, that’s the child’s way, imagination, play …’
‘But death?’ I said. ‘What could death mean to a child?’
She said, ‘Death? Not much. Not then; not now. What is it? You here, I there; you stopping, I going on? Unimaginable! But I can imagine dying and the fear of it. The love of it too. I can imagine …’
Pascoe pressed the stop button and then ran the tape back to the beginning. He’d listened to it three times already and the final section was still as harrowing as it had been when first he’d heard it in that stuffy bank office. Lexie had seemed almost to be speaking in a trance induced by the intensity of her own imaginings. It struck him that this power to project herself so deep into the minds and feelings of others might prove a double-edged weapon. To a child, such imaginings were principally play; to an adult, along with valuable insights, they must bring a terrible vulnerability. He would watch little Lexie Huby’s progress with interest and with concern. Meanwhile he found himself vulnerable to a question of conscience.
This was, did his approval of the direction in which Gwendoline Huby’s money had been diverted give him the right to conceal his knowledge of its diversion?
He knew what Ellie would say. ‘Right? It wasn’t a matter of right. It was your duty to do nothing!’
He could guess what Dalziel would say. ‘Bury it. But if that lass is going to practise law round here, don’t let her forget she owes you a favour!’
Sod ’em all! When it came down to it, there was only one person whose judgment he could rely on absolutely.
He pressed the erase button on the cassette, locked the whisky bottle in his desk, and went home to talk to Rosie.
If you enjoyed Child's Play, read the next book in the Dalziel & Pascoe series
Click here to order Under World
Read on for the first chapter now.
Chapter 1
‘Another fine mess you’ve got me into,’ said Detective-Superintendent Andrew Dalziel.
In his mind’s eye, Peter Pascoe could see his superior’s broad slab of a face twisted into a mock exasperation intended to be reassuring. The picture had to be mental because he’d lost his torch in the roof fall which held him pinned helpless from the waist down, and Dalziel only used his light fitfully as he dug at the debris with his bare hands.
Mental or not, the picture was not to Pascoe’s liking. In sick-bed terms, comfort from Andy Dalziel was like seeing the doctor edged aside by the priest. He tried to move again and felt pain run up his legs like fire up a fuse, exploding him to full consciousness.
‘Jesus!’ he gasped.
‘Hurting? That’s a good sign.’
‘That’s your expert fucking opinion, is it?’ grated Pascoe. ‘Where’d you pick up that priceless gem? Bart’s, was it? Or the interview room?’
‘Watch it, lad,’ warned Dalziel. ‘I’ll make allowances for delirium but I’ll not stand insubordination. Any more of that and I’ll …’
He hesitated.
‘You’ll what?’ demanded Pascoe. ‘Get me posted to traffic? Don’t bother. I’ll volunteer.’
‘No,’ said Dalziel. ‘What I was going to say was, any more of that and I’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks.’
There was a silence between the two men for a moment, and the moment was long enough to remind them that in this place there was no such thing as silence. Water dripped, earth dribbled, pebbles clinked, and from time to time there were creaks and groans as a hundred thousand tons of ancient rock tried to close this wound savagely ripped along its guts.
Then a new sound joined the others, almost but not quite the rattle of pain.
‘Like a ton of bricks,’ moaned Pascoe. ‘Oh Christ, don’t make me laugh.’
‘Ton of bricks!’ said Dalziel beginning to splutter. ‘Ton of …’
He let out a bellow of laughter which ricocheted off the pile of rubble under which Pascoe lay and rolled down the old roadway behind them.
‘Don’t,’ pleaded Pascoe. ‘Please don’t …’
But it was too late. The contagion of laughter was upon him and for a good half-minute the two policemen gave themselves over to hoots of merriment all the stronger because of the pain and fear they so inadequately masked.
Finally the merriment faded. Pascoe tried to keep it going a little time after it was completely dead. The alternative tenant of his imagination was a mouse voice squeaking that he was trapped in a dark confined space with no hope of rescue. It was, to misuse a phrase, a dream come true, his dream of the worst fate that could befall him. He closed his eyes, though in that place there was no need, and tried to win his way back to unconsciousness. He must have half succeeded, for he heard a distant voice gently calling his name and when his eyes opened, he was dazzled by a disc of white light which he tried desperately to confuse with the moon riding high above the lime tree in his garden on one of those rare nights when work and weather conspired to permit an al fresco supper and he and Ellie sat, wine-languid, in the summer-soft, flower-sweet, velvet-dark air.
It was a vain effort, a lie which never came close to being a delusion. The voice was Dalziel’s, the light his torch.
‘What?’ he demanded.
‘Nowt. Just thought there weren’t much point ruining me fingernails digging if you’d snuffed it,’ said Dalziel. ‘How are the legs? Still hurting?’
‘The pain seems to be getting further away,’ whispered Pascoe. ‘Or perhaps it’s just the legs that are getting further away.’
‘Jokes, is it? What are you after, lad? The fucking Police Medal?’
‘No joke, sir. More like despair.’
‘That’s all right, then. One thing I can’t stomach’s a bloody hero.’
Dalziel belched as though in illustration and added reflectively, ‘I could stomach one of Jack’s meat pies from the Black Bull, though.’
‘Food,’ said Pascoe.
‘You peckish too? That’s hopeful.’
‘Another good sign?’ whispered Pascoe. ‘No. I meant there wasn’t any. Back at the White Rock. Did you see any?’
‘Likely he’d not unpacked it. Well, he wouldn’t have time, would he?’
‘Perhaps not … there was someone in there, you know …’
‘
In where? The White Rock? In a cave, or what?’
‘Back there … the side gallery … someone, something … I can’t remember …’
‘In there, you mean? Of course there was. Young bloody Farr was in there, which is why we’re in here, up to our necks! Well, back to work.’
It wasn’t the answer or at least only part of it, but his mind seemed to be refusing to register much since they had so foolishly left that marvellous world of air and trees and space and stars. He gave up the attempt at recall and lay still, listening to the fat man’s rat-like scrabblings. Was it really worth it? he wondered. He didn’t realize he’d spoken his thought, but Dalziel was replying.
‘Likely not. They’re probably out there already with their shovels and drills and blankets and hot soup and television lights and gormless interviewers practising their daft bloody questions. Nay, I’m just doing this to keep warm. Sensible thing would be to lie back and wait patiently, as the very old bishop said to the actress.’
‘How will they know where we are?’
‘You don’t think them other buggers got stuck like us? Pair of moles, them two. Born with hands like shovels and teeth like picks, these miners. I can’t wait to get my hands on that young bastard, Farr. This is all down to him, running off down here. Bloody Farr. He’ll wish he were far enough when I next see him.’
Pascoe smiled sadly at the fat man’s attempted cheeriness. He didn’t believe that he and Colin Farr would ever meet again. His mind burrowed into the huge pile of earth and rock which held him trapped and his heart showed him Colin Farr trapped there too. Or worse. And if worse, how to explain it to Ellie in the unlikely event he ever got the chance? Any explanation must sound like justification. He would, of course, deny any imperatives other than duty and the law. Up there you had to keep things simple. There was no other way to survive.
But down here survival was too far beneath hope to make a motive, and the darkness was fetid with doubt and accusation. Time for the bottom line, as the Yanks put it. Place for a bottom line too. And the bottom line read like this.
Child's Play Page 31
