For the next few days the papers were full of Templar and terrorist stories, but by mid-week even the speculative fecundity of the tabloids was finding it difficult to create the appearance of novelty without hard facts.
The weekend security alert at Mid-Yorkshire Central Hospital got a good airing, but on the whole it was a blank white sheet that flapped in the wind. The gentlemen of the press, desperate for copy, soon seized upon the fact that two policemen linked to the Mill Street bombing were patients there. But only the Voice, which in matters of pure fabrication always went the extra mile, for once got close to the truth with its theory that an attempt had been made on the life of one of the officers, though they could offer no hard evidence to support it. The official spin was that the alert had been sparked by an attempt to steal drugs from the dispensary. While no one believed it, no one could disprove it either, and a lie unchallenged is
very soon stronger than a truth unsupported.
Knowing that Voice jackals would have been padding round the hospital corridors waving bundles of banknotes under every nose that came their way, Pascoe wondered how CAT had managed to sit on the grumpy Mr Mills who shared Hector's room.
Perhaps they'd locked him up with Ffion Lyke-Evans.
When Ellie heard that Ffion was being held incommunicado, she grew indignant on her behalf, which at least took the heat off Pascoe for a while.
On his return from Northumberland, he had opted to tell Ellie everything on the deplorably sexist grounds that simple facts could never be as bad as female fancy.
Unhappily he quickly discovered that parity of information does not necessarily lead to parity of conclusion. While it was obvious to him that he had (a) never been in any danger during the assault on Youngman's cottage and (b) that the only way he was going to discover what had really happened to put Fat Andy into a life-threatening coma was to stick as close to CAT operations as he could, to Ellie it was just as clear that if his conspiracy theories had any merit at all, his persistence in nosing around unofficially could only put his own health, physical and professional, at serious risk.
'Go and see Trimble,' she urged. 'Or write to the Commissioner. Get it in the open so you're not a solitary target.'
'You think that would help’ he retorted, 'when I've no idea how high this goes, how many blind eyes are being turned at top level to these so-called Templars?'
To which she replied, 'And you think that's going to comfort me?'
But what did comfort her was his strong suspicion that his ad hoc secondment to CAT was going to be terminated.
On Monday, he'd wanted to go into the Station and see how things were there but, recalling Glenister's injunction, he stayed at home, jumping every time the phone rang.
It was never Glenister and by mid-afternoon he was convinced that she wasn't going to call. Then at five o'clock, it rang again.
'Pascoe,' he said.
'Peter, hi. It's Dave Freeman.'
His heart sank. She wasn't even doing her own dirty work.
Then what Freeman was saying sank in.
'Sandy's sorry she can't ring herself, but she's busy busy. How're you feeling?'
'Fine. Well rested. Ready for work.'
'Excellent. But let's not rush things. Sandy thought you were looking a bit peaky on Sunday. Why don't you meander across here tomorrow evening, settle back in your hotel, then report for duty at the Lube on Wednesday.'
His first impulse was to say he could be there tonight, but he resisted it.
'Yes! Fine,' he said. 'I'll be there first thing Wednesday.'
He must have sounded keen.
'At least wait till sun-up,' said Freeman.
He laughed as he spoke, but it was a sharing friendly laugh rather than his usual knowing fricative.
When he told Ellie, she wasn't pleased but, seeing it was pointless to argue, she held her peace. Never part mad, had been one of their early marriage resolutions, never broken without subsequent regret, and her goodbye kiss as he left the following day was as passionate as a man could wish for.
Next morning she was sitting glaring in frustration at the recalcitrant third chapter of her new novel when the phone rang. The number in the caller display was unfamiliar, and she answered with a snappy 'Yes?' ready to cut off any attempt to sell her anything.
'Ellie?' said a man's voice cautiously.
'That's right. And you are?'
'It's Maurice. Maurice Kentmore. I'm sorry, is this a bad time?'
'Maurice!' she said. 'Hi. No, it's fine, really. For some reason I thought you were trying to sell double-glazing. Sorry.'
He laughed and said, 'No, not selling. The opposite, in fact. I had to come over here on business this morning, and I just wondered if I could buy you - and Peter, of course - lunch? Sorry it's so last minute, but I got my business done much quicker than I expected, and I have to hang around as I'm picking up Kilda later - she's visiting a friend - so what I mean is, I thought I'd have a bite to eat somewhere, and I tend to bolt my food when I'm eating alone, which gives me indigestion . . .'
'So this is a medical emergency rather than a social call?' said Ellie, amused for once rather than irritated at the polite Englishman's inability to say. Fancy some lunch?
Kentmore said, 'Sorry, I'm going on, aren't I? Look, it would be nice to see you, but if you're busy or have made other arrangements or . . .'
Now Ellie did let herself sound a little irritated.
'Maurice,' she said, 'I'm quite capable of finding my own excuses. If I wanted any. Which I don't. So when and where?'
‘I really only know the Keldale Hotel,' he said. 'The restaurant is pretty reliable. What do you think?'
Reliable, in this case, meaning dull, stodgy and pretentious.
'If you're seriously asking, I think I'd rather grab a burger in the park,' she said.
'Oh well, if you really wanted to do that . . .'
'I'm joking, Maurice. But not the Keldale. How about the Saracen's Head, Little Hen Street, twelve thirty? You'll need to book. Or would you like me . . . ?'
This was a challenge too far to his masculinity.
'No. I'll do it. Look forward to seeing you.'
Was I rude? thought Ellie, putting the phone down. Maybe. But I'm not going to reorganize my day to lunch in the fucking Keldale!
It occurred to her that she hadn't mentioned she'd be alone. Ah well, it would be a pleasant surprise for him. She hoped. Whoops. Why did she hope that? Because she was assuming it was her company he wanted, not Peter's.
To what end? she heard her husband enquire. For your sparkling conversation? Or your lily-white body? 'How should I know!' she said to her reflection in the mirror. OK, but you should know why you said yes, came the retort. 'Because he seemed to expect me to say no,' she replied briskly as she stood in front of her wardrobe, wondering what to wear. But couldn't that be exactly the reaction he was looking to provoke? asked her husband. Men, as you have from time to time pointed out, can be devious bastards, especially in pursuit of lwb's. 'Speak for yourself,' she retorted.
And found herself wishing yearningly that he was here to do that.
She closed the wardrobe and looked at herself in the mirrored door. For a casual pub lunch, what was wrong with the M&S jeans and checked shirt she was wearing?
Nothing, came the answer.
Nothing at all.
* * *
The Saracen's Head was an old coaching inn which Peter and Ellie often used if they met at lunch-time. It was old and dark and could have done with a bit of tender loving care from a sympathetic decorator, but the dining room was clean and airy with well-scrubbed deal tables not too crowded together and a short menu of good plain food cooked from scratch on the premises. Another advantage was that it was a good mile from the Black Bull, CID's favourite pit-stop, so there was little chance of an overspill.
It occurred to Ellie as she walked towards the ancient sign which had been creaking over the cobbles of Little Hen Street for at least two hundre
d years that in light of Kentmore's sad family history it wasn't perhaps the most diplomatic of venues.
The inn sign showed the eponymous head looking a touch pop-eyed, which was perhaps not surprising as it had evidently just been severed from its body.
A Lib-Dem councillor with more sensibility than sense had mounted a campaign to have the sign removed on the grounds that it was likely to cause offence to non-Christian faith groups. The local paper had produced an editorial which seemed to be supporting the campaign until you reached the paragraph listing other signs the councillor might like to put on his hit list, such as Men on public toilets (sexist), Help the Aged over a charity shop (ageist), St George's Church (dragonist), and Posy Please (florist).
Ellie had laughed even though the councillor was a friend of hers. She too had taken a while to learn that sometimes perception is the better part of principle.
Kentmore was already there.
He's keen, thought Ellie as she saw him rising from his chair and stepping forward to greet her. She was prepared for anything from an air-kiss to the touch of warm lips, but all he offered was a brisk handshake. They sat down. The table was only set for two. Did this mean he'd guessed or presumed that Peter wouldn't come? Watch out for your lily-white body, girl! she admonished herself as she ordered the poached salmon salad and a small glass of white wine. He did the same. He said it was his first time here and asked if she knew anything of the history of the place. To an ex-lecturer, it's always pleasant to be given an excuse to deliver a short lecture, so she did, watching carefully for the first sign of eye-glaze but not detecting any.
'So,' she concluded, 'though the building is seventeenth century, it could be the name was inherited from a medieval pub that once occupied the same site. Or it could be that some Yorkshire entrepreneur cashing in on the buoyant market for cakes and ale after the Restoration thought a nice bit of retro-design would be just the job. Probably had lances on the wall, Crusader ale in the cask.'
'Steak and Coeur-de-lion pie on the menu,' he contributed, smiling.
He had a very attractive smile. Apart from the table for two, nothing in his demeanour or conversation suggested he had 1-wbs on his mind, but she recalled once hearing the Great Guru Dalziel say that getting a confession and getting laid had much in common - you had to be willing to listen to a lot of crap en route without falling asleep.
The salmon came. It was delicious. She refused a second glass of wine, not through fear of weakening her resistance but because she was picking Rosie up from school later. Kentmore made no effort to persuade her.
She asked after his sister-in-law, Kilda.
'She's fine,' he said. 'She keeps herself busy. She has lots of friends.'
Most of whom she meets at AA sessions, thought Ellie. Then slapped herself mentally lor being a bitch.
'Is she working again now? She was a photographer, wasn't she?'
‘I hope she'll get back to it,' he said. 'On Saturday at the fete, that was the first time I've seen her using her camera since Chris. ..'
He tailed off and she came in quickly, 'What about family? Any kids?'
'No.'
'That's a pity.'
'Why do you say that?'
‘I just thought, losing her husband, kids might have been a comfort. I know if anything ever happened to Peter, I'm certain I'd be even gladder than I am to have my daughter, Rosie . . . Sorry. Not my business.'
'Kilda's got me. After it happened we had each other.'
'It's good you're so close,' she said.
'Yes, it was really handy that she and Chris had a house on the estate.'
She almost said she didn't mean that, but stopped herself. Of course he knew she didn't mean that. How close they were, what comfort they had sought in each other, was their business. And she recalled her instinctive feeling, which she'd passed on to Peter, that they weren't in a physical relationship.
She said, 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. Grief, sharing a death, that either brings people together or thrusts them apart. . .'
'Are you speaking from experience?'
She said, 'Sort of, I suppose. Before we got married, we lost some friends, people we'd been at university with, in circumstances . . . well, we don't need to go into that. And I wasn't certain at the time where it was going to leave us.'
'But it brought you closer?'
'Oh yes. Then later, there was a time when Rosie was seriously ill and I really didn't know what might happen to us if she didn't make it... still don't . . .'
His hand rested on hers and he said, ‘I think you'd have been OK. But it's hell, no getting away from it. They say time heals, but that moment when I realized Chris was dead, that's left a wound that nothing can heal.'
His fingers were digging into the back of her hand.
She said, because it felt necessary to say something, anything, to stop him from reliving the experience, 'How did you hear? Letter, or did they contact you direct?'
'What? Oh yes, eventually. But I knew already. I heard him die, you see.'
Oh God, she thought. Was this going to be one of those mystic experiences she usually mocked as a retrospective rearranging of the furniture? And when I heard he 'd died at two o 'clock on Thursday, I remembered that it was just about then that I broke one of my best crystal glasses ... just fell apart... He always loved those glasses ...
She drew her hand away from beneath his and said, 'Heard . . . ? In what sense?'
'In the sense of I heard,' he said. 'He rang me. That's right. I was in bed and the phone rang and when I picked it up, it was Chris. His helicopter had been shot down and he got taken prisoner. He was injured already and the bastards who took him decided they weren't going to waste medical supplies on him but they might as well extract any useful information they could before they dumped him. So they tortured him.'
'Jesus!' exclaimed Ellie. 'But this phone call you say he made .. .'
'A rescue party turned up and sorted out the bastards who were torturing him, but it was too late for Chris. He knew he was dying. There was a satellite phone. Chris begged the chap in charge to let him use it. Strictly against the rules, I imagine, but what use are rules when a man's dying in front of you?'
He fell silent.
Ellie said, 'And he rang you?'
She tried to keep the note of puzzlement out of her voice, but didn't succeed.
He said, 'And not Kilda, you mean? Of course he tried her first. But she was away. So he rang me. We spoke only a few seconds. And then he fell silent. After a moment a voice said, "Sorry, sir, he's gone. I'll be in touch." Then the phone went dead.'
'Oh my God. And what did you do?'
'What do you think I did?' he demanded savagely. 'Dialled 1471 and tried to get reconnected? Sorry, that was rude. I don't know what I did. It felt like a dream, a nightmare. Eventually of course it became official. That was better, marginally. Official you can deal with. Official gives you things to do, decisions to make, papers to sign.'
He emptied his glass, pointed at Ellie's.
She shook her head.
He said, 'Probably wise. The bottle was a temptation back then. In the end I resisted it. But let's have some coffee.'
When it came he said, 'This was meant to be a jolly sociable lunch. Sorry to off-load all this stuff on to you, especially when you've got troubles of your own.'
Troubles?' she echoed, unsure which of them he might be referring to.
'Peter's boss, I get the impression he means a lot to you both
'Andy? Yes, he does. A lot.'
'So if he doesn't make it, you're going to be hit hard?'
It occurred to her that, if this was his idea of getting the lunch back on jolly sociable lines, he ought to go on a course.
She said, 'Yes, we are. It will be . . . I think earth-shattering's the only way to put it. Most people we love, kids, parents, spouses, you feel their vulnerability, you worry about them, often too much maybe. But Andy . . . imagine going to the Lake District and finding
that Great Gable wasn't there. I keep telling myself the prognosis isn't good, that it's time to start letting go. But inside I can't get close to accepting it.'
He squeezed her hand again. It felt like genuine sympathy rather than a move.
He said, 'Incidentally, I was reading in the paper about an alert at the hospital on Sunday. There was some speculation that an attempt had been made on the life of a policeman who was a patient there and I wondered if it might have been your friend.'
Ellie looked at him curiously. The only paper which had come that close to the truth was the
Voice, and she wouldn't have put Kentmore down as a reader.
He misread her hesitation and said, 'Look, I'm sorry, I shouldn't be asking you about police matters. It was crass of me. And as I only saw it in some rag I glanced at in the hairdressers, it's probably a load of rubbish anyway.'
'No,' she said. 'You're right, there was an incident. But it didn't involve Andy, not directly that is. Another officer who was a witness in the Mill Street case. Look, I really don't know anything more than that.'
And Peter would tell her she shouldn't have said even as much as that. But by comparison with what she wasn't saying, about her crazy husband running around the Kielder Forest with a bunch of heavily armed madmen, it was the tiniest of indiscretions. And whatever else Kentmore was, she couldn't see him as an undercover Voice reporter!
His hand was still on hers. He gave what felt like a farewell squeeze, poured more coffee and asked how Tig and Rosie were after their triumph at the fete.
As they left together, Ellie said, 'Thanks for the lunch. I enjoyed it.'
'Does that mean you'll want to come again if I call again?'
'If? That's not very flattering,' she said.
'It just means I'm far too old-fashioned to be presumptive enough to say "when".'
This rang a bit arch. Or maybe that's what old-fashioned flirting sounded like.
'In that case, goodbye. Or au revoir,' she said, offering her hand.
She could do archness too.
He took her hand. This time however he did not shake it firmly but used his grip to draw her towards him and brushed his lips against her cheek.
'I've really had a good time,' he murmured. 'Thank you.'
Death of Dalziel - Dalziel & Pascoe 22 Page 24
