'Nay. I brought her for the strip search but I'll do it if you like,' said Dalziel.
Wield made for the door.
Ellie said, 'Wieldy, sorry I snapped at you. I think I may still be a bit . . . excitable.'
The sergeant's generally inscrutable features which, in Dalziel's words, were knobbly enough to make a pineapple look like a pippin, smoothed momentarily into a warm smile, and he said, 'I'll let you know soon as we get a hold of Pete.'
'By God,' said Dalziel after the sergeant had gone. 'Was that a smile, or has he got toothache? Nearest yon bugger ever came to cracking his face at me was the time I fell into the swimming pool at the mayor's reception. Oh aye. I see you remember that too.'
A smile had touched Ellie's lips, and she forced it to broaden as she saw the Fat Man observing her closely. Anything was better than having a womanly weep in front of Andy Dalziel. And even more, in front of Detective Constable Shirley Novello, who had just slipped into the room. Five-four, sturdy frame, minimum make-up, dark-brown hair neat but nothing fancy, baggy sweatshirt and matching slacks, she should have been two steps from invisible, which was presumably her intention. Down-dressing did not deceive Ellie Pascoe's expert eye, however. She'd heard her husband talk a little too appreciatively of the girl's professional qualities, and she saw the way even Fat Andy's spirits perked up a notch or two at her entry. This was definitely one to watch.
'You going to make an old man happy, lass?' said Dalziel.
'Don't think so, sir. Just a first take on house-to-house. We've got two people who noticed the BMW. Confirmation of colour, but nothing extra on the numberplate. One of them thought it had an unusually long aerial compared with her husband's car, which is the same model.'
'Well-heeled neighbours you've got, Ellie,' said the Fat Man. 'Mebbe we're paying Pete too much. That it, Ivor?'
'Except for an old lady lives at the corner, towards town, that is, says she looked out to see what all the fuss was when she heard the sirens and saw a car doing a three-point turn and going back the way it came. Metallic-blue, sounds like a Golf. Driver looked swarthy and sinister, she says.'
'Watch a lot of telly, does she? Ivor, it's what happened before we came that I'm interested in. Afterwards, any poor sod driving along and seeing the street full of flashing fuzz is going to find another route, specially if he's had a swift snort or two at a business meeting.'
The notion was suggestive. Ellie looked longingly at the bottle of Scotch which the Fat Man had dug out as soon as he arrived. At the time it had seemed virtuously sensible to quote what her first aid course said about avoiding alcohol in cases of shock, but now it seemed merely priggish.
She said, 'OK, Andy. Let's do it one more time. Then I don't care if it brings on complete amnesia, I'm going to have that drink you prescribed.'
'I'm feeling better already,' said Dalziel. 'No, Ivor, don't sneak off. Got your short stubby pencil ready? I want you taking notes. Everything, not just what you think's important, OK?'
'Sir,' said Novello.
Her eyes met Ellie Pascoe's and she gave a little smile. All she got in return was a small frown. Confirming what she'd felt on their previous few meetings, that La Pascoe didn't much like her. Couldn't blame her, the WDC thought complacently. When I'm her age, I've no intention of liking good-looking women ten years my junior who work with my husband. Not that her own husband, if she ever bothered, would be anything like Chief Inspector Pascoe. It would probably be a comfort to Ellie Pascoe to know that her fantasies featured chunky, hairy men on surf-pounded beaches, not slim, nice-mannered introverts who would feel it necessary to buy you a decent French meal before checking into a good four-star hotel. But it was not a comfort she was about to offer.
The Great God Dalziel was speaking.
'Right, lass. One more time. You were really taken in at first?'
'Damn right I was. All I could think was, not again, oh God, it's not all happening again. You know, Rosie in hospital, me camping out there, all the fears . . .'
The memory of that time was still so powerful, it had the therapeutic effect of reducing her present aftershock to manageable size, and she went on more strongly, 'She'd only gone back to school for this final week before the summer hols. . . she insisted, and you know Rosie, when she makes up her mind . . .'
'Can't think who she takes after,' said Dalziel. 'Wanted to see all her mates, did she? And not miss this end-of-term outing.'
'Both of those. Also to get out from under me, I suspect.'
'Eh?'
Ellie said, 'Andy, I'm ready for that drink now. Please.'
She took the proffered tumbler and said scornfully, 'That wouldn't drown a tall gnat. Cheers.'
It went down in one. Dalziel, who'd poured himself a good three inches, poured her another millimetre.
'God Almighty, man! And it's not even your whisky,' she said.
'Not my stomach either,' said Dalziel. 'You said something about Rosie getting out from under you. Never had you down as the clinging-mother type.'
'No? Perhaps not.'
She brooded on this for a moment, glanced at Novello, then, with an effort at matter-of-factness, went on, 'Since we got her back, after the meningitis, I've hardly been able to bear letting her out of my sight. She goes in the garden to play and two minutes later I have a panic attack. I think in the end I just began to get on her nerves, so school seemed a desirable alternative.'
'Nay, you know what kids are like about missing things..’
'The trip to Tegley Hall, you mean? Well, there's another thing. They invite any parents who feel like giving a hand to go along. It's a big responsibility, ferrying that number of kids around somewhere like that. I was going to go, but last night Rosie suddenly said, "Why can't Daddy go? Miss Martindale says it doesn't just have to be mummies." Peter, bless his heart, said, why not? He'd like nothing better than a day in the company of his daughter and a hundred other kids. And he rang you and you kindly said that considering how hard you'd been working him for the past hundred years or so, he was long overdue a bit of time off . . .'
'Don't recollect them as my exact words,' said Dalziel.
'Peter is one of nature's paraphrasers. So, nothing for me to do but say, "Great. It'll give me the chance to get on with some work," and smile through my tears.'
'So you worried?'
'Of course I worried. I worried about what kind of mother I was. And I worried about them out there in the big wide world without me to look after them. And I worried about myself for worrying about them!'
Plus the other worries she wasn't about to air in front of Novello. Or Dalziel either, for that matter. Or indeed herself if she could help it. Worries like damp patches on a kitchen wall, that you could stand a chair in front of, or hang a wallchart over, or even just ignore, but you knew that sometime you were going to have to deal with them.
'So I went upstairs, switched my laptop on and started working,' she concluded.
'That help with worries, does it?' He sipped his Scotch and looked at her doubtfully.
Something else she wasn't going to lay out in present company.
'The poet Cowper managed to keep religious mania at bay for several decades by dint of writing,' she said spiritedly.
'God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform,' said Dalziel, whose capacity to surprise should have ceased to surprise her. 'Then the doorbell rang?'
'No. I heard their car and spoke to them out of the window. Then I went downstairs and opened the door.'
'Oh aye, you said. No print on the bellpush then. Pity.'
'I'm sorry. I should have thought on.'
He smiled at her sarcasm, then said seriously, 'When they mentioned Rosie, it must have been right bad.'
'Bad? It felt like the bottom had fallen out of the universe. It was like getting the worst news you could imagine, and knowing it was all your own fault.'
She spoke with a vehemence which came close to being excessive.
'All your fault?
Nay, luv, can't see how you could ever think that,' he said, viewing her closely.
If Dalziel had been by himself, she might have stumbled into an explanation.
Maybe something like, I felt so relieved that morning not to be going with Rosie, to know she was in Peter's care, to have a day at last when I could stop worrying about her. But not just for her sake, and not even because I could probably do with the rest myself, but because when we nearly lost her, I knew then what I must have known before but never had occasion to look straight in the eye, that my single-handed sailing days were over forever, that I'd been pressed as part of a three-man crew on a lifelong voyage over what were hopefully oceans of absolute love. Except if it's so absolute, how come there's a little part of me somewhere which, like Achilles's heel, didn't get submerged? Forgive me muddling my metaphors, it's probably this story I'm writing. But that's another story. No, what I'm trying to say is, no matter how I try to hide it from myself, there's something in me that sometimes yearns to be free, that gets nostalgic for the long-lost days of free choice, that comes close to seeing this love I feel not as a gift but as a burden, not as a privilege but a responsibility. Perhaps I'm simply a selfish person who knows now she can never be selfish again. Does anyone else feel like this? Am I a monster? That's why I was so ready to believe them, that's why I felt so guilty. It was like God had decided I hadn't got the message loud and clear last time and I needed another dose of the same to get me straight.
Something like that, maybe. But probably not, even if Novello and her little notebook hadn't been there.
'Just a figure of speech, Andy,' she said.
'So you'd have gone with this pair?' asked the Fat Man.
'Anywhere they wanted. If they'd kept it vague I'd have got in that car and . . . and what, Andy? What did they want with me?'
'That's for them to know and us to find out,' said Dalziel. 'So what put you onto them?'
'I've told you!'
'Aye, but telling's like peeing to a man with a swollen prostate, you think you've got it all out but there's often a bit more to come.'
'Who speaks so well should never speak in vain,' said Ellie. 'OK. At first I couldn't think of anything except Rosie being ill again. Then when they said about trying to contact Peter and being told he wasn't available, I nearly said, of course he wasn't available because he's on the coach!'
' 'But you didn't? Why not?'
'I don't know. I reckon to start with it was just a case of being too shocked to speak, and that gave me time to think, I suppose. And suddenly it was like fireworks going off in my brain. I found myself thinking, it's not just Jehovah's Witnesses that don't drive thirty thousand pound BMWs. I mean, I know the council tax has gone up, but surely the Education Department doesn't kit its employees out like this? Sorry. It makes sense to me, I assure you. At the same time I registered that two or three times they said he when they were talking about the head at Edengrove. Now, one thing anyone in our local Ed Department will know is that the head of Edengrove is Miss Martindale. Not to know her argues yourself braindead. So I thought I'd just give them a little test. I made up a Mr Johnson as head teacher. And when they didn't respond to that, I knew something very funny was going on.'
'So you decided to assault them?'
'No. I thought of challenging them, but there were two of them and only one of me and if their purpose was as nefarious as I was beginning to imagine, I didn't like the odds. Time to retreat and lock the door, I thought.'
'So what brought out the beast in you?' asked Dalziel.
'It was the man. The woman was trying to play it cool, very reassuring, nothing to worry about. She could probably see that I was already sick to guts with worry. But he decided that the more worried I got, the less trouble I'd be, and he said something about getting a move on just in case it turned out to be more serious than they thought. God, that really got to me. I thought, you callous bastard! The woman tried to calm things down, but it was too late. I was so angry that I must have been the best advert for gun control you ever saw. Because if I'd had one, I would have shot him, no problem.'
'Not then,' said Dalziel. 'Might have had one now, but. On the other hand, we'd have had a body to work on. Nowt like a body when you're short of a lead.'
'Are you saying you'd rather I'd killed one of them?'
He considered.
'No,' he said finally. 'Gets boring interrogating corpses. Serious wound, but, now that would have been nice. Something that would need hospital treatment. How hard did you say you kneed him?'
'I shouldn't think he'll be troubling his wife for a few nights, but I doubt if he'd go for treatment.'
'Wife? You reckon he was married?' said Dalziel casually.
'Well, he wore a big gold ring on his wedding finger . . . Andy, that was clever. I'd forgotten that. I mean, I didn't think I'd noticed that.'
'Not all rubber-truncheon work down the nick. Anything else come to mind, apart from what you scribbled down?'
He looked at the piece of paper Ellie had scribbled her notes on.
'Man was six feet,' he read. 'About thirty - slim build - light-brown hair - bushy - needed a cut - left-hand parting - brown eyes, I think - not blue - squarish face - open honest expression - God the bastards were good!
He looked enquiringly at Ellie.
'Yeah, sorry about that.'
'Nay, it's useful what you felt. By good, you mean. . . ?'
'Saying they were with the Education Welfare Service. That's the council department that helps deal with problems like absenteeism, truancy, bullying, parental complaint, anything that a school finds it can't cope with internally. But what I mean is, at first they came over perfect for it. Nice, caring, positive people . . .'
'Bumbling do-gooders, you mean? Sorry. Just trying to put it in terms my lads would understand. Clothing - suit - Prince of Wales check - light-blue shirt - blue and yellow diagonal striped tie - could have been Old Boys or a club - on his feet dark-brown sandals
'Did I put that? No, he was wearing a sort of soft leather moccasin, no laces, dark-tan, casual but elegant, in fact, they looked rather expensive, come to think of it. Which is what you've made me do, you cunning sod. I never mentioned sandals!'
Dalziel grinned.
'No. You put nowt. But shoes are important. Change everything else, but you want your feet to stay comfy.'
'So if he changes into something else because he's worried that I can describe him, he might keep the same shoes on?'
'Aye, but don't get excited. Not the kind of info we pass on to Interpol. Voice - light-baritone range - Irish accent. . .'
'No, that one's not going to work, Andy,' said Ellie firmly. 'I said no distinguishable accent, and that's what I mean.'
'So not a Yorkshireman.'
'Not like you, no.'
'Not deep and musical then. But there's all sorts of Yorkshire voices. There's that high squeaky one, like yon journalist fellow who used to shovel shit for Maggie Thatcher. And there's that one like a circular saw - '
'No, not northern at all,' interrupted Ellie.
'So, not northern and not Irish. We're getting somewhere. Scottish? Welsh? Cockney? The Queen? Michael Caine? Maurice Chevalier?'
'You're getting silly. No, he didn't have any accent at all, really. Like an announcer on Radio Four.'
'You think Radio Four announcers don't have accents?' said Dalziel. 'No, hang about, I think I'm with you. It's youyou think doesn't have an accent! What you mean is this guy spoke the same way you do? Middle-class posh, but not so much it gets up your nose.'
Ellie, faced as so often with a choice between laughing at Andy Dalziel or thumping him, decided she'd been involved in enough violence for the day and laughed.
'Yes, I suppose that is what I do mean,' she said.
'Grand. Now the woman. How's she for injury, by the way?'
'She might have a black eye, and a few scratches,' said Ellie, thinking affectionately of the Pompon de Paris. 'Hey, and there could be a few
threads from her dress hooked on the rose bush by the front door.'
'We'll check. So. Age thirties - five-eight or - nine - dark eyes - long face - not bad-looking - expensive make-up - what's the difference between expensive and not so expensive?'
'The more you pay, the less you see.'
'Like sending your kids to public school. Hair black - natural - short - classy stylist - I won't ask - build slim -good figure - there's that good again. Know what I mean by good, but what's it signify to you?'
Ellie threw an exasperated glance at Shirley Novello who returned it blankly.
'Well, I'm sure that to you, Andy, a good figure suggests something like two footballs in a gunny bag, but what I mean is something you can see's there but all in proportion, back, front, and middle, OK?'
'Like you, you mean?' said Dalziel, looking at her appreciatively. 'In fact, sounds a lot like you, except mebbe for the expensive make-up. Joke. Now, clothing - olive-green cotton dress - sleeveless - leather shoulder hag - no stockings - pale-green slingback shoes. Was she married?'
Ellie thought then said, 'Yes, she was wearing a wedding ring. And she had a ring on her right-hand middle finger too. Green stone. Plus a wristwatch. Expanding bracelet, gold, I think. Sorry, I should have put that down.'
'You're doing fine. The watch on the same hand as the ring?'
'Yes. The right. Hey, that means . . .'
'She could be left-handed. That's summat. Voice husky - accent Midlandish. Birmingham? Wolverhampton? Black Country?'
'Any. It was just a patina, so to speak, not a full-blown accent.'
'Might have made it to Radio Four, eh? Hello, here comes Smiler again.'
Wield had re-entered the room.
He said, 'We've got Peter,' and handed Ellie the mobile phone, then looked at Dalziel and jerked his head doorwards, suggesting they leave.
The Fat Man yawned, scratched his nose and poured himself another Scotch.
'Peter! Yes, yes, I'm fine, really . . . And you two . . . that's great, I knew you would be, but I just wanted to hear it from your own lips. . . Wieldy's told you all about it, I'm sure . . . honestly, no harm done . . . Well, you'll guess I was a bit shook up at first, but once I realized it was just a stupid jape.. what else could it be? . . . No, no, don't do that. I don't want Rosie worried. Just carry on, enjoy the rest of the day . . . I'm fine, really . . . no, I won't be on my own, and you're not due back late . . . give my love to Rose . . . and you too . . . yes, I will, I do . . . yes, he's here. 'Bye, darling.'
Dalziel 18 Arms and the Women Page 4
