Dalziel 18 Arms and the Women

by Reginald Hill

  'E-mail for you, sir. For your eyes only,' he said.

  'Oh aye? What's it say?'

  'Don't know, sir, I've not looked at it,' said Harmony, scenting a trap.

  'How do you know it's for me then?'

  'Looked as far as your name, sir. Didn't read any more.'

  'Bollocks,' said Dalziel, taking the print-out. 'How's that lovely missus of thine?'

  'Fine, sir.'

  'Tell her I want a tango with her at the next kneesup.'

  'I surely will, sir,' said Harmony retreating, grateful to have escaped so lightly.

  The Fat Man read his e-mail twice, sat back in deep thought, read it again, then leaned back in his chair and bellowed, 'SHOP!' And waited. But only the echoes came.

  After a while he rose, flung open his door and went striding through the CID offices like Uranus through his starry halls, and like Uranus he found them empty. There was no escaping the fact. Mid-Yorkshire CID was short-staffed.

  A couple of its members were on leave. Not that this meant anything to Andy Dalziel who lumped holidays, meals and sleep together as privileges granted by his personal benevolence and which could be curtailed or cancelled at his personal whim. So the wise detective headed for faraway places and left no forwarding address, and these two were very wise detectives.

  Of those who remained, one was in hospital recovering from a broken leg, a couple were out on enquiries, Pascoe was pissing about in Sheffield talking to yon looney, Roote, DC Bowler was standing watch over Ellie Pascoe, and Sergeant Wield was entertaining Rosie Pascoe at Enscombe.

  Sometimes he thought Mid-Yorks CID should be retitled Pascoe's Private Army.

  But there should have been someone here.

  God-like, his thoughts were commands.

  The door opened and Shirley Novello came in.

  'Where the hell have you been?' he demanded.

  'I just popped down to the washroom, sir,' she said.

  'Oh aye? What's up? Spotted a crack in tha make-up, didst'a?'

  Provoked by her awareness that at work her face was practically a cosmetic-free zone, Novello said briskly, 'No, sir. Actually, I needed a piss.'

  Dalziel looked at her in amazement and said, 'Nay, lass, don't shatter an old man's illusions. What are you working on?'

  He didn't wait for an answer but rustled through the papers on her desk.

  'Feenie Macallum? Yon batty old do-gooder? What in God's name are you bothering yourself with her for?'

  'Just covering all the angles, sir,' said Novello, with what she hoped was an air of brisk efficiency. 'She turned up at the DCI's house yesterday evening, and for some reason she seemed to think our surveillance had something to do with her, and I thought, with everyone so worried about Mrs Pascoe and everything, I'd better check out what the meeting was about.'

  In fact, it hadn't been any kind of concern for Ellie that had sent her down to Records, it had been mere vulgar curiosity, plus a dislike of making a fool of herself.

  'Waste of time,' said the Fat Man dismissively. 'It 'ud be in aid of Women with Headaches or Underage Welsh Refugees with Acne. What the hell's Wilgefortis? Something you rub on your chest?'

  He was looking at her scribblings.

  She thought of his likely reaction to her explanation, considered a selection of lies, then thought, what the hell?

  'St Wilgefortis, sir. One of the Queen of Portugal's septuplets. She took a vow of virginity but her father wanted to marry her off to the King of Sicily. Virginity wasn't going to be part of the deal, so she prayed to God to make her too unattractive to marry.'

  Dalziel said, 'Oh aye? I think I've met her sister. So what happened?'

  'She grew a moustache and a beard, sir. The King of Sicily got the next boat home. And her dad was so pissed off, he crucified her.'

  The Fat Man nodded as if this made good sense, then examined her upper lip and chin closely and said, 'You trying to tell me something, Ivor?'

  'Just that she prayed while she was dying that women everywhere who felt sorry for her and acknowledged her pain should be freed from all trials and troubles and encumbrances.'

  'And what the hell has this got to do with owt you're getting paid public money for?'

  'She was known by various other names. One of them was Liberata. This is the name of Miss Macallum's organization which is a trust she set up to work on behalf of women who've been wrongly imprisoned and tortured and generally abused by repressive regimes.'

  Dalziel shook his head and said, 'So this is how you spend your time? I'm all for freedom of religion, luv, but not in working hours. Specially not all this foreign crud.'

  'English women were especially fond of her,' said Novello defensively. 'They called her St Uncumber and they used to lay offerings of oats under her statue and pray that she'd uncumber them of their menfolk.'

  'You're joking? Bloody hell. My wife were always making porridge and I hated the stuff.'

  This did not seem a profitable avenue to explore.

  Novello said, 'Anyway, Miss Macallum is in our records. Mainly in connection with various protest groups. Obstruction. Abusive language. Breach of the peace. Plus one conviction for dangerous driving. Ran some guy off the road. Seems he knew her and was trying to avoid her and at first he wanted her done for attempted murder. Looks like she's a pretty physical lady when the mood takes her.'

  'You're not looking at her for threatening Ellie, I hope?' said Dalziel.

  'No, sir. Just being thorough.'

  'Thorough's grand but not if it's wasting time. Listen, I need your help. A woman's touch. Who the hell's that?'

  This in response to the shrill of a telephone.

  Novello listened carefully then said, 'Sorry, sir. Don't recognize the voice.'

  'God spare me from women comedians,' groaned Dalziel. 'Well, answer it, lass, if it's not against your religion. And if it's not mass murder or my knighthood, tell 'em to get stuffed.'

  Novello picked up the phone and listened.

  'The DCI, for you, sir,' she said.

  Dalziel took the phone and bellowed, 'What's up? Got lost and ringing for directions?'

  Then he listened for a while, and said, 'Jesus, Peter, nowt's ever simple with you, is it? Will he snuff it? . . . So no harm done . . . Yes, I've got the letter back. Covered with prints but none of 'em Roote's . . . Aye, you'd best hang around. Leave the scene and them buggers in South Yorkshire will likely fit you up for attempted murder . . . Yes, I know you should be back for Cornelius, but don't worry. I'll sort it out. Keep in touch.'

  He banged the phone down and stood there scratching his great head as if in search of something he'd buried there.

  'Something happened, sir?' ventured Novello.

  'You could say. That nut Roote the DCI went to check out in Sheffield, well, he's found him with his wrists slashed in a bath. I never asked, but I bet the daft bugger pulled him out.'

  Novello considered the alternatives and said, 'But if he was alive, sir . . .'

  'What? Oh aye, see what you're getting at. Question is, which is worse, a looney on your conscience or blood on your trousers? I've been there, and believe me, lass, you never get it out.'

  Uncertain which stain he was referring to, Novello said, 'If this guy's tried to top himself, along with the letter that looks pretty much like an admission, doesn't it, sir?'

  Dalziel smiled sadly at her and said, 'Nice to be young, is it? Aye, I can remember when I used to go jumping to conclusions like a newborn lamb. Now I'd not believe the Pope if he came to me with a signed confession. Didn't you hear me say there's nowt to connect the letter to Roote?'

  'What about the language, sir? I thought the DCI reckoned it were in some sort of cod old-fashioned English.'

  'Like what Shakespeare wrote, tha means? I hope you're not turning out to be another of them arty-farty types, Ivor.'

  'No, sir. Bored me to tears at school . . .'

  Except there had been a drama teacher at the comp, after she'd been chucked out of
the convent school, shoulders like a draught horse, black hair bubbling out of the neck of his shirt and promising to cascade all the way down to his crotch . . .

  She shook the memory loose and went on, '. . . but if it is like this revenge stuff Roote's studying . . . ?'

  'Studying Enid Blyton doesn't make you Noddy,' he said impatiently. 'Or mebbe it does. Any road, like I said, I need your help. I bet you did secretarial studies like all the girls, eh? Means you ought to know your way around filing systems. I need the DCI's notes on Kelly Cornelius and he's always moaning I leave his room a mess.'

  It took him thirty seconds to get impatient and join in the hunt, and when Novello saw the chaos he managed to create in the further half-minute it took her to unearth the file, she resolved that in the unlikely event he ever wanted something from her handbag, she'd defend it like her honour. Or maybe even harder.

  She said, 'I think this is it, sir,' opening the file just to make sure.

  'Oh aye? Give us it here then.'

  But something had caught Novello's eye.

  'Sir, what's a red tab with CCR mean?'

  'It means it's nowt for gabby little girls to be sticking their nebs into,' said Dalziel, grabbing the file.

  Even from Dalziel, this was intolerable. Perhaps fortunately there was a moment of mental debate between the response verbal and the response physical, each equally violent, which she used to turn away and smother both.

  Her back must have been eloquent, however, for he said, 'Nay, lass, don't take on. If it's any comfort to you, it means hands off to nebby detective supers too. CCR. Chief Constable Refers. Means there's things going off that are reckoned too important for us poor bloody infantry to mess with.'

  Novello had never hitherto thought of herself as being united with the Fat Man in the ranks, but she wasn't so braindead as not to accept this apology for an apology.

  She turned back and said, 'Don't know much about this case, sir, but I got the impression yesterday you weren't too happy with the way Fraud was leaving Mr Pascoe to deal with it.'

  'Did you, now? Well, sharp ears, sharp eyes and a sharp nose. That's what makes rattons and detectives.'

  He gave her a nod that was both approving and assessing.

  He's debating whether to say more, she thought. Treat me like one of the boys. No, that was unfair. She'd got the same treatment as everyone else, i.e. bad. Labelling Dalziel with isms was like calling the wind sexist 'cos it blew your skirt over your head.

  He said, 'The DCI's sharp too, lass. Don't let his poncy manners fool you. Sharpest nose in the place, me excepted. That's how he got on to Cornelius. He were driving back from Manchester over the Snake one morning couple of weeks back when he came across an accident. Lorry coming down our side had had a blow-out and jackknifed, hit a taxi coming up the other way. Not much damage. Dented the front, driver OK but passenger not wearing seat belt got a bloody nose. That was Kelly Cornelius. Off to Corfu, she says, and right upset at the delay. Peter took a paternal interest, or maybe more. I've not seen this lass in the flesh but from all accounts she's a looker and the DCI goes all balmy-eyed when he talks about her.'

  Balmy or barmy? wondered Novello.

  She didn't ask, but said, 'I'll watch out for it, sir.'

  Dalziel said, 'Nay, lass, tha's not his type,' in a kindly voice. 'Any road, he starts wondering about her when the taxi driver lets slip he's booked for the domestic terminal, and when he sees her flight bag luggage, his nose begins to twitch.'

  'Why was that, sir?' asked Novello.

  'Well, she's a lass going on holiday. Women normally need a cabin trunk for a long weekend. Flight bag didn't seem much, not even for a place where next to nowt looks over-dressed.'

  'Spend a lot of time on Corfu, do you, sir?' enquired Novello.

  'Never away since I saw Shirley Valentine,' said Dalziel. 'Any road, Pete starts ringing around, finds there's no Cornelius booked on a flight to Greece, but there is one booked on the shuttle to Heathrow with a tight connect to Quito. That's in Ecuador. That's in South America. That's south of North America.'

  'I'll make a note,' said Novello.

  'You do that. Oh, and the booking's first class, one way. With just a flight bag. Looks like she's left in a real hurry. What she's left, among other things, is a job as Technical Assistant to the Director of Investment Services at the Nortrust Bank, where they think she's at home with a touch of summer flu.'

  'So Mr Pascoe starts thinking fraud?' said Novello.

  'No! Not the DCI. Me, I always think the worst. He's more the Pollyanna school of investigation. Sees good in everyone. That's his only failing. Also, like I said, he seems to have taken a shine to Miss Cornelius.'

  Novello said primly, 'I can't see the DCI letting that affect his judgement.'

  'You reckon?' He gave her a cynical leer. 'Best check it out in your little red feminist rule book, luv. About the only thing they've got right - it affects all men's judgements. Except mine. And mebbe Sergeant Wield's.'

  He suddenly grinned and said, 'Hey, you don't think the sergeant's dad wanted him to marry the Queen of Sicily, do you?'

  A Wield ugly and gay joke all in one. Was this some sort of stamp of approval?

  She said, 'But Mr Pascoe did start making enquiries, didn't he?'

  'Aye. But likely only 'cos he felt guilty about fancying the lass. That's another thing that sorts out the good cops from the traffic cones. Doesn't matter what hang-ups you've got so long as they lead you to the right conclusions. Like you. If you were an in-your-face beads-and-incense left footer, you'd be no use to me. But from what Paddy Kerrigan says, you do more back-sliding than a trainee figure-skater, and that means your brain's covering a hell of a lot of ground.'

  Perhaps she should have felt indignant at what was not the first hint that her own moral failings had been added to the common ground of rugby football and malt whisky on which Father Kerrigan, her parish priest, and the Fat Man met each other. Instead she was experiencing an upsurge of delight at the thought that being talked to like this had to confirm her approval was well and truly stamped.

  But she was wise enough not to let it show.

  'I'll say a novena for you, sir,' she said. 'So the DCI checks her out at work and discovers she's got her hand in the till.'

  'Till? Get with it, lass. Bankers nowadays wouldn't recognize a till if they got their fingers caught in one. But, aye, he makes enquiries at Nortrust and gets told very snootily that Ms Cornelius hasn't been with them long, but in that time she's proved herself a hard-working and most trustworthy colleague. Also, she's a woman, so not bright enough to be on the fiddle.'

  'They actually said that?' interrupted Novello.

  'Nay,' said Dalziel grinning. 'But I'd lay odds some of 'em thought it. But a cop on the phone is bound to get them scared and I don't doubt they started counting the spoons straight off. Meanwhile Cornelius has gone home via a check-up at Casualty, and Peter finds that she's rearranged her flight for the next day. Comes the morning and Nortrust still can't give him anything to hold her on. If she'd been ugly as sin, Pete would likely have given up by now, but because he's determined to show the world he's not susceptible to his hormones, he sends a couple of uniformed round to her place, checking a few points on her statement, but really taking any chance they get for a look around. Burton and Noble, he asks for. Bright lasses. Only Noble gets held up on another case and the duty sergeant, not realizing that brightness is of the essence, assigns Hector.'

  'Hector.'

  If into every life a little rain must fall, Hector was Mid-Yorkshire's monsoon. Shortly after his arrival at HQ and before the full extent of his mental and physical uncoordination was understood, he had been told to take a visiting councillor to the custody area. The man had been locked up for thirty minutes before he managed to attract attention. Thereafter Hector stories proliferated like the Arabian Nights Entertainments, and like the Arabian Nights Entertainments, their eerie fascination often saved their progenitor from violent dea
th.

  'Aye, Hector,' said Dalziel. 'Burton talks to Cornelius, Hector wanders off. There's a lot of noise from the bedroom and in the end Cornelius goes through to see what's happening. Her wardrobe's open, there's clothes and stuff everywhere, plus Hector has broken into her flight bag, taken out a pair of panties, and is sitting on the bed, chewing on them.'

  'Chewing?'

  'Aye. Says he'd read an article about drug smugglers soaking clothes in a solution of coke, letting them dry, then washing the stuff out when they got it through Customs. He claims he were just testing for taste.'

  'You believe him, sir?'

  'Oh aye. Sexual perversion's too complicated for Hector. But sight of him with her knickers hanging out of his gob were too much for Cornelius. She hit him with a straight right. Pushed his nose back into the space where his brain should have been. The lass should have got a medal. Instead she got arrested for assaulting a police officer. Next thing we know is a super from Fraud turns up, has half an hour with the Chief, and Pete gets told off to stand up in court and get a remand in custody on the assault charge pending further enquiries. Did the same last week. Today will be the third time.'

  'Bit low-key for the DCI, isn't it?' said Novello. 'Simple assault charge. Unless Fraud want her on ice while they have a good scratch around. How are they doing anyway?'

  'Bit of a bad smell hanging around her boss, George Ollershaw, it seems, but nowt on her. But they did find some sort of warning messages on her computer at work and another at home, TIME TO GO, summat like that, which could explain why she decided to do a runner.'

  'But it doesn't necessarily mean there's fraud involved,' said Novello. 'And why tie someone like the DCI up in court when anyone could have taken care of it?'

  The Fat Man scratched his nose as if he wanted to remove it.

  'That's what I wondered,' he said. 'But when I dida bit of prodding, all I kept on hitting was yon red tab.'

  'Suppose Fraud could just want someone with enough clout to impress the magistrate,' suggested Novello doubtfully.

  'Mebbe. Well, let's see how they like a real heavyweight, eh? Look after the shop, Ivor. I'm off down the courts. Mustn't be late. Or at least not very late.'