‘It’s probably nothing. You know how keen these youngsters are to make mountains out of molehills so they can climb up ’em.’
Blaylock had a deep reassuringly mellow voice reminding Pascoe of the kind of actor cast in the role of Scotland Yard inspector in black-and-white thrillers made before the war. Perhaps he wore a tweed jacket and smoked a pipe. Cambridge, city of dreaming squires, gleaming in the wide flat fens like a jewel on the brow of a submerged toad. How nice to work there. What beauty in your daily life, what sense of history, what opportunity for cultural contact and intellectual stimulus …
Jesus, I’m even sharing dreams with Roote now!
‘I quite like mountains myself,’ said Pascoe.
‘It was just that the PM on Albacore showed death from smoke inhalation, but it also mentioned some possible damage to the back of his head. Hard to be sure though as the body was badly burnt. In any case, as he was overcome by smoke, he’d probably go down pretty hard and might well have cracked his head.’
‘What about the way he was found?’ said Pascoe. ‘What I’m getting at …’
‘I know what you’re getting at,’ said Blaylock in a kindly voice. ‘We read all the training manuals down here too. My bright boy checked. Albacore was found lying face-down across the threshold of his study, facing in. But the experts assure me it means nothing. Unable to see and choking, victims often end up so disorientated they head back towards the source of a fire, and once they go down they may roll over several times in their efforts to escape.’
Pascoe was now very excited indeed, but he put a lid on it and asked negligently, ‘So you found yourself wondering if someone could have whacked Albacore on the head and left him to die in the burning study.’
‘That’s what my bright boy wanted me to wonder. But he couldn’t get anything out of the arson experts to suggest the fire had been started deliberately. So I made a note in the file and was getting on with more pressing matters, till I heard about your interest, Mr Pascoe. But if in fact all you’ve got is the vague notion you just outlined to me, then it’s not much help, is it? Nothing plus nothing equals nothing, right?’
Not if, deep down inside, you know you’re right, thought Pascoe. But what was the point of trying to explain to a man he didn’t know a hundred plus miles away what his nearest and dearest face to face had listened to with unconcealed scepticism?
‘You’re right,’ he said.
‘I’ve been glancing through the file as we talked,’ said Blaylock. ‘I see this man Roote made a statement, just like all the rest of them. Any point in reeling him back in and putting a bit of pressure on him, do you think?’
Pascoe thought of Franny Roote, of that pale still face, of those eyes whose surface candour concealed what lay beneath, of that quietly courteous manner. Pressure applied here was like pressure applied to quicksand. It either sucked you in and destroyed you, or, if you managed to withdraw, it showed no sign that you’d touched it.
‘No point whatsoever,’ he said. ‘Listen, it was just a passing notion. If I did find anything positive, I’d get straight in touch. And perhaps you could keep me posted if …’
‘Don’t worry, you’d hear from me,’ said Blaylock, his mellow voice taking on a slight edge of menace.
So that was that, thought Pascoe as he replaced the phone. The unofficial network would be alerted. The news would soon be out. Hieronimo is mad againe.
‘So what?’ he said aloud.
‘Does my heart good to see a man too deep in his work to hear a knock at his door.’
Dalziel stood on the threshold, had been standing there God knows how long.
The unofficial Roote file was open on the desk. Pascoe closed it, not, he prayed, over-casually, and said, ‘Must be going deaf. Come in, do.’
‘Owt interesting going off?’ said Dalziel, his eyes fixed on the unlabelled file.
Taking the bull by the horns was better than waiting to be gored.
‘Got another letter from Roote this morning. Would probably have binned it, but I’ve just had an interesting call from a DCI Blaylock at Cambridge.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He’s heard of you,’ said Pascoe.
He gave the gist of his conversation, convinced Dalziel had heard his half of it anyway.
As he spoke, the Fat Man ran his eyes over the letter, and Pascoe took advantage of the distraction to slide the file into a drawer. When he’d finished reading, he dropped the letter on to the desk, farted gently and asked, ‘So what’s this Bollock decided to do next?’
‘Blaylock. Nothing. No evidence of crime. Leave it alone.’
‘But you reckon Albacore caught Roote with a flame-thrower in his hand, and then the lad whacked him on the head and left him to barbecue, right? What do you think he’s confessing to in his latest, then? Plans to scupper the Swiss Navy?’
‘No,’ said Pascoe, aiming at reasonableness. ‘Nothing concrete to bother us here.’
‘You reckon?’ said Dalziel. ‘This stuff about Charley Penn, doesn’t that bother you?’
‘No, not really,’ said Pascoe, surprised. ‘Nothing new there, is there? We all know how hard it’s been for Penn to accept that his best mate was a killer.’
‘How about what young Bowler said yesterday?’
Pascoe looked blank and the Fat Man said accusingly, ‘I told you all about it in the Bull, but I could tell it weren’t going in.’
‘Yes it did,’ protested Pascoe. ‘Something about a break-in at his girl’s flat. You can’t think Penn had anything to do with that? He may be a bit stretched out at the moment, but I can’t see him breaking and entering, can you? Anyway, didn’t Bowler say there was no sign of forced entry? I don’t see Charley as a dab hand with a picklock!’
‘Always got a trick or two up his lederhosen, your Hun. Frogs thought the Maginot Line ’ud keep ’em out in 1940, look what happened there. Any road, he’s a writer. Learn all kinds of dirty tricks, them writers. It’s the research as does it. Look at yon Christie. All them books, all them murders. Can’t touch pitch and not get defiled, lad.’
An idiot might have been tempted to suggest that maybe he was confusing his Christies, but Pascoe knew that Dalziel in frolicsome mood was like an elephant dancing, the wise man did not complain it was badly done, he just steered well clear.
But he couldn’t resist a dig.
He said, ‘I see what you mean. But it’s a bit like this Roote thing, isn’t it? No complaint, no evidence, so no case. How do you see yourself proceeding, sir?’
Dalziel laughed, ran a massive finger round the space on the desk where the file had been, and said, ‘Like the Huns in 1940. Blitzkrieg! Seen owt of Wieldy?’
‘Got another mysterious call and went out.’
‘God, I hope he’s not going to come back with another half-baked tip.’
‘You reckon there’s nothing in this Praesidium business then?’ said Pascoe, determined to show how closely he had been listening in the Bull.
‘I’m not holding my breath,’ said the Fat Man.
‘He’s usually a pretty good judge,’ said Pascoe loyally.
‘True. But hormones can jangle a man’s judgment worse than a knock on the head. Look at Bowler. Love’s a terrible enemy of logic. I think I read that in a cracker.’
‘Love … I don’t see how Edwin Digweed can have anything to do –’
‘Who mentioned Digweed? What if our Wieldy’s playing away? Nay, don’t stand there like a hen with the gapes. It happens. Is it coffee time yet? I could sup a cup.’
Pascoe, uncertain how serious Dalziel was about Wield, but knowing from experience that the Fat Man’s basic instincts sometimes got to places that a cruise missile couldn’t reach, recovered his composure and said brightly, ‘Going down to the canteen, sir?’
‘No way. Buggers stop talking when I show my face there. I like a bit of Klatsch with my Kaffee. Pardon my Kraut, must’ve picked it up off Charley Penn. If anyone wants me, tell ’em I’ve
gone down the Centre in search of a bit of cultural enlightenment. Ta-rah!’
6
The ship
Dalziel was right. If you wanted your coffee with Klatsch, not to mention Schlag, latte, or other even more exotic additives, then you headed for Hal’s café-bar on the mezzanine floor of the Heritage, Arts and Library Centre.
If on the other hand you wanted it with a cloaking background of distant train noises and all too close punk rock, then Turk’s was the only place to be.
At least, thought Wield sourly, Ellie Pascoe wouldn’t need to agonize over the working conditions of those who had picked the beans to produce this social experience. Anyone with a hand in the process which led to this muck deserved everything they got.
His sourness was caused by the fact that Lee Lubanski hadn’t turned up. Twenty minutes of sitting alone in this atmosphere listening to this racket under Turk’s indifferent gaze made you wonder if the life you enjoyed outside this place wasn’t just a dim memory of people and places long lost. You began to fear that if you stayed too long you might lose all power of decision and end up a permanent fixture like the silent, solitary men hunched over empty cups who surrounded him.
Time to go. He should feel relieved. But he didn’t.
He pushed the cup away and began to rise. The door opened and Lee came in.
His young face was twisted with anxiety. He looked like a child who’s lost contact with his mam in a supermarket and is experiencing a fear teetering on the edge of panic.
Then he saw Wield and his face lit up. He came straight to the table and apologies began to tumble out of him at such a rate the detail was lost in the torrent.
‘Shut up and sit down afore you do yourself an injury,’ said Wield.
‘Yeah … sure … sorry …’
He sat down and stopped talking but his face still glowed with pleasure at finding Wield waiting. Time to switch off the light.
‘Passed on that so-called tip of yours to my boss,’ growled Wield. ‘He wasn’t much impressed. Like I said to you, we don’t have the men or the time to follow every bleeding Praesidium van for a whole day. You got any more details?’
The youth shook his head.
‘Sorry, nowt about that, but I got something else.’
‘Oh yes? What’s it this time? A sub-post-office job somewhere in the North of England? Or is it not as definite as that?’
Lee’s light was now definitely flickering.
‘Not very definite, no,’ he said defensively. ‘But I can only tell you what I heard. You don’t want me making things up, do you?’
There was something touchingly ingenuous about this, but Wield did not let his reaction show.
‘Too bloody true,’ he said. ‘All right, let’s have it.’
‘It’s that Liam Linford case. They’re fixing it so the wanker gets off.’
Now it was his intense interest that Wield was concealing.
‘Fixing it? Who is? How?’
‘His dad, Wally, who fucking else?’ said Lee with a show of aggression reminding Wield that under the facade of innocent kid lurked a streetwise rent boy. ‘And all I know is they’re fixing for that Carnwath to change his evidence so it never gets to Crown Court, and it’s no use going on at me for more ’cos that’s all I fucking know.’
‘Yeah yeah, keep your voice down,’ said Wield. The music was loud and no one was paying any attention, but too much animation in a place like Turk’s was like laughter at a funeral. ‘What you do know is where this info comes from.’
A sullen, stubborn expression settled like a pall across the boy’s pale features.
A client, guessed Wield. He’s not going to risk giving up a regular source of income. And maybe it’s someone he’s a bit scared of.
What he should be trying to do was sign Lee up as an official snout to compensate for any possible loss of earnings, but he didn’t think it was worth the effort. Or maybe he simply didn’t want to. Once on the books, his identity would be known at least to Dalziel and Pascoe, neither of whom would hesitate to use him any which way they could, and he would only remain useful as long as he remained a rent boy.
‘OK, forget that. How about an educated guess at what they’re going to try to do to Carnwath? Anything at all, Lee. You’re right, I don’t want you to make things up, but I don’t want you not to say anything either just ’cos you think it doesn’t sound important.’
His softer tone had an immediate effect. The sullenness vanished to be replaced by a childish concentration.
‘Nothing … except he did say something about someone arriving Wednesday … no use asking who or where or when … I don’t know … just they’re due in Wednesday …’
Wield didn’t press. If there was anything else to come, which he doubted, pressure wasn’t going to induce it. He said, ‘That’s good, Lee. Thanks a lot.’
And his heart ached again at the pleasure his praise clearly caused the boy.
He took some coins out of his pocket and said, ‘Here, get yourself a Coke.’
‘Nah, that’s all right, my treat. ’Nother coffee?’
Without waiting for an answer, Lee went to the counter where the inscrutable Turk offered no response to his chirpy greeting but supplied the requested drinks with the indifference of an Athenian executioner pouring hemlock.
‘So, Lee,’ said Wield. ‘Tell me a bit more about yourself. You got a trade at all?’
‘Trade? Oh, I get plenty of trade,’ he replied with a knowing laugh.
‘Not what I meant,’ said Wield. ‘I meant a trade to get a proper living at. What you’re talking about will likely kill you in the end, you know that.’
‘So what if it does? Anyway, if men’ve got to pay ’cos that’s the only way they can get what they want, where’s the harm? Thought you’d have understood that.’
The bold stare reminded Wield that he’d been sussed.
He didn’t look away.
‘I don’t pay for sex, Lee,’ he said. ‘Anything not available because someone doesn’t want to give it to me, I do without.’
‘Yeah, well, you’re one of the lucky ones then,’ said the boy, dropping his gaze. ‘How about lasses, you ever try it with a girl?’
The question came out of nowhere and Wield let his surprise show.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean … I were just wondering …’
‘It’s OK,’ said Wield. ‘Yes, I tried it with girls. When I were your age … younger … Before you understand the truth about yourself, wanting to be like everyone else makes you think there’s something wrong, doesn’t it?’
As he spoke, he realized he was making a stupid assumption. Being a rent boy didn’t mean you had to be gay. But Lee’s response confirmed what he’d assumed.
‘Yeah, know what you mean,’ he said moodily. ‘It’s like everyone’s going to the match and you just want to be heading the other way.’
He took a pull at his Coke, then said, ‘You’re not drinking your coffee. It’s OK, is it?’
Wield put the cup to his lips and let a tide of turgid muddy foam break over his teeth.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s fine.’
Meanwhile back in latte land, Hal’s café-bar, popular at any time of year, by eleven o’clock on a December morning well into the pre-Christmas shopping season was crowded with bag-laden Yorkshire maids and matrons, eager to rest their weary feet and refresh themselves with a sophisticated coffee or a traditional strong tea.
All the tables were taken and nearly every chair occupied. The only hint of vacancy was at a table for four at which a lone man sat, but the scatter of books and papers which covered the surface of table and chairs suggested that he was not eager for company. Mid-Yorkshire women in search of rest and recuperation are not so easily put off, however, and from time to time a party would boldly advance to essay an assault on this pathetic creature. Alas for their hopes! Alerted to their approach, the man would let them get within a couple of paces, then turn on them a scowl of such feroci
ty, in which misanthropy vied with lycanthropy for control of his hollow-cheeked, sunken-eyed, raggedy-bearded features, that even the Red Cross Knight might have quaked in his armour. Most fled in search of easier prey, but one, a youngish not unfetchingly dumpy woman with a round amiable face advanced as if she simply didn’t recognize antagonism and seemed about to take a seat when suddenly a still more fearful shape loomed behind the monster and bellowed in its ear, ‘What’s up, lad? Pubs not open?’
The woman retreated, visibly shocked, and Charley Penn, for it was he, jumped about three inches out of his seat before twisting round and responding weakly, ‘I could ask you the same, you fat bastard.’
‘Nay,’ said Andy Dalziel. ‘I’m a common working man, got to go where the job takes me. You’re a scholar and an artist. It’s mostly going on in your noddle. You can take your work anywhere, long as you don’t lose your head. You’ve not lost your head recently, have you, Charley?’
The Fat Man brushed the papers off one of the chairs and sank heavily on to it, splaying its spindly metal legs across the tiled floor with a protesting squeal.
‘Best get another for the other half of your arse, Andy,’ said Penn, recovering.
‘Nay, it’ll hold, and if it don’t, I can sue them. You’ve not answered my question.’
‘Remind me.’
‘Short-term memory going? They say that’s a bad sign.’
‘What of?’
‘I’ve forgotten.’
Penn laughed. It didn’t make him look less wolfish.
‘Have I lost my head recently? Figuratively, I assume you mean? Rather than physically? Or perhaps metaphysically? Or even metempsychotically?’
‘I love it when you talk down to me, Charley. Makes me really humble to be the friend of someone so famous.’
Penn’s limited fame and fortune rested on his authorship of a sequence of historical romances which had been turned into a popular romping claret-and-cleavage TV series. His hopes of a lasting reputation rested on the critical biography of Heinrich Heine he’d been researching for many years, researches which had provided him with much of the material he used in his fictions. This was an irony which confirmed his cynical outlook on the way things were arranged. As if, he declared, the Venerable Bede had found the only way he could keep body and soul together was by selling plastic crucifixes that lit up in the dark and played ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’.
Death's Jest-Book Page 16
