Rye had frozen with her mug poised a couple of inches from her mouth.
‘This is comfort and light?’ she said. ‘What do you do when you bring bad news? Shove a severed leg through the letter box and yell, “There’s been a bit of an accident, luv!”’
‘You prefer round the houses, I’ll send DCI Pascoe,’ said Dalziel. ‘I’m not done yet. They’re the freaks and I’m glad to say there’s not a lot of them around. But there’s another bunch. Them as reckon you’re not the victim at all but some other bugger is, someone who’s either been jailed or in your case killed. They reckon that what’s happened to this other bugger is your fault. Stands to reason, don’t it? You’re alive and he’s dead. Sick proboscis.’
Rye interpreted this as sic probo but was wise enough not to test whether the variation was ironic or ignorant.
She said, ‘Is this other bunch a large bunch or do you have someone specific in mind?’
‘More than my job’s worth to put names in your mouth,’ said Dalziel virtuously. ‘But you mention a name and it ’ud be my duty to look into it.’
He liked the way she didn’t hesitate.
‘Charley Penn,’ she said. ‘That’s who we’re sniffing around here, isn’t it? Two of my neighbours saw him, or someone who fits his description, but you know that. Well, I’ll talk about him, but let’s get one thing clear. I am not putting in a complaint about him. And I’ll deny all knowledge of this conversation if you try to make this official.’
‘What about this tape recorder I’ve got strapped to my groin?’ said Dalziel.
‘Here’s me thinking you were just glad to see me,’ she said boldly.
He laughed and said, ‘You’ve been keeping bad company, lass. So, unofficially, tell me about Charley.’
‘What’s to tell? He can’t get his head round finding out that his old schoolmate and best buddy was a serial killer. End of story.’
‘End of opening para,’ said Dalziel. ‘What’s he said to you?’
‘Not much directly. Just sits out there and glowers. I feel his eyes on me all the time.’
‘That all? Didn’t he used to send you poems or summat?’
‘Sort of, in the old days … I mean, before all this happened. Thing was, he used to fancy me. At least I think he did, or maybe it was just some silly game he got off on. Anyway, you know these German poems he’s been working on for the past thousand years or so?’
‘Heinkel,’ said Dalziel.
‘Heine. He’d leave the odd love poem lying around where he knew I’d find it. He’d pretend it was accidental, but in that leering way he has which made it clear it wasn’t.’
‘Can’t blame the bugger for trying,’ said Dalziel.
‘Can’t you? All right, it wasn’t major harassment, but it became irritating and I might have said something if he hadn’t been … if …’
‘If he hadn’t been such a mate of Dee’s,’ completed Dalziel. ‘But he’s not been sending you these billy-doos since Dee snuffed it?’
‘No, at least I’m spared that. Though maybe it was better having him leering at me lecherously than glaring at me as if he’d like to … I don’t know what.’
‘So you feel threatened, then your flat gets broken into, and there’s a message on your computer which is a straight link to Heinz …’
‘Heine. You work that out for yourself, or did your pet bloodhound sniff it out?’
Dalziel said gravely, ‘Listen, luv, sometimes what a cop needs to do ’cos he’s a trained sniffer dog and what he needs to do ’cos he’s a love-sick puppy turns out to be one and the same thing. What you grinning at?’
‘Trying to see you as a love-sick puppy, Superintendent.’
‘I like my tummy scratched as well as the next man,’ said Dalziel. ‘Just takes a stronger woman, that’s all. Point I’m making is, in this case it weren’t a matter of professional versus personal. Brains and bollocks, they all told young Bowler he had to have a word. Now that’s sorted, let’s get back to onions. Charley Penn’s scaring you, the break-in suggests a link with Charley, why aren’t you screaming for police protection?’
She ran her fingers through her thick brown hair so that the silver blaze rippled like a fish in a peaty stream.
‘I don’t know,’ she said unhappily. ‘I suppose I wanted it to be all over, you know, draw a line and say, that’s it, new start. They wanted me to have counselling, all that crap, but I said no. Watching Hat get better, and helping him, that was like a kind of surrogate healing for me. And this weekend we’ve just had, well, it was great. I felt really happy. Then we got back and I saw the flat and I didn’t want to let it register, I suppose. I just wanted to tidy up and carry on like nothing had happened.’
‘I can understand that. How do you feel now? Ready to make it official?’
She laughed and said, ‘You don’t give up, do you? All right. I’ll make it official my flat was broken into. But I’m not pointing a finger. You want to talk to Penn, that’s up to you. He was in his usual spot earlier, but I expect he’s gone down to Hal’s for a coffee.’
‘Aye, he has. That’s where I saw him on my way in.’
She stared at him assessingly then said, ‘You’ve spoken to him already, haven’t you? All this stuff about needing me to give the go-ahead was bollocks!’
‘Nay, lass,’ said Dalziel soothingly. ‘I had an unofficial word, that’s true. All you’ve done is make it official. It’s just a question of labels. Talking of which, you didn’t come into work on Friday carrying a suitcase with a lot of labels on, did you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You went off for the weekend Friday evening with young Bowler, right?’
‘That’s right. But I went home first to pick up my bag then drove round to Hat’s.’
‘Anyone shouting “Enjoy your weekend away! Give him one for me!” as you left?’
‘I don’t remember, might have done.’
‘And was Penn in the library on Friday?’
‘Ah.’ She had got his drift. She frowned and said, ‘Yes, he was. But I can’t swear that anything was said then that indicated I was going to be out of my flat till Monday. Will you want to look around now it’s official?’
‘Your flat? Not worth it if you’ve cleaned it up. You might think about improving your security, but. Talking of which, I’m glad to see they’re spending a bit of money on a decent system to protect their staff round here. Better late than never, eh?’
The absence of a decent security system in the Centre had been one of the obstacles to an early solution of the Wordman case. By an irony not unremarked by his civic colleagues, Stuffer Steel had been the man mainly responsible for the penny-pinching approach which had led to the installation of the Centre’s original bog-standard basic CCTV system.
‘I don’t think it’s their staff they’re worried about,’ said Rye. ‘Heritage is displaying the Elsecar Hoard next month, and it was a condition of getting it that our security was right up to date.’
‘Poor old Stuffer must be spinning in his grave,’ said Dalziel.
Councillor Steel, when news of the controversy about the Hoard first hit the headlines, had opined that the remaining Elsecars should be sent down the mines (if a mine could be found for them to be sent down) and their Hoard sold and the money distributed among the poor and oppressed of Yorkshire.
Andy Dalziel, no great lover of the councillor, for once agreed with him.
‘Yes, I suppose he must,’ said Rye.
There were tears in her eyes again and Dalziel cursed himself for his insensitivity.
He said, ‘Better be off now. Take care, lass. And don’t be too hard on young Bowler. But I’d not be too soft either! Cheers.’
On his way out of the library, he met Penn coming back in.
Dalziel took the book out of his pocket and flourished it.
‘Nice one, Charley,’ he said. ‘Can’t wait to read it.’
Penn watched him go, then made his way to his usual place and
sat down.
Rye was back behind the counter.
Their gazes met, and locked.
It was Rye who broke off first. She grimaced as if in pain, put her hand to her head, then retreated into the office, kicking the door shut behind her.
Charley Penn smiled a wintry smile.
‘Gotcha,’ he mouthed. Then he turned to his books.
On Wednesday morning, despite the early hour, the passengers on the overnight flight from New York to Manchester strode into the public arrivals area with the sprightly step of the born-again who’d not only survived six hours trapped in a tin can but had passed through the Green Channel without some fish-eyed customs official attempting to investigate their private parts.
One, an attractive athletic-looking young woman with a papoose harness tied tightly against her breast so that it didn’t impede her from pushing her luggage trolley, scanned the crowd waiting along the barrier eagerly as if in search of a familiar face.
She didn’t find it, but what she did see was a man in a sober grey suit holding up a piece of white card bearing the name CARNWATH.
She went to him and said, ‘Hi. I’m Meg Carnwath.’
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Young, Greater Manchester CID.’
‘Oh God. What’s happened? Has Oz had an accident … ?’
‘No, no, he’s fine, really. It’s this case he’s a witness in … he’s told you about it?’
‘Yes, he has. He rang up yesterday to say that it had been put back till this afternoon, but he’d still have plenty of time to meet me and drive me back home.’
‘How’d he sound?’
‘A bit nervous. He said he’d be glad when this first stage was over. After that he thought he’d be OK, like a first night.’
‘Well, he’s right to be nervous. We got a whisper there might be an attempt to bring pressure on him via you. Probably nothing in it, but for everyone’s sake, it made sense for us to pick you up and keep you nice and safe till Mr Carnwath has given his evidence.’
‘Oh God,’ exclaimed the woman, wide-eyed. ‘Oz said this guy who killed the girl was pretty heavily connected, but this is like something out of the movies.’
‘We’ll try to keep the car chases within the legal limit,’ said Young, smiling. ‘Anyway, even if there was anything to worry about, there isn’t now. Here, let me take that.’
Pushing the trolley he led her out to the waiting car which was a big Mercedes.
‘Well, this is nice,’ she said. ‘Didn’t realize the police were so upmarket.’
‘We didn’t want to draw attention,’ he said. ‘Escort you to a police car and everyone would have you down as a drug smuggler! Besides, you deserve a bit of comfort after being squashed in a plane seat so long. There’s a baby harness in the back if you want it.’
‘Later maybe. He yelled all the way across then went out like a light when we landed, so I’ll let sleeping dogs lie as long as he stays that way.’
She climbed in and made soothing clucking noises into the papoose hood while Young put the cases in the boot.
‘Husband not with you this trip?’ he said over his shoulder as he drove slowly and carefully through the morning traffic building up around Manchester.
‘Partner. He’s coming on later. I wanted to get here early and have some time with my brother, show him his nephew, they’ve not met yet.’
‘That’ll be nice,’ he said.
There was a little more desultory conversation, but when the car left the suburbs behind and began to climb eastwards over the Pennines, Young saw in his mirror that the woman’s eyes had closed, so he stopped talking and concentrated on driving through a mist which grew thicker as they got higher. After about twenty minutes he turned the car gently down a side road without disturbing his passenger, and some minutes later turned again along a narrow rutted track which the Merc’s suspension negotiated without causing more than a restless shifting.
Finally he brought the car to a halt before a low stone-built farmhouse whose tiny windows, too small to admit a sufficiency of daylight in good weather and useless in these murky conditions, were ablaze with light.
The cessation of movement woke the woman.
She yawned, peered out of the window and said, ‘Where are we?’
‘Here,’ said Young vaguely. He picked up the car phone, pressed some buttons, listened then handed it to her, saying, ‘Thought you might like a word with your brother.’
‘Oz?’ she said into the mouthpiece.
‘Meg? That you? Are you OK? Where are you?’
‘I’m fine. Not sure where I am though, looks like a scene from a horror movie. Where did you say we were, Sergeant?’
‘One of our safe houses,’ he said.
‘A safe house? I thought we were heading straight for home.’
‘Well we are, but not quite straight. Few hours here till the committal proceedings are over, then we’ll be on our way. It’s OK, Mr Carnwath knows all about it, ask him.’
‘Oz,’ she said into the phone, ‘Sergeant Young says I’ve got to stay here, wherever here is, some safe house, till the proceedings are over. He says you know about it.’
There was a pause then Oz Carnwath said, ‘That’s right, Sis. You sit tight till this thing’s finished. It won’t take long.’
‘If you say so, Bro. You’re OK, are you?’
‘Oh yes, I’m being well looked after.’
She handed the phone back to Young. The farm door opened and another man came out and walked towards them, a slightly menacing figure silhouetted against the rectangle of orange light. She tried to open the car door, but found she couldn’t move the handle.
Young said, ‘Sorry. Force of habit,’ and pressed the lock release.
The new man held open the car door for her. He was young, leather jacketed, with the bold eyes and leering smile of one who imagines himself irresistible to women.
‘Get the luggage, Constable,’ said Young.
‘Luggage? I’m going to be here long enough to need luggage?’
‘Stuff for the baby, maybe. He’s very good. Wish I could say the same for mine.’
‘You’ve got children, Sergeant? How many?’
‘Two. For God’s sake, be careful, Mick.’
The leather-jacketed man had opened the boot and begun to lift out the cases. As he swung them over the boot’s lip, one of them burst open, spilling its contents to the ground. His leering smile vanished to be replaced with the uneasy perplexity of a cabinet minister faced by an ethical policy.
On the ground lay three telephone directories, a Tesco bag full of stones, and a grey blanket clearly marked as the property of Mid-Yorkshire Constabulary.
The woman unclipped her papoose basket, and tossed it to Young, saying, ‘Look after baby, will you?’
He wasn’t ready for it. It bounced off his hands and turned upside down and only a desperate panic-driven lunge got it into his grasp a few inches from the ground. From inside came a piercing wail of ‘Mummy!’
Young looked up in shock to discover the woman was paying no attention to him.
From her pocket she’d taken a small aerosol tube. She was pointing it at leather jacket and giving him a quick squirt. He fell back, cursing and clawing at his face. Young began to rise. The spray turned in his direction. He raised the papoose basket in an effort to protect himself but it was too late. The fine jet hit him right in the eyes. As he twisted away crying out in pain, a plastic doll fell out of the basket, squeaking, ‘Mummy!’
The woman picked up the doll and spoke to it.
‘Novello here,’ she said. ‘Think you can come and clear up now.’
Peter Pascoe watched with interest as Oz Carnwath gave his evidence that afternoon, but it wasn’t the witness’s face he watched, nor that of the accused, though it might have been entertaining to see his cocky anticipation turn to shocked incredulity as instead of the expected hesitations and uncertainties, he heard firm and confident affirmations tha
t he, Liam Linford, had driven his Lamborghini out of the car park on the night in question.
It was Linford Senior, sitting in the body of the court, that Pascoe watched. His expression of barely contained fury did more for Pascoe’s festive feelings than any number of Christmas cards. Marcus Belchamber did all his considerable best to dent Carnwath’s certainties, but hardly left a smudge let alone a scratch on them. It came as no surprise to anyone when the presiding magistrate committed Linford Junior for trial in the Crown Court in February. But the journalists present pricked up their ears when, after Belchamber’s application for bail had been heard, the prosecuting lawyer stood up to oppose it on the grounds that there had been a serious attempt to interfere with a witness. The magistrate required a full report as soon as possible and ordered Liam Linford to be remanded in custody till she got it.
Wally Linford proved harder to lay a finger on. Taken in for questioning as he left the court, he had Belchamber by his side from the start, and simply denied any knowledge of the plan to kidnap Meg Carnwath. The two false policemen and the other two men who had intercepted Oz on his way to Manchester Airport also denied any connection with Wally, but claimed they were old acquaintances of Liam who had been overcome by indignation at what looked like a potential injustice. They had certainly been well schooled as nothing on the recording from the wire Oz had worn, or from Shirley Novello’s, actually constituted a direct threat. Belchamber, after studying the account of what had happened to Novello, offered as his opinion that if he were advising the false police officers – which of course he had no reason even to contemplate doing – he would probably suggest an action against the WDC for assault. In the meantime, if they had nothing more to ask his client, he thought it best to bring the interview to a close.
Pascoe switched off the recording machine and said, ‘Something you should understand, Wally. You’ve tried to fix Oz Carnwath and failed. His evidence is on record. Your attempt is on record. Anything else that happens to that lad, threats, accidents, even dirty looks, will be noted and reported and investigated. And I’ll make sure every bugger connected with this case from the judge to the jury knows about it and believes it’s down to Liam direct. And I reckon that will mean years on his sentence. Ask Mr Belchamber here if you don’t believe me.’
Death's Jest-Book Page 18
