Death's Jest-Book

by Reginald Hill

  There was a lot more like this and soon Pascoe was yawning. What was it the blurb had said? Be prepared to be shocked, to be scandalized, to be terrified. It hadn’t mentioned the danger of being bored out of your skull.

  The author blurb seemed to indicate that Haseen had a good track record as a serious academic psychologist, but even this seemed non-proven to Pascoe in the light of the way she swallowed hook, line and sinker everything that Roote dangled in front of her about his memories of his father.

  ‘I’m glad to see that at least one of my gift choices has not been in vain,’ said Ellie, who’d returned undetected.

  ‘It would be a comic masterpiece if it wasn’t dull,’ said Pascoe. ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘Fine. At least she says she is. Celebrating Christmas surrounded by people most of whom can’t even remember who they are let alone what day it is can’t be a bundle of fun.’

  ‘It’s happening all over the country,’ said Pascoe. ‘Sorry. You’re right. It can’t be. Still, she’ll be with us tomorrow. We’ll see she has a great time. Your dad, is he … ?’

  ‘No miracle cures, Pete,’ she said. ‘Or, if there are, they’re going to be too late for him, I fear. It’s really pissy, isn’t it? Losing someone without being able to grieve properly because they’re not officially dead.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Pascoe. He stood up, poured a drink and took it to Ellie. But before he gave it to her, he put his arms round her and pulled her close. After a while she moved away, took the glass and said, ‘Thanks. That helped. This too.’

  ‘Part of the service,’ he said lightly. ‘But do me a favour, any time you think of getting real help, don’t apply to Ms Amaryllis Haseen!’

  ‘No? And apart from her sex, what objective evidence do you have for that slur on a well-respected professional woman’s competence?’

  Pascoe tried to detect how much self-mocking irony there was in Ellie’s reaction, found no clue in her expression and decided to play it straight.

  ‘Maybe I’m being a bit hard,’ he said. ‘Lots of bright people have been given the run around by our Franny. Listen to this. Subject evinced a comprehensive mental blinkering with regard to interpretation of his father’s evidently increasingly eccentric behaviour. He said, ‘Mother never gave my dad credit for anything he did, in fact she’d deliberately take things the wrong way. When he was away from home on dangerous missions he couldn’t tell us about, she got very angry and talked about him going off and enjoying himself boozing with his fancy woman. She even refused to go down to London with him when he was being awarded a medal. He wanted to take me but she wouldn’t let him, I don’t know why.’ And Ms Haseen takes all this as gospel! I know how good Roote is at pulling people’s strings, but surely a pro should be able to see through him.’

  ‘But what makes you so sure he’s pulling her strings?’ asked Ellie.

  ‘What? Ah, you think that Roote Senior might indeed have been an MI5 undercover agent who died bravely in the line of duty? Well, let me disenchant you.’

  He picked up his file and riffled through the papers.

  ‘Here we are, Roote’s father was a civil servant who died when his son was two years old. Confirmation of what Roote himself says in his letters several times, that he lost his father so early he has no memories of him whatsoever.’

  ‘What is that, Peter?’ said Ellie, staring at the file.

  ‘This?’ said Pascoe, suddenly remembering that Dalziel’s were not the only sharp eyes it was sometimes wiser to keep things hidden from. ‘Oh, just some notes about Roote I had lying around. Seemed a sensible place to keep these letters in.’

  ‘Looks a bit bulky for just some notes,’ said Ellie. ‘And that note you were extracting that stuff about Roote Senior from … ?’

  ‘Well, actually it’s a copy of Roote’s college file, just background details …’

  ‘Holm Coultram College, you mean?’ said Ellie. ‘Those files were confidential!’

  ‘Come on! He was a suspect in a serious investigation.’

  ‘Oh yes. You don’t happen to have a copy of my file there too, do you?’

  ‘No, really subversive material I keep in a safe down the nick,’ said Pascoe.

  She smiled, with just the slightest sign of effort as if it had occurred to her that it was after all Christmas Day.

  ‘Enough shop talk,’ she said. ‘I thought we’d get the troughing over early so that we can walk it off together while there’s still some light in the sky, OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Pascoe. ‘I’ll pop out and work up an appetite with our two monsters.’

  ‘Take Rosie a woolly, will you? She’s beginning to look quite blue out there, but don’t tell her that or she’ll just insist on stripping off to show she doesn’t feel the cold.’

  ‘Can’t think who she gets it from,’ said Pascoe.

  He rose with Dark Cells in one hand and in the other the file which he shook at her as he headed for the door, saying, ‘See? Next to nothing in it. I know I may be just a bit obsessive about the guy, but doesn’t it make sense to keep some sort of track on him now he’s elected me his number one correspondent?’

  To his surprise, Ellie said, ‘You may be right, love. Listen, last word on the subject today, OK? Either drop the whole thing or do the job properly. Dig deep as you can into Roote’s roots; and while you’re at it, before you go around badmouthing Ms Haseen, why not check her out professionally with someone like Pottle? Rosie, luv, what’s up?’

  Their daughter had burst into the room wearing her best exasperated look.

  ‘It’s this whistle,’ she said. ‘I think it’s broken.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I can’t hear it.’

  ‘But you’re not meant to be able to hear it.’

  ‘But I don’t think Tig can hear it either. I blow and I blow and he pays no heed at all.’

  Ellie shot a warning glance at her husband, who was grinning broadly, and said, ‘I know exactly what you mean, darling. But it doesn’t mean Tig can’t hear it. It’s just that male dogs can be very stubborn, and sometimes you’ve got to work really hard to get them to do the simplest things. Why don’t you get your dad to help you? I think you’ll find he’s a bit of a specialist.’

  Hat Bowler, not being a particularly literary sort of chap, though he was making efforts in that direction to keep pace with Rye Pomona, might have found it hard to offer a detailed gloss of the phrase hoist with his own petard, but he knew exactly what it meant.

  Christmas had posed a problem. His parents were expecting him home. The only unmarried one of four children, he’d been looking forward to at last quieting their unease at his continued lack of attachment by showing off Rye, who, admitting to no family of her own, might have been expected to jump at the chance of Yuletide with the Bowlers.

  Instead she had turned down the invitation flat. At first he had taken her refusal as tactical, a (he hoped) Parthian shot in the bad time she had given him for going against her wish not to make the break-in official. So he had waited till they were emerging from a moment of maximum closeness and repeated the invitation.

  She rolled away from him and said, ‘Hat, don’t you listen? I said, no thanks, I’m just not up for a big family Christmas, OK? But I understand how much your parents and your brothers and sister and their offspring will be looking forward to seeing you. And I’ll look forward just as much, or even more, to seeing you when you get back. Don’t try to turn me into a little Orphan Annie out in the snow while everyone else is in the warm having a good time. I shall be perfectly happy celebrating Christmas by myself.’

  He was coming to recognize the note of finality in her voice and he’d protested no more. But he had gone away and brooded and determined that it was time she too discovered he could take a stand. Take away one member of a large family having a good time and what was left was still a large family having a good time. Take away one lover from a pair of lovers and what was left was two unhappy people.
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  So he crossed his fingers and, before he could change his mind, pausing only to check that he had the CID room to himself, he took out his mobile and rang his parents’ number.

  As he spilled out his carefully prepared lie about losing out in the Christmas leave lottery, he could feel his mother’s huge disappointment even before she tried to hide it, and by the time he put down the phone, he felt like the worst kind of criminal low-life who deserved everything a gouty judge could throw at him.

  And it seemed that God agreed.

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ said Sergeant Wield’s voice behind him. ‘Here’s me just heard Seymour’s down with flu, so having to decide whether it’s you or Novello gets pulled in to fill the gap on the Christmas roster, and what do I find but a volunteer? Well done, lad.’

  ‘Come on, Sarge,’ said Hat desperately. ‘At least ask Novello. She might prefer New Year.’

  ‘Nay, good Catholic girl like her ’ull want to be off at Christmas.’

  ‘Good Catholic! You know she’s been going out with that big bearded sergeant in the Transport Police and he’s married with four kids.’

  ‘That’s between her and Father Kerrigan, who no doubt gets a blow-by-blow account at confession, so let’s not be having any religious prejudice here, eh?’

  ‘But, Sarge …’ Hat began to plead. Then he looked into that rocky landscape of a face and realized there was nothing for him here but a hard landing.

  He kept his come-uppance to himself, accepting DC Novello’s gratitude at his reported volunteering with a self-deprecating grimace and Rye’s sympathy with a philosophic shrug. For a moment when she pulled him down on the sofa to show how far her sympathy went, he started feeling guilty again, but not for long.

  Christmas morning itself was so quiet that he didn’t even have the consolation of usefulness to salve his disappointment at not being with Rye.

  About eleven o’clock Dalziel came wandering in, softly whistling ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’. He nodded approvingly when he saw the amount of paperwork Hat had shifted and said, ‘That’s it, lad. Improve the shining hour.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Nothing for us yet then?’

  The Fat Man laughed, scratched his crotch like a boy scout trying to start a fire, and said, ‘Don’t worry, lad. Early days. There’s lots of folk out there have travelled many a weary mile just to put themselves in striking distance of their nearest and dearest, and it’s getting near kick-off time. Prezzies opened, irritations building, down the pub for a few soothing bevvies, back an hour later full of good cheer, turkey burnt, pudding hard-boiled, kids fratching, in-laws sniping – it’s a powder keg, and anything can be a spark. Had a chap couple of years back slit three throats with the carving knife just because his missus told him he were making a mess of the bird and why didn’t he let her dad do it?’

  ‘Even that’s not exactly demanding, is it? I mean, it doesn’t take much real detective work.’

  ‘Like in the whodunnits? Shouldn’t pay too much heed to them poncy writers, lad. What do they know? Most on ’em ’ud honk their rings if they saw a bit of real blood.’

  Hat’s acquaintance with poncy writers was limited to Ellie Pascoe and Charley Penn. His dislike of the latter was strong enough to discount his liking for the former, so he nodded enthusiastic agreement which probably wasn’t a bad career move anyway.

  It occurred to him to wonder how come the Fat Man, who cracked the whip and sent all the animals galloping round the ring, should have ended up stuck in the empty Big Top on Christmas Day. A disaster in his private life? Or a sudden rush of altruism to the head? On the whole, Hat thought it wise not to push his luck by asking.

  In fact neither mischance nor nobility had played a part in the Fat Man’s decision to take Christmas duty. Amanda ‘Cap’ Marvell, his inamorata, was spending the holiday with her son, Lieutenant Colonel Pitt-Evenlode MC (the Hero, as Dalziel called him), who had finally found himself a woman sufficiently unimpressed by his heroics to contemplate becoming his wife. Dalziel wasn’t invited.

  ‘Worried I’ll frighten her off?’ Dalziel had asked.

  ‘More likely worried I’ll drink too much bubbly and start feeling you up under the table and that frightens her off,’ said Cap, who had a nice way of putting things.

  ‘Save the bubbly for Boxing Day,’ he’d replied, then told his senior officers they could spend Christmas with their families as he was coming in and he was worth any six of them.

  He returned to his office now, opened the huge jar of pickled walnuts he’d found in one of his socks that morning, poured himself a healthy slug from the bottle of Highland Park he’d found in the other, and settled down with The Last Days of Pompeii, with his radio monitor bubbling softly in the background. The minutes ticked by, the pages turned, the whisky and the walnuts sank, and, as he’d forecast, the radio-recorded tide of merry Christmas mayhem rose as the Queen’s Speech sailed majestically nearer.

  The mayhem so far had all remained at the ‘domestic’ level, which meant it hadn’t risen above bruising and cutting with the occasional breaking of bones, all of which fell within the proper purlieu of Uniform, who were getting more stretched by the minute.

  Then like a hooked fish the Fat Man felt his attention jerked from first century Campania to twenty-first century Mid-Yorkshire.

  ‘Disturbance at Church View House, Peg Lane. Informant Mrs Gilpin, Flat 14. Sounds like another drunk. Can anyone take it?’

  Dalziel laid down his book, scooped up his radio and said, ‘Tommy, that Peg Lane call, I’ll take it.’

  ‘You will?’ The sergeant couldn’t hide his amazement. ‘It’s just a D and D, sir …’

  ‘I know, but it’s the season of goodwill, and I can tell your lads are getting a bit overstretched, so have this one on CID. Unless you’re too proud, that is …’

  ‘No, sir. It’s yours and welcome. Cheers!’

  Dalziel switched off and bellowed, ‘Bowler!’

  Five seconds later Hat appeared round the door just as Dalziel came through it.

  He leapt aside, then fell into step behind the Fat Man as he raced down the stairs.

  ‘Sir,’ he gasped. ‘What have we got?’

  ‘Probably nowt, but I could do with a breath of fresh air. You drive.’

  In the car, Hat said, ‘Where to?’

  ‘Peg Lane.’

  ‘Peg Lane? That’s where Rye lives!’

  ‘Aye. And it’s Church View we’re heading for. Disturbance. Informant your friend Mrs Gilpin. And I’m just wondering if the disturber could be our old friend, Charley Penn. Christ, lad, this is the town I live in you’re driving through, not Le Mans!’

  But Hat wasn’t listening. He sent the car hurtling through the thankfully empty streets recalling that other mad drive only a couple of months before when he’d gone rushing to Rye’s rescue. Could lightning strike twice? Could the second strike be fatal … ?

  Peg Lane was fairly central so the journey took less than five minutes, though to Hat it felt like an hour. The narrow street running between the terraced houses and the eighteenth-century church which gave Rye’s building its name was still as an unused film set. Remove the parked cars and you could have shot an episode of Emma here.

  An upstairs window opened and a woman wearing a red and yellow paper hat leaned out and said, ‘I’m not coming out. It’s gone very quiet, but he hasn’t left.’

  ‘Who?’ demanded Dalziel.

  ‘Him. The mad-looking one your lad asked about who was here before.’

  His lad, Dalziel now realized, had already vanished into the building.

  With a mild oath at the impetuosity of youth, Dalziel followed.

  On the flat over short distances his bulk was little impediment to velocity, but uphill he went steady, not caring to arrive wheezing like a badly maintained set of bagpipes.

  He paused on the first landing. Above him he could hear a thunderous knocking and Bowler’s voice crying, ‘Rye! Rye! Are you there?’

 
; Groaning gently, Dalziel resumed his ascent.

  When he reached the next landing, he saw Charley Penn sitting slumped against the wall beside a door which Bowler was bouncing off like a demented squash ball. Fearing that Penn might have been put there by Bowler’s fists, he took hold of the writer’s shag of greying hair and raised his head. To his relief the slack and dull-eyed face showed no sign of physical assault and every sign of alcoholic impairment.

  He caught the DC on his next bounce and held him tight.

  ‘You’d do better using your head, lad,’ he said. ‘Your lass changed the lock, right?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s locked and bolted, which means she’s in there, doesn’t it?’ cried Hat.

  ‘Aye, and she’s probably terrified ’cos this idiot’s been banging and shouting out here on the landing. So what makes you think she’s going to open up straight off when some other idiot starts banging and shouting?’

  It was a good point and Hat seemed to be taking it on board till Mrs Gilpin’s door opened revealing the red and yellow hat.

  ‘Is it safe now?’ said Mrs Gilpin. ‘I told them when I rang, I thought they might need an armed response team, he was making such a racket. You’ve not shot him, have you?’

  ‘Just the anaesthetic dart, luv,’ said Dalziel.

  Hat cried, ‘It was you who rang, not Rye?’

  And started bouncing himself off the door again till Dalziel got him in a neck lock.

  ‘Missus,’ he said. ‘Would you mind tapping at that door and telling Ms Pomona who you are and asking her if she’d mind opening up? Thank you.’