Death's Jest-Book

by Reginald Hill

  ‘Come on! He’s taking the piss, isn’t he? He’s such an arrogant sod he thinks he’s brighter than all the rest of us put together.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong. Once he may have felt so, but getting caught and ending up in the Syke made him realize that he wasn’t Supermind. Realizing how much Haseen had managed to get out of him must have come as a shock too. His respect for you made him think it likely that not only would you read Haseen’s book, but that you would identify his disguised presence in it too. So he pre-empts this by drawing your attention to it en passant and boasting about the way he put one across on Ms Haseen by feeding her duff sensational memories of his father. Would you have read the book, incidentally?’

  ‘No way,’ said Pascoe. ‘Even if I had come across it by chance, half a para of her turgid style would have made me close it fast. He’s been too clever by half.’

  ‘Only because he thinks you’re too clever by three-quarters.’

  ‘That’s right. He thinks I’m clever enough to read between his lines and get the real messages, but powerless to do anything about them! All the pleasure of boasting, none of the penalties of confession. But he’ll over-reach himself one day and I’ll have him!’

  ‘But so far you haven’t come close?’

  ‘No, but one day … there has to be something … maybe that dead student of Sam Johnson’s in Sheffield … he keeps glancing at that … I’m sure there’s something there …’

  ‘Perhaps. But, Peter, motive is not a constant, you must have observed that. The reason for starting something is often not the same as the reason for continuing to do it. It works in both directions. The penniless man who steals out of necessity may turn into the wealthy man who steals out of greed. Or the ambitious politician who does charity work because it looks good on her CV might end up as a passionate advocate of some particular charity despite the fact that it’s having an adverse effect upon her career.’

  ‘And the objective psychiatrist can end up getting religion,’ said Pascoe. ‘I reckon my two minutes are up. Sorry to leave before the end of the service, but I enjoyed the sermon.’

  ‘A polite man’s rudeness is like a summer storm; it refreshes the flowers and settles the dust,’ murmured Pottle.

  ‘Freud?’

  ‘No, I just made it up. Peter, read this letter again, read them all again, and try to look for patterns other than the one printed on your eye.’

  ‘If I were you, I’d stick to the day job,’ advised Pascoe. ‘Gotta dash.’

  He left. A moment later his head reappeared round the door.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘A rude man’s apology is like winter sunshine …’

  ‘Go screw yourself,’ said Peter Pascoe.

  Earlier that same Friday morning a large container lorry had rolled off the Dutch ferry at Hull dock. The driver handed over his papers to be checked, then swore in exasperation as the officials invited him to drive his vehicle into a remote examination bay where a full team of searchers stood waiting with their equipment and dogs.

  ‘Poor sod,’ said the driver of a refrigerated lorry which was next in line. ‘Looks like that’s his morning gone.’

  ‘More than his morning if what we hear is true,’ said the man examining his papers. ‘OK, Joe?’

  ‘OK,’ said the officer who had been giving the lorry a going-over.

  ‘Safe journey, mate.’

  The refrigerated vehicle moved out of the dock complex with the ease of familiarity and was soon on the motorway heading into Mid-Yorkshire. The driver took out a mobile phone and rang a pre-set number.

  ‘On my way,’ he said. ‘Worked a treat. No bother.’

  He spoke too soon. Half an hour later he noticed his oil-warning light blinking intermittently. He banged the instrument panel and it stopped. Then it shone bright red.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, pulling over on to the hard shoulder.

  Then, ‘Shit shit shit!’ he added as he slid out of the cab and saw a motorway patrol car a few hundred yards behind him closing fast and flashing to pull in.

  ‘Trouble?’ said the police officer who got out of the passenger door.

  ‘Yeah. Oil pressure. Probably nothing.’

  ‘Let’s take a look, shall we?’

  As they took their look, the police car’s driver wandered round the back of the truck.

  ‘Ah,’ said the truck driver. ‘Think I see what it is. Get that fixed in a couple of minutes. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘You sure?’ said the policeman.

  ‘Yeah. No sweat. Twenty minutes tops.’

  ‘Great. We’re due off in half an hour, so it’ll be someone else’s problem if it turns out more complicated than you think,’ said the policeman, grinning.

  ‘Harry. Got a minute?’

  It was the other policeman.

  His colleague went to join him.

  ‘Listen. Thought I heard something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like a sort of scratching.’

  They listened. The driver watched them for a moment then climbed into his cab.

  ‘There. You hear it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The cop moved swiftly along the truck and hoisted himself on to the cab step.

  The driver had picked up his mobile. He flashed an unconvincing smile and said, ‘Just thought I’d better ring my boss, tell him I’d had a little hitch.’

  The policeman reached forward and took the phone and looked at the number displayed. Then he switched the phone off.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Let’s not bother him till we see just how little your hitch is.’

  Fifty miles away and an hour later, Wield was sitting in Turk’s.

  When Lee had rung him and asked for a meet, the sergeant had suggested the multr-storey again but the youth had said, ‘No fucking way. Froze my bollocks off last time and the weather’s even colder today. Turk’s.’

  He’s calling the shots, thought Wield uneasily. Which was bad whatever their relationship was. What did he mean, whatever? Lubanski was an informant, period. Cops who started acting like social workers were asking for trouble. And whatever he looked like, he wasn’t a child at risk but an adult in need of protection only if he asked for it.

  But now, sitting opposite him and feeling himself drawn willy-nilly into the undisguised pleasure the boy took in his company, Wield saw the scene as it might look to a passer-by whose sharp gaze penetrated the steamed-up window. Uncle and nephew off on a day-trip together. Father and son even. This was the first time they’d met since the karaoke. Dalziel happily had seemed preoccupied with something else and Wield had found it easy to find excuses not to make the effort.

  Lee was looking straight at him and, despite his certainty that his face gave nothing away. Wield hid his expression behind the mug of foul coffee which the freezing day had driven him to.

  ‘So what you got?’ he asked brusquely.

  ‘You’re in a hurry. Got a date or something?’ said Lee. But not aggressively, not even provocatively. Just a relaxed joke between friends.

  ‘I’ve got work to do, yes,’ said Wield.

  ‘Get a coffee break, don’t you? Anyway, I expect you put this down as work.’

  He wants some kind of denial, however qualified.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Wield brusquely. ‘And I hope it’s productive. What have you got?’

  The hurt in the boy’s eyes brought the protective mug up again.

  ‘That guy rang last night,’ he said sullenly.

  ‘Which guy?’

  ‘The one he calls Mate.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Lee produced a scrap of paper and began to read.

  ‘He said it were all fixed his end for next week but where was the money? And Belchy said not to worry, it would be there. Then he rang the other guy …’

  ‘LB? Thought you said he didn’t ring him direct?’

  ‘Usually he don’t. But it sounded like he’d been hard t
o get hold of on the net.’

  Understandable. Grief was a great antaphrodisiac. And a great enemy of rational thought. Possibly Linford was blaming Belchamber for getting Liam out on bail now.

  ‘And he made contact?’

  ‘Yeah. And I’ll tell you something else. I know who LB is now. He’s Wally Linford, dad of that wanker Liam who got himself killed last weekend.’

  This was said with such triumph Wield hadn’t the heart to reveal he knew it already.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Said “Linford” when he answered the phone. And Belchy called him Linford from then on. They had a right row. Linford was yelling. Belchy never yells, but I could tell he were getting really uptight. His dick went soft.’

  Wield felt Lee watching him closely as he said this.

  He’s sussed how it bothers me when he refers to what he actually does to Belchamber, he thought. And me being bothered implies a relationship. Not good. But he kept his tone level and neutral as he asked, ‘What were they quarrelling about?’

  ‘Money. Belchy was worried about some payment he had to make and Linford was yelling he couldn’t be bothered with all this crap just now and Belchy said mebbe he should be bothered ’cos his mate were going to be very bothered if he didn’t get the next lot of upfronts and Linford said it had nothing the fuck to do with him what this mate felt, he was just an investor and kept a good safe distance away from his fucking clientele, like a fucking lawyer, things went pear-shaped he walked away from the shit, no skin off his nose, so stick that in your crown and wear it, your fucking majesty!’

  This sounded like it was verbatim. Wield’s mind was racing. Linford, still hugely disturbed at his son’s death, was taking it out on Belchamber for the want of anyone else. And it wasn’t just a case of a client sacking his lawyer. Their suspicions that for some reason Belchamber had crossed the line were obviously right. He was involved here, not as a lawyer hovering in the background ready to step forward only if things went awry, not even as a reluctant bagman, but as a principal, an initiator. But of what? And why the hell should he be taking that dangerous step across when staying on the legal side must be second nature to him?

  And what was all that ‘your majesty’ business?

  Just a joke? One queen to another maybe? Or …

  ‘That any good then?’ said Lee.

  ‘What? Sorry. Yes, it’s very helpful. Any more?’

  ‘No, that’s it for now. Don’t worry, I get owt else, I’ll be right on to you.’

  Wield said, ‘Lee, I think maybe it’s time you stopped dealing with Belchamber.’

  ‘Yeah? Why’s that then? You trying to save my soul again, Mac?’

  He spoke with a knowing cockiness that grated.

  Wield said, ‘Not your soul. Your body maybe. If he got wind that you’re passing stuff on to me …’

  ‘No chance! All I do is listen. Not breaking into safes and such. Anyway, I can take care of Belchy. He’s soft as pigshit.’

  ‘Maybe. But there’s people he’s mixed up with who aren’t, and they’re twice as nasty.’

  ‘You reckon? Well, I meet lots of nasty people, Sergeant Mac. No need to worry about me.’

  ‘But I do worry, Lee.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you’ll be the first.’ He spoke with an attempt at throw-away bravado.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Wield. ‘Your mam must have worried.’

  ‘Mebbe. And my dad too. He’d probably have worried if he’d known.’

  He’s still hanging on to the idea that it was ignorance rather than indifference which made his father dump his pregnant mother, thought Wield.

  He said gently, ‘I’m sure he would have, Lee.’

  ‘Yeah. I wish I’d got a picture of him or something. Mam didn’t have anything. Not that he were owt much to look at, she said. In fact most folk reckoned he were a right ugly bugger. But she said looks aren’t everything, he were right sexy and she knew he were the one for her first time she saw him. They were just kids, younger than me, I think, so he’d just be in his thirties now. Wherever he is.’

  Oh Christ, thought Wield aghast, suddenly recalling the young man’s interest in his possible hetero experience. Edwin had warned him that Lee might be seeing him as a father substitute, but for once those sharp old eyes hadn’t looked deep enough.

  It’s not a substitute the poor little sod’s after; he’s looking to cast me as his actual sodding father!

  Lee had brought his wandering gaze to bear full on Wield’s ravaged features. His expression was defiant but not despairing. Hope is a persistent virus. Vaccinate yourself against it all you like, it still clings on.

  Wield said, ‘Look, Lee …’

  Then the door burst open and several uniformed policemen rushed into the cafe.

  One stayed by the door, two went behind the counter and grabbed hold of Turk with rather more force than his unresisting demeanour merited, two more vanished into the rear of the premises while another addressed the half-dozen customers.

  ‘Stay in your seats, gents. We’ll need your names and addresses, just as witnesses, you understand, then you can go.’

  Lee was now glaring accusingly at Wield, who said, ‘It’s nowt to do with me, lad.’ Obviously unconvinced, the boy began to rise when a hand clapped on his shoulder and a voice said ponderously, as if the words were being prised out of mud, ‘Keep sat down.’

  Oh shit, thought Wield, recognizing the voice before he took in the face. It belonged to PC Hector, the albatross round Mid-Yorkshire Constabulary’s neck, the mote in its eye, the pile on its rectum. He was, Dalziel opined, the most reliable officer in the Force – he always got it wrong. If he survived long enough he might outdistance the Fat Man himself as a source of amazing anecdote.

  Now his gaze, which had focused with grave suspicion on Wield’s black leathers, moved up to take in the sergeant’s features. There was a moment of mental perturbation, then recognition came up like thunder out of China ‘cross the Bay, and he said in stentorian tones, ‘Hello. It’s you, Sarge! What you doing here? Undercover, is it?’

  Behind him, Wield saw Turk register the words, saw his gaze flicker to Lee.

  He rose and put his face close to Hector’s and said in a low voice, ‘I’m having a cup of coffee, which is just as well, ’cos if I were on a job, you’d have just blown it.’

  Hector looked so crestfallen it was almost possible to feel sorry for him then, and said in the kind of whisper which echoes round the gods, ‘Sorry, Sarge, I never thought.’

  ‘There’ll be a first time, maybe.’ Then turning to the officer who’d addressed the cafe clientele, none of whom showed the slightest interest in what was happening, he said, ‘Johnstone, what’s going off?’

  ‘Truck broke down on the motorway coming from Hull. Two of our lot stopped to give assistance and heard noises. Turned out it was full of illegals. The driver tried to make a call but got stopped before he got through. This was the number he was ringing.’

  ‘I see. Got a search warrant?’

  ‘One’s on its way, but we thought we’d best make sure of getting Sonny Jim here.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, I’d get yon pair out of the back till it arrives, so that if you do find anything, it will be admissible.’

  ‘Yeah, right, Sarge.’

  Wield turned back to Lee, who was on his feet and looking anxious to be elsewhere. It came back to him now that on their first encounter the youth had made some crack about Turk’s sandwiches containing the remains of illegals that hadn’t made it.

  ‘You know anything about Turk being in the people-smuggling business?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d heard a buzz, that was all.’

  ‘And you didn’t think it was worth mentioning?’

  ‘No. It’s not like real crime, is it? Just a lot of poor sods wanting in. Christ, think what it must be like where they come from if they think it’s going to be better here!’
r />   This was matter for an interesting discussion on comparative sociology which would have to wait till some other time.

  He led Lee to the door and said to the guardian constable, ‘This one can go. I’ve got his details.’

  The man stood aside and Lee headed through the door like a canary out of a cage.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Wield called after him.

  ‘’Scuse us, Sarge,’ said a voice behind him.

  He turned, then stepped aside to let Turk and his pair of close escorts pass.

  His gaze and that of the cafe proprietor met. All he saw there was the same blank indifference with which the man dispensed his unspeakable coffee.

  No harm done, Wield reassured himself as he watched the police car pull away. So now Turk knew that he was a cop. Presumably he already knew that Lee was a rent boy. God knows what he might speculate about their relationship, but so what? Anyway, he was going to have other more serious matters on his mind.

  But still Wield felt uneasiness working like dyspepsia in his gut.

  He stayed a little longer to make sure that everything was by the book then left. Part of his mind had never stopped working at the new info Lee had given him and now he gave it his full attention. There was something there that meant something to him. That stuff about crown and majesty …

  Unlike most minds in search of something only dimly remembered, Wield’s didn’t work by turning to something completely different in the hope of stumbling across the desired item by chance, as it were. His relied more on the computer principle. You fed the information into a program, pressed search, and waited for results.

  The answer came two minutes later as he sat with idling engine waiting for the traffic lights to change.

  He was in the right-hand lane. As the lights showed red and amber, he accelerated left across the bows of a stately old Morris containing three old ladies in fur hats on their way to lunch with the bishop, who with a synchronicity worthy of the Beverley Sisters gave him the finger and screamed, ‘Asshole!’

  It was forty minutes later that Wield pulled into the police station car park.