Hill, Reginald - Dalziel and Pascoe 17 - On Beulah Height

by Reginald Hill

  "So Agnes was no longer in need of treatment?"

  "She was in need of care," said Plowright. "No way could she go back to looking after herself. Mentally she was back to full strength, but she couldn't walk unaided and had limited use of her left hand and arm. No further physical improvement was expected, so the hospital turned to us. Our job--my job--was either to get her a nursing-home place or find some member of her family able and willing to look after her. The latter didn't seem a possibility."

  "Why?"

  "Because her son was dead, her daughter-in-law had remarried and gone to Australia, and her designated next of kin was her grandson, Benny, and nobody knew where he was, but I daresay you know all about that."

  "So what happened?" asked Novello, ignoring the dig.

  "I set about finding her a place in one of our approved nursing homes. Agnes didn't cooperate. There were forms to be filled in, details to check, all the usual bureaucracy. She just refused to answer questions or write her signature. And then her niece turned up."

  "How did that come about?"

  "I'd come across her name and address in Agnes's papers, such as they were. One of her old acquaintances from Dendale who came to see her told me that this Winifred Fleck was Agnes's niece. They exchanged Christmas cards because that was what relatives did, but there was no love lost between them. I'd gone through the motions of writing to her anyway, because, like Peter Pascoe, I believe in eliminating the possible no matter how apparently improbable."

  She smiled as she said this, presumably to show it was a joke, not a crack. Novello gave a token smile back to show she didn't much care which, and said, "But in this case the improbable possible came good, right?"

  "That's right. Mrs. Winifred Fleck turned up at the hospital one day, had a chat with Agnes, then informed the authorities that she would be taking her aunt home to live with her."

  "Nice caring lady," said Novello approvingly.

  "She looked to have the qualifications. She'd worked as a care assistant in a nursing home, so she knew the kind of thing that was involved."

  "But you didn't like her?" said Novello, not displeased to show Jeannie Plowright that she wasn't the only one able to pick up a nuance.

  "Not a lot. But that means nothing. I can't say I was exactly in love with old Agnes either. You had to admire her will and her independence, but in her eyes I was an authority figure, and she didn't go out of her way to show her best side to authority figures. Anyway, she was compos mentis, so even if the niece had just served time for beating up patients in the geriatric ward, there was nothing I could have done to prevent Agnes moving in with her once she indicated this was what she wanted."

  "Which it was?"

  "She said so, signed all the hospital discharge papers, didn't bother to thank anyone, was helped into a car by Winifred, and that was that."

  "And you heard nothing more?"

  "I passed on the papers to the appropriate Social Services office down in Sheffield and checked with them a couple of weeks later. They said everything was fine, Mrs. Fleck was taking her new responsibility seriously, and she'd applied for all the grants and allowances and so on."

  "And that was evidence she was taking it seriously?" said Novello.

  "Not in itself, but it gave the Social Service department allotting the funds a right of access and inspection. We don't just pour our largesse with unstinting hand and no follow-up, you know."

  "No. Sorry. You heard anything since?"

  "No. I've enough on my own plate without examining other people's kitchens."

  "Of course not. Though you have climbed a bit higher up the tree," said Novello.

  "From which the view may be better, you mean?" Plowright grinned. "Depends which way you're looking. I'm sure you'll find out for yourself one day. Are we done?"

  "When you give me Mrs. Fleck's address."

  It was already typed on a sheet of nonofficial paper.

  Winifred Fleck, 9 Branwell Close, Hattersley, Sheffield (South).

  As Novello folded it carefully and put it in her shoulder bag, she thought, this woman must have been up at the crack to dig out those old files and prepare herself so thoroughly for the interview. Would she have been quite so conscientious and cooperative if she'd known it was the tweenie who was coming and not the young master?

  Meow! she added guiltily.

  She stood up, offered her hand, and said, "Thank you for being so helpful."

  "Is that what I've been? You've changed your mind about its being a waste of your time, then?"

  She spoke very seriously and for a second Novello floundered between courteous dishonesty and honest discourtesy.

  Then Jeannie Plowright laughed out loud and said, "Don't worry, my dear. Peter sometimes lets the mask slip too. I hope we meet again soon."

  Novello went down the stairs fast and furious.

  Bloody patronizing cow! At least you knew where you were with a man, even if it was in the gutter being kicked.

  By the time she reached the ground floor, she'd cooled down a bit. Perhaps it was her own fault. She knew that she approached Inspector Maggie Burroughs with a sort of aggressive caution lest it should seem she was expecting some special sisterhood treatment. Not that she was averse to getting it, but she didn't want to look like she was expecting it. Maybe this defiant I'll-do-it-my-way attitude had colored her approach to Jeannie Plowright.

  I'll do it my way! Odd choice of song for an advanced feminist.

  Bit like Marie Antoinette comforting herself by whistling the "Marseillaise!"

  That made her smile away the remnants of her resentment and she went in search of a phone, humming Ol' Blue Balls' hymn.

  Through to Danby section office, she asked for Wield and when he came on, she reported the interview crisply, using lessons learned from his book.

  "So what do I do now, Sarge?" she asked when she'd finished.

  He hesitated, then said, "Well, the super's in with Turnbull at the moment. ..."

  "Anything happening there?" she asked.

  "Not a lot," said Wield. "When the clock stops ticking, I reckon he'll walk free. Look, I think you should follow this thing up, even if it's just to make sure it's a cold trail. I'll clear it with Sheffield so's you don't get arrested for impersonating a police officer."

  "If you say so, Sarge," she said despondently.

  "Believe me, I wish I were coming with you," said Wield. "This isn't going to be a good place to be when Geordie heads for home."

  Was he just being kind? she asked herself as she got into her car. Or did he mean it?

  Bit of both, she guessed.

  But she couldn't rid herself of the feeling that she was moving away from the real center of things as she headed south.

  Peter Pascoe had watched the sun rise from the roof of the hospital.

  "Okay," he said, applauding slowly. "You're so fucking clever, let's see what you can do for my daughter."

  He heard a noise behind him and turned to see Jill Purlingstone sitting on the parapet, leaning back against the antisuicide mesh, smoking a cigarette. He guessed she'd deliberately shuffled her feet or something to let him know he was overheard. Not that he gave a toss.

  He said, "Looks like being a nice day."

  She said, "In our house, the wet days are the nice ones."

  She looked totally wrecked.

  He said, "Didn't know you smoked."

  "I gave up when I found I was pregnant."

  Superstitiously, he thought, Then this is a bad time to start again.

  She said defensively as if he'd spoken, "I need something, and getting smashed didn't seem a good idea."

  "It has its attractions, though," said Pascoe.

  He liked Jill. She was so determinedly down to earth in face of all temptations to soar. She and her husband came from the same lower-middle-class background, but their newfound wealth (no myth this; the salaries and share options of all the MY Water directors had been frequently listed in the local press in
various articles critical of their performance) had changed her very little. Derek Purlingstone, on the other hand, had recreated himself, either deliberately or instinctively, and was now a perfect son-of-privilege clone.

  Pascoe, Ellie, and Jill had spent the night at the hospital. There was a limited supply of "guest" beds, and the pressure had been for the men to go home, the women to stay. Purlingstone had let himself be persuaded. Pascoe hadn't even listened. "No," he'd said, and walked away.

  "Sunday was such a nice day," said Jill. "You know, one of those perfect days."

  Why the hell was she talking about Sunday? wondered Pascoe. Then he got it and wished he hadn't. She was looking for fragments to shore against her ruin, and Sunday, the last day before the illness struck, was being retouched into a picture of perfection.

  "Everything went so right, you know how it sometimes does," she continued, after she'd lit a cigarette from her old one. "We got up early, packed the car, I was setting the table for breakfast when Derek said, "No, don't bother with that, we'll eat on the way," so we just chucked everything in, milk, cornflakes, orange juice, rolls, the lot, and we stopped after a while and had a picnic breakfast, sitting on the grass, and we saw an eagle through Derek's glasses, well, it wasn't an eagle really, Derek said it was a peregrine but the girls were so excited at seeing an eagle it seemed a shame to disillusion them, and you could see for miles, miles, I'd have been happy just to spend the whole day there, but the others were so keen to get on, and they were right, we hardly saw any traffic along the back roads and we got this lovely spot in the dunes--"

  "I think I'd better head back," said Pascoe. "Let Ellie take a rest."

  He saw from her face he'd been more abrupt than he intended, but he couldn't stand here letting a watch over the living turn into a wake for the dead.

  Or was it just that this day she was reshaping was a day he had no part in? How far back would he need to go in search of such a perfect day, a day he had spent entirely with his family without any interruption of work? Or why blame work? Interruption from himself, his own preoccupations, his own hang-ups? In fact even when he was with Rosie, was most enjoying her company, wasn't there something of selfishness even in that, a use of her energy and joy as therapy for his own beleaguered mind ...?

  He raced down the stairs as if running from something. The anger inside which had been his companion for so long now had an object, or rather a twin object--the world in which his daughter could fall so desperately ill, and himself for letting it happen. But there was still no way he could let it out. He reached his right hand in the air, as if it had somehow escaped and he was trying to claw it back inside of him.

  A figure was standing on the landing below, looking up at him. Embarrassed, he tried to pretend he was doing a one-armed yawn. Then he saw who it was and stopped bothering.

  "Wieldy!" he said. "What brings you here?"

  This was probably the stupidest question he'd ever asked, but it didn't matter because now he had reached the landing and he did not resist as his impetus took him into the other's waiting embrace.

  They held on to each other for a long moment, then Wield broke away and said, "I saw Ellie. She said she thought you'd be up on the roof. Pete, I'm sorry I didn't get here last night. ..."

  "Christ, you must have left last night to get here so early this morning."

  "Yeah, well, I'm an early riser. Ellie says there's no change."

  "No, but there was definitely something last night. Ellie was out of the room and I was talking to Rosie and just for a moment I thought she was going to come out of it. ... I wasn't imagining it, really I wasn't ... she definitely reacted. ..."

  "That's great," said Wield. "Listen, everyone's ... well, you know. Andy's really cut up."

  "Yes. We spoke on the phone. He sounded ... angry. Which was how I felt. Still do. I've been feeling angry for a long time now, you know, a sort of generalized anger at ... things. What I had at home was my refuge from that. Now I've got something specific to be angry about, but it's taken my refuge too. ..." He rubbed his hand over his thin, pale face, and had a sudden certainty that that other Peter Pascoe had made the same gesture as he waited for the light to break for the last time on that gray morning in 1917.

  "Pete, listen, I almost didn't come, don't ask me why, it was stupid, I felt scared. ..."

  "That's okay. I hate these places too," Pascoe assured him.

  "No. Look, only reason I'm mentioning it is, now I'm glad. Because I think it will be all right. Since I got here, that's how I've felt. I'd not say it else."

  They stood and looked at each other for a moment, then, embarrassed, looked away.

  Pascoe said, "Thanks, Wieldy. How're things going, anyway--with the case, I mean? Andy said something about you bringing in a possible."

  "Aye. Fellow called Geordie Turnbull. Has a contracting business. If you read the Dendale file, you might recall he was a possible back then too. So, big coincidence, but I doubt if it's going to come to anything this time either."

  "No. Pity," said Pascoe, unable to drum up a great deal of interest. Then, ashamed, he said, "Do you know if Andy did anything about my appointment with Jeannie Plowright this morning?"

  "Aye. He's put Novello on it."

  Pascoe smiled wanly.

  "Oh, well. It wasn't such a good idea anyway."

  "Sounds a bit sexist, that," said Wield.

  "No, she's a good cop. I just think Andy would have gone himself if he'd felt there was the faintest hope of turning anything up."

  "Andy's going to be too busy turning the thumbscrews at Danby, which is where I'm on my way to."

  "You've taken the long way round. Thanks a lot, Wieldy."

  "Aye well. I'll keep in touch. Keep your chin up. Cheers."

  "Cheers."

  He touched the younger man's arm, then turned and walked away.

  Pascoe watched him go. There had been comfort in the contact, no denying it. But now he was alone again, looking for something to blame. What had he narrowed it down to as he ran down the stairs? Oh, yes. The world and himself.

  He went back into the ward.

  "You saw Wieldy?" asked Ellie.

  "Yes."

  "It was good to see him," she said.

  "Yes."

  He looked from her face to Rosie's, from the blossom to the bud, and felt that if anything happened here, there was no way to duck responsibility, and no way to bear it either. The world was safe. His rage would have to strike where its shadow began.

  "Why don't you take a walk?" he said gently. "Jill's up on the roof, having a smoke. Or get yourself a coffee. Go on. I'll stay."

  "Okay," she said, unable to resist the gentle force of his will. "I won't be long."

  She went out of the room like a woman sleepwalking.

  Shit, he thought. She blames herself too. Which is crazy, when it's all my fault. Everything's my fault.

  "Even England not winning the Test is my fault," he said out loud. "You hear that, kid? Your father may not have a million in share options, but probably even the water shortage is down to him as well."

  This old technique of exaggerating fears till they reached absurdity seemed to work. He sat down by the bed and took his daughter's hand.

  "That's right, it's me, dear," he said. "But you'd know that anyway. My smooth, soft concert pianist's fingers are completely different from those rough, calloused stumps of your mum's. But she will spend all day up to the elbows in soapy water when she's not outside picking sisal."

  He paused. They'd asked if talking to Rosie would help and got a noncommittal "Can't do any harm." Great. But could she hear? That was what he needed to know. No. Not needed. While there was the faintest chance of the sound of his voice having any effect, he would talk till his larynx was raw. But what to say? He doubted if his introspective ramblings could be all that therapeutic. How could it help for Rosie to know that her dad was a self-absorbed neurotic?

  He looked around for the pile of stuff they'd brought in
for Rosie, favorite dolls, clothes, books--a great pile to reassure themselves she would soon be convalescent.

  At the top was Nina and the Nix. He picked it up, opened it, and began to read aloud.

  "Once there were a nix lived by a pool in a cave under a hill. ..."

  Hattersley proved to be a large, sprawling development on the southwest fringe of Sheffield. Its design made Hampton Court Maze look like a short one-way street, and confusion was further confounded by the use of the Bronte family as the sole source of street names. Even the inclusion of Maria and Elizabeth, the two sisters who died in childhood, meant there were only seven names to play with, and this deficiency had been overcome by applying each to a street, a road, a way, a crescent, an avenue, a grove, a place, a lane, a boulevard, and a close.

  It was, decided Novello, the place that delinquent postmen got sent to.

  It took her half an hour to find her way to Branwell Close and when she did, she didn't get out of the car straightaway, not because she was hot and flustered (which she was), but because of the nature of No. 9.

  Her job had often taken her to houses which looked so neglected, it came as a surprise to discover people were actually living there. The Fleck bungalow produced the same effect by opposite means. It looked more like an architect's model than the real thing, with its paintwork so bright, its brickwork so perfectly pointed, its little lawn such an exact square of emerald green, its borders so carefully combed, its flowers so precisely planted, its windows so gleamingly polished, its lace curtains so symmetrically hung, and its wrought iron gate so brightly burnished, that when she finally plucked up courage to make an approach, she hesitated to touch the shining latch and tread on the pastel pink flags of the arrow-straight path.

  Then a lace curtain twitched and the spell was broken.

  The front door opened before she reached it, presumably to save the doorbell from the danger of an alien print.