Or, to put it more crudely, you could get pissed out of your pericranium in your favorite pub and not need to rely on a sourly sober spouse to drive you home.
So usually when he had occasion to be in "the bell," his imagination was as active as an oil sheikh's in Mayfair, selecting this property and discarding that with reckless abandon.
Today, however, despite the fact that Holyclerk Street looked at its most seductive in the cidrous aureola of the early evening sun, the springs of covetousness were quite dried up within him as he walked along looking for the Wulfstan residence.
Ellie had told him she knew that being a policeman rotted your soul, but when you considered the Wulfstans' tragic history, not to mention the fact that his own daughter was just recovering from a serious illness, he was breaking all known records of insensitivity, illogicality, and irresponsibility. ...
"Listen," he said. "It's because of Rosie I'm doing this--"
"Because of what an overexcited kid thinks she saw? Because of a fucking picture book?" she'd interjected. "Now I've heard everything!"
"No," he said with matching ferocity. "Because we nearly lost her. Because in my head I did lose her, and I got to understand what I've often observed but never really fathomed before, why all those poor sods who do lose a kid run around like headless chickens, organizing protests and pressure groups and petitions and God knows what else. It's because you've got to make some sense of it, you've got to juggle with reasons and responsibilities, you've got to know the whys and the wherefores and the whens and the hows and the whos, oh, yes, especially the whos. Listen, you want to find out what you can do for Jill, and when you think you've found it, nothing will stop you doing it. Well, that's how I feel about Mr. and Mrs. Dacre. Knowing is all that's left for them, I'm not talking justice or revenge at this stage, just simple knowing. I may be right off-line here, but I owe it to them, I owe it to whatever God or blind fate gave us back Rosie, to check this thing out."
She had never seen him, certainly never heard him, like this before, and for once in their life together, she let herself be beaten into silence by his flailing words.
All she said as he left the hospital, where Rosie had fallen into a deep, peaceful sleep which looked set to last the night, was "Softly, softly, eh, love?" then kissed him hard.
He had gone on his way, not exactly triumphing, but with that glow of righteousness which springs from winning a heated moral debate.
But now, as he stood before the door of No. 41, it suddenly seemed to him, as so very often in the past, that though Ellie might not be right in every respect, she was right enough to have got the points decision.
This was crazy. Or if in its essentials, which were that something had come up in connection with a serious inquiry that needed to be investigated, not altogether crazy, certainly in this way of going about it totally bonkers.
He took a step back from the door, and might have fled, or might not, he never knew which, for at that moment the door opened and he found himself looking at Inger Sandel.
They had never met, but he recognized her from the photograph in the Post, which he was carrying in his briefcase.
She said, "Yes?"
He said, "Hello. I'm Detective Chief Inspector Pascoe."
She said, "Mr. Wulfstan is already gone to Danby with Elizabeth, but Chloe is still here, if you want to talk to her."
"Why not?" he said, though he could think of reasons.
He stepped into the hall. There were several boxes full of compact discs standing on the floor.
"We poor troubadours must be our own merchants too," she said, catching his glance. "They are to sell at the concert."
"Oh, yes?" He picked up the Kindertotenlieder disc. "Interesting design. The bars of music are Mahler, I presume?"
"Yes. But not from the lieder. The second symphony, I think." She paused as if waiting for a response, then went on. "You would like to buy one?"
"No, thanks," he said, putting it down hastily. "My wife's got one already. Mrs. Wulfstan's in, you say?"
"Yes, she is," she said, smiling as if at some private joke. "Goodbye, Mr. Pascoe. Nice to have met you."
She stepped outside and began pulling the door to behind her.
"Hold on," he said anxiously. "Mrs. Wulfstan ..."
"It's all right," she reassured him. "I must go out for a little while. Just shout."
He'd have preferred that she did the shouting. As he'd once explained to Ellie, being a cop isn't a cure for shyness, it just makes it rather inconvenient on occasion, as when for example you found yourself in a strange house without any visible authority.
He first coughed, then called, "Hello," in the small voice, at once summons and apology, he used for waiters.
He strained his ears for a response. There was none, but he thought he detected a distant murmur of voices.
Dalziel would either have bellowed, "SHOP!" or taken the chance to poke around.
He opened his mouth to shout, then decided that on the whole for a man of his temperament, being caught poking around was the lesser of two embarrassments.
He pushed open the nearest door with an apologetic smile ready on his lips.
It opened onto what looked like a gent's study of the old school. He ran his eyes over the glazed bookcases, the mahogany desk, the oak wainscoting, and thought of the converted bedroom which he used as a home office. Perhaps he should start taking bribes?
The room was empty and even his decision to follow one of the Fat Man's paths didn't mean he could go as far as poking through the desk drawers.
He went back into the hall and tried the door opposite. This led into a small sitting room, also empty, which had another door leading into a nicely sized dining room, very Adam, with an oval table so highly polished, it must have been a card-sharper's delight.
In the wall opposite the door he'd come in by was a serving hatch, partially open. The voices he'd heard before were now quite distinct, and he went forward and peered through the hatch without opening it further.
He found he was looking into a kitchen, but the talkers weren't in there. The back door was wide open onto a patio with one of those lovely long luscious "bell" gardens beyond, and he felt the stab of covetousness once more. He could see two people out there. One, a woman, visible in half profile, was seated into a low-back wicker chair. The other, a man, was leaning over her from behind with his hands inside her blouse, gently massaging her breasts.
The man (again identified from the Post) was Arne Krog. The woman he assumed to be Chloe Wulfstan, a deduction quickly confirmed.
Krog was saying, "Enough is enough. Someday you will have to leave him. If not now, when?"
The woman replied agitatedly, "Why will I have to leave? All right, yes, you're probably right. But it's an option. Like suicide. Knowing you can, knowing one day you probably will, is a great prop to endurance."
"You mean, knowing one day you'll leave gives you strength to stay? Come on, Chloe! That's just a clever way of using words to avoid making decisions."
She gripped both his wrists and forced his hands up out of her blouse.
"Don't talk to me about avoiding decisions, Arne. Where's the decision you're making in all this? Are you saying if I left Walter today, you'd fling me over your saddle, gallop me away into the sunset, and make sure I lived happily ever after?"
Arne Krog fingered his fringe of silky beard sensuously. Likes to have his hands on something soft, thought Pascoe.
"Yes, I suppose that's more or less what I'm saying," he said.
"More? Or less?"
"Well, less the saddle," he said, smiling. "And I'm not sure if anyone should promise ever after. But as far as is humanly possible, that's what I'd do."
He spoke the last sentence with a simple sincerity that Pascoe found quite moving.
Chloe stood up and regarded him fondly, but with the kind of fondness one feels for a lovable but untrainable dog.
"So you love me, Arne. Enough to want to spend t
he rest of your life with me. My very perfect, gentle, and chaste knight. You would be chaste, wouldn't you, Arne? I mean, when we're not together, you don't go putting it around your little groupies on the concert circuit, or in the opera chorus, do you?"
Krog's fingers stopped moving in his beard.
"Let me guess," he said softly. "The lovely Elizabeth, the Yorkshire nightingale, has been singing?"
"I talk to my daughter, yes."
"Your daughter." Krog smiled. "I remember your daughter, Chloe. And not all the wigs and cosmetics and diets in the world can turn Betsy Allgood into your daughter. If that is what she is trying to be, of course."
"Why do you hate her so much, Arne? Is it because she's going to have the kind of career you always dreamt of? A huge fish in the big ponds, not just a smallish one in the puddles?"
"That shows how close we really are, Chloe. I cannot hide my disappointments from you."
The woman smiled sadly.
"Arne, you don't hide them from anybody. No one can be so laid back unless he's seething inside. Perhaps you should have let some of the anger show in your singing."
"Ah, a music critic as well as a psychologist. Perhaps you are right. Just because I appear calm doesn't mean I'm not angry. By the same token, just because I screw around doesn't mean I don't love you. Always follow your logic through, my dear. And just because I'm not flying into a despairing rage doesn't mean I'm giving up on you. If you won't leave, I'll wait until you are left, as you will be, believe me. Everyone will go, Elizabeth to her career, Walter to ... God knows what. And one day you'll look around, and there'll be nobody left but good old laid-back Arne. Better to run now, I say. You notice pain far less if you're running than if you're standing still."
It was, Pascoe decided, time to make his move before Inger Sandel returned and wondered why he'd been in the house all this time without making contact with Chloe.
He went back into the hallway, walked toward the kitchen door, pushed it open, and shouted with Dalzielesque force, "Shop!"
Then he went into the kitchen, put on his apologetic smile as he saw their surprised faces turned toward him, and advanced onto the patio, flourishing his warrant card and saying, "Hello, sorry to intrude, but Miss Sandel let me in. Chief Inspector Pascoe. Mrs. Wulfstan, I wonder if I might have a word."
Krog was looking at him frowningly. Pascoe thought, This clever sod is thinking it's at least five minutes since the woman left, so what the hell have I been doing in the meantime?
He said, "It's Mr. Krog, isn't it? The singer? My wife's a great fan."
He recalled hearing a writer say during a radio interview that when men told him their wives loved his books, he ran his eyes up and down the speaker and replied, "Well, no one can be indiscriminating all of the time."
All Krog said was "How nice. Excuse me." And left.
Chloe Wulfstan said, "Please sit down, Mr. Pascoe. I'm afraid I don't have too much time."
"Yes. Of course. The concert. Your husband's gone already? Actually it was really him I wanted to see, so I don't need to delay you any longer."
Once more his mind supplied the smart reply. "I don't see why you needed to delay me at all." And once again the opportunity was missed.
"You're sure it's nothing I can help you with?" she said. "Has it anything to do with that poor child out at Danby? I heard on the news they'd found her body."
"Yes, it's terrible, isn't it?" said Pascoe. "I can guess how painful it must be for you, Mrs. Wulfstan--"
"Oh, you can guess, can you?" interrupted the woman contemptuously.
He thought of the past few days and said quietly, "Yes, I think I can. I'm sorry. I'll go now and let you get ready for the concert. It's okay, I'll see myself out."
He left her sitting there, staring fixedly into the garden. What she was seeing he didn't know, but he suspected it was more than grass and trees and flowers.
As he moved along the entrance hall, the door of the study opened and Arne Krog stepped out.
He had a sealed A4 envelope in his hand.
"Leaving so soon, Mr. Pascoe?" he said.
"Yes."
"Though not perhaps so soon as it seems."
So the clever sod had worked it out.
Pascoe said, "I was brought up to believe it was rude to interrupt."
"Which must also be convenient in your adult profession. You heard something of the discussion between Mrs. Wulfstan and myself?"
"Something," said Pascoe, seeing no point in lying.
The man nodded, but there was as much uncertainty in the gesture as affirmation. He was close to doing something, but not absolutely committed to the final step.
"Then you will see a part of my motive in giving you this, and may mistake it for the whole. But please believe in the other larger part which has to do with justice." He smiled his attractive smile which made him look ten years younger. "As with your eavesdropping, sometimes even a virtue may also be convenient."
He handed over the envelope, gave a stiff, rather Teutonic bow, and went up the stairs.
Pascoe opened the front door. Inger Sandel was coming up the steps.
"Just leaving?" she said. "You must have had a good talk."
Her eyes were fixed on the envelope.
"Yes. I hope you have a good concert."
"You are coming?"
He shook his head and said, "No, I don't think so."
But five minutes later as he sat in his car with the contents of the envelope on his knee, he had changed his mind.
He rang the hospital and finally got hold of Ellie.
"How is she?"
"Sleeping soundly. You coming back?"
"Not directly."
He explained. It took a deal of explanation, but finally her disapproval faded, and she said, "Okay, Aeneas, off you go and do what you've gotta do."
"Aeneas?"
"Private joke. I love you."
"I love you too. I love you both. More than any of this."
"Which is why you've got to do it, yeah, yeah. Pete, remember way back in one of our more heated debates, you told me I was neglecting my family so that I could play at being a left-wing revolutionary?"
"Did I say that? Sounds more like Fat Andy on a good day."
"That's what really bothered me. But all I want to say now is it's a good job you never got the revolutionary bug, because there'd have been no playing. Kalashnikovs and Semtex all the way. Take care. And if you look back and see a light in the sky, don't worry. It's only me."
Pascoe switched off his phone, smiling. Through the open sunroof of his car he said to the delft-blue sky, "I am probably the luckiest man alive."
Then he set off north.
The arrival of Shirley Novello's convoy at Danby police station was observed through an upper window by Andy Dalziel with great satisfaction.
"That's what I like, Wieldy," he said. "Bit of swank. Like the Allies rolling into Paris in '44. We should be throwing flowers. You've not got the odd poppy or lily in your pocket, have you?"
Wield, who was just relieved the WOULDC had had the sense not to have lights flashing and sirens blaring, said, "How do you want to do this, sir?"
"Let's see what they say about briefs," said Dalziel.
"Duty solicitor's on standby," said Wield. "And I daresay Turnbull will be yelling for Hoddle again."
"Yon death's head. Well, it'll almost be a pleasure to see him. I doubt if he can pull Geordie out of this one."
Wield frowned superstitiously at this display of confidence. He felt they'd a long way to go before they were out of this wood.
The Australian police had still come up with nothing useful about the Slater family. The myth that modern technology made it almost impossible to vanish in the civilized world was one that most policemen saw exploded every day. Even without making any huge effort to cover their tracks, people dropped out and the waters of society closed over their heads with scarcely a ripple to show the spot. All they did have now was a record t
hat a B. Slater, Australian citizen, had landed at Heathrow ten days earlier.
It took Novello a little while to book her prisoners in, then she came up to report.
Dalziel greeted her beamingly.
"Well done, lass. I always said you were a lot more than just a pretty face, though I've got nowt against pretty faces when you see some of the ugly buggers I've got to work with."
Novello avoided glancing at Wield. One thing she had to give Andy Dalziel, he was an equal-opportunity employer. He was bloody rude to everyone.
"So what's the crack, Ivor? Fill us in," continued the Fat Man.
She made her rehearsed report, succinct and to the point, and got an approving nod from Wield.
"Grand," said Dalziel, rubbing his hands in anticipation of the interviews to come. "Yelling for their briefs, are they?"
They weren't.
Turnbull had shrugged and said, "I reckon I'll play this one solo, bonny lass."
And Slater/lightfoot had said, "What the fuck do I need with a fucking lawyer? Just fetch the bastard who's in charge of this shit pile, will you?"
She told them this verbatim.
"And there's something else," she added, seeing that Dalziel's expression had lost some of its previous manic sparkle, and deciding that bad news was best spilled out in a single bucketful. "Slater gave his name as Barney, not Benny. And it's there on his passport. Barnaby Slater."
She waited to be assured this meant nowt, but from the Fat Man's face she saw it meant more than she knew.
"The younger brother," said Wield. "The one who stayed with his mam. He was called Barnabas. Benjamin and Barnabas. The old lady's choice, I always thought. From the sound of it, Marion were none too religious."
"So Benny's not going to come back using his own name, is he?" said Dalziel. "Helps himself to his brother's passport. Mebbe he had to. Mebbe he never got round to changing his own name."
He sounded less than convinced.
Wield said, "One way to find out, sir."
"Aye. Let's get to it. Ivor, you sit in on this too. Don't gab on, but don't be afraid to speak up if you see the need."
So this time she wasn't going to be dumped after doing the donkey work, thought Novello. Great!
Hill, Reginald - Dalziel and Pascoe 17 - On Beulah Height Page 37
