Among those seated there was a white-haired man whose head would not have looked out of place on a marble plinth in Caesar Augustus’s palace, which was not the most unpleasant place many would have paid good money to relocate it over the years.
This was Eden Thackeray of Thackeray, Amberson, Mellor, Huby and Thackeray, Solicitors, usually known as Messrs Thackeray, etc. Semi-retired now, he claimed modestly to have dropped from pole position as senior partner into the end slot formerly occupied by his nephew Dunstan who had leapt, by virtue of his name alone, into control of the firm, but no one who knew him doubted for a moment that Eden still called the important shots.
Over many years, he and Dalziel had often opposed, occasionally assisted, and always entertained each other.
The Fat Man plonked his bulk down onto the chair next to him which fortunately, like nearly everything else at the Gents, including the menu, subscribed to Victorian values.
‘How do, Eden,’ he said.
‘Andy, my dear chap. We see you in here far too infrequently.’
‘Oh aye? Been doing a poll, have you? Soup, steak and kid.’
This to the waiter who’d already written it down. The alternative never chosen by Dalziel would have been soup and boiled cod. There had once been a motion to include a light salad on the menu during summer months but it had been rejected by a heavy majority.
Thackeray, who was finishing his main course, deferred selection of pudding till Dalziel had caught him up. By the time they dead-heated on their final spoonfuls of Spotted Dick, they were the sole occupants of the common table.
‘Coffee and malt. One Park, one Lag. Big ’uns,’ said Dalziel to the waiter. ‘We’ll have it here. And put it on my tab.’
‘Everything, or just the drinks, sir?’
The Fat Man looked assessingly at Thackeray.
‘Everything,’ he said.
Sipping his whisky appreciatively, Thackeray said, ‘So, you’ve made a blind investment, Andy. I hope you find the return worth the risk.’
‘Fees you lot earn, I’d not expect much back for a plate of grub and an ounce of mouthwash,’ said Dalziel. ‘Tell me about the Nortrust Bank.’
‘Ah. Let me see. Would this have anything to do with the rumours of fraud circulating around the person of the delectable Ms Cornelius?’
‘Know her well, do you?’
‘I have been in the same room as her,’ said Thackeray.
‘Me too. Same courtroom,’ said Dalziel.
‘Then you’ll know what I mean.’
The two men drank their malt in contemplative silence.
‘The word is,’ said Thackeray finally, ‘that after Ms Cornelius had been interviewed for her job, George Ollershaw, chairman of the interviewing panel, declared, We’ve got to have this woman. Preferably me first.’
‘Mucky sod,’ said Dalziel censoriously.
‘Indeed. I gather the lady director on the panel was greatly offended and expressed her offence by opposing Ms Cornelius’s appointment.’
‘So she didn’t get a hundred per cent vote?’
‘No. It was two-two, with the chairman using his casting vote. He was, of course, able to refute any accusation of undue hormonal influence by pointing to the evidence that from the technical point of view, Ms Cornelius was clearly superior to all other candidates. Of course, as it turned out, the bank might have done better if they had in fact appointed someone whose physical effulgence was not matched by hi-tech brilliance.’
‘Eh? Oh, I’m with you. Big tits and no brains, gets her sums wrong but doesn’t rip you off.’
‘As ever your reductio ad vernaculum removes all ambiguity,’ said Thackeray.
‘That’s what my old mam always used to tell me. So, did any of these dirty old bankers get any further than wishful thinking?’
‘If they did, they were uniquely discreet. Tongues have been observed hanging out, but none to my knowledge has ever made contact with any portion of Ms Cornelius’s anatomy.’
This was good enough for Dalziel. In Mid-Yorkshire professional circles, Eden Thackeray’s knowledge was like a London taxi driver’s; as well as the broad and airy boulevards, he knew all the mean streets and dark ginnels.
‘So, no sex,’ said the Fat Man. ‘Still, you can go partners with a lass without banging her, so they tell me. Anyone there with an appetite bigger than his income? George Ollershaw, for instance.’
Thackeray finished his drink, Dalziel crooked a finger and the watching waiter came with the prepared refills.
The lawyer said, ‘I had heard that George was being examined by your people with more interest than a fan dancer’s feathers at a police party. But personally I’d say you were urinating up the wrong tree there, Andy.’
‘Oh aye? You know him well, do you?’
‘Well enough. He trained as a lawyer, you know. Indeed, he worked with our firm for a while. A man of few scruples, but too clever to need to be criminal, I’d have thought.’
‘You fire him or what?’ said Dalziel hopefully.
‘No. Amicable parting. He rapidly realized that for us poor solicitors, it is all a labour of love and we exist at mere subsistence level, so he rechannelled his talents into accountancy, moving into financial services during the eighties boom, and whatever benefits he may or may not have brought his clients, he certainly took his own advice to some good effect, emerging from the consequent recession with considerable wealth and property. When the old Nortrust Building Society demutualized five years ago, George was waiting for them. Now that’s an interesting story – ’
‘Does it show him as a crook?’ interrupted Dalziel. ‘Or mebbe as someone owing big money to the Mafia?’
‘Alas, no. Just a very sharp operator. And now he is a pillar of the community. No hint of financial problems, no reason to be helping anyone go scrumping round the Nortrust orchard when the golden fruit fall so freely and legitimately into his outstretched hand. He is of course seriously embarrassed by this investigation. Mud sticks, scrub you never so hard. And his mode of entrée into Nortrust’s inner sanctum made him many enemies. I see from your polite yawn that I’m not telling you anything you find helpful, am I?’
‘I liked the bit about hard-up solicitors.’
‘I’m sorry. You will just have to look elsewhere.’
‘Nay,’ said Dalziel, shaking his huge head vigorously. ‘I’ll just have to look harder. There’s got to be summat there at Nortrust. I feel it, like one of them planets the astronomers know must be there long afore they clock it, because of the way the others act.’
‘Andy, that’s almost poetic. Do be careful or you may be asked to leave the club. You know they don’t permit poetry on the premises, not even between consenting adults.’
‘How about history? Tell us about the Nortrust Building Society. Tell us how Ollershaw came to be such a fat cat on the board.’
‘Andy, you put me down severely when I tried to do that just now. Are you so desperate?’
‘Not desperate. I just know, like the man said, the truth’s out there.’
‘That would be Keats, would it? All right. Are you sitting comfortably, then I’ll begin?’
And some time and several Parks and Lags later, Andy Dalziel at last began to feel like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
vi
cheated by Protestants
Shirley Novello clung to a branch of the tree and ran her binoculars through an arc of three hundred degrees, the other sixty proving inaccessible without major surgery to her neck. Her mind reeled dizzily, not because she was sixty feet above the ground, nor even at the thought of that blue emptiness stretching eastward all the way to Holland (or maybe Denmark or perhaps even Norway – she’d usually bunked off geography lessons). No, it was the realization that the view west was just as empty. For God’s sake, how many Irish miles was she from a takeaway pizza? A twenty-screen cinema? A hot nightclub? Or even a decent theme pub?
People raved about the co
untryside and came here for holidays – but what the hell did they actually do? The seaside wasn’t so bad, when it was real seaside, with souvenir stalls, and burger stands, and ice cream vans, and she didn’t even mind a tumble of dunes in easy walking distance where a young woman could take a young man with the body of a wrestler and show him a few holds he wouldn’t learn at the gym…
But apart from a large building, presumably Gunnery House, about half a mile north-west, the land at the side of this sea showed little sign of human habitation till it stopped at the edge of a cliff. Maybe the beach below was packed with ice cream vendors and chunky young wrestlers, but she doubted it.
‘What are you doing?’
The voice came from below, which was just as well as a voice from any other direction might have shocked her off her perch.
She looked down.
Looking up from the foot of the tree was the Pascoe brat. Cocking its leg against the tree was the Pascoe brat’s pooch.
‘Just having a look around,’ called Novello.
‘Can you see a long way?’
‘Forever.’
‘Forever,’ echoed the child in a reverential tone. ‘I’d like to see forever.’
To Novello’s horror, the girl began to reach up to the lower branches of the tree. Child-minding was not in her job description, but she had a mental image of Ellie Pascoe emerging from the cottage to discover her daughter splattered over the grass with herself high above, looking guilty.
In normal circumstances, Novello was prepared to meet La Pascoe, or any woman, head-on, but at this prospect her spirit quailed.
‘Stay there,’ she commanded. ‘I’m coming down.’
She descended rapidly, swinging athletically from branch to branch, and dropping the last six feet to land lightly at Rosie’s side. All that work at the gym felt worthwhile, even if her prime purpose in going there was to get a personal preview of what was on offer in the wrestling department.
‘You can jump a long way down,’ said Rosie Pascoe admiringly. ‘I can jump a long way too but not as far as that, not till I’m bigger. But I’m a good climber.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Novello. ‘But not this tree, eh?’
‘Why not this tree?’
Novello thought of saying it was a special police observation tree, but casting her mind back to her own childhood, she guessed this would only encourage the DCI’s brat to become all proprietorial and take the first opportunity to get up there.
Her mind stayed in her childhood. Lots of authority figures to pay lip service to, but the only one whose word was really law had been a big girl called Tracy, the leader of her playground gang. Tracy, she recalled, had a winning way with hearts and minds.
‘Because I say so,’ she said. ‘And in my gang, if you don’t do what I say, I’ll drop you face down in a cow pat.’
Rosie considered this then nodded.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘What’s our gang called?’
Gangs had to have names. Novello thought a second then said, smiling to herself, ‘We’re the Uncumber Number. Don’t forget it.’
‘OK,’ said Rosie. ‘What’s it mean?’
Small girls had to have reasons.
Novello gave her a potted history of St Uncumber, turning her into a sort of anti-small-boys Action Woman and omitting the gory details of her final fate. She didn’t want the kid having nightmares La Pascoe could trace back to her.
Rosie listened, wide-eyed.
Then she said eagerly, ‘Shall we go and find some boys to get rid of?’
Uneasily, Novello hoped this brat wasn’t a literalist.
She said, ‘No. First we see if we can find some food to get rid of. Cake. Uncumber liked to get rid of a lot of cake. As well as boys.’
Lunch had confirmed her fears that the two older women had reached the age when unattractiveness is measured in cellulite. To Novello, the obvious response to Feenie Macallum’s supper invitation was to eat Mrs Stonelady’s stew for lunch. But the dish seemed to have vanished completely (perhaps consigned to the freezer?) and the wrinklies had seemed more than content to nibble at some tasteless biscuits spread with smelly cheese. Breakfast she did not doubt would be dried apricots and guava juice.
Well, such a thin mix might be all right for antique machinery, but a late model just off the assembly line and into the showroom needed richer fuel.
There was no sign of cake but she did find a loaf of what looked like home-baked bread, some real butter and a large jar of what turned out to be the best lemon curd she’d ever tasted. She cut two half-inch slices, applied a good inch of butter and curd to one slice, placed the other on top, and pressed down till the glorious yellow goo oozed out of the sides. All the time she felt the pressure of Rosie’s gaze upon her. With a sigh, she sliced the sandwich in half and pushed one section towards the girl.
‘From now on you get your own, OK?’ she said. ‘I am not your personal caterer.’
They were just sinking their teeth into the succulent sandwiches when Ellie came into the kitchen.
‘Rosie, what on earth are you eating?’ she demanded.
Novello knew little about motherhood but she made a note now that if you were bothered by your kids speaking with their mouths full, you should avoid asking them questions when they were eating.
Rosie, her mouth glutinous with curd, was clearly both physically and behaviourally challenged. Novello was neither.
‘My fault,’ she said gooily. ‘Thought she might like something to put her on till supper.’
‘Put her on? There’s enough cholesterol there to put her on an NHS waiting list!’ snarled Ellie.
‘Yeah? Sorry.’
Daphne came into the kitchen with a towel over her shoulder.
‘Gosh, that looks good, Rosie. Spare a corner?’
Wordlessly, Rosie offered her the sandwich and she took a hefty bite.
‘Mmm. Mrs Stonelady’s curd. Heaven. I’m going for a swim, my dears. Anyone fancy a dip?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Ellie. ‘Some letters to write.’
The prospect of seeing Feenie that evening had restimulated her guilt feelings about her neglect of her Liberata correspondence.
Rosie swallowed and tried to say something but her mother said firmly, ‘You stay with me, dear. Don’t want you getting a chill first day you’re here.’
‘Yes, Mummy.’
Over-protective, thought Novello. But maybe she had cause. None of her business anyway. She had her own protection agenda to think of. Things would be a lot easier if everyone stuck together.
‘Is it really advisable to go swimming by yourself?’ she asked. ‘Especially in the sea.’
‘I think I’ll survive,’ said Daphne, smiling. ‘I’m a reasonably good swimmer – ’
‘She means she used to be the Yorkshire Over-privileged Girls Two Thousand Leagues Butterfly Champion,’ interrupted Ellie.
‘Sorry?’ said Novello.
‘Ignore her,’ said Daphne. ‘That is social-envy-speak for my brief membership of the county under-eighteen swimming team, which is so socially non-exclusive, they even select members of police families if they’re good enough. I will be all right, believe me, but if you’re worried, do feel free to come along.’
‘Yeah, well, I did want to take a look at the beach, you know, reconnoitre…’
She saw La Pascoe roll her eyes and that made up her mind.
‘Mrs Pascoe…’
‘Ellie,’ said Daphne.
‘… be sure to keep all the doors locked and try not to let Rosie out of your sight. OK?’
She saw not without pleasure the irritation on the woman’s face.
‘I think I’m able to look after my daughter,’ she replied.
‘Great. Then let’s go, er, Daphne.’
Outside, the older woman strode ahead on what presumably she saw as a path but what felt like an obstacle course to Novello, stumbling over tussocks of grass, stubbing her toes against stones, and fighting off the assault o
f thorny branches with a malevolent life of their own.
What in the name of God am I doing here? she asked herself.
This was strictly a no-win job. Most likely there wasn’t any threat, which meant all she had to look forward to was a couple of days of mutual irritation in a landscape so unattractive it merited her Irish grandmother’s ultimate condemnation: This is the kind of place a dacent woman could find herself being cheated by Protestants.
And if by some miracle there was a threat, how the hell was she supposed to counter it? She had no authority to force the party to stick together. She supposed she really ought to have stayed close to the Pascoes at the cottage, but then if Daphne Aldermann went and got herself drowned, no doubt that would be down to her, though of course the fallout would be even more nuclear if on her return to Nosebleed she found the Pascoes, mère etfille, with their throats slit.
She shuddered at the prospect then assured herself firmly there wasn’t much chance of that. No, if this were a real job, there would be at least two watchers, and they’d probably be men. She was a token; not a token woman exactly, more of a woman token, because she’d been selected as a token because she was a woman…
‘Oh shit,’ she said.
Ahead of her, Daphne Aldermann had fallen off a cliff.
She ran forward and looked down.
There was cause here for both relief and trepidation.
The cliff dropped away in an uninviting tumble of sandstone boulders and shale, but far from being in trouble, Daphne was descending at speed as if on a carpeted stairway.
Gingerly, Novello began to follow.
She concentrated so hard on where she was putting her feet that she paid little attention to the beach, but when she finally reached it a quick glance north and south confirmed what she had already guessed. Not an ice cream van or a wrestler to be seen. Not even a cheating Protestant.
On the sand lay a T-shirt, sandals, a pair of shorts and a towel. Ahead, running naked into the sea, was Daphne.
Oh God, thought Novello. All this, and I’ve got myself a middle-aged nuddy too.
Arms and the Women Page 26
