Recalled to Life dap-13

by Reginald Hill

  'You're a small improvement on the last one,' said Lady Jessica, running a cold eye over him. 'But I hope this isn't going to become a habit.' Pascoe had long grown used to discourtesy but this took him by surprise. Partridge with the ready oil of an old politician said, 'Mr Pascoe's come in person rather than phoning just so that he can get my autograph on his book, wasn't that good of him? I'm most flattered.

  What's your first name, Mr Pascoe?' He took the book and opened it at the title-page, pen poised. 'Peter.' Pascoe thought that Dalziel would probably have gone on asking questions about Partridge's night with Elsbeth Lowrie despite or perhaps because of Lady Jessica's presence, but every man has his own weapon. He said, 'You were out of the country during the trial, I believe, Lady Partridge. But presumably you followed it via the media?' ‘I don't think we had media in those days, did we, dear?' joked Partridge but his wife replied grimly, 'Why do you presume that?' 'Because of your personal involvement,' said Pascoe. 'A friend was murdered. Another friend accused. It would be natural for you to follow it in the papers. Or if not, surely you and your husband would refer to the trial when you corresponded?' 'He was no friend of mine. Nor was she,' said the woman. 'Is there a point to this catechism?' 'I was merely wondering if you, or you, Lord Partridge, felt any doubts about the verdict or had any reservations about the conduct of the investigation at the time?' Partridge's mouth opened, but his wife was quicker off the mark. 'No. I thought the police behaved with great propriety if not to say delicacy. Policemen still knew their place in those days. As for the verdicts, I saw no reason to question them then any more than I do now. Mickledore was a wastrel, the girl was clearly unstable.' 'Come, come, my dear, de mortuis…' 'The Kohler creature is not dead, Thomas, but roaming free, because of gutlessness in high places!' Pascoe was fascinated enough to risk a provocation. He said, 'You mean you disapprove of the Home Office decision?' She glowered at him and said, 'I presume you are unsubtly referring to my son's recent promotion. Don't worry, his time will come. But meanwhile this gang of grocer's assistants and board school boys have to be allowed to overreach themselves so that decent people can see them for the third-raters they are. Then perhaps we'll see our flag raised high again, instead of wrapped round the balls of cretinous untermensch rioting outside football grounds!'

  Pascoe pressed on, 'But the new evidence offered by Miss Marsh…'

  'Marsh? What has she to do with anything?' 'It was her evidence about the blood which helped persuade the Home Secretary to release Kohler,' said Pascoe. 'When I talked to her earlier, she implied that if she'd been aware of the importance of this at the time of the trial she would have spoken up then. Now it's understandable that, immersed in her duties and a thousand miles away, she did not keep abreast of events. But you, ma'am, and you, sir…' There was a crack like a gunshot. It turned out to be Jessica Partridge slapping her boot with a riding crop, a gesture Pascoe had never encountered outside of a bodice- ripping movie. 'I've got better things to do than stand here and be quizzed about the oddities of domestics, particularly that Marsh woman,' she cried. 'She remembers your family with great affection,' said Pascoe. ‘Indeed? I find that surprising as the last time I spoke to her was to dismiss her for inefficiency and insubordination,' said Lady Partridge. 'Thomas, I shall shower before lunch. Mr Pascoe, goodbye. I don't expect I shall see you again.' She walked out, splay-footed in her riding boots, her jodhpured haunches swaying centaurishly. Pascoe regarded Partridge blankly, waiting to see if he intended to follow his wife down this patrician road or whether the politician would still hold sway. 'Some more cocoa, Mr Pascoe? No? I think I will.' The rum bottle gurgled. He drank deep, sighed with pleasure. 'Good stuff. My family has old West Indian connections. I spent a long period out there in my youth. This was one of the better habits I picked up.' 'You took your family out to Antigua after the Mickledore affair, didn't you, sir?' 'You have been doing your homework. Good. I approve. That's right. I had come to accept the kind of assault on privacy that government service opens one up to, but I saw no reason why my family should have to put up with it.' It was nobly spoken but with a sufficient hint of self-mockery to make Pascoe risk a familiarity. 'And it must have been easier to speak with one voice when there was only one voice speaking?' 'What? Oh yes. I get you. My wife is an understanding woman, Mr Pascoe. But a private understanding is not the same as a public complacency. No way I could trot Jessica out as the loyal little wife like so many of them did. No, those were dangerous days, desperate days. The Press had been after us all, of course, ever since Jack Profumo talked himself into a corner. There was a new rumour a day; headless men, men in masks, congas of copulating ministers stretching from Whitehall to Westminster! I came in for my fair share of attention, being young and sociable. But once the word got out about me and Elsbeth, I was everyone's favourite fucker. God, the indignities I had to undergo to prove that at least I didn't figure in anyone's snapshots. Looking back, I sometimes think it was all a mistake. Did you ever see the photo of the Headless Man? He was hung like a Hereford bull. If, instead of driving myself to distraction proving I was basically a good family man who occasionally erred, I'd said, yes, that's me all right, and pleaded guilty to every excess laid at my door, I would probably have swept the country before me and been Prime Minister for the last twenty years!' He laughed and Pascoe joined in, partly from policy and partly because of the disarming charm of the man's racy self-mockery, whose very openness invited his own. 'So tell me, young man,' continued Partridge, more serious now.

  'Did I sacrifice a career merely to help an innocent man on to the gallows?' 'Couldn't say, sir. Like I said, my only concern is to see that Mr Tallantire gets a fair crack of the whip.' 'Oh yes. Did you know him?' 'No.' 'I did. I remember him as a bang-'em-up-and-throw-away-the-key cop of the old school. Not the kind of chap I'd expect an educated yonker like yourself to get sentimental over. You're unofficial, you say? Which means you're vulnerable.

  Perhaps you ought to ask yourself, is the reputation of an old cop you didn't know and probably wouldn't have liked worth risking your career for?' 'So what can they do to me?' said Pascoe with an indifference not altogether assumed. 'Turn me into a civilian and make me earn a living that doesn't keep me awake at nights?' Partridge pursed his lips, then said, 'Word of advice, young man. Not giving a damn's only a strength if your enemies do give a damn. So how far have you got?

  You've talked to Nanny Marsh, you say? Last I heard she was matron at Beddington College. I think I gave her a reference.' 'Even though your wife fired her?' said Pascoe. 'Oh, that,' said Partridge dismissively.

  'Some silly domestic tiff. Fact was we'd run out of kids for her to nanny and Jessica was clearly past farrowing. Was she any help?' 'Not really. Wanted to talk about the past but not necessarily the parts of the past I wanted to talk about.' 'That's what age does to you, Mr Pascoe,' said Partridge, rising. 'More the future shrinks, the more time you spend contemplating your backside.' Clearly the interview was over. Only Andy Dalziel would have had the brass neck to go on sitting as if it weren't. He let himself be ushered towards the door.

  'Anything comes to my mind, I'll give you a ring,' continued Partridge. 'I've still got connections. I'll see what I can find out about Home Office thinking on this one.' 'That's kind of you,' said Pascoe. He must have let his scepticism show for Partridge laughed and said, 'Quite right, young man. There's no such thing as a free cocoa, in or out of Westminster. Remember, I've got a personal stake in this.

  Did I, or did I not, help put an innocent man's neck in a noose? So I'd expect you to keep me updated on anything you unearth. Swaps?' Man shouldn't make promises he can't keep, but it's OK for a cop to make promises he's no intention of keeping. The Gospel according to St Andrew. 'Swaps,' said Pascoe. 'One thing you maybe could tell me, just out of curiosity. What happened to Westropp after all this?' 'Sank right out of sight as far as I know. It must have hit him tremendously hard, wife, daughter, all in a couple of days. He resigned from the Diplomatic… went abroad. I beli
eve there were family business interests in South Africa. Or was it South America?' 'And the boy, Philip?' 'Now there I did hear something. Got sent back to school here. Only natural. Abroad's all right for the sun and la dolce vita, but you can't let the blighters educate your kids, can you? It's been nice meeting you, Mr Pascoe.' He offered his hand. Pascoe took it.

  When he tried to withdraw it after a brief shake, Partridge held on.

  'Aren't you forgetting something?' he said. He wants perhaps that I should kiss his ring and swear fealty? wondered Pascoe. He said, 'Sorry?' 'The book,' said Partridge holding up In A Pear Tree which he held in his other hand. 'After all, that was the main purpose of your visit, wasn't it? To get it signed.' 'Of course,' smiled Pascoe.

  'Thanks a lot. An autographed first edition. That must be worth something.' 'Never believe it,' said Partridge drily. 'An unautographed second edition is much rarer. All I've done is stop you taking it back for a refund.' Pascoe opened the book and read the inscription. For Peter Pascoe, good luck with your assays of bias, from Partridge (an attendant lord.) 'Oh no,' he said. 'I think this is very valuable indeed.' And had the pleasure, rare as sex in a submarine, of seeing a flicker of self-doubt pass over a politician's face.

  FOUR

  'He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was therefore travelling under an assumed name.' Getting out of London was like getting out of long johns. It took forever. Dalziel, who liked to be able to step quickly away from both his cities and his underwear, said, 'You're not a spare-time taxi-driver, are you?'

  'What?' 'Nowt. Just that you seem to be going all round the houses, which doesn't make sense unless you've got a meter running.' 'You know a better route, you take it,' retorted Stamper. 'Don't get your knickers in a twist,' said Dalziel, ‘it's these bloody streets. And all these cars. Wasn't like this when I were a lad.' 'No?' Stamper laughed. 'All ponies and traps then, I suppose.' 'You still saw horses pulling carts,' agreed Dalziel. 'Better for the roses, and better for the rest of us too, I reckon.' 'You say so? I'd not have put you down for the nostalgic type,' said Stamper. 'You're a fine one to talk,' said Dalziel. 'That radio thing you did, it were fuller of nostalgia than an Old Boys' dinner.' 'That was what the producer wanted, I suppose,' said Stamper. 'Sounded like you meant it to me.' 'Perhaps. I was looking back to a time when I was only eight, before I found out what a pain life really is. That must have coloured things.' 'Your dad's oddities didn't bother you then?' 'I don't suppose he'd given up on me then.' Dalziel nodded his understanding, then said, 'Funny how things get to look different. Your dad must've been the same kind of jumped-up twat then as you reckon he is now. Me, I didn't notice. You were all just a load of silly sods pissing about in yon bloody great house like you were living inside a film. But the other guests must've known what he was. And if they knew, then I ask myself, how come Mickledore and his mates got so friendly with a prat like your dad?'

  He watched Stamper keenly in search of a defensive reaction, but the man simply considered the question seriously. 'Money's the answer, of course,' he said. 'Making it was his single great talent. Mickledore needed a non-stop supply by the sound of it. And Tory Party funds too.

  But there was another attraction for Partridge, I'd guess. My father had invested in TV when the franchises came up for grabs and I think it was about then he got his first local paper, so Partridge would see him as a potential manipulator of the masses.' 'First local paper?' said Dalziel. 'He's got a lot then?' Stamper grimaced and said, 'A lot of everything. Inkerstamm, that's his conglomerate, have got their grubby fingers in all kinds of pies.' ‘Inkerstamm? Their head office is near Sheffield, isn't it? At least he's stuck close to his roots.'

  'Oh, sure. But just so that every time he looks out of the window, he'll be reminded how far he's travelled!' This sounded a bit metaphysical to Dalziel. He said, 'How about Westropp? What was he after, money or manipulation?' Stamper said, 'I think he was probably just Mickledore's guest, too well bred to check his host's guest list.' He sounded oddly defensive, especially about a man whose profession probably trained him to check bathwater for sharks. Dalziel said, 'And of course there was your mam.' 'What the hell does that mean?' demanded Stamper. 'She struck me as a very nice lady, that's all, the kind of lass anyone would be pleased to have to stay.' 'I'm sorry,' said Stamper. 'Yes, you're quite right. She's something else.

  Everyone loved her. I took it for granted as a kid. It was only later I got to realize how much rarer a talent that is than mere capacity for getting rich.' 'Everyone loved her? But she chose your father.'

  'Why not? When you don't have to work at being loved, perhaps you don't need to develop powers of judgement.' Dalziel yawned and said, 'So, to put it short, your mam and dad got asked out because he had the chinks and she had the charm. But she saw through him in the end.'

  'Oh yes. She may not be judgemental, but she is neither insensitive nor stupid. Unfortunately, by the time she realized her mistake, she'd had me and Wendy.' 'Now that were real bad luck,' said Dalziel drily.

  'I mean, she was trapped.' ‘Why? Women usually get custody. Any road, she were a Yank. Once she'd got you over there, he'd not have got you back in a hurry.' ‘My mother's mind didn't work like that. Also, my father kept such a tight rein on her and on us that it would have taken an SAS operation to break us free.'

  'Probably've got you shot too. What's young Wendy doing now?'

  'She's in PR,' said Stamper shortly.

  Something in his tone alerted that inner ear which stops good cops from buying time-shares.

  'She doesn't work for Inkerstamm, does she?'

  'So what if she does?' demanded Stamper.

  'Nowt, except I thought you and her would be on the same wavelength.'

  Stamper shrugged in an effort at unconcern and said, 'In the end, daughters get from their fathers whatever they want. It's sons who have to make do with what their fathers want.'

  They were moving much faster now and Dalziel realized that they had got on to a motorway. It must be the M1l. He reached into his inside pocket and took out the large-scale OS sheet he had bought on his way to Stamper's flat. As far as he could make out, the cottage where he hoped to find Kohler was close up against the boundary wall of something called the Ongar Estate, and well off the beaten track.

  When Stamper turned off the motorway on to the main road leading to the town of Ongar, he said, 'Slow down, it gets a bit complicated soon.'

  He gave directions in clear unambiguous terms with plenty of time for Stamper to adjust. After a series of twists and turns on to progressively narrower roads, Dalziel said, 'All right, pull over.'

  Stamper obeyed, bringing the car to a halt on a grass verge. He got out and looked over the hedge across empty fields.

  'Lost, are we?" he said.

  'No. We passed it a quarter mile back.'

  'So what the hell are we doing here?' 'There's a lane down to this cottage. I could see the roof of a car half way down.' 'So she's got a car.' 'Mebbe. But it looked a funny place to park a car to me. More likely they've got a minder.' Stamper said disbelievingly, 'But you're a police superintendent.' 'That's no reason to throw my weight around,' said Dalziel rebukingly. 'Besides, the walk'll do us good. I reckon if we stroll across this field and through yon wood, we'll hit the wall of the Ongar estate that Kohler's cottage is up against. Then we'll just have to follow the wall round till we get there.' As a broad outline, it proved correct. What it omitted was all reference to brambles and briar, bog and barbed wire. Both men bore the marks of their presence by the time they reached the high boundary wall, though surprisingly Dalziel's technique of ploughing straight ahead regardless of obstacles had resulted in rather less damage than Stamper's attempts at circumnavigation. Finally Dalziel said, 'There we are, sunshine. What did I tell you?' The wall curved inwards in a deep U, at the centre of which stood a small cottage. Dalziel didn't make for it straightaway but instead seemed more interest
ed in a pair of holly trees growing against the wall to form a rough archway. In the darkness beneath it was a narrow gate set in the wall. Its flaky rusty bars didn't look as if they had been opened in years but his nose had caught the heavy smell of oil amid the sweet perfume of hawthorn and wild rose. He stooped beneath the hollies and touched the gate. It swung open without a sound. ‘Interesting,' he said, turning back to the cottage. 'Let's see if there's anyone at home.' He walked across the neglected patch of garden to the rear door and tried it. It was locked. Then he walked round the building peering through windows.

  'Why don't we just knock?' demanded Stamper. 'There's someone in. I can hear a radio.' 'Aye, you're right,' said Dalziel with heavy sarcasm. 'Must be someone in if there's a radio on. That's the first thing they teach burglars.' 'Are you saying they've gone? I mean really gone? Couldn't they just be out for a walk somewhere?' 'You reckon? Not very inventive for a writer, are you?' 'All right! Just stand where you are!' The words came from behind them. Dalziel turned.