TWO
'It doesn't need an interpreter to explain the meaning of these creatures. They have but one and it's Midnight, Murder and Mischief.' 'Hello?' bellowed Dalziel. 'You there? What the hell kind of time is this to be ringing decent folk? I've not had me breakfast yet.' 'Sorry,' said Pascoe. 'But I did try to ring last night. Twice.
First time they said you'd not arrived, second, that you'd gone out for a walk.' 'You could've left a message.' 'And had you ringing me in the middle of the night again? No way,' murmured Pascoe to Wield, covering the mouthpiece as he spoke. Wield, listening on an extension phone, grinned. 'Hello! You fallen off your perch? So what's so important it can't wait till a man's eaten?' 'Quite a lot. In fact, I may amaze you.' Quickly Pascoe described his conversation with Mrs Friedman and read out the letter from James Westropp. Then he told of his visit to Harrogate and the discovery of Miss Marsh's body and all the consequences thereof. 'Now Wieldy put two and two together and got on to Beddington College…' 'Wieldy? So yon bugger's in the act now too, is he? And you let him loose near a school? Christ, one way or another he could scar the little buggers for life!' Pascoe glanced at the Sergeant and made an apologetic face. Wield replied with a mildly obscene gesture with one finger. Pascoe said, 'Wait till you hear what he found out. You know who was a pupil at the school back in 'seventy-six when Marsh went to visit Kohler in jail?' 'Ask me summat difficult,' snorted Dalziel derisively. 'Has to be young Philip Westropp. It's obvious. And Marsh thought: Hello, I wonder if yon lass Kohler's in touch with her old boss, and if not, how much would she pay to be put in touch?' Pascoe put his tongue out at the phone and said, 'Yes, that's what we worked out. Though why Marsh should think it was worthwhile, I don't know. I mean, Kohler can't have had much money, and why should Marsh think she might be willing to pay anyway?'
'Christ, I'm away a couple of days and already their brains have turned to jelly,' sighed Dalziel. 'Whatever money Kohler had when they put her away was likely just to be sitting somewhere collecting interest. I mean, there's not much to spend it on where she was, is there? Could have been a tidy sum. Any road, Miss Marsh was a good Scot. Many a mickle maks a muckle. Basis of all good detective work too, as I've been trying to drum into you for years.' 'But why should she think Kohler would want to get in touch?' said Pascoe obstinately.
'Because she knew a bloody sight more than she ever let on,' growled Dalziel. 'People like her always do. They watch, note, poke, pry, and then save everything up till they think it's worth something. So she never had a kid? Wasn't even pregnant? By gum, you've got to admire her nerve!' 'Have you?' said Pascoe. 'The more I learn about her, the worse she sounds. Listen, if you think she knew more about the Mickledore Hall business, I wonder if this gave her some kind of hold over Partridge? Obviously she fooled him about the baby, but I've not been able to understand why he let himself be squeezed for so much. I mean, according to my Welsh undertaker, the villages around Haysgarth are full of his beaming bastards, so why should another one bother him so much?' Dalziel said, 'We'll never know for sure now that you've been daft enough to tell him he's right off the hook, will we? But my guess is, it weren't Lord Thomas that Marsh said were the father, it was young Tommy, the son and heir.' 'Good lord! It's a theory, but why …?' 'She'd been at the boy ever since he were a nipper,' said Dalziel. 'That's how she got her jollies, I reckon. How do I know?
Listen.' He described what he'd read in Kohler's journal. 'So, nineteen-seventy he'd be nineteen, going up to university, getting out of her reach. Time to forget pleasure and look to profit. Mebbe the boy himself went to his dad and confessed all. I mean, there were other kids to consider. So, confrontation, and she pulls this last cat out of the bag. Could be this is how this mate of hers first got involved, providing her with fake results for a pregnancy test. Once Partridge showed he was willing to pay to hush things up, it'd be all downhill. He was just protecting his lad to start with from the gutter press. Imagine what they'd have made of it! But once she conned Partridge into accepting this stuff about the handicapped child, he was hooked for life. The higher young Tommy got in his career, the greater her hold. Think what it would do to a Tory minister if it came out he'd let his handicapped bastard be looked after in a home for all those years! No use Pleading ignorance. Even if his dad had kept it all from him, he'd still have to resign. It wouldn't help the government much either.'
'So this is why Kohler got released, because Waggs was getting too close to the truth, or at least what everyone thought was the truth?'
'Very likely. Fix up another story with Marsh to explain the blood; reasonable doubt; off she goes; Waggs stops prying. Makes sense.'
'Then we start prying, and next thing. Miss Marsh suffers heart block. Jesus.'
'Come on, lad. Could be coincidence. No need to cry funny buggers till you see the reds of their eyes.'
Pascoe said seriously, 'Andy, that could be sooner than you think.
One other thing I've not told you. We've just heard on the grapevine this morning, there's rumbles down in South Thames about an investigation into misuse of police funds through false expense claims. Geoff Hiller could be implicated.'
He should have foreseen the Fat Man's joyful reaction.
'Eh? Adolf caught with his hand in the till? Well, he never got near one in a bar, that's for sure. Always had deep pockets and short arms. Nay, lad, you've kept the best for last. This'll cheer me up all day!'
'No!' said Pascoe sharply. 'You're missing the point. Look, whatever you feel personally about Mr Hiller, I've come to the conclusion he's a good straight cop.'
'What? Fell off your bike on the road to Damascus, did you? I know him, lad, and yon streak of pigeon drool's good for nowt except wiping up.'
'Think what you will,' snapped Pascoe. 'All I know is, he knows everything we know, and I don't see any signs he's ready to sweep it under the carpet. But I reckon unless he plays ball, he'll be off the inquiry and heading back south to answer these expense allegations in twenty- four hours.' Dalziel said, 'He'll play ball,' uncertainly. 'I don't think so. Andy, I don't know exactly what's going on but I do know if they're willing to gag Hiller, they won't have any qualms about fixing you.' Pascoe could almost feel the huge indifferent shrug down the transatlantic line. 'They'll need superglue,' said Dalziel.
'Take care, lad. You too, Wieldy.' The phone went dead. Wield said, 'How'd he know I was listening?' Pascoe said, 'How does a hedgehog know it's spring?' In the breakfast-room Dalziel studied the menu.
There was something called grits. He shuddered, then placed an order for bacon and eggs, spelling out his specifications in the kind of voice pharaohs used for ordering their pyramids. He had just set to when Jay Waggs arrived. 'Mind if I sit down?' he said, uncertain whether to be reassured by the Fat Man's lack of surprise. 'I'd rather have you in front of me than behind,' said Dalziel. ‘I'm sorry about that,' said Waggs, taking a seat. 'I really thought you were a burglar.' 'Oh aye? Did you aim good or were you just lucky?' ‘Bit of both. I said I'm sorry. Can we forget it and talk?' ‘I were brought up never to hit a man with my mouth full. So what is there to talk about, lad?' ‘That's easy,' said Waggs, relaxing as he moved into the familiar territory of negotiation. 'I just want to know what you're playing at.' ‘Playing at? Tell you what,' said Dalziel. 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours.' Waggs was really into his role now. He took a napiform bun from the bread basket and, nibbling its nobble, said. ‘Deal.' 'You first. You in this for family loyalty or just for the money?' Waggs laughed as he replied, 'Oh, I'm in it for family loyalty, you'd better believe me, Mr Dalziel.' Dalziel washed a shovelful of bacon shards down with a torrent of coffee and said, 'So how about these backers of yours, Hesperides, isn't it?' 'You're well informed. Yes, I've got backing. I couldn't have done without it, in more ways than one. Thing is, I'd sold these people another deal which turned out a real dog. I needed to talk fast to prevent them recouping their investment in the organ transplant market. So I let them in on what I said was the story of the centu
ry. They don't think so long-term, but when I whittled it down to the book of the month and the film of the year, that got them hooked. It really is a great story, wouldn't you agree?' 'Not really,' said Dalziel, ‘It's old stuff, and I know how it comes out. I helped write it, remember?' 'And that's why you're here? To make sure nothing gets changed? Then you'd better head back and tell your Mr Sempernel he's picked the wrong country. We stopped covering up scandals while you people were still covering up piano legs.' 'Oh aye? Well, I'll tell old Pimpernel if you tell Scott Rampling,' said Dalziel. 'Rampling? The CIA man? How do they fit into this?' said Waggs in what seemed like genuine surprise.
Dalziel didn't answer. He had just seen Linda Steele appear at the door of the breakfast-room. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt with the legend COPS NEED SUPPORT TOO undulating across her breasts. She saw him and her luscious lips stretched in a delighted smile. Then she blew him a kiss and disappeared. 'Very comfortably,' he said. He realized that as if influenced by some sympathetic magic he was fondling one of the turnip-shaped buns. 'What's this?' he asked. 'The muffin? It's, well, it's a muffin.' 'Oh aye? Ages since I had a muffin,' said Dalziel, taking a deep, sensuous bite. Then, 'Jesus Christ!' he spluttered through a cloud of crumbs. 'It's not a bloody muffin. It's a bloody cake!' He took a long draught of coffee. That was the trouble with this crazy country. Just when you thought you'd got it sussed out, you found yourself eating cake for breakfast. He wasn't going to let himself be surprised again. He said, 'So what precisely is it that you reckon our Mr Pimpernel, and I reckon your Mr Rampling, are trying to hush up?' Waggs laughed almost triumphantly.
'You don't give much away, do you? You want to be absolutely sure that I'm sure what it is we're talking about here. I'll be explicit. I'm a media man, Mr Dalziel, and I know there's nothing more calculated to bring everyone from the Press running to Hollywood with their tongues and their cheque-books hanging out than a story which involves a high-class sex murder, or the British Royal Family. So how could even a computer come up with anything better than the tale of a Royal who does the business on his lovely American wife, then fixes things so that his best friend who's been screwing her hangs for it.' He finished and watched Dalziel's reaction closely. The Fat Man drank some more coffee. There, it hadn't been so bad. Some time, somewhere, someone had been bound to say it, and now it had been said, he could start dealing with it. 'So that's the gospel according to Kohler, is it?' he said. 'That's what Cissy tells me,' said Waggs. 'I'd best talk to her, then. Where's she at?' 'Upstairs in her room waiting for me.'
'You're staying here? Wish I'd known last night, we could have got things straightened out then.' 'Mr Dalziel, I don't know there's much to straighten out…' 'You'd be surprised. Come on.' He rose with a suddenness that sent the table rocking towards Jay Waggs. The American shrugged resignedly and followed him into the elevator. They didn't speak till they came to a halt before Kohler's door. Waggs tapped and said, ‘It's me, Ciss. Open up.' There was no reply. Waggs frowned, took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. The room was empty. 'So where's she gone?' asked Dalziel. 'I don't know.' 'But you can guess? She's gone to see Westropp, hasn't she?' 'Probably. Shit. I told her to wait. I wanted to be there.' 'Why? What's she going to do?
Christ, you're not hoping there's going to be a big climax for your story with Kohler pulling a gun out and blowing Westropp away?' Waggs said, 'I doubt it'll come to that. She's got very mixed-up feelings about this guy.' 'Mixed feelings? About a man who set her lover up for the big drop? And kept her in jail for half a lifetime.' For a moment Waggs looked puzzled, then he began to laugh. 'This really isn't a test, is it, Dalziel? You still haven't got it! I'm wasting time asking you questions. You don't know a thing! It was Jamie Westropp she was crazy about, Jamie Westropp she was screwing. Mickledore and her were never lovers. That was a story you Brits invented because it suited you, and Cissy went along with it because it suited her.''
And now there was no way of not being surprised. It was always the obvious that hit you hardest. But being obvious didn't make it true.
He said, 'I shouldn't be too quick to believe a crazy woman, Mr Waggs.'
'Crazy? Yeah, maybe she was for a while after the little girl drowned. That's what made it all possible, Mr Dalziel. But what really made it work wasn't Cissy's craziness, it was your Mr Tallantire being so hell bent on pinning it on Mickledore, and your Mr Sempernel not giving a fuck who got the blame so long as it wasn't your Right Royal James Westropp!'
He spoke with a passion and force which came of conviction. Or could it be of the desire to be convinced? Perhaps, thought Dalziel, he needs it carved on tablets of stone, which is the way I'll need it too before I accept that Wally was anyone's stooge.
He said, 'So you reckon what got her out of jail was the news that Westropp was dying? Well, this is one reunion I don't want to miss.'
'But you're going to,' said Waggs. 'This is family only, Mr Dalziel. I reckon you'd just complicate matters. So why don't you hang on here?'
He had a gun in his hand. Dalziel looked at it in disbelief.
'You silly bugger,' he said. 'Here's me feeling all virtuous 'cos I'd not thumped you for thumping me, and now you've gone and made me have to thump you anyway.'
Waggs had the puzzled look of one who knows from the movies that it's the guy with the gun who gets to do the threatening.
'Into the bathroom,' he said.
'Nay, lad,' said Dalziel kindly. 'Gun's no use unless you're willing to use it. I reckon you used up your share of GBH when you biffed me yesterday morning. Not your style. Words is what a clever sod like you uses to get out of trouble. Stick to what you do best.'
He moved gently towards Waggs who let the gun dangle limply as he said, 'OK, Dalziel, so you're right, words it is. All I'm asking – '
Dalziel hit him in the stomach, catching the gun as it fell towards the floor and stepping out of the way as Waggs followed it. 'Thing about me is I'm a naturally violent fellow,' said Dalziel. 'I can go on thumping all day.' He dragged the retching man into the bathroom, took the doorknob in both hands, braced his left foot against the door, and pulled. There was some slight resistance before the screw gave way. He then pushed the spindle out on to the bedroom floor, went out and slammed the door shut behind him. He switched on the television. It was tuned locally and there was an item about some visiting Asian politician who was being put up at the Williamsburg Inn for a spot of r-and-r from his official schedule. The camera showed the streets of the historic area and they looked very different from Dalziel's first impression; broad and airy, lined with elegantly proportioned buildings and filled with a golden sunlight which seemed to flow from an older, less hectic age. Even the slow-drifting tourists had the look of genuine time-travellers come in search of the history which their cities had concreted over. It was his history too, he acknowledged with a slight shock of recognition. He went out to see what he could add to it.
THREE
'I am going to see his ghost. It will be his ghost – not him!' The doorbell rang. It was the same bell that had rung ever since the first house had been built on this site in 1741. Its tinny note was imprinted so deep in Marilou Bellmain's consciousness, it came close to being a genetic memory. Once during her marriage to Arthur Stamper she had caught an echo of that sound in the windblown decorations on Sheffield's civic Christmas tree, and that had been the moment when she knew she would leave him. Through the porch outer door she saw a young black woman in shorts and a T-shirt, and she was ready with her little speech pointing out politely but firmly that this was not part of the Colonial Williamsburg public area when the woman said, 'Mrs Bellmain? Hi! My name's Linda Steele. I wonder could I have a word with your husband?' She would have said no if James hadn't been so positive about admitting visitors today. But that was no reason to let insurance salesmen or religious freaks across her doorstep. She said, 'What's your business, Miss Steele?' 'Just a social call. We've got some mutual friends in Washington and they said to be sure to look James u
p.' 'Who's there, dear?' called Westropp from the sitting- room. He didn't trust her. She didn't resent the thought. He was quite right. She'd have put up a 'Gone Fishing' sign if she thought she could have got away with it. 'Come on in,' she said. Westropp regarded the smiling young woman with interest. 'Forgive me if I don't get up,' he said from the old hickory rocker which gave him the pleasure of movement without the effort. 'But I need to conserve my resources.'
'Hi,' said the woman. 'I'm Linda Steele. Scott Rampling said I should call.' 'I see. Marilou, I wonder if we could have some coffee?'
Reluctantly his wife left. 'I saw Scott only the day before yesterday.
He didn't mention you, Miss Steele.' She looked at him curiously. What all the fuss was about she did not know, but at last she was seeing who it was about. This man with his clear English voice whose tone, at once courteous and amused, still contained charm enough for vivid imagination to flesh him out into the sexy number he must once have been. Silent, he was simply a wreck. A wreck of a wreck. A refugee from a concentration camp with wrists so thin, you'd need a glass to read his number. She was here to save him hassle, was all she knew.
Well, it shouldn't be a long job. She said, 'I guess I'm not important enough for Mr Rampling to mention, sir. I gather things have developed since you and he last talked, and he got kind of anxious in case you might be bothered by anything.' He considered, then said, 'No. No. I don't think anything's bothering me. You can go back and tell him you found me happy as a sandboy.' He was definitely laughing at her but not maliciously. Rather he was inviting her to share the joke. 'I think Mr Rampling's hoping to get to visit you himself," she said.
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