It took a little while to repair the damage caused by the outburst of laughter, but the Gothic glooms of the closing scenes finally cast their pall and Pascoe was able to match Ellie clap for clap as the company took their calls.
Pascoe had never been to a backstage party, but he had watched many a Hollywood musical and was not surprised to be disappointed. The atmosphere though far from restrained was even further from riotous. No champagne corks popped, though Sainsbury's hock flowed like Sainsbury's hock. Jeans and T-shirts had it over evening gowns and tiaras. And the only truly Hollywood touches came from the mayor's wife, who looked like Margaret Dumont and wore a rope of imitation pearls as big as her husband's mayoral chain; and from the chairman of the Council's Library and Arts Committee who, tuxedo'd, cigarred, and pop-eyed, was behaving like Zero Mostel in little-old-lady land.
But now came a third authenticating detail, this time sonic.
A voice cried, 'Chung darling! We thought it was marvellous! So touching! So true!'
Pascoe turned to applaud the satirist who was producing this ghastly gush and was horrified to find himself listening to Ellie.
'Cut the crap, honey. We nearly bombed. If any of this council lot could tell shit from Shakespeare, they'd cut us off at the subsidy tomorrow.'
Switching his gaze and his applause to the speaker of this good plain sense, he found himself looking up at Big Eileen herself. Television had certainly not exaggerated her length. What it had failed to convey, however, was her extraordinary beauty.
'I don't think you've met my husband,' said Ellie. 'Chung this is Peter. Peter, Chung.'
'Chung, hello,' said Pascoe, grinning inanely.
'You're the cop, honey? I'd not have known.'
'They train us in make-up,' he said. 'I'm really a sniffer dog.' He sniffed doggily. Ellie looked pained. Chung looked alarmed.
'None of my jokers are smoking shit, are they? I warned them, not while the councillors are reassuring themselves how clever they've been with their money.'
'I'm not sure about the mayor, but I think everyone else is clean,' said Pascoe.
'Chung! Miss Chung! Hold it.'
A flash bulb flashed. When he stopped being dazzled, Pascoe recognized the long lugubrious features of Sammy Ruddlesdin from the Evening Post.
'That'll be nice,' said Ruddlesdin. 'Beauty and the Beast. Chung, any words for the Press? The popular press, I mean. I know there's a Guardian intellectual out there somewhere but he's almost pissed on the free plonk already. We're your channel to the real public. This is my colleague, Henry Vollans, by the way. Sunday Challenger. The Voice of the North.'
'Hi!' said Chung to the young man with Ruddlesdin. 'Anyone ever tell you you look like Robert Redford?'
Pascoe felt a pang of something like jealousy.
Ruddlesdin said, 'Night off, Pete? I'd have thought the mighty Buddha would have had you all working full time in the temple tonight, waiting for the call.'
'After losing my weekend, I told him that if I missed
this lot, Ellie would personally shoot either me or him, not necessarily in that order.'
'Have there been many calls? Come on, we have cooperated, haven't we?'
The Evening Post had printed a photograph of the dead man in the Escort that day after the weekend had brought the police no nearer an identification. Cause of death had been established as haemorrhaging of the aorta caused by a single bullet from a 9 mm handgun, possibly an old Luger.
Pascoe hesitated. Before he left the office, there had only been one call of any weight and that had been from Eden Thackeray, insisting on talking to Dalziel, who had relayed the news with a surprising lack of surprise.
'Says he's certain the man is an Italian called Alessandro Pontelli who turned up at his office claiming to be Alexander Huby, the lost heir in that daft will that were in the papers the other week. I'm just off to take him round to the mortuary.'
He had looked at Pascoe speculatively, then growled, 'All right. Don't grit your teeth like that. I'm not going to stop you getting your dose of culture.'
'Nothing positive, Sammy,' he said to Ruddlesdin.
'But something, eh?'
'Something, maybe. I'll let you know when it's positive. No, that's it. I'm here to enjoy myself, so no more pumping!'
'Wouldn't dream of it. As long as you don't try to pump me about our fairy phone calls,' said Ruddlesdin provocatively.
'There've been more?'
'One. Saturday morning. It was directed to Robert Redford there in Leeds. Like I told you, the chief reckons it's Challenger stuff if it's anything. I gather it was much the same as before. No names, talked about money, then said he'd be in touch again maybe, and cut off.'
'And that's all?'
'Yes, Peter, that's all. And don't go asking young Vollans about it either. Remember you're not supposed to know owt. I don't want it generally known I'm a grass! Though . . .'
'Yes?'
'Well, Henry came across last week to sniff around. His editor, Ike Ogilby, was in town too, lunching at the Gents with - guess who? Mr Wonderful himself, your beloved DCC. So perhaps the grass grows taller than you think.'
'Sammy!' It was Chung. 'I was just telling your friend here that I've got a bottle set aside in my office for the gentlemen of the Press, but you can come too. Half an hour's time, shall we say? Round up the other piss-artists for me, would you, honey? Now I've got to socialize!'
Ruddlesdin and Vollans moved away, and Chung began to say something to Ellie, but before she'd got more than a couple of words out, she was interrupted by a newcomer whom Pascoe recognized as Mercutio and the apothecary compressed into one palely handsome young face that looked familiar beyond the context of the play.
'Chung, I'm sorry. I was awful,' he said bluntly.
'You'll get no argument from me, honey,' said Chung.
There was a hard edge to her voice. Words too can deliver a karate chop, thought Pascoe. Oh beautiful tyrant! Fiend angelical! He sighed lustfully and converted it into a cough.
'Pete! Ell! I'm being a bad hostess. Meet Rod Lomas. Ell and Pete Pascoe.'
'Hello,' said Ellie. 'We were just saying how much we enjoyed the play, weren't we, Peter?'
'Oh yes. It was so touching, so true,' said Pascoe.
'Well, don't scrape around for nice things to say about me,' said Lomas with a wan smile.
'You died well,' said Pascoe judiciously.
'Oh yes. I did that all right.'
'Rod.'
It was a little voice and to find its source, Pascoe had to lower his gaze from Chung's Himalayan splendours to the drab foothills where a small girl stood. A fanzine? Pascoe wondered. She looked familiar. Then he took in Lomas and the child as a pair and recalled the Black Bull. It didn't make her look older.
'Lexie. I'm sorry. I forgot. Have you got a drink?'
'Not when I'm driving,' she answered, shaking her head so firmly she almost dislodged her huge round spectacles.
'I won't ask if you enjoyed the show,' said Lomas.
'It was all right. I don't go to plays much,' she added, glancing apologetically up at Chung.
'Lexie prefers opera,' said Lomas, rather defensively.
'Oh?' said Chung, 'It's the elitist, escapist and totally unreal that turns you on, is it, hon?'
She does pick on people not her own size! There's hope for me yet, thought Pascoe admiringly.
'It's not all like that,' said the girl. 'Some of it's quite real; well, at least as real as waking up in a tomb and finding your dead lover beside you.'
Chung looked taken aback, like a giraffe threatened by a mouse. Then she laughed heartily and said, 'Who's your friend, Rod?'
'Sorry. This is my cousin, sort of. Lexie Huby. Lexie, Chung. I've forgotten your names already. Can hardly remember my part today. Sorry.'
'Pascoe. Ell and Pete,' said Pascoe, thinking that Huby also meant something. Of course, the Italian who might be their corpse. It was a Mrs Huby's will he'd been trying to claim on, wa
sn't it?'
Then his mind was diverted by Ellie saying, 'Hello, Lexie. How are you?'
'Fine thanks, Mrs Pascoe,' said the girl.
'Hey, listen,' said Chung. 'I must go and be nice to the mayor and his wife. With those things round their necks, they look like they could both have slipped anchor and be on the point of drifting out to sea. Pete, honey, I'm thinking of doing something on the fuzz once I've lulled the council into a false sense of security. Maybe we could talk some time to make sure I get it right. OK?'
'Oh yes, indeed,' said Pascoe. 'OK. Right on.'
'Great. I'll be in touch. Ell, Lex, see you.'
She glided away, tall and graceful as a swan through ducklings, towards the mayor.
Rod Lomas said, 'Fuzz?'
'That's right,' said Pascoe. 'I'm your friendly neighbourhood bobby.'
He was used to being a conversational hiccough but this was more like a hiatus hernia.
Lomas tried to speak, coughed and finally got out, 'Yes, well, nice to meet you. Lexie, that lift . . . I'm a bit knackered.'
'I'm ready,' said the girl. "Bye. 'Bye, Mrs Pascoe.'
"Bye, Lexie,' said Ellie.
'Ciao, Rod, Lex,' Pascoe called after them. 'Odd little thing. How do you know her?'
'Oh, I've met her at meetings,' said Ellie vaguely.
'That's what meetings are for. You don't mean she's a WRAG activist?'
'Why shouldn't she be?' demanded Ellie. 'Though she's not, actually. It's appeal work mainly. She delivers pamphlets, goes out collecting for Oxfam, Save the Children, that sort of thing. Quiet but willing.'
'That's how I like 'em,' said Pascoe wistfully. 'Well,
Ell. What's next on the programme? Hurry on down to Sardi's and wait for the first reviews?'
'Shut up, creep,' said Ellie. 'What happened to all that Big Eileen satirical stuff?'
'I told you, I was afraid of her.'
'You fancied her, you mean! One smile and you were grovelling at her feet.'
'That's all I could reach,' said Pascoe.
'Bastard!'
'So true,' said Pascoe. 'So very, very touching and so very, very true!'
Chapter 2
It was a week of that motley September weather, uncertain as April's but much more troubling to the human spirit, when days swing between noons of high summer and frosty midnights, and the shades of municipal trees, heavy and still on sunlit pavements, start to shift and squirm beneath a fragmented moon.
Cliff Sharman appeared in court on Tuesday morning. He had spent three nights in police custody, as the only address he would give was his grandmother's flat in East Dulwich, and he hadn't lived there on any regular basis for at least three years. Questioned, he said he was hitch- hiking round the country and had been living rough. Seymour didn't believe him. He didn't have the look or the smell of rough living. But it didn't seem a point worth labouring with rubber truncheons.
Wield had moved into another stage of his long limbo, no longer waiting for something to happen, for it had happened, but now waiting for a voice - Cliff's? Watmough's? Even his own? - to speak the cue for the next scene in this black comedy. At last he felt he really understood this term. Black comedy was when a man stood naked and helpless under a spotlight and felt rather than heard the surrounding darkness crackle with malicious laughter.
He knew he should have spoken immediately Seymour brought the boy in, but he had waited instead for the boy to speak. He knew now that he had always waited for others to speak. Waiting was his forte. There was nothing anyone could teach him about waiting.
Seymour, young, ambitious and not insensitive, was hurt by Wield's lack of interest in his collar.
'I know he's probably just a one-offer. I mean, he was going at it so cack-handed, anyone could've spotted him . . .'
'You didn't,' interrupted Bernadette.
'I've not got eyes in the back of my head!'
'Nor in the front, or is it some fancy step you're after showing off by getting us out here among the tables?'
'Sorry,' said Seymour, steering her back towards the dance-floor proper. 'What I mean is, OK, he's probably not one of the gang we're after, they'd not employ anyone so useless. All the same, he was a collar, my collar, something to show for a week's work. And Wield didn't even give him a second glance, left me to question him all by himself.'
'Oh you poor boy,' mocked Bernadette. 'Reverse! Reverse! It's dancing we're at, not a route march!'
Standing in the witness-box giving evidence, Seymour observed that Wield had at least condescended to turn up in court, standing at the back, near the door, inscrutable as something carved on a totem pole with a tomahawk.
Sharman pleaded guilty, claiming a sudden impulse, wholly unprecedented, wholly regretted.
Seymour confirmed that nothing was known, the clerk muttered at the magistrate, the Bench conferred. Finally they delivered their judgement, which was that this first offence merited the leniency of a fine, and that, while they had no authority to ride the defendant out of town on a rail, they strongly recommended that he return to London as soon as possible.
When Seymour glanced to the back of the court, he saw that Wield had already left.
Sod him! he thought. It's one to me on my record sheet, no matter what that miserable bugger thinks!
The Pontelli murder investigation was still very much in the information-collecting stage. Eden Thackeray's identification had been firm and the body, having been taken to pieces for the benefit of pathology, was now reassembled for the benefit of whoever might appear to mourn and bury it. The fatal bullet had been definitely identified as a Luger Pistole 08 which, though it had clearly done damage enough, had not done as much damage as it might, leading the ballistics expert to surmise that the cartridge was perhaps rather ancient and had not been kept in prime condition. 'Weapons like the P 08 were popular war souvenirs, from both wars in fact, and this might well be one of the original rounds some idiot brought back with it,' he posited.
The pathologist's report included the possibly helpful findings that the deceased had had sexual intercourse a few hours before death, that the shot had not been immediately fatal and the deceased lived for at least thirty minutes after the shooting, that he was a man of about sixty in good general health, that he had at some time, at least twenty-five years previously, received serious gun-shot wounds in the chest and abdomen probably, by the line of puncture scars, from an automatic weapon, and that he had a small but distinctive birth mark on his left buttock in shape not unlike a maple leaf.
To this, Superintendent Dalziel was able to add that Alessandro Pontelli had entered the country on a flight from Pisa on August 28th, that he was a resident of Florence, where he was well known in the tourist industry as a freelance courier and accommodation agent. The speed with which Dalziel produced this information was impressive to those who knew nothing of the unofficial inquiries he had put in train at Thackeray's behest the previous Friday afternoon.
But this initial momentum was not maintained and by the end of Tuesday, they were no further forward in discovering where Pontelli had been, or what he had been up to, during his sojourn in England. The car, which proved to be beyond all reach of an MOT test certificate, was traced to its last official owner, a Huddersfield schoolteacher, who had traded it in as deposit on a second-hand Cortina eighteen months before. No doubt a long pursuit through trade-ins, scrap merchants and car-auctions would eventually lead to Pontelli coughing up a hundred quid, but meanwhile the CID cast around for closer, warmer trails.
Help when it came sprang from uniformed branch, which was not all that unusual. But the shape it took was far from common.
Police Constable Hector was hard to miss but easy to mistake. Shambling splay-footed along the pavement, his eighty inches reduced to a nearer seventy by curvature of the spine and a fifty per cent retraction of the head between the spiky shoulder-blades, he looked not so much like the law in motion as a reluctant party-goer cheated by a fancy-dress constumier.
Tonight, however, there was a jauntiness in his step and a light in his eyes which might easily have passed for intelligence. His features too were deceptive, being set in that expression of painful devotion seen on the saints of the Florentine masters, while his lips moved constantly as though in silent prayer. He was in fact counting the numbers of a terrace of once proud but long shabby Victorian houses, a task requiring all his concentration as some had fallen off and he was walking down the odd side, going from big to little.
Finally he reached No.23, climbed the four steps with scarcely a stumble, entered a long narrow hallway which smelt of Eastern spices and Western detritus, and started up the stairs.
On the second landing he paused, got his bearings and knocked on one of the three doors. When no one answered, he opened it cautiously and found himself looking at a lavatory. Selecting one of the other doors, he knocked again. It was opened immediately by a woman in a dressing-gown.
'Is it Tuesday already?' she said without enthusiasm.
She turned back into the room. He followed, closing the door carefully behind him and sliding home the bolts. By the time he had finished, the woman had removed her dressing-gown and was lying on top of the rumpled bed, stark naked, her legs splayed. Hector undressed as rapidly as fumbling fingers and a reluctance to take his eyes off the unmoving form on the bed would allow. Ready at last, he advanced eagerly.
'Are you not taking your hat off?' asked the woman.
'What? Oh aye.'
Removing his helmet, he fell upon her recumbent body like a starving man upon a steaming platter. Two minutes later he rolled off, replete.
'You don't muck about much, do you?' said the woman.
'Don't I?' said Hector, who couldn't imagine what 'mucking about' would entail.
'Not much,' said the woman beginning to get dressed.
It was three months since Hector had appeared at her door, introducing himself as the new community policeman. She had thought he was a funny-looking bugger then, but had offered him the same arrangement she'd had with his predecessor, and it had worked out well enough, no hassle for her and a weekly bang for him.
Dalziel 09 Child's Play Page 12
