Deadheads dap-7

by Reginald Hill

  Singh sipped his tea. It was strong and rather tannic, nothing like the delicate infusions which his mother would be serving up at regular intervals during the day to his father in the shop. His father was a gentle but strong-minded man who took family obedience as his natural right and Singh had no quarrel with that. But something in him, or perhaps something outside of him in his Western environment, had resisted the idea of being a lifelong underling, which was what helping in the shop would entail, so he had joined the police cadets. To turn back now would be difficult, almost impossible. But as he sat here in this miasmic atmosphere and learned how short a step it had been from 'old Shady Singh' to 'the black pig', he yearned to be in his father's shop, receiving meticulous instructions on the best method of stacking tins on the long shelves.

  'You put 'em right, though, Mick?' he said. 'About what really happened.'

  'That's a laugh,' said Feaver, fingering his cut lip. 'This is what I got when I saw them wankers last night. You're all right, but. They daren't touch you.'

  His tone was envious, accusing, scornful. It left Singh no route back to their old, casual, uncomplicated schooldays friendship.

  'Do you want to make a complaint,' he said formally.

  'No, what good'd that do?' said Feaver surlily.

  What good indeed? wondered Singh. Over Feaver's shoulder he saw Mrs Pascoe who had been glancing impatiently at her watch rise suddenly and organize the baby into her papoose basket. She caught his eye, smiled a farewell, and made for the door. As she passed through it, Singh glimpsed the solid frame of George Wedderburn talking to some old acquaintance on one of the open vegetable stalls facing the Caff.

  'My mate's on his way,' he said. 'He'll be here in half a minute.'

  ‘It's Jontv Marsh,' said Feaver in a sudden rush. 'You know how he's always going on about his brother, Arthur, what a hard case he is and all that?'

  'Yeah, I remember.'

  'Well, a week back, while I was still knocking around with that lot, Jimmy Bright said something about Arthur, like, what's he doing now? something like that. And Jonty said, keeping busy, but like, he meant more. And Jimmy said, you mean he's nicking stuff like before? And Jonty said no, that lark's for kids like you; you know, sounding big again. And it got up Jimmy's nose and he said, well, he got nicked doing kid's stuff, didn't he? So how's he managing to do something really clever all by himself? And Jonty got narked and said there was a few of them in it and it was big operations they did, not just breaking kitchen windows and nicking a few transistors, but big houses with good stuff they needed a van to cart away.'

  He paused and Singh looked into his tea mug because he couldn't look at Mick Feaver, this weak, uncertain but basically good-humoured lad whom they'd all tended to protect a bit, and who was now his first grass. His silence worked where words might not have done, for after one deep breath, Feaver took the final large step, from the general to the particular.

  'He said that Arthur had invited him on the next job. He said they were short-handed because there'd been a bit of an accident. Jimmy said it was all a load of crap, anyone could say that, and next time there was a big job say they'd been on it. So Jonty said all right, it was the first weekend in July and if Jimmy could read the papers, he'd read all about it. The first weekend in July and the house was called Rosemont.'

  He was finished. The door opened and Wedderburn came in. Mick Feaver stood up and Singh raised his eyes till they met the boy's gaze.

  'See you,' he said abruptly and turned and left, pushing by George Wedderburn violently enough to make the big policeman glare after him.

  'Mate of yours?' he said, sitting himself in the chair vacated by Feaver.

  'That's right,' said Singh, looking at the closed door. 'Just an old mate, that's all.'

  4

  BLUSH RAMBLER

  (Climber. Very vigorous, flowers profuse in summer but little thereafter, blush pink, large-headed, resistant to weather but not to mildew.)

  Pascoe approached the offices of Masson, Masson, Grey and Coatbridge, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, with no great expectation of success. It was a sad fact that the Law's guardians and the Law's practitioners generally regarded each other with a great deal of mutual suspicion. Only the readiness with which Mr Edgar Masson had agreed to see him gave him any hope at all.

  The reason for this readiness became apparent in the course of a chat with a very friendly Irish receptionist. Old Mr Edgar, she revealed, was the senior partner, and officially retired, but still retaining his office which he occupied most mornings, constantly devising new schemes to defeat the evasive tactics of his younger partners.

  'He's just lonely, the poor old soul,' said Irish. 'You'd think they could have left him a bit of business to occupy himself with, but it's not like it used to be, is it? When you're old now, you just get pushed aside to make way for the young men. I like the old man myself. Many an hour we talk together, but that's no credit to me. The poor old devil would talk to anyone who'd listen, anyone at all. He's not at all particular. Why don't you just go straight on up?' So Pascoe went on up, hoping to be treated as anyone at all. He was not disappointed, the only trouble being that Mr Masson, who turned out to be a completely bald, completely round and completely rubicund seventy-five-year-old, seemed inclined to talk about anything at all. He was a living proof of the seductive power of verbal association, shooting off tangentially along new lines of thought suggested to him in mid-paragraph, even mid-sentence, as if terrified that his life might end with things yet unspoken. The way to deal with this, Pascoe learned by trial and error, was to ignore all irrelevancies and use key-phrases like Florence Aldermann and Penelope Highsmith as verbal sheepdogs to (drive him back in the required direction.

  After twenty minutes Pascoe had learned that there had been a will leaving the majority of Mrs Aldermann's estate to be divided equally between the RSPCA and the Church Missionary Society, with small legacies for various individuals including her niece, Penelope Highsmith. A few days before her death, she had summoned Mr Masson to Rosemont to discuss with him a radical revision of the will which would increase her niece's portion to some forty per cent, mainly at the expense of the RSPCA. This alteration was to be dependent upon the satisfactory conclusion of negotiations with Penny Highsmith for her to stay on at Rosemont as a sort of companion-cum-housekeeper. Nothing definite had been decided on, Mr Masson had left after what were (Pascoe did not doubt) lengthy discussions, with the understanding that Mrs Aldermann would be in touch in a few days. The old lady had retained the will.

  Before she could make the promised contact, she had died.

  ‘In her rose-garden, it appears,' said Mr Masson. 'They say that gardening is a soothing and healthy pastime for old and young alike. I have not found it so. There was a case I recall in which a man sued the manufacturers of a patent garden fork which obviated, so it claimed, the risk of lumber strain . . .'

  'Mrs Aldermann,' interposed Pascoe hastily. 'Her will. Her niece.'

  'The will was not to be found,' said Masson, who always returned to the path as if he'd never strayed off it. 'Her niece, Mrs Highsmith (Miss Highsmith in truth, but such a nice woman, such a nice woman), said she'd never seen it. She also said she was still thinking over her aunt's offer, but I knew Mrs Aldermann, I knew her well. It wouldn't cross her mind that her invitation could be rejected. No, that had not been a possibility seriously considered when she spoke to me about the will. So it seemed quite clear to me that, certain of her niece's agreement, she had destroyed the old will in anticipation of drafting a new one when we met again in a couple of days' time. Yes, that's what must have happened.'

  Pascoe looked at him doubtfully. This seemed an extraordinarily naïve assumption for someone deep-versed in so cynical a profession.

  'You never suspected that the will's disappearance was, perhaps, a trifle . . . convenient?' he ventured.

  'Convenient? For whom?'

  Perhaps age had softened his brain, thought Pascoe.
<
br />   'For those who benefited from the intestacy,' he spelt out. 'That is, for Mrs Highsmith and, eventually, her son.'

  'Good Lord no, why should I think such a thing?'

  'Well, it's just that it seems a little . . . convenient,' Pascoe repeated.

  'If I thought that every time a client died intestate, I'd be suspicious enough to be . . . a . . . policeman!' cried Masson. 'Why, didn't Mrs Aldermann's own husband, dear old Eddie, himself die intestate? And no one went around suggesting it was convenient for Mrs Aldermann!'

  Pascoe gave up. 'You continued to act as Mrs Highsmith's solicitor?' he said.

  'Of course. She asked me to. Why shouldn't I?'

  Why not indeed? thought Pascoe. The missing will had benefited Masson's law firm too. They merely exchanged one rich client for another.

  'I believe Mrs Highsmith attempted to sell Rosemont later,' he said.

  'Oh yes, but several years later. I managed the sale for her, of course. A fine property, Rosemont. Not everyone's cup of tea, of course, and a lot of people demurred at the asking price. But I advised her to hang on and in the end we found a buyer. Every house has a buyer, of course, if only you can find him. I recall . . .'

  'Rosemont,' said Pascoe.

  ‘It was a great shame. Contracts were on the point of being exchanged, then he died. Had he died after exchange of contracts but before completion the situation would have been most interesting, as in the case of . . .'

  'So Rosemont was not sold?' said Pascoe.

  'How could it be? To whom? On the basis of what contract? The situation here was quite unambiguous. Even his deposit had to be returned to his estate. It was disappointing for Mrs Highsmith. It was, of course, tragic for Mr Neville.'

  'Mr Neville? The purchaser? What exactly did he die of, Mr Masson?' asked Pascoe, crossing his fingers and hoping for a car accident on another continent.

  Masson's answer was worse than he would have believed possible.

  'Poisoned,' said the old solicitor with relish.

  'Poisoned?'

  'Yes. Don't you recall? Quite a cause célèbre mainly because the Grandison and the Old Brew House were so determined to be clear of blame that they started washing each other's dirty linen in public.'

  The Grandison Hotel and the Old Brew House Restaurant were two of the most expensive establishments in the area.

  'He stayed at the Grandison? And ate at the Old Brew House? and he was poisoned at one of them?'

  'Probably not. But qui s'excuse, s'accuse, as they say,' said Masson gleefully. 'Poor Mr Neville ate something with parathion on it. It's used as an insecticide, highly toxic they tell me. Probably helped himself to some recently treated fruit as he was tramping round the countryside. But there was fruit in his room at the Grandison and he dipped generously into the fruit bowl at the end of his meal at the Brew House. There were rumours of crate-loads of peaches and grapes being dumped before the public health people got round there. Knocked their trade back a bit, I tell you.'

  Masson spoke with the satisfaction one overcharging profession must feel when another gets its come-uppance, thought Pascoe.

  He said, 'Why was this chap tramping around the countryside anyway?'

  ‘Inspecting his acres, I should think,' said Masson. 'He was just back from Rhodesia as it still was. His family were staying in London while he looked around up here. He was from these parts originally and fancied ending his days doing a bit of farming up here. End his days he certainly did, poor chap. There was a nice parcel of land he fancied, but the farmhouse wasn't up to much. Then the agent drew his attention to Rosemont which abutted on the farm land in question. He fell in love. Fancied a bit of squiring, I suspect. And all those gardens gave him oodles of space to put up stock buildings, with electricity and water close at hand. He'd already settled to buy the land when he died, but contracts hadn't been exchanged on the house. The family wanted neither, but they were stuck with the land. Sold it back to the previous owner at a loss! There's no one sharper than a Yorkshire farmer.'

  'And this is where he'd been tramping that day?'

  'I expect so. Called in at Rosemont to discuss some points with Mrs Highsmith, but he seemed well enough there and only took a cup of tea. Terrible business all round. A great disappointment for Mrs Highsmith, of course.'

  Pascoe said, 'Didn't Rosemont attract any other buyers?'

  'No, I mean, there was no chance. Mrs Highsmith seemed quite knocked back by the experience. She took the house off the market. Of course, it wasn't the money she wanted, though the upkeep must have been considerable. Her inheritance had been substantial and Mrs Aldermann's investments, or rather her husband's investments, had been wise and showed a steady appreciation. It was London she missed. She began virtually to live there when her son started his accountancy course and not long after he reached his majority, she contacted me about making the new arrangements.'

  'Which were?'

  'Simply, a transfer of assets. A common enough transaction to avoid or at least minimize the punitive taxes which accompany straightforward inheritance.'

  There was a tap at the door which opened without a pause for an invitation. A man in his early thirties came in, nodded pleasantly at Pascoe, and said to Masson, 'Sorry to interrupt, Edgar, but I wanted a word with you before I went off to court. There are a couple of points you might be able to help me with. Will you be long? I must be off in twenty minutes.'

  'No, no,' said Masson enthusiastically. 'I'll be with you instantly. The Inspector and I are just about finished, I think.'

  ‘Inspector?' said the newcomer.

  'Yes. Inspector Pascoe, this is Ian Coatbridge, our junior partner.'

  'How do you do?' said Coatbridge. 'Anything I can do to help.'

  Pascoe grinned amiably at him. He suspected that Coatbridge had just learned from the Irish girl that old Masson was entertaining the fuzz and had come rushing up post-haste to stem the flow of confidential information he suspected the old man was pouring out.

  'I don't think so,' he said. 'I think we've just about finished. Mr Masson has been most helpful.'

  The other man's surface of friendly interest shimmered into pained exasperation for a moment. Pascoe smiled and stirred the waters a little more.

  'And Patrick got the house as a result of this transfer of assets?' he said to Masson.

  'That's it. That was the only odd thing. She split the inheritance straight down the middle, you know, which meant he got the house and a bit of cash. What would a young fellow want with a rattling great place like that? I wondered. I thought he'd sell, but he didn't. No, the following week he was back here, enquiring about changing his name to Aldermann and of course he's lived in the damn place ever since. Odd, that. What do you think, Ian?'

  Coatbridge gave a wan smile and said, 'Our clients must be permitted their little quirks, Edgar.'

  He was clearly acutely embarrassed, but as Pascoe took his leave, he doubted whether the junior partner had as much cause for concern as he imagined. There was little doubt in his own mind that Masson's rambling reminiscences had concealed as much as they had revealed.

  5

  ICEBERG

  (Floribunda.Very vigorous, upright and shapely, graceful poise, well-formed, pure white blooms, useful for large beds, excellent hedger.)

  Ellie Pascoe was not in the best of tempers when the phone rang.

  The previous evening she had been unpleasantly reminded that she was now theoretically back in full-time academic employment by the arrival on her doorstep of a cardboard box chock-full of examination scripts.

  The middle-aged colleague who delivered them had wanted to do nothing but talk at great circular length about his future in the new institution that was being created. His name was Rothmann and he was a self-banished Johannesburg Jew of unimpeachable liberal credentials who embarrassed Ellie sorely by constantly cracking jokes whose racist content from another source would have made her scream with rage.

  'The Principal says we will all be
well looked after in the new Institute,' he now said anxiously. 'But, Ellie, I keep on hearing this voice saying you will now all der shower be taking; please to form der orderly line and into der shower be moving.'

  Finally he left. At the door Ellie asked when the department would like the scripts returned.

  'Oh, a couple of days,' he said vaguely. 'With all this time on your hands, it shouldn't take you long.'

  She had closed the door with great force and made a rude gesture at the trembling woodwork. But the scripts had to be read and the sooner the better. The only firm commitment she had the following day was coffee with Daphne Aldermann again. They had met in the Chantry on Monday as arranged and she'd enjoyed it so much that she'd offered no resistance when Daphne, obviously thirsty for friendship, suggested Wednesday and insisted they should return to the Market Caff. It had been this gesture towards democracy which had persuaded Ellie that, scripts or no scripts, she shouldn't put the meeting off, and to find herself stood up had not pleased her, though she had no doubt there was a perfectly adequate explanation.

  And when after an hour of yawning her way through the scripts as though her jaw were seeking a physical dislocation to match the logical and linguistic ones which abounded therein, she snatched up the phone and heard Daphne's voice, it was this perfectly adequate explanation she expected to receive.

  Instead Daphne said abruptly, 'I want to see you.'

  'You do? Now, if you'd been in the Market Caff at nine-thirty as arranged, you might just have managed it,' replied Ellie with spirit.

  'I'll come round,' said Daphne. 'I just wanted to check you were home.'

  'Yes, I'm at home. And I'm also extremely busy marking exam scripts,' said Ellie, feeling all her irritation welling up. 'Daphne, what is it . . .'

  The phone went dead.

  Puzzled, Ellie replaced the receiver. Trouble was imminent, she felt sure of that. Daphne had sounded cold and hostile as only the well-brought-up English girl can sound cold and hostile. Ellie had read enough Marxist interpretation of history to know that the wrath of the bourgeoisie was not to be taken lightly.