'Of course she felt guilty,' interrupted Pascoe. 'The little girl had drowned - '
'You mean, she'd drowned the little girl,' said Dalziel. 'Oh, you can wrap it up as accident or whatever you like, but I was there, remember? I came up with that kid's corpse in my arms and I saw Kohler's face closer than I see yours. And she knew she'd killed her, believe me. She knew!'
He sank a cleansing drench of Scotch, then went on in more measured tones. 'At the trial, most people agreed with her when she said there was no punishment bad enough. There were plenty who reckoned she should have hung alongside Mickledore, or even instead of Mickledore.'
'I can vaguely recall people talking about her like she was some kind of monster,' said Pascoe. 'Then the Moors case came along, and that changed all the definitions. So what you're saying is Tallantire suspected she was protecting Mickledore and used these drafts to edge her in deeper and deeper till he got the admission he wanted? But what put him on to Mickledore in the first place?'
'Instinct, lad. He told me, the minute he set eyes on the bugger, he thought, that's my man! What's that sour face for?'
'There is a school of thought which prefers the evidence to lead to the man.'
'Don't give me that crap. You know as well as I do, most times you've got your perpetrator long afore you can prove it. First thing Wally did when he got called in was contact the Yard and ask them to dig out anything they could on Mickledore's town life, particularly any rumours of naughties with Pam Westropp.'
'And when did they come through? Stamper on the radio seemed to think it wasn't till Monday afternoon.'
'That's right. Not a dickie from London all day Sunday or Monday morning. It was Bank Holiday, of course, so everybody who was anybody would be warming their backsides on the beach. Except Sempernel, this fellow from the funny buggers. Well, he were younger then, probably drew the short straw, so he got dragged off his li-lo and sent up here to make sure no one really important was inconvenienced by the nasty northern police.'
'And what did he do?'
'Nowt really. Just drifted around like a wanked-out waiter, always moving off if you caught his eye. But I reckon when he saw that Wally meant business, he rang his bosses, and they decided that once the Press got on to it, them shit-stirrers would waste no time dropping hints about Mickledore's gambling debts and stirring Pamela's porridge and mebbe even his liaison with the whisky lass. So if Wally were going to read about it on Tuesday morning, he might as well be told on Monday afternoon, so's he could get the whole thing sewn up.'
'But all that provided was motive. He still had no real evidence against Mickledore till he squeezed this confession out of Kohler!'
'Means, motive, opportunity, plus Kohler's confession. What the fuck else do you want?' demanded Dalziel.
'What about this key? The one Mickledore fixed so it wouldn't open the door, the one Kohler says she threw in the lake? Did they find it?'
They sent the divers down, naturally. But it's a big lake. The jury seemed happy to do without it.'
'And that's OK?' Pascoe laughed. 'Who was it said juries are like thimblerig, the trick is working out which bum is sitting on the brain. Wasn't it . . . you? Sorry. What happened in court anyway?'
'Kohler condemned herself. She pleaded guilty, didn't give evidence, just sat there looking like she thought the whole thing were a waste of time. Came across like Lady Macbeth.'
We loved her because she loved us. William Stamper's words in his radio programme. How could such a change come about?
'And Mickledore?'
'Pleaded innocence and ignorance. Did his honest country squire act like he were at an audition. He were so open you could've parked buses in him. I began to think he might get away with it. But one way and another the prosecution managed to get the other side of his life into the picture. And there was always the sight of Kohler sitting there, like something he'd rather have kept in his attic. Funny thing when the verdict came in, but. From all accounts he still thought he'd get off, but he didn't turn a hair when the foreman said, "Guilty." Raised his eyebrows a bit, like he'd been dealt a club when he'd have preferred a diamond. And when he was asked if he'd owt to say before sentence, he said loud and clear, "As you at least must know, my lord, I am totally innocent of this crime and do not doubt that eventually I shall be proved so." Kohler, on the other hand, who'd pleaded guilty, collapsed and had to be hospitalized. Mental and physical breakdown. She spent the first six months of her sentence in hospital.'
'And Mickledore? Did he appeal?'
'In a manner of speaking. He didn't get official leave, but he asked to see Wally. Hang on, here it is.'
He dug around in the case notes pile and came up with a thickish sheaf of typed pages stapled together.
'What's this?' said Pascoe.
'I told you Wally were thinking of writing his memoirs. He got as far as doing an outline. Here we are. This is the bit about the Mickledore case.'
Pascoe took it and read.
After the trial, Mickledore asked to see me. Said he assumed I was an honest man. If so, I wouldn't want doubts, but I must have them, the way things had gone so easily. I told him get on with it. He said he'd hoped it wouldn't come to this, but now he had to tell truth. It was James Westropp who'd killed his wife. He'd kept quiet out of loyalty, hoping all through trial for acquittal. I said, what about Kohler? He said she was Westropp's mistress, so besotted by him. she'd do anything, especially after causing his daughter's death. I said, where's the proof? He said that was my job. All he knew was that Westropp was getting protection because of who he was. Claimed he himself had been given to understand he'd be OK if he just kept quiet, but he'd never expected things to go this far. Now he was getting worried. Desperate. I said, to come up with such a story. He said, for Christ's sake, Tallantire, don't turn out a crook like the rest of them. All I ask is that you double-check everything. In the end, I promised. Checked. Nothing. Mickledore trying it on. NB. Westropp not available then. Might be interesting now all dust has settled to check where he is and get his reaction to Mickledore's attempts to incriminate him.
'He talked to you about this?'
'He mentioned his visit to the jail.'
'How hard would he check? I mean, from what you say, he was certain from the start that Mickledore was his man. Also he got a lot of kudos out of the case, didn't he? High point of his career, that sort of thing.'
'That'd make him check all the harder,' said Dalziel aggressively.
It was, thought Pascoe, time to change the subject.
He said, 'These memoirs. You don't know if Wally got as far as trying to find a publisher?'
'Not that I know of. Why do you ask?'
'There are quite a few pencilled corrections, they look professional, as if maybe some editor had read the outline. It comes automatically to these people. They couldn't read a shopping list without correcting it.'
Pascoe spoke with the expertise of a man who'd seen the returned scripts of his wife's novel.
'Let's have a look. Aye, you're right. That's not Wally's hand. But why'd he send summat like this to a publisher?'
'To give an idea of the kind of book he proposed, in the hope of getting some money up front before he started the job proper.'
'Aye, that'd be Wally's way,' agreed Dalziel. 'Let's have a look.'
He scattered the pile of correspondence over the floor, then cried triumphantly, 'Here we are. By God, he got a tickle. Cagey old sod!'
The letter was headed Treeby and Bracken with a WC1 address. It read:
Dear Mr Tallantire,
Thank you for the outline which I now return. I've taken a copy for my own reference as I think it certainly has potential, particularly if you can get the emphasis right. I've starred the chapters which look most interesting to me. If you are coming to London in the near future, why don't we have lunch and discuss how we might proceed? Looking forward to hearing from you.
Yours sincerely, Paul Farmer (Editor)
U
nderneath in Tallantire's hand was scribbled 12.30, March 22.
Pascoe flipped through the outline. There were asterisks by a few of the chapter headings, mainly one, sometimes two. The Mickledore Hall case alone had three. He started pointing this out to Dalziel but the Fat Man was staring at the date.
'Bloody hell,' he said. 'That's the day Wally died. On his way back from the Smoke.'
Suddenly Pascoe felt cold.
Dalziel went down on his knees and started doing a loaves-and-fishes on the correspondence file, apparently creating as he distributed. Soon most of the carpet had vanished beneath a sea of litter.
'Nowt else,' he said.
'Perhaps they heard he'd died,' said Pascoe. 'Or it could be they decided there was nothing in it for them after all.'
'You don't buy a man lunch to turn him down,' growled Dalziel. 'What do you know about this Treeby and Bracken outfit anyway?'
'Hang on,' said Pascoe. Ellie's literary ambitions had added a Writers' and Artists' Year Book to their library. He flipped through the pages. 'Not a lot of help. No longer exists as an independent imprint. Got gobbled up by Centipede a few years back. But hang on. There's a list of Centipede's current directors here and there's a Paul Farmer among them. Could be the same.'
'Right. Give him a bell in the morning, see if he remembers owt.'
'Why me?'
'Right up your street, talking to poncy sods like publishers. Right. On your feet. Have you had your supper?'
'No, but look, I'd really rather . . .'
'Come on, lad. Not going mean on me, are you?'
'Mean?'
'Aye. I treated you last night. Your turn tonight. Fair do's.'
Pascoe thought of his vegetable casserole, two hundred calories tops.
He said, 'I'm definitely not going to the Black Bull.'
'That's handy, 'cos I'm not either.'
In the doorway Pascoe paused to look back. The lounge looked like a field after a pop festival.
'Hurry up,' said Dalziel. 'We're late.'
'For what?' said Pascoe, suddenly alarmed at the prospect of something worse than a leap in his cholesterol level. 'I'm not doing any more burgling.'
'What are you on about? There's someone I want you to meet, that's all. Someone every good cop ought to meet at least once.'
'Who's that, then?'
'Old Percy Pollock, that's who.'
Pollock? Good God, you don't mean Pollock the hangman?'
'That's the boy. Good company is old Percy. But he's a stickler for punctuality, so get your finger out. I suppose in his line of business he never cared to be kept hanging around!"
EIGHT
'What a night it has been! Almost a night... to bring
the dead out of their graves.'
A storm broke over the city as they drove to their rendezvous. This was the pathetic fallacy at work, thought Pascoe, a fancy compounded by his realization that they were heading for a pub called the Blind Sailor. Now was the time when a genuine golden bough would come in most useful, for weren't they going to meet the ferryman himself, whose strong muscles had floated many a poor wretch across to the further shore? It was a fancy he did not share with Dalziel.
At first sight, Percy Pollock was a disappointment. White-haired and frail, he leaned on a knotted oak stick as he rose to greet them, bowing his head gravely as he was introduced. But he did not offer his hand till Pascoe proffered his.
They sat at an old cast-iron table with a raised brass rail in the shadowy snug of which they were the sole inhabitants. Dalziel ordered drinks, and even paid for them, the whiles chatting about the weather, the price of tea, and the progress of various members of the Pollock family. It still amazed Pascoe how much the Fat Man knew about everyone. Perhaps it explained his cavalier attitude to records. Pollock's replies were slow and courteous, and gradually a sense of the man's powerful presence stole over Pascoe. It derived from a kind of inner stillness, a steady undramatic self-assurance. Perhaps this is what you got from a career spent seeing men not afraid of God afraid of you.
At last, the formalities finished, Dalziel bought another round, settled himself comfortably, and said, 'Now, Percy, what I'd really like is a bit of a chat about Ralph Mickledore.'
'Mad Mick? Aye, I thought it might be about him,' said Pollock.
'Why Mad Mick?' asked Pascoe.
'It's what the warders called him. Not to his face. It was always Sir Ralph to his face. Does that surprise you, Mr Pascoe? Like I say, courtesy costs nothing, and besides he were very well liked inside.'
Dalziel said, 'Percy took his job very seriously. When he knew he had a client in the offing, he opened a file, talked to the fellows looking after him, found out what made him tick, isn't that right, Percy?'
'That's right,' said Pollock. 'There's more to hanging a man than knowing his build and weight. No two men will take it the same way. Be prepared was always my motto. And besides, no matter what he may have done, no man deserves to be taken off by a stranger.'
'So you'd start your homework soon as the verdict came in?' said Dalziel.
'Oh yes. No waiting for appeals or aught of that,' said Pollock. 'I never like to feel rushed. Often it meant it was wasted effort, of course. Sentence commuted. Happened more and more often after the war. Well, I never grudged the time. But with Sir Ralph, I knew it wouldn't be wasted, almost from the start I knew.'
Oh aye,' said Dalziel. 'And how was that?'
The old man turned his candid blue-eyed gaze on the detective and said, 'I can't rightly tell you that, Mr Dalziel. Things were said. After a while I knew. This one wasn't for reprieve. Short of a voice from Heaven, and maybe not even then, this one was for the drop.'
Dalziel shot Pascoe a glance. Signifying what?
'But why did the warders call him Mad Mick?' persisted Pascoe.
'Because he made them laugh,' said Pollock unexpectedly. 'He just acted like he was at home most of the time. Mr Hawkins, the chief officer, would be walking past and Sir Ralph would bellow, "Hawkins, pop out and get me an Evening Post, there's a good chap." He called them all by their surnames, no misters, but no one took offence because he didn't do it to give offence. And he was just the same with the governor. "Nugent," he would say, "the food in here's appalling. I'm having a few brace of pheasant sent from the estate for the chaps on my wing. Hope the cook's up to it. Perhaps you'd care to join us?" And he'd mean it, you see. He wasn't taking the piss, if you'll excuse the expression.'
It was at moments like this that Pascoe knew why the English had never gone in for a socialist revolution. You can't expect flagellants to throw away their whips.
'When they weren't lost in admiration, did his guards reckon he was guilty?' he asked abruptly.
The old man regarded him mildly and said, 'Those of us who work for the prison service can't afford such speculations, Mr Pascoe. You can't sit with a man the night before he hangs if you think he's innocent. And you certainly can't put a rope around his neck.'
'Aye, but did he ever say owt about the murder, Percy?' said Dalziel.
'I suppose he'd talk about it to the police and his solicitor when they came a-visiting, but according to Mr Hawkins, he acted like he was innocent, or at least he acted like he didn't believe he'd hang, right up to the end. Week before, he even asked one of his guards to put a fiver on a horse for him. Said he knew the trainer and it was due a win. The man went straight to Mr Hawkins.'
'Because it was against the rules?' said Pascoe, puzzled.
'Because the race wasn't scheduled till two days after the execution date,' said Percy Pollock.
This gave them all pause for a few moments. Dalziel was the first to break the silence.
'And you yourself, Percy, when you finally made direct contact, how did he strike you? What did he say?'
Across Pascoe's mind flickered a black and white image of Miles Malleson in Kind Hearts and Coronets asking the condemned duke for permission to read the ode he had composed to mark the occasion.
Difficult to top that, but Percy came close.
'He said goodbye to everyone. Then he cupped his ear like he was listening and said, "Hush!" We all hushed, and listened. Nothing. Then he laughed and said, "Sorry, I thought I heard a galloping horse. Cheer up, Nugent -" the governor was looking as upset as ever I've seen him - "it looks as if it's going to be a far, far better thing after all. Thank you, Mr Pollock. At your convenience." And that was it, gentlemen. Forty-five seconds later. Sir Ralph was dead.'
Recalled to Life Page 15
