A Cure for All Diseases

by Reginald Hill

  Curiously she found herself assuming much the same.

  But all he said was, "Aye, wills are funny things. But isn't Mr. Beard staying here? You'd best ask him."

  "More chance of getting my granda to speak, and he said nowt but Bugger Blair! for ten years," said Jenny. "Now he says nowt but Bug- ger Brown! "

  She took the order and began pouring drinks. The door opened and Franny Roote rolled through it. His jaw dropped in a show of stagey surprise that felt to Charley as if it concealed the real thing.

  "All my favourite people under one roof," he said. "Mr. Dalziel. Charley. And George. This has to be George, I assume? I see a family resemblance, and Charley's told me so much about you, I feel as if I know you already."

  He reached out and the two young men shook hands. Ruddlesdin came back from the bar, bearing drinks. Roote grinned up at him.

  "And it's Mr. Ruddlesdin, star reporter of the News, if I'm not mis- taken. Long time no see, Mr. Ruddlesdin."

  Sammy said, "Eh?" looked more closely, then glanced from the man in the wheelchair to Dalziel and back again.

  "It's Roote, isn't it?" he said cautiously. "Franny Roote?"

  "Yes. You interviewed me once, or was it twice? Good piece, lousy photo."

  "I recall. What are you doing here then?" He tried to sound casual, but his eyes were bright with speculation.

  "Oh, a bit of this, bit of that," said Roote, smiling. "So how're things going up at the Hall, Andy? I hear they've taken the bart and his sister in for questioning. Serious stuff, is it? I mean, can we expect a statement soon? "

  Again all attention was on the Fat Man.

  He took a long draft of his beer, then said, "I daresay."

  "Make a note of that, Mr. Ruddlesdin. Quote of the week. Detec- tive Superintendent Dalziel says, 'I daresay.' "

  It struck Charley that Roote was in a slightly manic mood. There was a sense of barely repressed energy about him, in contrast with his usual aura of cool control.

  Dalziel didn't react. His attention was concentrated on the door, which Roote had left open. Suddenly he put his glass down, said, "I need a leak. And I've spat in that beer," stood up, and went out. Charley saw him step into the path of a young woman who'd just come down the stairs into the passage between the snug and the main bar. He paused as if to apologize, then the door swung shut behind him.

  "So, George," said Roote, "have you come to rescue your sister? Must be worrying for your family when suddenly the Home of the Healthy Holiday turns into the Costa de Muerte!"

  "Rescue Charley? You must be joking," laughed George. "As far as I'm concerned, she's always been the one who did the rescuing."

  "I can believe it," said Roote. "Ever since she came here, we've all felt ourselves very much the object of her attention. We shall miss her when she finally goes."

  Charley felt herself disproportionately complimented by what was, after all, a mere polite token of regret.

  She said, "So what was this interview about, Mr. Ruddlesdin? I didn't realize Franny was famous."

  Roote looked quizzically at the journalist who, perhaps for the first time in his adult life, felt embarrassed.

  But he was saved from replying by the door opening again, this time to admit Alan Hollis.

  "Sorry, Jenny," he said. "Been rushed off your feet?"

  "No, it's been fine. How's Clara?"

  "Broke an arm and a leg and some ribs, still pretty shocked, but they say they're pleased with her," replied Hollis. "They just let me in long enough to pass on everyone's good wishes, and the flowers, of course. She said to tell everyone thank you, and that was about as much as the poor love could manage."

  "Anyone got any idea what happened yet? " asked Ruddlesdin.

  "Not yet. Seems she can't recall a thing."

  "Folk are saying that the Hall was never a lucky place for them as lived there," said Jenny. "That's why it stood empty so long afore Hog Hollis bought it. And look what happened to him. Then Lady Den- ham. Now poor Clara."

  "You saying she's inherited the Hall?" said Ruddlesdin sharply.

  "I've no idea," said Jenny. "If anyone deserves it, she does."

  "Don't worry, lass. Everyone will get what they deserve," said Dalziel, who had somehow re-entered the room without attracting at- tention. Nimble on his pins for a big man, thought Charley.

  The barmaid looked unimpressed by the Fat Man's assertion and Hollis said, "Right, Jenny, I'll take over here. You get back to the bar."

  "How do, Mr. Hollis," said Dalziel. "Everything all right up at the Avalon?"

  The landlord repeated what he'd told the others, adding, "All the nurses were talking about that healer fellow, Godley, him as is one of Tom Parker's circus. Seems they were all dead worried she'd never wake up, or not be right when she did, then after he'd been with her a couple of minutes, she opened her eyes and was fine. Makes you think, doesn't it?"

  "Godley? This the same guy they thought they'd caught in the act at the acupuncturist's last night? " asked Ruddlesdin, his nose twitching at the scent of a good human interest story.

  "The guy you thought they'd caught in the act," said Dalziel heav- ily. "If he decides to sue the News for that piece you wrote about him, likely you'll need his healing touch once your editor's done with you."

  He sat down, drained the rest of his beer, looked at George, and said, "Now you can buy me that pint, lad."

  As George went to the bar, the Fat Man said to Charley with a ponderous archness, "Does make you think, but. Handy chap to have around, yon Godley, if he's really got the gift."

  Charley yawned to indicate her indifference to this geriatric matchmaking.

  Roote said, "Might come in handy for your thesis, Charley. Or have the last couple of days redirected your interest away from alter- native medicine to offender profiling?"

  She said coldly, "I'll be glad to get back to my own work."

  "Ready to come home then, Charley?" said George, placing a foaming pint in front of the Fat Man.

  She became aware that Roote and the Fat Man were both looking at her, waiting for her answer.

  She said, "Yes, but I'll stay as long as I think I can be useful at Kyoto House. This business has put a lot of strain on poor Mary."

  It sounded nice and altruistic, she thought, so long as no one cared to inquire if sitting in a pub supping ale was the best way of helping a friend take care of her family.

  The door opened again. In stepped Sergeant Whitby. He clearly had the tunnel vision of one who has spent too much time fantasizing about a drink so cold you could trace your name in the condensation on the glass.

  With never a side glance at the seated drinkers, he made straight for the bar, sank on a stool, and said, "Pint of the usual, Alan. I've bloody well earned it."

  "Bad day, Jug?" said the landlord, who'd started drawing the pint as soon as the door opened.

  "Bad!" echoed the sergeant. "I've been running around half the county looking for that daft cousin of thine, all because yon fancy Dan from CID says it's imperative we talk with Mr. Hen Hollis."

  As parodies of Pascoe went, it wasn't bad, thought Dalziel. He wondered if he should interrupt before the sergeant got more per- sonal, but decided it might be fun to wait.

  "The bugger's nowhere to be found, so finally I gives up and goes along to the Hall to report in. And what do I find? Only that they've arrested yon Ted Denham and his sister and they're taking them off to headquarters for questioning. Did anyone think to give me a call and let me know? Did they, buggery! No, all that long streak of gull shit and his bunch of fairies can think of is - "

  "JUG!"

  The word fell on Whitby's ears like the clap of doom.

  He spun round on his stool. The expression on his face made Munch's Scream look like a smiley.

  "Mr. Dalziel," he stammered.

  "Outside," said the Fat Man.

  He slammed the door behind them so hard those inside felt the increase in air pressure.

  "How long to retirement, J
ug?" he asked.

  "Nine months, sir."

  "Full sergeant's pension?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "No, sir! I ever get as much as a sniff of a whiff of a rumour that you're standing around a pub bar, bad-mouthing your superiors and letting all and sundry in on confidential police information, you'll find yourself booted out so hard, you'll need a cushion when you're sitting in the benefits office trying to persuade them to give you the dole. Understand me, lad? "

  "Yes, sir."

  "Right. Get back in there then and finish your drink. Say nowt to no bugger. If the pub bursts into flames, don't even yell, Fire! You got that?"

  "Got it, sir."

  He waited till the chastened sergeant had re-entered the snug, then he walked outside into the street and thumbed a number into his mobile.

  "Pascoe."

  "What the fuck's going on? "

  "Good day to you too, Andy. Glad you rang. I was just going to call you and bring you up to speed. I've decided that we need to move things on a bit. The Denhams have both been arrested and are pres- ently en route to HQ for formal interviews. We don't have the facili- ties here and of course we don't have secure accommodation."

  "You're going to bang them up?" asked Dalziel incredulously.

  "I don't anticipate releasing them in the next few hours," replied Pascoe carefully.

  "So what brought this on?"

  Pascoe related Esther's version of the discovery of Lady Denham's body.

  "She's stuck to it. Her brother sticks to his story, i.e., that he was banging Sidney Parker till the storm broke. Parker confirms the tim- ings. And both Ted and Esther assure me they were together all day till you picked them up, thus alibiing him for Clara Brereton."

  "The phone calls?"

  "Oh yes. He had pat answers there too. He rang her in the morning to see how she was. She was interrupted in her reply and promised to ring him back later, which she did, to say she was fine."

  "Bit risky if it's a lie, when he don't know what she's going to say when she wakes up."

  "Perhaps he did know. We got hold of his mobile. Last call he made just before you and Novello turned up at the park was to the Avalon. I reckon he got hold of Feldenhammer, whistled a couple of bars of that vulgar song you told me about . . ."

  " 'The Indian Maid.' "

  "Indeed. Then he invited the doctor to give him a full and frank account of the patient's progress. 'Miraculously conscious' must have been bad news. But total memory loss must have fallen on his ears like the Pilgrims' Chorus."

  "That another vulgar song then? Isn't this all a bit clever-clever for someone who keeps his brains in his boxers? "

  "Not when you've got your sibylline sister murmuring in your ear."

  "Thought her name were Esther."

  "Oh, Andy, Andy. I have to go now. Naturally I'm heading back to HQ to take charge of the interrogations."

  "Naturally. You talked to Desperate Dan yet?"

  "Of course. I promised the chief he'd be the first to know about any significant development. He was pleased to hear there's been progress."

  "I bet he was. Progress is grand, but don't get ahead of yourself. Take care."

  "You too, Andy. See you soon, I hope. Next time I'll remember the grapes."

  Dalziel switched off and stood in thought for a couple of minutes. What he was trying to think about was the case, but what kept getting in the way was the fact that suddenly he felt bloody knackered. Could this uneasiness he felt about the investigation just be a symptom of his own debility rather than a sign that Peter Pascoe had got things wrong?

  "Andy, are you all right? "

  He turned to see Charley Heywood regarding him with concern. He must have been standing here a bit longer than he thought.

  "Nay, lass, I'm fine."

  "You sure? We got worried, you were so long."

  We, he saw, as he accompanied her back into the snug, consisted of the Heywoods and Franny Roote.

  "Where's Ruddlesdin?"

  "He took off a couple of minutes back."

  Shit. He must have gone out of the back door into the car park and was probably heading back to town now, wanting to be on hand if and when any news came out of HQ. Even if nothing new broke in the next few hours, the Denhams' arrest would give his fertile imagination more than enough material for a sensational headline.

  Not your problem, he told himself.

  Charley said, "Would you like George to give you a lift back up to the Avalon? "

  He said, "Not afore I've finished the pint your brother were kind enough to buy me."

  Hollis and Whitby had been head to head over the bar, but any conversation between them stopped as soon as the Fat Man re-entered.

  After a moment or two, the landlord said, "Point of law, Mr. Dalziel. I were just asking Jug: What would happen to all the money Lady D left Ted if it turned out he did have something to do with her death?"

  "I'm not a bloody lawyer," growled Dalziel. "And if I was, likely you couldn't afford me."

  A sup of his beer as well as smoothing his ruffles reminded him what a good cellar Hollis kept. Also this was a landlord who'd taken him in without comment or objection when he was dressed in jim- jams, dressing gown, and one slipper. Such a man did not deserve rudeness.

  He said, "But if Sir Ted were convicted of murder, he can never touch the money, that's for sure. I reckon that the other legacies would stand, so you'll be able to sort out yon dungeon you call a cellar, if that's what's bothering you."

  Alan Hollis regarded him coldly.

  "No, it wasn't bothering me, Mr. Dalziel, and I won't let it bother me till Lady Denham's decently buried and the bastard who murdered her's behind bars."

  "I'm sorry, lad," said Dalziel fulsomely. "I were out of order. I reckon Ted's share would be treated like Daph had died intestate. So the family could claim. Blood family, that is."

  "You mean the Breretons?" said Hollis.

  "Aye. Doubt if the Hollises would have a claim," said Dalziel. "Sorry, there I go again. Us cops have big feet."

  "I'd guess you usually know where you're planting yours," said Hollis with a faint smile. "But I really am happy with what I've got. I was wondering about young Clara."

  "Depends," said Dalziel. "How close related is she? And how many more of the Breretons are still alive and kicking?"

  Whitby gave a cough and looked at the Fat Man like a schoolboy putting his hand up in class.

  Dalziel gave him a permissory nod.

  "Daph Brereton were an only child," he began, "but there were two uncles and an aunt, all dead now, I should think. Derek, that's the eldest, he had two daughters and a son, while his brother Michael had at least one boy, mebbe more, and Edith had three boys. I think Clara is grandchild to Derek's eldest son, which makes her a cousin twice removed, is it, or three times - "

  "Too far already," interrupted Dalziel. "If there's full cousins still alive, plus their children, then Clara's so far out of the running, she wouldn't even figure in the betting."

  "For God's sake! " snapped Franny Roote. "We're talking about a murdered woman here! We're talking about people we know who are under arrest, rightly or wrongly - not that that matters, once the law in this country gets its claws into you. The system needs its victims and sometimes it's not too choosy who they are!"

  He ended abruptly, looking rather flushed.

  Dalziel looked at him goggle eyed.

  "Bloody hell, lad," he exclaimed. "I thought it were yon Third Thought crap you'd got mixed up with, not Amnesty International!"

  "You know me," said Roote, recovering his normal control. "Always sensitive to an injustice. Not that I anticipate one here. Not with Peter Pascoe in charge, and you getting back to your normal rude health, Andy."

  "Less of the rude," said the Fat Man. "Sergeant Whitby, now that you've displayed your local knowledge, how about putting it to some practical use? When you came in you were moaning on about wasting your time looking for this guy Hen Hollis. Has anyo
ne told you to stop looking for him?"

  "No, not as such, but I thought - "

  "Don't start thinking at your age, Jug, it'll get you confused. Just do what you're told. Carry on looking."

  "But I've looked everywhere," protested the sergeant.

  "Have you looked at Millstone?" asked Alan Hollis.

  "No. He's not been there since Daph chucked him out after Hog died," objected Whitby. "It's been let go to wrack and ruin. Why'd he want to go out there?"

  "Because," said Hollis, "it's his again now, isn't it? At least it will be, once the will's settled."

  "What's Millstone?" asked Dalziel.

  "Millstone Farm, where Hog and Hen grew up," explained Hollis. "Hog left it to his wife, but just for her lifetime. Now it reverts to Hen."

  "And you reckon he wouldn't worry about waiting for the legal stuff to get settled afore moving back in? "

  "Not too big on legal stuff, Hen," said the landlord, smiling.

  "There you are, Jug. Get yourself out there, take a look. And if you find the bugger, bring him in and let me know."

  "Yes, sir. Where will you be? "

  Where will I be? wondered Dalziel. Not at the Hall for sure. The circus and its new ringmaster had left town. No point in hanging around there like a leftover clown. He could sit around here another hour or so, supping pints. That was tempting. But not as tempting as the prospect of that nice comfy bed up at the home.

  He said, "Likely I'll be up at the Avalon, taking a well-earned rest. Young George, what fettle? I think I'm ready for that lift now."

  "My pleasure," said George Heywood.

  13

  Sergeant Jug Whitby was not a revolutionary. No way was he going to break out the flag of freedom and lead a charge against the monstrous regiment of Andy Dalziel. By rank, by personality, by sheer bulk, the Fat Man held him in thrall.

  And yet he was carved from the same hard stone as the super- intendent, he belonged in the same long tradition of independent bloody-mindedness, he looked at the world through the same dark-shaded spectacles. In short, he too was a Yorkshireman. Come to think of it, as a Whitby, he was probably a truer bluer Yorkshireman than the fat old sod. What sort of name was Dalziel anyway? Touch of the tartan there, hint of the whacky macs from over the Border.