‘That’s how I might put it if I were writing for the Challenger,’ said Wishart. He was a small, neat man with a residual Scots accent which had survived his transplant to South Yorkshire some thirty years earlier. Pascoe enjoyed his dry humour, and liked and respected him.
‘Where are they?’ he asked.
‘Farr’s up at the hospital. He’s got a lot of injuries and I want it firmly established that they’re nothing to do with us. Your good lady’s here but not being very cooperative. Listen, Peter, I’d really like to smudge this breathalyser business out of sight. It’s an unhelpful complication and the reading was just on the borderline anyway.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘The Press,’ said Wishart. ‘The locals are here already and no doubt the big boys will be sending out scouts. Someone will talk. It might even be your good lady, the way she’s going on about citizens’ rights and police brutality. Once the hacks find out she’s married to a cop they’ll have a field day.’
‘What are you saying, Alex?’ asked Pascoe.
‘Urge upon her the merits of silence, even if it’s only relative. And explain that we’ve got to go ahead with the blood test. It’ll almost certainly be under the limit by now, so that will be one less thing for the Press to sink their fangs into. Oh, and it would be nice to have her statement all signed and sealed by the time I get back.’
‘From where?’
For answer Wishart jerked his thumb downwards.
‘You’re going down the pit? Jesus!’ said Pascoe with a shudder.
‘I don’t much care for the idea myself. It’ll only be a token to get the Forensic boys under way. Looks bad if the investigating officer doesn’t show his face at the scene of the crime.’
‘It’s definitely a crime, then?’
‘You ought to see the body,’ said Wishart grimly.
‘It’s been brought up already?’ said Pascoe in surprise.
‘Peter, you don’t leave bodies down a coal mine. When they found him, they thought it must have been an accident so naturally they brought him out. Soon as a doctor saw his injuries though, we were sent for.’
‘These injuries …?’
‘Looks like several violent blows to the skull with a length of metal, but we’ll need to wait for the PM for details. No doubt about assault, though.’
‘Where does Farr fit in?’
‘He knocked off early saying he felt sick. His team leader, a man called Wardle, told him he’d better let Satterthwaite, the official in charge of their section, know. Evidently there’s been bad feelings between Farr and Satterthwaite, with threats of violence. Farr went off. When he left the pit-yard, he didn’t go home but just vanished.’
‘And on the strength of that you put out a call for him?’
‘No, though his reputation plus this previous trouble with Satterthwaite might have been enough. But there was another deputy, a man called Mycroft, who saw Farr on his way out. He said Farr asked if he’d seen Satterthwaite and he directed him to where he thought he might be. Also I thought it might be a good idea to have his pit-black checked by Forensic. There’d almost certainly be traces after an attack like that. But when he looked for Farr’s gear in the dirty lockers, it wasn’t there. So then I put out a call. But I’m treading very carefully, Peter. It’s tribal round here, you’ve got to be careful not to upset any local ju-ju. So wish me luck. I’ll not be long if I can help it. Make yourself known to Sergeant Swift. I’ve told him you’re coming. Whatever anyone else says, he runs this joint!’
Wishart left and Pascoe went in search of Swift, a grizzled middle-aged man who didn’t greet him with any enthusiasm.
‘You’ll find your wife upstairs, sir. Second floor, first on left.’
The rebuilt Burrthorpe police station was, perhaps literally, big enough to withstand a siege, and, perhaps wisely, they’d put Ellie as far away from the public areas as they could without locking her up.
‘Peter, what’s going on?’ she demanded angrily as soon as he came through the door. ‘I’ve been stuck in here for nearly an hour.’
‘You make it sound like a dungeon,’ said Pascoe. ‘The door’s not locked.’
‘Not physically perhaps. The Scots dwarf who put me in here said he was a friend of yours and implied that if I didn’t stay put, it might mean a public beheading for you!’
‘He was exaggerating,’ said Pascoe. ‘It would probably be private. But thanks for worrying. I hear you were breathalysed.’
‘Yes, I bloody was! I bet you weren’t, and you probably drank twice as much as me.’
‘You’re not implying privilege, are you?’
She shook her head and said, ‘Not really. Yours is not a name to conjure with, as I found out the hard way.’
‘Ah. Trying some conjuring, were we? Well, you’ll be pleased to see just how impartial and incorruptible we are,’ said Pascoe. ‘Which means you’ll have to take a blood test.’
‘What?’
‘That’s the procedure. You wouldn’t want us to vary the procedure, would you?’
‘Peter, don’t muck about. They’ve got Colin somewhere in this kremlin and they’re trying to pin a murder on him. Who the hell’s bothered about breathalyser tests?’
‘Ellie,’ said Pascoe, very quiet and controlled. ‘Farr isn’t here. He’s been taken to hospital for a check-up. He will be well taken care of. Your job now is to take care of yourself. It would be well, for instance, to establish that you were not indulging in some kind of mobile drunken orgy when apprehended.’
‘Apprehended? You make it sound like there was a car chase like in one of those awful cop films you love watching.’
‘That is just how it may sound unless we are careful,’ said Pascoe wearily. ‘Look, the doctor should be here soon to take the sample. Don’t be too impatient. Every minute gets you nearer legality. Then you’ll have to make a statement.’
‘Statement?’
‘Yes. You’re a possible witness in a murder case, remember?’
‘Witness of what, for God’s sake?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Pascoe. ‘I wasn’t there. I’ll fix up for someone to come and help with the statement. No, I don’t mean write it, just the lay-out and to witness your signature.’
‘Can’t you do that?’
‘Not a good idea. I’ve no standing here, thank God. Also I’ll give Wieldy a ring and make sure our daughter isn’t holding him hostage.’
‘Oh God. I’d forgotten Rosie,’ she said in alarm. ‘You left her with Wield?’
‘What did you want me to do? Bring her here?’
‘No. Of course not. I’m sorry. I’m sure he’ll be fine.’
There was a knock at the door and a tired-looking man with a doctor’s bag came in.
‘Mrs Pascoe?’
‘That’s her,’ said Pascoe, ‘I think.’
He went out and wandered around till he found an empty office with a telephone. He sat down and rang his home number. There was a heart-chilling delay before the call was answered.
‘Hello?’ said a gruff voice eventually.
‘Wieldy?’
‘Who else? Sorry if I took a long time. I was outside.’
‘Don’t tell me. Looking for a kitten up a tree?’
A few days ago a neighbour’s kitten had got stuck up a tree in the Pascoes’ garden. Rosie had heard it crying and had been delighted when Pascoe rescued it and brought it into the house. Her delight, however, had turned to anger and grief when the neighbours had gratefully claimed it. Clearly determined that the next one was going to be hers, she now heard kittens crying in every gust of wind.
‘You should have warned me,’ said Wield.
‘If I’d warned you about everything, I’d not have left yet. Cats apart, is everything all right?’
‘Grand, thanks. And you?’
‘It’s getting sorted. I’ll tell you about it when we get back, which I hope won’t be too long. Meanwhile make yourself at home, and if you get knackered waiting,
don’t hesitate to bed down in the spare room.’
‘Will do.’
‘And thanks, Wieldy. Cheers.’
‘Hello. Who’re you?’
A spotty-faced young man was standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to be aggressive or not. Pascoe made up his mind for him by flashing his warrant card and learning in return that this was Detective-Constable Collaboy.
‘Just the man,’ said Pascoe. ‘My wife’s along the corridor writing a statement. She’s a witness in the Satterthwaite case. When she’s finished, she’ll need someone to go through it with her and then witness her signature. Could you see to that?’
The young man agreed without enthusiasm. Perhaps Ellie’s reputation had already spread. And if it hadn’t, it was soon going to, Pascoe thought with a sinking heart as he led Collaboy into the room where he’d left Ellie, and found it empty. As they’d walked along the corridor, his ear had caught and dismissed as none of his business a distant hubbub of upraised voices. But somehow deep in his small intestine he had known it was his business all along.
He ran lightly down the stairs. The noise grew louder as he approached the station desk area and when he pushed open the door, he saw that his small intestine was blessed with the same power of divination as Dalziel’s piles.
Pressing round the desk, behind which stood Sergeant Swift, was a crowd of people who were thinking seriously of becoming a mob. Prominent, almost pre-eminent, among them was Ellie. Pascoe stood and watched her for a moment. She always flung herself wholeheartedly into debate. Her hands reinforced her arguments as clearly as sign language to a deaf man. He watched them as they stabbed emphatic fingers at Swift, cut through his denials with scything sweeps, clutched at her bosom in righteous indignation, fluttered to her flaming cheeks in shock, cupped her ears in disbelief. She was beautiful and he loved her and he would not have her change one iota, except that maybe at this moment it would be nice if she were sitting at home, dandling Rosie on her knee, while his slippers warmed before the fire.
Thrusting such recidivist thoughts from his mind, he advanced to join the merry throng. Central to it was a woman in her early forties, thin, pale, a pretty face, but her eyes deep shadowed by worry or illness or both. This, he quickly inferred, was Colin Farr’s mother. Supporting her, metaphorically, though his hand did rest comfortingly on her shoulder, was a long skinny man, angular of limb and body, with a narrow anxious face. Behind them crowded a chorus of Burrthorpians of both sexes. It seemed that Mrs Farr was claiming a mother’s right, potent in lore if not in law, to see her son. Ellie had clearly joined in the debate, and the locals, though by no means tyros in the art of simple abuse, had quickly acknowledged a virtuoso and settled back to enjoy the performance. Pascoe listened for a while and though he too could not but admire the force and the rationality of his wife’s arguments, he felt that an impartial judge would finally have to award the sergeant the laurels for his patient repetition.
‘Ellie,’ Pascoe interposed finally. ‘He’s not here. I told you before. Listen to what the sergeant says. He’s not here. He’s gone to the hospital.’
It was clear that Ellie, having till now concentrated all her rhetoric on police mendacity, was quite prepared to switch in mid-trope to police brutality. Pascoe cut her short by addressing himself politely to the woman. ‘Mrs Farr? I think you’ll find your son has been taken to the County Hospital. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s quite normal in these matters.’
‘Who’re you?’ demanded the thin man with an ill-fitting attempt at aggressiveness.
‘Detective-Inspector Pascoe, and you sir are …?’
‘Downey. Arthur Downey. I’m a friend of May’s, Mrs Farr’s.’
‘Pascoe?’ said the woman. ‘Any relation to her?’
Ellie said quickly, ‘This is my husband. He’s from Mid-Yorks, nothing to do with this case.’
‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ said Pascoe, sotto voce.
‘Does our Colin know about him?’ asked Mrs Farr.
Ellie glanced quickly at Pascoe.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It never came up.’
‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ murmured Pascoe.
‘It came up when you came round for tea,’ said Mrs Farr scornfully. ‘I remember asking you what your man did.’
‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ crowed Pascoe for the third time but his heart was no longer in the joke. Ellie had made no mention of going home to tea. Dear God, it sounded like an old-fashioned courtship.
Ellie’s demotion from rabble-rouser to police nark was immediate and absolute. She made no effort to resist as Pascoe drew her aside, only saying, ‘Thanks a million.’
‘For the truth? Think nothing of it. Which should be easy. As you clearly do. Now let’s concentrate on getting away from here. You’ve given a sample?’
‘Yes. And I’ve got my own in case one of these bastards decides to slip some gin in it.’
‘A wise precaution. That just leaves your statement. This is Detective-Constable Collaboy who has kindly volunteered to assist you in this business. Oh, by the way, since you ask, Rosie’s well. Wieldy on the other hand has been introduced to the joys of phantom kitten rescuing.’
It was perhaps a low blow but it worked.
‘Oh shit,’ said Ellie and went off meekly with a bemused Collaboy.
Pascoe went in search of the small canteen in the basement. Here he sat and drank a cup of coffee that was so awful in every particular that he bought another just to confirm it was no flash in the pan. Then he went up to the desk where all was now peaceful.
‘Quieter now, Sergeant,’ he said.
‘In here mebbe,’ said Swift. ‘But they’ll be out there waiting.’
‘You’re not really expecting trouble, are you?’ said Pascoe.
The man shrugged.
‘You weren’t here during the Strike, sir. Ever see that film, Zulu? Well, that’s what it were like in here that night we had the bother. Except that in the film the redcoats stood their ground. We had more sense. We ran! Since that night, I’ve been ready for anything. A mob’s like a dog. Once it’s bitten, it can always do it again.’
‘Good Lord,’ said Pascoe, impressed. He went to the door and peeped out, feeling more like Wayne in Rio Bravo than Caine in Zulu.
‘No one out there at the moment,’ he said.
‘No one to be seen,’ said the sergeant.
Pascoe closed the door.
‘I’ll just see how my wife’s statement’s coming along,’ he said.
He went towards the stairs. Behind his back, the sergeant smiled faintly, then became serious as the door opened and Chief Inspector Wishart came in, looking surprisingly happy for a man who’d just been down a mine to investigate a murder he didn’t want.
‘Inspector Pascoe!’ he called to Pascoe’s disappearing back.
Pascoe turned and viewed the Scot’s approach with surprise.
‘When you say you’re not going to be long, you mean it, don’t you?’
‘I told you, just a quick look. But I really wanted to get back before you left, Peter,’ said Wishart putting his arm round Pascoe’s shoulders and ushering him up the stairs. ‘A funny thing’s happened. We were on this wee train, the paddy they call it, and I must have been looking a bit uneasy because the pit-manager who was with me said, “Don’t let it worry you. Just think that up there only a few hundred yards at most is Little Hayton.” Well, that rang a bell. There’s a nice pub there, does lovely meals. I went there once last time I was in this neck of the woods. But then it struck me. Little Hayton’s over the line. It’s not South at all, it’s in Mid-Yorks. So when we got to the spot they found Satterthwaite, I said, “What’s up there now?” And he worked it out on this map he’s got of the workings.’
‘Where’s all this getting us?’ asked Pascoe uneasily.
‘A long way from here,’ said Wishart gleefully. ‘Peter, a crime belongs to the Force whose patch it’s found on, right? Well, this chap Satterthwaite: even allowing for a large marg
in of error and the fact that he was found under a couple of thousand feet of earth, it is incontrovertibly Mid-Yorkshire earth he was found under. Peter, I honestly believe this may turn out to be your body after all!’
Chapter 9
Dan Trimble, Chief Constable of Mid-Yorkshire, was a small man with a sharp face and prominent ears. He was still very new in the job. His predecessor, Tommy Winter, had tended to let things slide in his final phase, preferring to deal with trouble by devolution and absence. Trimble, by contrast, preferred to meet problems face to face, and one of them was facing him now.
‘I reckon it’s like mineral rights,’ declared Dalziel.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The bloody coal doesn’t belong to the farmer whose field’s up above, does it? It belongs to them as mines it, which in this case is the Coal Board as represented by Burrthorpe Main, which is South’s baby.’
‘A body is not coal,’ said Trimble.
‘Tin.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You’d be more used to tin, sir, coming from Cornwall,’ said Dalziel with the benevolent beam of a man willing to make allowances.
In fact Dalziel quite approved of Trimble whom he’d backed very profitably in the selection stakes. But neither professional approval nor personal profit could be allowed to obscure basic issues such as who ran what in Mid-Yorks. He knew he couldn’t win this present argument but he also believed there was nowt like a few teeth marks in the ankle to make a postman tread carefully next time he came bearing bad news.
‘We’ve got to learn to bow gracefully to the inevitable, Andy,’ Trimble said.
Aye, but you’ve not so far to bow as me, thought Dalziel with the amiable scorn of the large for the small. That he didn’t say it out loud was a measure of his relative respect for the man.
‘And this is what’s been decided,’ continued Trimble. ‘The investigation of Harold Satterthwaite’s death will be a joint operation. It makes sense even if there hadn’t been this absurd complication of whose body it really is. It makes sense because South’s Head of CID is currently on special assignment in Ulster and Chief Inspector Wishart is a little junior for what looks like a potentially troublesome case; it makes sense because we’ve already become involved to some extent; and in the opinion of some of the policy makers, it makes sense to provide a buffer between a highly sensitive community and a local force they haven’t yet re-learned to trust.’
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