The Price of Butcher's Meat

by Reginald Hill

  “So what’s Sergeant Whitby doing now?” asked Pascoe, putting off the moment when he’d have to see the horror for himself. “Gone home for his tea?”

  “No, I sent him off to round up one of them that left,” said Wield. “Chap named Ollie Hollis. He were in charge of the hog roast. I thought, all things considered, he was one guy we really ought to chat to.”

  Pascoe scanned the list.

  “Hollis? There’s an Alan Hollis here, no Ollie.”

  “That’s because he weren’t a guest,” explained Wield. “Works for Lady Denham. Gate man at the Hollis pig unit. That’s Hollis’s Ham, the Taste of Yorkshire, by the way. Howard Hollis was Lady Denham’s first husband and she inherited the business.”

  “This is really going to help sales,” said Pascoe. “Hang on. Wasn’t Howard Hollis known as Hog? And wasn’t there something odd about his death?”

  “He had a heart attack among his pigs. They’d chewed him up a bit afore someone found him. We looked at it, I recollect. Odd but not suspicious.”

  “Jesus. I’ll be sticking to Danish from now on. This Ollie…same family?”

  “Aye. And Alan. Landlord at a pub owned by the victim. Seems the Hollises divided into them as cried foul when Hog left everything to his widow, and them as kept their counsel and their jobs. Hog used to stage an annual hog roast for his workers and the locals. Quite a nifty setup. As you’ll see for yourself eventually, I daresay.”

  Pascoe ignored the gentle mockery. His distaste for the nastier sort of crime scene was well known. He’d never got close to the philosophical detachment of Andy Dalziel, who’d remarked on viewing a triple slaying with a chain saw that he’d seen worse deaths at the Glasgow Empire.

  “So Lady Denham kept up the tradition of the annual hog roast,” he said.

  “No. In fact, there hadn’t been one for years, not since Hog died. This were a one-off. Ollie Hollis used to help in the old days, so he got called in to work the machinery.”

  “So where was he when the pig was being removed and the body substituted?”

  “Won’t know for sure till Whitby brings him in,” said Wield. “Sheltering somewhere, likely. It was a really violent storm and they got the worst of it here by all accounts. You’d not want to be anywhere near metal with that lightning about, and the machine hut’s got a tin roof.”

  “How’d you know about this Hollis if he’s not on the list?”

  “There’s this relative living with Lady Denham. Clara Brereton, sort of companion cum dogsbody, I reckon. She mentioned Ollie when she gave me the list. I got a preliminary statement from her, and I’ve set her to preparing a full account of the party, including the run-up to it. With her being in charge of organizing things, could be helpful. Also she were one of the first to see the body.”

  “Must be a toughie, discovering something like that but still able to function, produce guest lists, write statements,” said Pascoe. “Worth a close look?”

  “Aye, she is that,” said Wield. “And you’ll find two other relations in the house. Sir Edward Denham and his sister, Esther. Nephew and niece by marriage.”

  “They live here too?”

  “No,” said Wield patiently. “Their address is on the list if you look. Denham Park, a few miles along the coast. It was Sir Edward said we could set up our incident room here.”

  “Didn’t want us in the house then,” said Pascoe, looking round discontentedly. “Would have been a damn sight more comfortable than this dump. The horse downstairs looks better situated! So why didn’t Lady Denham live at this Denham Park place?”

  “Because Edward, being male, inherited the Denham title and estate on the death of his uncle, Sir Henry, the victim’s second husband. Sandytown Hall, which is here, Lady Denham inherited from Hog Hollis, her first husband,” explained Wield.

  “Hollis family home then?”

  “Not really. Hog Hollis bought it when he made his money. Bought himself one of them local titles with it, Lord of the Sandytown Hundred. But Lady Denham’s title, which she derived from her second marriage, is real enough.”

  “Real? You surprise me, Wieldy. I thought it was well established that one way or another all titles have been bought these days. And this slum that Sir Edward so generously says we can use, I hope no one lives here?”

  “Not now,” said Wield. “Expect it were used by the head groom or some such when they had a lot of horses.”

  “Are there any domestics?”

  “Nobody living in, unless you count Miss Brereton. She seems to run things.”

  “And being a relative probably does it for bed and board,” guessed Pascoe. “So if Sandytown Hall is part of the victim’s Hollis inheritance, and this cousin-companion is so much in charge of things, what makes the nephew feel entitled to order you around?”

  And why did you let yourself be ordered around? hung on the air.

  But at least it appeared that Pascoe’s mind was now fully refocused on the job.

  “I did ask Miss Brereton where would be best,” said Wield, “but Sir Edward cut in afore she could reply. Like he wanted to establish proprietorial rights.”

  “Meaning he thinks the house is coming to him,” mused Pascoe. “Which information a guilty man would be likely to conceal, right?”

  “Unless he’s a dead clever guy, like you,” said the sergeant.

  “Thank you kindly,” said Pascoe, though he wasn’t sure if it had been kindly meant. “But alas, I’m not clever enough to see how I can put off the evil moment any longer. I’d better head out to the scene and spoil my appetite. Doctor here?”

  “Been and gone. Confirmed death and, like I said, guessed at strangulation, estimated between four and six. Said to ring him if you wanted anything more, but he had people coming to dinner.”

  “Hope they’re not having pork,” said Pascoe. “And you’ve set the ball rolling interviewing the fugitive guests? Great. Who’ve we got on the team, by the way?”

  “I was lucky. Bowler, Novello, and Seymour were all available. Told ’em to start with the Parkers. Old Sandytown family, plus there was a close business association with the deceased, I gather. Thought it best to get to them afore they had too much time to sit around chewing over events and coming up with a collective memory.”

  Pascoe did the one-raised-eyebrow trick he’d finally mastered after years of practice.

  “A conspiracy, you mean?”

  “No. Just human nature,” said Wield. “Couple of guests from the Avalon Clinic. Head man and head nurse. Thought you might want to tackle them yourself.”

  “Because the Super’s up there, you mean?” interpreted Pascoe. “Cap Marvell says he doesn’t want visitors yet.”

  “Mebbe not, but with a murder on his doorstep, he’s likely to come visiting us if he doesn’t get put in the picture soon.”

  Pascoe shuddered.

  “You’re right. I’ll get over there as soon as I’ve had a look and talked to the CSI.”

  Pascoe, always a touch pedantic, had resisted the Americanization longer than most, but eventually even he had bowed to the power of television.

  “One thing more,” said Wield. “Sammy Ruddlesdin’s here. Turned up shortly after I did.”

  “Listening in on our wavelength again. Naughty old Sammy,” said Pascoe. “What did you do with him?”

  Ruddlesdin was Mid-Yorkshire’s premier crime reporter. He and Pascoe had a good long-standing relationship, which was just as well. Some journalists would have made a lot of being at the scene an hour before the senior detective.

  “Saw him off the premises. He’s likely wandering around the town now, getting background. Said he’d be back.”

  “Could be useful,” said Pascoe.

  “Mebbe,” said Wield, sounding unconvinced. “About Roote, Pete. You want I should take his statement?”

  His meaning was clear. With their personal history, Pascoe should stay well clear till Roote had been properly processed.

  “I’d be grateful.�
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  “I’ll tell him you’ll be round to talk to him sometime, shall I?”

  “What do you think? What I owe him’s beyond payment,” said Pascoe. “Not that I won’t be bollocking him for dropping out of sight like that. Incidentally, that’s one thing I’ll be asking Fat Andy. Why the hell didn’t he let me know Franny was here?”

  “Mebbe he didn’t know himself,” suggested Wield.

  “You’re joking! Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And if they are, unless the old sod’s had a relapse, he’ll know which of them’s crapped on the washing! No, Andy knew. And he decided I didn’t need to. He’s got some explaining to do.”

  He clattered away down the stairs. Through the window Wield watched as he made his way across the lawn.

  To himself he murmured, “Always thought when we got up before the Almighty, it was us who’d have to do the explaining.”

  2

  Some thirty minutes before Pascoe arrived in Sandytown, Detective Constable Shirley Novello had parked her Fiat Uno in front of Kyoto House.

  Wield had told his trio of DCs to start with the Parkers, but he’d left it to them to sort out their assignments. There were three addresses for the family members and, by right of seniority, Dennis Seymour should have had first pick. But Seymour, old in courtesy as well as service, had said, “Ladies first, unless you think that’s sexist, Shirley.”

  “Not from you, Den,” she said, smiling. “After thirty, you married guys have forgotten all about sex, right?”

  As she spoke she was studying the list and assessing the possibilities.

  Doing the crappy routine stuff well and without complaint got you marked down as reliable, which was okay, but plucking a precious stone of evidence out of the crap was what got you marked up as bright, which was so very much better. Faced with a choice of witness interviews, the ambitious DC tried to work out where the glittering prize was most likely to lie.

  Of the three addresses, only one was permanent and old experience suggested that this was the one to go for. In murder inquiries you started by looking close to home. Relatives were best, but wise old Wield had kept the cousin and niece and nephew to himself.

  The other two Parkers were just visitors. Could be their reasons for visiting were worth looking at, but most probably they were just here for the sea air.

  She said, “I’ll do Kyoto House.”

  As she spoke she covertly watched Hat Bowler’s reaction. He was her most direct rival in the contest to climb the CID slippery pole and she had a healthy respect for his ability. She caught a faint smile, instantly suppressed. It worried her for a second. Then she thought, If he’d got first choice I’d have done the faint smile thing too, just to worry him! So, reassured, she set out on the short drive to Kyoto, confident in her own judgment.

  As she got out of her car, she glanced eastward. The view was magnificent if you liked mile after mile of water and acre after acre of sky. Novello found it merely boring. She’d never been able to raise much enthusiasm for nature unless it involved muscular young men with a penchant for wrestling. The house, on the other hand, was a bit of all right, its modern lines, big windows, and open aspect appealing to her much more than the ivy-draped antiquity of Sandytown Hall.

  As she approached the front door, it opened to reveal a girl of eight or nine who demanded, “Who’re you?”

  “I’m a police officer,” retorted Novello. “Who are you?”

  If she’d thought to intimidate the child, she was disappointed.

  “Have you come to interview us? I’m a witness. I saw everything!”

  She stepped forward and would have dragged the door shut behind her, presumably to forestall interruption, but a voice called, “Minnie, who is it?”

  Novello grinned and said, “Tough luck, kid,” then pushed the door fully open and called back, “DC Novello, Mid-Yorkshire CID.”

  A moment later a man appeared, thirtyish, slim, haggard, with disheveled gingery hair.

  “Mr. Tom Parker?” asked Novello.

  “Yes. Is it about what happened at the hall? Of course it is. I’m sorry. This dreadful business has really knocked the wheels off me. Come in, come in.”

  As Novello followed him into the house, she glanced back. The child had wandered out to the parked Uno and was eyeing it up with the kind of expression Novello recognized from multistory video footage. Had she locked it? Of course she had. Places she parked, both professionally and for pleasure, you did it automatically. So the kid was going to be disappointed, unless she had gone equipped, which in this day and age wouldn’t be surprising.

  In the house she was led into an airy lounge where a woman rose to meet her.

  “Mary, this is Detective Constable…I’m sorry…?”

  “Novello.”

  “Yes. Novello. This is my wife.”

  Mary Parker was as slim as her husband, with wispy blond hair and a slightly scrunched-up anxious face, but she looked a lot less haggard.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  Novello would have preferred coffee, but there was a teapot on the table so she said, “Yes, please,” rather than have a delay. She’d made the quick decision it would be useful to interview this pair together. Some couples you wanted to keep as far removed from each other as possible, but the Parkers, she judged, could be mutually helpful.

  This proved to be the case, and soon she’d got what seemed a pretty comprehensive account of their movements during the party. She took particular note of their recollection of times and the location and activities of other guests. With such a large number of witnesses, Wield would be doing a complex reconstruction job on the events at the hall, 99 percent of it probably irrelevant to the inquiry, but Novello wanted to be sure that her contribution was detail perfect.

  “So the last time you saw Lady Denham…?”

  Tom Parker was vague.

  “There were so many people to talk to, so much to talk about, I’m afraid I lost track…”

  Novello could believe it. The wife was much more positive.

  “Just before four o’clock. Most people were on or around the lawn where the food and drink were. I saw her move away. I assumed she was going to the hog roast area.”

  “Why?”

  “There’d been some delay with the roasting and that wouldn’t please her. She doesn’t—didn’t—like things not to go the way she planned.”

  Not a big fan of the victim’s, guessed Novello.

  “Can you be sure that’s where she was headed?”

  “Only the general direction. You can’t see the barbecue from the lawn, it’s well removed from the house and there’s a deal of shrubbery in the way. Also, I wasn’t watching her in particular.”

  “No? What were you watching in particular, Mrs. Parker?”

  “The weather,” said Mary Parker promptly. “I could tell there was a storm brewing.”

  “I see. And you were worried it would spoil Lady Denham’s party.”

  “No. My two older children were down on the beach and I was thinking about them.”

  “And that was definitely the last you saw of Lady Denham?”

  “Yes. The storm broke about half an hour later. Charlotte said she’d go and make sure the children got back from the beach safely, so I headed into the house with my young ones.”

  “Charlotte’s the Miss Heywood who lives here? Is she a relative?”

  “Oh no. Just a friend who’s staying with us for a few days.”

  Novello said, “I’d quite like to speak to her too. Is she around?”

  “She’s up in her room resting,” said Mary. “She actually saw poor Daphne’s body. It really upset her. Would you like me to ask if she feels up to talking with you?”

  “Why don’t I do it myself? Then I can explain exactly what I want.”

  She got to her feet as she spoke. Her thinking was that it would be very easy for the resting woman to tell Mary Parker, Sorry, I don’t feel up to snuff, tell her to go away! There would b
e no appeal against that. Never give a choice unless it’s a test was something she’d learned early when dealing with witnesses.

  She tapped discreetly on the bedroom door, ready to follow up with a proper constabulary bang if necessary, but the door was opened almost instantly to reveal a young woman who stared at her with the same unfriendly expression as the child at the front door, and echoed her words, “Who’re you?”

  “Detective Constable Novello,” she said, flashing her ID. “Sorry to trouble you. I can understand you’d want to lie down after such a shock, but it’s important we talk to witnesses as close as possible to the event.”

  “Yes, fine. And I haven’t been lying down,” said Charlotte brusquely. She hesitated a moment then said, “You’d better come in.”

  Novello guessed she’d decided that if she went downstairs, she’d probably have her anxious hosts hovering. Maybe she had something to tell she didn’t want them to hear.

  In the room, Novello noted that neither of the twin beds was ruffled, which suggested she was telling the truth. On the dressing table stood an open laptop. The woman closed the lid and nodded Novello to the room’s one chair while she sank onto the nearer bed.

  “Right, Miss Heywood,” said Novello. “It’s Charlotte, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It’s Shirley, isn’t it?”

  “Right,” said Novello, thinking that this was a sharp one, picking her first name from the brief flash of a warrant card. Better stick with Miss Heywood for the time being. “First things first. You’re just staying here, right? Can I have your home address, just in case we need to get in touch after you’ve gone.”

  Charley gave it.

  Novello said, “Not so far then.”

  “Seems a long way today,” said Charley.

  “That figures.”

  The two women looked at each other. Novello saw a rather square-jawed not unattractive young woman with vigorous chestnut hair. She wore enough makeup to soften the jawline and highlight the intelligent brown eyes. Good shoulder development suggesting weight training or maybe distance swimming; nice figure, would need to watch it when young activity slowed to middle-aged indulgence or she might balloon out.