“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, Jug?” 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 rumor 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 reentered 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 presently en route to HQ for formal interviews. We don’t have the facilities 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 timings. 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 reentered.
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 jimjams, 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 anyone 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 superintendent, 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.
So though he was never going to face up to the Fat Man and say Bugger off!, with every yard he put between himself and the actual terrifying presence, his sense of what was due to him as keeper of the law here in Sandytown and district these twenty-five years reasserted itself.
Yes, he’d carry out the order, pointless and stupid though he reckoned it were. But he’d do it in his own time, at his own speed. First he’d assert his statutory right to refreshment by heading home to the Sunday joint cold cut plus bubble and squeak his wife prepared for him every Monday, regardless of season or weather. Then he’d exercise his statutory right to rest by taking his usual thirty-minute nap in his favorite armchair, followed by his statutory right to recreation by watching his favorite American cop show on the box.
And only then, refreshed and restored, would he go and take a look at Millstone Farm to confirm what he was certain of, that it was unoccupied by anything but rodents, bats, and spiders.
“You’re nivver gan out now?” his wife demanded as he began to pull his boots on about nine thirty.
“I told you. Got to take a look out at Millstone.”
“It’ll be pitch black by the time you get out there. Not a spot I’d want to be in the pitch black,” she said. “Won’t it keep till morning?”
After the long and outwardly visible internal debate necessary before any self-respecting Yorkshireman accepted female advice, he nodded and said, “Happen tha’s right. But if the phone rings, you answer it, and if it’s yon fat bastard, tell him I’m out!”
Upright, in the light and warmth of his sitting room, this boldness felt good. Prone in the dark of his bedroom, it soon began to feel foolhardy, and every time he woke during a restless night, it felt foolhardier.
Not long after dawn he rose, resolved to get the useless task out of the way before he was required to explain his dilatoriness.
It occurred to him as he drove slowly up the long, deep-rutted, weed-overgrown lane to Millstone Farm that the last time he’d made this journey, he’d been bringing the sad news of Hog Hollis’s death.
Hen, sole occupant of the house since his brother’s success had taken him to Sandytown Hall and the Lordship of the Hundred, hadn’t invited him in, notwithstanding it was a bitter day and a gusting wind was shooting volleys of sharp sleet against his unprotected back. So he’d wasted no words as he broke the news on the doorstep.
“Hog’s dead.”
“Dead,” said Hen.
There was no question mark but Jug had treated it as a request for confirmation.
“Aye,” he said. “Stroke. Pigs had started on him when they found him.”
“Right then.”
And the door had closed.
Maybe Hen Hollis had retreated to his kitchen and sat there recalling younger, happier days with his brother. Maybe he had wept.
More likely, according to local speculation, he had wandered round the house thinking, It’s all mine now!
If so, there were bigger shocks than his brother’s death to come.
The revelation that everything had been left to Hog’s relict had devastated Hen, but the local speculators weren’t short of explanation.
“Hog reckoned nowt to most of his family. He used to say young Alan were the only one as he’d trust to boil water. He knew what he wanted, in business or bed, and he went straight for it, and the thing about Daph Brereton were that she was usually on her way to meet him! Wife like that were a godsend to Hog, and he always paid his debts.”
But family was family, for all that, and the locals agreed that justice had been done by the clause which gave the widow only a life’s interest in Millstone, with the house reverting to Hen if he survived her.
So all he had to do was bide his time, continue to live in the family home, and mutter the odd prayer that fate or a high fence would bring his sister-in-law low sooner rather than later.
But though he lacked his half brother’s business acumen, he shared his impatience with delay. He took Daphne on in the courts and he lost. Then he took her on out of the courts, laying accusations of murder against her with the constabulary, the press, and anyone else who would listen. And here he lost also.
Everything, including his job and his home.
He’d tried to claim he was a sitting tenant, but as he’d never paid a penny’s rent this got him nowhere. He tried to claim residence at Millstone was part of his contract of employment with Hollis’s Ham, but as he’d walked out of his job of his own accord, that didn’t wash either.
So he’d been evicted and the house had stood unoccupied these many years. Here in the countryside nature is always waiting to reclaim what man has taken from her. A human presence, with its need for warmth and shelter and some degree of cleanliness, can establish a long truce, but drop your guard, withdraw even for a few months, and nature starts to retake possession. Whether out of meanness or malice, Hog’s w
idow hadn’t undertaken even the minimum maintenance necessary to keep weather and wildlife at bay. Slates blew off, window frames rotted, glass cracked, cladding was pierced, pipes froze, rats gnawed, rabbits burrowed, beetles tunneled, and not a thing was done to remedy or resist any of these depredations.
Not yet quite a ruin, it needed only another decade of neglect to render it so.
A man would have to be dafter even than Hen Hollis to spend a night here afore the builders had worked on the place for a long fortnight, thought Sergeant Whitby as he saw the cluster of house and shippens loom gothically out of the morning mist.
There was no knocker on the front door, just a darker oval to show where one had been fixed for a hundred years or so till the screws had worked loose in the rotting woodwork.
Whitby clenched his fist and brought it crashing down on the oak panel with a force that shook the door in its frame.
The noise of the blow seemed to reverberate a long time, as if winding its way around the interior room by room, seeking life to absorb it.
Finally, finding none, it died away of its own accord.
Satisfied he didn’t need to knock again, Whitby considered his next move. It might be fun to get fat Dalziel out of bed to tell him there was nowt to tell! But while he was debating if he had courage enough for that, he felt a powerful need to empty his bladder.
He unbuttoned, then, some old social inhibition making him reluctant to piss even on Hen Hollis’s ruinous doorstep, he stepped round the side of the house.
And there it was, hidden by the angle of the wall on his approach to the front door.
Hen’s ancient bike.
He postponed thinking about this till he’d hosed the ground.
A last shake, then it was time for action. One step at a time, no need to jump ahead to possible conclusions, that was for poncey CID kids like Pascoe.
First another thunderous blow on the front door accompanied by a cry of, “Hen! You in there? It’s Jug Whitby! Don’t muck about!”
Again only the echo of emptiness.
The Price of Butcher's Meat Page 45
