“They don’t seem to mind. Are you coming in?”
Kay said, “I don’t think I will. But I wouldn’t mind a talk.”
“Me too. Tell you what, let’s slip into the church.”
“But your sale …?”
“They can manage without me for a few minutes. For a few years even!”
“OK,” said Kay.
Dalziel watched the two women go up the path to the church, then strolled towards the two constables who had their backs towards him.
“Hello, hello, what’s going off here then?” he cried as he approached.
Jennison glanced round, did a comic double-take, and muttered out of the side of his mouth to Maycock, “Bloody hell, is there a CID holiday camp round here?”
Then to the Fat Man he said, “How do, sir? Seems that some joker thought it would be funny to deliver the Captain here a load of bullshit.”
“Now why on earth should anyone want to do that?” said Dalziel.
8 • birdland
When Pascoe told Hat Bowler that they were going to see Lavinia Maciver, the young man was bewildered. No fool, he’d picked up the message over the past twenty-four hours that the brass, for reasons best known to themselves, were bent on keeping him away from Blacklow Cottage, and this morning he’d thought mutinously of ignoring Dalziel’s suggestion that he might like to spend Saturday at his desk, easing himself back in to work. He was after all still officially sick, and the sweet medicine of fresh-baked bread shared with Miss Mac’s family of birds was surely the better therapy.
But a suggestion from Dalziel was like an offer from a Mafia godfather—you rejected it at your peril.
In the car he sat in silence, his bewilderment changing visibly to distress.
Pascoe tried light conversation but in the end he pulled over to the verge and said, “Right, Hat. My idea in bringing you along was, first, to make sure I didn’t get lost. And, second, to reassure your friend, Miss Mac, that she had nothing to fear from my visit. But with you sulking and brooding in the background, she’s going to think at the very least I’ve come to put her birds in an aviary. So what’s bugging you?”
“It’s just that I don’t know what’s going on, sir,” he said.
“Join the club. But it’s part of a DC’s job description that much of the time he won’t have the faintest idea what’s going on, so there has to be more. Either spit it out, or I’ll get on the radio and rustle up a car to take you back to the station.”
The thought of Pascoe going on alone did the trick.
Hat said at a rush, “It’s just that there’s something you might notice when you’re there, and I didn’t mention it because I didn’t think it was any of our business, not in the circumstances, and what with the new guidelines and everything …”
“Whoah!” said Pascoe. “Take it slowly, Hat. Like you were giving evidence in court. Then maybe I’ll have some faint idea what you’re talking about.”
Hat took a deep breath and started again.
“The first time I was there, I noticed there was a bit of a smell but what with bread baking, and the windows open so that the birds can get in and out, it didn’t really register. Then yesterday I started working in the garden, and though the stalks were all dried up I thought, hello. Then I checked in the lean-to greenhouse and there were these trays of shoots and, though I’m not an expert, I thought I recognized what they were.”
He halted as though he’d reached a conclusion.
“Radishes?” suggested Pascoe. “Spring onions? Jerusalem artichokes? Come on, Hat. Spit it out.”
“Cannabis,” blurted the youngster wretchedly.
“At last. So let’s get this straight,” said Pascoe. “You’re saying Miss Maciver smokes cannabis? And grows it in her garden?”
“Yes, sir, but it’s medicinal, it’s for her MS and, like I say, I thought with the new guidelines coming in …”
“We apply the law. We don’t interpret it, nor do we anticipate it,” said Pascoe sternly. “Have you talked to her about this?”
“No, sir.”
“That at least is a relief.” Pascoe looked at the unhappy young man for a moment then went on, “Are you going to lighten up or would you rather stand by the roadside looking miserable till the car comes to pick you up?”
Hat said, “I’ll be fine, sir. Really.”
He wanted to ask what Pascoe was going to do about the dope but, though young, he was wise enough to know that some answers were like plastic filler—they only hardened up when exposed to air.
He didn’t know whether to be pleased or not when, on approaching the cottage, he saw the wine-coloured Jaguar parked outside.
“Mr Waverley’s here,” he said to Pascoe.
“So I see.”
On setting out, if asked, Pascoe would have declared a preference for finding Miss Maciver alone. But now, instead of disappointment, he began to see a way of short-circuiting matters.
The front door was open so Hat led the way straight in with the confidence of an habitué. He found there was no need to affect relaxation and pleasure; the smell of new-baked bread, the welcoming smile on Miss Mac’s face, the excited flutter of wings, all these combined to flood his heart with content.
Even Mr Waverley, seated at the kitchen table, seemed pleased to see him, though his gaze grew speculative as it passed to Pascoe whose nose so far had picked up nothing but the mouth-watering smell of baking.
“Hello, Miss Mac,” said Hat. “How’re you doing? You’ve met Mr Pascoe, I think. He said he was coming out this way, so I got a lift.”
Pascoe noticed the not-too-subtle effort at dissociation and smiled.
“Good morning, Miss Maciver,” he said. “And Mr Waverley, too. How are you, sir?”
“I’m feeling particularly well at the moment,” said Waverley. “The year’s at the spring and day’s at the morn: God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.”
“I’m glad to hear it, said Pascoe. “Though you might get an argument in Whitehall or Washington.”
Miss Mac had pulled out a chair for Hat and when he sat down she pushed the loaf on the table invitingly towards him and a couple of tits fluttered down from the roof beam to settle on his shoulders.
“And Mr Pascoe, won’t you sit and have a bite or a cup of tea at least?” she said.
“Yes, Mr Pascoe, why don’t you take my chair?” said Waverley, rising. “I have to be on my way, I’m afraid.”
“You keep busy for a retired man then?” said Pascoe.
“Oh yes. When you’ve spent a lifetime in my kind of work, even in retirement you’re always in demand,” said Waverley, meeting his eye and smiling. “Tax problems never go away, do they?”
“Indeed not. In fact, you might be able to help me there, if you wouldn’t object to my picking your brain,” said Pascoe.
“By all means. Why don’t you walk out to the car with me?” said Waverley.
He said goodbye to Miss Mac and Hat. Pascoe noticed that though the birds were unfazed by Waverley’s proximity, they didn’t seem to treat him with the same easy familiarity they displayed to Hat, but that might only have been down to the youngster’s energetic way with a loaf of bread.
As they walked down the garden path together, Waverley said, “So, how can I help you, Mr Pascoe?”
“By telling me the truth,” said Pascoe.
Waverley made no effort to look puzzled. He walked on in silence as if considering his reply, then shook his head.
“No, Mr Pascoe, you’ve got it wrong. That is not how I can help you. In fact that would be quite the reverse of helping you.”
Pascoe said, “I think I should be the judge of that.”
A rather sad little smile touched Waverley’s lips.
“Mr Pascoe, all the portents are good for you, all the smart money is saying you will go far. According to your confidential file, which of course doesn’t exist, you have most of the right qualities. You are clever, perceptive, sensitive, discr
eet, articulate; you have a natural authority but you are not a bully; you are willing to listen to the opinions of others but you are not afraid to make hard decisions. And you do not make the same mistake twice. But there are some mistakes it is fatal to make even once. If you examine the credentials of all those who have climbed the slippery pole before you, you will find one thing they have on top of all the qualities I have just listed. They are able to recognize there are things they should not be the judge of. This is one of them. It is unnecessary for you and it would be unhelpful for you to be told the truth. I have a telephone number you can ring to receive confirmation of this, but in the greater scheme of things it would be marked down as a mistake for you to have found it necessary to make such a call. So let us part friends, me to resume the even tenor of my retirement, you to continue along the busy highway of crime investigation. I’m sure there is work enough there to occupy all the livelong day.”
They had reached the Jaguar. He opened the door and slipped in behind the wheel, put his key into the ignition, looked up at Pascoe, and smiled.
Good exit, thought Pascoe. Silence. I watch him go. The Jag disappears down the lane. I shake my head as if bringing myself back to the real world then turn back to the cottage. The curtain falls. Tumultuous applause.
He leaned down to the open window and said, “You’re quite right. I have a huge backlog of work and new things drop on my desk every day. I have to make decisions about them, which I’m not afraid to do, though, as you say, I’m always happy to listen to the opinions of others before I do so. What, for example, would be your opinion about a case like this one that’s just come to my notice? It involves a woman of about sixty who suffers from multiple sclerosis. Happily at the moment she seems to be enjoying a period of remission, but when her symptoms become too troublesome, she attempts to alleviate them by smoking marijuana. Now I am of course aware that the law relating to the use of marijuana has been relaxed slightly, and attitudes have relaxed even more. But according to my information, this woman grows the stuff herself, and possibly in quantities in excess of what might be needed for personal use.”
He paused and raised an enquiring eyebrow at Waverley, who was sitting very still with his fingers still gripping the ignition key.
“So what is the nature of your problem, Chief Inspector?” he asked.
“How do I proceed? Do I summon a team to search this woman’s house and dig up her garden? Do I have her brought in for questioning? Do I charge her with possession, cultivation, and possibly distribution? She lives in what some people might regard as rather eccentric conditions involving wild birds, some of which may be protected species. Do I involve the social services? Do I, when her case comes up, have a quiet word with the magistrate and suggest that an official psychological examination and report might be useful? Will the RSPCA or the RSPB wish to investigate? And what steps should I take to protect the woman’s property from the intrusive interest of the popular press? I’d be interested in your opinion, Mr Waverley.”
Now the man’s eyes were filled with coldness which in a real VAT investigator would have had Pascoe burning all his financial records.
“You could find it in you to do all this to a woman whose only crimes are that she is ill and she values her privacy?”
“It would be a hard decision to make, but from what you just told me, not making it could be seen as a sign of weakness which might affect my long-term prospects.”
Waverley said, “I don’t believe you could do that, Mr Pascoe.”
“In that case, goodbye, Mr Waverley.”
“But it’s not a risk I am willing to take. Would you care to join me?”
He opened the passenger door. Pascoe got in. There was an opulent smell of leather. They must have a good pension scheme, these funny buggers, thought Pascoe. Perhaps when they offed anyone, they inherited their benefits.
Waverley said in a businesslike tone, “I shall speak to you as briefly as I can. I will not be interrupted and I shall not answer questions. There will be no further interviews after this, and of course no record.”
Pascoe switched on the mini cassette recorder in his pocket and said, “Agreed. In your own time, Mr Waverley.”
9 • Mr Waverley
The world is a botched palimpsest, Mr Pascoe. From time to time attempts are made to obliterate what has been written before and inscribe something completely new. But the ur-writing always shows through and there we may read two inerasable though apparently contradictory truths. One is the economic imperative, the other is the holiness of the heart’s affections.
The latter we may see evidenced by the apparently aberrant behaviour of myself in regard to Miss Lavinia Maciver, or of your Mr Dalziel in regard to Mrs Kay Maciver, later Kafka.
The former at all levels drove the takeover of Maciver’s by Ashur-Proffitt.
To the world it seemed simply another step in the process of commercial globalization, or in the Thatcherite sell-off and sell-out of British industry, depending how one regarded such things. In fact it was, as I believe you understand now, merely a small movement in the constantly changing pattern of that global black economy which unifies the world despite all the temporal surface shifts of elections, revolutions, and all other forms of political change.
This gap between appearance and reality becomes more evident if I point out that, at a time when the thaumaturgic word in the corridors of Westminster was privatization, this takeover was in fact a sort of covert nationalization. What I mean is, the activities and the security of what was now known familiarly as Ash-Mac’s became, albeit sub rosa, the responsibility of certain people in Whitehall and Westminster with a watching brief accorded to some others in Washington DC.
I am sure you have worked this out. It won’t have been difficult. Rumours always abound. But the government—any government—has any amount of machinery dedicated to spreading other rumours, counter rumours, more interesting rumours.
What became a matter of concern was the subsequent behaviour of Palinurus Maciver Senior, the former owner of the firm, now, as they thought, safely sidelined into a meaningless advisory directorship. When a man of his standing begins to make accusations of sanction busting and other forms of illegal trading, eventually people will start taking notice. And if he could produce hard evidence to back up his claims, then we would have a scandal on our hands.
And there are always plenty of people in the agencies of government, both public and covert, who will be delighted to advance themselves and their causes on the back of a scandal.
The American management at Ash-Mac’s assured us the matter was under control. Nevertheless my masters, who have a view of good old American know-how only matched in its scepticism by the American view of British savoir-faire, despatched me to Yorkshire to get an unbiased view of the state of play.
The cover I used was a favourite one of mine, that of a Value Added Tax Investigator. It goes deep. You will find a detailed CV of Laurence Waverley in the Customs and Excise personnel records. And it is a job which attracts such natural suspicion that no one imagines I might be something worse. In this case, as I was ostensibly looking into possible VAT irregularities at Ash-Mac’s, it meant I could present myself to Maciver in a very favourable light under the pretext of wanting to compare the record-keeping systems presently in operation with those used before the takeover. Once he got the message that I wasn’t happy with the new regime, he was putty in my hands, as they say. Soon he was sharing with me his own concerns about the firm, and it was from his own mouth that I discovered he was employing the services of Jake Gallipot in his efforts to get hold of the hard evidence he desired.
My investigation of Gallipot revealed a ruthless, ingenious and not untalented man with a deep vein of venality and a very dodgy past. A combination of threat and bribery soon had him on our side, but Maciver remained a nuisance. Not a great one. He had obviously been completely isolated from legitimate access to all sensitive areas in Ash-Mac’s, which was why he neede
d to employ Gallipot. So it seemed the best he could now do was kick up a fuss with no supporting evidence and it would be fairly easy to have him publicly ridiculed as just another bad loser who couldn’t come to terms with his loss of power. My recommendation was to take all necessary steps to undermine his credibility and let things take their course.
It was his relationship with his wife that altered things, radically. His growing suspicions about the firm had caused a coldness between himself and Kay. From the start he warned Gallipot that she must be kept in the dark. She was still an employee of Ash-Mac’s, and her relationship with Tony Kafka was close. I suspect that in those dark moods which will always overtake an older man with a young wife, Maciver had sometimes asked himself to what extent their romance and marriage had been aimed at facilitating the takeover. In addition, Gallipot during the course of his investigations had visited the Golden Fleece Hotel where Ash-Mac’s had a suite on permanent reserve for distinguished visitors. His aim was to get a look at the registration book to discover who these VIPs were. He was successful in this, but the chambermaid whom he suborned also let drop the information that Mrs Maciver had on at least two occasions to her knowledge used the suite for sexual assignations. She had no names but they were in her words, as Gallipot recorded them, “young fellows, you know the type, think they’re the bee’s knees, but by the time she’d done with them, they’d lost their sting, know what I mean? Chewed ’em up and spat ’em out, she did!”
But the sexual predilections of Mrs Maciver seemed to me irrelevant to my work. Indeed, if as Gallipot believed, Maciver too had his suspicions about her, then that just gave him something else to distract his mind. A cuckold who couldn’t come to terms with being a nobody, the more noise he made, the more absurd he would look.
So one day in March I started packing my bags, thinking my task here was done. Then the phone rang in my hotel bedroom.
It was Gallipot asking me to call round at Moscow House. His form of words was studiedly casual, but I read the urgency underneath.
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