'And Patrick inherited the estate? They had no children of their own?'
'No. Flo wasn't the mothering kind. It was her niece,
Penny Highsmith, that inherited. Nice lass, Penny. Bonny lass.'
Elgood's eyes gleamed with a connoisseur's enthusiasm.
'And Patrick inherited when she died?' said Pascoe.
'No,' said Elgood in exasperation. 'Penny's Patrick's mother. She's still living down in London somewhere.'
Now Pascoe was really puzzled.
'You say she was Mrs Aldermann's niece. And her name's Highsmith? And she's still alive? But Patrick owns Rosemont and he's called Aldermann?'
'Oh aye, it does sound a bit odd, I reckon. She split up the estate when he came of age, so I gather. She missed London and the bright lights, he wanted to stay up here, I suppose. So he got the house and she went off with the rest and set herself up down south.'
'And the name?'
'He changed it, by deed poll, soon as he came of age. He thought the sun shone out of Eddie's arsehole, so it seems. Wanted to follow his example in every way. It came of not having a father of his own, I expect. Well, he managed it so far as Rosemont goes, from what I've seen. He's got a real touch with the roses,. I'll give him that. But he doesn't come within a light-year of being the accountant old Eddie was.'
'Yet you took him on at Perfecta?'
Now they were back on the old track again, Elgood immediately began to show signs of his old impatience to end the interview.
'Why not? It was a gesture for old times' sake. He needed a job. I saw no harm in pushing a bit of work his way. There's room for a bit of sentiment in business, Mr Pascoe.'
'You mean he was out of work? An accountant?' said Pascoe who placed accountants with doctors, undertakers and whores in the class of the perpetually employed.
'He was with some firm in Harrogate for a bit, but he fell out with them and left. There was some talk of a bit of bother, but Yorkshire's a grand place for smoke with not much fire, so there was likely nothing in it. He'd been working private for a couple of years when I took him on. I reckon he'd been living on capital, myself, and doing most of his work in those bloody gardens of his!'
'But you kept him on? Promoted him in fact?'
Elgood shook his head angrily and said, 'Not really. In fact he was just on the point of getting the push. We had to start cutting back because of the recession. We're still at it, which is why I'm hanging around here waiting for this bloody meeting to finish. We got shot of all our part-timers for a start, from the factory through to the executive level. Aldermann was finished. Then Chris Burke died. Our policy, again at all levels, was to offer part-timers a full-time job if there was a vacancy. Aldermann was the only one who could do Burke's job, obvious. So he got it.'
'And he's not done it very well?'
'He muddles through,' said Elgood. 'But his heart's not in it. But he can be a charmer too, and he's not without friends at court. There's a few on my board think he's the bee's knees.'
The intercom buzzed. He answered it.
Miss Dominic's voice said, 'The meeting's over, Mr Elgood.'
'Right. Thanks.'
To Pascoe's surprise, Elgood started tidying up, rolling down his sleeves, fastening his tie, buttoning his waistcoat, putting on his jacket. He had assumed that the dishevelled look was specially prepared for encounters with the work force.
Elgood seemed to catch his thought and said as he combed his hair, using the photograph glass as a mirror, ‘They expect me to look smart, a bit flashy even, full of confidence. Would you chuck that pork pie in the waste-bin? Thanks. And hide that bloody Lucozade. They'll be calling me Doris if they spot that., Now, you'd best shoot off, Inspector. Thanks for your bother.'
Pascoe went slowly towards the door.
'So we're just to forget all this, are we, Mr Elgood?' he said.
'I thought I'd said so,' said Elgood impatiently.
'Goodbye then,' said Pascoe.
As he opened the door, Elgood added in a quiet voice, 'And, Inspector, I mean, forget it. It embarrasses me even to think about it, and I don't want to find myself on the end of a defamation action. So no more nods and winks, eh? No more ugly buggers from the CID prowling around Aldermann on some trumped-up business that wouldn't fool a child. I just went neurotic for a bit. It won't happen again. I'm sorry you've been bothered.'
'That's all right, Mr Elgood,' said Pascoe. 'Best of luck with your negotiations. Watch how you go.'
In the corridor he was making for the stairs, when he heard lift doors rattling open at the other end. So Miss Dominic had deliberately exercised him. Perhaps he hadn't been so far wrong about the whip!
He retraced his steps. Out of the lift stepped four overalled men and Miss Dominic herself. Clearly she did not care to match her strength with the work force. He nodded at her and stepped into the lift. On the way down it stopped at the second floor and a man entered. He was in his thirties with an oval face, watchful brown eyes and neat black hair. He wore a dark blue business suit of conventional cut. His only departure from executive sobriety was a beautifully formed lilac-blue rose in his buttonhole.
Pascoe had never seen him before but he reminded him of someone. When they reached the ground floor, Pascoe motioned the man out ahead of him. He smiled his acknowledgement and strode away, permitting Pascoe to glimpse the initials P. A. monogrammed on his briefcase.
Perhaps this explained the sense of familiarity - not a physical resemblance, but a resemblance to a mental image. This had to be Patrick Aldermann.
Outside, the man got into a Cortina parked almost in front of the door. Pascoe's car was round the side in the works car park. As he walked past the Cortina, the man looked at him through the still open door and said, 'Can I offer you a lift?'
'No, thanks,' said Pascoe. 'I've got my own car. Excuse me, I couldn't help noticing your rose. What a fascinating colour.'
'You like it? It's a Blue Moon. Here, please take it.'
To Pascoe's surprise he plucked the flower from his lapel and put it into the inspector's hand.
'But I can't . . .' said Pascoe, taken aback.
'Why not? Blue Moon means improbability. Everyone needs a little improbability in their life, don't you agree? The thing is, having the courage to accept it. Goodbye.'
The door closed, the car started up almost silently and purred away.
Pascoe watched it go, then resumed his walk to the car park thinking that these words of Aldermann's, though perhaps the most enigmatic, were far from the most thought-provoking utterances he'd heard that day.
9
ESCAPADE
(Floribunda. White rosy-flushing blooms, single, hanging together in large bunches, sweet-smelling when open.)
Police Cadet Singh realized with a sinking heart that the situation was beginning to get out of his control.
Passing through the central shopping precinct on his way to the station, he had not been altogether displeased to run into a trio of old school acquaintances, particularly as the girl in the group showed a disposition to be turned on by his uniform, and the boys (both out of work) though more diffident of manner, were equally interested in what he thought of the job.
Unfortunately the precinct was a popular stamping ground for the young unemployed, of whom there was a tragic plenitude. A couple more old acquaintances joined the group, then one or two other youngsters he didn't know, till suddenly he found himself surrounded by at least a dozen.
The atmosphere was still amiable enough, but an element of horse-play was entering into it. There were now four girls, very audience-conscious, and their admiration was becoming exaggerated to the point of parody. One had 'borrowed' his hat and tried it on. Envious of the applause, one of the boys had taken it from her and gone into a heel-rocking 'ello-'ello-'ello comic policeman routine. Singh preserved a forced smile while his mind raced to work out the best solution to the problem. Any attempt to retrieve the hat could easily result in a game such as was o
ften played in the old school yard, with a cap being hurled from one hand to another as its owner made desperate attempts to grab it. Also, in the middle of the precinct was a very tempting fountain around which the old folk sat exchanging stories and cigarettes. The thought of having to paddle among the floating fag-packets to retrieve his hat made his dark skin burn with shame.
But something would have to be done. The excited little group was already drawing the attention of passers-by.
'Excuse me, Officer,' said a woman's voice, very clear without being over-loud.
Singh turned. Behind him stood a tall, slim woman with a small child in a papoose-basket on her back.
'Yes, madam,' Singh stammered.
'I wonder if you could direct me to the Chantry Coffee House?' said the woman.
'Certainly, madam,' said Singh. 'Now, let's see . . .'
'I know it's somewhere near the Cathedral,' continued the woman, 'but all those little winding lanes are so confusing. Perhaps if you're going that way, you could show me?'
'Yes, of course,' said Singh. He held out his hand, the hat was put into it, he placed it carefully on his head.
'See you around, lads,' he said. 'This way, madam.'
After they had put the youngsters a little distance behind them, Singh heaved a huge sigh of relief and said, 'Thank you very much, Mrs Pascoe.'
Ellie raised her eyebrows at him.
'You remembered me then? A policeman's memory for faces!'
'I hope so.' He hesitated, then went on. 'Them lads back there, they're all right really. There's just nothing to do but muck about all day.'
'Yes, I know,' said Ellie. 'I didn't think I was rescuing you from a lynch mob. Is that why you joined, so you wouldn't have to muck about all day?'
She spoke with real sympathy. Also, while she firmly believed that the same right-wing policies which were creating unemployment were ironically driving young men to join those bastions of the right, the police and the armed forces, as an escape from the dole, she'd found hard statistics difficult to come by. Even one living and personally known example would be helpful.
To her surprise Singh looked somewhat offended.
'Oh no,' he said. 'My dad's got a shop. I could've helped there if I'd wanted. I just thought I'd rather try the police, that's all.'
'Oh,' said Ellie, feeling put in her place. 'And how's it working out?'
'Not so bad. A bit boring sometimes,' said Singh, who was not about to pour his heart out to this DI's wife, no matter how nice she seemed. On the other hand, there was no harm in trying to do yourself a bit of good. 'What I'd really like,' he went on, 'is to get into plain clothes later on. Uniform branch is all right to start with, but it'd be smashing to be working with someone right clever like Mr Pascoe.'
He gave her the full brilliance of his smile, Ellie returned it, genuinely amused.
'I'll not tell him you said that, I promise,' she said. 'I know it'd just embarrass you, and it might go to his head. Well, thanks for showing me the way.'
She halted and Singh was discomfited to see he had been about to walk right past the Chantry Coffee House. It was an elegant bow-fronted establishment, a long way removed in style and price from the Market Caff. No external grime or internal steam masked these velvet-curtained windows, and instead of the pong of frying fat these ventilators exhaled the pungent aroma of roasting coffee. But a glance through the gleaming panes as he went on his way confirmed that one thing was unchanged. Mrs Pascoe's rendezvous here was with the same woman she'd been sitting with in the Market Caff, the woman whose name he now knew to be Mrs Daphne Aldermann.
That the two women should be friendly didn't strike him as odd. Ellie would perhaps have been irritated, though not necessarily surprised, to learn that in Police Cadet Singh's eyes, she and Daphne Aldermann were two of a kind - confident, articulate, middle-class women who'd never have to worry about things like money and manners. He'd thought a lot about Mrs Aldermann since he and Sergeant Wield had visited Rosemont. There'd been more in that interview than met the eye. There was no real epidemic of car-vandalizing such as Wield had described, certainly nothing to justify spending CID time on. Yet Wield had sat there and asked daft questions, and later he'd choked Singh off when he'd suggested obliquely that the sergeant was more interested in the woman than the car.
That Wield might have been more interested in the man than the woman had not occurred to Singh. In his mind, the vandalizing of the car still had to be the starting-point of CID interest and, aggrieved by Wield's attitude, he had read and re-read the initial report by the uniformed officer who'd first gone to the car park, but its straightforward account of the events had been short, clear and unhelpful.
Arriving at the station, he was making his way through the car park to the rear entrance when he saw PC David Bradley leaning against the bonnet of his car, yawning widely. It was PC Bradley and his partner, PC John Grainger, who'd been sent to the multi-storey when the first complaint came in.
'Hello, Dave,' said Singh cheerfully.
'Hello, young Shady,' said Bradley, using the popular corruption of Shaheed.
'Got a moment?' asked Singh.
'I've got till yon idle bugger, Grainger, gets himself out of the locker-room and into this car. What's up?'
'It's about that car vandalizing in the multi-storey on Monday,' said Singh. 'I was reading your report.'
'Oh aye? Something wrong with my English is there, you cocky young wog?'
Singh forced a tired smile. The fact that much of the racialism he had encountered in the Force was amiably or at least humorously intended did not make it any easier to accept. At school it had been simpler. Long familiarity had bred integration and on odd occasions speed of punch had supported it. In the police force he had quickly realized that references to his background from superior officers had to be borne if he was to survive. Complaint within the Force, and even more so outside it, would make his position intolerable. Racial cracks from fellow cadets and lowly constables did not have to be accepted quite as stoically, however. He had a ready wit and a sharp tongue of his own.
He said, 'No, it'll be grand when you start joining up your letters. Listen, though, it was that Mrs Aldermann I wanted to ask them. The one Sergeant Wield's interested in.'
If Singh had hoped to get some hint of the nature of Wield's interest, he was disappointed, though the form the negative took was interesting in its own way.
'Sergeant Wield? What's he got to do with it?'
'Hasn't he been asking questions about her?'
'No. Why should he? What's CID sticking its nose in for? It's all in my report anyway, if you can read, that is.'
'It's a bit hard when you start using all them long words like car,' said Singh. 'What did she say, anyway?'
'Nowt much,' said Bradley. 'We got called in by some old boy who'd found his paintwork scratched. Mrs Aldermann arrived while we were there. She got in her car without noticing the damage. In fact she didn't seem all that bothered when we pointed it out to her.'
'Not bothered?' said Singh. 'Wasn't she annoyed?'
'Aye, but more like with us for stopping her. She was in a hurry, I recall. Something about being late to pick up her kiddie from school. We'd almost missed her, she was so quick. Straight in and off, no seat-belt fastened or anything.'
'She didn't put her shopping in the back then, anything like that?'
'No, she weren't carrying anything but a little handbag. Hey, what's all this questioning, anyway, young Shady? You after Mr Dalziel's job or what?'
'No. It's just part of a training study I'm doing,' lied Singh. 'You didn't say anything about her not being bothered in your report.'
'Relevant facts, that's what reports are about, haven't they taught you that yet?' said Bradley. 'Get a move on, you great clodhopper, afore someone sees us! We should have been on our way five minutes back.'
He was addressing his partner, PC Grainger, whose portly sixteen-stone frame had appeared in the entrance to the station
. Grainger mouthed a kiss and began to approach at an easy rolling pace.
'But she did co-operate?' said Singh.
'You still going on?' asked Bradley, opening the driver's door. 'She rattled on a bit, said it wasn't much damage and she'd really rather not get involved. But I told her she'd got no choice. So she gave us details and took off like Stirling Moss.'
He started the engine and revved it up as Grainger reached the passenger door.
'And you said all the cars had been parked there by nine o'clock or shortly after?' persisted Singh.
'That's right, Sherlock.'
'What's up with him?' enquired Grainger, getting in with difficulty.
'He's being conscientious,' said Bradley. 'He's trying to find out how real policemen work.'
'He's come to the right shop then,' said Grainger, settling his bulk into the seat and closing his eyes. 'Try to go steady and miss the bumps. That's the secret of getting on the cars, Shady. Going steady and missing the bumps. I doubt a daft sprog like you will ever make it.'
'The cars are on their way out,' said Singh seriously. 'Haven't you heard? The Chief Constable says it's all about community policing nowadays. Eighty per cent of the uniformed branch on the beat, that's what he wants. Starting next month.'
Grainger opened an eye and said, 'Piss off. Where'd you hear that rubbish?'
'It's on the notice-board, haven't you seen it?' said Singh in apparent surprise.
Grainger opened the other eye.
'You're joking,' he said. 'Aren't you?'
'No,' said Singh. 'It's up on the board, right enough. And details of how they're going to pick them as'll be walking.'
'How's that then?'
Singh leaned to the window and said confidentially, 'They're doing it by weight. Fattest first.'
Bradley roared with laughter. Grainger said, 'You cheeky young bugger!' and then his partner set the car in motion and they accelerated out of the car park.
Singh looked after them, grinning at the success of his joke for a while. Then his expression became serious once more. So Sergeant Wield had neglected to talk to Bradley about his report? Well, likely it didn't matter. But there was enough there to be interesting. And he had another idea to follow up. Wield's offhand manner had really stung him, all the more so because he hadn't been able to detect any general racial prejudice in it. It was as if on the level of simple personal judgement Wield didn't reckon he amounted to much as a copper, and that's what hurt. But he'd show him yet. He'd show 'em all!
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