'But I can manage Friday if that's any good?'
He thought rapidly. This was the last night of the conference. There was a farewell banquet which meant lots of tedious speeches. The guest of honour was some superannuated judge talking about modern interpretations of the law. God, he'd wasted more time in his job listening to them boring old farts rambling on than he'd had hot dinners, and a combination of both didn't appeal.
'That'll be grand,' he said. 'Eight o'clock suit? Right. And why don't you book us in somewhere nice and cosy to eat to start with? If you leave it to me, you'll likely end up in a chippy!'
At the door he paused. One more question, perhaps his last. It'd be easy enough for her to change her mind on mature reflection and leave a message for him at the Yard, cancelling the date.
'You never said why you didn't sell that house,' he said. 'Couldn't you find a buyer?'
'No, it wasn't that. I found a buyer all right. It was all settled bar the exchange of contracts.'
'And?' prompted Dalziel.
'He died,' said Penelope Highsmith.
14
NEMESIS
(Dwarf pompom. Small flowers, purply-crimson with coppery shadings, clustered on strong young shoots.)
'We have to know their names,' said Wield.
Singh's face twisted into a dark mask of distress.
'But why?' he said. 'When I spoke to you yesterday, you didn't ask. And I told 'em it had nowt to do with scratching them cars.'
'It's an offence,' insisted Wield.
'I know it's an offence, but I thought you were just interested in her in the Polo, Mrs Aldermann.'
'It's not up to you to decide who we're interested in,' snapped Wield. 'You just administer the law, obey orders and keep your nose clean, that's what's up to you.'
Why does he hate me so much? wondered Singh unhappily. When he had confessed his bit of detection work the previous day, he thought there had been a flicker of approval or at least interest in the sergeant's eyes. But now there was nothing, just that intimidating indifference which could only be a cover for dislike. Wield stared blankly at the youth and wished to hell that the interview were over. From the moment he first laid eyes on the boy, he'd resolved to have as little to do with him as possible. Normally it would have been a resolution easy to keep as cadets usually only made a superficial contact with CID work. But fate and Dalziel and Pascoe had decided otherwise. And the more he saw of Singh, the more his first response was confirmed. He loved him. No! His mind balked at the word. He was attracted, infatuated . . .he didn't know what he was. He only knew it was dangerous.
It was almost a year since the long affair which he'd begun to believe was permanent had come to an end. Separation had killed it, not for him but for his friend whose job had taken him a hundred miles away. Wield on his motor-bike had made light of the distance and his irregular and uncertain hours had seemed to justify that he was usually the one who made the journey. Later he had analysed that perhaps he had preferred to make the journey, perhaps even preferred that there was a journey to make, because it kept his job and life in such very distinct compartments. But the other man had needed proximity. The affair had withered and died.
There had been a period of reappraisal. Bitterness and self-disgust had brought him close to the point of throwing discretion to the winds and coming out into the open. But he had pulled up short, as always. The price of openness was his job. He knew all about his legal rights and all about modern liberated attitudes, but he also knew that as far as Mid-Yorkshire CID went, his career would be at an end. What else did he have at the moment? Nothing. He did his job, pursued his conventional social life such as it was, worked for his next police examination, watched television and sought imaginative release in his one literary passion, the novels of H. Rider Haggard, particularly those featuring the ugly little hunter, Alan Quartermain, who always seemed to be surrounded by strikingly handsome young men. He didn't think of it as sublimation for he didn't think in such terms. Ultimately he felt in perfect control of his life; in an emotional limbo, yes - but in control.
One day there would be someone else. Wield was certain of that. But he was not a man for rapid or temporary attachments. One day there would be someone; someone his equal in age and maturity; someone his equal in discretion.
And now the horror of finding his emotions assaulted by the simple sight of a mere boy! And for it to happen at the very centre of that area of his life he kept most separate from his deepest emotions signalled the gravest danger.
So now here he was once again playing the hard-nosed cop, and not even certain why. Pascoe had spoken to Dalziel on the telephone the previous evening and this morning had announced that the youths had to be brought in.
'Come on, lad,' said Wield. 'Don't muck about. These lads need to be questioned by someone who knows what he's at.'
'But that's all?' said Singh, looking for a crumb of comfort. 'Just more questioning about what they saw? You're not going to do them for damaging the car?'
It would have been easy for Wield to say no. But he was far from sure it was true, not if they copped an admission. And in any case the boy had to learn to face up to that shift in the centre of balance of loyalties that took place when you joined the Force.
And finally it might teach him to duck out of sight when he saw Wield coming, which would cool things down all round.
'There's no saying what Mr Pascoe'll decide,' he said heavily. But touched beyond bearing by the boy's unconcealable worry, he heard himself adding, 'But it'd need an admission before there was any chance of a case, and they'll likely know better than that if they watch a lot of telly, won't they?'
Singh's face cleared slightly.
'I only know two of them by name,' he said. 'They were mates of mine at school. Mick Feaver and Jonty, that's John, Marsh.'
'Feaver and Marsh,' said Pascoe. 'Anything known.'
'Nothing on Feaver. A bit of juvenile stuff on Marsh, nothing serious. But his family's always been a bit on the wild side, and you'll likely know one of his older brothers, Arthur.'
'Arthur Marsh. Rings a bell. Fill me in.'
Wield, anticipating the questions, produced a file.
'Lots of juvenile stuff again. Then got done for nicking things from houses where he'd been called in as a TV repair man. Sacked from his job, suspended sentence, started breaking in and nicking the TV sets themselves. Sent down for eighteen months. Out, another repair job, firm went bust, redundant, dole, six months ago he got done for an unemployment fiddle, claiming full benefit when he was doing a bit of work on the side.'
Wield ran his eye down the sheet and grinned.
'He had a bit of bad luck there,' he said. 'He was doing a bit of labouring work, helping lay a lawn for a fellow who turned out to be someone important at the Social Security office. He sees Arthur and his mates getting down to work that morning, then later the same day he spots him in a queue for benefit!'
'Tough,' said Pascoe. 'What did he get?'
'Fined,' said Wield. 'Likely he'll claim supplementary benefit to pay for it.'
'This confirms what young Singh thought,' Pascoe said. 'Marsh'll be the harder nut. Let's see him first, leave Feaver to stew a bit.'
'Right,' said Wield, interview room?'
'No,' said Pascoe. 'Bring him up here. And don't mention his brother or anything like that. Let's follow the road Cadet Singh opened up and get him believing he's got us believing he's just a good citizen, right?'
A few minutes later, Jonty Marsh strutted in, cocky but watchful.
'Sit down, Mr Marsh,' said Pascoe. 'Thank you for coming.'
Over the next couple of minutes, Pascoe carefully fed the youth's cockiness by playing up the important witness angle till eventually the watchfulness had almost faded away.
Wield sat quietly by, admiring Pascoe's technique, while the Inspector took the youth through the events in the car park up to the moment when Daphne Aldermann got out of her car. Then by the flicker of an eye,
he invited Wield to take over. Wield wasn't quite sure why, but he continued along the obvious lines, pressing Marsh about the car that Mrs Aldermann had got into. Marsh affirmed it was a BMW, but under Wield's probing rather sulkily admitted that he wasn't sure and was merely echoing Mick Feaver's certainty. But he now did recall that it was a dark blue car and confirmed what he had told Singh, that it had tinted glass windows.
When he had taken the questioning as far as the disappearance of the dark blue BMW, he paused and Pascoe produced a packet of cigarettes, and offered the youth one.
'That's good, Jonty,' he said approvingly. 'All right if I call you Jonty? First rate. I wish all our witnesses were as clear. So, to get it straight, you can positively identify the green VW Polo that the woman got out of as the same Polo that got scratched?'
'Oh, yeah,' said Marsh puffing at his cigarette. 'Definitely.'
'You'd swear to it?' said Pascoe.
'I told you!' protested Marsh. 'I'm dead certain.'
And now Pascoe didn't say anything but sat and regarded the young man quizzically. Puzzlement, doubt, and then dismay trailed each other across his face.
'No, what I mean is . . .'he began.
'That'll do, Marsh. For now,' said Pascoe.
The youth was removed. Wield nodded his congratulations.
'Nice admission,' he said. 'But . . .'
'Let's have the other,' said Pascoe.
With Feaver the approach was quite different.
'We know you and your mates damaged those cars, so you're not going to waste our time on that, are you?' snapped Pascoe.
'No, sir,' stammered the boy.
'What's that. Are you denying it?'
'No, I was meaning, no, I wasn't going to waste time, I mean . . .'
'You mean, yes, we did damage the cars? Say it!'
'Yes, we did damage the cars,' echoed the boy.
'That's better. Now I want you to help us. It'll all be taken into account.'
The pattern was then repeated, Pascoe going so far as the change from one to the other and Wield coming in on the second car. Feaver was emphatic that it was a BMW 528i. The colour was dark blue with silver trim. There'd been twin aerials and to the X and the 9 he'd given Singh he now added a possible 2. Finally Pascoe gave him a piece of paper and told him to write down the names and addresses of the other three youths involved.
When he'd gone, Pascoe said to the sergeant, 'Anything we missed?'
Wield said, if we're going to do them for damaging those cars, shouldn't we have got statements while they were in the mood? Not that I get the impression statements are what you want.'
He let a slight note of reproof come into his voice.
'No,' said Pascoe. 'Fetch 'em both in together.'
This time there were no seats for the young men. They stood at one side of the table while Pascoe regarded them grimly from the other.
'You've both admitted to unlawfully damaging property, to wit, four motor-cars parked in the bus station multi-storey car park. I said you've both admitted it,' he stressed, intercepting an accusing glance from Marsh to Feaver. 'I've checked with Criminal Records and there's nothing against you in the past, which is in your favour. And also I have an officer in this station who is willing to speak up for your known good characters. Now, because of these considerations, I'm going to take a risk. I'm going to recommend that we proceed no further at this time. This does not mean that the case is closed. The file will remain open for as long as I want it to remain open. You're on the record now, understand that. And this is the last favour you'll ever get from me or any other police officer, do you understand that!'
They nodded. Pascoe waited.
'Yes, sir,' stuttered Feaver.
Pascoe waited again.
'Yes,' said Marsh. 'Understood.'
'Right. Now push off. For ever!'
But Jonty Marsh was not so easily cowed. At the door he paused and said, 'What about all that other business, the cars and all that?'
'What other business?' said Pascoe stonily. 'There was no other business.'
After the door had closed behind the youths, he relaxed and pushed the list of names Feaver had provided towards Wield.
'See someone from uniformed has a word with these three, will you?'
'Yes, sir,' said Wield. 'And thanks, on behalf of young Singh, that is.'
'Thanks for what? What did I do?' said Pascoe in a surprised tone.
'Well, for a start you - ' began Wield, then he paused and smiled faintly. 'Why, nothing. You did nothing at all, sir.'
'Good. I'm glad that's settled,' said Pascoe.
'Yes, sir. What exactly was it that I was doing, if you don't mind me asking?'
'Sorry about that. But I wanted you to ask all the questions about the other car. I didn't want to risk directing them.'
'Towards what?' asked Wield.
'Towards details of the car that Daphne Aldermann transferred to. You see it occurred to me that I know somebody who drives an X-registered BMW 528i in dark blue with silver trim and tinted windows. I had a look at it recently. A garage door had fallen on it.'
'Elgood, you mean?' said Wield in open surprise.
'Yes. Dandy Dick himself. And I recalled something else. When I talked to him in his office, I told him about your visit to Rosemont allegedly about Mrs Aldermann's car. And I got the impression then that he might have heard about it from some other source. Who could that be but one of the Aldermanns?'
'What did he say exactly?' asked Wield.
Pascoe hesitated. Dalziel would have just replied that it was Elgood's reference to 'ugly buggers from the CID' which put him in mind of the sergeant, but Pascoe was made of flimsier fibre.
'Oh, just a turn of phrase, something in his tone,' he said vaguely. 'Anyway, I've checked Elgood's car number and sure enough it ends with 29.'
'Which means?'
'Which means,' said Pascoe slowly, 'that we can be as sure as dammit that the day before Dandy Dick came round here to complain that he was in line to be murdered by Patrick Aldermann, he'd been shacked up in his seaside cottage with Aldermann's wife!'
PART THREE
'It's my opinion you never think at all, ' the
Rose said in a rather severe tone.
LEWIS CARROLL: Through the Looking-Glass
1
NEWS
'Floribunda.Semi-double flowers, purple-claret, free-flowering through the season.)
Dick Elgood lay on his back, buoyed up by the gently rocking sea and caressed by the hot-fingered sun, and felt at one with the world.
If he raised his head slightly and looked between his feet he could see across fifteen yards of shimmering water and as many more of light buff sand to a green-flecked sandstone cliff on top which stood an ochre-roofed white-walled cottage. It might almost have been Tuscany, but you could stuff Tuscany, and indeed most points east of where he was now, for Elgood. This bit of the Yorkshire coast, barely an hour from his office, was as far as he ever wanted to go.
Twenty years ago when he had bought the cottage, only the chimney stack would have been visible from where he was presently floating. Winter after winter the North Sea darted out cold hands and ripped great fistfuls out of the soft cliff face, undermining it until more of its grassy head came sliding down of its own weight.
'How long?' Elgood had asked.
'Could be there another fifty years,' opined the estate agent.
'Could be down in ten,' warned the surveyor.
Elgood had halved the difference and signed the contract. He had no concern for succession and he liked the idea of a building whose lifespan was as doubtful and as limited as a man's
Besides, the price was rock-bottom, if that was the right term. He’d never regretted buying it. Here he came to relax, sometimes in company, sometimes alone. It was the perfect setting for romance; it was the perfect atmosphere for unwinding. Today he had just wanted the delights of solitude. After several days of non-stop negotiations and continuous availab
ility he had finally hammered out an agreement with his work force on the redundancies. It had been hard work, harder than he'd ever known. The turning-point had been yesterday when in a quiet moment with the leader of the works committee he had said, with sincerity as well as with conscious guile, if this doesn't get settled without a strike, at least your lads'll have the consolation of seeing me ahead of them in the dole queue.'
The hint had been enough. They had the sense to know that any successor to Elgood was likely to be a much more unpleasant proposition.
So it was settled. And this Tuesday was his own. His therapy. His reward.
Or perhaps not. Dimly through half-closed eyes he saw the roof of a car flashing in the sun as it parked alongside the cottage.
'Shit!' he said, and thought of slipping beneath the surface and swimming out of sight round the corner of the little bay.
But he couldn't hide for long, and in any case he didn't care to hide except occasionally from boring colleagues and angry husbands. This car brought trouble or it brought pleasure. He wasn't used to running from either.
He turned over and with a long easy stroke pulled towards the shore.
As he reached his towel on the sand, he heard a noise and, looking up, he saw his visitor scrambling down the cliff face, a passage made both dangerous and easy by the erosion. Identification didn't help him decide whether this meant pleasure or trouble. It was Daphne Aldermann.
He saw a tall, rangy woman with long blonde hair casually tied back from a face which sunlight and slight exertion coloured with a simple beauty beyond cosmetic art. Beneath her slacks and checked shirt moved long muscular legs and deep heavy breasts, the memory of which excited Elgood as he towelled himself down.
She saw a small man with thick greying hair, usually elegantly groomed but now spiky with damp, topping a slightly lopsided face whose characteristically cheerful expression was qualified but not belied by a pair of shrewd, watchful eyes. When she'd first met him she'd regarded him as rather old and faintly comic, but that had soon passed. There had been a moment when she had feared being confronted with an old, pasty-white and scrawny body, but he stripped well, sunshine and exercise keeping him brown and wiry. As for what moved beneath his swimming trunks, she had found nothing to complain of in its sensitivity and vigour, but no memory of it touched her mind as she approached him now.
Dalziel 07 Deadheads Page 12
