Pictures of Perfection

by Reginald Hill

  She was looking at him expectantly.

  He said, ‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at …’

  ‘Last time we met I was pretty sure what you were getting at.’

  ‘Caddy, yes, that was an aberration, compounded I fear by my egotistical reaction …’

  ‘Hold on. Are you saying you really didn’t want to screw me?’

  ‘No, I mean, yes, of course, but no, not so brutally …’

  ‘You mean that really, deep down, you respect me?’ she mocked.

  ‘Yes. In fact, I do.’

  ‘I believe you,’ she said. ‘That’s always been what’s made you bearable under the crap, Justin. You know what I’m about, sometimes you’re way ahead of me. But that doesn’t stop my tits from turning you horny. Look, you have to understand, that stuff doesn’t mean all that much to me. Maybe some day, but not yet. Which doesn’t mean to say that I simply lie back and think of England. But this would always come first. Any time and every time. Are you with me?’

  She made a gesture which took in her studio and all that was in it.

  ‘I think so,’ he said cautiously. ‘You’d like me to act as, er, your patron …?’

  ‘Patron? Hell, no. I don’t want patronized. I want to be cosseted, comforted, guided, encouraged. Could you manage that, Justin?’

  ‘I believe so,’ he said. He looked again at the portrait of Wield. ‘In fact it would be a privilege.’

  ‘And one privilege deserves another,’ said Caddy.

  She crossed her hands on the bottom hem of her long, loose smock and in a single swift movement pulled it over her head to leave herself naked from the waist up. The zip on her jeans seemed to fly open of its own volition and she peeled them easily off her strong brown legs.

  Halavant’s mouth fell open and he did a little involuntary skip backwards.

  ‘No time for dancing, Justin,’ she said. ‘This is a workshop, not a preview. If Kee doesn’t have her wicked way with the Vicar, she could be back any moment.’

  For a moment Halavant hesitated, but only for a moment. There is a tide, and his was so close to neaping, there was no time to waste. Rapidly he stripped off his elegant clothes. There was of course nowhere to hang them so, trying to miss the more obviously damp patches, he dropped them on the floor. From here on in, life, he guessed, would be full of such sacrifices. But full too of, oh, such rewards!

  ‘You look almost ready to start without me?’ she mocked. ‘Will it be all right here, or do you have a thing about doing it on the stairs?’

  She flung open the door as she spoke.

  Jason Toke, crouched on the narrow landing, leapt to his feet like a beast of the forest startled by the beater’s drums. For a moment he stared at the naked figures before him, then with a cry so high-pitched as to be almost inaudible, he fled down the stairs and out of the Gallery. On the landing floor lay the Renoir catalogue.

  ‘What the hell did he want?’ cried Halavant.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Caddy. ‘Just to give me a present. I don’t think he’ll be back.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ said Caddy Scudamore.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘The Complaint I find is not considered Incurable nowadays, provided the Patient be young enough not to have the Head hardened.’

  As Dalziel and his two subordinates strode back up the High Street, they saw the door of the Eendale Gallery burst open and Jason Toke come hurtling out.

  Wield called, ‘Jason!’ but the youth went running by, his pale, wild face giving no sign that he either saw or heard the policemen.

  Wield halted and said, ‘Shall I go after him?’

  ‘What the hell for?’ growled Dalziel. ‘Didn’t you just say yon blabbermouth Digweed doesn’t want to press charges?’

  ‘There’s still the kingfisher,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Oh aye. Crime of the sodding century. That reminds me. This Toke’s a gun freak, isn’t he? Well, Forensic said to pass a message to whichever of you two buggers gave them the bird, it weren’t shot with a bullet but summat more like an arrow. So it’s not Toke you want, it’s the ancient fucking mariner! Let’s just concentrate on our wandering ploughboy, shall we?’

  They reached Dalziel’s car, still parked outside the café. Pascoe looked across at the Gallery, noted the aubergine cabriolet parked there, and murmured, ‘I wonder what he was running from? Perhaps we should take a look.’

  Without waiting for the Fat Man’s approval, he crossed over and stepped through the still-open door of the Gallery. The door behind the counter was open too and he could hear noises on the stairway. He listened carefully for a few seconds then retreated, closing the door behind him very quietly.

  ‘Everything OK?’ said Dalziel sarcastically. ‘No blood on the walls?’

  ‘No, sir. Everything seemed tickety-boo,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Grand. Get in. You too, Sergeant, pardon me for breaking your trance.’

  ‘I were just thinking about that arrow, sir … Yes, sir, I’m getting in!’

  His nearest and dearest knew that when Dalziel let out a certain kind of minotaurine roar, discussion was useless and delay might be fatal. As Wield slipped into the back seat of the car he glanced up and glimpsed Digweed’s narrow figure at the bookshop’s upper window. Their gazes met, momentarily engaged, then the car was moving and Wield was struggling to close the door.

  Digweed had watched their approach up the street with considerable unease. Wield’s precise motives for covering up his crime were not all that clear, yet he did not anticipate he would change his mind. On the other hand, that tun of lard he worked under looked capable of sniffing out irregularities like a pig after truffles. So it was with some relief he saw the car move off.

  With fear of imminent arrest removed, he was able to let his thoughts once more refocus on what had happened that morning. No, focus was the wrong word. There was nothing so sharp happening in his mind, just a turbulence of puzzlement, hope, trepidation, anticipation, and downright fear.

  He heard the phone ring in the computer room, then the tone to signal the fax machine was engaged.

  He allowed the sounds to toll him back from these perilous seas to the real world, though in what sense words fed into a machine many miles away and somehow spewed out into his office should be realler than his own deepest hopes and fears, he couldn’t say.

  Wield too meditated on the implications of the cover-up as Dalziel turned into the lane that ran past Corpse Cottage to the vicarage.

  He tried to soothe his dyspeptic conscience with the Fat Man’s frequent assertion that, the way the CPS threw out perfectly good cases that had cost overworked detectives many sleepless hours, it made more sense morally, socially and legally to leave justice in the hands of a rational, informed intelligence such as his own.

  Dalziel’s precise words were, ‘Them wankers couldn’t spot a bishop in a brothel. You get more sense from a pissed parrot.’

  But even in the vernacular this oracular utterance brought little comfort. There was in Wield a strong streak of puritanism which did not take kindly to the feeling that however you dressed them up, his motives had been personal, private and self-indulgent. All right, the goods had been recovered, no real harm done, Digweed wasn’t going to re-offend, and so on, and so on.

  But beneath all this he knew that if Digweed hadn’t been gay … no, even that was an evasion, making himself out to be some brave crusader for gay rights; this was far more personal … if he hadn’t surprised in himself an inexplicable liking for the man, he’d have fingered his collar, and let Andy Dalziel and the CPS decide what happened next.

  According to the trick cyclists, such an admission or recognition ought to have been cathartic. It wasn’t.

  They paused briefly at Corpse Cottage but found it deserted.

  ‘Where’s that useless bugger Filmer?’ demanded Dalziel.
<
br />   Pascoe, who was beginning to suspect he had been less than just to the section sergeant, said, ‘He has got rather a lot on his plate, sir.’

  ‘Aye, that figures for a bugger who wouldn’t know kippers from custard,’ said Dalziel. ‘Let’s not hang about. If Sherlock here’s right, it’s murder at the vicarage after all.’

  ‘Hardly murder, sir,’ objected Pascoe mildly.

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Dalziel with a promissory snarl.

  But when they reached the vicarage, it too was deserted, or at least there was no reply to their urgent assault on the front door.

  Wield led the way round the side and Dalziel was about to work the same rough magic on the french window as he’d done on the walled garden door when Wield said, ‘Sir!’

  ‘What?’ said the Fat Man. ‘Jesus, he’s got lift-off!’

  The Sergeant had reached up into an old beech tree and swung himself with gymnastic agility on to a low bough to give him a view over the churchyard wall.

  Moving through the grey forest of memorial stone he glimpsed three figures, one female, two male, and one of the males had bright red hair.

  ‘There they are,’ he said. ‘Stop in the name of the law!’

  He dropped lightly to the ground to be met by the amazed stares of the other two.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ said Dalziel. ‘Did he really shout that?’

  ‘Wieldy, are you all right?’ said Pascoe anxiously.

  ‘Never better. It’s just something I’ve always wanted to say,’ said Wield. ‘Sorry. Are we going after them?’

  ‘Aye, are we,’ said Dalziel, setting off across the lawn.

  It occurred to Pascoe that if Bendish sought sanctuary in the church, like Thomas à Becket he was in for a big surprise. But Wield pointed to the open door leading into Green Alley and they plunged into that shadowy tunnel which the sudden surge of vernal sun seemed to have rendered even more luxuriant. Drooping boughs brushed their new fingers of leaf and blossom against Wield’s face as he raced along. Pascoe was not far behind, but Dalziel, who, though surprisingly fast over a short distance, was no marathon man, had slowed considerably.

  Now the path broadened into the little restful glade, and Wield stopped so suddenly that Pascoe ran into him.

  Sitting on the bench under the mocking eye of the marble faun was a young man dressed in grey slacks and a white shirt above which flamed a mop of bright red hair. Against his left leg, like a symbol of office, rested a chestnut walking stick with a bone handle carved in the shape of an eagle’s head.

  ‘Hello, lad,’ said Wield. ‘Still baht ’at, I see.’

  Pascoe, who had been rather impressed by the young man’s letter, smiled reassuringly and said, ‘Hello. It’s good to see you’re OK.’

  And now Dalziel arrived, moving at the measured pace of the High Priest approaching the sacrificial altar.

  ‘Harold Bendish?’ he said. ‘There’s a lot of folk that’ll be glad to hear you’re alive. By the time thee and me’s finished, I’ll be surprised if you’re still among them.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘What a trifle it is in all its Bearings to the really important points of one’s existence even in this World!’

  It was, thought Pascoe later as he ran his mental video of the scene, less like a suspect being interrogated than a young king, Alexander, say, dealing patiently with the complaints of his disaffected satraps.

  Wield, anticipating they would move off, said, ‘On your feet, lad,’ and Bendish rose willingly enough but winced as he put weight on his left foot and leaned on the ornate walking stick.

  ‘What’s up? Sore leg?’

  ‘It’s a bit stiff,’ admitted the young man.

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ said Wield.

  Obediently Bendish pulled up his left trouser to reveal a neatly repaired jagged gash in his calf.

  ‘I recognize them stitches,’ said Wield, fingering his ear.

  ‘I recognize those teeth marks,’ said Pascoe, shuddering. ‘Fop?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The two younger policemen glanced inquiringly at Dalziel, who said, ‘All right, sit down, lad. We can get the formalities over here as easy as anywhere.’

  It was not intended as a kindness. PACE required that a suspect should be interrogated as soon as was humanly possible under properly controlled conditions with a taperecorder running. But Dalziel liked when he could to get his script edited well in advance.

  So the young man sat down again and, as there was only room for one on the bench unless their purpose was amatory, the others stayed standing.

  ‘You’ve not had my letters, then?’ said Bendish. ‘I thought you can’t have had, from what Larry was saying.’

  Dalziel, looking irritated to have the initiative wrested from him, said, ‘We’ve seen them now, lad. Only difference they make is whether you’re a bent cop, or were just masquerading as a cop when you committed your crimes. Either way, it’s worth an extra five stretch.’

  Pascoe rolled his eyes at this exaggeration but Bendish seemed unaffected by it. He said, ‘I’m sorry that people have been put to a lot of trouble because my letters were delayed. But apart from searching for me to make sure I’m all right, what else are you after, sir?’

  Dalziel said, ‘OK, son. You want to play it that way, fine. Let’s get down to cases. Harold Bendish, did you two nights ago by making a false report of a possible intruder gain entrance to Scarletts?’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly a false report,’ said Bendish. ‘There was an intruder.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the youth, grinning broadly. ‘Me.’

  Wield and Pascoe looked expectantly at the Fat Man, waiting for the thunderbolts, but he merely passed a huge hand across his face and went on, ‘While you were inside, you persuaded Mrs Bayle to turn off the alarms, and then your accomplice diverted Mrs Bayle with a telephone call from a mobile phone?’

  Bendish considered, nodded, said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘And while Mrs Bayle was out of the room, you removed a painting from the wall, passed it through the window to your accomplice, took in a copy which you had had prepared, and hung it up in place of the original. Right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And this accomplice was Miss Frances Harding of Old Hall?’

  Bendish hesitated, and that hesitation confirmed what Pascoe already knew, that the young man was deeply in love. His only line of defence against these charges was that the painting was Fran’s anyway, and he could hardly advance that without naming the girl. Yet when it came to the point, he found it hard.

  He said, ‘It was all my idea …’

  ‘Oh aye? And she’s little Miss Innocent, is she? Come on, lad. We know all about you two banging away in the garden shed!’ said Dalziel with provocative coarseness.

  Bendish flushed the lovely colour Wield recalled from their first encounter, and his fingers whitened around his stick. Quickly, Pascoe said, ‘She left the phone under the window, didn’t she? And you went back for it. And it started ringing …’ (that would have been Guy the Heir trying to call Girlie) ‘… and Mrs Bayle let Fop out …’

  ‘He got me as I was going over the gate,’ said Bendish, wincing at the memory. ‘There was blood everywhere and my trousers were ruined. Fran was marvellous. She drove us back to the village and then we …’

  His voice tailed off. He was still worried about mentioning names, Pascoe realized. Not grassing was as much a problem for cops as for crooks.

  ‘You went to Corpse Cottage,’ he said. ‘Because that’s where you’d arranged to meet Caddy to hand over the painting so she could remove it from the frame and put Aunt Edwina back in.’

  It was obvious when you thought about it, though Bendish was regarding him with awe and even Dalziel and Wield looked impressed.

  Encouraged, he pressed on. ‘Fran probably wanted to take you to hospital, but that was going to need far too much explanation. So you said she could patch you up,
she had the training and the equipment, and you’d recently updated your tetanus jabs and were still taking a course of antibiotics as a result of your run-in with Guy the Heir.’

  ‘Have you been talking to Fran?’ demanded the youth. ‘Or Caddy? That’s it. Caddy!’

  ‘No need. But you needed somewhere to lie up. You couldn’t stay in the cottage, it was too dangerous to smuggle you into the Hall, so …’

  He paused. To his audience it may have seemed a rhetorical flourish. In fact it was simply a drying-up. They’d gone to the vicarage, that was clear. But why in the name of God had Lillingstone allowed himself to be sucked into this crazy and criminous business?

  God, who is sometimes amused to take the profane use of his name as genuine prayer, decided to take Pascoe off the hook, and gave Harold Bendish a nudge.

  ‘It was Caddy who suggested the Vicar,’ he said. ‘Larry … well, Larry’s got this thing about her. Everybody knows only he thinks they don’t. So once she explained all about the school and everything … and I think it helped that it was one in the eye for Justin Halavant as the Vicar’s been a bit narked with him ever since word got out about the pass he made at Caddy …’

  ‘Hang about!’ commanded Dalziel. ‘The school and everything …?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Wield, who saw no reason why Pascoe should grab all the detective kudos. ‘They were stealing the picture so they could sell it and get enough money to save the school, I thought everyone knew that. I expect the idea started when the Vicar gave young Fran her gran’s journal and she read about Job Halavant picking the painting up cheap. And I expect it were Caddy who spotted it at Scarletts …’

  ‘It was the frame,’ said Bendish. ‘She was in Fran’s room one day talking about the illustrations she were doing for Mr Digweed’s edition of the Journal, and she looked at Aunt Edwina and said she knew where there was a frame exactly the same as that, only the picture in it looked to be worth a hell of a lot more. One thing led to another …’

  ‘And you all ended up in a conspiracy to rob,’ said Dalziel, eager to bring proceedings back down to earth and start arresting people. ‘Grand. Mr Pascoe, would you care to …?’