Deadheads

9

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 often 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!

'If he said drop it, drop it,' said Dalziel. 'You seemed keen enough to get shut of the whole business the other day.'

'I'm sorry, sir,' said Pascoe. 'I know it's all a bit vague, but I just get the feeling that there's something here. All right, forget the alleged killings which are no longer alleged and which in any case seem to have been perfectly straightforward cases of accidental and of natural death. Curiously, in the one case where a bit of skulduggery could have been possible, that was the death of a man called Christopher Burke which opened up the way for Aldermann's full-time employment, Mr Elgood was emphatic it was accidental.'

'Burke? Oh aye, I recall. Fell off a ladder, didn't he? Broke his neck.'

'That's the one. Easier to arrange, I should've thought, than a heart attack or a car skidding on an empty road. But no, not that one, says Elgood.'

'And no, not the others either,' reminded Dalziel, sticking a pen down the side of his shoe to scratch his foot.

'But there has to be a reason why he came here in the first place. You did take him seriously yourself, sir,' said Pascoe accusingly.

'No,' answered Dalziel, who had now worked back upto his ankle. 'I asked you to take him seriously. He's dropped a few useful hints in the past and you shouldn't forget a man's record, good or bad, should you?'

'You mean he's one of your narks?' exclaimed Pascoe in amazement.

'Don't be daft, lad! Can you imagine meeting Dandy Dick on a park bench and slipping him a couple of quid for information received? No, it's just that once or twice, especially in the old days, he's settled a business dispute by dropping a hint about some shady deal the opposition was into. All's fair in love and business, Dick'd say. He'd screw anyone, any way!'

Dalziel spoke admiringly. His pen had now emerged from his sock and he'd pulled his trouser leg up so that he could continue the scratch up to his knee. He didn't seem to have noticed that the pen-top had remained in the sock and the felt tip was now adding a new royal blue line to the scrawl of varicose veins on his calf.

Pascoe said, 'You mean he used us to put the skids under his business rivals? The cunning sod!'

'Aye, he's that, right enough,' said Dalziel. 'Mebbe he's still playing that game, stirring things up to help himself. I'll have him if he is, though he's been quiet for a good bit now. I reckon when they got took over, the game became that much bigger and also he lost a bit of interest. You don't look after someone else's mansion the way you do your own house, do you?'

'He seemed to be looking after it fairly well when I saw him, and single-handed. The place didn't exactly look packed with senior management waiting for the union meeting to finish. Though I did see Aldermann, of course. Mind you, he looked to be packing it in for the day! I told you he gave me a rose, didn't I?'

'He wanted to give me a bunch,' said a voice from the doorway. It was Wield who had entered with his usual quietness.

'God, it's creeping Jesus,' said Dalziel, looking round. 'You want to get some hobnails in them boots of yours, Sergeant. But now you're here, just tell me again what you thought of Mr Aldermann when you called on him the other night.'

'Like I said in my report, sir, he was difficult to get to. Very self-contained, watchful almost, but not in a suspicious way. He came to life when he started showing me his roses, though.'

'You felt he could be more interested in his roses than his wife and family?' said Pascoe.

'There's men more interested in golf and greyhounds than their wives and families!' interjected Dalziel. 'That doesn't make them killers!'

Wield said, 'Not more interested in, perhaps, sir, but more passionate about, if that makes sense. He handles them with love. And when he deadheaded them, it was like watching a surgeon at work.'

'Aye, there's some of them buggers'd be better off using a pair of garden secateurs!' observed Dalziel, who tended to regard doctors as causes rather than curers of ill health.

'No, he uses a pruning knife,' said Wield, justifying his simile. 'It's a beauty, lovely shape, sharp as a scalpel.'

'I hope you're not suggesting that just because he's got a nice, sharp, shiny pruning knife, he's likely to go around slitting people's throats, Sergeant?' said Dalziel with heavy sarcasm.

'No, sir,' agreed Wield. 'That doesn't follow.'

'It's what you might call a non-secateur,' murmured Pascoe, adding hastily as he saw the look on Dalziel's face, 'and there was the cupboard full of poison, wasn't there?'

'What a way you've got with language!' said Dalziel sarcastically. 'Garden weedkillers, that's what he's got. Which there's no evidence he's used to kill owt but weeds. And what did he do with Burke? Blow the stuff up his trouser leg while he was climbing that ladder?'

He'd finished scratching his leg and now he pulled his trouser down again without noticing the decoration on his calf. Wield met Pascoe's gaze. Pascoe had a sudden desire to giggle, but Wield's rocky impassivity stemmed the impulse.

'One reason,' said Dalziel. 'Give me one reason to waste any more time on this business.'

'Curiosity,' said Pascoe promptly.

'Curiosity? About what?'

'About how a man, who, as far as I can ascertain, has never shown much real aptitude for his chosen profession, should be at the edge of becoming financial director of a subsidiary of a large international company.'

'Christ, by that yardstick we should be curious about fifty per cent of directors, seventy per cent of politicians and ninety-five per cent of Chief Constables!' said Dalziel in disgust. 'Listen, this Aldermann sounds to me like Mr Average. Dull; ordinary; wife and two kids; nice house; loves to get home to his family and his rose-garden. He'll likely go to Corfu for his holidays and have his white-haired old mother to stay at Christmas. He has got a white-haired old mother, has he?'

'Mrs Penelope Highsmith,' said Pascoe promptly, glancing at his file. 'Flat 31, Woodfall House, Denbigh Square, London SW1. Age and colour of hair unknown.'

'Very good,' complimented Dalziel. 'Your information, I mean. Highsmith? Why not Aldermann? Did she marry again?'

'She wasn't married in the first place. Highsmith was her maiden name. Evidently she never let on who Patrick's father was and it was his own idea to take his great-uncle's name when he came of age.'

But Dalziel didn't seem to be much interested in this bit of family history.

'Highsmith?' he said. 'Penelope Highsmith? Used to live up here fifteen, twenty years back?'

'I presume so. At least, he went to school here.'

'Penny Highsmith! By God. Penny Highsmith!' Dalziel's face suddenly lit up, like sunshine breaking through at Elsinore.

'You knew Mrs Highsmith, sir?' enquired Pascoe.

'We met, if it's the same one. She used to come down to the Club odd Saturday nights when there was a dance on. I never knew she had a son, though. She was a real lively lass. Full of fun and bonny with it. A real live spark.'

Whose memory brought a lustful gleam to Dalziel's weary, cynical eyes as well as Elgood's twinkling, questing ones, thought Pascoe. She must have had something! 'The Club' of course, meant the local rugby football club. Pascoe's only connection with it had been a professional one some years before while he was still a sergeant. It was not a game nor an ambience that he much cared for, but the Superintendent had evidently played the game with some skill and (Pascoe guessed) a great deal of physicality in his younger days.

'It doesn't sound as if Patrick takes after her much,' said Pascoe. 'Perhaps he's more like his mysterious father.'

'Perhaps,' said Dalziel thoughtfully. 'I'll tell you what, you two. I'm off to this bloody conference tomorrow. And because like as not you'll do what you bloody well want in any case, soon as my back's turned, I'll give you the week I'm away to rummage round in. It doesn't mean you neglect owt else, but if you've a couple of spare moments here and there, well, it's up to you. All right?

Now bugger off. I've got things to do before I go home and get packed. Oh, you might leave me that file to glance at.'

It was either a small concession or a great volte-face, depending how you looked at it. Pascoe was not inclined to quibble.

'Have a nice time, sir,' he said, dropping the file on the desk.

Dalziel grunted, looking down at the untidy surface on his desk on which his spade-like hands were arranging and rearranging articles impatiently.

It was not until he was out in the corridor that it occurred to Pascoe that he was probably looking for the top of his felt tip pen.