Deadheads

5

Sergeant Wield sat on the edge of the bed, acutely conscious of Police-Cadet Shaheed Singh's presence only a few feet away in the scented darkness.

They were in one of the bedrooms of Rosemont. A potpourri of rose petals stood on the window-sill and the draughts of air which penetrated from the stormy night outside carried the sweet perfume on their breath.

There were only another four men on the operation. Pascoe and a large DC called Seymour were in a bedroom on the other side of the house and two uniformed constables were seated in a car parked up a track about a hundred yards from the main gates. These were all the men that could be spared, Dalziel had explained. The Minister for Employment was touring the area the following day; demonstrations had been arranged (Pascoe had avoided discovering the depths of Ellie's involvement), threats had been received, and the Chief Constable wanted every available man on the job for the duration of the visit.

'And he doesn't want the buggers half asleep,' said Dalziel. 'Not that he'd notice. He hasn't been fully awake for forty years or more. And young Singh had better not go either. With so few of you, if there is any bother, he might be tempted to start mixing it, and the last thing I need at the moment is to have to explain how I came to let a cadet get thumped. ‘It had been Wield who'd argued the other way, knowing how disappointed the boy would be.

'He'll be useful to keep someone awake, otherwise we'd have to have one man by himself,' he said.

Finally Dalziel was persuaded.

'But he stays upstairs. Even if he thinks they're massacring you lot down below with a chain-saw, he stays out of sight. Right?'

And when Wield had departed, the Superintendent said to Pascoe, 'And you can put young Abdul in with that bugger to keep him awake. Wield must be shorter of beauty sleep than any other man in the county!'

So here they were, waiting. It was nearly midnight. Sunday's glorious weather had spilled over into Monday morning, but storm clouds had begun to simmer in mid-afternoon and the long midsummer evening had sunk into premature darkness shortly after nine, and into almost total blackness a couple of hours later. Wield had waited for his night vision to develop, but even now the room only existed as a wash of black over some heavier concentrations which marked the furniture. The narrow slit in the curtained window let in no light worth mentioning. It overlooked the east side of the house, which meant that the horizon was smudged with the tangerine glow of city lights, but this only served to accentuate the nearer darkness. In the last hour a strong wind had blown up which so far had failed to clear the sky and had merely served to fill the old house with creaks and groans and eerie flutings, while at the same time whipping the dark mere of the garden into such a frenzy of formless movement that Wield had ceased to peer out, finding his straining eyes were filling the night with advancing shapes.

'Sarge,' whispered Singh.

'Yes?'

'Do you reckon they'll come?'

'What's up? Getting bored?' asked Wield.

'No!'

'Then you must be either drunk or unconscious,' said Wield. 'Mebbe they'll come, mebbe they'll not. Just think yourself lucky it's the middle of summer.'

'Why's that?'

'You could be freezing your bollocks off and sitting around here till six or seven in the morning. As it is, it'll start getting light around four. You might even get an hour's sleep before you go back on duty. So count your blessings.'

There was a long silence from the patch of blacker black which was Singh.

'Sarge,' he said finally, emboldened by the lack of visibility and the feeling of intimacy such conditions can engender between even the most antagonistic of couples. 'Do you think I'm doing the right thing, training to be a cop, and all?'

'What do you mean?' asked Wield. 'Why do you ask?'

'It's just that, well, you've never been very encouraging. I've talked to some of the others, you know, some of the DCs and the uniformed lads I've got to know, and, well, they all say you're fair, and very sharp too. There's a lot on 'em reckon you ought to have got on a lot further by now. .'

'Are you building up to a retirement presentation, or what?' wondered Wield.

'No, well, all I was wondering was, if you're as fair and sharp as everyone says, and you don't rate me. .'

The boy's voice faded from a whisper to an uneasy, embarrassed silence and the wind's endless moaning took control again.

'What makes you think I don't rate you?' asked Wield.

'You' ve always been a bit, like, sharp,' said Singh. 'I'm sorry, look, I'm not complaining, but I just wondered. .'

'What'd you do if you didn't become a copper?' asked Wield.

'I'd help in my father's shop, I expect,' said Singh.

'You don't want to do that? Don't you get on with your dad?'

'Oh yes, we get on fine. . only. . well, if I worked in the business, I'd have to sort of do things his way. I mean, his way's the right way, I think, because he's done very well, and I don't mean he's strict about religion and that; he wants the family to belong here, he says, not to just be passing by; but if I stayed at home, I think I'd always be, well, like, a lad, a boy, I know I am still, everyone calls me "lad", but at home in my father's shop, I think I'd stay as a boy until. . until. .'

'Until he died,' said Wield softly.

'Yes, I think so. And I don't want to ever be wishing that my father would die.'

The darkness between them was now vibrant with the electricity of confession, binding them in a circuit of intimacy Wield had not wished for but now could not deny.

'My dad died,' he said softly. 'I was thirteen. He was very strict, very stern. He kept pigeons. I had to keep the loft clean. And when there got to be too many and some had to have their necks pulled, he made me help him. I think I wanted most of all in the world to be like my dad, to be big and strong and certain and able to pull pigeon's necks and not care. I never could, though. Perhaps, if he'd lived, I might have come to it, but I doubt it. They're such soft birds, trusting. .'

He yearned to reach out and touch the boy's shoulder. A simple, uncomplicated, encouraging gesture.

But he reminded himself bitterly that just as in his professional world there were no free lunches, in his private world there were no simple gestures.

'You carry on and be a cop, lad,' he said harshly. 'As long as you can pull the pigeons' necks and not start enjoying it, you'll be all right.'

They both fell silent and remained silent while outside the wind at last blew itself out and dawn's green light began to move across the badly ruffled gardens.

When it was full light, Pascoe came yawning into the bedroom.

'All right,' he said. 'That'll do.'

Singh regarded him miserably, expecting reproach, but Pascoe just grinned and, ruffling the boy's hair in the gesture Wield had not dared, said, 'What're you doing tonight, Shady? Hope you haven't got anything heavy planned.'

'Are we coming back, sir?'

'Why not? Mr and Mrs Aldermann won't be home till tomorrow.' He yawned again and added, 'Seymour's switched off the alarm. I've told him to go back with the lads in the Panda and send a car out for us. Meanwhile I'm sure Mrs Aldermann wouldn't grudge us a cup of coffee.'

They went downstairs, Wield and the boy turned towards the kitchen, Pascoe said, 'I'll get a breath of air, I think,' and made for the front door.

But as he passed the door of Aldermann's study, he saw it was ajar and heard a noise inside.

Carefully he pushed it open till he could see one end of the handsome hard oak partner's desk which he guessed had belonged to Eddie Aldermann. There was a figure stooping over an opened drawer. He pushed the door open a little further.

'Come in, Peter, come on in. Had a good night, have you?'

It was Dalziel, looking wide-awake and healthy, except where a nicked undulation of flesh over his left jaw, repaired with pink toilet paper, showed the dangers of early morning shaving.

'What are you doing here? Sir?' demanded Pascoe

'Pastoral care, Peter,' said Dalziel genially. 'I woke up and got to thinking about you, stuck out here all night with nothing happening. Nothing did happen, did it? No, I didn't think it would. In fact, I didn't think it would last evening, but it seemed silly to be a kill-joy when you'd gone to all that bother to set things up.'

What the hell did he want? wondered Pascoe.

'Looking for anything in particular, sir?' he asked, nodding at the desk.

'No, not really. Aldermann's in the clear, isn't he? I've got your word on it, and that's good enough for me. Just my natural curiosity, lad. Unpaid bills, mainly, but he'll soon have that sorted. And a lot of stuff about roses. He corresponds with the best people, doesn't he? Even I've heard of some of their names. Let's bung this stuff back and take a stroll around, shall we, Peter? Best time of day, this. You ought to try getting up early more often. Taste the dawn.'

He watched like a benevolent Nature spirit as Pascoe tidied up the papers he'd disturbed and closed the drawers.

'It's all right, lad,' he said, observing the Inspector's hesitation. 'They weren't locked. Trusting soul, Aldermann. And it helps your tender conscience, I've no doubt. Where's Beauty and the Beast, by the way?'

Pascoe led the way to the kitchen. Wield and Singh were deep in conversation which stopped as he entered, and when Dalziel came in behind him, they both stood up, Singh's chair practically falling over in his eagerness.

'Take it easy, lad,' said Dalziel in his kindly voice. 'Not quite got the hang of chairs yet? Don't worry. It'll come, it'll come. You know, I could just fancy a cup of tea. Think you can manage that, son?'

Singh nodded.

'Good. And have a bit of a poke around in the larder. I don't expect you'll find any beef dripping here. That's what I'd really like, a beef dripping sarnie. Failing that, a bit of toast with Marmite. I'm sure they'll have Marmite. Lay it on thick so there's a bit of flavour. Will you do that for me?'

'Yes, sir,' said Singh.

'Good lad. Come on, Inspector. We'll take a turn round the garden.'

'I'll have a coffee,' said Pascoe to Wield. 'But no Marmite.'

As he walked towards the front door with Dalziel, the fat man boomed, 'A good lad, that darkie. He'll go far. Wouldn't surprise me if he went all the way. I'd like to see that. Make a change from some of these pasty-faced buggers I saw last week. You'd think they lived under stones down there!'

Outside Pascoe was puzzled to see no sign of Dalziel's car. He couldn't have walked here, surely! The turbulence of the night was long past and a fine summer's day was unfolding like a flower. But the storm had left its mark. Dalziel tutted as he walked across the once smooth lawn now strewn with twigs and leaves and petals.

'Bit of tidying up for our Patrick here,' he observed.

'I think he pays someone to do the basic stuff,' said Pascoe.

'Aye, he would. No expense spared with this lad. Mind you, he'll need help. There's a lot of land here, a lot of land.'

They strolled round the formal gardens till they arrived at the small complex of greenhouses.

'This is where it all happens, this hybridization is it?' said Dalziel, peering through the glass like a voyeur hoping to glimpse flesh. 'Clever fellow, our Patrick. Very clever.'

'Sir,' said Pascoe determinedly. 'Do you still suspect him of something?'

'Me? No. Why should I? A lot of people died, it's true. But there's always people dying, isn't there? And we've no bodies, have we? That's what we're short of Peter. Bodies.'

He sounded almost regretful. Pascoe was reminded of the police pathologist who demanded flesh.

'Plenty of nothing, that's all we have,' continued Dalziel. 'And all we're likely to have from the look of it. Let's get back to the house. All this morning air's making me hungry.'

'You really fancy him for at least one of these deaths, do you, sir?' persisted Pascoe as they walked back through the rose-garden.

Dalziel paused to pluck a crimson bloom which the wind had half snapped off its stem and put it in his button-hole.

'Milord,' he said, displaying that expertise in unexpected areas with which he sometimes surprised his subordinates.

'Very fitting,' said Pascoe drily. 'About Aldermann. .'

'He frightened his mam,' said Dalziel. 'No, that's too strong. He had a lot of influence over her, and she's not an easy woman to dominate, I tell you. But you think he's all right?'

'I quite like him,' admitted Pascoe. 'And you?'

'Only met him once, haven't I?' said Dalziel, adding thoughtfully, 'But I must say I quite like his mam!'

Back in the house, they found a pot of tea and a plateful of Marmited toast waiting for Dalziel. He tucked in with a good appetite, telling a long rambling anecdote about his army experiences as a military policeman. Pascoe drank his mug of coffee and responded to Wield's interrogative glance with a minute shrug.

'Right,' said Dalziel, glancing at the kitchen clock which said seven A.M., 'let's get washed up. Always leave a place as you'd hope to find it, you shouldn't forget that, son.'

Singh nodded as if this were the most helpful piece of advice he'd ever heard.

Carefully, they washed up with Dalziel doing the drying. When he'd finished, he folded the tea-towel carefully and draped it over the draining-rack.

'Now, Peter,' he said, 'if you'd set the alarm again.'

'We're going?' asked Pascoe.

'Oh no. We're staying,' said Dalziel.

He led the way upstairs. Silently, the other three followed.

Dalziel opened the master bedroom, looked with approval at the large, deep, double bed, removed his shoes, and spread himself out across the silk coverlet.

'Wake me when they come,' he said closing his eyes.

'When who come?'

One red-shot eye opened.

'The burglars,' said Dalziel. 'That's what we're here for, isn't it? To catch some burglars.'

The eye closed. The fat man appeared to sleep.

Just after eight o'clock, they all started, except Dalziel, as they heard a distant noise. It was the grind of an approaching vehicle. Pascoe joined Wield at the window. An old green van was coming up the drive. It turned and disappeared along the side of the house, momentarily revealing the legend Caldicott and Son, Landscape Gardeners.

'Are they here then?' said Dalziel, sitting up. 'Let's take a shufti out the back.'

He rolled off the bed and went out on to the landing and walked round till he reached one of the bedrooms overlooking the rear.

'The gardeners?' said Pascoe, following him. 'You mean, it's them?'

'It's in Arthur Marsh's file,' said Dalziel. 'That unemployment benefit fiddle he got done for — he was working for a gardening firm. I'm surprised that didn't strike you as odd, Peter! Trained electrician. If he'd wanted to do a bit of moonlighting, why start humping wheelbarrows and garden forks about?'

'He's there. Jonty's there!' said Singh, excitedly peering between the drawn curtains. 'And Artie too. I can see them!'

'Can you? Good lad. Watch you don't move them curtains though,' said Dalziel.

'But if you spotted this yesterday, why didn't you say anything,' said Pascoe indignantly.

'It was just a theory, lad,' said Dalziel soothingly. 'Besides, I weren't sure whether Arthur Marsh was using the gardening job just to case places which he then turned over independently, or whether the whole firm was in it. He might have dropped in last night, in which case, the 'nick was all yours. But when I checked this morning and nothing had happened, then theory two seemed to be on.'

'They don't much look as if they're planning to break in,' said Wield, who'd joined Singh.

'What do you want? Masks and bags marked "Swag"?" demanded Dalziel. 'They've got work to do in the garden, haven't they? They're paid to be here. They're entitled to be here! That's the beauty of it.'

Pascoe produced Aldermann's list of tradesmen and others who would know the house was going to be empty and quickly scanned it.

'He doesn't mention the gardeners,' he complained.

'Why should he? Likely he just mentioned the people he's cancelled, like milk and newspapers,' said Dalziel. 'He wouldn't cancel the gardeners. Gardens keep on growing even while you're away. I checked one of the other places that'd been done. Yes, they had Caldicott's one morning a week. Yes, they remembered Artie, he was the friendly one, always popping in to fill his teapot, always ready to help in the house with a bit of lifting or moving. It's a good set-up, isn't it? Lots of opportunity to case the target. And no crawling around in the middle of the night. You just drive up at your usual time and some time during the day, when observation's taught you you're least likely to be interrupted, you get inside, lift what you want, dump it in the van in a couple of old sacks, and drive off with it!'

'Eventually they'd have run out of houses,' said Pascoe in an aggrieved tone.

'Yes, likely they would. That would certainly have been another way of stopping them,' said Dalziel judiciously.

'Why'd they bring in Jonty Marsh, sir?' wondered Wield.

'There was another lad, Caldicott junior, I think you'll find. Only he broke his arm the other week.'

'Harrogate,' said Pascoe, remembering the torn ivy that Ivan Skelwith had pointed out. 'I bet that was at Harrogate.'

'Aye, and likely they needed another nippy little sod to do any clambering about that was needed, so Arthur recommended his kid brother.'

'They still don't look as if they're up to anything,' said Wield doubtfully.

'O ye of little faith,' said Dalziel. 'Come back to the front bedroom.'

Obediently they followed. Wield and Singh resumed their watch at the front window, stupidly in both their opinions as the gardeners were all round the back. Then ten minutes later, Singh said, 'Here's somebody. It's the postman!'

He cycled up to the front door, sorted out his mail, thrust it through. On his way back he diverted to the side of the house and addressed himself to somebody, then passed from sight.

'He'll be having a cup of tea,' said Dalziel. 'It'll be a habit every Tuesday morning. They're not going to let him see owt suspicious, are they?'

Reproved, the watchers resumed their watching and Dalziel his position on the bed.

'He's gone,' said Wield at last.

'Right. Shouldn't be long now,' said Dalziel, eyes still closed.

'Where should we be watching, sir, back or front?' asked Wield.

'No matter. You'll not really see much. They'll fix the alarm bell first. That'll likely be a job for young Jonty. Jam it, or muffle it, or even cut it, depends on the type. Arthur will have sussed it out. Next, the nipper will be sent up aloft again, this time to cut the telephone wire. Normally of course this'd set the alarm ringing, but as they've fixed that already, all it means is that the alarm dialling system is knackered too. Then one of them will come in, through a window mebbe, or a door if Arthur's managed to get a key. The others will carry on with their business so that any passing peasant wouldn't notice anything out of the ordinary. Only from time to time as one of 'em passes by the house with a barrow, he'll pick up an old sack and later chuck it into the van.

'I'm just guessing, of course,' concluded Dalziel. 'But that's the way I'd do it.'

He's right, of course, thought Pascoe, full of bitter self-reproach. For the past few months he'd begun to wonder arrogantly if Dalziel might not be past it. A creature from another age, that's how he thought of him, a dinosaur about ready for extinction. Well, what came after the dinosaurs? The apes. Almost unconsciously he dropped his jaw and did a little simian shuffle. Dalziel's eyes, which had appeared firmly shut, opened wide.

'You all right?' he asked.

'Yes, sir. Touch of cramp.'

It was another ten minutes before they heard a noise downstairs.

'Sir!' said Wield urgently.

Dalziel slowly rose, yawning.

'Give 'em a moment to start loading up,' he said.

He looked at his watch like a commander about to send his troops over the top.

'Right,' he said. 'Off we go. No, not you, young Abdul. You stay up here, son. Sorry, but I made promises about you. Don't worry, you'll get mentioned in dispatches, I'll see to that. You've done all right.'

Singh looked disappointed, but clearly Dalziel's praise was some consolation.

Dalziel led the way with no apparent attempt at concealment, but moving down the stairs with incredible lightness for a man of his bulk.

As they reached the hallway, a man clutching a sack appeared at the study door. It was Arthur Marsh. He stared at them in complete amazement for a moment, then dropped the sack with a hoarse cry of alarm and turned and fled. The policemen followed in order of seniority, though this was accidental rather than hierarchical. At the study door Wield glimpsed Arthur trying to get out of the window with Dalziel clinging on to his left foot with all the proprietary strength of a hungry bear. A noise behind him attracted Wield's attention. He turned and saw that in one thing Dalziel had been wrong. There was not just one man in the house. Coming out of the dining-room with a silver candlestick in his hand was Jonty Marsh.

'All right, lad,' growled the sergeant, advancing.

Jonty feinted to retreat, then suddenly sprinted forward, ducking under Wield's outstretched arms and nearly falling. Wield grabbed and the boy swung the heavy candlestick against his kneecap.

'Jesus Christ!' cried Wield as Jonty recovered his balance and went dashing up the stairs. On the landing he paused uncertainly. In some little pain, Wield was hobbling after him. The fleeing boy turned once more and rushed into the master bedroom.

Wield heard a babble of voices, then one voice — Jonty's — screamed, 'You fucking black wanker!' Then there was a crash and a cry and a thud, then silence.

Pain forgotten, Wield ran up the last flight of stairs and flung himself into the bedroom.

The window was open. On the floor beneath it lay the crumpled body of Police Cadet Singh. By his head was the silver candlestick and from his head coiled a line of blood like an undone ribbon.

There was a cry from the window. Wield peered out. Distantly he saw the green van careening down the drive, doors still open and banging against the sides like some discordant cymbals. But it was going nowhere. A police car was gently nosing forward between the avenue of holly bushes, blocking the way.

The cry was closer at hand. Jonty Marsh had swung himself over the sill and was trying to reach a drainpipe some five feet to his left. He clearly wasn't able to make it. The one hand by which he still clung to the sill was white with the strain, but not as white as the terrified face that looked up towards Wield.

The sergeant instinctively grabbed the boy's wrist just as the fingers began to slide off the smooth stone. Despite his slight build, he was heavy enough to make Wield gasp as he felt the full weight pulling at his arm. He was leaning too far out for his strong back and leg muscles to contribute much to the effort, but the greatest weakness was in his will. His mind was full of the boy at his feet with his eyes closed and his head bleeding, rather than the boy at the end of his arm with his eyes wide with terror and his mouth piping piteous bird-like cries. The sweat of effort and the sweat of fear lubricated their gripping hands and he could feel Jonty Marsh slipping away and he was not sure that he cared.

Then Pascoe was by his side, leaning out to grab the boy by the arm, saying 'Come up, you young bastard!' and suddenly he was a feather weight and came plunging back through the window like a hooked trout.

Pascoe dumped the boy on the floor with a force which knocked the remaining breath out of him and said, 'Lie still, sonny, or I'll chuck you back.'

Now he turned to help Wield with the injured cadet. To his surprise the sergeant was kneeling by the boy's head, his hands fluttering nervously over but not touching him, his craggy face, in whose rocks and hollows emotion usually lay deeply hid, cracked wide in an earthquake of violent grief.

'Sergeant!' said Pascoe.

The stricken eyes turned up to meet his.

'He's dead,' said Wield in a hoarsely vibrant tone. 'He's dead!'

Below the moving hands, Cadet Singh's eyelids twitched, then opened.

'You'd better not tell him that,' said Pascoe. 'Now for God's sake, go and rustle up an ambulance!'