Deadheads

6

Dick Elgood had not been lying when he said that he liked to relax alone on the night before an important meeting.

He left the offices of Perfecta at six o'clock, pausing to glance at the old Elgoodware artefacts on display in the vestibule. This is how it had all started. Here were the beginnings of the road which had led him to where he was now. Which was where? He felt uneasy at the thought. It was daft! How could the condition, the achievement, which only a few weeks ago had seemed such a cause for congratulation, for complacency even, now appear hollow, empty, meaningless? Perhaps a man needed more than work. An interest, an obsession. Like Aldermann's garden and his bloody roses! What did he have? Women, a lot of 'em, more than he could recall. That was something, surely. Pleasure; ecstasy; and more to come. His strength was less than it had been, but far from failing. Perhaps he should have arranged for a bit of company tonight. He thought of telephoning around, but decided it was too late. And surely it was best to stick to his plan.

Nevertheless, the desire for company remained, and he didn't go straight to the cottage but drove first to a favourite restaurant some ten miles up the coast where he had a steak. There was a new waitress, a smiling lass, who caught his fancy and he lingered longer than he intended over his coffee and brandy. But when he judged the moment ripe to ask what time she finished, she replied promptly, as though the question had been anticipated, that her father collected her shortly after eleven. Dick finished his brandy philosophically, guessing that one of her colleagues had played bitch in the manger and warned her off. He had certainly used the place often enough for his reputation to be known, and like most dedicated followers of the fancy, his sexual vanity did not permit him to consider that perhaps the girl simply didn't like the look of him.

It was after ten-thirty when he arrived at the cottage, much later than he had intended. He felt vaguely dissatisfied as he stood by the white post which marked the furthest encroachment of the sea and gazed down at the darkling shore where a thin white line and a rhythmic susurration signalled the retreating tide. He should have stuck to his original intention and come straight down. Now he would have to forgo his anticipated swim. Food, alcohol and an ebb tide were ingredients which mixed to disaster. And in any case, though usually he regarded the water as simply an alternative element, tonight the moving darkness stretching away to an imperceptible horizon filled him with a sense of menace and being alone. Shivering, he turned and went inside.

His customary pre-bed cup of cocoa with a shot of rum soothed his slightly ruffled nerves and he soon fell asleep. But he passed a broken night, waking frequently out of ancient dreams of flying and falling to listen to the strange patterns of noise that sea and wind and darkness were weaving all around. He was glad to get up on Wednesday morning, gladder to see that even so early the sun was already beaming promises of great warmth from an untroubled sky. The sea was its old self, dancing invitingly in the little bay below the cliff. He was tempted to go straight down, but at his age such suddenness was to be avoided. He did some stretching and warming exercises, then took his usual little breakfast of pure apple juice and a dry crispbread and black coffee. Then he relaxed and smoked a couple of cigarettes. Finally he was ready.

He put on his towelling robe and clambered down the broken cliff face to the beach. He removed the robe, looked around, and removed his trunks also. He liked to swim naked but was very careful to do so only when he could be almost completely certain of being uninterrupted. He had no desire to be dragged into court on an indecency charge.

As always, his swim invigorated him mentally and physically, reminding him of both his fitness and his self-sufficiency. He was hardly puffing as he clambered back up the cliff and re-entered the cottage.

He went straight into the shower cubicle to wash off the salt water. Carefully adjusting the jet till he got the perfect temperature, he stepped inside. First he soaped himself all over, then he poured shampoo on to his still thick and vigorous hair and began to massage it to a lather. The water ran steadily, caressing his body. It wasn't for some time that he felt the first prickles of discomfort. It wasn't bad, just as if he were showering after too long an exposure to a burning sun. He raised his head to the streaming water, letting it run over his face. His eyes prickled as if he'd got soap in them. He opened them to wash it out. And screamed as they seemed to burst into flame.

He staggered sideways out of the shower, but the pain came with him. His mouth tasted acrid, he couldn't see out of one eye and vision from the other was blurred and distorted. He crashed across the living-room, making for the front door. He was twitching convulsively and his mind was hardly able to function beyond his desperate desire to get down to the sea. The sea would cleanse him, soothe him, save him. He was in the little garden now. He hit the white post, reached the edge of the cliff and fell rather than descended down its broken face. Now he could hear the water though sight was almost gone. Even the bold red sun was only a match-head to his unblinking gaze. He staggered on, his feet dragging through the shingle and the sand till he felt the waves lapping at his feet. He kept going a step or two further, then fell forward and let the water take him. After a while he rolled on his back and tried to float. Above him seagulls mewed, but the sound barely touched his ears, like the cry of children playing on a distant shore.

Shaheed Singh awoke first to the dawn chorus of hospital life and didn't manage to get back to sleep till after nine A.M. When he opened his eyes an hour later, Dalziel, Pascoe, and Sergeant Wield were standing by his bed.

"Morning, lad,' said Dalziel. 'We've finished your grapes. How're you feeling? Always thought you needed a turban to finish you off.'

Singh put his hand to the swathe of bandage which crowned his head and smiled, not at the comment but at Inspector Pascoe's undisguised pained reaction to it.

'They wouldn't let us see you till last night and by then you were asleep,' said Dalziel accusingly. 'You sleep a lot for a young copper.'

'The doctors say that there's no fracture, just a heavy concussion,' said Pascoe. 'You'll be out in a day or two. Your dad's outside, but he insisted we came in first.'

'What about Jonty and them others?' said Singh. 'Did we get 'em?'

'Oh yes. And don't worry, we'll see you get mentioned in all the right places,' smiled Pascoe.

Wield said, 'I brought you some books. And some chocolate.'

'Thanks, Sarge,' said Shaheed.

'Right. We'd best be off. Can't have all the best brains in CID stuck in hospital at the same time, can we?' said Dalziel. 'Thanks for your help, lad. We'll send your dad in now.'

He and Pascoe turned away.

Wield said, 'I'll drop in again.'

Singh said, 'Oh, no need to bother, Sarge. My dad'll be coming. And my mam. And then there's all my brothers. I'll have plenty of visitors.'

'All right then,' said Wield. 'Cheerio.'

'Cheers, Sarge.'

On their way back to the station, Wield was in such a deeply introspective mood that it drew the attention of the others, used though they were to his blank impassivity.

'You all right, Sergeant?' enquired Dalziel.

'Yes, sir.'

'Gut rot, is it? The takeaway trots?'

'No, I'm all right.'

'You don't look it. You ought to get yourself married and start eating properly.'

But the news which reached them shortly after their return to the station put all thoughts of Wield's health out of their minds.

It was Dalziel who was told first and he burst into Pascoe's office without preamble.

'He's dead! Dandy Dick's dead!'

'What?'

'Aye. Found drowned. He should've been at a meeting at ten, didn't appear, they got the local bobby to check down at his cottage, and there he was, bobbing around in the sea.'

'What caused it? Cramp? Heart-attack?'

'I don't know. Get on to it, will you, Peter? Check what the quack says.'

It was early afternoon when Pascoe got back to Dalziel. The inspector was grave-faced.

'It's not nice,' he said.

'What ever is it? Get a move on, lad!'

'The first doctor that got called thought there was something odd about the body and our man's confirmed it as far as he can without pathological tests.'

'Confirmed what?'

Pascoe said, 'Dick Elgood had been in contact with a large concentration of some chemical reagent shortly before he died.'

'What chemical, for Christ's sake?'

'Oh, I'd say at a guess something like parathion or dieldrin.'

'You'd say! What's the quack say?'

'Still checking, but he agrees. You see, I had a good go at our local lad. He was a bit upset he'd noticed nothing queer about the body. The eyes were a bit funny, he thought, but he put that down to immersion in the sea. Well, we went over everything and he recalled that when he first went into the cottage he'd found the shower on. Now that struck me as odd. Why shower,then go into the sea? So I took a look in the attic. You recall that box that Elgood put up there last Sunday?'

'The garden stuff? Jesus Christ!'

'That's right. It had somehow found its way into the water tank.'

'Found its way?' echoed Dalziel incredulously.

'That's where it was anyway. I got a pair of rubber gloves and lifted it out. There was a real mixture of stuff, some powder, some liquid, all highly concentrated from what I could read on the labels, and a lot of loose tops. I showed the box to the doctor and he said it fitted.

Parathion compounds can easily be absorbed through the skin without much local irritation, and it's easy to take a bit of water through the mouth when you're showering. The effects of a cocktail like this could be quick and devastating. Disorientation, lack of muscular control, spasms, respiratory problems — the poor bastard probably staggered down to the sea with some notion of rinsing himself clean and simply drowned.'

'You've organized the tech lads down there?'

'Of course,' said Pascoe, adding hesitantly, 'not that I think there's much for them to find. Look, sir, it looked to me as if Elgood must have simply rested the box on the edge of the tank. There were some pretty violent winds in that storm the other night and they'd go funnelling through that roof space at a hell of a lick. Over goes the box. .'

'Do you really believe that, Inspector?' asked Dalziel harshly.

'What else? You can't still be thinking of Aldermann? Where's the motive? That's all been settled! And opportunity? He's been away since Monday! And don't say Sunday night. They left Elgood's picnic at the same time as us and we asked them to drop in at our place as they passed. One thing led to another, we had a drink and a snack, and it was after ten when they left.'

'Very cosy,' growled Dalziel. 'All right. What's to stop him driving his wife and girl home, then taking off back to the coast?'

'Nothing, I suppose,' admitted Pascoe. 'But his wife would know. I mean, it'd take at least two hours, there and back.'

'You're going out there today to tie up the burglary business, aren't you?' said Dalziel. 'Ask her.'

Pascoe hesitated, then said, 'If I must, sir.'

'Oh yes,' said Dalziel intensely. 'You know you bloody well must.'

It was three o'clock when Pascoe arrived at Rosemont and its gardens were still awash with the high tide of the sun. All along the road from town he had driven with his windows down, letting the fresh air cleanse his mind, confounding his worries in the green and gold beauties of an English midsummer day. Turning into the gates of Rosemont had meant plunging for a brief moment into a dark tunnel of over shading holly trees. But when he emerged once more into the bright air, it seemed as if he must have stumbled upon the very source of all this richness and warmth. The brick of the house, the green of the lawns, the rainbow spectrum of bloom curving around the borders — all seemed part of a single design with the great arch of blue sky in which the sun shimmered like a bonfire reflected in a deep lake

In front of the house a Mini was parked. As he halted behind it he recognized it as Ellie's.

'Oh shit,' he said aloud.

He rang the bell. A few moments later Daphne opened the door.

'Peter!' she cried. 'How nice. Come in. Ellie's here, we're out on the terrace.'

'Daphne,' he said, 'have you heard about Dick Elgood?'

Her face shed its smiling welcome and darkened to pain.

'Yes. The office rang soon after we got back just before lunch. Patrick went in, but there was nothing he could do. It's dreadful, isn't it? No one seemed quite sure what had happened. Was it a heart-attack while he was swimming?'

She wasn't acting. Pascoe was certain. He steeled himself for the next question whose purpose must seem obvious, but before he could speak, she said, 'Look, you go through. I was just getting some more lemon squash. Will that do for you, or would you prefer a beer?'

'No, squash will be fine.'

He walked through the house and out on to the terrace.

'Hi,' said Ellie. 'So this is what you really do when you ought to be beating up prisoners with a rubber truncheon.'

'So this is what you do when you should be chaining yourself to the Minister of Employment's left leg,' he said, stooping to kiss her. 'I'm here on business. What about you?'

'Oh, I rang to say welcome back and chat about the burglary attempt, and Daphne was in a bit of a tizz about Dick Elgood, so when she said come round, I came. It's awful, isn't it?'

'Awful,' agreed Pascoe. 'Where's Patrick?'

'In his rose-garden, where else?' said Daphne from behind. She set down a jugful of squash on the table. 'He's rather cut up about Dick, I think, and he always flies to his flowers in time of distress. David, stop bothering your sister!'

Baby Rose was once more in the care of little Diana. With them was a good-looking young boy with his father's brown eyes and stillness of expression.

'We brought him back because he got rather upset when he overheard us talking about the burglary,' explained Daphne. 'He had to see for himself that his precious room and all its contents hadn't been disturbed. I think he rather resents not being the centre of Diana's attention. David, stop it, or you'll go back to school this very evening!'

'Boys take much longer to mature than girls,' said Ellie comfortably. 'Peter, what did happen to Dick Elgood? Have you heard anything?'

'There'll have to be an inquest,' said Pascoe vaguely.

'He always seemed likely to go quickly,' said Daphne. 'All that exercise at his age.'

Ellie choked into her squash and Daphne glanced reprovingly at her.

'It's funny,' she continued, 'but I felt as if I were seeing him for the last time on Sunday. There seemed to be something very final when we said goodbye.'

'Come on,' said Ellie deflatingly. 'We all have these premonitions after the event.'

'No, that night, after we got back from your place, I couldn't sleep. I went to bed, but in the end I had to get up. I was sitting out here half the night drinking whisky. It was a strange feeling to have after such a lovely day. A sense of some horrible happening being quite close. You can believe me or not,' she said defiantly.

'And Patrick? Did he have this premonition too?' asked Pascoe with sudden interest.

'No.' Daphne laughed. 'He slept solidly, till I woke him getting back into bed about four. Then we had to get up again so he could have a drink. Then we sat out here and drank and talked for another hour or so.'

She blushed faintly as she spoke and Ellie guessed that conversation wasn't all that had passed between them on the terrace.

'I slept all the way to Gloucester,' concluded Daphne. 'I was still yawning when I met the headmaster and the staff, I'm afraid.'

'That's all right,' said Ellie. 'In those places the teachers are used to that reaction to their presence.'

'Tut-tut,' said Pascoe, filled with relief at what he'd just heard. Surely even Dalziel would admit this unsolicited alibi? 'I think I'll go and have a word with Patrick, if you'll excuse me.'

He found Aldermann hard at work in his rose-garden.

'Hello, Peter,' he said. 'I didn't know you'd arrived. I'm sorry to have been so unhostly.'

'That's OK. No, don't stop. It's nice down here.'

'There's really such a lot to do,' said Aldermann, still apologizing. 'That storm the other night — it must have been the night you were in the house — such damage!'

All the time he talked the silver blade of the pruning knife was moving with swift economy around the rose branches, severing broken twigs and damaged blooms which were then popped into the canvas bag slung around his neck.

'And now, of course, you're minus your gardeners,' said Pascoe.

'Yes, that's almost the worst thing,' said Aldermann. 'I was flabbergasted. Caldicott! Why, he's been coming to Rosemont ever since he was a boy. And his father before him was with Uncle Eddie from the beginning.'

'It was Brent, the son, who was the trouble, it seems,' said Pascoe. 'He had a bit of a record, nothing serious, but that's how he met Arthur Marsh when they were in the nick together. Later Arthur had this bright idea. It was quite bright, I suppose.'

'But how did they get old Caldicott to go along with it?'

'Feeling the pinch, I suppose. Everyone's been cutting back lately, wanting Caldicott to come half a day a week instead of a full day, but expecting much the same work. It's easy to start resenting their big, comfortable houses and all the goodies you glimpse through doors and windows. Marsh saw other things — alarm systems, sensor locations, bypass switches, wiring circuits — he's a trained electrician and there's plenty of written material about these systems nowadays. They were able to do such neat jobs, not being hurried and working in daylight, that often it wasn't till the owners got home, sometimes days later, that the break-in was discovered.'

'I still find it hard to believe, or forgive. I certainly never cut back on their time here.'

No, you wouldn't thought Pascoe.

He said, 'Caldicott senior did say as much. He's the one who's cracked and coughed the lot. He hadn't wanted to do Rosemont. That's where the business had really started, he said, and you were that rare thing among employers, a real gardener rather than just a flash Harry wanting to put on a show.'

'He said that?' Aldermann looked pleased. 'Well, I'll have to find someone else now, of course. It was quite a shock. But then this other business of Dick Elgood — that was really devastating. You've heard, of course?'

'Yes,' said Pascoe. 'I've heard.'

'Poor Dick. It's such a tragic waste. But then, so much of his life was, wasn't it?'

'He looked very successful to me,' said Pascoe.

'Did he? Yes, I suppose he would. And I dare say that's how he thought of himself too. But I doubt if he was really a happy man. I honestly believe that in Nature there's only one true course of development for each of us, and the trick is finding it. At some point Dick took a wrong road. Like a rose-tree. You can cut and trim it away from its true growth and be quite successful with it for a long time. But in the end, the misdirection shows.'

'What will happen at Perfecta now?' asked Pascoe.

'I don't know. It's all in the melting-pot. There'll be changes, I expect, but nothing ever really changes.'

Patrick Aldermann spoke with the confident disinterest of one who knows where the real centre of things lies: And why should he not? Had not life confirmed his judgement at every turn? Some might have called him an opportunist, but opportunity so invariably offered must assume the dimension of fate. There had been no doubt in his mind this lunch-time, for instance, that when he went to Perfecta he would find that Quayle had already assumed the mantle of acting chairman and managing director, and in that capacity had installed himself in Elgood's office. It hadn't even been necessary to find a pretext for getting him to open the safe. A stricken Miss Dominic had already opened it at his behest. And just as inevitably, the plain white envelope which Patrick had picked out and pocketed had contained the original of his Great-Aunt Florence's will. This was no opportunism but destiny! With such assurance of maintaining the true order of things, where for instance had been the risk in wandering into Elgood's cottage as the departing guests crowded the little garden outside to make their goodbyes, pulling down the attic ladder, ascending and depositing the cardboard box with bottle tops slightly loosened into the open cistern? Three minutes. No one had noticed he'd gone. So it had always been. So, he assumed, it would always be. Beyond choice. Beyond morality. Preordained.

He became aware that Pascoe was observing him curiously. And not only Pascoe. His son was standing close behind the policeman, almost invisible in the camouflage of sun-flecks through the breeze-stirred roses.

'Hello, David,' said Aldermann, resuming his pruning. 'What are you up to.'

'Mummy sent me to say it's rude for you to keep Mr Pascoe standing out here so long.'

'And she's right, of course. Thank you, David. Peter, I'm sorry.'

‘It was my idea,' said Pascoe.

'That's no excuse,' said Aldermann, slicing another bloom off its stem with a single economic motion which set the sunlight spilling off the silver blade like alien blood.

'Daddy,' said the boy.

'Yes, David.'

'What is it that you're doing? I mean, I can see what you're doing, but why do you do it?'

'Well,' said Aldermann with his knife poised above another deadhead. 'I'm. .'

Then he paused and smiled as if at some deep, inner joke.

Carefully he closed the pruning knife and put it in his pocket.

'Later, David,' he said. 'I'll explain to you some other time. We have our guests to look after. Peter, you must be roasted, standing out here in the sun. Let's go and find a cool drink and sit and talk to the ladies. Isn't it a perfect day?'