Death Comes for the Fat Man

11

And was she right?” asked Pascoe.

They were driving away from the castle. Having to report on his encounter with Mrs. Kewley-Hodge as he drove cut Rod’s speed by half and they were moving so slowly that pheasants crossing the road were able to pause and check the surface for nibbles before getting out of the way.

“Up to you, Pete. Are we going back for lunch or shall we stop somewhere on the way?”

“I mean about knowing everything interesting about her, not about your cuisine,” snapped Pascoe.

“Of course. Sorry,” said Rod, grinning. “No, I shouldn’t imagine so. I suspect she told me exactly what she wanted me to know. But most women do.”

“And she showed no curiosity about our reasons for turning up here?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Didn’t you find that odd?”

“Not particularly. I reckon she’s got so used to her control-freak boy calling the shots that she reckons he’ll tell her if he wants to, and if he doesn’t, then she doesn’t need to know.”

“You think he has that amount of control?”

“Oh yes. She worships the ground he doesn’t walk on,” said Rod. “What about you, Peter? What did you make of the galloping major?”

Pascoe looked at him reflectively and said, “You didn’t take to him, did you?”

“Hardly saw him,” said Rod negligently. “But from what I did see and certainly from what I heard about the guy, I got the impression he might make a big thing about being master of his fate and all that stuff while he’s at home in a controlled environment, but once he’s away from here, he’s just another poor sod in a wheelchair, right? Is it really possible he could be involved with the Templars?”

Pascoe said, “Know what I think, Rod? I think rubbing down that horse with Edie has turned you all chivalric. You’re pissed off with Luke because you reckon he’s mucking his dear old mum about. You’re sorry for the poor old bird. Unless…don’t tell me you fancied her?”

The young man grinned.

“A bit maybe. Think it was mutual,” he said. “That’s why we got on so well. She’s taken care of herself, you can see that. Must have been a real stunner. Yes, I liked her and I wouldn’t have said no. What about you? No, sorry, of course you go for the young stuff like Ffion.”

Rod laughed, inviting Pascoe to join in the fun. When he didn’t, the young man said seriously, “You really think he could be involved, don’t you?”

“Oh yes,” said Pascoe. “Up to his fucking neck.”

Rod was so surprised by the force of the affirmation that his gaze momentarily flickered from the road to Pascoe’s face.

“Careful,” said Pascoe. “You’ll have us in the ditch. Eventually.”

To tell the truth he too was a little surprised by the positiveness of his own response. Maybe Ellie was right and because the Fat Man wasn’t around, he felt it necessary to speak his lines. But having spoken this one, he realized he believed it absolutely.

“But Edie…I mean, if she was mixed up in something like this, she would hardly have been so forthcoming. Would she?”

“You mean just because she has something to hide doesn’t mean she’d try her damnedest to persuade you she hasn’t? That’s an interesting view of criminal psychology. I must remember to put it into my next CID seminar paper.”

Rod flushed rather becomingly and Pascoe pressed on.

“As for her son being just another poor sod in a wheelchair, as you so sensitively put it, first off, there’s sods in wheelchairs running everything from their own businesses to the London Marathon. And if there are times when, like all of us, they require a little help from their friends, where better to look for it than from a devoted mumsy who thinks the sun shines out of your paralyzed arse?”

For the next minute, which meant rather less than the next half mile, they drove in silence. Then Rod said, “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.”

“No need. You did really well,” said Pascoe, feeling guilty that he’d gone over the top to score points and put the youngster back in his place. But there was one more point it was necessary to make. “Now stop the car.”

The young man checked his mirrors, signaled, and carefully drew into the side of the road, which was empty as far as the eye could see in both directions.

“Now get out,” said Pascoe.

Rod hesitated, then obeyed.

Pascoe slid over into the driver’s seat and looked up at the youngster’s anxious face. Maybe he thinks I’m going to make him walk home, he thought.

“Don’t just stand there,” he said wearily. “Get in the passenger seat. There are only twenty-four hours in the day, so I’m going to drive. You can cover your eyes if you like.”

Rod climbed in and fastened his seat belt with showy precision. He didn’t cover his eyes but sat in a stiff silence till they reached their junction with the main road.

He glanced toward Pascoe as he gunned the engine to propel the car into a rather narrow gap in the traffic.

“Peter,” he said. “I hate to tell you this but I think you just turned the wrong way.”

“You think so. What if I was taking a shortcut back to Manchester via the M1 and M62?”

“I don’t think you’ll find that’s a shortcut,” said Rod.

“It is if you want to visit Bradford,” said Pascoe.