Pictures of Perfection

CHAPTER ONE

‘Blood,’ said the woman. ‘Human. Group O. Recent. And enough of it to suggest a good-sized wound.’

‘Shit,’ said Andrew Dalziel.

‘Just blood,’ said the woman.

Dalziel looked at the phone and wondered if the creature behind this cool, detached, scientific voice was taking the piss. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

‘Sorry, luv,’ he said. ‘It’s just that Bendish’s group is O.’

‘A peculiarity he shares with forty-six per cent of the population,’ she said.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Owt else?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘What’s that mean? Didn’t think you lot did perhapses.’

‘It means, perhaps there is something else,’ she said. ‘Our tests continue. Will continue. Soon as I get off this phone.’

‘Well, don’t let me keep you,’ grunted Dalziel.

He heard the phone at the other end being gently replaced, but he held on to his own. Desperate Dan could be back from lunch now and already dialling Dalziel’s number to ask for an update on the missing ploughboy. Normally Dan Trimble was a cautious man, fully aware that the path to whatever dizzy constabulary heights he still hoped to scale was littered with the bones of men who’d tried to take it at a rush. But after lunch, with the last brandy still hot in his gob and the news from Forensic hot in his ears, he might be tempted to do something daft, like contradict his Head of CID.

Leaving the phone dangling over the edge of his desk, Dalziel headed for the car park.

An hour later as he drove into Enscombe, his car slowed like an old milk horse as it passed the Morris Men’s Rest. Nobly Dalziel resisted the temptation. He wanted to talk to Pascoe and Wield before he set that dedicated rumour-monger Thomas Wapshare’s tongue wagging even more rapidly than it probably was already.

And there they were, ahead of him, getting out of Pascoe’s car and heading into the Wayside Café.

He gave a blast on his horn and wound down his window as he came to a halt.

‘Look who’s here,’ he said. ‘The Lone Ranger and Tonto! Why don’t you hop inside and tell me what wrongs you’ve been righting today?’

Dora Creed appeared in the doorway attracted by the blast or the bellow. Wield, assailed by the Tantalean smells thus released, hesitated and Dalziel called, ‘Sorry, missus, but these lads have got more important things on their mind than grub.’

Dora Creed said, ‘Whether therefore ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.’

‘Don’t fret yourself, lass,’ said Dalziel. ‘I’ll keep them on the straight and narrow.’

Once in the car, Wield put all thought of food out of his mind as he and Pascoe related their adventures. Dalziel gave no prizes for details remembered later.

When they’d finished Dalziel said, ‘So what’s your verdict? Should we be worried or is it all a waste of time caused by yon dopey ha’porth Filmer not knowing better than to bother his lads on their day off?’

‘There are certain oddities,’ said Pascoe slowly. ‘But whether they add up to a cause for real alarm I’m not sure.’

‘That’s a don’t-know from the Lone Ranger,’ said Dalziel. ‘What says Tonto?’

Wield said, ‘It’s a funny place, Enscombe.’

‘And that’s it? I’d have been better off asking Silver!’ said Dalziel in disgust.

This provoked Pascoe into retorting, ‘There’s certainly one very real cause for concern, sir. You’re here!’

‘I’m not sure how to take that, lad,’ said Dalziel.

‘I mean, something must have come up. From Bendish’s car, is it?’

‘Who’s a clever bugger, then?’ said Dalziel. ‘But you’re right. The stain in the car is blood and it’s recent and it’s the same group as Bendish. Still means nowt. I can think of half a dozen explanations, none of which involves thuggery, buggery, or skulduggery. But it does mean we need to be certain from the start we’re missing nowt. So let’s go back to the beginning, which seems to mean Old Hall. This old sod who saw someone knock Bendish down lives up there, right? And it was there you met him prancing around baht ’at, right? And it was there the Squire spotted him flashing, right?’

‘Right,’ said Pascoe. ‘But we’ve been there and asked the questions …’

‘Oh aye? All on ’em? Like, was he erect?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Bendish, on the garden wall. Did he have a hard-on, or was he just trying to pick up an all-over tan?’

‘I didn’t ask,’ admitted Pascoe. ‘Though the Squire did seem to think he was very well endowed.’

‘Then we’d best find out. One thing we shouldn’t forget is we’re in foreign parts here, where likely they play tiggy with hammers and dole out justice with a pruning hook. Looked at from a tabloid viewpoint, what we’ve got here is a missing cop who’s a flasher, chases around after kids, and did something once that he got duffed up for but didn’t dare fight back. So let’s get up to Old Hall and see if we can’t get this lot sorted!’

When they reached the Hall they found the main door open and the sound of angry voices coming from within. Dalziel led them inside with the eagerness of a sports fan who has arrived after the kick-off. There they discovered Guy and Girlie Guillemard, their recent truce annihilated, having a high-class row.

‘I want it back, Guy,’ the woman was yelling. ‘You had no right to take it. I want it back or I’ll treat you like any other thief!’

‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’ demanded Guy. ‘Perhaps you need reminding …’

‘That one day all this will be yours?’ she interrupted mockingly. ‘Well, till it is perhaps you should remember that while the Squire’s alive, I’m the factor here, which means I call the shots and you grin and bear it!’

Like a Wimbledon audience, the three policemen turned their eyes to the man and awaited his riposte. But Guy, who at least had the wit to know when he was outmatched, was looking for an easier opponent to vent his wrath on.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ he screamed.

For a second, Wield thought the question was aimed over the man’s shoulder at them, till he realized Guy’s gaze was directed upwards to the minstrels’ gallery over which leaned George Creed.

‘Brought a ham for the Reckoning,’ said Creed equably. ‘Office were empty so I’ve been wandering round looking for someone.’

‘In future you bloody well wait outside till you’re asked in,’ snarled Guy. ‘Not that you’re worth asking in, the rent you pay. It wouldn’t keep me in condoms. When did it last go up?’

‘That’s for you to know and us to guess,’ said Creed, grinning broadly.

‘George’s rent is estate business,’ said Girlie. ‘Which isn’t yet yours, Guy.’

‘Oh, but it will be,’ he said evilly. ‘You’d better both believe that.’

He strode towards the door, spotting the detective trio for the first time.

‘Christ, it’s the Keystone Kops. Step inside, gents. It’s Liberty Hall. For the time being!’

He pushed by them or at least shouldered Pascoe and Wield aside, but bounced off Dalziel who watched him go with the calm indifference of a grizzly to a gnat.

‘Gentlemen, how can I help you?’ asked Girlie, relighting her pipe.

Pascoe said, ‘This is Superintendent Dalziel, Miss Guillemard.’

Dalziel said, ‘How do, missus. Any chance of a word with your granddad?’

‘What for?’ she asked, puffing a jet of smoke in his face.

Pascoe waited expectantly. The presence of the Queen Mother herself wouldn’t inhibit Dalziel from introducing the topic of Bendish’s putative erection if he felt like it.

He didn’t. Sucking in her smoke like an extinguished dragon, he said, ‘Just wanted to ask permission to take a look around the policies.’

‘The grounds you mean? Be my guest.’

‘That’ll be all right, will it?’ said Dalziel with a frown. ‘I mean, you’ve got authority …?’

But she was not for winding up.

She said, ‘The way you lot pussyfoot around the laws of trespass, anyone’s got authority. But if you’d like a chitty, I’ll be happy to sign one.’

Creed appeared in the room, carrying a leg of ham. He nodded recognition of Wield, who said, ‘Things quietened down in the lambing shed, have they?’

‘Not so’s you’d notice, but when t’Quality snaps its fingers, what choice has a poor farmer got but to come running?’

He spoke in a bantering tone which seemed to amuse rather than irritate Girlie.

‘George,’ she said. ‘If you’d like to fetch that ham to the kitchen. Gentlemen, I’m sure I’ll see you later.’

Thoughtfully, Dalziel watched them go, then slapped his hands together and said, ‘Right, where’s this walled garden, then?’

Pascoe led the way round the side of the house, pointing out the conservatory en route.

‘So it was from here the Squire saw Dirty Harry flashing the family jewels.’

‘So he claims. But like a lot of folk round here, he seems to inhabit more than one world at the same time,’ said Pascoe.

‘He were sure enough to write to Tommy Winter about it,’ said Dalziel. ‘Where’s the door?’

‘Round the side, but you can’t get in. They lost the key when old Mr Hogbin had his stroke.’

‘Oh aye? Let’s take a look anyway.’

When they reached the door Dalziel tried the handle, shaking it vigorously to confirm it was locked.

‘Want me to climb over, sir?’ asked Wield, confident in his multi-gym agility.

‘No need for that, Tarzan,’ said Dalziel, taking from his pocket what looked like a fountain pen but unscrewed to reveal a bouquet of instruments like old-fashioned button-hooks.

Pascoe, who had seen it before, groaned and looked away, as he still averted his eyes from the television screen when something particularly unpleasant or embarrassing seemed imminent.

When he looked back the door was open.

‘Right. In we go,’ said the Fat Man.

This was not, Pascoe realized, the secret garden of the old children’s story, with shrubs and flowers allowed to rampage into weedy ruin. This was a garden which earned its keep, with bean rows and asparagus beds, cold frames and compost pits. Not that there was any lack of colour. The inner walls were lined with fruit trees all in various stages and hues of blossom, while over the narrow gravel paths red and black currant bushes draped their flowered festoons. Nor did it have a much-neglected air. There was work to be done, certainly, but it’s an indefatigable worker whose garden doesn’t have a slightly unkempt look after a long damp winter. To Pascoe’s not very expert eye it looked as if someone had been keeping things ticking over, which — considering that the key had been allegedly lost since last autumn — was yet another probably meaningless oddity to add to the rest.

Dalziel was moving purposefully towards a long lean-to shed built against the southernmost wall, presumably because here it stole least sunlight. Warmth was of the essence in this moorland setting, which was why the walled garden had been built in the first place. Pascoe had felt a distinct rise in temperature as soon as he stepped inside, and when he touched the mortar holding the big granite slabs together, he found it held the albeit slight heat from this still dispassionate vernal sun.

The shed was locked, this time with a padlocked bolt. Dalziel seemed merely to glower at it and the door flew open.

‘Sergeants first,’ said the Fat Man, stepping aside. ‘Just in case there’s a mad axeman lurking.’

Wield would have liked to have been convinced this was a joke. He slowly advanced, blinking as he adjusted to the limited light seeping through the single-paned window, which weather on the outside and spiders on the in had rendered almost opaque.

His foot hit something loose and metallic, and he stooped to look closer. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

‘What?’

Wield turned to the opening.

‘Half right, sir,’ he said to Dalziel. ‘All we want is the man.’

In his hands he held a small axe.

Now the other two followed. Dalziel produced another pseudo fountain pen from his inner pocket. This one turned out to be a torch. Bet he’s got everything an old-fashioned cop needs in there, thought Pascoe. From a corkscrew to a cattle prod.

But he was glad of the thin beam of light which the Fat Man sent slicing through the shadows.

It was basically a store shed containing most gardening implements both ancient and modern, ranging from graip and dibber to chainsaw and strimmer. There was a musty, peaty, earthy smell, distantly and not too pungently underpinned by something vaguely stercoraceous. A double row of shelves bowed under the weight of various tins and bottles containing stuff to kill and stuff to quicken.

‘Here, sir,’ said Wield.

He was standing at the point furthest from the door, looking down at a tweedy travelling rug which had been laid over three or four bags of peat and commercial compost to form a rough bed with the imprint of a human figure still visible in it.

Dalziel squatted down with an ease surprising in a man of his shape and let the torch beam move slowly across the rug. The light brought out all its rich colours — and brought out too some darker flecks and several quite large stains.

‘Blood?’ said Pascoe.

‘Could be,’ said Dalziel. ‘One way to find out.’

He produced a pair of scissors and a plastic bag from his portmanteau pocket and snipped a small area of stained fibres from the rug.

‘Why not take the whole thing?’ wondered Pascoe.

‘Because this is the nearest we’ve got to a scene of the crime so far,’ said Dalziel. ‘Not very near, if you ask me, but scenes of crime are like bathrooms, lad. Always leave ’em the way you’d like Forensic to find ’em, did no one ever tell you that?’

Pascoe, who had seen Dalziel leave a scene of the crime like a rose-garden invaded by a billy-goat, and heard him opine that Forensic couldn’t find turds in a cesspit, held his peace.

Wield said, ‘So you don’t reckon there’s much chance this has got owt to do with Bendish, sir?’

‘Didn’t say that,’ said Dalziel. ‘But ask yourself, you’ve met some odd buggers round here by the sound of it, but are any on ’em really odd enough to assault a police officer and keep him locked in a garden shed?’

He paused expectantly, awaiting his answer. And answer there came, but not from Wield.

The shed door was suddenly slammed with great force. They heard the hasp being rammed home. And before they could move or even utter their outrage, the grimy window pane was shattered, admitting a flood of dazzling daylight, the barrel of a shotgun and the somewhat paradoxical series of commands, ‘Now listen in, you blighters, down on the ground, hands in the air, and don’t move a finger or I’ll blow your heads off!’