Recalled to Life

SEVEN

‘I am anxious to have your opinion… on a very curious case…' At six that evening with still no sign of Dalziel, Pascoe went home. As soon as he got into the house, he picked up the phone and dialled his mother-in-law's number. Ellie answered almost immediately. 'How's it going?' he asked. 'I found her standing in the kitchen this morning looking into the recess where the central heating boiler is. She looked completely confused.' 'So she'd heard the boiler make a funny noise. They all do!' 'No! She was close to being terrified, Peter. Then I remembered. When I was a kid, before they got the old kitchen extended, that used to be the larder. She had a milk jug in her hand. She'd gone to the larder to get a bottle of milk.' 'Conditioning's hard to alter. I still switch the wipers on every time I want to turn right, and I've had this car for three years.' 'You're as helpful as the doctor,' snapped Ellie. 'You've spoken to her doctor?' 'This afternoon. Complete waste of time. Old Doc Myers retired soon after they put Dad in the Home. Now there's this thing that looks like a schoolgirl and talks like she's addressing a class of infants.' 'Oh dear,' said Pascoe. 'And what did she say?' 'She said that I must expect a certain degree of vagueness in the old, adding in passing that Mum must have left it pretty late to have me, as if any problem with her health was likely to be my fault. She told me Mum was being treated for various specific physical conditions none of which were immediately life-threatening, but that at present, as my experience with Dad should have taught me, senile dementia was untreatable. In other words, tough." 'Perhaps it's just that she'd prefer to make her own diagnosis,' suggested Pascoe. 'You were there? Funny, I didn't notice.' It was time to move on. ‘Is Rosie there?' he asked. 'I'll get her.' It was a joy to hear his daughter's voice say, 'Hello, Daddy,' and a relief to detect nothing but delight at the novelty of staying in her grandmother's house. When Ellie came back on, he said, 'Sounds as if she's enjoying herself.' 'That's what grannies are for. How are you?' 'Oh, I'm fine. Andy's been away today, so I wasn't force-fed any meat pies. I'm just about to treat myself to one of your vegetable casseroles from the freezer.' 'What a good boy you are,' said Ellie. 'Where's our fat friend at, then?' Pascoe hesitated. He doubted if Ellie would approve of Dalziel's quest to prove that Wally Tallantire was in the right, and he was certain she would think him crazy both personally and professionally for his complicity. The doorbell rang. 'Hang on,' he said. 'Someone's at the door." 'No, I'll ring off,' said Ellie. 'I'd better get Rosie to bed.

We'll talk tomorrow, OK?' 'Fine. Good night, then." He put the phone down. It was like two fighters relieved to accept a draw. Except that the guilt he was already feeling at his relief left him well behind on points. The bell was ringing again, a long impatient peal, and he knew before he opened the door whose great finger was trying to drill the bellpush through the jamb. "Evening,' said Dalziel. He was carrying an old blue suitcase and looked like the kind of brush salesman even a medieval Stylite might have found it hard to deny. 'I rang the zoo and they said you'd escaped early.' 'Early?' Pascoe heard himself almost screaming. 'And where the hell have you been all day?' 'Christ, Peter, you remind me what it was like being married. You need a drink.' They were in the lounge now with Dalziel taking a bottle of Scotch out of the sideboard and pouring two sturdy stoupfuls. 'That's better,' he said as he emptied one of the glasses. 'You need to take out a small mortgage for a glass this size down among the Cockneys. How'd it go this morning?' Recriminations were wasted breath. Pascoe described his morning, while Dalziel listened intently, at the same time absent-mindedly drinking the second Scotch. 'Well, well,' he said when Pascoe finished. 'The more I hear of Nanny Marsh, the more I like her.

Screwed by the lord, sacked by the lady, does she end up in a workhouse for fallen women? No way! She parks her fanny in a luxury flat, rent free, in Harrogate! How'd she strike you, lad?' 'Like a little old retired nanny most of the time, except that now and then I got a sense of someone else peeping out and having a not very friendly laugh at me. There's something not quite right in all this…'

'You're never satisfied, are you? Have another whisky.' 'I've not had one yet,' said Pascoe. 'Perhaps I should pour while you tell me about your day?' He decanted two decent measures while Dalziel started to describe his adventures in darkest Essex. 'So what do you make of that, sunshine?' he asked when he'd done. 'This fellow in the car was security, you say?' asked Pascoe. 'He had one of them identification cards that tell you nowt,' agreed Dalziel. 'Then this means this is even more serious than we thought!' 'Not than I thought,' said Dalziel grimly. 'Way I see it is, Waggs dug up summat that gave him the leverage to get Kohler out…' 'Something that provoked her to want to get out,' interjected Pascoe. 'She'd shown precious little enthusiasm before.' 'Aye, you're right. So a deal's done, part of which is that she stays put here, so they set a watch on her, only she does a runner.. "There has to be a time factor,' said Pascoe. 'They couldn't be planning to sit on her forever.' "Right again,' said Dalziel with almost paternal pride. ‘Go on.' 'Go on where? I need ten times more information to make the next jump. Look, I can offer you hypotheses which put Tallantire in the clear and hypotheses which paint him black as a miner's snot-rag, and I can probably do you most points in between. OK, there's definitely something odd going on, but it may not be the kind of oddness you're looking for. Have you thought of that?' Dalziel poured more whisky. 'Be a good little hostess,' he said, 'and fetch my case in from the hall.' Pascoe had been trying to forget about the case. 'What's in it?' he asked uneasily. Dalziel laughed and said, 'You're scared mebbe I've come to spend the night!

Calm down, your reputation's safe. It's Wally's papers. I stowed them in the left luggage and I've just picked them up now when I came off my train.' Not bothering to hide his relief, Pascoe got the case.

Dalziel opened it and arranged its contents in three untidy piles on the floor. 'I did a quick sort out before I stashed it,' he said.

Wally was a bugger for order on the job, but when it came to his own stuff, he kept things in a right tip.' 'Reminds me of someone,' murmured Pascoe. 'Aye, there's some mucky buggers about,' agreed Dalziel. 'This lot here's letters, bills, that kind of stuff. Nowt there for us. This pile's some stuff he was putting together on his old cases. He were thinking of writing his memoirs when he retired.

Well, he never made it.' 'What happened exactly?' asked Pascoe. 'The usual,' said Dalziel. 'Heart attack. He carried far too much weight, I were always on at him about it. He'd been down to London, died in the train back. He were in a carriage by himself and went on to Newcastle before anyone noticed. I thought of him today as I travelled back.'

Amusement at the idea of Dalziel warning anyone about the dangers of obesity mingled with sympathy at the note of genuine regret. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'No need to be,' said Dalziel briskly. 'Well, not much. Wally would have hated retirement. Writing his memoirs was just his way of trying to spin things out a bit longer, I reckon. I doubt it would have come to owt.' 'Anything much on the Mickledore case?'

'Aye, some interesting stuff. One thing I don't have, but, is his notebook. He was a great scribbler on the job, was Wally. Used to say his own notebook was the only bedside reading he ever wanted. Man who noted everything could solve everything. I hope Adolf and his vultures didn't get their claws on it, else it'll be long gone. But this is what Adolf would give his left bollock to get hold of.' He handed Pascoe a handwritten sheet. I am Cecily Kohler from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. For the past two and a half years I have been working as nanny to the Westropp family. On the night of August 3, 1963. I went into the gunroom at Mickledore Hall where Mrs Pam Westropp was cleaning a shotgun. Something happened, I don't know what, but it went off accidentally and killed her. It was unsigned. 'Whose writing is this?' asked Pascoe. 'Wally's. This too,' said Dalziel, passing another sheet. I am Cecily Kohler from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. I am an American citizen employed by the Westropps to look after their children. I liked my job except that I didn't much care for Pam Westropp who was always picking on me. We had a fight about something in the gunroom and a gun went off, killing her. 'What the hell is all this?' demanded Pascoe. Dalziel passed another sheet. I am Cecily Kohler from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Mr James Westropp is very nice but his wife was funny, always up and down and the children never knew where they were with her. So in the end for their sake I decided to kill her in the gunroom and fix things so it would look like an accident. 'And this,' said Dalziel.

I am Cecily Kohler from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. 1 hated my employer because she was always up and down, like she was on drugs, and neglected the children. Also she slept around. So I decided to kill her and arrange things so it would look like suicide. 'Just one more,' said Dalziel. This one was different, not an original but a photocopy and written in a different, much less precise hand. I am Cecily Kohler, from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. For the past two and a half years / have been working as nanny to the Westropp family. It was through my job that I met Ralph Mickledore when he visited the Westropps in the States. We became lovers and because of this, though I'd never planned to work abroad, I decided to accompany the family when they returned to England. I liked my job except that I didn't much care for Pam Westropp. Her husband is very nice but she was up and down, like she was on drugs or something. Sometimes she'd not come near the children for days, then she'd be all over them, interfering with my work, and close to smothering them with hugs and kisses, but soon as one of them needed a diaper changed or brought their feed back, she'd get tired of them and push them back at me, like it was my fault. Also she slept around. I knew that Ralph had been with her, I think she threw herself at him, and when she found out he was going to get married, she threatened to tell everyone about everything, and it would have ruined everything, for me as well as Ralph, so I suggested we should kill her. It was my idea, I would have done it myself only I needed his help to make it look like suicide. She really deserved it and the only thing I'm sorry for is little Emily. I took the children out in the canoe so I could drop the key in the lake, I mean the key Mick had fixed so it wouldn't open the gunroom door. Then I thought I'd hide because I was frightened of talking to the police again. I wasn't thinking straight after what I'd done, the longer I stayed under the willows, the more confused I got, the light on the water, the wind in the trees all seemed to get in my mind somehow. I'll never forgive myself for what happened to Em. There's no punishment they can give me to get me right for that. Signed: Cecily Kohler, August 5, 1963. 'This is her actual confession?' said Pascoe. 'Written by herself? So what about the others, in Tallantire's hand?' 'You're the clever cunt. What do you make of them?' 'I know what Mr Hiller would make of them. Tallantire drafting confession after confession, using them to beat away at the girl till it didn't seem a matter of whether she would confess, but merely of which version she would choose. And all the time using her guilt at the kid's death to turn the screw. In the end, when he's got her word perfect, he says, OK, write it and sign it. It's like filming Monroe. When she got it right, it was a take, sod everything else!' 'I don't like the way your mind's running on lasses with big knockers,' said Dalziel reprovingly. 'So that's how you see it, eh? Good. Now you know why I didn't want Adolf getting his hand on this lot.' 'Look, sir,' said Pascoe unhappily, 'I know I said I'd help, but if something comes up suggesting there may have been irregularities…' 'You can put that tender conscience back in the pickle jar,' growled Dalziel. 'I'll tell you why Wally took so long getting Kohler to cough. It weren't because he was grilling the lass till she didn't know her arse from her elbow. No, the trouble was she were ready to sign anything from the start! So long as it didn't incriminate Mickledore, that is. That's all that Wally wanted, to stop her protecting her lover. Her guilt was never in doubt, but she couldn't have done it by herself – ' 'Of course she felt guilty,' interrupted Pascoe. 'The little girl had drowned – ' 'You mean, she'd drowned the little girl,' said Dalziel. 'Oh, you can wrap it up as accident or whatever you like, but I was there, remember? I came up with that kid's corpse in my arms and I saw Kohler's face closer than I see yours. And she knew she'd killed her, believe me. She knew!' He sank a cleansing drench of Scotch, then went on in more measured tones. 'At the trial, most people agreed with her when she said there was no punishment bad enough. There were plenty who reckoned she should have hung alongside Mickledore, or even instead of Mickledore.'

'I can vaguely recall people talking about her like she was some kind of monster,' said Pascoe. 'Then the Moors case came along, and that changed all the definitions. So what you're saying is Tallantire suspected she was protecting Mickledore and used these drafts to edge her in deeper and deeper till he got the admission he wanted? But what put him on to Mickledore in the first place?' 'Instinct, lad. He told me, the minute he set eyes on the bugger, he thought, that's my man!

What's that sour face for?' 'There is a school of thought which prefers the evidence to lead to the man.' 'Don't give me that crap.

You know as well as I do, most times you've got your perpetrator long afore you can prove it. First thing Wally did when he got called in was contact the Yard and ask them to dig out anything they could on Mickledore's town life, particularly any rumours of naughties with Pam Westropp.' 'And when did they come through? Stamper on the radio seemed to think it wasn't till Monday afternoon.' 'That's right. Not a dickie from London all day Sunday or Monday morning. It was Bank Holiday, of course, so everybody who was anybody would be warming their backsides on the beach. Except Sempernel, this fellow from the funny buggers. Well, he were younger then, probably drew the short straw, so he got dragged off his li-lo and sent up here to make sure no one really important was inconvenienced by the nasty northern police.' 'And what did he do?' 'Nowt really. Just drifted around like a wanked-out waiter, always moving off if you caught his eye. But I reckon when he saw that Wally meant business, he rang his bosses, and they decided that once the Press got on to it, them shit-stirrers would waste no time dropping hints about Mickledore's gambling debts and stirring Pamela's porridge and mebbe even his liaison with the whisky lass. So if Wally were going to read about it on Tuesday morning, he might as well be told on Monday afternoon, so's he could get the whole thing sewn up.' 'But all that provided was motive. He still had no real evidence against Mickledore till he squeezed this confession out of Kohler!' 'Means, motive, opportunity, plus Kohler's confession. What the fuck else do you want?' demanded Dalziel. 'What about this key? The one Mickledore fixed so it wouldn't open the door, the one Kohler says she threw in the lake? Did they find it?' They sent the divers down, naturally. But it's a big lake. The jury seemed happy to do without it.' 'And that's OK?' Pascoe laughed. 'Who was it said juries are like thimblerig, the trick is working out which bum is sitting on the brain. Wasn't it… you? Sorry. What happened in court anyway?' 'Kohler condemned herself. She pleaded guilty, didn't give evidence, just sat there looking like she thought the whole thing were a waste of time. Came across like Lady Macbeth.' We loved her because she loved us. William Stamper's words in his radio programme.

How could such a change come about? 'And Mickledore?' 'Pleaded innocence and ignorance. Did his honest country squire act like he were at an audition. He were so open you could've parked buses in him.

I began to think he might get away with it. But one way and another the prosecution managed to get the other side of his life into the picture. And there was always the sight of Kohler sitting there, like something he'd rather have kept in his attic. Funny thing when the verdict came in, but. From all accounts he still thought he'd get off, but he didn't turn a hair when the foreman said, "Guilty." Raised his eyebrows a bit, like he'd been dealt a club when he'd have preferred a diamond. And when he was asked if he'd owt to say before sentence, he said loud and clear, "As you at least must know, my lord, I am totally innocent of this crime and do not doubt that eventually I shall be proved so." Kohler, on the other hand, who'd pleaded guilty, collapsed and had to be hospitalized. Mental and physical breakdown. She spent the first six months of her sentence in hospital.' 'And Mickledore?

Did he appeal?' 'In a manner of speaking. He didn't get official leave, but he asked to see Wally. Hang on, here it is.' He dug around in the case notes pile and came up with a thickish sheaf of typed pages stapled together. 'What's this?' said Pascoe. 'I told you Wally were thinking of writing his memoirs. He got as far as doing an outline. Here we are. This is the bit about the Mickledore case.'

Pascoe took it and read. After the trial, Mickledore asked to see me.

Said he assumed I was an honest man. If so, I wouldn't want doubts, but I must have them, the way things had gone so easily. I told him get on with it. He said he'd hoped it wouldn't come to this, but now he had to tell truth. It was James Westropp who'd killed his wife.

He'd kept quiet out of loyalty, hoping all through trial for acquittal. I said, what about Kohler? He said she was Westropp's mistress, so besotted by him. she'd do anything, especially after causing his daughter's death. I said, where's the proof? He said that was my job. All he knew was that Westropp was getting protection because of who he was. Claimed he himself had been given to understand he'd be OK if he just kept quiet, but he'd never expected things to go this far. Now he was getting worried. Desperate. I said, to come up with such a story. He said, for Christ's sake, Tallantire, don't turn out a crook like the rest of them. All I ask is that you double-check everything. In the end, I promised. Checked. Nothing. Mickledore trying it on. NB. Westropp not available then. Might be interesting now all dust has settled to check where he is and get his reaction to Mickledore's attempts to incriminate him. 'He talked to you about this?' 'He mentioned his visit to the jail.' 'How hard would he check?

I mean, from what you say, he was certain from the start that Mickledore was his man. Also he got a lot of kudos out of the case, didn't he? High point of his career, that sort of thing.' 'That'd make him check all the harder,' said Dalziel aggressively. It was, thought Pascoe, time to change the subject. He said, 'These memoirs. You don't know if Wally got as far as trying to find a publisher?' 'Not that I know of. Why do you ask?' 'There are quite a few pencilled corrections, they look professional, as if maybe some editor had read the outline. It comes automatically to these people. They couldn't read a shopping list without correcting it.' Pascoe spoke with the expertise of a man who'd seen the returned scripts of his wife's novel. 'Let's have a look. Aye, you're right. That's not Wally's hand.

But why'd he send summat like this to a publisher?' 'To give an idea of the kind of book he proposed, in the hope of getting some money up front before he started the job proper.' 'Aye, that'd be Wally's way,' agreed Dalziel. 'Let's have a look.' He scattered the pile of correspondence over the floor, then cried triumphantly, 'Here we are.

By God, he got a tickle. Cagey old sod!' The letter was headed Treeby and Bracken with a WC1 address. It read:

Dear Mr Tallantire, Thank you for the outline which I now return.

I've taken a copy for my own reference as I think it certainly has potential, particularly if you can get the emphasis right. I've starred the chapters which look most interesting to me. If you are coming to London in the near future, why don't we have lunch and discuss how we might proceed? Looking forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely, Paul Farmer (Editor) Underneath in Tallantire's hand was scribbled 12.30, March 22. Pascoe flipped through the outline.

There were asterisks by a few of the chapter headings, mainly one, sometimes two. The Mickledore Hall case alone had three. He started pointing this out to Dalziel but the Fat Man was staring at the date.

'Bloody hell,' he said. 'That's the day Wally died. On his way back from the Smoke.' Suddenly Pascoe felt cold. Dalziel went down on his knees and started doing a loaves-and-fishes on the correspondence file, apparently creating as he distributed. Soon most of the carpet had vanished beneath a sea of litter. 'Nowt else,' he said. 'Perhaps they heard he'd died,' said Pascoe. 'Or it could be they decided there was nothing in it for them after all.' 'You don't buy a man lunch to turn him down,' growled Dalziel. 'What do you know about this Treeby and Bracken outfit anyway?' 'Hang on,' said Pascoe. Ellie's literary ambitions had added a Writers' and Artists' Year Book to their library. He flipped through the pages. 'Not a lot of help. No longer exists as an independent imprint. Got gobbled up by Centipede a few years back. But hang on. There's a list of Centipede's current directors here and there's a Paul Farmer among them. Could be the same.' 'Right. Give him a bell in the morning, see if he remembers owt.' 'Why me?' 'Right up your street, talking to poncy sods like publishers. Right. On your feet. Have you had your supper?' 'No, but look, I'd really rather…' 'Come on, lad. Not going mean on me, are you?' 'Mean?' 'Aye. I treated you last night. Your turn tonight.

Fair do's.' Pascoe thought of his vegetable casserole, two hundred calories tops. He said, 'I'm definitely not going to the Black Bull.'

'That's handy, 'cos I'm not either.' In the doorway Pascoe paused to look back. The lounge looked like a field after a pop festival. 'Hurry up,' said Dalziel. 'We're late.' 'For what?' said Pascoe, suddenly alarmed at the prospect of something worse than a leap in his cholesterol level. 'I'm not doing any more burgling.' 'What are you on about? There's someone I want you to meet, that's all. Someone every good cop ought to meet at least once.' 'Who's that, then?' 'Old Percy Pollock, that's who.'

Pollock? Good God, you don't mean Pollock the hangman?'

'That's the boy. Good company is old Percy. But he's a stickler for punctuality, so get your finger out. I suppose in his line of business he never cared to be kept hanging around!"