The Price of Butcher's Meat

5

Pascoe stood and looked down at the mortal remains of Daphne Denham.

The corpse lay on the ground where it had been placed after removal from the roasting cage. In fact, because it was fully clothed and the heat had not been strong enough to fire the clothing, the charring was limited, but with Pascoe a little visual horror went a long way. He’d tried everything from vacuous jocularity to Vedic mantras, but such sights still affected him deeply and later almost invariably replayed themselves on that inward eye which can be the bane of solitude.

It was with relief that, duty done, he authorized removal of the remains and turned his attention to more practical matters.

The scenes of crime officer was an old acquaintance, Frodo Leach, an energetic young man, blissfully happy in his work, whose detractors accused him of being on permanent audition for CSI Mid-York.

“You’ve got yourself a real beauty here, Peter,” he declared almost enviously. “Nerves of steel, whoever did this.”

“Why so?”

“Think of the time involved. First he kills the victim, no indication where yet, so it could mean he had a long carry. Once here, he has to winch the basket back from the charcoal pit, remove the pig, replace it with the body, and push the whole damn thing back into place.”

“Could one man manage all that?”

“If he were well muscled. Probably not one woman, though.”

“But wouldn’t have taken so long with two or more perps, right?”

“No, it wouldn’t. Many hands make light work, but many feet make much mud, and there’s been so many feet tramping around this damp ground, it’s impossible to draw any conclusions about that.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Not much hope. Anyway, he probably wore insulated gloves: We found a couple of pairs in the hut. Standard equipment, I should think. That cage must get pretty damn hot.”

“But if he didn’t wear gloves, his hands could be blistered?” said Pascoe hopefully.

“Oh yes, but I shouldn’t snap the cuffs on anyone with blisters,” said Leach cheerfully. “I daresay you’ll find quite a few who helped get the old girl out got burned for their pains as well as leaving traces of themselves all over the body. One thing-you probably noticed-extensive red stain down the front of her blouse. I say red-brown now, after exposure to the heat. Thought blood at first, but no such luck. Wine, I think.”

“So she spilled her drink.”

“Maybe. But first thing a woman does when she spills red wine is head for the nearest cloakroom to try and sponge it off.”

“So she spilled it not long before she got attacked. Or maybe the attacker caused her to spill it.”

“In that case, where’s the wineglass? No sign round here. Could have been attacked somewhere else, of course. In which case, find the glass and you’ll find the attack site. But this is just speculation. Watch this space after we get her back to the lab.”

The trouble with Leach’s enthusiasm was that it sometimes roused hopes of a banquet when all it actually gave you was a snack.

“So what do you have to show or tell me that’s not just speculation?” asked Pascoe.

“Well, there’s the shed where the winch is.”

He urged Pascoe toward the shed, like an estate agent eager to display the attractions of the property he was trying to sell. Through the open door Pascoe could see a couple of white-clothed figures making a painstaking examination.

“The perp would have had to go in here to work the winch,” said Leach. “Not much reason for anyone else being in there, except the chap in charge of the pig roast. Can you dig him out for us so we can take samples for exclusion?”

“Ahead of you there. We’ve sent someone to bring him in,” said Pascoe, who saw no reason to let the SOCO divas think they had exclusive rights on the high notes.

“Great! Now this is what we’ve found so far.”

He pointed to a wire tray, by the door, containing three or four evidence bags.

“Champagne cork. Half a smoked salmon canapé. Bit of chocolate éclair. Some scraps of silver foil, probably from the bubbly bottle. And a couple of cigarette stubs. Prints possibly, DNA certainly.”

Proving that Ollie Hollis hadn’t missed out on the refreshments, thought Pascoe. Hardly a breakthrough. But only a fool or a very grumpy old man would resist Leach’s enthusiasm.

They spoke a little longer, then Pascoe headed back to the incident room.

As he emerged from the shrubbery, the smell of tobacco smoke caught his nostrils.

He halted and said, “Okay, Sammy. You can stop lurking.”

A long, thin figure with a face as unageable as a tortoise’s slid through the foliage, the cigarette between his lips glowing as he drew in the smoke.

“How do, Pete,” he said.

“You shouldn’t be here, you know that, Sammy,” said Pascoe. “How the hell did you get in?”

It was a redundant question. As Wield had pointed out, the hall’s extensive grounds were bounded along the road with a wall in great need of repair, while its countryside boundary was at best a thick hedge, at worst a dilapidated fence. The gate at the entrance to the drive was hanging off its hinges. The stable apart, Lady Denham clearly hadn’t believed in wasting her money on estate upkeep.

Ruddlesdin shrugged and said, “Got yourself a problem here when the nationals show. Place is easier to get into than Parliament, and any idiot can get in there.”

“So why aren’t they here yet?”

“I expect ’cos you ordered a clampdown till you got here yourself and saw what was what.”

This was pretty well the truth, though the clampdown had been initiated by Chief Constable Dan Trimble, whose wife sat on a couple of committees with Lady Denham. Trimble had rung Pascoe and urged him to get a lid on this one as quickly as he could. Pascoe had assured him that he would do all in his power to get an early result, not caring to reveal that at the moment of talking he was still some twenty miles from the scene, waiting for a garage truck to arrive with a new tire.

“And you’ve been sitting on the news too, Sammy. Kind of you,” he said.

“Got my story all ready to go,” said Ruddlesdin. “Just wanted to be sure I got your input, Pete. This could be big for you.”

“In what way?”

“Well, you’re not peeping out from under the cheeks of yon fat bugger’s arse, for one thing. This is your chance to shine.”

While Pascoe and the journalist had struck up a mutually profitable relationship from the start, based on a respect for each other’s professionalism that had slowly matured into a cautious friendship, Dalziel believed the only thing the gentlemen of the press understood was fear. Hard to impose this nationally, but at a local level, those who trod on his large toes could be sure that sooner or later they’d feel them applied to their behinds with great force.

“Nice of you to say so, Sammy. You got anything that can give my prospective shine a bit of a polish?”

“Got my headline ready: Super-sleuth Pascoe Solves Baffling Murder Mystery in Record Time.”

“Not very punchy, is it? Apart from being even further from the truth than most of your headlines.”

“Now just ’cos you’re after the fat bugger’s job don’t mean you’ve got to sound like him,” reproved Ruddlesdin. “Any road, word locally is you’ve just got to spin a coin between the two most likely suspects. Smart money’s on the heir apparent, Sir Edward Denham, but there’s a lot reckon her brother-in-law by her first marriage, Hen Hollis, is worth a look, particularly if what they’re saying about the way she died is true. Is it, Pete?”

“Depends what they’re saying.”

“Roasted alive on her own barbecue.”

“Thought that might be it. No, it’s not true. Yes, that’s where she was found, but she was dead before that.”

“How?”

“Strangled, probably, but that’s to be confirmed,” said Pascoe. You had to give to get, and in any case the sooner they stopped rumor from making what was bad enough sound grotesque, the better. “Why should roasting her appeal to this chap Hen Hollis?”

“Hated her guts, evidently. Always ready in his cups to fantasize about her dying. And seems it were him as built the hog roast equipment for his brother. Also, here’s the clincher: By his brother’s will, when she died the family farm would revert to Hen.”

“The family farm? You mean Sandytown Hall?” said Pascoe, surprised.

“No! Does this look like a sodding farm? Place called Millstone. Her Ladyship let it go to rack and ruin, by all accounts, but like the song says, there’s no place like home.”

They were now approaching the stable block. Wield must have been watching, for now he emerged and came to meet them.

“Sammy, I told you not to hang about,” he said.

“And I heard you. That’s why I’ve been wandering around town picking up some nice titbits for your boss,” retorted the reporter.

“For which I’m duly grateful,” said Pascoe. “Now perhaps it’s time to get back to your wanderings…”

“Aye, I’ll go and polish up that headline. Remember, Pete, with the press behind you, the sky’s the limit!”

“Titbits?” said Wield as they watched the journalist move off.

Pascoe passed on what Ruddlesdin had said and also what he’d learned from the CSI. In return the sergeant handed him a fairly bulky plastic file.

“Just to keep you up to date with everything we’ve got so far,” said the sergeant.

“Right, fine,” said Pascoe. “This Ollie Hollis guy, the CSIs would like to see him ASAP for prints and DNA. I’m quite keen to talk to him too. Any word?”

“Jug Whitby just called in. Hollis lives by himself at Lowbridge, a hamlet a couple of miles along the coast. He’s not there, neighbors haven’t seen him since this morning. Whitby’s tried the local. No sign. So now he’s casting around the other pubs in the area before heading back to Sandytown. This business must have shook Hollis up a bit, so not surprising if he’s gone in search of a drink. And company, maybe.”

“Maybe,” said Pascoe. “Let’s get someone sitting on Hollis’s house while Whitby’s pub-crawling, okay?”

“It’s taken care of. You’ll find a note in the file.”

“Anything else?”

“I got one of the lads to feed everyone on the guest list into the computer. It’s all in the file.”

“Just give me a digest, Wieldy.”

“The usual stuff came up, mainly road traffic offenses. And of course Roote, but we knew about him already. Only other person with a record was the victim.”

“Lady Denham?” said Pascoe. “Make my day, tell me she’s got connections with the Russian mafia!”

“Not unless the Countryside Alliance is run from Moscow. Thirty years back, assault on a hunt protester, bound over to keep the peace.”

“And that’s it? Great work, Wieldy,” said Pascoe, old acquaintance permitting him to be ungracious to Wield in a way he stopped short of with Leach. “I think I’ll pop across to the hall to see this companion. You said you got a statement from her?”

“In the file,” said Wield with the relentless certainty of Mephistopheles talking to Faustus.

“What about the niece and nephew? Let me guess, in the file too? They still around?”

“I’d bet on it. Scared someone’s going to take off with the spoons as soon as their backs are turned,” said Wield. “You’ll be going up the Avalon to see the head quack and his nurse then, will you, Pete?”

“I haven’t forgotten. And yes, before you ask, I’ll call in and say hello to Andy too. Sammy Ruddlesdin doesn’t seem to know he’s in the vicinity, thank heaven. Roote neither. I dread to think what he’ll make of it when he finds out.”

What can he make of it? And who gives a toss? thought Wield.

He said, “Talking of Roote, thought I’d head off now and get him out of the way. Oh, and the chief rang.”

“Checking up on me, is he?” said Pascoe moodily.

“No. Just wanted a progress report. I gather Lady Denham was well connected. I told him you were working too hard to talk just now, but everything was under control and you’d ring back later.”

“To tell him supersleuth has solved the case in record time. I wish,” said Pascoe. “See you later, Wieldy.”

The sergeant watched him go with some concern. This case is making him nervous and irritable, he thought. Can’t blame him with Roote rising from the grave, the chief constable getting anxious, and the Fat Man lurking in the woodshed!

He went to his motorbike and punched the address he had for Roote into his new sat-nav. Specially designed for motorbikes, it was a present from his partner, Edwin. He’d tried it locally, and though the upper-class female voice giving the directions was a bit of a pain, it had seemed pretty effective. Getting close to Franny Roote via the notoriously deceptive back roads of Yorkshire would be its first serious test.

For Pascoe too, he suspected.