The Price of Butcher's Meat

12

The Fat Man switched off the recorder.

“There we go,” he said. “Don’t know if I’d have said much different if I’d been really on the ball when she came to see me. But I felt right guilty when I heard the news.”

“You sound as if you rather liked her,” said Pascoe.

“Aye, mebbe I did. She were a big bossy woman, used to rolling over folk who got in her way, like an anker of ale, but she must have been a bonny lass once, and she still had a gallon of jimp left in her. It were a lousy way for anyone to go. For someone like Daph Denham, it were a right shame.”

Pascoe said, “She had a record, you know. Laid into a hunt protester with her riding crop. Fined and bound over.”

“And that means she deserved to end up being grilled on her own hog roast?”

“I didn’t say that, as you well know. I’m just saying there could be more people out there than we think with motives. Did she leave the letter she mentioned?”

“Aye, here it is. Not much good for forensics-I just stuffed it in me dressing gown.”

“Still worth a try,” said Pascoe, taking the crumpled sheet by one corner and slipping it into an evidence bag. He smoothed it out inside the clear plastic. Ink-jet printer he guessed, on good quality A5 paper. No date, no preamble, just the message.

You should by now have had time to study the options for leaving legacies to some of the major animal charities, thereby making in death a small atonement for the many cruelties you have inflicted on the animal kingdom in life. Time is short, do not delay. We all owe a debt to God, and the longer we live, the closer the reckoning comes. A woman of your age would be well advised to have her affairs in order, for by the time you recieve this letter it is likely that the door by which you will make your exit from this world already stands unlatched.

“Interesting,” said Pascoe.

“That the best you can do?” said Dalziel scornfully. “So what’s next, mastermind? Bring me up to date. This has been one-way traffic so far.”

Pascoe was tempted to point out that this was the usual direction of flow between witness and investigator, but decided not to force the issue. It was hard enough not to sound as if he were seeking approval as he outlined the situation.

The Fat Man said, “What’s this Ollie Hollis got to say for himself? He was in charge of the roast, right? What was he doing when poor old Daph got stuck in the basket?”

“I haven’t caught up with him yet,” said Pascoe. “Like most of the guests, he’d gone walkabout by the time we got there.”

“He weren’t a guest. And why didn’t Jug Whitby make sure he stayed?”

“I presume he’d already gone by the time Whitby showed. He’s out looking for Hollis now. Why do you call him Jug? Has he got big ears?”

“Whitby, Dracula, jugular, do you know nowt? You need to get a grip on things, Pete. Three hours in and you’ve still got key witnesses wandering around loose. Pin the buggers down, that’s the first rule, and don’t let ’em loose till you’ve squeezed ’em dry!”

“Always good to have your input, sir,” murmured Pascoe, determined not to be provoked. “And thank you for bringing me up to speed about these threats.”

“Glad to help, lad. Think there’s owt there for you?”

“Well, if this letter is anything to go by, the written threats were hardly graphic. As for the alleged attempts, even if they turn out to be genuine, they’re of a very different nature from what actually happened.”

“They’d have got Daph dead, that’s a lot to have in common.”

“Yes, but the intention was to make it look like an accident. This hog roast thing is very different. It’s theatrical, it’s grand guignol, it’s sick! And it’s unnecessarily risky. Instead of hiding the body and heading off to establish an alibi, the killer removes the pig from the hog roast basket and substitutes the corpse, all very time consuming. The storm is passing. There’s a growing chance of someone strolling along and catching you at it. But it’s a risk you are willing to take. Why? It feels to me like there’s something deeper and darker than simple greed involved here. This feels like a statement.”

“Ee, you do talk pretty, Pete. Must save you a fortune in tuppeny books,” said the Fat Man.

“That’s why I’m so rich. Look, Andy, I need to see Feldenhammer, so unless there’s anything else…”

“I’ll think on. I’m not going anywhere.”

Why did it sound like a threat?

“You’ve been very helpful,” said Pascoe. “By the way, it would be useful if I could borrow the recording you made of your chat with Lady Denham.”

Dalziel pursed his lips and said, “It’s not on tape, tha knows. It’s a hard disc.”

“Yes, it would be; as you said, state of the art,” said Pascoe, still finding it hard to come to grips with this new technocratic Dalziel. Then it dawned. There was stuff on the disc the Fat Man didn’t want him to hear.

He said, “How about if I get Wieldy along to transcribe it?”

Dalziel considered, then said, “Don’t see why not.”

“Great. Now I’ll be on my way to see the doctor. Take care.”

In the doorway he paused and said, “Sir, why didn’t you tell me Franny Roote was here? You knew I’d been searching for him.”

The question came despite his resolve to put personal matters on the back burner.

Dalziel didn’t answer straightaway but raised his glass to his lips. To Pascoe’s surprise, he didn’t drink, only sniffed. Then with the clear reluctance of Caesar pushing aside the proffered crown, he set the glass on the bedside table.

“Eyes greedier than my belly these days,” he said sadly. “Roote says I should think of it as an opportunity, not a problem. But that’s the way yon bugger sees most things.”

“Like spending his life in a wheelchair, you mean?” said Pascoe sharply.

“Aye, that too. Get the sympathy vote. Looked to me like he were setting his cap at Clara Brereton. Bit skinny, but I expect her having a rich fat aunt compensated.”

“What are you suggesting, Andy?” demanded Pascoe.

“Me? Nowt! Except maybe he’s a cunning bastard, but you know that already.”

Pascoe, refusing to be provoked, said, “You didn’t answer my question. Why didn’t you let me know he was here?”

“He told me he’d dropped out of contact ’cos he didn’t want you feeling responsible for him anymore,” said Dalziel. “And I believed him. Okay?”

Before Pascoe could reply, his mobile rang.

He took it out, glanced at the display, said, “Lousy signal in here,” waved the phone in farewell, and closed the door firmly behind him.

As he strode down the corridor, he put the mobile to his ear and said, “Hi, Hat.”

By the time he’d finished listening, he was alongside his car.

He said, “I’m on my way.”

For a moment he hesitated, looking back at the building. It felt disloyal to take off without letting the Fat Man know he’d changed his plans, and why.

But as history teaches us, loyalty is always the first casualty of independence.

He started up the engine and headed back toward the main gates.