The Price of Butcher's Meat

6

Once again Pascoe arrived at Sandytown Hall to find Wield in full control.

“She didn’t look good,” said the sergeant. “Head injuries, God knows what bones are broken, very faint pulse. Didn’t dare touch her because of worrying about her spine. Ambulance service said it would be half an hour minimum, mebbe more. Big pileup north of York. All the roads snarled up. Didn’t know if she’d last half an hour. Thought of trying to whistle up a chopper, then Bowler said, ‘What about the Avalon?’ I rang them, seems they’ve got the lot up there, small ambulance, paramedics, plus fully kitted intensive care unit. Fortunately the tide was way out, so the ambulance could get round the rocks. Never thought I’d say thank God for private medicine!”

“So what do they think?”

“No feedback yet. I’ve sent Novello up there to keep an eye on things. I’ve secured the whole of the cliff path and the private beach. And I’ve recalled the CSIs.”

They were standing on the ledge looking at the broken rail. The wood had certainly rotted where the screws fastening it to the metal stanchion had penetrated. The cord that had been used to make it good was still in place round the stanchion, but the rail had snapped off a few inches farther along where the wood was reasonably sound.

“Would need quite a bit of pressure to break this, I should have thought,” mused Pascoe. “And wasn’t there a warning notice?”

“Over there,” said Wield, pointing to a square of hardboard lying facedown a couple of feet along the ledge. “Could have got blown down during the storm.”

“And the pressure?”

“Stopped to take a breather and admire the view. Leant her full weight against the rail. Crack, and she’s gone.”

“She didn’t look all that heavy to me. Could there be someone else involved?”

“Me and Bowler can’t have been more than a couple of minutes behind her. No way anyone could have evaded us by coming up. If they went down, they must have moved like lightning. The beach was completely empty when we reached the ledge.”

“But you still called the CSIs?”

“I’d have called them even if I’d seen her fall,” said Wield. “When you’re investigating murder, every death’s suspicious.”

“Quite right,” said Pascoe, starting to climb back up to the garden. “It doesn’t sound like Brereton will be answering questions for a while, if ever. You say she was found in Lady Denham’s room. What we need to work out is what she was after there.”

“Mebbe she were looking for these,” said Wield, producing the photos. “Bowler found them. He spotted a drawer we’d missed in the desk. Seems his parents wanted him to go into the family cabinet-making business.”

“Maybe he should have taken their advice,” grunted Pascoe ungratefully. He examined the photos. “They look like they’re having fun. Any identification yet?”

“Haven’t had much time since I got them,” said Wield. “Been a bit busy.”

“Sorry. Leave them with me then. And I’ll get Frodo Leach to check out the drawer. Now let’s talk to Bowler, see if there’s anything more he can remember.”

Wield said, “Young Hat’s a bit shook up, Pete. I think he reckons he should have got to Witch Cottage earlier and possibly have saved Ollie Hollis. Now he’s blaming himself for not stopping the lass when she said she was going for a swim.”

“That sounds like a step in the right direction,” said Pascoe indifferently.

They found Bowler at the top of the path. He looked close to the point of collapse. Wield’s heart went out to him, but Pascoe said, “You look like shit, Hat. Either snap out of it, or go home. You’re no use to anyone like this.”

There had been a time, thought Wield, when he’d have held the lad’s hand and tried to talk him out of his depression.

On the other hand, this new approach seemed rather more effective. Bowler straightened up and said, “I’m fine, sir. Really.”

“That’s the ticket,” said Pascoe heartily. “So let’s go through it all again, from the moment you noticed someone in the hall.”

He took the young DC through events step-by-step. When they’d finished, Pascoe said, “Thanks. Now go and write your statement while it’s still fresh.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Bowler.

He still did not look happy, but at least he no longer looked defeated.

“Mebbe when he’s done, he should go home,” suggested Wield.

“What on earth for?” said Pascoe. “We need all the bodies we can muster.”

“Way things are going, seems we’re getting a steady supply of them,” retorted Wield, for once letting himself be provoked.

Pascoe looked at him unblinkingly for a second, then his face relaxed into a rueful smile.

He said, “Sorry, Wieldy. Maybe it’s me should be sent home! Three bodies and counting. Oh shit. And here’s three more I could do without.”

They looked across the lawn. Around the side of the house, a motorcycle combo came laboring. The reason for the strain on its engine was not far to seek. Behind Godley on the pillion sat Charley Heywood, her arms wrapped round the healer’s waist, while in the sidecar, like the effigy of some oriental god paraded to bless the rice crop, rode a serious-looking Andy Dalziel. By contrast, Gordon Godley wore a blissful smile.

The combo came to a halt. PC Scroggs, eager to atone for his earlier dereliction, came hurrying forward, his face stern with the resolution of Horatio about to confront the ranks of Tuscany. Then he spotted Dalziel, skidded to a halt, and went into reverse.

Pascoe did not move but let the Fat Man come across the lawn to him.

“Pete, lad,” he said. “Just heard the news. How’s the poor lass?”

“We’re waiting to hear. Andy, what are you doing here? And why have you brought those two?”

“Fair do’s, I think they brought me. And not to worry, I think I’ve talked them out of making a complaint against you. In fact, if you’ve got any sense, you’ll kiss and make up with yon Charley and get her onboard. She’s bright as old Fester’s teeth. Oh aye. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. You asked me to talk to Pet and Fester, remember? But first things first, this Clara, did she jump or were she pushed?”

Pascoe noted the old familiar imperious tone and recalled his feelings of loss and despair when he’d first seen the Fat Man stretched out in intensive care, as lifeless and forlorn as some deserted hulk found floating on a silent sea. To see him now, masts restored, wind filling his sails, should have been an undiluted joy; but was that just a small breath of nostalgia he felt ruffling his soul?

He ignored it and said, “Looks like an accident. She was going down the cliff path, reached the ledge with the dodgy rail, leaned against it, and it gave way. But we’re keeping an open mind.”

“For God’s sake!” exclaimed Charley Heywood, who’d followed the Fat Man across the lawn. “Can’t you two stop being cops for a minute? Who gives a fuck how it happened? How’s Clara? That’s the main thing.”

Pascoe stared at her for a moment, then said quietly, “Of course it is, Miss Heywood. But as none of us can know how she is until we hear from the Avalon, where she’s been taken, forgive me if I carry on being a cop for the time being.”

Dalziel made a face at Charley that she read as an admonition to keep her mouth shut, then he said, “So what happened then?”

In response to a nod from Pascoe, Wield told his story.

Dalziel said, “So if there had been anyone else involved, they’d have had to get down the cliff almost as fast as the poor lass to be out of sight by the time you got there?”

“That’s right, sir,” said Wield. “And there definitely weren’t anyone down there.”

“He could have hidden in the cave.”

All eyes turned on Charley.

She said, “If someone pushed Clara over, he could have heard you coming down the path and hidden in the cave till you went rushing down to the beach after Clara, then climbed up here and headed off through the woods.”

Dalziel regarded her with a parental pride.

“Told you she were bright,” he said.

Pascoe said, “Oh yes. The cave. I remember. In your e-mail. The cave where you claim to have seen Sir Edward and Miss Brereton in flagrante.”

Charley noted the claim and recalled the Fat Man telling her that Pascoe was inclined to take everything she said with a pinch of salt.

Before she could give battle, Wield said, “Where exactly is this cave, miss?”

“It’s off to the left from the ledge,” she said. “Up a bit, among the shrubs. If you look, you can see a faint track.”

Pascoe and Wield exchanged glances.

Wieldy said, “Shall I…?”

“No,” said Pascoe. “Just in case, let’s not risk contamination. Leave it to the CSI. Thank you, Miss Heywood. Anything else you’d care to contribute?”

His tone was even and polite, but to Charley it felt as if it were dripping with sarcasm. She looked at the Fat Man. He returned her look blank-faced but she read there an assurance, I promised I’d say nowt without your say-so. Up to you, lass.

She said, “There is something else, Mr. Pascoe. About the cave. I made a mistake. It wasn’t Clara I saw there with Teddy Denham. It was Sidney Parker.”

Pascoe passed his hand over his face, hiding any reaction.

“Not Clara Brereton but Sidney Parker. I see,” he said musingly. “Well, that was certainly quite a mistake, Miss Heywood. What relevance it might have I don’t know, but before we draw any conclusions from it, we need to be absolutely sure-”

Dalziel, seeing the young woman was once more ready to be provoked, got in quickly, “We’ve been through all this, Pete. Miss Heywood’s sure. Me too.”

“In that case, sir, the matter is, of course, beyond all doubt,” said Pascoe, draining all irony from his voice. “To be quite clear, Miss Heywood, your error was only in the personnel involved, not in the activity? The two men were also in flagrante?”

Charley said, “Yes. Ted was definitely buggering him.”

The Fat Man grinned. He was beginning to really like this lass.

Pascoe showed no emotion. “So in the light of this, are you now saying that all that stuff in your e-mails about Ted Denham coming on to Miss Brereton, not to mention yourself, was probably a misinterpretation also?”

Charley looked as if she might be considering physical violence for a moment, then said, “No way. All right, to some extent it might have been a smoke screen to put Lady Denham off the scent, but at a guess I’d say Ted’s bisexual.”

Pascoe echoed, “A smoke screen? To hide what? And why?”

“From what little I got to know about Lady Denham, I’d say there wasn’t much chance of her leaving anything to a gay,” said Charley.

“Except mebbe a couple of her evening gowns,” said Dalziel cheerfully.

Again Pascoe looked from the woman to the Fat Man.

He said, “If I could have a word in private, sir?”

He set off walking toward the hall. Dalziel winked at Charley and followed.

“So you weren’t here when the lass got attacked?” he said as he caught up.

“No,” said Pascoe shortly. “I was visiting Franny Roote.”

“You mean interviewing him?”

“That too. It’s all right, Andy. As I told you last evening, I can keep my personal feelings and professional responsibilities separate.”

“As the bishop said to the actress,” said Dalziel. “So, this private word you want-not in trouble, am I?”

“Only like Brer Rabbit in the bramble bush,” said Pascoe, halting and turning to face the Fat Man. “I’d like to get back to your agreed professional involvement in the investigation, if you don’t mind. Perhaps you’d care to tell me how you got on with the interviews you volunteered to do at the Avalon?”

Dalziel grimaced and said, “Getting a bit above myself, am I? Old habits, eh? Like me, they die hard. From now on in, I’ll play it by the book. You’re the boss.”

“I know I am,” said Pascoe. “The interviews. Sir.”

Dalziel gave him a digest of his conversations with Sheldon and Feldenhammer.

“And your conclusions?”

“Ho’d on. I’m not done yet.”

Now he gave an account of his visit to Kyoto House. As he related Minnie Parker’s contribution, Pascoe groaned.

“Jesus, Andy,” he said. “We’ve already had Tom Parker banging on about Novello interviewing the girl without a responsible adult present. If he finds out you’ve been questioning her about people screwing on the beach, you could be in big trouble.”

“It weren’t like that,” protested Dalziel. “She just came out with it. Could be completely the product of her imagination for all I know.”

“I don’t think so,” said Pascoe, producing the envelope with the photos. “Anyone you recognize here?”

Dalziel examined them for a moment, then said, “Hope old Fester rubbed some sunblock onto his buttocks.”

“Fester? This is Dr. Feldenhammer, is it?”

“Oh aye. No doubt. And the lass must be this Indian lady Minnie told us about.”

“Indeed. I’m afraid this means we’ll have to talk to the girl again. I’ll try to play down how we got the info, but maybe you’d better start working on a good explanation of how you came to be talking to her unofficially without a responsible adult present.”

“Don’t preach to me, lad, not till you’ve started shaving,” retorted Dalziel, forgetting his recent resolution to play the underling. “Any road, Charley Heywood’s a responsible adult, and a bright one too. I’m not the only one straying off the straight and narrow here. She lays a complaint about you bugging her private conversations, you’ll know what trouble is. If I were you, I’d start building bridges with that lass.”

“No conversation with a suspect in custody can be called private,” declared Pascoe, trying for the forensic high ground.

“In custody?” snorted Dalziel. “Crap! You knew Godley were in the clear, as evidenced by the fact he’s now running around loose.”

“Which he wouldn’t be if I hadn’t used Miss Heywood to get to the truth of his relationship with Miss Lee,” riposted Pascoe. “You never used to be so pussyfooted, Andy.”

“And you never used to make your own sodding rules, lad!”

The two men glared at each other for a moment, then both began to grin.

Pascoe said, “Anyway, he certainly doesn’t look like he wants to complain now.”

They both glanced toward Charley and Godley, who were having an animated conversation in the middle of the lawn.

“That’s ’cos the poor sod thinks the sun shines out of her ears,” said the Fat Man. “If you’d dropped him in a bog and young Charley were in it too, he’d have been grateful. But she’s still a long way from being your greatest fan.”

“And you think she’s the complaining type?”

“Mebbe not, but if her dad, Stompy Heywood, hears you’ve been messing his daughter around, I’d make sure your BUPA payments are up to date. Think on, and while you’re thinking, here’s the way I see things. Festerwhanger’s right in the frame. Daph were coming on at him hard and he didn’t dare fend her off too strong ’cos she knew about his little bit of naughty with the Indian patient.”

“Whoah!” said Pascoe. “We don’t know she’s a patient. Could be a nurse.”

“She were a patient, I can feel it in my water,” said the Fat Man.

“Offer the same argument for God and I’m sure the whole world will turn religious,” said Pascoe.

“Ha ha. Listen, she has to be a patient. Doctors don’t get struck off for shagging nurses, else the NHS would be in an even worse state than it is!”

“And you believe Lady Denham was capable of telling Feldenhammer that if he didn’t marry her, she’d publish those pictures of him on the beach? I mean, they would put most women right off!”

“Not Daph,” said Dalziel almost admiringly. “Probably took them as a testimonial he were fit for purpose! Seems the one time she did manage to get him into bed weren’t all that satisfactory, so it must have been nice to see him on top form, so to speak.”

Pascoe shook his head and said, “But he’s a doctor.”

“He’s a man!”

“No. I meant, doctors don’t strangle people. They give them poison, or bring on heart attacks with a large bill.”

Dalziel laughed and said, “Aye, but they can be provoked like anyone else.”

“I suppose so. Who else knows about this putative patient? You say Minnie told Sid Parker?”

“That’s right. And my guess is he told Ted Denham. The poor sod’s obviously crazy about Ted! Bought him a mobike called Sexy Beast, didn’t he? Wants to make him happy, that’s what love’s about, right? Nice presents, help with problems like what to do with a rotting old house, sweet nothings whispered in his ear, pillow talk, aye that’ll be how Ted got to hear about the Indian maid.”

“Stop there, Andy. Why has she suddenly become a maid? I thought the whole point was she was a patient.”

“Sorry. Word association, that’s all.”

He whistled the opening bars of the rugby song. Pascoe, an unreconstructed soccer fan, looked blank. So Dalziel sang the words. Pascoe, who was slightly prudish, looked blanker.

Dalziel said, “First time I set eyes on Denham and Fester together, Ted whistled that song and old Fester nearly blew a gasket. I reckon when Ted first let Fester know he knew, he rounded it off by singing the song, and thereafter whenever he wanted to wind him up, he’d whistle the tune.”

“That sounds as if it might be a motive for getting rid of Denham too, but as far as I know, he’s alive and well.”

“Pete, what’s happened to that sharp mind of thine? It’s talking to Roote that’s done it. Always acted on you like salt on a slug.”

“I don’t quite care for the slug image, but do put me straight, Andy.”

“Last thing Teddy would want is for Daph to get Fester down the aisle. What might that do to his hopes of inheriting? So Ted would use the Indian maid to warn Fester he’d better keep his hands off Daph or else. Randy Daphne were likely doing the opposite, using the Indian maid to pressure Fester into laying his hands on her! Poor sod. Two blackmailers, neither of ’em he can satisfy without pissing off the other! Must have felt like they both had their hands on his bollocks and were pulling different ways!”

“So you’re saying that, with Lady Denham gone, Feldenhammer would have no more need to worry about Ted?”

“Well done, lad! Long time coming, but you get there in the end…”

“…as the actress said to the very old bishop.”

“By the cringe, stealing my lines now!”

“You once told me, Andy, if it’s useful, use it, doesn’t matter how polluted the source. Miss Heywood!”

Charley looked in their direction, then finished off what she was saying to Gordon Godley before walking slowly toward them. Pascoe, who knew how to manage these things, didn’t let her come all the way but took a few steps to meet her.

“Miss Heywood,” he said. “I’d like to say that I’m sorry if I have appeared rather cavalier in the way I’ve dealt with you.”

“Not cavalier. I’ve got you down more as a roundhead,” said Charley. “If you think it’s right, do it, and to hell with other people’s rights and feelings!”

Pascoe ran his hand through his hair as if to check it hadn’t all been shaved off.

“Perhaps, but more protestant than puritan, I hope. I certainly think it’s right now that I should apologize for listening in on your conversation with Mr. Godley without your consent.”

“That’s nice. He’s here too, you know. You going to apologize to him as well?”

“No,” said Pascoe. “If he’d been open with us from the start, the situation would not have arisen.”

Then he grinned his famous boyish grin, which Dalziel claimed could charm warts off witches, and added, “I think in any case he may be inclined now to regard it as felix culpa, seeing that it seems to have brought him rather closer to yourself.”

Charley felt herself blushing.

“What is it with you people?” she demanded. “I thought this was a murder investigation you were running, not a dating agency!”

“Sorry again. Yes, that was a rather archly cavalier sort of thing to say, wasn’t it?”

He put on his rueful self-mocking look and Dalziel saw the girl stifle a smile.

Then the entertainment was interrupted by the sound of a car. Not that it made much sound. It was a dove-gray Daimler with tinted glass that made it hard to see the inmates. The driver when he got out was perfectly cast. Tall, slim, wearing a dark suit that came close to being a uniform, an impression confirmed when he put on a peaked cap before going to the rear door and opening it.

“You didn’t say the Queen were coming, Pete,” said Dalziel.

The passenger’s legs appeared. Unless her majesty had taken to gray pinstripes, this was not going to be a royal visit.

And now the man himself appeared and stood upright. But not very far upright. He was broad and squat and had a bushy black beard, trimmed square. And he came up to the chauffeur’s third rib.

“It’s Gimli from The Lord of the Rings,” said Charley.

At the same time, almost unnoticed, a slightly built young woman, wearing a heron gray business suit and carrying a black leather briefcase, slid out of the other passenger door.

PC Scroggs once more advanced officiously and addressed the man. Words were exchanged, Scroggs looked chastened. He pointed toward the group in the garden, and the man marched toward them with a step that, though not actually ground shaking, gave the impression that if it wanted it could be.

As he got near, he graveled out a single word.

“Beard!”

Pascoe’s susceptibility to sudden strange fancies was sometimes a plus in his profession, but just as often it could be a potentially fatal distraction. Now instead of concentrating on seeking a stratagem to identify the newcomer, who looked important enough to be a new home secretary (or even an old one-who the hell was home secretary anyway?), he found himself thinking that maybe this was one of those magical encounters when failure to utter the correct counter-word could bring disaster. He was still vacillating between bareface! and sporran! when the Fat Man stepped forward and said fulsomely, “Good to see you, Mr. Beard. We’ve been expecting you. I’m Dalziel, and this is Detective Chief Inspector Pascoe who is in charge of the inquiry.”

Pascoe came back to earth. This was Lady Denham’s lawyer, Mr. Beard of Gray’s Inn Road, and Dalziel was keeping his promise of keeping his place, even though it meant being polite to a solicitor, quite something from a man who regarded Dick the Butcher’s proposal to kill all the lawyers after the revolution as an act of clemency.

“I’m glad to meet you, sir,” said Pascoe, shaking hands. “And your colleague.”

He glanced toward the woman. Beard didn’t.

“Secretary. Sorry I didn’t get here earlier. Roadworks.”

His voice was so deep and vibrant that it almost massaged you, thought Charley. Talk to this guy on the phone and you’d date him anytime, even though he did use the same dismissive tone for both secretary and roadworks.

“Let’s step inside,” said Pascoe.

As they set off he glanced round at Charley, made a rueful face, and murmured, “Sorry. The will. Hang about and we’ll talk later. If you can, that is. Thanks.”

What had Dalziel called him? Old silver tongue. Well, she’d never been a pushover for a smooth talker. On the other hand, if his smooth talking was going to include some gobbets of info about the will, she certainly wasn’t going to miss the chance to hear that.

She turned round to find Godley standing so close to her she took an involuntary step backward. At the same time he did a backward hop of twice the distance.

She said, “Mr. Godley, if you’re going to make a habit of sneaking up on me, you’re really going to have to do something with that beard.”

“Yes. Sorry.”

He looked so hangdog, she felt as guilty as if she’d given him a kick.

Thinking only to make amends she said, “I was wondering-you must have heard all about Tom Parker’s plans for Sandytown from your sister…half sister…Doris. Right?”

“Yes. Doris was very enthusiastic about the festival and everything.”

“But you weren’t?”

“Not really. Not my kind of thing. Don’t like a lot of people around. Don’t like a fuss. And with Doris being…well…being Miss Lee…”

She saw what he was saying. He loved his half sister very much, but he didn’t do deception. Being around her professionally must have been a real trial.

“So what made you change your mind?”

Silly question. She knew the answer even as she asked it, but it was too late.

He wouldn’t look at her but stared at the ground and gabbled something inaudibly.

Inaudible was fine by her, so she didn’t say, “Pardon?” or “What?” but he took her silence as, “Sorry, I didn’t get that,” and straightened up and looked her in the eyes.

“Because when you and Mr. and Mrs. Parker called at the mill and Mr. Parker said you were going to stay with them for a few days, I thought if I accepted his invitation I might get to see you again. That’s why I came.”

“But that’s just…daft!” said Charley.

“Yes, I agree,” he said instantly. “And I thought, the simplest way for me to see how daft it was would be to see you again and wonder why I’d bothered.”

It was silly for a sensible adult woman who really didn’t fancy being fancied by a weirdo to feel disappointed, but Charley definitely felt a pang of something a lot like disappointment.

“Good thinking,” she said heartily.

“Not really. It doesn’t seem at all daft to me now,” he said. “In fact, it seems perfectly logical. And I’m sorry I thought even for a second you might have been in on that trick the police played to get me to talk. When I thought about it later, I knew I had to be wrong, and when I heard you stand up to the pair of them just now, I was certain. So there you go. What I feel about you might be hopeless, but it certainly isn’t daft. Now I’ve got to go.”

“Where? Why?” she demanded.

“To the Avalon. You were right, that girl Clara should be our main concern now.”

He turned and walked swiftly away.

She felt an impulse to shout after his retreating figure, to say they needed to talk more, but she was fearful that anything she said might be taken as encouragement. If he knew it was hopeless already, why risk changing that?

As he climbed onto the bike, a familiar dusty old Defender drew up alongside the lawyer’s Daimler and the driver jumped out. He was a tall young man with broad shoulders and a smile to match as he strode across the lawn toward her.

“Hi, Charley,” he said as soon as he got within distance. “Don’t be mad, but when we got your news, the only way to stop Dad coming straight over here to make sure you’re all right was for me to come, and I reckoned that was the lesser of two evils!”

He was right. She should have felt mad, or at least hugely exasperated to know that the Headbanger still thought of her as a helpless child in need of protection.

Instead, as her brother reached her and put his arms around her, she surprised herself even more than him by saying, “Oh, George!” and bursting into tears.