Under World

Chapter 10

Colin Farr woke from a dream-haunted sleep in which he ran in terror down the tailgate pursued by a runaway tram loaded with a tangle of naked limbs. Half awake, for a moment the image of those twisted arms and legs became erotic instead of necrotic and he deliberately pushed himself away from terror towards a fantasy in which he shared his bed with Stella Mycroft and Ellie Pascoe.

Ellie. Last night came back, not suddenly because in fact it had never been far from his consciousness either waking or sleeping, but with the sad insistence of dawn to a still weary traveller.

He was in trouble. Cautiously he moved to check whether he was also in pain. There was certainly the echo of pain in various parts of his body, but the only pang positive enough to be worth wincing over was at the back of his head. He raised his hand to rub it.

‘Awake, are you? You must be the only bugger in this place that’s not been awake for hours save them as snuffed it during night.’

The speaker was a police constable slouched in an armchair by the hospital bed. He yawned widely, showing well-filled teeth.

‘Me, I’d just nodded off when they started beating bedpans in my ear. Hungry? You’ve missed breakfast but as it’s near on nine o’clock, they’ll likely have got lunch on the go.’

‘Cup of tea’d be nice,’ said Farr. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Guarding you,’ said the constable, rising and heading for the door.

‘What from?’

The man laughed. He was middle-aged, well-built, but with muscles running to flab. He had the red face of a jolly monk.

‘What from! That’s good. What from!’ He opened the door and called, ‘Sister, he’s awake. Tell Doctor, will you? And is there any chance of a cup of tea? Better still, two cups. Thanks, love.’

He returned to the bedside.

‘We’ll see about breakfast after the quack’s checked you over,’ he said.

‘I’m not hungry,’ said Farr.

A nurse came in, shook a thermometer and put it in Farr’s mouth. While it was still there, a white-coated Asian doctor appeared and examined the chart at the foot of the bed. The nurse removed the thermometer and showed it to the doctor who gave her the chart to make an entry, then approached Farr and shone a pencil light into his eyes.

‘Any pain?’ he asked.

‘Bit of a headache.’

‘You shouldn’t drink so much. Follow my finger with your eyes. Good.’

He pulled back the sheet and probed and prodded at shoulders, chest and legs.

‘India rubber and iron by the feel of you,’ he said.

‘Does that mean he can be shifted?’ said the constable hopefully.

‘Shifted? Why?’

‘We’re keen to question him.’

‘I’m keen to keep him alive. You’ll have to ask your questions here under strict medical supervision. Liquid diet, Nurse. And that doesn’t mean more beer, Mr Farr. I’ll see you later.’

‘Bloody foreigner,’ said the constable. ‘Still thinks we use rubber truncheons. Nurse, can I have the phone?’

The nurse wheeled in a mobile phone and the policeman rang Burrthorpe and reported the situation.

‘Anyone been asking after me?’ said Farr to the nurse.

‘Your mam came up in the night and saw you sleeping. I think she’s been on the phone this morning, but I don’t know about anyone else.’

The constable finished his conversation and replaced the receiver.

‘Can I use that?’ asked Farr.

‘No way, sunshine. Who do you want to ring, BUPA?’

‘What about visitors? Can I have visitors?’

Now the policeman laughed.

‘You’ll have visitors all right,’ he said. ‘But don’t expect many grapes.’

The first visitor was Detective Chief Inspector Alex Wishart. Though grapeless, he at least started conventionally, inquiring after Farr’s health. But when the young man replied equally conventionally that he was all right, Wishart moved smoothly into his proper role, saying, ‘Fit enough to answer a few questions, then?’

In the corner Detective-Constable Collaboy was taking notes. The uniformed constable whom Wishart addressed as Vessey had been dispatched to enjoy a cup of tea. It would be easy lying here in a warm comfortable bed listening to this soft-spoken courteous Scot to forget what was going on.

‘So you felt unwell and you told Neil Wardle you were going to leave. And he said …’

‘He told me to be sure to let Satterthwaite know.’

‘Why Satterthwaite?’

‘He were the deputy in charge of that section.’

‘Fair enough. And was that all that Wardle said to you?’

‘I can’t recall owt else.’

‘Didn’t he say something like, “And be careful, Col. No bother, no matter what he says”?’

Farr put his hand to his head and said slowly, ‘He said, “If the bugger says anything, tell him you don’t want any bother and will he take it up with the Union.”’

‘You see. You remember very precisely when you try.’

‘More than you do from the sound of it,’ said Farr.

‘Why did Mr Wardle think it necessary to make this warning?’ asked Wishart.

‘Deputies don’t like men going off in the middle of shift,’ said Farr.

‘Is that all?’

‘No, but it’s an important part of it and I’d like to be sure your girl’s got it down.’

Collaboy looked up angrily and Wishart said, ‘It’s all right, Constable. Miners’ humour. The trick is not to bite, isn’t that so, Mr Farr?’

‘The trick is knowing when it’s meant,’ said Farr.

‘I see. To resume: accepting that there might be an irritated reaction from a deputy as part of a general principle, what particular reaction or interaction between you and Satterthwaite was Wardle warning you against?’

‘Am I supposed to understand all that?’ mocked Farr. ‘And me just a poor working lad.’

‘Me too,’ smiled Wishart.’ Shall we both play stupid or would you rather develop the role alone?’

Farr nodded, not in response but at some judgement of his own.

‘Harold Satterthwaite didn’t like me and I didn’t like him,’ he said. ‘There was likely to be trouble most times we met. Just verbal, though it had come close to blows odd times. That’s what Neil were getting at.’

‘Any particular reasons for this friction?’

‘Mebbe, but I think they were almost as much effect as cause. When you got down to it, we just naturally hated each other’s guts.’

‘That’s very frank of you, Mr Farr.’

‘No point in lying about what every big mouth in Burrthorpe knows. But it doesn’t matter anyway as I never saw the sod on my way outbye.’

‘Did you look for him?’

‘Not very hard. I just wanted to get out.’

‘Did you ask anyone if they’d seen him?’

Farr smiled. He looked not much older than seventeen when he smiled, thought Wishart. As beautiful and as dangerous as a fallen angel. My God, am I on the turn? he mocked himself. But his professional mind was thinking of Ellie Pascoe and the effort her husband had put into keeping up an appearance of simple domestic upset rather than personal crisis. It wasn’t yet clear to Wishart how much Pascoe was still fooling himself.

‘I think you know I did,’ Farr answered. ‘I ran into another deputy and told him I were going off shift and asked him to tell Satterthwaite.’

‘This was Mr Mycroft?’

‘That’s right. And before you ask, I don’t get on very well with him either.’

‘You seem to have a problem with authority, Mr Farr.’

‘No problem,’ said the young man with easy assurance.

‘Mr Mycroft says he advised that you ought to see Mr Satterthwaite personally.’

Farr shrugged and winced.

‘I can’t have been listening,’ he said. ‘I was in a hurry to get out. I just got on the paddy and didn’t stop till I was back on the bank.’

‘Your ringer,’ said Wishart. ‘That’s what they call it, isn’t it? Your working tool. Did you take that with you when you left Wardle and your other workmates?’

‘I dare say so. Or mebbe not. Someone else would need it, wouldn’t they?’

‘I assume so. Wardle and the other man, Dickinson I think it is, seemed uncertain, though on the whole they favoured seeing you leave empty-handed.’

‘It’s funny how people find it hard to remember, you must find that all the time,’ said Farr.

‘Too true. You showered on the way out, I suppose.’

‘Bloody right! And it were a bloody sight hotter than it normally is at proper knock-off time.’

‘And you’d normally leave your pit-black in the dirty lockers?’

‘I’d hardly take it with me, would I?’ said Farr but his scornful assertiveness faded even as he spoke. ‘Hold on. You mean it’s not there? And you think I hid it in case there were traces of blood or anything on it?’

Now it was Wishart’s turn to smile.

‘That’s very sharp for a poor working lad,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you go home?’

‘What?’

‘You were ill. Why not go home and seek rest, relief, medical advice?’

‘The fresh air made me feel better. I didn’t want to worry my mam by getting back early. I thought I’d just go for a ride around till it were my normal time for getting back.’

‘But you were already well past that when you rang Mrs Pascoe.’

‘Look, she’s got nowt to do with any of this.’

‘I don’t suppose she has. Why did you ring her in particular?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose I just wanted to talk to someone who had nowt to do with Burrthorpe or the pit.’

‘And she came to mind first?’

‘First and last,’ said Farr savagely. ‘All the other buggers I know on the outside are likely tossing around in the Bay of Biscay. And I’d not have rung ’em anyway.’

‘Why?’

Farr answered hesitantly, as if dealing with a question of his own.

‘I made some good marras but not for talking to, you understand. Oh, if I got into a fight or into bother with the pigs or if I were strapped for cash, they’d stick by me, no question. But sorting things out in your mind, that takes something … different.’

‘Like Mrs Pascoe?’

‘Aye. She might be a bit stuck up and a bit of a do-gooder, but she’d know what I was on about and be able to listen and not end up by saying another pint would put me right, or I ought to get active in the Union, or wasn’t it time I found a nice girl and settled down and had a family?’

‘So you rang her. Her husband answered, I believe.’

‘Aye.’

‘But you didn’t ring off?’

‘Eh?’ Farr looked puzzled, then he laughed scornfully and said, ‘I’m not her fancy man, if that’s what you’re thinking. Why the hell should I ring off?’

‘Husbands can misunderstand things,’ said Wishart, watching him closely. ‘For all you knew, Mr Pascoe could have been a short-tempered heavyweight boxer.’

‘Could have been. I doubt it, but. Women like her usually end up married to teachers, them kind of twats.’

‘So you never talked about Mr Pascoe?’

‘No. Why should we? Hey, he’s not a heavyweight boxer, is he?’

Wishart smiled and shook his head. It had bothered him that Farr, possibly on the run after committing murder, should ring up the house of a police inspector and be unconcerned when a man answered the phone. But Ellie had obviously decided that her close links with the filth wouldn’t create a climate of confidence in her class.

‘What did you want to talk to Mrs Pascoe about?’ he inquired.

‘What?’

‘You rang her because you wanted to talk to someone with a different outlook from your marras. That was what you said, wasn’t it? All right. Talk about what?’

‘That’s my business,’ retorted Farr.

‘It could be mine,’ said Wishart.

‘How’s that?’

‘If you wanted to talk to her because you were confused about what to do after bashing Harold Satterthwaite over the head and dumping his body in the gob, that’d be my business, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Aye.’

‘So?’

‘So ask Ellie … Mrs Pascoe, if that’s what I wanted to talk about, and when she says no, you’ll see I’m right and it’s none of your sodding business, won’t you?’

Wishart regarded him shrewdly and said, ‘I dare say the truth is what with the booze and that bang on your head, you can’t really be sure yourself what you did talk about.’

It was a subtle bait. Amnesia must look a very tempting escape route from these persistent questions, but once taken it was damnably hard to follow.

Farr shook his head, winced and said obstinately, ‘No, I don’t forget things, not even them I’d like to forget.’

He sank down against his bank of pillows and his eyes closed. If his smile bore him back to boyhood, this weariness was more regressive still, turning him into a lost child. Wishart felt a sudden pang of conscience. The doctor had set a strict time-limit on questioning his patient and Wishart had assured him that at the first sign of fatigue, he would desist. But his professional instinct was to press on now while the defences were weak.

But before he could speak, there was a sound of voices outside and the door burst open. Wishart looked round guiltily, sure it was the doctor, come to accuse him of the third degree. Instead he saw two strangers, one male, middle-aged, balding, dressed in a creased blue suit and clutching a battered briefcase in nicotine-stained fingers. The other was female, in her thirties, with spiky red hair, dressed in an apple-green jump suit, and carrying a glossy leather document case under her arm.

Wishart, suspecting Press, rose instantly and prepared to be outraged.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.

They both spoke at once and as neither seemed prepared to concede the primacy it was only the coincidence that they were both saying more or less the same thing that allowed Wishart to grasp at their thread.

‘You’re both his solicitor?’ he said incredulously.

‘Wakefield,’ said the man. ‘Neil Wardle asked me to come on behalf of the Union.’

‘Pritchard,’ said the woman. ‘A friend of Mr Farr’s was concerned that he might be unrepresented.’

Wishart felt like Solomon called to judgement. Perhaps he should offer the patient to be dissected. After all, they were in the right place for it. But before he could pronounce, a third figure appeared, like Jove in a masque, rising to mend mortal destinies. It was Dalziel, flushed and breathing hard after climbing the stairs to avoid the concentrated contagion of a hospital lift.

‘’Morning, Chief Inspector Wishart,’ he said. ‘What’s this? A public meeting?’

During Wishart’s explanation, it seemed to him that Dalziel’s flush pulsated like a nuclear core as he looked at Pritchard. But there was nothing but sweet reason in his tone as he said, ‘No problem, is there? The client chooses the lawyer, not the lawyer the client. Mr Farr, which of these legal eagles would you like to crap on you?’

Colin Farr, who had kept his eyes resolutely closed during all that had passed hitherto, recognized in Dalziel’s voice that summons which cannot be denied.

He sat up, regarded those present with unwelcoming eyes, and said, ‘None of ’em. You can all fuck off. And that includes you, Porky!’