Under World

Chapter 12

Neville Watmough looked drawn and strained, but it was when he greeted Pascoe like an old friend that the detective knew the man was in trouble.

‘Peter, come in, how are you?’ The use of his first name was a giveaway in itself. The ex-DCC had never felt able to go beyond the formal courtesy of ‘Mr Pascoe’ in office.

‘Let’s go into the study, shall we? What about a drink?’

Pascoe couldn’t hold back a glance at the mantelshelf where the presentation clock showed it was only twenty to eleven.

‘Too early?’ laughed Watmough. ‘Time has less significance when you’re retired. Coffee, then?’

‘No, thank you, sir,’ said Pascoe, distrusting all this cosiness.

‘Well, sit down anyway. How’s everything back at the works? I must drop in some time soon and have a chat before everyone forgets who I am.’

‘I don’t think there’s much chance of that,’ said Pascoe, only conscious of the sarcastic vibrations as he finished the sentence.

‘I should explain,’ he went on quickly, ‘that I’m here on duty.’

‘Not a social call, then?’ said Watmough, not sounding very surprised.

‘No, sir. The point is this. You probably heard on the news about this killing at Burrthorpe Main Colliery last night?’

‘Yes. And that you had a man helping with inquiries.’

‘That covers a multitude of possibilities as you know, sir. The thing is, there’s a chance that there might be a tie-up here with the Tracey Pedley disappearance.’

‘Yes, but that … ah.’

Watmough fell silent. It must be hard, after so long responding to any mention of Tracey Pedley with the confident assertion that she was almost certainly one of Donald Pickford’s victims, to admit now that the case was still open. Even when you yourself were responsible for undermining your own theory. Or at least publicly responsible.

Pascoe said, ‘Incidentally, sir, when did you realize that it was almost impossible for Pickford to have abducted the Pedley girl?’

Watmough said, ‘Not while I was still in the Force, if that’s what you’re thinking. What are they saying down there? That when I realized Pickford actually had made his call that afternoon I hushed it up for fear of looking silly?’

‘No, sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘No one would believe you’d ever shirk your duty.’

Watmough looked taken aback at this assurance.

‘No, of course not. I’m glad to hear it. Look, are you sure you won’t have that drink? Sorry, you’re on duty, aren’t you? Well, I’m not any more, so if you don’t mind …’

He went to a bureau and took out a bottle and a glass. It was scotch, Pascoe was interested to note, not the goat-piss sherry for which he was justly infamous. And he didn’t have to remove the stopper.

He poured himself a modest measure and returned to his chair.

‘No,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t till I started on my articles that I realized that Pickford wouldn’t have had the time to … no, that sounds as if I had a sudden inspiration, like Sherlock Holmes, doesn’t it? It wasn’t me at all. It was Monty Boyle who got on to it. He’s very impressive in his own way. Very professional.’

‘Very elusive,’ said Pascoe. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of him for a couple of days. Of course, his office would cover for him if he didn’t want to see me. But when I rang this morning I got the impression they genuinely didn’t know where he was …’

He looked at Watmough hopefully.

‘Sorry. Can’t help. I haven’t seen or heard from him since our last so-called creative session last week.’

‘No? Tell me, sir, how does it work, this partnership? Boyle updates your stuff with his own research, then knocks it all into Challenger shape?’

‘More or less,’ said Watmough without enthusiasm. ‘It was fun at first. Boyle and I got on well. I’d go over my notes with him, then we’d sit and have a drink and chat about old times. He had a tape-recorder so he wouldn’t miss anything. He’d obviously done a lot of background research before ever I signed up with the Challenger. Almost as if they knew … never mind … but he was thorough. I’ll give him that. A damn sight more thorough than your precious Sergeant Wield had been.’

He glared at Pascoe accusingly.

‘He carried out his instructions to the letter,’ said Pascoe carefully.

‘Very loyal of you, Peter. There’s a lot of loyalty in Mid-Yorks CID. Perhaps a bit too much on occasion.’

‘And what occasion would that be, sir?’

‘Nothing. I speak generally. Perhaps bitterly. I’m sorry. But when Boyle told me that Pickford had kept his appointment on the Avro Estate, I felt stupid. I’d been so definite about him being responsible for the Burrthorpe girl’s disappearance. Boyle said it didn’t matter. The Pickford case would still be presented as my personal triumph. But here we had yet another unsolved case and it was our duty to let the public know. I still wasn’t happy. I said that new evidence should be handed over to the police at once. I saw Ogilby. He said the evidence would be handed over simultaneously with its publication in the Challenger. That was to be this coming Sunday.’

‘Was to be?’

‘Things may have changed with last night’s news,’ said Watmough.

Pascoe said, ‘These allegations that there was some kind of vigilante group in Burrthorpe after the girl disappeared, how much truth is there in them?’

‘I don’t know. Who’s making them?’ said Watmough.

Pascoe was taken aback by this superficially disingenuous answer. Was Watmough trying to force from him an admission that he knew the content of the next article? If so, he could have it!

‘You are, sir,’ he said. ‘In the Challenger next Sunday.’

For a second Watmough looked blank. Then he smiled wanly and said, ‘This sounds like Dalziel.’ And then all trace of the smile faded and he looked very old and tired.

‘You must think me a very foolish man, Inspector, not to know what’s appearing under my name in a Sunday paper,’ he said.

‘I assume they wouldn’t print anything with no grounds at all,’ said Pascoe.

‘Grounds? If you call idle speculation, airy rumour, retailed over a glass of brandy after a lunch with Monty Boyle, grounds, then grounds there may be. It had never occurred to me that such things plus personal anecdote and even private animosity should provide the main colouring of my memoirs.’

He stood up. It was an effort. Pascoe glanced at the clock. It was just gone eleven. The chimes had not been triggered, he noticed.

‘I have got one or two other things …’ he began.

‘I’m sure. Can we make it later? I’ve got a few things to take care of myself. I’m not being evasive, I assure you. I will be delighted to cooperate fully in helping with your inquiries.’

The wan smile returned as he uttered the ritual phrase.

Pascoe let himself be ushered to the door. Dalziel wouldn’t like it, but for once he’d have to lump it.

‘Are you just helping out with South’s investigation again?’ asked Watmough at the door.

‘Rather more than that, sir.’ Pascoe explained the position.

‘So Mr Dalziel is in charge? Well, well. He’s by way of being a friend of yours, I believe?’

He couldn’t keep the note of interrogation, or perhaps rather of incredulity, out of his voice.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Pascoe simply, not having the two or three hours necessary for an in-depth analysis of the relationship.

‘Well, a man must be allowed to make his own friends,’ said Watmough. ‘As long as he is careful to make his own enemies too.’

How wise, thought Pascoe. If I found that in a Christmas cracker, I’d ask for my money back!

That was a Dalziel type joke, he realized even as it popped into his mind.

And he realized then what Watmough was saying to him.