Dalziel And Pascoe: Under World Part 16

'Ah. Trying some conjuring, were we? Well, you'll be pleased to see just how impartial and incorruptible we are,' said Pascoe. 'Which means you'll have to take a blood test.'

'What?'

'That's the procedure. You wouldn't want us to vary the procedure, would you?'

'Peter, don't muck about. They've got Colin somewhere in this kremlin and they're trying to pin a murder on him. Who the h.e.l.l's bothered about breathalyser tests?'

'Ellie.' said Pascoe, very quiet and controlled. 'Farr isn't here. He's been taken to hospital for a check-up. He will be well taken care of. Your job now is to take care of yourself. It would be well, for instance, to establish that you were not indulging in some kind of mobile drunken orgy when apprehended.'

'Apprehended? You make it sound like there was a car chase like in one of those awful cop films you love watching.'

'That is just how it may sound unless we are careful,' said Pascoe wearily. 'Look, the doctor should be here soon to take the sample. Don't be too impatient. Every minute gets you nearer legality. Then you'll have to make a statement.'

'Statement?'

'Yes. You're a possible witness in a murder case, remember?'

'Witness of what, for G.o.d's sake?'

'I don't know,' said Pascoe, 'I wasn't there. I'll fix up for someone to come and help with the statement. No, I don't mean write it, just the lay-out and to witness your signature.'

'Can't you do that?'

'Not a good idea. I've no standing here, thank G.o.d. Also I'll give Wieldy a ring and make sure our daughter isn't holding him hostage.'

'Oh G.o.d. I'd forgotten Rosie,' she said in alarm. 'You left her with Wield?'

'What did you want me to do? Bring her here?'

'No. Of course not. I'm sorry. I'm sure he'll be fine.'

There was a knock at the door and a tired-looking man with a doctor's bag came in.

'Mrs Pascoe?'

'That's her,' said Pascoe, 'I think.'

He went out and wandered around till he found an empty office with a telephone. He sat down and rang his home number. There was a heart-chilling delay before the call was answered.

'h.e.l.lo?' said a gruff voice eventually.

'Wieldy?'

'Who else? Sorry if I took a long time. I was outside.'

'Don't tell me. Looking for a kitten up a tree?'

A few days ago a neighbour's kitten had got stuck up a tree in the Pascoes' garden. Rosie had heard it crying and had been delighted when Pascoe rescued it and brought it into the house. Her delight, however, had turned to anger and grief when the neighbours had gratefully claimed it. Clearly determined that the next one was going to be hers, she now heard kittens crying in every gust of wind.

'You should have warned me,' said Wield.

'If I'd warned you about everything, I'd not have left yet. Cats apart, is everything all right?'

'Grand, thanks. And you?'

'It's getting sorted. I'll tell you about it when we get back, which I hope won't be too long. Meanwhile make yourself at home, and if you get knackered waiting, don't hesitate to bed down in the spare room.'

'Will do.'

'And thanks, Wieldy. Cheers.'

'h.e.l.lo. Who're you?'

A spotty-faced young man was standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to be aggressive or not. Pascoe made up his mind for him by flas.h.i.+ng his warrant card and learning in return that this was Detective-Constable Collaboy.

'Just the man,' said Pascoe. 'My wife's along the corridor writing a statement. She's a witness in the Satterthwaite case. When she's finished, she'll need someone to go through it with her and then witness her signature. Could you see to that?'

The young man agreed without enthusiasm. Perhaps Ellie's reputation had already spread. And if it hadn't, it was soon going to, Pascoe thought with a sinking heart as he led Collaboy into the room where he'd left Ellie, and found it empty. As they'd walked along the corridor, his ear had caught and dismissed as none of his business a distant hubbub of upraised voices. But somehow deep in his small intestine he had known it was his business all along.

He ran lightly down the stairs. The noise grew louder as he approached the station desk area and when he pushed open the door, he saw that his small intestine was blessed with the same power of divination as Dalziel's piles.

Pressing round the desk, behind which stood Sergeant Swift, was a crowd of people who were thinking seriously of becoming a mob. Prominent, almost pre-eminent, among them was Ellie. Pascoe stood and watched her for a moment. She always flung herself wholeheartedly into debate. Her hands reinforced her arguments as clearly as sign language to a deaf man. He watched them as they stabbed emphatic fingers at Swift, cut through his denials with scything sweeps, clutched at her bosom in righteous indignation, fluttered to her flaming cheeks in shock, cupped her ears in disbelief. She was beautiful and he loved her and he would not have her change one iota, except that maybe at this moment it would be nice if she were sitting at home, dandling Rosie on her knee, while his slippers warmed before the fire.

Thrusting such recidivist thoughts from his mind, he advanced to join the merry throng. Central to it was a woman in her early forties, thin, pale, a pretty face, but her eyes deep shadowed by worry or illness or both. This, he quickly inferred, was Colin Farr's mother. Supporting her, metaphorically, though his hand did rest comfortingly on her shoulder, was a long skinny man, angular of limb and body, with a narrow anxious face. Behind them crowded a chorus of Burrthorpians of both s.e.xes. It seemed that Mrs Farr was claiming a mother's right, potent in lore if not in law, to see her son. Ellie had clearly joined in the debate, and the locals, though by no means tyros in the art of simple abuse, had quickly acknowledged a virtuoso and settled back to enjoy the performance. Pascoe listened for a while and though he too could not but admire the force and the rationality of his wife's arguments, he felt that an impartial judge would finally have to award the sergeant the laurels for his patient repet.i.tion.

'Ellie,' Pascoe interposed finally. 'He's not here. I told you before. Listen to what the sergeant says. He's not here. He's gone to the hospital.'

It was clear that Ellie, having till now concentrated all her rhetoric on police mendacity, was quite prepared to switch in mid-trope to police brutality. Pascoe cut her short by addressing himself politely to the woman. 'Mrs Farr? I think you'll find your son has been taken to the County Hospital. 'There's nothing to worry about. It's quite normal in these matters.'

'Who're you?' demanded the thin man with an ill-fitting attempt at aggressiveness.

'Detective-Inspector Pascoe, and you sir are . . . ?'

'Downey. Arthur Downey.I'm a friend of May's, Mrs Farr's.'

'Pascoe?' said the woman. 'Any relation to her?'

Ellie said quickly, 'This is my husband. He's from Mid- Yorks, nothing to do with this case.'

'c.o.c.k-a-doodle-doo,' said Pascoe, sotto voce.

'Does our Colin know about him?' asked Mrs Farr.

Ellie glanced quickly at Pascoe.

'No,' she said, 'it never came up.'

'c.o.c.k-a-doodle-doo,' murmured Pascoe.

'It came up when you came round for tea,' said Mrs Farr scornfully. 'I remember asking you what your man did.'

'c.o.c.k-a-doodle-doo,' crowed Pascoe for the third time but his heart was no longer in the joke. Ellie had made no mention of going home to tea. Dear G.o.d, it sounded like an old-fas.h.i.+oned courts.h.i.+p.

Ellie's demotion from rabble-rouser to police nark was immediate and absolute. She made no effort to resist as Pascoe drew her aside, only saying, 'Thanks a million.'

'For the truth? Think nothing of it. Which should be easy. As you clearly do. Now let's concentrate on getting away from here. You've given a sample?'

'Yes. And I've got my own in case one of these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds decides to slip some gin in it.'

'A wise precaution. That just leaves your statement. This is Detective-Constable Collaboy who has kindly volunteered to a.s.sist you in this business. Oh, by the way, since you ask, Rosie's well. Wieldy on the other hand has been introduced to the joys of phantom kitten rescuing.'

It was perhaps a low blow but it worked.

'Oh s.h.i.+t,' said Ellie and went off meekly with a bemused Collaboy.

Pascoe went in search of the small canteen in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Here he sat and drank a cup of coffee that was so awful in every particular that he bought another just to confirm it was no flash in the pan. Then he went up to the desk where all was now peaceful.

'Quieter now, Sergeant,' he said.

'In here mebbe,' said Swift. 'But they'll be out there waiting.'

'You're not really expecting trouble, are you?' said Pascoe.

The man shrugged.

'You weren't here during the Strike, sir. Ever see that film, Zulu? Well, that's what it were like in here that night we had the bother. Except that in the film the redcoats stood their ground. We had more sense. We ran! Since that night, I've been ready for anything. A mob's like a dog. Once it's bitten, it can always do it again.'

'Good Lord,' said Pascoe, impressed. He went to the door and peeped out, feeling more like Wayne in Rio Bravo than Caine in Zulu.

'No one out there at the moment,' he said.

'No one to be seen,' said the sergeant.

Pascoe closed the door.

'I'll just see how my wife's statement's coming along,' he said.

He went towards the stairs. Behind his back, the sergeant smiled faintly, then became serious as the door opened and Chief Inspector Wishart came in, looking surprisingly happy for a man who'd just been down a mine to investigate a murder he didn't want.

'Inspector Pascoe!' he called to Pascoe's disappearing back.

Pascoe turned and viewed the Scot's approach with surprise.

'When you say you're not going to be long, you mean it, don't you?'

'I told you, just a quick look. But I really wanted to get back before you left, Peter,' said Wishart putting his arm round Pascoe's shoulders and ushering him up the stairs. 'A funny thing's happened. We were on this wee train, the paddy they call it, and I must have been looking a bit uneasy because the pit-manager who was with me said, "Don't let it worry you. Just think that up there only a few hundred yards at most is Little Hayton." Well, that rang a bell. There's a nice pub there, does lovely meals. I went there once last time I was in this neck of the woods. But then it struck me. Little Hayton's over the line. It's not South at all, it's in Mid-Yorks. So when we got to the spot they found Satterthwaite, I said, "What's up there now?" And he worked it out on this map he's got of the workings.'

'Where's all this getting us?' asked Pascoe uneasily.

'A long way from here,' said Wishart gleefully. 'Peter, a crime belongs to the Force whose patch it's found on, right? Well, this chap Satterthwaite: even allowing for a large margin of error and the fact that he was found under a couple of thousand feet of earth, it is incontrovertibly Mid-Yorks.h.i.+re earth he was found under. Peter, I honestly believe this may turn out to be your body after all!'

Chapter 9.

Dan Trimble, Chief Constable of Mid-Yorks.h.i.+re, was a small man with a sharp face and prominent ears. He was still very new in the job. His predecessor, Tommy Winter, had tended to let things slide in his final phase, preferring to deal with trouble by devolution and absence. Trimble, by contrast, preferred to meet problems face to face, and one of them was facing him now.

'I reckon it's like mineral rights,' declared Dalziel.

'I'm sorry?'

'The b.l.o.o.d.y coal doesn't belong to the farmer whose field's up above, does it? It belongs to them as mines it, which in this case is the Coal Board as represented by Burrthorpe Main, which is South's baby.'

'A body is not coal,' said Trimble.

'Tin.'

'I'm sorry?'

'You'd be more used to tin, sir, coming from Cornwall,' said Dalziel with the benevolent beam of a man willing to make allowances.

In fact Dalziel quite approved of Trimble whom he'd backed very profitably in the selection stakes. But neither professional approval nor personal profit could be allowed to obscure basic issues such as who ran what in Mid-Yorks. He knew he couldn't win this present argument but he also believed there was nowt like a few teeth marks in the ankle to make a postman tread carefully next time he came bearing bad news.

'We've got to learn to bow gracefully to the inevitable, Andy,' Trimble said.

Aye, but you've not so far to bow as me, thought Dalziel with the amiable scorn of the large for the small. That he didn't say it out loud was a measure of his relative respect for the man.

'And this is what's been decided,' continued Trimble. 'The investigation of Harold Satterthwaite's death will be a joint operation. It makes sense even if there hadn't been this absurd complication of whose body it really is. It makes sense because South's Head of CID is currently on special a.s.signment in Ulster and Chief Inspector Wishart is a little junior for what looks like a potentially trouble-some case; it makes sense because we've already become involved to some extent; and in the opinion of some of the policy makers, it makes sense to provide a buffer between a highly sensitive community and a local force they haven't yet re-learned to trust.'

'So we're a buffer now?'

'Well, you certainly have the build for it, Andy,' smiled the Chief Constable, running his gaze up the CID man's mountainous frame. Supposedly, one of the privileges of rank was not having to worry about what you said, but when Trimble peaked at Dalziel's face, he saw his remark registered there like a price in a till.

'I'm not altogether convinced of all these arguments myself, Andy,' he went on hastily. 'But I am convinced of the overall usefulness of a joint approach. I hardly need tell you that this involves two basic principles. One is to solve the crime. The other is to make sure we get our share of the credit. OK?'

'Aye,' grunted Dalziel without enthusiasm. 'One more thing, sir: I understand there's a promotion meeting later today. My lad, Pascoe: what's holding up his promotion to CI? There's b.u.g.g.e.rs I'd not trust to come in out of the rain leapfrogging ahead of him.'

'Rain is the favoured environment of frogs.' said Trimble mildly.

'You what?'

'Nothing. Andy, you must know that promotion is not in my gift. Mine is merely one voice among many, and as a comparatively new off-comer, it's not even a particularly strong voice. But if there's any special case you wish me to advance at the meeting . . .'

'Aye, there is. Mebbe you can pa.s.s this on to the many,' said Dalziel.