Deadheads Read online

  ‘Patrick, now, he loved to talk, and listen to me talking, about old Eddie. It was funny. I don’t suppose he’d met him more than a dozen times and then only on short visits. But he loved the old boy as if he’d been his own father. You know he changed his name, of course? He was articled with us when he attained his majority and it was almost the first thing he did. I am no longer Highsmith, he announced. The name is Aldermann. It was all legally done, deed-poll, the lot. Some people thought it odd, I found it rather touching. There are relationships of the spirit, don’t you think, as real as those of the blood. Certainly, however you explain it, young Patrick had inherited Eddie’s love of gardens and his way with them, especially with roses. You know, I’ve got roses here planted by both the gardening Aldermanns. You see that Mrs Sam McGredy over there?’

  Pascoe followed the pointing finger. It seemed to be aimed at a rather angular and emaciated bush which nevertheless had several rich coppery pink blooms glowing on it like gemstones on a dowager’s neck.

  ‘Eddie planted that there more than thirty years ago, and another half-dozen too, brought on from cuttings in his own garden. It’s old now, far too old. Roses age too, Mr Pascoe, just like humans. It was old and weak a dozen years ago. I doubt if I ever tended them properly, I’m a looking gardener rather than a working one. Also I’m a sentimentalist. I don’t much like pulling up things that have given me pleasure over such a long time. But when I showed them to young Patrick, he had no such inhibitions. A lot of these ought to go, he said. And go they did. He dug them out, then prepared the earth. I would have just bunged the new ones in the hole left when I dug out the old ones, but he dug and raked and added God knows what and left it to settle. The old must give way to the new, he said, but the new has to deserve it. And it did, wouldn’t you agree? Look at those Pascalis and Peer Gynts, those Ernest Morses and King’s Ransoms. There’s consolation there for all life’s failures, wouldn’t you say?’

  Again Pascoe looked. The names meant little to him but the rainbow of blooms round the margin of the garden certainly thrilled the eye. And behind it at the bottom, the dark, sharp-cut shape of the cypress hedge with the churchyard beyond. Suddenly he had a moment of strange empathy with the old man, sitting here gazing out on this last blaze of colour with the knowledge that it would fade, but the cypress would always be there, unchanging and waiting.

  ‘But you kept one of the old roses?’ he said ‘Whose idea was that?’

  ‘What? Oh, the Mrs Sam. Both of us, I think. There was no argument. My sentimentality and Patrick’s … I don’t know what. Reverence, perhaps? Eddie would have been amused, perhaps even embarrassed, by the status Patrick accorded him. I believe that’s why the boy went in for accountancy, you know. He had no gift for it, no real talent. But he wanted to do what his great-uncle had done.’

  Pascoe who had been glancing surreptitiously at his watch saw the opening and moved swiftly in.

  ‘Was that the reason that he had to leave the firm? Inefficiency?’

  Capstick smiled and shook his head.

  ‘Oh no. He was never inefficient. He’d have done very well, been a partner now. No, Mr Pascoe. I will not, of course, repeat this before witnesses, but he proved to be dishonest.’

  He pursed his full lips as though the word had a sour taste.

  ‘It was totally unexpected,’ he went on. ‘He was doing well. He had married a charming young girl, they had a child, he gave the impression of being perfectly happy. My only slight concern for him was the upkeep of that huge house. The rates alone must have been crippling to a young man still on a modest salary. And he kept it and the gardens immaculately. I’d talked to him about it when he was living there alone, but he just smiled and changed the subject. At least now, with a wife and child, and perhaps more to come, the place would begin to fill up and serve its function. Also, of course, it seemed likely the girl would have a bit of money of her own and that would help keep them going till he reached his own full earning capacity. Look, there goes your tea!’

  Startled, Pascoe looked round to see an undulation of birds, ranging from sparrows and tits to starlings and blackbirds, feeding off the buttered scones.

  ‘Patrick made a good impression on clients too,’ resumed the old man. ‘That quiet, undemonstrative manner of his inspired confidence. He was managing various minor accounts more or less by himself and a couple of our customers had asked specifically if he could deal with their business, which is always rather flattering. One of these was an old lady, Mrs McNeil, a widow who lived on a substantial pension and made a hobby out of worrying about the investment of her capital, and very tedious it was dealing with her constant demands to take her money out of this and put it into that, with none of it ever staying anywhere long enough for it to do much good. I pushed her off on to Patrick as often as I felt able and I was quite delighted when she asked if young Mr Aldermann could take over the account altogether.

  ‘Well, I suppose I glanced over his shoulder a couple of times in the first eighteen months, then I glanced no more. Whenever I bumped into old Mrs McNeil, she sang his praises. Nothing was too much trouble for him, she said. Her investments had never been in such a healthy state. She bought Patrick birthday and Christmas presents, I recall, the kind of presents old ladies buy for young men, thick sweaters to protect him against the draughts in our chambers, and rubber galoshes to keep out the damp. It was quite an office joke. Then one day, ironically, because despite Mrs McNeil’s best efforts he had caught the ’flu, he was not in the office when the old lady called. She was full of concern for Patrick and wondered whether she ought to call to see him. I shuddered at the thought of the poor boy lying defenceless in bed with Mrs McNeil trying to minister to him, and put her off mainly by the argument that she seemed to be full of cold herself and really ought not to risk aggravating young Mr Aldermann’s condition. And to divert her further, I obtained her file from Patrick’s office and began to discuss her investments with her, giving her the chance to sing Patrick’s praises.

  ‘Now as she talked and I looked, I began to sense there was something not quite right. Nothing specific, and nothing, I believed at that moment, very serious; the result probably of inexperience and being constantly badgered by Mrs McNeil. I had on occasion myself blinded her with science to give the impression I was doing the stupid thing she wanted me to do while in fact doing something else, or nothing at all. So after she’d gone, I went through the whole file very carefully with a view to doing Patrick a favour, nothing more.

  ‘What I discovered devastated me. The whole thing was a charade. As he’d moved her monies hither and thither, he’d dropped off various amounts in the process, never very large individually, but over the three or four years he’d been managing the account amounting to about two-thirds of the whole. It was ingenious, but it was insane. Discovery was inevitable sooner or later. His only hope would have been if he’d had expectations of acquiring the money elsewhere and replacing it.’

  Capstick paused and shook his old lion’s head gloomily. As if she had been waiting near by for such a hiatus in his speech, Mrs Unger appeared, nodded approvingly at the empty plate, and removed the tea-tray.

  After she’d gone, Pascoe said to the old man, ‘And what did you do when you realized what had been going on?’

  Capstick sighed and said, ‘For a couple of days, nothing. I wanted to think, and Patrick was on his sick bed, remember. But on the third day, having ascertained by telephone that he was out of bed, I went to see him. I put it to him bluntly that I knew he’d been embezzling Mrs McNeil’s money. He offered neither denial nor excuse, but sat regarding me with that air of quiet, controlled interest I knew so well. I told him that the first step I proposed was to inform the client, Mrs McNeil, of what had taken place. I would also assure her that the firm would indemnify her against however much of the loss proved unrecoverable. And I would offer her my full co-operation in the event of a police investigation.’

  ‘In the event of,’ echoed Pascoe.
‘So you had hopes it wouldn’t come to that and you’d be able to protect the firm’s name? Aldermann must have been relieved.’

  ‘I doubt it, Mr Pascoe. I had no intention that my offer to indemnify Mrs McNeil should be seen as an inducement for her not to prosecute. I told Patrick that this interview with Mrs McNeil would take place, at my request, in the presence of her solicitor and he alone would be responsible for advising her legally. Does that satisfy your doubts?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe. ‘I meant no disrespect. I just wanted things to be clear in my mind. So the solicitor’s advice was not to prosecute?’

  ‘I’m not certain what it would have been,’ said Capstick. ‘You see, it was never given. When I contacted Mrs McNeil, I discovered that her cold had matured into ’flu and she too was in bed. Again I waited at the convenience of a virus. This time the waiting was in vain.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Patrick, in his mid-twenties, quickly recovered. But Mrs McNeil, who was almost eighty, didn’t. She died, Mr Pascoe, she died.’

  Pascoe sat back and composed his face into a blank screen across the thoughts running madly round his mind.

  ‘Of ’flu, you mean? Did she go into hospital?’

  ‘No. She died at home. It was quite unexpected, though not, I gather, very unusual in people of that age. Which is one of the reasons Mrs Unger is so solicitous to keep me out of these summer zephyrs which she interprets as Siberian draughts.’

  ‘But Patrick Aldermann still wasn’t prosecuted?’ pursued Pascoe. ‘I mean, I should have thought that whatever chance he had of Mrs McNeil letting him off the hook for old times’ sake vanished when she died. The howl of defrauded legatees must have been audible throughout the country!’

  ‘It proved not,’ said Capstick. ‘Yes, there were several specific legacies, to old friends, servants, a couple of charities. There were no close relations, you see. There was plenty of money to pay all these. And the residue of the estate was willed wholly and without condition to Mr Patrick Aldermann of Rosemont. The only defrauded legatee was himself!’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Well, indeed,’ said Capstick. ‘I spoke to her solicitor, of course. He was a man I knew well and I wanted to put him in the picture before he noticed anything for himself, though whether he would have done or not, I have never been sure. We thought long and hard. In the end, there seemed to be no point in instigating an official investigation.’

  No, there wouldn’t, thought Pascoe, but this time kept his mouth shut.

  ‘I had been over the rest of Patrick’s work with a fine-tooth comb and everything was in order. I had one last interview with him. I told him I expected his resignation on my desk the following day. It was. I also told him that it was my hope and intention that I should never see him again. I haven’t. But often as I sit here in the summer and look at those exquisite colours out there in the garden, I regret it. It was the right decision, but I regret it. Those of my contemporaries I haven’t outlived are as immobile as I am, Mr Pascoe. Acquaintances of younger generations pay the occasional duty visit and begin to glance at their watches while the sun is still high. But Patrick, I think, would have visited me and complained about my neglect of his roses, and taken tea and sat quietly here till the sun went down.’

  He stopped talking and his head dropped slowly on to his chest as if he slept. But when Pascoe shifted his chair cautiously, preparatory to rising from it, Capstick looked up immediately and smiled.

  ‘Off now, are you?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to go.’

  ‘Of course you have. Crime waits for no man, I dare say. Did I help you at all?’

  ‘A great deal, I think,’ said Pascoe cautiously.

  ‘And did I hurt Patrick?’ he asked sadly.

  ‘I can’t say, Mr Capstick,’ said Pascoe. ‘It’s a complicated business.’

  He stood up and took a last look down the garden. In the still air it seemed that he heard young voices singing.

  ‘Evensong and choir practice,’ said Capstick, catching the cock of his ear. ‘I did not realize it was so late. Old people never do, Mr Pascoe. I hope I have not spoiled your dinner.’

  ‘Of course not. And likewise,’ said Pascoe. ‘Is that the church where Mr Aldermann’s father-in-law was killed?’

  ‘Patrick’s? Yes, it was. Tragic accident.’

  ‘Were you here when it happened?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t, as a matter of fact. It was a Saturday. I was away for the weekend. But I recall the whole village was a-buzz with it when I got back.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Pascoe, not knowing if he were disappointed or not.

  ‘He was a decent chap, Somerton,’ said Capstick. ‘A bit serious, perhaps, but decent.’

  ‘You knew him? Of course, your firm looked after some church accounts.’

  ‘You’re well informed,’ said Capstick. ‘But not just the church accounts. We looked after Somerton’s own money. A tidy sum, fifty thousand or thereabouts. That’s why I thought Daphne would have been able to bolster young Patrick’s finances, but clearly I was wrong.’

  ‘You mean the Reverend Somerton’s personal account was dealt with by your firm?’ said Pascoe, wanting to get this clear.

  ‘Yes. What of it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, smiling. ‘Just constabulary curiosity.’

  But as he shook hands and took his leave, he thought of Patrick Aldermann lunching with the pretty young schoolgirl who’d come into the office on church business, and then later in the day finding an excuse to open her father’s file and seeing to his delight and speculation how much he was worth.

  With such dark thoughts in his mind he drove back to the station, where he was mildly surprised to find Sergeant Wield waiting for him in the company of Police Cadet Shaheed Singh.

  They came together into his office, Wield as implacably and impassively ugly as ever, and Singh with his dark, handsome face uncertain whether his presence was required for praise or for punishment.

  ‘I think you should hear what Cadet Singh’s been up to, sir,’ said Wield.

  Pascoe heard.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he said.

  13

  MASQUERADE

  (Floribunda. Very vigorous, free flowering, rather raggedy blooms changing from yellow to pink to red.)

  Andrew Dalziel was bored. His personal opinion was that if God had wanted policemen to attend conferences, he’d have fitted chairs on their backsides, and probably tongues as well.

  Saturday, the opening day of the Conference, had been all right. There’d been old friends to greet, stories to exchange, drinks to be drunk. But after a Sabbath full of lectures and seminars, Dalziel was ready to join the Lord’s Day Observance Society.

  On Monday morning he had set out early from his hotel with a tattered old A-Z street map and found his way to Denbigh Square. He’d noted down Penelope Highsmith’s address from Pascoe’s file, not with any firm intention of doing anything about it, but more intuitively, in case he should feel like doing anything about it. Woodfall House proved to be a tall old building within hearing distance of Victoria Station. He studied the names under the glass panel on the portico, then turned away and headed for the Yard.

  He was late, winning a couple of reproving glances. Lunch-time saw him back in Denbigh Square, but the entrance to Woodfall House only opened once and that was to admit an old man with a dog.

  The reproving glances were black looks when he returned late for the afternoon session.

  An address on policing racially mixed communities given by a black Captain from Miami was followed by an open discussion. Dalziel joined in vigorously, doubting whether the American experience had much relevance in the UK.

  ‘Over here,’ he said, ‘we’re told that what we need is more blacks in the police force. Now, mebbe that’s right for us, I don’t know. But if it is, we’ll have to use ’em differently from you lot, won’t we? I mean, your p
olice forces seem to be jammed full of blacks from what I see on the telly, but you still leave us standing for racial violence!’

  There were chuckles from the groundlings, glowers from the brass. The American said, ‘Excuse me, sir, but do you have much experience of racial tension in your particular area?’

  ‘Only when there’s a London team visiting,’ said Dalziel. The chucklers laughed and the glowerers mouthed his name to each other and made notes.

  As soon as the session finished, Dalziel was off before he could be caught. This time he was in luck. As he arrived in Denbigh Square, a taxi pulled up outside Woodfall House and a woman got out. Dalziel recognized her instantly. Mentally he’d been adding a decade and a half to his remembered image, but this tall elegant woman in clinging cords and a light cotton jacket seemed hardly to have changed at all. Even her irrepressibly curly hair was as richly black as ever. She chatted pleasantly with the taxi-driver as she paid him, then ran lightly up the steps.

  Dalziel strolled slowly by, paused as though his attention had been caught by something and looked uncertainly at the woman unlocking the street door. She, attracted by his still presence, returned his gaze queryingly.

  ‘Penny?’ said Dalziel. ‘It’s never Penny Highsmith is it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the woman. ‘Who the hell are you?’