Recalled to Life Read online

  Dalziel visited regularly for a while, then intermittently, and in recent years hardly at all. But when he saw the Kohler press conference on the telly, he knew the time had come for another visit.

  He'd been going to suggest that Maudie might like to think about staying with friends for a couple of days just in case the Press came prying, but he wasn't a man to waste breath. Instead he ran his video back a little way, restarted it, and pressed the freeze button when he reached the shot of the corridor through the open door.

  'That fellow there remind you of anyone, Maudie?'

  'The tall one?' she said looking at the two men touched by his broad forefinger. 'He's a bit like Raymond Massey.'

  'No. Someone you know. And I mean the other one. I know who the tall fellow is. Chap called Sempernel. He came sniffing around at the time. Said he were Home Office but he were a funny bugger, no question. You'd not have seen him. But the other one, the skinny runt, remind you of anyone? And don't say Mickey Rooney, luv!'

  'He doesn't look a bit like Mickey Rooney,' said the woman, examining the man closely. 'He doesn't really look like anybody, but he does look familiar.'

  'Remember a sergeant called Hiller? Adolf, we used to call him? Wally didn't care for him and got shut of him.'

  'Vaguely,' she said. 'But what would Sergeant Hiller be doing there?'

  'That's what I'd like to know,' said Dalziel grimly. 'And he's not a sergeant now. Deputy Chief Constable down south, last I heard. Well, the higher the monkey climbs, the more he shows his behind, eh?'

  Maudie Tallantire laughed. 'You don't change, do you, Andy? Now how about a cup of tea?'

  'Grand. By the way, Maudie, do you still have any of Wally's personal papers? I seem to recall you said you'd put a lot of stuff together when you moved here just in case there were anything important . . .'

  'That's right. And you said you'd look through it some time when you had a moment. But that was donkey's years ago, Andy. And you never had a moment, did you?'

  'Sorry,' he said guiltily. 'You know how it is. But if you've still got it, I might as well take a look now.'

  'I've probably thrown it out long since,' she said. 'It were in an old blue suitcase, one of them little ones which was all we used to need once when we went away. Now it takes a cabin trunk! It'll be in the boxroom if I've still got it, but it's dusty up there and you don't want to spoil that nice suit.'

  'I'll take care.'

  She was right about the dust but he spotted the blue case without any difficulty. He picked it up, blew gently, coughed as a dust cloud arose, and went to open the window.

  Below in the street, a car drew up. There were two men in it. The one who got out of the driver's side was youngish, dressed in designer casuals, and his elegantly coiffured head moved watchfully this way and that, as though he had debouched in Indian territory rather than suburban Yorkshire.

  But it was the other who held Dalziel's attention. Thin-faced, bespectacled, dressed in a crumpled black suit a size too large, he stood quite still looking up at the house like a twice repelled rent-collector.

  'Bloody hell. It is Adolf!' exclaimed Dalziel, stepping back from the window. 'I should've known that bugger'd move quick.'

  Shaking the remaining dust from the case, he went quickly and quietly downstairs. Just inside the front door was a small cloakroom. He slipped the case under the hand- basin, closed the door and returned to the living-room as Maudie came out of the kitchen carrying a laden tray.

  'Find what you were looking for, Andy?'

  'No, not a sign,' he said, removing the video from the recorder and fitting it into a capacious inner pocket. 'I reckon you must have chucked it out without noticing. No matter. Are them your Eccles cakes I see? You must've known I was coming. What was it Wally used to say? Never say nowt good ever came out of Lancashire till you've tasted our Maudie's Eccles cakes!'

  He seized one, devoured it in a couple of bites, and was on his third when the doorbell rang.

  'Who can that be?' said Maudie, with the ever fresh surprise of the northern housewife that someone should be at her door.

  She went out into the hallway. Dalziel helped himself to another cake and moved to the lounge doorway to catch the conversation.

  'Mrs Tallantire, you may not remember me, but we have met a long time back. Geoffrey Hiller. I was a sergeant up here for a while when your husband was head of CID.'

  'Hiller? Now isn't that odd? We were just talking about you. Won't you step inside. Sergeant? And your friend.'

  'Thank you. Actually, it's Deputy Chief Constable now, Mrs Tallantire. Of the South Thames force. And this is Detective-Inspector Stubbs.'

  'Ooh, you have done well. Come on through. Andy, it never rains but it pours. Here's another old friend of Wally's come visiting.'

  Dalziel, back in his chair, looked up in polite puzzlement as the dark-suited man stopped short in the doorway, like a parson accidentally ushered into a brothel. Then the fat man's face lit up with the joy of a father at the prodigal's return and he said, 'Geoff? Is that you? Geoff Hiller, by all that's holy! How are you, lad? What fettle? By God, it's good to see you.'

  He was on his feet shaking the newcomer's hand like a bushman killing a snake. Hiller had recovered from his shock and was now regarding Dalziel with wary neutrality.

  'How are you, er, Andy?' he said.

  'I'm grand. And who's your friend?'

  'This is Detective-Inspector Stubbs. Stubbs, meet Detective-Superintendent Dalziel, Head of Mid- Yorkshire CID.'

  Hiller's tone underlined the title.

  Stubbs held out his hand. 'Hi. Glad to meet you, Supe.'

  'Supe?' echoed Dalziel. 'Up here we drink supe. Or if it's homemade, we chew it. Will you be staying in West Yorkshire long enough to learn our little ways?'

  Stubbs glanced at Hiller, who said, 'Actually, er, Andy, we're on our way to your neck of the woods. This is just in nature of a courtesy call on Mrs Tallantire in passing."

  'I see. In passing Skipton? On your way to Mid-Yorks HO? From South Thames?'

  As he spoke, Dalziel's finger traced two sides of a rectangle in the air, and he smiled an alligator's smile.

  'Now that's what I call courtesy! Maudie, isn't it nice of Geoff here to come so far out of his way just for old time's sake? Incidentally, Geoff, I presume you're expected at my shop? I was talking to the Chief yesterday afternoon and he said nowt.'

  'The Home Office should have phoned Mr Trimble this morning,' said Hiller.

  'That explains it. It's my day off, which is why I'm here. Social call on an old friend. Mebbe it's your day off too?'

  'No,' said Hiller. 'Not really. I'm afraid there is a business element to my call, Mrs Tallantire. You may have heard that some question has arisen as to the safety of the verdict in the Mickledore Hall murder case. In fact, Cecily Kohler has been released and the Home Office has ordered an inquiry into the affair. Your late husband, Detective-Superintendent Tallantire, conducted the original investigation and will naturally figure in the inquiry which I have been instructed to take charge of.'

  'Now isn't that funny? Andy and I were only just now talking - '

  'And you've come to warn Maudie that the Press will probably be sniffing around,' intervened Dalziel. 'Now that is kind. I leave you in good hands, Maudie. Me, I'd best be off. Geoff, I know it's not a nice job you've got, poking around in other buggers' rubbish bins, but where'd we be without the garbage collectors, eh? I promise you, you'll get nowt but cooperation from my department. I'll see you tomorrow, likely.'

  Hiller tried to look suitably grateful but couldn't get beyond the expression of a postman assured the Rottweiler is just a big softy.

  'Actually, er, Andy, we hope to be in situ later today.'

  'You can be up to your necks in situ for me, Geoff, but it's my day off, remember? What did you think I was going to do? Head straight back and start shredding the files?'

  He laughed, kissed Maudie on the cheek and said, 'Take care, luv. I'll see myself ou
t. See you soon.'

  He went out, closing the lounge door firmly behind him. As he opened the front door noisily, he reached into the cloakroom, picked up the suitcase and exited with a slam that shook the stained glass panel.

  Separating Maudie's driveway from her neighbour's was a low brick wall. He leaned over and placed the case behind it. As he reached the gate, he heard the front door open behind him. He turned to see Stubbs coming out. He'd always been a distrustful bastard, that Hiller. It was good to know some things didn't change.

  'Need something from the car,' said Stubbs as he joined him.

  'Oh aye? Hair curlers, is it?' said Dalziel.

  As he drove away he saw the inspector return to the house without opening his car. He drove slowly round the block, parked outside Maudie's neighbour's and walked briskly up the drive. A window opened as he retrieved the suitcase and he looked up to see a woman viewing him with grave suspicion.

  'Yes?' she called sharply.

  Dalziel pulled the video out of his pocket, and held it up like a votive offering.

  Are you on line with the Almighty, sister?' he intoned. Are you plugged in to the Lord? I've got a video here that'll turn your telly into the Ark of the Covenant!'

  'No, thank you!' she cried in alarm and slammed the window shut.

  Shaking his head, he returned to the car.

  It was like he'd always thought.

  There was no love of religion in West Yorkshire.

  FOUR

  'I am not surprised; I knew you were here . . . if you really don’t want to endanger my existence - go your way as soon as possible and let me go mine. I am busy. I am an official.'

  'An habitual criminal is easy to spot. Ask him, "Where were you when President Kennedy was shot?" and he'll say, "I was at home in bed reading a book. I can bring six witnesses to prove it.'"

  There was a dutiful titter. Perhaps it's the way I tell them, thought Peter Pascoe.

  He looked at the twenty young faces before him. Children of the 'seventies. Adolescents of the 'eighties. Lawmen of the 'nineties. God help them.

  He said gently, 'Who was President Kennedy?' Pause. A lowering of eyes to avoid catching his. Make the question easier. 'What country was he president of?'

  An uncertain hand crept up.

  'America, sir?'

  'That's right. Would that be North or South America?'

  The irony of superiors is unfair because it forces you to take it literally. He went on quickly before anyone could try an answer, 'What happened to him? Well, I told you that. He got shot. Does anyone know the year?"

  They probably didn't know this year! No. That was unfair. He was confusing truth and truism. Everyone remembers what they were doing when Kennedy died. Everyone except a few billion who weren't born; or didn't know of his existence, or didn't give a toss that it was over. Everyone in America, then? Maybe. Probably their kids had the date and data drummed into them with the Pledge of Allegiance. But this lot, why should they be expected to know anything about other people's myths?

  'Was it nineteen sixty-three, sir?'

  'Yes. Yes, it was.'

  He looked at the speaker with disproportionate pleasure. Another hand was waving urgently. Perhaps the floodgates had opened and all his cynical doubts about the ignorance of this generation were going to be washed away. He pointed at the hand-waver, nodded, waited to be amazed.

  'Sir, it's half past. We're due in the gym with Sergeant Rigg-'

  He knew Sergeant Rigg. A no-neck Welshman with a black belt and a short way with latecomers.

  'You'd better go, then.'

  He looked at his notes. He still had three sides to go. Before she left, Ellie had warned him to go easy on the midnight oil. (Trying to offer a pastoral substitute for scarcer emotional goods?) He pushed the distasteful thought away and concentrated on her words.

  'You start by thinking if you speak very slowly you might spin it out for five minutes. You end by gabbling so fast you're incomprehensible, and even then you've still got bucketfuls of pearls left uncast.'

  He poured them back into his briefcase and followed the cadets from the room.

  'Pete, how'd it go?'

  It was Jack Bridger, the grizzled Chief Inspector in charge of Mid-Yorkshire cadet training programme.

  'So-so. I didn't find them very responsive.'

  Bridger regarded him shrewdly and said, 'They're just ordinary lads, not post-grad students. At that age all you think about is fucking and football. Secret is to ask the right questions. Talking of which, sounds like they're going to be asking some funny questions about this Mickledore Hall business.'

  'They've started. Full inquiry. Fellow called Hiller, Deputy Chief from South Thames, is leading it. Turned up yesterday even though the official announcement of the inquiry hasn't been made yet.'

  'Hiller? That wouldn't be Adolf Hiller, would it?'

  He pronounced the name with a long A.

  'This one's called Geoffrey, I think. Smallish fellow with crooked teeth. Looks as if he's stolen his suit.'

  'That's him! Adolf was just his nickname. He were a sergeant here way back, but not for long. Too regimental for old Wally Tallantire. That's how he got his nickname. Some joker started changing his name on notices and lists to Hitler, and it soon caught on.'

  But he couldn't have been here during the Mickledore Hall case, surely, or he'd not have got this job?'

  'No, it was after that. He got moved around like pass the parcel. He were one of those fellows, you couldn't fault his work, but you couldn't thole his company.'

  Pascoe said, 'I never knew Tallantire. What was he like? Cut a few corners, would he?'

  'That's the way the wind blows, is it? Well, it figures. Scapegoats are like lawyers. The best 'uns is dead 'uns. As for cutting corners, well, Wally would certainly go the shortest way, once he got a target in his sights. And the Mickledore Hall case was his golden hour by all accounts, the one he reckoned he'd be remembered for. But there's a difference between cutting corners and carving people up.'

  'So you reckon he was straight?'

  'On the whole, I'd say so. I'll tell you one thing, but. Fat Andy won't take kindly to anyone casting aspersions. Wally was his big hero, he took Andy under his wing, and it needed a pretty broad wing, believe me!'

  Pascoe grinned and said, 'A bit wild, was he?'

  'Wild? He's a dormouse to what he were! He'd still be pounding a beat if it weren't for Wally. But Wally was flying high after the Mickledore case, and Andy flew with him.'

  Pascoe mused on these things as he headed back to Headquarters. He tried to imagine Dalziel as a wild young thing in need of protection but all he could get was Genghis Khan in short pants. The image made him smile. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, he felt good.

  He turned a corner. Ahead, rearing out of a rough sea of rooftops, he glimpsed the huge grey front of the cathedral tower. His mouth felt dry. He tried to make spittle and swallow but couldn't. The palms of his hands were sweating so that the wheel felt slimy against them. The tower seemed to be swelling to fill the sky, while the car shrank around him to a biscuit tin. He braked hard, pulled in to the side, felt the wheels hit the kerb. His heart was racing like an engine with a stripped gear. His left hand fumbled for the seat-belt release, his right for the door handle. His fingers felt weak and unconnected with his mind, more vegetable than flesh, but somehow the door was open, the belt released and he swung his legs out of the car. An overtaking cyclist had to swerve sharply to avoid collision. She went on her way, swearing over her shoulder. Pascoe paid no heed. He forced his head between his knees and drew in great ragged breaths. After a while he managed to get some rhythm into his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth, long, slow inhalations and exhalations. His heart too was slowing, his salivary glands resumed a limited service, and his hands began to feel less like a bunch of radishes bound loosely to his wrists.

  When strength returned to his legs, he stood up and walked unsteadily around the c
ar. He forced himself to think about his lecture to the cadets, what he should have told them about criminal investigation, what he shouldn't have wasted time telling them. The sun was pleasantly warm on his skin, the air tasted good. At last he felt able to get back in and drive away. But he didn't let his gaze drift up to the skyline again.

  A mile away, a van was backing into Pascoe's spot in the HQ car park. The driver got out and went into the building.

  Sergeant George Broomfield on the desk said, 'Can I help you?'

  'Why not? Sergeant Proctor, South Thames. I'm with Mr Hiller's mob. Got some gear outside in the van. Any chance of a lift?'