Deadheads dap-7 Page 9

  'But it didn't stop her marrying Patrick,' said Pascoe.

  'This archdeacon - Somerton, did you say? - what did he die of?'

  'The church killed him,' said Ellie dramatically.

  'Overwork, you mean?'

  'No. A coping stone fell off the belfry of St Mark's at Little Leven while he was inspecting it. It cracked his skull.'

  Pascoe let out a long whistle.

  'That's what I thought. Awful, but ironic,' said Ellie.

  'I was thinking, fortuitous.'

  'For Daphne, you mean? Come on!' protested Ellie.

  'I meant for Patrick. People do seem to have a habit of shuffling off at his convenience, don't they? Come to think of it, this is the second one you've drawn my attention to. You're working well!'

  'Now look!' protested Ellie. 'I just thought I was having a nice gossip about a friend, which as everyone knows is what friends are for, and no harm done. You said you thought all this business was a lot of nonsense, didn't you?'

  'I did, and I do,' assured Pascoe. 'But you mean if you thought that anything you told me might help prove that someone - Aldermann, say - was a murderer, you wouldn't tell me?'

  Ellie considered this.

  'No,' she said doubtfully. 'But . . . well, it makes me feel like a grass. What's worse, I don't even get paid!'

  Suddenly Rose, whose protest had diminished to a somnolent mumbling, let out a high C followed by a cascade of sobs.

  'Oh dear,' said Ellie. 'Now she really is unhappy.'

  'Shall I go?' said Pascoe.

  'No. Pour us a drink. I'll see to her. She's probably just mucked up another nappy.'

  She left the room. Pascoe rose and poured two glasses of brandy. He took his to the open french window and looked out into his garden. No Rosemont, this, but a plot of well-clovered lawn, bordered with thripped and black-spotted roses and bounded by a sturdy beech hedge beyond which rolled open fields. When they bought the house, its situation had been nicely democratic, mid-way between the town and Ellie's college. Now the college's pleasant rural site was closing and when (or if) Ellie returned in September, it would be to a hideous mid-town building which she asserted made the police station look like the Yorkshire Hilton. Recently Pascoe had been wondering if it might not be sensible to look for a house in town too. It would save the time and expense of travel and be better for all the services necessary to a young man with a growing family.

  But on evenings like this, with the air balmy and a broad-faced moon peering down from a still pale sky, he could imagine nowhere better. No, he didn't really want to live closer to his work. It was bad enough not being able to get it out of his mind without being within dropinnable distance of the station. Even here and now, brandy in hand and beauty in view, he found his mind idly playing with the circumstances of the Reverend Somerton's tragic death. A stone from a tower. Like the hammer of God! It would all be fully documented in the coroner's records, of course. And there couldn't have been anything suspicious . . .

  Ellie returned, nursing a still sobbing baby.

  'There, there,' she said. 'She's not wet. She seemed a bit frightened. Perhaps she had a bad dream.'

  'A bad dream! What on earth can she have to dream about at her age?' laughed Pascoe. 'Here, give her to me.'

  He took the child and rocked her in his arms. The sobs continued.

  'Perhaps you really have been dreaming,' he said. 'Here, I feel a quote coming on. "A" level English, selections from Coleridge. He was always going on about his son. And once, when he awoke in most distressed mood - that doesn't scan, does it? Then something about an inner pain having made up that strange thing, an infant's dream. He was right, wasn't he? What a strange thing an infant's dream must be. If only you could tell us about it, Rosie.'

  'More to the point, what did Coleridge do about it?'

  Pascoe grinned and stepped out of the french window and raised his daughter skywards.

  'Peter! What on earth are you doing?' cried Ellie in alarm.

  'What Coleridge did. Showing her the moon.'

  'He should have been locked up! And you too. She'll catch her death. Give her here.'

  'No. Wait,' said Pascoe. 'Listen.'

  And as they listened the baby's sobs began to change in key from minor to major till they were unmistakably gurgles of delight and she waved her small fists high towards the hanging moon.

  'Eat your heart out, Dr Spock,' said Pascoe. 'Me and Coleridge, we've got it made.'

  And Ellie, standing at the open window watching and listening to her daughter's and husband's delight, suddenly found herself wondering why she should feel it as pain.

  11

  DESPERADO

  (Bush. Vigorous, yellow flower shading to pink, ample foliage, scent faint.)

  From the top floor of the car park, Shaheed Singh had a splendid view over the city. The morning sun etched in every detail and he amused himself by picking out familiar landmarks from this unfamiliar viewpoint.

  Not in fact that it was totally unfamiliar. The city's main bus station lay at the foot of the multi-storey. From it a pedestrian underpass ran beneath the busy ring road to the town centre, on the fringe of which stood the comprehensive where Singh had been educated. Sometimes for a change he and his mates had eschewed the underpass and ridden the elevators to this top level, walked thence across the bridge to the shopping precinct roof-top car park and descended into one of the big stores. There had of course been delays for skylarking, rarely anything more serious than leaning over the bridge parapet and gobbing spit balls on to the cars far below, though occasionally a breakaway group had headed for Woolworths for a spot of shoplifting. Usually Singh had opted out of this, not so much on moral grounds as because, in a city which didn't have a huge Asian community, he always felt he was the one likely to be spotted and remembered.

  When he'd joined the police cadets he'd felt at first that this quality of easy distinction might work to his advantage, but he'd soon changed his mind. The instinctive prejudice and the sheer bloody ignorance he’d encountered had shaken him deeply. On several occasions only his deep-rooted stubbornness had kept him going, the same stubbornness which had resisted all his father's attempts to persuade him to work in the family business. Now it had become focused on Sergeant Wield. The CID were an enviable elite. The unspeakable Dalziel and the high-flying Pascoe were probably hardly aware of his existence. But Wield was, and Wield obviously rated him as useless. His coldly scornful attitude when he took him along to Rosemont, and indeed on every occasion that they met, made this quite clear. To make Wield admit he was wrong had become the boy's main ambition.

  And this was why he was here now when he should have been with PC Wedderburn learning the arts of traffic control. The good-natured Wedderburn had readily let him beg off for fifteen minutes on personal grounds, but the fifteen minutes were already up and his clever idea had come to nothing. There'd been a couple of kids who'd got out of the lift five minutes before, but they hadn't dallied as they made their way across the bridge to the precinct roof-top car park which already looked half full. The multi-storey on the other hand filled from the bottom up and on the top floor there were still only about ten cars parked.

  Singh glanced at his watch. He was late already. He was going to have to salve PC Wedderburn's ire with gallons of tea and acres of bacon butties. So much for self-promotion to the CID.

  At this moment the lift doors clanged open and debouched five youths in a cacophony of laughter and football supporters' cries. Singh had plenty of time to recognize two of them as old schoolmates of his, now on the dole, before they spotted him. One of them was a slight thin-faced lad called Mick Feaver, whose uncertainty of demeanour always gave him a not altogether false look of slyness. He had been something of a butt at school and tended to tag along with Jonty Marsh for protection. Marsh was even smaller than Mick Feaver but he had all the swagger of a banty-cock. He was a bold and lively extrovert, always the leader in any chosen activity and with a considerable c
ontempt for the law. So far, he had narrowly avoided serious trouble himself, but took pleasure in boasting how others of his family, notably his elder brother, Arthur, had done time. Typically it was Marsh who spotted Singh first and, equally typically, his reaction was direct and uncomplicated.

  'Hey, there's old Shady!' he cried.

  He walked up to Singh, with Mick Feaver in his usual pet-dog position a couple of feet behind. The other three, whom Singh only knew by sight, hung a little further back, regarding him suspiciously.

  'What're you doing here, Shady?' said Marsh. 'What's going off?'

  Singh nodded a greeting and said tersely. 'Stake out.'

  Marsh let out a huge bellow of laughter.

  'What're you staking out then, Shady?' he demanded.

  Singh mixed truth with fiction and replied. 'There's been some mucking about with cars up here, so CID have put a watch on every morning.'

  'But you're not CID,' protested Marsh, who was no fool. 'And it's a daft spot to be standing if you're supposed to be out of sight!'

  Shaheed Singh smiled, he hoped inscrutably, and improvised wildly.

  'Of course I'm not CID, you daft bugger!' he said in a friendlier voice. 'I'm just along with them as part of my training. When we saw you lot in the lift, I said I knew you and Mick, so they told me to have a word with you. Saves them breaking cover.'

  Marsh looked doubtful but Mick Feaver clearly swallowed this farrago of nonsense completely and stared around in anxious search of the hidden watchers while the other three, now within earshot, shifted uneasily and muttered among themselves.

  Singh, all too familiar with the symptoms of teenage guilt, exulted behind his superior smile. He'd guessed right! It had been this lot, or some of them at least. The seeds of the idea had been sown when he'd had that embarrassing encounter with his old schoolmates outside the Job Centre. And it had paid off!

  Then suddenly his triumph faded and he felt properly like a policeman for the very first time, as for the very first time he experienced the tension between the private man and the public servant, between the past and the present. It would be great to make his first nick, but it would be an agony he wasn't yet prepared for to make it at the expense of Jonty and Mick.

  Why was he doing this anyway? It wasn't as if the vandalization had been the crime of the century! The truth was he just wanted to impress Sergeant Wield. And Sergeant Wield, he'd worked out, wasn't interested in kids scratching cars, but in Mrs Aldermann herself.

  He thought he saw a way of side-stepping his problem without too much conscience-bending.

  'Do you come this way every morning?' he asked.

  'Nah,' said Marsh vigorously. 'We don't go into the centre every morning. Anyway usually we use the under-pass, isn't that right, lads?'

  The others, now hunched up close, chorused their agreement.

  'Thing is,' said Singh, becoming confidential, 'CID's not really interested in whoever scratched them cars last Monday. In fact, whoever scratched them might've done us a favour. It's a car-stealing ring they're after. One of the cars they're interested in got its paintwork done over that morning. It was a VW Polo, light green. Likely there was a woman driving. Now, you didn't happen to notice that car up here last Monday, did you?'

  If they'd simply denied being up on the top storey any time the previous week, Singh would have been happy to let it rest there, and to hell with his certainty that they were responsible. But they hesitated, and looked at each other, and Singh, now well worked into his role, said in a bored voice, 'Look, if you did see owt, lads, it could be helpful. Like, what time the car was here? Did you see the driver? What was she wearing? Was she carrying anything? Which way did she go? You scratch our backs, we'll scratch yours.'

  He felt at the same time proud and ashamed of his performance. When it won a prize, he was amazed.

  Mick Feaver said, 'Yeah, we did see her. I mean, I think I saw her.'

  He looked around at the others apologetically, offering them the path of non-involvement by his correction. But the bait of police favours and the natural human instinct to seek star-witness status combined to make his friends resent rather than be grateful for his attempt to exclude them. Rapidly progressing from a trickle to a torrent, the information came.

  'Yeah, a green Polo. Nice little car.'

  'About ten past nine. We were just going by when it parked.'

  'Tall blonde bit. Middle-aged. Big teeth.'

  'No, she was better than that. Quite tasty really.'

  'You like 'em old, don't you? I've seen you looking at his mam!'

  'My mam's not old. Not that old.'

  'She was about thirty, this tart. She was smart. Not with it smart, but smart like the nobs are smart.'

  'That's right. She looked a right stuck-up cow.'

  'She had a little handbag. Nothing else.'

  'We thought there was something funny when she got in the other car.'

  'Not funny. We thought she was going for a bit of umpty.'

  'Yeah, wham! bang! on the back seat. She didn't look like a crook.'

  'What do you think a crook looks like, you silly bugger!'

  Here the torrent was interrupted by an energetic scuffle.

  Singh said, 'You mean she got into another car?'

  'That's right,' said Jonty, as eager as any of the others to be a star-witness. 'She parked next to it and got out of hers and straight into his.'

  'His? You saw the driver?'

  'Not really. There was tinted windows. I hadn't even noticed him sitting at the wheel till she got in and he drove off right away.'

  'Right away?'

  'That's right. He must have started the engine soon as he saw her.'

  'What kind of car was it?'

  'Audi.'

  'Volvo.'

  'No, it wasn't a Volvo, they have their lights on all the time.'

  'It was a BMW 528i.'

  The speaker was Mick Feaver, and he spoke with a note of authority so authentic that no one challenged him with further alternatives.

  'You didn't get the number, did you?' said Singh hopefully.

  They shook their heads, except Mick Feaver who tentatively suggested an X registration with a 9 before it.

  Now Singh really did feel triumphant. This was something to toss casually before Sergeant Wield. He racked his brains in search of any other information he might possibly squeeze out of these eager witnesses. It struck him that this gang were not likely to have been inconspicuous, yet Mrs Aldermann had denied seeing anyone suspicious. That could be very significant.

  'Did she see you?' he asked.

  'Probably. She drove right by us,' said Jonty.

  'Yeah. And you were playing the fool,' guffawed one of the others.

  'What did you do?' asked Singh.

  For answer, Marsh made an obscene gesture with his right forearm and clenched fist.

  'Well, I thought she was off on the job,' he explained. 'Randy old cow!'

  And that was how it had started, thought Singh with a sudden flash of insight. Perhaps the first intention had been to write something rude on the dust on the Polo, but its shining bright paintwork hadn't provided the looked-for slate. So the knife had come out and, once started, the enthusiasm had spread. But he didn't want to know about that.

  'Thanks a lot, lads,' he said, glancing at his watch and working out that PC Wedderburn would now be in the Market Caff, probably starting on his second cup of tea and growing steadily more furious. 'I'll pass this on. It could be very helpful. See you around.'

  'Yeah. Right. Sure. Great. See you.'

  Dismissed, the youngsters walked out away towards the bridge leading to the shoppers' car park. They had emerged from the lift as criminal suspects. They were now moving on as police witnesses. Singh dimly apprehended that it was an evolutionary process he might become very familiar with in his police career.

  But his mind was more concerned with the immediate future, balancing Wedderburn's certain wrath against Wield's notional
admiration, as he entered the lift and stabbed at the button to take him down.

  12

  EVENSONG

  (Bush. Vigorous, upright, deep salmon-pink blooms, little fading, profuse in summer and autumn, straight firm stems, strong sweet scent.)

  Peter Pascoe was finding himself becoming fascinated by the Aldermann case. Not that there was a case, and not that he intended letting the fascination develop into an obsession. But somehow the personality of this quiet self-contained man, whom he had only met in passing and who had given him a rose, teased his imagination like a half-remembered melody.

  The whole business was of course just plain daft. Sex, booze and the strain of executive decision-making had curdled Dandy Dick's mind. It was an occupational hazard of working under pressure. He should know. As well as this increasingly irritating rash of burglaries, the CID case-load at the moment included three alleged rapes, two suspected arsons, and any number of undisputed robberies, assaults, muggings, frauds and minor offences. Yes, indeed, he should know all about the mind-curdling properties of overwork. He could even recognize the symptoms. They included picking up the telephone half way through the morning, with the self-justification that this was his coffee break, and dialling his opposite number at Harrogate. Relationships with Harrogate CID had been a little strained for a while after a Mid-Yorkshire Investigation into a blue films racket had led to the trial and imprisonment of a Harrogate detective. But things had settled down now, due largely to Pascoe's assiduity in mending fences and despite Dalziel's slightly less conciliatory attitude of Sod 'em They're likely all as bent as lavatory brushes!

  'Ivan? Hi! It's Peter Pascoe. How's it going?'

  'All the better for the old man being away at this Modern Policing Conference!' replied Detective-Inspector Ivan Skelwith. 'I dare say you're missing Fat Andy too. It's funny, I was just thinking of giving you a ring. Those housebreakers of yours seem to have strayed on to my patch. Some people got back from holiday yesterday evening and found they'd been done. From what the computer chucks up, it sounds like the same lot.'