Deadheads (23 page)

'Hey, Sarge,' he said cheerily. 'I was looking for you.'

'Were you? What the hell are you doing?' demanded Wield roughly.

'Just having a wash down. Who decides when you can go in shirt-sleeves? These tunics are not what you'd call lightweight, are they?'

His attempt to sound friendly touched Wield's heart, but when the boy started moving towards him, drying himself off with a handful of paper towels, Wield said, ‘I’ll be in the canteen for two minutes. No more,' and left.

He bought himself a cup of tea, then added a glass of orange squash. There was no need to take brusqueness to the point of boorishness, he felt. And Singh's attachment was almost up.

But how long will, my attachment continue? he asked himself ironically.

The cadet appeared half a minute later. His apprehensive expression relaxed slightly when Wield pushed the squash towards him.

'That'll cool you down,' he said. 'Now, what's so urgent?'

'Well, I saw Mick Feaver this morning,' began Singh. 'You know, him that we had in because of vandalizing them cars.'

As he unfolded his story, Wield's professional instincts became involved above the personal.

'You're sure he said Rosemont?' he demanded.

'Certain,' protested Singh. 'And
he
was sure that's what Jonty had said because that's how he could prove he wasn't lying, wasn't it?'

'Sorry?' said Wield, unsure of the pronouns.

'Anyone could say he was going to do a house next week, couldn't they?' explained Singh. 'There's always plenty of houses get done. Then he could just pick one and say that was it! Anyway, I thought I'd best tell somebody.'

'You took your time, didn't you?' said Wield. 'You talked to this lad this morning, you say, and now it's the middle of the afternoon.'

'I couldn't find anyone, and I was kept pretty busy,' said Singh defensively.

'Oh aye. I forgot how busy they keep you,' said Wield gently, realizing that the probable truth was the boy had agonized for hours before taking this further and decisive step in his relationship with Jonty Marsh and Mick Feaver. From old mates to villain and 'grass' in three days, it was a turn-around rapid enough to bring on a nasty bout of nausea.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, youth is resilient even in its betrayals, and now Singh proceeded, 'This Rosemont, Sarge, could it be that place we went out to, with the woman whose Polo got damaged, and the little girl?'

'Could be,' said Wield. 'But likely there's other houses called Rosemont, so don't be putting in for the police medal yet.'

'But if it is,' insisted Singh, excitement glowing in his dark, handsome face, 'will there be a stake-out? Will I be able to come on it?'

'I shouldn't be so keen,' said Wield. 'Even if this lad is talking about the same house, there's still a lot can happen. Most stake-outs I've been on, you just sit around all night, and it's cold, and it's dark, and it's uncomfortable, and nothing ever happens. Come the dawn, you're red-eyed and stiff and knackered and all you've got the energy to do is strangle the silly bugger who put you there in the first place, if you can get your hands on him. So I wouldn't be so keen to get on the job!'

He finished his tea and pushed back his chair.

'But we'd better let Mr Pascoe know when he gets back,' he said. 'He's got more artistic hands than me, so the strangulation process shouldn't be so nasty. On the other hand,
he'll
probably pass it on to Mr Dalziel when he comes back from London at the weekend. Have you ever had a good look at Mr Dalziel's hands?'

Shaking his head, he stood up and slowly made for the door.

Peter Pascoe didn't know whether to be delighted or not with Shaheed Singh's news. He distrusted simple coincidence. By the time he'd finished questioning the young cadet, Singh felt glad that he wasn't a criminal and not all that pleased to be a policeman.

'What do you think?' Pascoe asked Wield after the door had closed behind the relieved youth.

'Rosemont fits the picture,' said Wield. 'Big, but not big enough to have a living-in staff. Nicely isolated without being buried in the countryside. And probably with enough good stuff lying around to be worth nicking without being so good that it's all carefully catalogued and put in a bank vault when the house is empty.'

'That's the first thing to check, whether the house is going to be empty in the next couple of weeks,' said Pascoe. ‘It's a bastard. If the Aldermanns
are
going away for a week, say, we can't afford to stake the place out for seven nights.'

'Might be a fortnight,' said Wield helpfully.

'Thanks! And I don't see much percentage in young Singh chatting to his mate again. He's probably terrified already at what he's done! Still, we can't ignore it. You check with the Aldermanns - no, on second thoughts, I'll do that. It's about time we met formally, I think. You get hold of Arthur Marsh's file again and see if there's anything useful there. And let all ears start flapping for any sound of a link-up between Marsh and these jobs. Mr Dalziel said he'd ring late this afternoon, so I'll fill him in then. He'll be thinking that, one way and another, Aldermann's really managing to hog the limelight! Which reminds me, how'd you get on with Mr Wellington?'

'He didn't take kindly to the suggestion that an eminent, worthy and respected churchgoer like Burke might have been pissed out of his mind,' said Wield. 'He was even less happy at the hint that he might have played down such information.'

'So Burke is stone cold sober,' said Pascoe. 'Which was more than you could say for his widow.'

'How did you find her?'

'Available,' said Pascoe. 'But evasive too. I had the feeling that I could put my finger on anything but the complete truth.'

At half past five the phone rang and next moment Dalziel's stentorian voice was sounding in Pascoe's ear. After listening to a succinct, pungent, and actionably obscene analysis of the conference so far, Pascoe gave his equally succinct but metaphorically more restrained account of his interviews with Masson and Mrs Burke.

Dalziel asked several questions, then said, 'Right, so you think Masson was up to something and Burke's widow was hiding something?'

'I suppose I do,' said Pascoe cautiously.

'I'll think on it,' said Dalziel heavily. 'You carry on talking while I'm thinking.'

Pascoe now told him about Singh's tip.

'Grand,' said Dalziel. 'The lad's done well. Tell him I'm pleased.'

'But it may be nothing,' said Pascoe, surprised by the fat man's enthusiasm, it's so vague.'

'Vague or not, next time the Aldermanns are out of that house, you've got the perfect excuse to be in. You'll be able to go over the place with a fine-tooth comb. Never know what you'll pick up!'

'I thought the idea would be to
prevent
illegal access,' said Pascoe, faintly scandalized.

'You're not taking a high moral tone with me, are you, lad?' said Dalziel threateningly. 'Listen, we've got that mad Welsh bugger here, the one who's always shooting his mouth off on television. What
he
wants, apart from hanging, flogging, and machine-guns, is for cops to have right of access without warrant, day or night, to any premises anywhere, and all householders to deposit duplicate keys at their local station! He thinks I'm a wet pinko, so you just count your lucky stars.'

'Sorry, sir,' said Pascoe. 'I'm counting. It's all right. Now I've finished.'

'You're a telephone hero,' said Dalziel with scorn. 'Listen, getting back to Masson, do you think he mebbe reckoned Penny Highsmith destroyed Aunt Flo's will herself?'

'I wondered about that,' admitted Pascoe. 'There was certainly something there, I felt.'

'I'm seeing her on Friday night, I'll put out some feelers,' said Dalziel. It was an image which set Pascoe's mouth twisting in a silent rictus.

'Talking of wills, this Burke woman looked comfortable, did she?'

'Very,' said Pascoe. 'And financially too.'

'You dirty young sod,' said Dalziel. 'Does she make money out of her market stall, do you think?'

'Maybe. But I get the impression she probably just likes the hustle and bustle and the company, preferably male. She's pretty flamboyant.'

'That's a new name for it,' said Dalziel. 'It's probably worth checking on her money, what Burke left her, what her income is now. She's in the covered market, isn't she? How did she get a pitch there? They're not easy to come by, inside or out. One comes vacant, the market traders usually have it sewn up in advance. It's notorious, any councillor on the market committee is kept in King Edwards for life.'

Pascoe made a note and said, 'Any special reason you're so suspicious, sir?'

'Who's suspicious? Just curious. Another thing. You say she drove down to the shops at two-thirty, came back at three-thirty, walked out of the garage straight on to the patio, and there he was, dead?'

'That's right,' said Pascoe. 'I've got all the reports here. Inquest, police, medical. It all tallies.'

'Have a look at the list of possessions,' said Dalziel.

'Sorry?'

'When they took Burke in for cutting up, they'd empty his pockets and itemize the contents,' explained Dalziel with violent patience. 'Find the list and read it out.'

Hastily Pascoe sorted through the papers.

'Well!'
demanded Dalziel.

'I have it. I have it. Wallet containing . . .'

'Stuff the wallet. Get on to the loose stuff.'

'Handkerchief. Small change. Car keys . . .'

'Stop there,' said Dalziel. 'All right, where was the car?'

'Whose car?' asked Pascoe blankly.

'Burke's car! I take it them houses just have single garages and driveways? Right, then. If Mrs Burke could back her car out at two-thirty, there wasn't any other car in the drive was there? And if she could drive back into the garage at three-thirty, there still wasn't, was there? So where was it?'

'Somewhere else?' offered Pascoe brightly.

'Right! And why?'

'Well, he was just popping in to collect something he'd forgotten, and didn't think it was worth taking the car up the drive.'

'Something he'd forgotten up a ladder?' asked Dalziel.

'Or he knew his wife might be going out later, so he parked on the road in order not to block her.'

'He was a well-known considerate fellow, was he?'

'Not from the sound of him,' admitted Pascoe. 'What do you suggest we do, sir? I mean, do you think it's important?'

'I can't do your thinking for you, lad,' said Dalziel heavily. 'You talked to Dandy Dick yet?'

'Tomorrow,' said Pascoe patiently. 'I did tell you.'

'Oh aye. You lose track in this bloody place. It's like a bloody ant-hill down here. I like streets where I know half the buggers I meet and I can understand most of what the rest of 'em say. I'll be glad to get back even if it does mean putting up with you lot again. Keep in touch!'

'I will,' said Pascoe. 'Enjoy your conference.'

The phone went down with a crash.

'You know, he sounded quite homesick,' said Pascoe to Wield.

‘It's nice to know we're missed,' said Wield. 'What do we do now?'

Pascoe glanced at his watch.

'There's only a couple of dozen things we could do,' he said. 'None of which should take more than a few hours by the time they got spread out. But on the other hand, I'm feeling a bit homesick too. I think I'll just go home.'

Ellie seemed slightly distracted that evening, but he put it down to the spiritual shock of coming to grips with the stack of exam scripts which still littered the lounge, though it was harder to explain in the same terms her perceptible start when he observed casually, 'I'm going to be getting a look at your mate, Daphne, at last.'

'Why? What do you mean?'

'Just that I'll have to call round and have a word with them. We've had a tip that Rosemont is going to be done, that's all. Probably nothing in it.'

‘It's not just another excuse to get into the house and have a poke around, is it?' she asked earnestly.

He regarded her with puzzled amusement.

'You think like fat Andy, do you know that?' he said. 'No, it isn't. It's a genuine tip, come to us courtesy of young Sherlock Singh. How's the marking going?'

'Rosie got hold of a couple of the scripts, and chewed them,' said Ellie gloomily. 'God knows what the external examiner will think.'

'He'll put it down to rage,' said Pascoe.

'He could be right. How was your day? Anything new on the Elgood front?' she said casually.

'Not much. I'm seeing him tomorrow.'

'Are you? Why?' she asked sharply.

'Just a couple of points to clear up. Is there some beer in the fridge? I just fancy one. What about you?'

'No, thanks,' she said. 'Peter, you will remember that Daphne's my friend.'

'When I visit Rosemont, you mean?' he said evasively. 'I'll be awfully polite, I promise.'

He went out of the lounge to the kitchen, leaving Ellie staring sightlessly at the pot of ferns in the fire grate.

'Oh shit,' she said.

8

INNOCENCE

(Bush. Vigorous, upright, flowers creamy white with a few pink flecks - sweetly perfumed.)

Pascoe was five minutes early for his appointment with Elgood. As he approached the office door, it opened and a man in a creased grey suit was ushered out by Miss Dominic who regarded Pascoe coldly, though whether on account of his earliness or because he'd used the lift he could not tell. The departing man headed virtuously for the stairs.

Creep,
thought Pascoe and went in.

'You're early,' said Dick Elgood. 'I hope this means you're in a hurry. I know I am. I'm up to my eyes.'

'I'll try not to keep you long,' said Pascoe. 'Just a couple of questions.'

'Haven't you asked enough questions, for God's sake? Last time we spoke, I told you to drop the matter. But since then from all sides I hear you're still snooping around!'

Elgood sounded angry, but Pascoe thought he detected a note of anxiety as well. ‘I’ve got a job to do, Mr Elgood,' he said solemnly. Ellie had once remarked that the main perk of being a cop was that you could talk entirely in clichés and no one dared throw rotten eggs. 'It's not an easy job,' he continued, warming to his banalities, 'and it has this peculiarity. Once you start on something, you take it as far as you can until you're convinced that no crime's been committed. It doesn't matter who says yea or nay. You carry on regardless.'