Deadheads (29 page)

In the bathroom, Pascoe noted that the suite bore the name Elgoodware, presumably dating from Eddie Aldermann's connection with the firm, but it would have taken a Dalzielesque indelicacy to mention this, he felt.

The tour ended in the master bedroom. Pascoe finished his notes, then remained at the window admiring the view.

'What are you thinking?' the woman asked behind him.

'I'm just lost in envy,' he answered, turning and smiling at her.

'Envy? But you have a splendid open aspect too.'

'That's right. But I don't
own
quite so much of it. 'Tis
possession
lends enchantment to the view. So, despite my egalitarian principles, I feel envious.'

'I thought perhaps you were merely feeling embarrassed at the prospect of bringing up the topic of my relationship with Dick Elgood,' she said.

'Oh dear,' said Pascoe. 'He's been in touch then?'

'It was the gentlemanly thing to do.'

'As opposed to the policemanly, which is to plot to discuss a wife's infidelity upstairs while her husband sits innocently below? At least you gave me credit for embarrassment.'

'Wrongly, so it seems.'

Perhaps rightly,' corrected Pascoe. 'But we won't know as, in fact, I didn't have to bring it up, did I? You saved me the bother. But, truly, I didn't intend to bring it up anyway. Why should I? As Mr Elgood was quick to point out, what business is it of mine?'

'None, I hope. But there have been several misunderstandings, I think, and if complete frankness is necessary to clear them up, then I'm willing to be completely frank.'

She sat on the edge of the bed, knees demurely together, hands clasped on her lap, cheeks gently flushed, long fair hair falling over her shoulders.

'Yes,' murmured Pascoe, mostly to himself, but she caught the word.

'Yes, what?'

He smiled and said, 'I was just remembering something Ellie said about you.'

'Ellie?' she said alertly.

'Yes. I'm sorry, I shouldn't pass things on, should I? But I've gone too far now. She said you were . . . sexy. I see what she meant.'

Daphne rose abruptly, ran her hand through her hair and left it there.

'Clearly she didn't tell me enough about you,' she said.

'No? What's enough, I wonder?' said Pascoe. 'It strikes me, Ellie's rather pig-in-the-middle in all this.'

'Poor Ellie.'

'You mentioned the open view from our house. I didn't know you'd been there.'

'Once,' said Daphne, still holding her pose which unselfconsciously echoed a position favoured by Hollywood starlet publicity photographers. 'I went to have a row with her.'

'And you can still walk. She must be slipping,' said Pascoe.

'Yes. I didn't really get going. I suppose basically I like her too much.'

'Me too,' said Pascoe ruefully. 'It can be a disadvantage, can't it?'

'Look,' said Daphne. 'There's something I want to put right. In a way I started all this silly business by . . . well, let’s just say I misinterpreted certain things. I know better now. I was going to tell Ellie all about it, and tell her to tell you, but it makes more sense to do it the other way round now you're here.'

Rapidly she told Pascoe most of what had passed between her and Patrick that morning. His cool, appraising gaze half convinced her he guessed the rest and she found herself blushing at the thought.

When she had finished, he said, 'So he is no longer a candidate for this place on the board?'

'He's going to contact Dick Elgood and withdraw.'

'I see. Well, to be honest, it never seemed a particularly good motive for murder!' said Pascoe. 'And Mr Aldermann hasn't struck me as a particularly ambitious man either.'

'Nor, I hope, as a potential killer,' she said sternly.

He gave her a smile which she took as assent but which saved him from the honest answer that in his time he'd seen far more unlikely candidates than Aldermann admit to committing the vilest acts.

'Let's go down,' he said. 'I'm pleased. I really am. Ellie will be too.'

'Yes she will,' said Daphne thoughtfully. 'It's rare to find a radical so
ungrudging
, isn't it?'

Ellie knows how to pick 'em, thought Pascoe smugly as they descended. This is no stupid woman.

He felt genuinely pleased for Aldermann. During the past few days he'd been doing some gentle probing into the man's financial position and discovered that it was to say the least delicate. The pseudo water-official could have claimed to be representing the gas, electricity or telephone companies with equal authenticity. There were large outstanding bills in each case.

At the lounge door he paused.

'Does your husband know you were going to tell me about his success?' he enquired.

'Oh yes. I'm sure he does,' smiled Daphne.

They went in.

Aldermann and Wield had obviously passed the official stage and were now standing at the window talking gardens.

'Well, Mr Pascoe,' said Aldermann. 'You'll have seen that we've really got very little worth stealing.'

'If you think that, sir, I'd have a word with your insurance company,' said Pascoe. 'It'd be easy enough to pack a couple of thousand pounds' worth at least into a few suitcases. And it could be a great deal more. Those little Dutch flower paintings in your study: I'm no expert, but if they're genuine, they must be worth a bomb.'

'Good Lord. I'd forgotten about them. They were Uncle Eddie's. In fact, a lot of the stuff in the house was his. You can take things in your life so much for granted that you lose sight of their value, can't you?'

'Very true, sir,' said Pascoe. Briefly he explained that they would like to put some men on watch in the house on the two nights the Aldermann family would be away.

'Of course,' said Aldermann. 'You must do what is necessary. I do hope there won't be any mad dashes across the garden, though?'

'We'll try not to damage anything, sir.'

Somewhere a telephone rang. Daphne went to answer it.

'I believe congratulations are in order,' said Pascoe.

Typically Aldermann did not make any pretence of not understanding.

'Thank you. Yes, it's splendid. I feel I've achieved something worthwhile,' he said. 'And started something worthwhile too. A new beginning.'

Daphne returned.

'It's Dick Elgood,' she said. 'He wants to talk to you.'

'And I to him. Goodbye, Mr Wield, Mr Pascoe. Happy hunting next week!'

He went out. Pascoe and Wield exchanged glances which said they were both finished, and allowed Daphne to usher them to the door.

As they passed the open study, Pascoe glimpsed Aldermann at his desk with the phone in his hand. He was listening intently.

At the front door Daphne offered her hand.

'I hope we'll see more of you and Ellie,' she said.

'I'd like that,' said Pascoe.

2

SOUVENIR D'UN AMI

(Tea-rose. Delicate, requires protection in winter, a sheltered wall, and good soil, coppery-pink blooms with yellow stamens, beautifully fragrant.)

Shaheed Singh felt his left wrist seized and his forearm forced upwards behind his body which was rammed sideways against the wall, pinning his right arm uselessly against the rough brick.

'I've been looking for you,' growled a hoarse voice in his ear.

Twisting his head round, Singh found himself looking into the deep-set and vein-crazed eyes of Superintendent Dalziel whose normal ferocity of expression was not improved by a bruised and swollen nose.

'Come on, lad,' said the Superintendent, releasing him. 'You've got some answering to do.'

Feeling more like a prisoner than a colleague, Singh trailed along behind Dalziel's huge hulk, out of the car park where he'd been intercepted and into the station and up the stairs to the Super's room.

Dalziel settled comfortably into the extra-large executive-type office chair, all black leather and chrome, which baffled the annual inventory-takers, and said, 'Sit yourself down, son, make yourself at home,' with a geniality Singh found even more frightening than the initial assault.

'You might as well enjoy the facilities,' continued Dalziel, 'as I gather you've been kind enough to lend CID a hand while I've been away. Sort of filling the gap, so to speak.

‘Some gap, thought Singh, and the comic response, though naturally internalized beyond identification without truth drugs, relaxed him a little.

'Mr Pascoe has left me a full report of
everything,'
said Dalziel. '
Everything
. He's out just now, acting on information you've supplied him with. That must make you proud, lad. To have a Detective-Inspector, not to mention a Detective-Sergeant, occupying a Saturday morning at your behest. And now you've got me. So tell me all about it.'

Singh told. Dalziel questioned. After twenty minutes they both fell silent. Singh sat anxiously, waiting for blame, praise or just simple dismissal. Dalziel stared gloomily at his desk surface, shoulders hunched as though under a burden, and right index finger gently patrolling the fold of flesh which hung over his shirt collar.

'Want to be a copper, do you?' Dalziel said suddenly.

'Yes, sir,' said Singh in a positive tone.

'Why?'

Singh thought of the tangle of reasons which had led, if such a tangle could be said to lead, him to his decision. He settled for simplicity.

'Because I think it's an interesting job, sir. And I think I'll like it. And I think I'll be good at it, sir.'

'Strikes me you think too bloody much, lad,' growled Dalziel. 'Mebbe you should try
knowing
and
doing
instead of all this thinking.'

'I'm sorry, sir,' said Singh. 'I just thought . . .' He tailed off miserably.

'There's only two places in a bobby's life, son,' said Dalziel, 'and you've got to be able to live in 'em both. One's out there.'

The index finger emerged from the carnal crease at his collar and poked a hole (metaphorically, though to Singh's eyes the violent digit looked as if it could have
managed it figuratively) in the station wall to reveal the outside world.

'Out there it's dark and dangerous and dirty,' said Dalziel. 'Out there, there's men with clubs and knives and sawn-off shotguns who don't much care who gets in their way when they're at their work. Worse; out there, there's men with paving stones and petrol bombs whose work is to provoke us to get in
their
way. Oh, it's an interesting job all right.

'And then there's the other place and that's in here.'

The finger stabbed down. Singh grasped that what was being indicated was not the interior of Dalziel's desk, but the police station, indeed perhaps the whole of the police force.

'Out there
is bad. But sometimes,' said Dalziel, 'sometimes
in here
makes you long to be back
out there,
like you long for a pint of ale when you've had a hot, hard day and you're drier than a Wee Free Sunday. Do you follow me, lad?'

Curiously, Singh did. There was no way that he could know that Dalziel was still smouldering at the memory of his last encounter at Scotland Yard. Summoned to the office of the Deputy Commissioner co-ordinating the conference, he had been told in no uncertain terms that his behaviour had caused so much complaint that an adverse report was being sent to his Chief Constable.
Insubordinate, disruptive, inattentive and absent
were the principal epithets used, not all of them compatible with each other, Dalziel had pointed out, which had provoked the final outburst. Last words are a privilege of rank, and Dalziel was still smarting.

None of this was he about to tell Singh, of course, but the cadet was already beginning to realize that
in here
was peopled with monsters, or monstered with people, who could cause as much terror and pain as any robber or rioter. So he nodded his head in genuine not just sycophantic agreement.

'Good. You've nearly finished your attachment here, haven't you?'

'Yes, sir. Just another four days.'

'You've done well,' said Dalziel unexpectedly. 'Not much chance usually for a cadet to do well as far as CID's concerned. But you've shown a bit of initiative. I'll see it gets mentioned on your report.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Singh, his stomach turning with pleasure. 'Thank you very much.'

'Right. Push off now. Tell one of them idle buggers down below I'd appreciate a mug of tea. I'm only away a few days and they're sliding into idle habits!'

'Yes, sir,' said Singh standing to attention. 'Sir . . .'

'Don't hang about, lad,' said Dalziel.

But Singh, emboldened by praise, said, 'Sir, if there's going to be a stake-out, at Rosemont, I mean, sir, because of my information, like, I wonder if mebbe I could . . .'

Dalziel's basilisk gaze froze the trickle of words.

'Fancy a bit of action, do you, lad? Bloody a couple of noses, get a police medal?'

'No, sir. I just thought mebbe the experience . . .'

'Let me tell you about the experience,' said Dalziel. 'Either you'll sit on your arse, bloody uncomfortable, all night, and you'll end up in the morning, cold and tired, with bugger-all to show for it, and the officers you're with will all know it's been on your say-so they've wasted their time. Or the villains'll come and there'll be a bit of aggro and mebbe a bit of blood. Any road, when the lights go on, there'll be you, standing there feeling all pleased; and looking right at you will be your old mate, what's his name? oh yes, Jonty Marsh. Are you ready for that, lad? Whichever way it goes?'

Singh hesitated, recalling Wield had warned him along similar lines.

There was a tap on the door behind him.

'Come in!' bellowed Dalziel.

The door opened and Pascoe appeared with Wield behind him.

'Here they are, the heavenly twins, Castor and Bollocks,' said Dalziel. 'Run along, son, and don't forget about that tea.'

Singh left, passing under the craggy indifference of Wield's expression like a nervous pinnace beneath a fortified cliff.