Death Comes for the Fat Man (37 page)

“No. Why?”

“It’s just I thought I could hear a pig being slaughtered in the background.”

It took a second for Ellie to catch on.

“Pete! She’d be mortified if she heard you!”

“She’d be Wonder Woman to hear anything over that din. Do you think Benny Goodman could bear to be dragged away from practice to talk to her old dad?”

“Only if you hold the jokes,” said Ellie sternly. “I’ll get her in a minute. So how do you intend to pass the rest of the evening in swinging Manchester?”

“You know me,” said Pascoe. “Grab a bite to eat, then do the clubs, sink a couple of bottles of bubbly, snort a few lines of coke. Or maybe I’ll just settle down with a good book.”

The reading matter he actually settled down with as he ate his excellent dinner in the hotel restaurant was Ffi on’s interrogation.

There’d clearly been several sessions, but it seemed to him that at an early stage the interrogation team had decided they’d got everything useful and were concentrating on frightening the shit out of the poor woman.

After the meal and a stroll round the block to get some air, he went up to his room. He wasted an hour watching a TV cop-shop show that had more holes than an election manifesto, then decided it was time for the good book he’d mentioned to Ellie.

The choice lay between two sagas of struggle and sacrifice and brutality and destruction against a desert background, to wit,
Blood on the
Sand,
the second of Youngman’s novels, and the Gideon Bible.

Well, he told himself, what you want’s a soporific, not something of riveting interest.

He made the right choice. After two chapters of
Blood on the Sand,
he fell fast asleep.

6

WA K E - U P C A L L

Edgar Wield was woken by hot lips nibbling his ear.

He lay there enjoying what was a rare treat. Edwin Digweed, who admitted to being at least ten years older than his partner, had made it clear at an early stage that his vital juices ran sluggishly till the sun stood high in the sky, so matutinal dalliance was rarely on the menu at Corpse Cottage.

Then Wield recalled that they’d said their good-byes last night and only half an hour ago he’d heard his partner’s car cough to life and drive away.

He sat bolt upright to check whose hot lips they were.

“Jesus, Monty!” he said. “You’ll get me shot if Edwin fi nds out you’ve been here.”

Monty drew his lips back and grinned his indifference.

He was a marmoset whom Wield had “rescued” from a drug company lab in somewhat dubious circumstances. Digweed had put up with his presence till a dietary experiment with old books had led to an edict of banishment. Happily Wield had been able to find a new home for the beast in the small wildlife compound at neighboring Enscombe Hall. But Monty never forgot his old benefactor and from to time returned, though he had the wit to keep out of sight when Edwin was around.

It was not yet six o’ clock but with the sun already fl ooding Eendale with gold, it was pointless trying to get back to sleep, even if Monty were in the mood to permit it. He made himself three slices of white toast, doubled their thickness with butter and raspberry jam, put two spoonfuls of instant coffee and an equal amount of sugar and milk into a mug, filled it with boiling water, and sat down in the sunlit garden.

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There were some compensations for Edwin’s absence. Breakfasts like this, for instance, with a guest like Monty who accepted a slice of toast gratefully and retired to an apple tree to eat it.

This was Eden before the Fall, thought Wield, not usually a religious man. But the outside world still lurked and, never afraid to face up to reality, he decided to use the borrowed time to perform his promise to Pascoe.

Happily a wireless connection enabled him to use his laptop in the garden and soon he was winging his way through the vast inane of cyberspace.

It proved a relatively easy journey. After an hour he looked at what he’d got, then at his watch, smiled, and took out his mobile.

It was some time before he heard Pascoe’s sleep-slurred voice.

“Wieldy, what the hell’s happened?”

“Nowt. Just ringing in with that stuff you wanted. You did say before eight o’clock, and it’s nearly seven now.”

“Jesus! I’ll get you for this. Hold on while I get a pen. OK, shoot.”

“Here we go,” said Wield. “Kewley-Hodge, full name John Matthew Luke, only son of Alexander John Kewley-Hodge, deceased, and Edith, née Hodge. Well-known Derbyshire Catholic family, hence perhaps the choice of names—”

“I wonder what Mark did to miss out?” said Pascoe.

“Mebbe he interrupted his friends trying to do him a favor,” said Wield.

“Ouch. Go on.”

“Educated Ashby College and Sandhurst. Not married. Served with the SAS in Northern Ireland, Bosnia, Iraq, and Afghanistan. Rose to the rank of major. Badly injured by a mortar shell in Afghanistan. You want the gory details?”

“At this hour in the morning? The outcome will do.”

“Paralyzed from the waist down. Permanent. No hope of recovery.

Now lives with his mother at the family home, Kewley Castle, near Hathersage, Derbyshire.”

“Lives with mummy in the family castle, does he?” said Pascoe.

“Shouldn’t he have a title or something?”

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 279

“No, there’s no title. Family never amounted to much and their castle wasn’t exactly state of the art. Took the Roundheads less than a day to overrun it during the Civil War, so the Kewleys didn’t get a lot of loyalty points to cash in after the Restoration. Being RC didn’t help either, what with the Popish Plot and all. Settled for being gentlemen farmers, declining eventually to genteel poverty with the option of bankruptcy, till the major’s father, Alexander, did a rescue act by marrying Edith, elder daughter of Matt Hodge of Derby, founder of Hodge Construction UK, and worth a bob or two. Tagging the Hodge name on to Kewley was presumably part of the deal.”

“Where are you getting all this stuff ?” said Pascoe, impressed.

“Mainly from a local history group’s website.”

“Oh yes. I know the type,” said Pascoe. “Bunch of incomers angling for an invite to the castle with the real peasants. You’ve probably got one in Enscombe.”

“Edwin’s the chairman,” said Wield. “He’ll be interested in your analysis. But as it happens there ain’t no real Kewley Castle to get invited to. Seems the original building was already falling apart by the end of the eighteenth century. The family took over what had been their factor’s house, seventeenth-century farmhouse with improve-ments. But they kept their old address. There’s little to see of the original castle except a few stones and half a gate tower. Doesn’t even get a mention as a visitor attraction.”

“Might have attracted one visitor I can think of,” said Pascoe.

“Anything more?”

“Bit of detail if you’re interested. Real Boy’s Own stuff. Our laddo was top cadet at Sandhurst, commissioned into his local Yorkshire regiment but rapidly transferred to the SAS, awarded DSO for something he did in Bosnia. Bright too. Good linguist, fluent in main European languages, gets by in the rest. Rapid promotion. Looked like he was on track to becoming one of the youngest lieutenant colonels since World War Two, then bang! the wheels came off in Afghanistan. Literally.”

“Farewell the plumed troops, and the big wars,” murmured Pascoe.

“Sorry?”

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“I was just wondering what a man does when his occupation’s gone,” he said. “Thanks, Wieldy. As always, you are a wonder.”

“No problem. Oh shit.”

A movement by the open bedroom window had caught Wield’s eye.

He looked up to see Monty emerge and perch on the sill. In his paws he held what looked like a very old, very pricey vellum-bound volume.

“What?”

“Got to go. Take care, Pete.”

He switched off the phone. Pursuit he knew was counterproductive. In the marmoset’s eyes, it just became a game. But a clever detective knows that sometimes the name of the game is Softly, Softly . . .

He went into the kitchen to make some more toast.

7

S A F E H O U S E

Pascoe sat in the hotel dining room and thought about what Wield had told him as he toyed with the Continental Breakfast at £12.50, patriotic parsimony having made him decline the Full English at £32.

Ffion had mentioned that on one of their northern book tours Young had gone walkabout when they were doing Sheffield. Visiting an old military friend had been his excuse. Kewley Castle near Hathersage fi t the bill very nicely. Another word with the Welsh witch would be useful, especially now that he’d read the interrogation transcript. And this Kewley-Hodge character was definitely worth having a chat with.

His instinct was to strike out alone, but simply not turning up at the Lube was just as likely to alert the suspected CAT mole as putting all this on an official basis. On the other hand, keeping his plans to himself at least meant no one could officially veto them.

In the end he took out his phone and rang Rod’s mobile.

“Morning, Peter.”

Sharp boy already had him entered in his phone book.

“Morning, Rod. Sorry to disturb you, but when you get to the Lube, could you book out one of those nice stealth cars you lot use and pick me up at the hotel?”

“Right on it. I’m just walking into the building now.”

Pascoe looked at his watch. Ten to eight.

“You are keen,” he said. “Bad night?”

“Good one, but all good shifts come to an end.”

The weary and unwitting cuckolded husband returning home . . .

“I see. Well, I hope you’re not too weary to drive.”

“No, I’m fine. Where are we going?”

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“Into the country to chat with an old army buddy of Young’s. Leave Tim a note to that effect, will you?”

That should cover his back, he hoped.

“Sure. See you in half an hour, OK?”

“OK.”

At half past eight on the dot, he was climbing into a Ford Focus in a suitably ambiguous shade of bluey-green. Rod certainly looked bright enough.

He smiled and said, “Morning, Chief. Which direction are we heading?”

Pascoe thought for a moment then said, “For a start, let’s visit Safe House Four.”

If Rod now said, “And where is that?” then he was stymied. But the young man merely checked his mirrors, signaled, and moved slowly away from the curb. Ten minutes later, even with the central rush hour traffic behind them, they were still moving through the quiet outer suburbs with a legal stateliness that Pascoe was about to remark upon when the car turned into a narrow cul-de-sac and came to a halt.

“Here we are,” said Rod.

Pascoe’s picture of what a Security Service safe house looked like derived mainly from television. While he certainly hadn’t been expecting something like a mini Colditz with barred windows and a portcul-lis, this small suburban bungalow with whitewashed walls and wisteria growing around the door came as a surprise.

As he walked up the short drive, he found himself wondering how on earth they kept someone in a place like this who didn’t want to be kept?

He got at least part of the answer when the door was opened by a middle-aged woman built like a London bus. She greeted Rod with evident pleasure, but glowered at Pascoe and refused to remove the security chain till she’d checked his ID.

“She’s not up yet,” she said after she’d let them in. “You’d best wait in here.”

She’d opened a door into a kitchen designed by a myopic optimist.

Its walls were canary yellow with cupboards and work surfaces to match.

On the hot plate of the yellow oven, a yellow coffeepot bubbled.

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 283

“She’ll likely need waking up,” said the woman.

“Well, coming in here should certainly do the trick,” said Pascoe, blinking.

The woman looked at him blankly and said, “I’ll get her.”

The idea of Ffion not wanting to be got clearly did not enter her calculations.

Pascoe said, “I think I’d better talk to her alone, Rod.”

“You sure?”

“Oh yes. It’ll make her feel more at ease. I’ve known her some time,” said Pascoe with more confidence than he felt.

“OK,” said Rod. “I’ll be in the sitting room with Dolly.”

Dolly!

A couple of minutes later the door opened and Ffi on Lyke-Evans came in.

Her hair was uncombed and she wore no makeup. She was wearing a toweling robe loosely tied around her narrow waist. What she wore underneath it Pascoe did not care to let himself speculate.

She didn’t look at him but went to the stove and poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Hi, Ffion,” he said. “Everything OK?”

She sat down at the yellow kitchen table and made a face.

“I’ve been banged up here since Sunday with Grendel’s mother,”

she said. “What do you fucking think?”

“Look,” he said, sitting down. “I know it’s a pain, but these Security people think everyone’s as devious as they are. They need to check and double-check, then check again. I’m sure you’ll be out of here in no time.”

“Oh yes? Last time we talked you said I’d be sleeping in my own bed that night.”

“Yes. I thought you would be. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right then. So long as you’re sorry.”

She leaned back in her chair, her robe opening far enough to show him she had nothing on above the waist at least. Dalziel would have got himself an eyeful and passed an opinion. Pascoe stood up, went to the stove, and poured himself a cup of coffee, giving her the chance to adjust her robe. She didn’t bother.

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“This a social call, is it?” she said as he resumed his seat. “Or have you just come to practice your lying technique?”

“Just wanted to get a couple of things clear,” he said. “Let’s go back to last Friday. You say that Youngman rang you on the train to say he was ducking out of the show just as you were arriving in Middlesbrough, right?”