Read The Price of Butcher's Meat Online
Authors: Reginald Hill
The Price of Butcher's Meat (28 page)
I'm sorry to trouble you, Superintendent.
You're not troubling me, not yet anyway. But if you keep catching me in my dressing gown, people may start talking. Have a seat. Oh, you have done. So what can I do for you, luv?
I think someone is trying to kill me.
Doesn't surprise me. Nay, don't take it personal. What I mean is, you'd need to be a saint to get to your age without someone wanting you dead. I can think of a dozen right off who'd dance barefoot on my grave even if I got buried in a midden, which is where the same folk would like me put. But if you're really worried, I'd get in touch with the police.
You are the police.
Nay, lass, tha's right and tha's wrong. I'm an off-duty, convalescing cop. I mean, if I were a convalescing plumber, you'd not ring the Avalon and ask if I could come down to unblock your drain, would you? You want to contact your local station. Who've you got in this neck of the woods? Oh aye, I remember. Sergeant Whitby, old Jug. He's no speed merchant, but he's sound is old Jug. He'll see you right.
He's a nincompoop. I knew his father and he was a nincompoop too. In fact, I don't recollect any of the Whitby family who weren't nincompoops. If I were going to do this officially, Superintendent, I'd ring Dan Trimble, your chief constable, whose wife I know quite well. But the effect would be the same as if I called Sergeant Whitby.
Nay, hang about. I know the chief's only three foot tall and he comes from Cornwall, but that's no reason to say he's a nincompoop tooâ¦
That's not what I'm saying. Only that if I make an official complaint, then this becomesâ¦official! Policemen about the place, statements, everyone noticing and asking what's going on. That's one thing I know about Sandytown: If they don't know your business before you do it, they'll certainly find out the day after. I don't want whoever's trying to kill me to be alerted. I thought that someone like you, who comes with the most glowing testimonialsâ¦
Must be them rough towels they give us here. Who's been talking about me, Daph?
I'm not at liberty to say, but I've been assured you are one of the best detectives in the country. I think the exact phrase was, If Sherlock Holmes's elder brother had had an elder brother, it would be Andy Dalziel. There, what do you think of that?
I think you shouldn't take everything Franny Roote says as gospel.
I didn't say it was Mr. Roote.
Aye, and the pope doesn't say he goes to church on Sunday. Listen, here's what I'll do. You tell me what's on your mind and if I think it's worth bothering busy bobbies with, I'll pass it on. Don't worry. I've got this lad I'm training up. He's minding the shop while I'm away and he's so discreet he's got murderers serving life who don't know yet he's arrested them. That's the best I can do. Otherwise it's Jug Whitby.
You don't leave me much choice.
Don't fret. It's overrated, choice. So what's the tale?
For a start, I'd like you to know you're not dealing with a silly hysterical old woman. Over the years I have grown used to being threatened. Antihunt demonstrators and animal rights extremists have
been attacking my property and threatening my person almost as long as I can remember. It's water off a duck's back. I take precautions, I am not foolhardy. But I don't let them spoil my sleep or my appetite. In addition, when Hollis, my first husband, diedâ
Him that got et by his pigs?
That's right. I sometimes think if he'd died trying to save the Queen from drowning, people would have been more likely to forget the circumstances. When he died, I received phone calls and hate mail containing foul accusations and personal threats. Again, when Denham, my second, diedâ
Remind me. Trying to save the Queen, were it?
A hunting accident. Once more there were phone calls and letters, not the same as beforeâ¦
Well, they wouldn't be, luv. Better class of abuse when there's a title involved.
I hope you are taking this seriously, Superintendent.
Of course I am. And stop calling me superintendent. Andy'll do. And you're Daph, right? So can we speed things up a bit? I've not been well lately and it's hard to concentrate.
I'm sorry. I'll try. Eventually the spate that followed Sir Harry's death became a trickle. The trickle is always there. Graffiti, animal parts through the post. The odd phone call. Those I choose to ignore. Then recently these onslaughts began to take another form, much less aggressive on the surface, but somehow I found it more disturbing.
Oh aye. What were that then?
I started getting communications through the post from various animal charities, the mainstream ones, not just the extremists. They said
they were delighted to hear I was interested in remembering them in my will and enclosed their bequest packs to show the best way of going about this.
We all get that kind of stuff, luv.
Perhaps. But I must confess it was upsetting. Then last week I got a letter. Its tone was mild, yet I felt more threatened by it than anything else I'd ever received. It said the writer hoped I'd taken the chance of modifying my will along the lines suggested in recent mail shots.
But no specific threat?
Judge for yourself. I have it here. I thought you might need it for examination.
Didn't know I were going to sit one. No, I'm not up to close reading so early in the morning. Just give us the gist.
It says: We all owe a debt to God, and the longer we live, the closer the reckoning comes. A woman of your age would be well advised to have her affairs in order. Then here it says:â¦it is likely that the door by which you will make your exit from this world already stands unlatched. Is that threatening or not?
Poetic, and that can be a bit of a menace. I can see how it might bother someone with a nervous disposition. Can't see it worrying you overmuch, luv.
You're right. I put it aside and went about my business. Then a few days ago, the brakes on my car failed. I was coming down the hill from North Cliff and braking to turn into my drive. I managed to change down and come to a halt by sliding into one of my rhododendron bushes.
That's what the gods invented rhododendrons for, upper-class traffic control. That it?
No, it's not. A couple of times recently I have glimpsed a trespasser on the grounds of the hall. I realize that these days the law is almost toothless when it comes to dealing with trespassâ¦
Aye, not like the good old days when a couple of mantraps and a blast with a shotgun would have got things sorted.
Just so. Nevertheless, I would certainly have confronted this person, but he or she took off very quickly when I shouted.
There you are then. No harm done. Likely some poor peasant taking a shortcut.
Perhaps. But yesterday morning I was going down the cliff path from my garden to the beach. It's an easy descent to start with, then you reach a long ledge where the cliff falls away sheer for fifty or sixty feet. A guardrail starts here and then follows the path for the rest of its descent. I'd just reached the ledge when I heard a noise and looked up to see a large lump of rock bouncing down the path toward me. I leaned back on the rail to get out of the way, it broke free from its support, and I found myself hanging on for grim life looking down at the rocks below. Fortunately the next support held and I was able to pull myself back onto the path without too much difficulty. I am lucky to have a strong constitution. A frailer woman would almost certainly have fallen.
Aye, lot of frail women around, thank God. So what did you do?
I had a look at the rail. The support is a metal stanchion, but the rail is made of wood. There was some sign of wood rot, but it looked to me as if someone had carefully eased the rail from its support, then put it back so that it looked completely safe.
Don't know why you need a detective, Daph, when you're so good yourself. Can we hurry this up? I'm beginning to remember an urgent appointment. What next?
I rang my nephew, Teddy.
That 'ud be the good-looking lad who fancies himself? So why'd you ring him?
Well, I'm a woman living alone, more or less, so I suppose I naturally turned to a close male relative in time of stressâ¦
Bollocks! He's hot favorite in the inheritance stakes, right? So when you got it into your noddle someone had fixed your guardrail and was hoying rocks down at you in the hope of making you fall, you thought, I wonder where young Ted the Heir is?
Mr. Dalziel, that's outrageousâ¦
No it's not, and you know it's not. And it's Andy. And were he at home?
Yes, he was, though why he was at home when I pay him good money to be at work, I'm not quite sure.
No sense of responsibility, these modern kids. So did you mention your concerns?
No. I got distracted by various things. He told me, I mean he reminded me, about the get-together at the Avalon so I said I'd meet him and Esther there. That's his sister.
Aye, I met her. What about the broken rail? You get anyone to fix it?
Ollie Hollis was at the hall. I asked him to take a look.
Ollie Hollis? Who's he? A visiting relative?
Not really, though he is a member of my first husband's rather extensive family. He was getting the machinery ready for my hog roast tomorrow.
So what is he? Carpenter? Mechanic?
No. He's a gate man at the pig farm.
By God, you know how to pick your experts, luv! So what did he say?
I didn't ask his opinion. I had no desire to set tongues clacking. He bound it up with strong twine and put a warning notice on it. Hardly necessary, as it's a private path and anyone else uses it at their own risk. But with my grounds full of guests for my hog roast tomorrow, it's better to be safe than sorry.
Good advice, Daph. I think mebbe you should try taking it.
I'm not sure what you mean, Superâ¦Mr. DalâAndy.
What I mean is, likely this is all much ado about nowt. But in the unlikely event someone were trying to top you, I'd say from long experience most likely motive is money. So, though I suspect you've nowt to worry about, just to be on the safe side, simple thing is to take away the motive. Change your will, and make sure you let every bugger interested know! That way it makes more sense for them to keep you alive long enough to change it back again! And that's it, luv. No charge. Now it's time for me to take a shower and get dressed. No need to rush off, I'm too old to be embarrassed.
Good day to you, Mr. Dalziel!
The Fat Man switched off the recorder.
“There we go,” he said. “Don't know if I'd have said much different if I'd been really on the ball when she came to see me. But I felt right guilty when I heard the news.”
“You sound as if you rather liked her,” said Pascoe.
“Aye, mebbe I did. She were a big bossy woman, used to rolling over folk who got in her way, like an anker of ale, but she must have been a bonny lass once, and she still had a gallon of jimp left in her. It were a lousy way for anyone to go. For someone like Daph Denham, it were a right shame.”
Pascoe said, “She had a record, you know. Laid into a hunt protester with her riding crop. Fined and bound over.”
“And that means she deserved to end up being grilled on her own hog roast?”
“I didn't say that, as you well know. I'm just saying there could be more people out there than we think with motives. Did she leave the letter she mentioned?”
“Aye, here it is. Not much good for forensicsâI just stuffed it in me dressing gown.”
“Still worth a try,” said Pascoe, taking the crumpled sheet by one corner and slipping it into an evidence bag. He smoothed it out inside the clear plastic. Ink-jet printer he guessed, on good quality A5 paper. No date, no preamble, just the message.
You should by now have had time to study the options for leaving legacies to some of the major animal charities, thereby
making in death a small atonement for the many cruelties you have inflicted on the animal kingdom in life. Time is short, do not delay. We all owe a debt to God, and the longer we live, the closer the reckoning comes. A woman of your age would be well advised to have her affairs in order, for by the time you recieve this letter it is likely that the door by which you will make your exit from this world already stands unlatched.
“Interesting,” said Pascoe.
“That the best you can do?” said Dalziel scornfully. “So what's next, mastermind? Bring me up to date. This has been one-way traffic so far.”
Pascoe was tempted to point out that this was the usual direction of flow between witness and investigator, but decided not to force the issue. It was hard enough not to sound as if he were seeking approval as he outlined the situation.
The Fat Man said, “What's this Ollie Hollis got to say for himself? He was in charge of the roast, right? What was he doing when poor old Daph got stuck in the basket?”
“I haven't caught up with him yet,” said Pascoe. “Like most of the guests, he'd gone walkabout by the time we got there.”
“He weren't a guest. And why didn't Jug Whitby make sure he stayed?”
“I presume he'd already gone by the time Whitby showed. He's out looking for Hollis now. Why do you call him Jug? Has he got big ears?”
“Whitby, Dracula, jugular, do you know nowt? You need to get a grip on things, Pete. Three hours in and you've still got key witnesses wandering around loose. Pin the buggers down, that's the first rule, and don't let 'em loose till you've squeezed 'em dry!”
“Always good to have your input, sir,” murmured Pascoe, determined not to be provoked. “And thank you for bringing me up to speed about these threats.”
“Glad to help, lad. Think there's owt there for you?”
“Well, if this letter is anything to go by, the written threats were hardly graphic. As for the alleged attempts, even if they turn out to be genuine, they're of a very different nature from what actually happened.”
“They'd have got Daph dead, that's a lot to have in common.”
“Yes, but the intention was to make it look like an accident. This hog roast thing is very different. It's theatrical, it's grand guignol, it's sick! And it's unnecessarily risky. Instead of hiding the body and heading off to establish an alibi, the killer removes the pig from the hog roast basket and substitutes the corpse, all very time consuming. The storm is passing. There's a growing chance of someone strolling along and catching you at it. But it's a risk you are willing to take. Why? It feels to me like there's something deeper and darker than simple greed involved here. This feels like a statement.”
“Ee, you do talk pretty, Pete. Must save you a fortune in tuppeny books,” said the Fat Man.
“That's why I'm so rich. Look, Andy, I need to see Feldenhammer, so unless there's anything else⦔
“I'll think on. I'm not going anywhere.”
Why did it sound like a threat?
“You've been very helpful,” said Pascoe. “By the way, it would be useful if I could borrow the recording you made of your chat with Lady Denham.”
Dalziel pursed his lips and said, “It's not on tape, tha knows. It's a hard disc.”
“Yes, it would be; as you said, state of the art,” said Pascoe, still finding it hard to come to grips with this new technocratic Dalziel. Then it dawned. There was stuff on the disc the Fat Man didn't want him to hear.
He said, “How about if I get Wieldy along to transcribe it?”
Dalziel considered, then said, “Don't see why not.”
“Great. Now I'll be on my way to see the doctor. Take care.”
In the doorway he paused and said, “Sir, why didn't you tell me Franny Roote was here? You knew I'd been searching for him.”
The question came despite his resolve to put personal matters on the back burner.
Dalziel didn't answer straightaway but raised his glass to his lips. To Pascoe's surprise, he didn't drink, only sniffed. Then with the clear reluctance of Caesar pushing aside the proffered crown, he set the glass on the bedside table.
“Eyes greedier than my belly these days,” he said sadly. “Roote says I should think of it as an opportunity, not a problem. But that's the way yon bugger sees most things.”
“Like spending his life in a wheelchair, you mean?” said Pascoe sharply.
“Aye, that too. Get the sympathy vote. Looked to me like he were setting his cap at Clara Brereton. Bit skinny, but I expect her having a rich fat aunt compensated.”
“What are you suggesting, Andy?” demanded Pascoe.
“Me? Nowt! Except maybe he's a cunning bastard, but you know that already.”
Pascoe, refusing to be provoked, said, “You didn't answer my question. Why didn't you let me know he was here?”
“He told me he'd dropped out of contact 'cos he didn't want you feeling responsible for him anymore,” said Dalziel. “And I believed him. Okay?”
Before Pascoe could reply, his mobile rang.
He took it out, glanced at the display, said, “Lousy signal in here,” waved the phone in farewell, and closed the door firmly behind him.
As he strode down the corridor, he put the mobile to his ear and said, “Hi, Hat.”
By the time he'd finished listening, he was alongside his car.
He said, “I'm on my way.”
For a moment he hesitated, looking back at the building. It felt
disloyal to take off without letting the Fat Man know he'd changed his plans, and why.
But as history teaches us, loyalty is always the first casualty of independence.
He started up the engine and headed back toward the main gates.