The Price of Butcher's Meat (40 page)

Charley looked at her in shocked bewilderment, but Dalziel nodded his huge head as if this made perfect sense and said, “Lady Denham didn't mind, though?”

“Well, I don't know if she didn't mind exactly, but she still kept on liking Dr. Feldenhammer even after she saw him doing it with the Indian lady.”

This was getting seriously weird, thought Charley, and she sent her mind scuttling through her textbooks in search of a subtle psychological technique for getting the girl to open up further.

The Fat Man said, “The Indian lady…,” as if this rang some kind of bell, then he bared his big yellow teeth in the kind of anticipatory rictus that might twitch the jaws of a somnolent crocodile identifying the rhythmic splashing noise that has been disturbing him as the sound of an approaching swimmer.

He said, “Oh aye. Now I remember. Old Fester and the Indian lady. Right! Don't think Charley knows about her, but. Why don't you tell her the story?”

Did he really know what Minnie was talking about, or was this just his own personal technique, worked out without benefit of textbooks, for getting the girl to reveal all? The latter, she guessed. The old sod was a lot cleverer than he looked. Not too difficult, of course, when you looked like Cro-Magnon man!

Minnie, reveling in the spotlight, said, “It was my last birthday, Uncle Sid bought me a new bike, a proper one, not a kid's. Mum said it was too expensive and Uncle Sid said nonsense, he always bought the people he loved best a bike, he thought it should be a family tradition. Anyway, Mum and Dad bought me a digital camera and that was quite expensive.”

“Aye, well, the best deserve nowt but the best, eh?” said Dalziel.

Minnie looked pleased and continued, “I went for a ride along the coast, and after a bit I stopped for a rest and I saw Big Bum…sorry, Lady…”

“Big Bum'll do, luv,” said Dalziel. “Don't think she'll mind now. When is your birthday, by the way?”

“September ninth, next month. I'll be ten,” she said hopefully.

“I'll not forget,” said Dalziel. “St. Wulfhilda's feast day. She were a real smart lass too. Go on with your story.”

“I saw Big Bum's horse, Ginger. I'd seen her over the hedge earlier. Only now Ginger was just cropping grass. I thought I'd take a picture of him and while I was doing it, Big Bum came up, and I said thank you for your birthday card, but she didn't look like she knew what I was talking about. Then she asked if she could borrow my camera for a moment. I didn't really want to let her have it, but she just sort of took it and went off again.”

“Where did she go?”

“Toward the cliff. It's not very high there, not like North Cliff, more like a big sand dune. And after a few moments she came back and she said she'd need to keep the memory card. I said that meant I wouldn't be able to take any more photos and she said all right, she'd rent it off me, ten pounds for the day.”

“Ten pounds? And did you get the ten pounds?”

“No, I got fifteen,” said the girl. “Uncle Sid says that when anyone makes an offer always ask for twice as much and never let them knock you down to less than half the extra.”

Dalziel glared a warning at Charley, who was stifling a laugh.

“So what happened next?” he asked.

“I rode on a bit, but when I looked back and saw that she'd gone, I went over to take a look at what she'd been photographing.”

“And what was it?”

“It was Dr. Feldenhammer with the Indian lady on the beach. They were doing sex.”

“You're sure it was Dr. Feldenhammer?” said Dalziel, forgetting he was supposed to know all of this anyway.

“Oh yes. Dr. Feldenhammer had been round to our house for dinner a couple of nights earlier. He gave me a twenty-pound note when
he heard it was my birthday soon and he said I had to spend it on something I really wanted, but Mum made me put it in my savings account.”

“That's the trouble with mums,” said Dalziel. “Always thinking of your future. Go on.”

“Well, I knew I'd get into trouble if they saw me, so I just crawled away and got back on my bike and rode off home.”

Charley said, “Minnie, when you say they were doing sex, what exactly…do you mean, they were kissing, or…”

“They had all their clothes off—that's how I knew it was the Indian lady; she was really brown all over—and they were bouncing up and down together. It's all right, Charley. We learned all about it at school.”

She spoke so condescendingly that Dalziel laughed out loud.

Charley said quite sharply, “This Indian lady, does she have a name?”

“I expect so,” said Minnie. “Everyone has a name. I expect hers is Indian.”

“But who was she?”

“She was from the clinic. I'd seen her in the town once, dressed in one of those lovely silk things they wear, but I haven't seen her for a long time, so perhaps she got another job. Does that help, Mr. Andy?”

“I think it might, Minnie. What do you think, Charley?”

“Could do,” said Charley. “Did you ever talk to anyone about what you saw, Minnie?”

“I told Sue Locksley, my best friend at school, but she said that her babysitter does it with her boyfriend every Saturday night in the living room and it's really boring. So I didn't bother telling anyone else. Except Uncle Sid.”

“You told your Uncle Sidney?” said Charley. “Why did you do that?”

“He was there when I got home and he asked me how I liked the
bike and I told him it was the best present ever and he asked how far I'd ridden on it, so I told him. Uncle Sid and me tell each other everything. I wish I was old enough to marry him.”

No you don't, love, thought Charley.

Dalziel said, “And what did Uncle Sid say, lass?”

“He told me that doing sex was really only the business of the ones doing it and I shouldn't tell anyone else. But you don't count, do you, Mr. Andy, because you're a policeman?”

“Right, luv. I don't count,” said the Fat Man. “Did he say anything else?”

“No. I said thank you again for the bike and he said I was a special girl and I said does that mean when I'm eighteen you'll buy me a motorbike too? And he laughed and said maybe he would.”

Charley asked, “What made you think of a motorbike, Min?” then wished she hadn't.

The girl said, “Because he bought Teddy one for his birthday, only when I heard Teddy thanking him, they said it was a secret, so maybe I shouldn't have told you.”

“Think of me as a policeman too,” said Charley.

She didn't look at the Fat Man, but felt his eyes on her.

He said, “What about your mum and dad? They must have wondered when Big Bum gave you fifteen pound for using your memory card.”

“I didn't tell them,” said Minnie promptly. “They'd just have made me put it in the savings bank like Dr. Feldenhammer's twenty pound, and I had things to spend it on.”

Like what? wondered Charley. And do I really want to know?

Dalziel said, “That were real interesting, Minnie, very helpful. Now, would you do me a favor? All this talk's made me thirsty. Why don't you run along to your mam and ask if there's any chance of a light beer with my light lunch?”

Minnie offered no objection but sped away into the house.

When she was out of earshot, Charley said sharply, “If you knew she was listening, why didn't you send her away before?”

“And miss that little nugget?” said Dalziel. “Soon as I clapped eyes on young Min, I saw that here were the ears and eyes of Sandytown! Only understands half of what she knows, but it all gets stored away, understood or not. Bet you were just the same at her age. Well now, I reckon that might solve our little problem of the hold Daph had on Fester.”

“Catching him screwing one of his staff isn't much of a hold,” said Charley.

“What if she weren't one of his staff?”

“I thought…oh, I see what you mean…she might have been a patient? But surely—”

“Surely a nice upstanding pro like Dr. Feldenhammer wouldn't screw one of his own patients, is that what you mean? Listen, luv, if you're going to make it in your line of business, you'll need to be ready to hear far worse things than that. Stuff that is a thousand miles away from the way you yourself act and think.”

“Oh. You mean like you knowing about that saint, you mean?” retorted Charley.

“Wulfhilda?” Dalziel laughed. “Nay, we've a lot in common. Bright lass, very moral. She escaped through the drains when the king wanted to shag her. And she could multiply her stock of booze when guests turned up unexpected. That's a trick I'd love to learn.”

There was definitely more to this guy than met the eye, thought Charley.

She said, “Very interesting. But I still think it was irresponsible to let Minnie carry on eavesdropping when you knew she was there.”

“Don't think she heard owt that's not on the curriculum these days!” said Dalziel. “Mebbe Mr. Standfast and the dinner lady were a visual aid. Any road, that's why I've sent the lass off now. It's clear she thinks the sun shines out of her Uncle Sid's bum and I didn't want
her earwigging while we talked about him. What was all that about him giving Ted the bart a motorbike?”

“No idea. First I knew about it,” said Charley, affecting indifference. “I really hardly know Sid.”

“Apart from him having a red Maserati and being absolutely gorgeous, you mean? Come on, lass. You do not knowing about as well as Minnie does not listening!”

Oh shit, thought Charley. In principle she agreed with Sid, sex was nobody's business except the couple doing it. And their psychologists, of course. And maybe the police, if there was some connection with a serious crime…?

The bottom line was, the cops had read her e-mails. Okay, she was still pissed off about that, but it was a fact. And she'd accidentally misled them in two ways, first in the closeness of the relationship between Ted and Clara, and second in the location of Clara and Sid when the storm started. Probably unimportant, but with two people dead already…

“Spit it out afore it chokes you,” urged Dalziel.

“Sid's gay,” she said. “Ted too. Don't know if they're exclusively so—I'd guess not in Ted's case.”

She hadn't expected him to look surprised and he didn't.

“Oh aye? Lot of it about. Not catching, thank God, else we'd probably all be wearing tutus down the nick. I can see it'd be a bit of a shock to you when you found out, fancying 'em both like you did. How did you find out, by the way?”

“This morning. I saw Sid in the hotel swimming pool, and I realized what I'd said in my e-mail about the hog roast was wrong. It wasn't Clara Teddy was banging in the cave on the cliff, it was Sid!”

Dalziel whistled and said, “Quite a mistake that, lass. Bit shortsighted, are you?”

She told him the story and felt indignant when he still regarded her doubtfully.

“It was dark in the cave,” she declared. “I only got a glimpse, he was on his face, I just saw those long white legs, and when I saw them again in the pool, I knew beyond all doubt that's what I'd seen in the cave. I think he must shave them!”

“Bloody hell!” said the Fat Man. “Wonder how far up he goes?”

They were saved from further pursuit of this interesting speculation by the roar of an engine. It didn't sound like the Sexy Beast, more like an asthmatic eunuch. Charley knew who it was long before the familiar bike and sidecar combination hove into view around the side of the house and slewed to a halt in a spray of gravel. Gordon Godley vaulted off with a display of athleticism that suggested the Fat Man was right about his age, and came striding onto the terrace. His gaze was focused on Charley, but he didn't seem convinced he was seeing her till he got within a couple of feet. He reached out his hand as if he was going to touch her, then he collapsed onto a chair and said, “Thank God! It's not you!”

Charley, scrolling through her course notes again for some tip on how best to deal with such a situation, could come up with nothing better than, “Well, it is, actually.”

“No, sorry,” said Godley breathlessly, never taking his eyes off her. “It's just that when they finally turned me loose I went to the garage to pick up my bike and the police were holding up the traffic to let an ambulance come off the beach, and when I asked a policeman what was happening he said that a girl had fallen off the cliff and I said which girl and he said he didn't know anything except he thought she'd been staying up at Kyoto House so I jumped on my bike and headed straight up here because I thought…”

He stopped, either for want of breath or because he didn't want to give what he'd thought the weight of utterance.

As Charley and the Fat Man looked at each other with wild surmise, Mary came hurrying out onto the terrace, closely followed by Minnie.

The child was bright-eyed with excitement, the mother pale with shock.

“Mary, what is it?” demanded Charley.

“It's Clara,” cried the woman. “I've just had Tom on the phone. There's been a dreadful accident at Sandytown Hall. It's poor Clara. She's fallen over the cliff, and they think she's going to die.”

After Peter Pascoe set off down the drive, Franny Roote had poured another cup of coffee and rolled his chair into the barn. He pointed a remote control at the LCD panel on the wall and watched as a sharp picture of the entrance gate came into view.

Pascoe's car appeared.

He nodded approval as he saw Peter looking for the sensor and when he waved at the camera, Roote smiled and waved back.

When the car pulled away, he sipped at his coffee and gave himself over to self-examination. He was not by nature introspective but the instinct of self-preservation had long since persuaded him that knowing himself was the key to successful action. Without being a sociopath, he recognized what might be termed sociopathic elements in his makeup. Society to him was an ocean that could either buoy you up or drive you down. He knew how to work with its currents and tides so that they took him where he wanted to be rather than fight against them and risk ending up beached and exhausted. But this did not mean he felt himself detached from society's conventions and relationships. His immorality had limits and his amorality stopped a long way short of total indifference to ethical judgments. For him the human race was a source of constant entertainment rather than a pernicious race of odious vermin. There were a few of them who inspired in him feelings of loyalty and of love, and even those he regarded as sideshow monsters he could view with an almost affectionate amusement that occasionally came close to sympathy.

Lady Denham had stood high on his list of monsters but he admired her energy, her uncompromising forthrightness, and, though
he was thankful not to have run the risk of becoming its object, her undiminished sexual drive. She was like a great bulbous view-blocking beech tree whose removal opened up all kinds of distant vistas, but whose absence you could still deplore. That she'd had some hold over Lester Feldenhammer he was sure. What it was he hadn't been able to discover, but he'd back Andy Dalziel to suss it out, if he hadn't done so already. That was the mark of the man, to know things, after less than a fortnight in Sandytown, that the famous Roote nose had not sniffed out with six months' start! You had to admire the fat bastard. Okay, like Lady D he belonged to the genus
monstrum
—and he was ten times more dangerous than she was—but though Roote might fear him, he could not get close to hating him.

But it was neither of these monsters who had triggered this bout of self-examination.

It was Pete Pascoe. No monster this, but a man he'd started by respecting and ended by loving.

Not in any physical sense. He hadn't been lying when he assured the detective that there was nothing of homoeroticism in his feelings. He knew all about sexual love, the lullings and the relishes of it. This wasn't it. No, the measure of his feelings for Peter was the pain he felt in having had to lie to him.

Normally in the world according to Franny Roote, success in deceit was a source of delight, a whimsy in the blood, leaving him so limber he felt that, snakelike, he could skip out of his skin. But not this time. He had tried to salve his unease with prevarication—
but not necessarily in that order
—clever stuff, but he no longer wanted to be clever with Pascoe, he wanted to be open. He had tasted the clean savor of openness and it was addictive. There were monsters enough in the world to play mind games with, but the heart was too soft a ground not to be damaged by such sharp twists and turns.

He longed for an end to deceit and happily the time was now ripe to end it. But not by confession. In his observation and experience of
the world, the truth rarely set you free. Indeed it was more likely to get you banged up!

No, by one of those paradoxes he loved, his route to openness lay through that super-subtle labyrinthine hinterland of his mind ruled by Loki, the Nordic spirit of trickery and mischief. He did not doubt that his old familiar would show the right moment, the right place.

Meanwhile, as in all areas of human endeavor, the key to success was information, and not being too scrupulous about how you got it. Every good policeman knew this, and Peter Pascoe was a very good policeman. He hadn't actually said it, but somehow it was clear that he had access to Charley Heywood's e-mails, and that he found them useful. Presumably she was using her laptop linked to her mobile. He went to his workstation and from a drawer retrieved the piece of paper bearing her e-mail address and mobile number. He didn't anticipate meeting any of the problems that accessing Wield's system at the Hall had given him, and in fact, as he worked, it almost seemed as if Charley, with the arrogance of youth, reveled in her insecurity!

Twenty minutes later he made himself another cup of coffee and settled down to read.