The Price of Butcher's Meat (43 page)

“Fine, but above all don't let Brereton out of your sight for a second. If you want a piss, ask for a bottle!”

He used the vulgarism deliberately to reinforce his command. From Dalziel it would have passed unnoticed.

He didn't go straight back into the drawing room but headed outside. PC Scroggs snapped to attention. He saw that Charley Heywood was now sitting in the middle of the lawn talking earnestly, but not to
Godley. Her companion was a tall, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven young man. There was no sign of the healer.

“Who's that?” he said to Scroggs.

“Miss Heywood's brother, sir. Thought it would be all right as she came along with the Super.”

Some things didn't change. If the Prince of Darkness came along with the Super, that would be passport sufficient for all subsequent horned and hooved arrivals.

He realized Scroggs was regarding him fearfully.

“Yes, that's fine,” he said. “You hurt your back or something? You're standing awfully stiff. I'd get it seen to, son. No shortage of therapists round here.”

Leaving the bewildered constable, he made his way to the Incident Room, where he found Seymour and Bowler.

To the latter he handed the envelope containing the photographs. He said, “The man is Dr. Feldenhammer. Blow up the best view of the woman's face, get rid of the doctor, then take it to the Avalon. Could be she was a patient there last autumn, perhaps an Indian. We need an ID. But be discreet. Check for rumors, but try not to start any.”

“Right,” said Bowler, clearly taking this as a sign that he was forgiven.

Pascoe turned to Seymour and said, “Dennis, I want you up at the clinic too. Relieve Novello. You'll be watching Clara Brereton. And I mean watching. No one goes near her without a good medical reason. But watch the staff too, okay?”

“Yes, sir. Presume there's a good police reason why I'm doing this?”

Pascoe smiled and said, “Sorry. I think she may have been attacked and I don't want it happening again. Now go!”

“Hello again,” said a voice behind him. “We can't keep on meeting like this, Pete.”

He turned to see the cheerful face of Frodo Leach, the CSI.

Pascoe walked outside with him, explaining what had happened.

“So did she fall or was she pushed? Won't be easy, Pete, but who likes easy?”

“It would make a pleasant change,” said Pascoe. “One more thing, if she was pushed, there's a cave in the cliff face where the perp may have hidden before making his escape. Have a good look there. That young woman can tell you where it is.”

He pointed toward Charley Heywood.

“Will do. Rest quiet, my chief, the experts have the task in hand!”

“I'm pleased to hear it. When you're done there, I'd like you to take a look at Lady Denham's bedroom in the hall.”

“Thought your lot had searched it already?”

“They managed to miss a secret drawer in the old desk. Fortunately another of my lot spotted it later.”

“I love a secret drawer!” said Leach. “What did your clever DC find in it?”

“Some photos,” said Pascoe. “But I think something may have been taken out of it. That's your task, Frodo. I want to know who's been in there besides Lady Denham, okay?”

“If there's been a mouse in there, we'll have its DNA and prints,” declared Leach confidently. “Talking of which, those bits and pieces we got from the shed—a few partials. Two matches with the samples your guys supplied, both named Hollis. One was the poor devil who got killed last evening, the hog roast man, so it's not surprising. The other was a Mr. Alan Hollis. That was on a piece of silver foil from a champagne bottle.”

“He runs the local pub, they supplied the booze, so that's not surprising either,” said Pascoe. “I hope you are going to surprise me.”

“Sorry! One other thing, on the victim's blouse, on the front where the red wine stain was, we found a small tear, as if something had caught there.”

“Something like…?”

“God knows!” said Frodo cheerfully. “Probably not a thorn, or a fingernail—they would have left traces. Metal, perhaps.”

“Great,” said Pascoe wearily. “Don't think we're going to hang anybody on that.”

“Hanging's your job. Me, I just tell you what I know,” said Leach. “See you later!”

As Pascoe returned to the main house, the front door opened and Mr. Beard stepped out followed by his secretary.

He said, “There you are, Chief Inspector. I think I have waited long enough. I cannot see how I can do more to assist you and I need to make arrangements to let the beneficiaries hear the terms of the will, and then, as an executor, I shall begin the complex task of tying up Lady Denham's estate.”

Behind the lawyer, Pascoe could see Wield and Dalziel, their faces in their very different ways conceding defeat. Beard must be a very powerful personality indeed to walk away from these two, thought Pascoe.

There was an ever so well brought up click from the Daimler as the chauffeur opened the rear door.

Pascoe said, “In that case, thank you for your help, sir.”

“Yes. Good-bye.”

Dalziel now wore an expression which said that if he'd been unable to keep the lawyer from leaving, it was little surprise that Pascoe should fail too.

“One thing though,” said Pascoe to the lawyer's back. “Perhaps you shouldn't be in too much of a hurry to summon the presumed beneficiaries. You said yourself, the will you have is the last one
that you know of.
Always a mistake to raise false hopes, isn't it?”

He didn't wait for an answer but walked into the house past his two colleagues and returned to the drawing room.

First Wield followed, then the Fat Man. The three of them resumed their previous seats.

After about thirty seconds, Miss Gay entered, gaze fixed on the ground, like a shy bride, and took her seat at the side table.

A pause, and then the lawyer appeared.

Pascoe waited till he was once more seated on the sofa.

Then he said, “Right, let me tell you what I know.”

Charley and George sat on the lawn and talked. Occasionally a police officer passing to or from the Incident Room looked at them doubtfully, but a quick consultation with PC Scroggs confirmed their surprising legitimacy. At least it was surprising to Charley. From being treated as a reluctant witness cum suspect, she was now being given free rein to bask in the sunlight within striking distance of two crime scenes. In her own mind she was quite convinced that Clara's fall had not been an accident. This was something she would like to discuss with Fat Andy. She knew Pascoe was the man in charge, but far from reassuring her, his change of attitude had made her even more cautious. She was beginning to realize there was a lot more to Dalziel than appeared at first glance, but she felt that each new revelation simply revealed more of the truth of the man. Pascoe's changes were more protean. She was a long way from getting a grip on the central core.

For the moment she concentrated her attention on convincing her brother that her outburst of weeping was a natural female phenomenon, of no deep psychological significance. The trouble was, he had hardly ever seen her cry as they grew up. Her stoicism was famous, and when pain or frustration had brought George close to tears, he'd become used to the admonition, “Look at Charley—do you think this would make her cry?” His alarm now was both touching and irritating.

The last thing Charley wanted was a negative report to get back to Willingden. An independent adult woman she might be, but if the Headbanger thought his little girl needed protection, nothing would
stop him from descending on Sandytown like the Stompy of old, bent on teaching a pint-size scrum half a bit of respect.

She had a great advantage in that, as the closest to George in age, she had been his most frequent guardian, mentor, entertainer, and fellow conspirator. The habit of subservience was deep ingrained, and soon he was reassured that her tears had merely been one of those woman things that cloud a man's horizons briefly but quickly pass if you pay them no heed.

George was a simple soul in the very best sense of the phrase. He was bright enough, in the top half of his class at school, and from an early age demonstrated a firm grasp of both the practicalities and the economy of farming. But his attitude to life was one of sunny optimism. He saw everything in black and white; he liked everyone he met until they proved themselves unlikable, upon which he shrugged and moved on, his conviction that the world and its inhabitants were on the whole bloody marvelous undinted. Girls loved him and he loved them back, but so far he'd never gone steady with anyone, declaring that he'd need to find someone like his sister Charley, and there was only one of her.

Away from home, at college, Charley's explorations of what made human beings tick had for a time woken awful doubts about incestuous love, but soon as she came home for the vacation and saw his open honest face and broad grin, all such fears had fled away. Seeing him enjoying himself like a kid in a sweetie shop during their skiing holiday at Davos, and hearing her lucky friends' rapturous reports of their encounters, disposed of any residual worries.

Memories of the ski trip were triggered now as she gave him a blow-by-blow account of the events of the past two days. Death didn't mean a lot to George, unless it was the death of someone he knew personally, and his reaction to her account of Lady D's passing had more of X-movie shock/horror than of genuine human empathy in it.

Then he said, with the cheerfulness of one whose personal compass
always turns toward the brightest quarter, “At least it means Ess and Em won't need to go skulking around anymore.”

“Sorry?”

“You said when I told you about seeing Emil, he were likely embarrassed at running into someone he knew 'cos him and Ess would want to keep things quiet for fear of auntie's reaction. Now she's dead, they needn't bother, need they?”

“No. You're right. They needn't…”

Her mind was racing. How come she hadn't thought of this before? Until she had the details of the will, she had no idea to what extent Esther would benefit from the murder. In any case, despite her instinctive dislike of the woman, she felt unable to believe her capable of a cold-blooded killing just for a bit of money. On the other hand, what must have really pissed her off was having to skulk around, as George had put it, just because this bossy vulgar parvenu woman wouldn't approve her chosen mate.

Also she'd have an ally, a young fit man who, for all that Charley knew, was as cold-blooded as they came. Though it must have been Esther's special knowledge of her aunt's struggles with the animal rights people that had suggested putting her in the roasting frame instead of the pig…

She tried all this out on George, who listened as raptly as he used to when she invented bedtime stories peopled with local characters to send him to sleep, only to find that her penchant for Gothic excitements had quite the opposite effect.

“Yeah, that's great,” he said. “You certainly haven't lost your touch, sis.”

“My touch? No, George, this isn't one of my stories, this is a hypothesis. This could actually have happened!”

His expression changed.

“I just thought you were making it up, like the vicar and the vampires, or that one about Miss Hardy at the school and the poisoned milk. That was my favorite…”

“They were different. They were just daft stories. What's happened here is real.”

“But what you're saying about Emil…he seems such a nice guy, I really liked him. No, I think you've got it all wrong, sis. Not Emil. He's not like that.”

She looked at him with exasperated fondness and said, “How can you know that? You only met Emil a couple of times at Davos, right? And you've seen him once since—”

“Twice,” he said.

“Twice?”

“Yeah. Remember I gave him my number when I bumped into him at the filling station, asked him to ring if he was anywhere near? Well, he rang Friday afternoon, said he was on his way home, catching a ferry later that night, and did I fancy a quick drink early on? So we met up at the Nag's Head.”

What did this signify? Charley tried to compartmentalize her thoughts, rational inference on the one side, imaginative speculation on the other. It wasn't easy. One of her tutors had rather dryly remarked, “The beginning of all analysis is self-analysis. In your case, Miss Heywood, perhaps it should be the end as well.”

“So what did you talk about?” she asked.

“Talked a lot about you, actually,” George said, grinning.

“Me? But I only knew him by sight. I mean, there was no way for any other girl to get near him with poison ivy Ess twined round him the way she did!”

“Well, you certainly made a big impression, he wanted to know all about you.”

Charley found this incomprehensible. She was sure Emil hadn't even noticed her!

Then it struck her. Friday was the day she'd gone to Denham Park and out of sheer bloody malice reminded Esther that she'd seen her and Em last December in the Bengel bar. Suddenly her creative imagination was racing. In Ess's shoes, she'd have taken
the first opportunity to pass this on to Emil. He, recalling his recent encounter with George, had scented danger. Digging out George's telephone number, he'd made the phone call and fixed a meet. Charley knew her brother. By the time Emil finished chatting to him, the Swiss would know every detail of what George had told her and how she'd responded. Em was probably reassured that she wasn't going to go running to Lady D with the news that he was in the county, but just to make assurance doubly sure, he'd suggested to Esther that it might be time to mend a few fences, which would explain her sudden attack of amiability at the hog roast!

None of this fit in with a picture of the frustrated lovers having hatched a cunning plan to top Lady Denham later that afternoon. But that didn't matter. To Charley the whole business felt extempore. Maybe for some reason Emil had come to see Esther at Sandytown Hall…maybe Daph had surprised them…maybe…

“Oh, I nearly forgot, a letter came for you. Mum said it looked like Liam's handwriting,” said George with a grin.

Her mother of course had been right, thought Charley as she took the envelope. I bet she was tempted to steam it open!

She tried not to check for signs of tampering as she tore it open, but found she couldn't help it! There were none.

She read the single sheet quickly. It was a full, frank, and fulsome apology. All his fault, he was a heel, didn't know what had come over him.

Dirty Dot, that's what, thought Charley savagely.

But as grovels went, it was a pretty good grovel, ending with assurances that he'd realized he couldn't live without her and a plea to be given one more chance.

“Who's this then?” said George.

She looked up to see Andy Dalziel coming toward them and quickly thrust the letter into her pocket.

“Superintendent Dalziel, Dad's old rugby mate,” she said.

George rose to his feet and held out his hand. Dalziel was no dwarf, but Charley was secretly pleased to see he had to look up at her brother.

“Hi there, Mr. Dalziel,” said George, beaming his irresistible smile. “I'm George Heywood. Dad's told me a lot about you.”

“Oh aye? Never told me he were breeding giants. Glad to meet you, lad. What position do you play?”

“Second row at school, but I don't play anymore since I left.”

“No? What's Stompy thinking of? Can think of half a dozen top teams as 'ud give their eyeteeth for a youngster built like you.”

Charley could have told him that her father had reluctantly come to terms with the fact that his giant son had everything except the killer instinct. Opponents might bounce off him as he moved forward, but instead of trampling them underfoot, George was more likely to help them up and ask if they were all right.

But there was no time for that.

She said, “What's happening? Have you seen the will?”

“Seen
a
will. Sir Ted gets the lion's share. Sis gets a hefty chunk, Clara a lot less. But it seems there's another will and, if that holds, nobody gets owt except for a bunch of broken-down horses. Mebbe we should be questioning yon nag in the stables!”

Charley smiled and asked, “You say
if
it holds. Is there a doubt?”

“Don't know till yon hairy lawyer takes a look. Yon lass Clara had it. Your mate Novello's bringing it back from the clinic. Thought I'd get a breath of air and bring you up to speed.”

He's sticking to our bargain, thought Charley. Telling me everything. At least it sounds like he is. My turn now.

“George,” she said, “tell Andy about meeting Emil Kunzli-Geiger again.”

When her brother had finished, she added her own gloss.

The Fat Man rubbed his face, the flesh moving beneath his fingers as if it were a rubber mask he might pull off to reveal…she stopped the fancy there. Imagination could take you too far.

Dalziel looked as if he felt fancy had already taken her far beyond the facts.

“But—” he began.

His but did not get butted. A car pulled up outside the hall and Shirley Novello got out. She glanced their way, showed no reaction, and went inside.

“Best get back in,” said Dalziel. “You'll wait?”

“You bet.”

“See you later then. You too, lad. Hope you'll have time for a pint. Few tales I can tell you about your dad that I bet you've not heard from him!”

He found Pascoe and Novello in the passage outside the closed drawing room door. Pascoe was studying a document.

“That the will?”

“Yes,” said Pascoe. “Take a look.”

Dalziel studied the document. Handwritten on a stationer's will form, it was signed and witnessed. It was dated Friday, the day she'd visited him in the home and he'd choked her off with the advice that she should change her will and cut out anyone she felt threatened by. Remove the motive and you remove the danger, he'd said.

His mind ran round in circles seeking ways he could have handled it differently.

He said, “Looks fine to me.”

Pascoe said, “Let's see what Beard says. Shirley, you manage to check Brereton's phone calls?”

“Yes, sir.” Novello produced her notebook. “This morning at nine fifteen, she received a call from a mobile registered to Sir Edward Denham of Denham Park. Duration, ten minutes. Nine thirty, she made a call to a mobile; I've got the number but it's an unregistered pay-as-you-go job. Duration five minutes. Five past ten she called Edward Denham's number. Duration three minutes. Twelve seventeen she rang him again. Duration fifty seconds.”

“Good work, Shirley,” said Pascoe. “Another job for you. Go to
Denham Park. Pick up Ted Denham. His sister too, if she's there. Invite them here for a chat.”

“Invite?” said Novello, wanting to be certain of her brief. “Like, ask them nicely?”

“I hope you always do that, Shirley,” said Pascoe, smiling. “Yes, ask them nicely. Once. If they prevaricate, arrest them. Cuff them if necessary. Or even if not.”

He looked at the Fat Man challengingly.

Dalziel said, “Your call, lad. But they come here in handcuffs, you're going to have the media all over you.”

“So what's new? Looking at the timings, Brereton made that last call while she was in Lady Denham's bedroom. Way I read it is, Lady D, even if she wasn't completely convinced it was Ted who was threatening her, was so pissed off when she got the notion he and Sid Parker were plotting some financial deal behind her back that she decided to follow the advice of her local resident expert—take a bow, Andy…”

“Put a sock in it!” growled the Fat Man, who didn't find the subject amusing.

“So she made a new disinheriting will and showed it to him before the hog roast, to give him a salutary kick up the behind. Naturally, Ted's first thought after her death—”