The Price of Butcher's Meat (28 page)

“Great! Now this is what we’ve found so far.”

He pointed to a wire tray, by the door, containing three or four evidence bags.

“Champagne cork. Half a smoked salmon canapé. Bit of chocolate éclair. Some scraps of silver foil, probably from the bubbly bottle. And a couple of cigarette stubs. Prints possibly, DNA certainly.”

Proving that Ollie Hollis hadn’t missed out on the refreshments, thought Pascoe. Hardly a breakthrough. But only a fool or a very grumpy old man would resist Leach’s enthusiasm.

They spoke a little longer, then Pascoe headed back to the incident room.

As he emerged from the shrubbery, the smell of tobacco smoke caught his nostrils.

He halted and said, “Okay, Sammy. You can stop lurking.”

A long, thin figure with a face as unageable as a tortoise’s slid through the foliage, the cigarette between his lips glowing as he drew in the smoke.

“How do, Pete,” he said.

“You shouldn’t be here, you know that, Sammy,” said Pascoe.

“How the hell did you get in?”

It was a redundant question. As Wield had pointed out, the hall’s extensive grounds were bounded along the road with a wall in great need of repair, while its countryside boundary was at best a thick 1 9 8

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hedge, at worst a dilapidated fence. The gate at the entrance to the drive was hanging off its hinges. The stable apart, Lady Denham clearly hadn’t believed in wasting her money on estate upkeep.

Ruddlesdin shrugged and said, “Got yourself a problem here when the nationals show. Place is easier to get into than Parliament, and any idiot can get in there.”

“So why aren’t they here yet?”

“I expect ’cos you ordered a clampdown till you got here yourself and saw what was what.”

This was pretty well the truth, though the clampdown had been initiated by Chief Constable Dan Trimble, whose wife sat on a couple of committees with Lady Denham. Trimble had rung Pascoe and urged him to get a lid on this one as quickly as he could. Pascoe had assured him that he would do all in his power to get an early result, not caring to reveal that at the moment of talking he was still some twenty miles from the scene, waiting for a garage truck to arrive with a new tire.

“And you’ve been sitting on the news too, Sammy. Kind of you,” he said.

“Got my story all ready to go,” said Ruddlesdin. “Just wanted to be sure I got your input, Pete. This could be big for you.”

“In what way?”

“Well, you’re not peeping out from under the cheeks of yon fat bugger’s arse, for one thing. This is your chance to shine.”

While Pascoe and the journalist had struck up a mutually profitable relationship from the start, based on a respect for each other’s professionalism that had slowly matured into a cautious friendship, Dalziel believed the only thing the gentlemen of the press understood was fear. Hard to impose this nationally, but at a local level, those who trod on his large toes could be sure that sooner or later they’d feel them applied to their behinds with great force.

“Nice of you to say so, Sammy. You got anything that can give my prospective shine a bit of a polish?”

T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 1 9 9

“Got my headline ready: Super-sleuth Pascoe Solves Baffl ing Murder Mystery in Record Time.”

“Not very punchy, is it? Apart from being even further from the truth than most of your headlines.”

“Now just ’cos you’re after the fat bugger’s job don’t mean you’ve got to sound like him,” reproved Ruddlesdin. “Any road, word locally is you’ve just got to spin a coin between the two most likely suspects.

Smart money’s on the heir apparent, Sir Edward Denham, but there’s a lot reckon her brother-in-law by her first marriage, Hen Hollis, is worth a look, particularly if what they’re saying about the way she died is true. Is it, Pete?”

“Depends what they’re saying.”

“Roasted alive on her own barbecue.”

“Thought that might be it. No, it’s not true. Yes, that’s where she was found, but she was dead before that.”

“How?”

“Strangled, probably, but that’s to be confirmed,” said Pascoe.

You had to give to get, and in any case the sooner they stopped rumor from making what was bad enough sound grotesque, the better. “Why should roasting her appeal to this chap Hen Hollis?”

“Hated her guts, evidently. Always ready in his cups to fantasize about her dying. And seems it were him as built the hog roast equipment for his brother. Also, here’s the clincher: By his brother’s will, when she died the family farm would revert to Hen.”

“The family farm? You mean Sandytown Hall?” said Pascoe, surprised.

“No! Does this look like a sodding farm? Place called Millstone.

Her Ladyship let it go to rack and ruin, by all accounts, but like the song says, there’s no place like home.”

They were now approaching the stable block. Wield must have been watching, for now he emerged and came to meet them.

“Sammy, I told you not to hang about,” he said.

“And I heard you. That’s why I’ve been wandering around town picking up some nice titbits for your boss,” retorted the reporter.

2 0 0

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“For which I’m duly grateful,” said Pascoe. “Now perhaps it’s time to get back to your wanderings . . .”

“Aye, I’ll go and polish up that headline. Remember, Pete, with the press behind you, the sky’s the limit!”

“Titbits?” said Wield as they watched the journalist move off.

Pascoe passed on what Ruddlesdin had said and also what he’d learned from the CSI. In return the sergeant handed him a fairly bulky plastic fi le.

“Just to keep you up to date with everything we’ve got so far,” said the sergeant.

“Right, fine,” said Pascoe. “This Ollie Hollis guy, the CSIs would like to see him ASAP for prints and DNA. I’m quite keen to talk to him too. Any word?”

“Jug Whitby just called in. Hollis lives by himself at Lowbridge, a hamlet a couple of miles along the coast. He’s not there, neighbors haven’t seen him since this morning. Whitby’s tried the local. No sign. So now he’s casting around the other pubs in the area before heading back to Sandytown. This business must have shook Hollis up a bit, so not surprising if he’s gone in search of a drink. And company, maybe.”

“Maybe,” said Pascoe. “Let’s get someone sitting on Hollis’s house while Whitby’s pub-crawling, okay?”

“It’s taken care of. You’ll find a note in the fi le.”

“Anything else?”

“I got one of the lads to feed everyone on the guest list into the computer. It’s all in the fi le.”

“Just give me a digest, Wieldy.”

“The usual stuff came up, mainly road traffic offenses. And of course Roote, but we knew about him already. Only other person with a record was the victim.”

“Lady Denham?” said Pascoe. “Make my day, tell me she’s got connections with the Russian mafi a!”

“Not unless the Countryside Alliance is run from Moscow. Thirty T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 2 0 1

years back, assault on a hunt protester, bound over to keep the peace.”

“And that’s it? Great work, Wieldy,” said Pascoe, old acquaintance permitting him to be ungracious to Wield in a way he stopped short of with Leach. “I think I’ll pop across to the hall to see this companion. You said you got a statement from her?”

“In the file,” said Wield with the relentless certainty of Mephis-topheles talking to Faustus.

“What about the niece and nephew? Let me guess, in the fi le too?

They still around?”

“I’d bet on it. Scared someone’s going to take off with the spoons as soon as their backs are turned,” said Wield. “You’ll be going up the Avalon to see the head quack and his nurse then, will you, Pete?”

“I haven’t forgotten. And yes, before you ask, I’ll call in and say hello to Andy too. Sammy Ruddlesdin doesn’t seem to know he’s in the vicinity, thank heaven. Roote neither. I dread to think what he’ll make of it when he fi nds out.”

What can he make of it? And who gives a toss? thought Wield.

He said, “Talking of Roote, thought I’d head off now and get him out of the way. Oh, and the chief rang.”

“Checking up on me, is he?” said Pascoe moodily.

“No. Just wanted a progress report. I gather Lady Denham was well connected. I told him you were working too hard to talk just now, but everything was under control and you’d ring back later.”

“To tell him supersleuth has solved the case in record time. I wish,” said Pascoe. “See you later, Wieldy.”

The sergeant watched him go with some concern. This case is making him nervous and irritable, he thought. Can’t blame him with Roote rising from the grave, the chief constable getting anxious, and the Fat Man lurking in the woodshed!

He went to his motorbike and punched the address he had for Roote into his new sat-nav. Specially designed for motorbikes, it was a present from his partner, Edwin. He’d tried it locally, and though 2 0 2

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the upper-class female voice giving the directions was a bit of a pain, it had seemed pretty effective. Getting close to Franny Roote via the notoriously deceptive back roads of Yorkshire would be its fi rst serious test.

For Pascoe too, he suspected.

6

There was a uniformed constable standing guard at the front door of Sandytown Hall. The grounds might be undefendable, but Wield was making sure nobody got into the building without authority.

Pascoe didn’t recognize the young PC, but a smart salute confirmed his own recognition. He gave a friendly smile in return and went up the shallow flight of steps to the entrance porch.

The front door was ajar but still he rang the bell. No need to start walking over people till it was necessary.

A tall, slender, palely beautiful young woman in her early twenties appeared. Pascoe said, “Hello. Miss Denham, is it?”

“No,” said the woman, slightly irritated. “I’m Clara Brereton.

Who’re you?”

Pascoe introduced himself, concealing (he hoped) his surprise.

Unlike Hat Bowler, who was young enough to have enjoyed the kind of modern English education that didn’t clutter the mind with stuff like history and literature, Pascoe had allowed the name Clara and the term
companion
to create a picture of a desiccated spinster who got her kicks out of needlework. Wield could have put him right, he thought. It was probably in the bloody fi le!

He followed Clara Brereton through a subbaronial entrance hall and down a wainscoted corridor into a small room furnished with an old sofa, a filing cabinet, and a computer station. She sat on the operator’s swivel chair and he took the sofa, which meant he was looking up at her.

Her pallor, he judged, was as much her natural skin tone—a kind of pearly glow—as the result of shock. What ever, it certainly became 2 0 4

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her. In fact, he concluded, taking in the disheveled hair and the red-ringed eyes, she was one of those fortunate people whom grief suited.

Or unfortunate, depending on how you looked at it.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to it,” he said.

“Doing things stops me from just remembering,” she said. “I’ve been writing a full account of everything I can recall about Aunt Daphne’s . . . party.”

Couldn’t bring herself to say
hog roast
, thought Pascoe, noticing that her eyes had filled with tears at the mention of the dead woman, making them shine even brighter.

“So Lady Denham was your aunt?” he said. Wield had said cousin.

A slip?

“No, actually,” said Clara. “I think my grandfather was her fi rst cousin, so that makes me . . . well, aunt seemed a lot simpler.”

She smiled faintly as she spoke, sunshine through broken cloud, an April sky.

Pascoe found himself wanting to drive away even more cloud.

Whoops! he thought. Remember the words of the master—fi rst bugger on the scene of a crime is chief suspect till you fi nd someone better.

He said, “I’ll read your account later, of course, but I know how hard it is to do those things. Sometimes talking about events with someone brings back details you might forget in a written account. I expect with an event like this, you were into it more or less from the moment you got up?”

“Oh yes. There’s a lot to do. Not that I mean I was doing much of it personally, but it was down to me to make sure that everyone else, like the caterers and so on, were here on time and knew what they were doing.”

“So you supervised, and Lady Denham just left you to it, did she?”

“More or less. Usually she’s very hands-on, but she seemed a bit T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 2 0 5

distracted this morning. She had a meeting with Sidney Parker, it didn’t seem to go too well. Sidney is . . . was . . . usually better than anybody at calming Auntie down if she got in a tizz, but today, it didn’t seem to work.”

“This Sidney Parker . . .” Pascoe looked at the notes Wield had given him. “That’s Tom Parker’s brother?”

“Yes. He works in the City, and he’s a sort of fi nancial con sultant to the consortium, and to Aunt Daphne too—privately, I mean.”

“So this was probably a fi nancial meeting?”

“I expect so.”

“What time was this?”

“About twelve thirty.”

“And the party was due to start at two, right?”

“Yes. The caterers had just arrived. They were setting up their tables. Alan Hollis—he’s the landlord at the Hope and Anchor—had just turned up to sort out the drink. Teddy Denham was out there, directing things . . .”

“I thought that was your job?”

She shrugged and said, “Teddy likes to help. He’s family, you know that? Him and his sister, Esther. Teddy inherited the title when his uncle, Sir Henry, died, and took over Denham Park and the estate, not that there was much left of it. Aunt Daphne still kept her title, of course, she was very proud of it . . . sorry, I’m wittering, aren’t I?”

“You are doing exactly what I asked you to do,” said Pascoe. “So carry on wittering. You were saying Sidney Parker’s conversation with Lady Denham didn’t seem to leave her in a very happy frame of mind.