The Price of Butcher's Meat (56 page)

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 em-pathy in it.

Then he said, with the cheerfulness of one whose personal compass 4 2 2

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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 vam-pires, or that one about Miss Hardy at the school and the poisoned milk. That was my favorite . . .”

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“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 4 2 4

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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.

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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 fi ngers as if it were a rubber mask he might pull off to reveal . . . she stopped the fancy there. Imagination could take you too far.

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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 fi fty seconds.”

“Good work, Shirley,” said Pascoe. “Another job for you. Go to T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 2 7

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—”

“You saying he killed her?”

“He’s high on my list. His first thought was to find and destroy the new will. But it was nowhere to be found. No great cause for panic. If
he
couldn’t find it, who could? When he inherited the hall, he’d be able to search at his leisure. The only fly in the ointment was the witnesses. If they spoke up, then a serious search might be instigated.

Happily, one of them quickly followed Lady Denham across the great divide . . .”

“You saying Teddy killed Ollie Hollis as well?”

“He certainly had a motive,” said Pascoe. “Which left Clara, the other witness. Not only did she know about the second will, it occurred 4 2 8

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to him, or maybe his sister, that she was the person most likely to know where Lady D had hidden it. On the other hand, she also would lose out if the will surfaced. The sensible thing to do would be nothing, relying on self-interest to keep Brereton quiet. I suspect this is what the sister advised.”

Dalziel nodded. This fi t with his reading of Esther too.

He said, “But Ted thinks he can charm the knickers off any woman he meets . . .”

“Right. And he’s not really going to rest easy till he’s burnt the will. So he rings Brereton, and chats her up. She says yes, reckons she knows where the will could be hidden, and suggests they meet after she’s had a chance to check it out.”

“What for? Why not just say she’ll destroy it, if that’s the route she’s going down? Or she’ll hand it over to Mr. Beard, if her conscience is too ticklish.”

“Because,” said Pascoe, “her conscience isn’t all that ticklish. She reckons she’s earned her inheritance, putting up with Aunt Daph’s little ways all these months. But it really gripes her that her reward is going to be just a few thousand while the randy bart and his sister get millions! So she goes to the hall, checks the secret drawer, fi nds the will, rings Ted and says she’s found it and she’s on her way to meet him on the beach. However, he’s waiting for her on the ledge.”

“And he pushes her over? Why’d he do that before he’d got his hands on the will?”

“Maybe it really was an accident,” said Pascoe. “Or maybe she didn’t say she had it in her pocket but that she’d left it in its hiding place where she could lay her hands on it whenever she wanted. He thought, If it’s so well hidden, I don’t need to worry. And I certainly don’t need cousin Clara twisting my balls for a share of my inheritance. So over she goes, then he ducks into the cave when he hears Wieldy coming. That’s the way I read it anyway. What do you think, Andy?”

“More loose ends than you’d find at a tinker’s wedding,” said T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 2 9

Dalziel. “But I suppose it’s worth pulling the bugger. Not sure about Esther, but.”

“No? Well, I think she’s implicated up to her swanlike neck,” said Pascoe. “When I interviewed her in the hall, she’d changed her clothes. I know that because of what Charley Heywood says in one of those e-mails Shirley so cleverly got her hands on.”