A Killing Kindness (20 page)

'Yes, sir,' he was saying. 'Both of them. She may be an accomplice.'

Pascoe scribbled on a bit of paper and passed it  over. Dalziel glanced at it. His tone became injured.

'Of course, sir,' he said. 'She's at the hospital  now. With one of my sergeants and a WPC. We're  not without feelings, sir.'

He winked conspiratorially at Pascoe who felt at the same time relieved and uneasy. He was willing  to close ranks a bit, but he had no intention of  letting loyalty loom larger than legality. That was  all right for the public schools, not so hot for the  public service.

'That's all right then,' said Dalziel, replacing the  receiver. 'Thanks, Peter.'

'For what? I was just tidying up,' said Pascoe.

He must have stressed the particle more than he  intended.

'As opposed to
covering
up?' said Dalziel. 'Not to  worry, lad. I won't drag you to the scaffold with  me! Or mebbe that bugger Lee won't come out of  the anaesthetic eh? They're mostly black buggers  down there, operate with assegais!'

He roared with laughter.

'Or mebbe he'll be too busy answering charges  to make them,' he continued.

'I hope you haven't got him lined up for the  Stanhope killing, sir,' said Pascoe, glad to be back  at the job in hand. 'I think you'll find he's about  nine inches too tall.'

'Eh?'

Briefly Pascoe sketched his interview with Rosetta  Stanhope.

'Christ, this should have been spotted earlier,' said Dalziel angrily. 'This has been bloody sloppy. And it's not the only thing either.'

In his turn he related the news about Brenda  Sorby's money and the suspected tie-up with the  notes found in Lee's caravan.

'What made you look in the flour jar, sir?'

'It was out of place up there with his valuables,'  said Dalziel. 'Silly bugger probably didn't like to  leave it in the kitchen where it'd have been inconspicuous but might have tempted his missus!'

'You don't think she knew about it?'

'Who knows?' said Dalziel. 'It'll be interesting to see whose prints are on the notes, if those idle buggers at the lab ever get round to looking at  them! Whether she knows or not, Lee's got his  own subtle methods to keep her mouth shut.  Have you seen her face? By the way, talking  of battered wives, I had lunch with yours today.  Funny company she keeps.'

'It would seem so,' so Pascoe.

'Aye. That Lacewing. At the Aero Club. The  fellow who runs it. Greenall, his name is, do you  know owt about him?'

'Never heard of him,' said Pascoe. 'Why?'

'Nothing really. Just that while every other sod  was saying how strange it was for an important fellow like me to be wasting his time on a tuppenny-halfpenny break-in, he just seemed to take it for  granted. Still, the world's full of funny buggers and  he pours a liberal Scotch. What else have you been  up to that I ought to know about, Peter?'

Pascoe told him about Wildgoose and his visit to the Linden Garden Centre.

'Odd sod, is he?' said Dalziel.

'Not by contemporary standards,' protested  Pascoe. 'In fact, of his type, almost conventional.'

'Abandons his family, screws young girls, dresses like a teenager, and spends his holidays on the  golden fucking road to Samarkand? That's conventional, is it?' snarled Dalziel. 'God, give me the  Dave Lees any time. At least he was
born
a bloody  gyppo.'

This interesting sociological discussion was interrupted by a tap on the door. It was the desk  sergeant.

'Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there's a young lady downstairs. Name of Pritchard. She's a solicitor,  sir. Says she's come about Mr and Mrs Lee.'

'That Lacewing bitch!' roared Dalziel. 'Tell her  to . . . no, just tell her the Lees are no longer being held here. If she doesn't go quietly, ask to  see her authorization to represent them. And if  she can't show you that, which she can't, boot  her out.'

'I'm not to mention the hospital then, sir?' said  the sergeant.

Dalziel clasped his huge grizzled head in his large  spatulate hands.

'Oh God,' he said. 'No wonder murders get done!  You mention the hospital, Sergeant, and you're  likely to end in it. Get out!'

His bellow almost drowned the telephone bell.  Pascoe picked up the receiver. It was Harry Hopper  at the lab.

'That fertilizer you sent us. Well, that's what it  is. Fertilizer. Proprietary brand, just like it says on  the bag. No usable prints on the bag. Yes, the same stuff as they found on McCarthy's clothes. But as  we know, that doesn't signify as there were bags  of the same stuff in Mr Ribble's shed.'

'Thanks, Harry,' said Pascoe. 'I didn't expect  any more.'

'Is that Hopper?' demanded Dalziel. 'Ask him if  he's got owt for me yet.'

'I heard,' said Hopper before Pascoe could relay  the message. 'There's a report on the way. Nothing  startling, except that the money had been sodden  wet, then dried out.'

'Wet?' echoed Dalziel who had brought his right  ear close to the receiver. 'How wet?'

'The notes had been totally immersed in water  and then dried out. Simple as that,' said Hopper.  'It's in the report.'

Pascoe and Dalziel looked at each other speculatively, then the fat man made a dismissive gesture  towards the phone.

'Thanks, Harry,' said Pascoe.

'Hang about,' said Hopper. 'I hadn't finished  with you when we were so rudely interrupted.  We also had a look at the sack.'

'The sack?'

'The one you'd put the fertilizer bag in. We're  very thorough despite the lack of proper appreciation.'

'And?' said Pascoe, aware of Dalziel's imminent  impatience.

'Much more interesting. Dust, earth, the expectable stuff. Plus a few soft fibres. And a scattering of small globular achenes. He doesn't keep canaries,  your man, does he?'

'What do you mean? And what's an achene?'

'A small hard plant-seed. In this case the plant is 
cannabis sativa.
You'll often find its achenes in bird-food. But if you're not dealing with a bird-fancier,  my boy, you're probably dealing with a hash-fancier. Someone's been growing Indian hemp on  your patch!'

Chapter 17

This Friday seemed to have stretched out long  enough to end the world, let alone the week. And  it was still a long way from being over.

Dalziel set off for the lab. He liked to see people  face to face when they were telling him something important and the report on the money  he regarded as being of the essence. Not even  Pascoe's awkwardly expressed opinion that the  notes' erstwhile wetness was more likely to prove  Lee's innocence than his guilt could deter the  fat man.

'The girl was drowned, wasn't she? Near the fairground. Where the Stanhope girl was murdered. Your idea about the missing clothes is all right,  Peter. But it's only a theory. Lee's mixed up in  it somewhere. There's too many close connections  for coincidence.'

'Close?' said Pascoe.

'Like I said, there's the fairground. And don’t forget, Lee and the Stanhope girl were related,'  said Dalziel triumphantly.

'By marriage. And very distantly!' protested  Pascoe.

'There's no such thing as a distant relation by  marriage,' said Dalziel coldly. 'If you don't know  'em, they're close. And if you do know 'em, they're  here.'

And off he went, leaving Pascoe to meditate  on the Wildgoose connection. When he found  himself hypothesizing that the whole of the Linden  Garden Centre had been given over to the growth  of cannabis and that the murders were in reality  a series of gangland killings triggered off by the Mafia's attempt to muscle in on the Mid-Yorkshire  rackets, he shook his head, drank a cup of canteen  coffee (the strongest anti-hallucinogen known to  science) and got Control to raise DC Preece's car  for him.

'Report,' he said.

Wildgoose had left the house shortly after Pascoe,  Preece told him. He had walked about a quarter of a mile to Danby Row, a street of substantial  Edwardian semis not yet overtaken by the spread  of multiple occupation though on the fringe of the  bed-sit area where Wildgoose's flat was situated.  Here he had gone into No 73, where he had  remained for forty-five minutes before returning  to his flat.

'Was he carrying anything?' asked Pascoe.

A plastic carrier bag. Yes, he'd still got it when he left the house on Danby Row. On the way  back he had gone into a bread shop and bought  a loaf.

Pascoe said, 'All right, Preece. We can't tie up your valuable body like this for ever. Jack it in  now. But on your way back here, find out what  you can about who lives at 73 Danby Row. Pretend to be a Mormon missionary or something.  On second thoughts, the way you look, a trainee  window-cleaner touting for business would be  more convincing. See me when you come in.'

Covering up for my superiors, putting down my  subordinates, have I finally joined the establishment? wondered Pascoe uneasily.

He picked up his phone again and got through  to the hospital to talk to Wield.

'Any word on Lee yet?' he asked.

'They reckon it's a perforated ulcer,' said Wield.  'His wife says he's been suffering with his guts  for months. They're going to cut him open and  take a look, but not till this evening. The silly  sod grabbed a jugful of water and drank about  half a gallon while he was lying around, so  they won't touch him till that's safely out of  the way.'

'Is he still going on about being assaulted?' asked  Pascoe.

'I don't know. They won't let me near him. Do  you want me to stay?'

'I think so,' said Pascoe after a moment's thought.  'I know it's a bore, but in the circumstances . . .

And see if you can squeeze anything but abuse  out of the wife.'

He told Wield about the lab report.

'Soaked? But why should the money have got  wet?'

'Search me. It may not even be the same money,  of course.'

'Perhaps not, sir. But I did have a thought about  the other things. The ring and the watch. There's a  jeweller's near the bank.
Conrad's,
I think. Locked  up for the holidays, but he'd have been there on  that Thursday.'

'Nice thinking,' complimented Pascoe. 'Let me  know how things go. By the way, if a female  solicitor called Pritchard shows up, be polite but  firm. She's got no official standing. All right?'

'None politer, none firmer,' said Wield.

Next Pascoe got through to the Department of  Education and Science in London, where after  various delays and changes of personnel he was  told that yes there was a Forces' school called  Devon School near Linden, but for details of  personnel he would need to get in touch with  the Service Children's Education Authority at the  Institute of Army Education. With a sigh Pascoe  obeyed.

Things were no better here. Pascoe had to repeat  himself several times and wonder audibly if there  were some clause in the Official Secrets Act which  covered Army education before he finally got  someone who preferred to remain anonymous but who sounded sympathetic to promise to get  back to him as soon as possible.

'Though it may be Monday morning,’ concluded  the voice, somewhat spoiling the good impression.

'I didn't think the Army recognized weekends,'  said Pascoe.

'Things have changed. They run a course in weekend recognition at Sandhurst now,' said the  voice. 'Bye.'

As Pascoe replaced the receiver, there was a  perfunctory knock and Dicky Gladmann came in. 'They seemed pretty busy downstairs, so I just  came on up,' he said, mouth a-beam above his  spotted bow tie, and brightly bloodshot eyes flickering inquisitively round the room.

'So much for security,' said Pascoe.

'Should I have been announced? I'm sorry,' said  Gladmann with cheerful insincerity. 'But I carry  my credentials with me.'

He held up a Sainsbury's carrier bag.

'The tapes? Oh good. So Mr Urquart is going to  materialize also?'

'I think not,' said Gladmann, sitting down. 'We  popped across to the University at lunch-time . . .'

'The University? I thought you said you had all  you needed out at the College.'

'Not so. As you must know, being a sort of in-law  of the place, the College is very small beer academically speaking, soon to evaporate completely. Our  language lab is pretty OK but we felt we would  really like to make sonograms of the tapes . . .'

To make what?' interrupted Pascoe once more.

'Sonograms. Oh sorry. I thought the police were  so technical these days. A sonogram is an analysis  printed out by a machine called a sonograph and it  displays the various distributions of energy across  the frequency spectrum that occur for different  sounds. OK?'

'If you say so. And there's one of these machines  at the University?'

'Plus a rather delectable assistant professor who  finds Drew's intellectual arrogance, social gaucheess and undamped body odour irresistible. God  knows what noises they analyse together, but it's  a wonder the machine hasn't exploded. So, while I  have returned post-haste, he has remained. In the  interests of science, naturally.'

'Naturally.
Is
there anything useful you can tell  us, Mr Gladmann?' asked Pascoe.

'Well now. Here we go,' replied the linguist,  upending the carrier bag so that the tapes and  various bits and pieces of paper fell on to Pascoe's  desk.

'This is our report,' said Gladmann, holding up  a handful of sheets stapled together. 'It's pretty  clear, I would say. I could take you through it if  you like.'

'I'd be grateful.'

'OK. First, we're pretty well agreed there are  four speakers involved here - or a very high degree  of mimicking. There was some resemblance in  tempo and pitch range between (A) and (D), that is to say,
now get you to my lady's chamber etc.,
and 
the time is out of joint
etc. But there are several  significant differences. They both use RP, Received  Pronunciation, but it's fairly clear it's been received  in rather different ways, ha ha.'

'Ha ha,' said Pascoe. 'Explain.'

'Well, if we look at the phonetic realization of  those phonemes we find in both utterances, we can  spot the following. In the word
to,
(A) uses a central  vowel while (D) has a close back vowel. Like this.'