A Killing Kindness (21 page)

Gladmann demonstrated, Pascoe looked doubtful, Gladmann repeated the demonstration, Pascoe  echoed the sounds, hesitantly at first, then with  more certainty.

'By George, you've got it. I think you've got it,'  said Gladmann.

'I could have danced all night,' rejoined Pascoe.  'Go on.'

'Next take (A)'s
now
and (D)'s
out.
(D) has the  usual RP diphthong in which the glide begins with  an unrounded open back vowel, whereas (A) has  a diphthong in which the glide begins from much  further
forward
and nearer a half open position.'

Again the demonstration.

'Note also,' continued Gladmann, the bit between  his teeth now, 'that where (D)'s stressed-syllable-initial voiceless plosives (as in
time
and
cursed)
are  aspirated, in (A) they are not.'

'Hang on. What does that mean?'

'Well, when they're aspirated, they're said with  a little puff of air accompanying the release . . .'

'I know what
aspirated
means, also
exasperated,' 
said Pascoe. 'But what does it
signify?'

'Ah, always the policeman,' said Gladmann sadly.  'You could say that the aspiration is normal in RP,  and its absence often occurs in Northern regional  accents. Similarly, while the one final voiceless  plosive we find in (D), that is, in
spite,
is unreleased,  in (A) all the final voiceless plosives are globalized.'

'You mean, spat out?'

'If you like,' said Gladmann, as if disheartened.

'So, conclusions please.'

'If you must,' said Gladmann, '(D) is fairly  simple. He speaks RP of a kind he probably  learned in a middle-class home and during the  course of an education, not necessarily private,  but certainly grammar school and probably in  the Home Counties. There are a couple of relatively conservative features of his version of RP  which underline these conclusions. When he  says 0, the glide of the diphthong begins with  a centralized back vowel quality and in
born
his  pronunciation of the vowel is diphthongal rather  than the monophthongal one common among  younger RP speakers.'

'Yes, yes,' said Pascoe impatiently. 'And (A)?'

'Here we would say there has been a fairly  marked regional accent which has been changed,  for whatever reason, towards a modified RP.  Some regional features remain. Northern, certainly. Drew Urquhart did some field work in  dialectology in north Derbyshire last summer and he claims he got an odd echo from those  parts, but he tends to be a bit obsessive about  his own interests.'

'OK,' said Pascoe. 'What about the others.'

'Well, they say rather less, but fortunately say  it rather more revealingly in regional terms.
One  may smile and smile, and be a villain.
Note the  giveaway
one,
the diphthongal pronunciation of  the vowel in
be
and the very close articulation  of the first vowel in
villain.
West Midlands, certainly. Birmingham, very likely. And even you,  I'm sure, Inspector, spotted that (C) was a Scot.  The final 'r' in
or
tells all, though if you want  further evidence, you could point to the use of  a closer back vowel for
not
than an educated  Englishman would employ.'

'That's excellent,' said Pascoe, not sure if it was  or not. 'And these are the sonograms I suppose.  What do they tell us?'

He picked up some lengths of thin paper printed  with wavy varying vibration patterns above a scale.

'They help to confirm that four different speakers are involved,' said Gladmann. 'And if you're  fortunate enough, or perhaps unfortunate enough,  to get another message on tape, they'd help us  work out which of these four it might have come  from. Do you think that one of these is definitely  this Choker chappie?'

'It's very likely,' said Pascoe.

'Well, I hope you get him. Though incidentally,  young Drew asked me to be certain to reiterate his objection to the use of our findings in any but the  most peripheral supportive role.'

'Did he?' said Pascoe. 'Well, thank him, and  tell him we won't rush into anything, though  over the next month we hope to arrest the entire  population of Scotland and the West Midlands on  suspicion.'

He stood up and held out his hand.

Gladmann took it and held it a little longer than  convention required. Not all the spots on his bow tie were in the original pattern, Pascoe noticed. He got a sense that the man was rather lonely and glad  of the contact involved in helping the police with  their enquiries.

'Which part of the world are you from, Mr  Gladmann?' he heard himself asking. It was not  the most diplomatic of questions even to a duller  mind than the linguist's.

'Surrey,' he answered with a half smile. 'Good  solid bourgeois background. Old grammar school,  nice class of kid. And I got my first degree in Eng.  Lit., Renaissance drama a speciality. Good day to  you, now, Inspector. Don't forget. Call on me at  any time.'

Pascoe sat and ruminated on what Gladmann  had told him for a few minutes, but then he  put the report and the tapes away in a filing cabinet and got down to some overdue paperwork. Tomorrow, Saturday, should be his day off and he wanted to be as up to date as possible.

After half an hour he was interrupted by the  return of DC Preece.

No 73 Danby Row, he reported, was the property  of one Hubert Valentine, who worked in the Rates and Valuation department of the local council and  who was presently on holiday in Minorca with his  wife. His seventeen-year-old daughter, Andrea, was alone in the house.

'Very tasty,' said Preece, grinning salaciously. 'I  told her I was on a consumer research survey  for a big record company. What did she buy, what did her parents buy? It all came out. Very  friendly girl.'

What had also come out was that Andrea was  a sixth-form pupil at the Bishop Crump Comprehensive School. Preece's description fitted the girl Pascoe had seen leaving Wildgoose's flat that  morning.

He dismissed Preece and got back to work, but  a few minutes later, Dalziel burst in.

'Bloody lab,' he said. 'A few residuals, nothing. The watch is one of them digital things, new.  Waterproof so they can't say if it's been in the  water or not. No way of tracing where it was  bought. The ring's nine carat gold. There's an  inscription inside.
All my love all my life.
And there's a monogram on the signet. Too fancy to be clear  with all them curlicues and things but it could  be MLA or WTA. Neither of the things has been  reported missing.'

Pascoe rose and went to his filing cabinet.

'What about TAM?' he said.

'What about it?'

'Tommy Maggs's middle name is Arthur.'

He passed on Wield's thought about the holiday-making jeweller.

'That's possible. That'd explain a lot,' said Dalziel.  'There's a brain behind that ugly mask. When's this  jeweller expected back?'

'Tomorrow, the notice on his door said, according to Wield.'

'Right. We'll be waiting for him. Meanwhile,  let's assume that he did provide the ring and the watch. So, Brenda draws out the cash, spends  some of it on the watch and the ring - which  must have been ordered in advance, obviously, to get the inscription done. And somehow the whole  bloody lot ends up in Lee's caravan. That bugger's  got some explaining to do!'

'Not for a while yet,' said Pascoe, telling him about the operation.

'At least we know where he is. Do you know what time it is, lad?'

'Late,' said Pascoe.

'Nigh on opening time. Let's wash the day away.'

Pascoe demurred, but Dalziel was not in a mood  to be denied.

'It's your day off tomorrow, isn't it? Ellie will  see quite enough of you then. It's being scarce  that makes a thing valuable.'

A quick one, then,' conceded Pascoe.

As he tidied up his desk, he told the fat man about Gladmann's findings. Dalziel was unimpressed.

'Linguists, psychiatrists, crap-merchants the lot  of them.'

'Maybe,' said Pascoe. 'But Dave Lee doesn't fit into this phone-call pattern at all.'

'So mebbe it means nothing.'

'And Pottle's reading of the Choker doesn't fit  Lee either.'

'Pottle! What's he know?'

'He's been right before.'

'So had Pontius Pilate. Are you going to be all  night?'

He clattered down the stairs ahead of Pascoe,  but pulled up sharp at the swing-doors which  opened into the main foyer of the station and  peered cautiously through the central crack. When  Pascoe joined him the fat man put a huge finger  cautiously to his lips and motioned his subordinate  to peep through.

At the desk a youngish woman in a grey dress  was talking to the sergeant.

'If I am not to be allowed access to Mr and Mrs  Lee wherever they are, then I insist on talking to  the officer in charge of the case,' she said in a clear,  angry voice.

'I'm not sure if he's in, Miss Pritchard,' said the  sergeant.

'Then you'd better find out,' insisted the woman.

Reluctantly the sergeant picked up his telephone.

'Lacewing's solicitor?' whispered Pascoe.  'Aye. Come on, lad, before she starts searching  the building.'

And chortling gleefully, Dalziel led the way to  the rear exit.

Chapter 18

Shortly before seven
P.M
. Dave Lee was wheeled  off to the operating theatre. Only the fact that  it was Friday evening and the consultant treasured his Saturday morning golf prevented the  gypsy from being put into storage overnight, or  so the ward sister assured Wield. The sergeant was  pleased to have the man anaesthetized so that he  could relax his vigilance. He went down to the  hospital canteen but changed his mind when he  spotted Mrs Lee with her attendant WPC, both  tucking into healthy portions of pie, peas and  chips. Instead he went for a stroll outside to get the  smell of medicine and illness out of his nostrils.

His perambulations took him past the entrance  to
C
ASUALTY
as an ambulance drew up. He paused  and watched with professional interest the unhurried efficiency with which the attendants got the  incoming patient out of the vehicle and on to the  trolley. As the man was wheeled by him, the sergeant looked down. There had been considerable violence here, he saw with a small shock. One eye  was closed by a huge and purple swelling, the lips  were cracked and bleeding, the nose looked as if  it might be broken and the open mouth through  which bloody spittle bubbled revealed at least two  broken teeth.

The still-functioning eye touched Wield's face  in passing and for a second registered something  other than pain. The reaction suddenly brought  the damaged individual features into a single focus  and Wield felt a second shock, stronger than the  first.

It was Ron Ludlam.

He followed the trolley through the automatic  doors. One of the ambulance men was talking to  the girl on reception.

'Excuse me,' interrupted Wield. 'What happened  to him?'

When he reinforced his question with his warrant card, the ambulance man said, 'Fell down  stairs.'

'Eh?'

'That's what he says, mate. And that's what his  sister says. I just bring 'em in.'

'His sister. That'd be Mrs Pickersgill, right? Where's  she?'

'Coming on later, she said. It was her that rang  us. She was very upset.'

'Not upset enough to come with you, though?'  said Wield.

'Mebbe she had things to do, baby to feed, old mother to look after. Like I said, I just bring  'em in.'

Wield now went after the trolley which, after  a bit of trial and error, he found in one of the  examination cubicles.

A nurse was talking to the second ambulance  man and taking down details. It struck Wield that  they seemed to spend rather a lot of time taking down details but he supposed it was necessary for  them to know what they were dealing with.

Again his warrant card worked and he leaned over the recumbent figure.

'Ron,' he said.

The eye flickered recognition if not welcome.

'What happened, Ron?'

The tongue moved like a blind animal in the  ruined mouth. He caught the word
stairs.

'Ho ho. Come on, Ron, Frankie did this, didn't  he?'

There was a vigorous shaking of the head which  must have caused considerable pain and Ludlam  even managed to raise himself up on his elbow and  say with a hard-won clarity. 'I fell down stairs.'

'All right, take it easy. Let's have a look at  you.'

The doctor had arrived. Wield found himself  eased out into the corridor. Not that he resisted  much. If Ron in this state was determined not to  put the finger on his brother-in-law, his mind must  have been very firmly made up. Presumably Janey  had passed on the information Wield had left wither that morning. Presumably Frankie had blown  his gasket. Presumably it was fear of more of the  same that was keeping Ludlam's mouth shut.

Presumably . . . presumably . . .

He didn't like the feel of it, Wield realized. If Ron  had shot his mouth off in his present state, then  recanted like mad when wiser counsel returned  with health, that might have made sense. This  way, there had to be something else, some extra  pressure. Something.

He thought of ringing George Headingley and  suggesting he should send a man round to see  Pickersgill. It was after all the Spinks's warehouse  case that was likely to be involved here.

Instead, knowing he was ripe for an excuse to  get away from the hospital but unable to resist the  temptation, he checked Dave Lee's status, which  was alive and well but unconscious, and headed  for the car park. As he drove out, a taxi came  in. There was a woman alone in the back and  he thought he recognized Janey Pickersgill. That  cleared the ground nicely, he thought.

It took a lot of ringing at the doorbell to get any  reply. Finally Pickersgill's face scowled out through  a span about six inches wide.

'What do you want?' he demanded.

'You,' said Wield promptly. 'Better let me in,  Frankie.'