Deadheads (32 page)

Elgood ignored him and looked around for somewhere to store the box. Finally he put it down in the small passage between the living-room and the kitchen, reached up to the ceiling and drew on a cord which pulled open a trap with a foldaway ladder.

'I had the attic properly boarded when I put the tank for the shower in,' he said. 'It's good for storage and insulation too.'

He went up the ladder with the box and returned a few moments later, closing the trap after him.

'Satisfied?' he said rather sarcastically to Aldermann, who didn't reply.

'Nice spot you've got here, Dick,' said Dalziel with a leer. 'Just the right size for a loving couple. Cosy.'

'Remind me to ask you some time, Andy,' said Elgood.

'That'd make the buggers talk!' laughed Dalziel. 'You staying on tonight?'

'No. I've got to get back. I'll be busy first thing in the morning. I'll probably come down on Tuesday, though. I like to relax the night before an important board meeting.'

He glanced at Aldermann as he spoke with a hint of gloating triumph which seemed to Pascoe unnecessary in view of the peaceful solution of their problems.

'Relaxation you call it!' said Dalziel. 'Things must have changed!'

'A quiet swim, a quiet night all by myself, that's what I call relaxing, Andy. Don't you find quiet nights all by yourself relaxing? You must have had a few.'

Elgood was not a man to mess with, thought Pascoe. But nor was Dalziel.

'Aye, that's right, I have. And they are relaxing. But then I've got a clear conscience and most of my enemies are locked up, so what's to trouble my sleep, Dick? What's to trouble my sleep?'

On the beach below, the only thing troubling Ellie Pascoe's sleep was Daphne's voice, low and confidential in her ear. Her euphoria at the revitalizing of her relationship with her husband was beginning to be just a little tedious. Perhaps, thought Ellie with a sudden rather painful flash of self-awareness, I prefer my friends to be at odds with themselves so that I can be witty and wise.

'You know,' said Daphne, 'for the first time I think I'm really getting close to an understanding of what things mean to Patrick; in fact, you might say, of what it really means to
be
Patrick.'

It occurred to Ellie to suggest that it might be better if Daphne concentrated her attention on understanding what it really meant to be Daphne, but, perhaps fortunately, suddenly sun, sea and Orvieto exerted their authority and Daphne's voice, and the ripple of the waves, and the crying of the gulls, became one lulling note. Here, it seemed to say, was a place where storms, nor strife, nor pain, nor evil, could ever come. Ellie slept.

5

DAYBREAK

(Hybrid musk.Rich yellow buds opening to light yellow flowers, golden stamens, deep musky fragrance.)

Sergeant Wield sat on the edge of the bed, acutely conscious of Police-Cadet Shaheed Singh's presence only a few feet away in the scented darkness.

They were in one of the bedrooms of Rosemont. A potpourri of rose petals stood on the window-sill and the draughts of air which penetrated from the stormy night outside carried the sweet perfume on their breath.

There were only another four men on the operation. Pascoe and a large DC called Seymour were in a bedroom on the other side of the house and two uniformed constables were seated in a car parked up a track about a hundred yards from the main gates. These were all the men that could be spared, Dalziel had explained. The Minister for Employment was touring the area the following day; demonstrations had been arranged (Pascoe had avoided discovering the depths of Ellie's involvement), threats had been received, and the Chief Constable wanted every available man on the job for the duration of the visit.

'And he doesn't want the buggers half asleep,' said Dalziel. 'Not that he'd notice. He hasn't been fully awake for forty years or more. And young Singh had better not go either. With so few of you, if there is any bother, he might be tempted to start mixing it, and the last thing I need at the moment is to have to explain how I came to let a cadet get thumped. ‘It had been Wield who'd argued the other way, knowing how disappointed the boy would be.

'He'll be useful to keep someone awake, otherwise we'd have to have one man by himself,' he said.

Finally Dalziel was persuaded.

'But he stays upstairs. Even if he thinks they're massacring you lot down below with a chain-saw, he stays out of sight. Right?'

And when Wield had departed, the Superintendent said to Pascoe, 'And you can put young Abdul in with that bugger to keep
him
awake. Wield must be shorter of beauty sleep than any other man in the county!'

So here they were, waiting. It was nearly midnight. Sunday's glorious weather had spilled over into Monday morning, but storm clouds had begun to simmer in mid-afternoon and the long midsummer evening had sunk into premature darkness shortly after nine, and into almost total blackness a couple of hours later. Wield had waited for his night vision to develop, but even now the room only existed as a wash of black over some heavier concentrations which marked the furniture. The narrow slit in the curtained window let in no light worth mentioning. It overlooked the east side of the house, which meant that the horizon was smudged with the tangerine glow of city lights, but this only served to accentuate the nearer darkness. In the last hour a strong wind had blown up which so far had failed to clear the sky and had merely served to fill the old house with creaks and groans and eerie flutings, while at the same time whipping the dark mere of the garden into such a frenzy of formless movement that Wield had ceased to peer out, finding his straining eyes were filling the night with advancing shapes.

'Sarge,' whispered Singh.

'Yes?'

'Do you reckon they'll come?'

'What's up? Getting bored?' asked Wield.

'No!'

'Then you must be either drunk or unconscious,' said Wield. 'Mebbe they'll come, mebbe they'll not. Just think yourself lucky it's the middle of summer.'

'Why's that?'

'You could be freezing your bollocks off and sitting around here till six or seven in the morning. As it is, it'll start getting light around four. You might even get an hour's sleep before you go back on duty. So count your blessings.'

There was a long silence from the patch of blacker black which was Singh.

'Sarge,' he said finally, emboldened by the lack of visibility and the feeling of intimacy such conditions can engender between even the most antagonistic of couples. 'Do you think I'm doing the right thing, training to be a cop, and all?'

'What do you mean?' asked Wield. 'Why do you ask?'

'It's just that, well, you've never been very encouraging. I've talked to some of the others, you know, some of the DCs and the uniformed lads I've got to know, and, well, they all say you're fair, and very sharp too. There's a lot on 'em reckon you ought to have got on a lot further by now . . .'

'Are you building up to a retirement presentation, or what?' wondered Wield.

'No, well, all I was wondering was, if you're as fair and sharp as everyone says, and you don't rate me . . .'

The boy's voice faded from a whisper to an uneasy, embarrassed silence and the wind's endless moaning took control again.

'What makes you think I don't rate you?' asked Wield.

'You' ve always been a bit, like, sharp,' said Singh. 'I'm sorry, look, I'm not complaining, but I just wondered . . .'

'What'd you do if you didn't become a copper?' asked Wield.

'I'd help in my father's shop, I expect,' said Singh.

'You don't want to do that? Don't you get on with your dad?'

'Oh yes, we get on fine . . . only . . . well, if I worked in the business, I'd have to sort of do things his way. I mean, his way's the right way, I think, because he's done very well, and I don't mean he's strict about religion and that; he wants the family to belong here, he says, not to just be passing by; but if I stayed at home, I think I'd always be, well, like, a lad, a boy, I know I
am
still, everyone calls me "lad", but at home in my father's shop, I think I'd stay as a boy until . . . until . . .'

'Until he died,' said Wield softly.

'Yes, I think so. And I don't want to ever be wishing that my father would die.'

The darkness between them was now vibrant with the electricity of confession, binding them in a circuit of intimacy Wield had not wished for but now could not deny.

'My dad died,' he said softly. 'I was thirteen. He was very strict, very stern. He kept pigeons. I had to keep the loft clean. And when there got to be too many and some had to have their necks pulled, he made me help him. I think I wanted most of all in the world to be like my dad, to be big and strong and certain and able to pull pigeon's necks and not care. I never could, though. Perhaps, if he'd lived, I might have come to it, but I doubt it. They're such soft birds, trusting . . .'

He yearned to reach out and touch the boy's shoulder. A simple, uncomplicated, encouraging gesture.

But he reminded himself bitterly that just as in his professional world there were no free lunches, in his private world there were no simple gestures.

'You carry on and be a cop, lad,' he said harshly. 'As long as you can pull the pigeons' necks and not start enjoying it, you'll be all right.'

They both fell silent and remained silent while outside the wind at last blew itself out and dawn's green light began to move across the badly ruffled gardens.

When it was full light, Pascoe came yawning into the bedroom.

'All right,' he said. 'That'll do.'

Singh regarded him miserably, expecting reproach, but Pascoe just grinned and, ruffling the boy's hair in the gesture Wield had not dared, said, 'What're you doing tonight, Shady? Hope you haven't got anything heavy planned.'

'Are we coming back, sir?'

'Why not? Mr and Mrs Aldermann won't be home till tomorrow.' He yawned again and added, 'Seymour's switched off the alarm. I've told him to go back with the lads in the Panda and send a car out for us. Meanwhile I'm sure Mrs Aldermann wouldn't grudge us a cup of coffee.'

They went downstairs, Wield and the boy turned towards the kitchen, Pascoe said, 'I'll get a breath of air, I think,' and made for the front door.

But as he passed the door of Aldermann's study, he saw it was ajar and heard a noise inside.

Carefully he pushed it open till he could see one end of the handsome hard oak partner's desk which he guessed had belonged to Eddie Aldermann. There was a figure stooping over an opened drawer. He pushed the door open a little further.

'Come in, Peter, come on in. Had a good night, have you?'

It was Dalziel, looking wide-awake and healthy, except where a nicked undulation of flesh over his left jaw, repaired with pink toilet paper, showed the dangers of early morning shaving.

'What are you doing here? Sir?' demanded Pascoe

'Pastoral care, Peter,' said Dalziel genially. 'I woke up and got to thinking about you, stuck out here all night with nothing happening. Nothing did happen, did it? No, I didn't think it would. In fact, I didn't think it would last evening, but it seemed silly to be a kill-joy when you'd gone to all that bother to set things up.'

What the hell did he want? wondered Pascoe.

'Looking for anything in particular, sir?' he asked, nodding at the desk.

'No, not really. Aldermann's in the clear, isn't he? I've got your word on it, and that's good enough for me. Just my natural curiosity, lad. Unpaid bills, mainly, but he'll soon have that sorted. And a lot of stuff about roses. He corresponds with the best people, doesn't he? Even I've heard of some of their names. Let's bung this stuff back and take a stroll around, shall we, Peter? Best time of day, this. You ought to try getting up early more often. Taste the dawn.'

He watched like a benevolent Nature spirit as Pascoe tidied up the papers he'd disturbed and closed the drawers.

'It's all right, lad,' he said, observing the Inspector's hesitation. 'They weren't locked. Trusting soul, Aldermann. And it helps your tender conscience, I've no doubt. Where's Beauty and the Beast, by the way?'

Pascoe led the way to the kitchen. Wield and Singh were deep in conversation which stopped as he entered, and when Dalziel came in behind him, they both stood up, Singh's chair practically falling over in his eagerness.

'Take it easy, lad,' said Dalziel in his kindly voice. 'Not quite got the hang of chairs yet? Don't worry. It'll come, it'll come. You know, I could just fancy a cup of tea. Think you can manage that, son?'

Singh nodded.

'Good. And have a bit of a poke around in the larder. I don't expect you'll find any beef dripping here. That's what I'd really like, a beef dripping sarnie. Failing that, a bit of toast with Marmite. I'm sure they'll have Marmite. Lay it on thick so there's a bit of flavour. Will you do that for me?'

'Yes, sir,' said Singh.

'Good lad. Come on, Inspector. We'll take a turn round the garden.'

'I'll have a coffee,' said Pascoe to Wield. 'But no Marmite.'

As he walked towards the front door with Dalziel, the fat man boomed, 'A good lad, that darkie. He'll go far. Wouldn't surprise me if he went all the way. I'd like to see that. Make a change from some of these pasty-faced buggers I saw last week. You'd think they lived under stones down there!'

Outside Pascoe was puzzled to see no sign of Dalziel's car. He couldn't have walked here, surely! The turbulence of the night was long past and a fine summer's day was unfolding like a flower. But the storm had left its mark. Dalziel tutted as he walked across the once smooth lawn now strewn with twigs and leaves and petals.

'Bit of tidying up for our Patrick here,' he observed.

'I think he pays someone to do the basic stuff,' said Pascoe.

'Aye, he would. No expense spared with this lad. Mind you, he'll need help. There's a lot of land here, a lot of land.'

They strolled round the formal gardens till they arrived at the small complex of greenhouses.