Recalled to Life (38 page)

'We don't know that. We don't know who he's working for. He bothers me.'

Cissy said, 'He's the kind of man, if I'd hit him I guess he'd bother me too.'

Waggs said, 'If that wasn't so true, it'd be almost a joke. Ciss, you're very lively this morning. I knew this reunion scene was something you wanted, but I don't anticipate it being something to make you happy.'

'What's happy?' said Kohler. 'Don't be deceived. Jay. I'm ready, that's all.'

'Good girl. First, though, I think maybe I should talk to the fat guy, find out where he's coming from. I don't want him spoiling things.'

'You're very brave, Jay,' she said.

'No, I'm not. I'll wait till he's finished his phone call, then follow him back into breakfast. Cops don't like beating up on people in public, and besides, he doesn't look the kind of guy will spoil good food by fighting over it. You wait here for me. Half an hour at most. After all this time, half an hour's going to make no difference, is it?'

'No difference at all.'

'Good girl.'

He left. She locked the door, rolled and lit a cigarette, and thought about Jay. She felt he was delaying, not just because he had a reason for delaying, but also because, now the moment was close, he felt a dragging reluctance to take the final step. She sensed this motive in him because despite her bravado that was the way she felt too. What she didn't know was why he should feel like that.

Curiosity about other people's motives was like concern for her appearance, an insidious growth to be quickly excised. She stubbed out her cigarette and got dressed. Her make-up took a little time because when she turned to her mirror, she found she was crying. The only way to stop the tears was to understand what they were for. It wasn't too difficult. She was crying for the ghost of herself she had seen in the misted bathroom glass.

Once known, she was able to apply her make-up with steady hand, check that she could pass for living even in the dawn with the sun before her, and go out to lay her own ghost forever.

TWO

'It doesn't need an interpreter to explain the meaning of these creatures. They have but one and it's Midnight, Murder and Mischief.'

'Hello?' bellowed Dalziel. 'You there? What the hell kind of time is this to be ringing decent folk? I've not had me breakfast yet.'

'Sorry,' said Pascoe. 'But I did try to ring last night. Twice. First time they said you'd not arrived, second, that you'd gone out for a
walk.'

'You could've left a message.'

'And had you ringing me in the middle of the night again? No way,' murmured Pascoe to Wield, covering the mouthpiece as he spoke. Wield, listening on an extension phone, grinned.

'Hello! You fallen off your perch? So what's so important it can't wait till a man's eaten?'

'Quite a lot. In fact, I may amaze you.'

Quickly Pascoe described his conversation with Mrs Friedman and read out the letter from James Westropp. Then he told of his visit to Harrogate and the discovery of Miss Marsh's body and all the consequences thereof.

'Now Wieldy put two and two together and got on to Beddington College . . .'

'Wieldy? So yon bugger's in the act now too, is he? And you let him loose near a school? Christ, one way or another he could scar the little buggers for life!'

Pascoe glanced at the Sergeant and made an apologetic face.

Wield replied with a mildly obscene gesture with one finger.

Pascoe said, 'Wait till you hear what he found out. You know who was a pupil at the school back in 'seventy-six when Marsh went to visit Kohler in jail?'

'Ask me summat difficult,' snorted Dalziel derisively. 'Has to be young Philip Westropp. It's obvious. And Marsh thought: Hello, I wonder if yon lass Kohler's in touch with her old boss, and if not, how much would she pay to be put in touch?'

Pascoe put his tongue out at the phone and said, 'Yes, that's what we worked out. Though why Marsh should think it was worthwhile, I don't know. I mean, Kohler can't have had much money, and why should Marsh think she might be willing to pay anyway?'

'Christ, I'm away a couple of days and already their brains have turned to jelly,' sighed Dalziel. 'Whatever money Kohler had when they put her away was likely just to be sitting somewhere collecting interest. I mean, there's not much to spend it on where she was, is there? Could have been a tidy sum. Any road, Miss Marsh was a good Scot. Many a mickle maks a muckle. Basis of all good detective work too, as I've been trying to drum into you for years.'

'But why should she think Kohler would want to get in touch?' said Pascoe obstinately.

'Because she knew a bloody sight more than she ever let on,' growled Dalziel. 'People like her always do. They watch, note, poke, pry, and then save everything up till they think it's worth something. So she never had a kid? Wasn't even pregnant? By gum, you've got to admire her nerve!'

'Have you?' said Pascoe. 'The more I learn about her, the worse she sounds. Listen, if you think she knew more about the Mickledore Hall business, I wonder if this gave her some kind of hold over Partridge? Obviously she fooled him about the baby, but I've not been able to understand why he let himself be squeezed for so much. I mean, according to my Welsh undertaker, the villages around Haysgarth are full of his beaming bastards, so why should another one bother him so much?'

Dalziel said, 'We'll never know for sure now that you've been daft enough to tell him he's right off the hook, will we? But my guess is, it weren't Lord Thomas that Marsh said were the father, it was young Tommy, the son and heir.'

'Good lord! It's a theory, but why . . . ?'

'She'd been at the boy ever since he were a nipper,' said Dalziel. 'That's how she got her jollies, I reckon. How do I know? Listen.'

He described what he'd read in Kohler's journal.

'So, nineteen-seventy he'd be nineteen, going up to university, getting out of her reach. Time to forget pleasure and look to profit. Mebbe the boy himself went to his dad and confessed all. I mean, there were other kids to consider. So, confrontation, and she pulls this last cat out of the bag. Could be this is how this mate of hers first got involved, providing her with fake results for a pregnancy test. Once Partridge showed he was willing to pay to hush things up, it'd be all downhill. He was just protecting his lad to start with from the gutter press. Imagine what they'd have made of it! But once she conned Partridge into accepting this stuff about the handicapped child, he was hooked for life. The higher young Tommy got in his career, the greater her hold. Think what it would do to a Tory minister if it came out he'd let his handicapped bastard be looked after in a home for all those years! No use Pleading ignorance. Even if his dad had kept it all from

him, he'd still have to resign. It wouldn't help the government much either.'

'So this is why Kohler got released, because Waggs was getting too close to the truth, or at least what everyone thought was the truth?'

'Very likely. Fix up another story with Marsh to explain the blood; reasonable doubt; off she goes; Waggs stops prying. Makes sense.'

'Then we start prying, and next thing. Miss Marsh suffers heart block. Jesus.'

'Come on, lad. Could be coincidence. No need to cry funny buggers till you see the reds of their eyes.'

Pascoe said seriously, 'Andy, that could be sooner than you think. One other thing I've not told you. We've just heard on the grapevine this morning, there's rumbles down in South Thames about an investigation into misuse of police funds through false expense claims. Geoff Hiller could be implicated.'

He should have foreseen the Fat Man's joyful reaction.

'Eh? Adolf caught with his hand in the till? Well, he never got near one in a bar, that's for sure. Always had deep pockets and short arms. Nay, lad, you've kept the best for last. This'll cheer me up all day!'

'No!' said Pascoe sharply. 'You're missing the point. Look, whatever you feel personally about Mr Hiller, I've come to the conclusion he's a good straight cop.'

'What? Fell off your bike on the road to Damascus, did you? I know him, lad, and yon streak of pigeon drool's good for nowt except wiping up.'

'Think what you will,' snapped Pascoe. 'All I know is, he knows everything we know, and I don't see any signs he's ready to sweep it under the carpet. But I reckon unless he plays ball, he'll be off the inquiry and heading back south to answer these expense allegations in twenty- four hours.'

Dalziel said,
'He'll play ball,' uncertainly.

'I don't think so. Andy, I don't know exactly what's going on but I do know if they're willing to gag Hiller, they won't have any qualms about fixing you.'

Pascoe could almost feel the huge indifferent shrug down the transatlantic line.

'They'll need superglue,' said Dalziel. 'Take care, lad. You too, Wieldy.'

The phone went dead. Wield said, 'How'd he know I was listening?'

Pascoe said, 'How does a hedgehog know it's spring?'

In the breakfast-room Dalziel studied the menu. There was something called grits. He shuddered, then placed an order for bacon and eggs, spelling out his specifications in the kind of voice pharaohs used for ordering their pyramids.

He had just set to when Jay Waggs arrived.

'Mind if I sit down?' he said, uncertain whether to be reassured by the Fat Man's lack of surprise.

'I'd rather have you in front of me than behind,' said Dalziel.

‘I'm sorry about that,' said Waggs, taking a seat. 'I really thought you were a burglar.'

'Oh aye? Did you aim good or were you just lucky?'

‘Bit of both. I said I'm sorry. Can we forget it and talk?'

‘I were brought up never to hit a man with my mouth full. So what is there to talk about, lad?'

‘That's easy,' said Waggs, relaxing as he moved into the familiar territory of negotiation. 'I just want to know what you're playing at.'

‘Playing at? Tell you what,' said Dalziel. 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours.'

Waggs was really into his role now. He took a napiform bun from the bread basket and, nibbling its nobble, said. ‘Deal.'

'You first. You in this for family loyalty or just for the money?'

Waggs laughed as he replied, 'Oh, I'm in it for family loyalty, you'd better believe me, Mr Dalziel.'

Dalziel washed a shovelful of bacon shards down with a torrent of coffee and said, 'So how about these backers of yours, Hesperides, isn't it?'

'You're well informed. Yes, I've got backing. I couldn't have done without it, in more ways than one. Thing is, I'd sold these people another deal which turned out a real dog. I needed to talk fast to prevent them recouping their investment in the organ transplant market. So I let them in on what I said was the story of the century. They don't think so long-term, but when I whittled it down to the book of the month and the film of the year, that got them hooked. It really is a great story, wouldn't you agree?'

'Not really,' said Dalziel, ‘It's old stuff, and I know how it comes out. I helped write it, remember?'

'And that's why you're here? To make sure nothing gets changed? Then you'd better head back and tell your Mr Sempernel he's picked the wrong country. We stopped covering up scandals while you people were still covering up piano legs.'

'Oh aye? Well, I'll tell old Pimpernel if you tell Scott Rampling,' said Dalziel.

'Rampling? The CIA man? How do they fit into this?' said Waggs in what seemed like genuine surprise.

Dalziel didn't answer. He had just seen Linda Steele appear at the door of the breakfast-room. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt with the legend
COPS NEED SUPPORT TOO
undulating across her breasts. She saw him and her luscious lips stretched in a delighted smile. Then she blew him a kiss and disappeared.

'Very comfortably,' he said.

He realized that as if influenced by some sympathetic magic he was fondling one of the turnip-shaped buns.

'What's this?' he asked.

'The muffin? It's, well, it's a muffin.'

'Oh aye? Ages since I had a muffin,' said Dalziel, taking a deep, sensuous bite.

Then, 'Jesus Christ!' he spluttered through a cloud of crumbs. 'It's not a bloody muffin. It's a bloody cake!'

He took a long draught of coffee. That was the trouble with this crazy country. Just when you thought you'd got it sussed out, you found yourself eating cake for breakfast.

He wasn't going to let himself be surprised again.

He said, 'So what precisely is it that you reckon our Mr Pimpernel, and I reckon your Mr Rampling, are trying to hush up?'

Waggs laughed almost triumphantly.

'You don't give much away, do you? You want to be absolutely sure that I'm sure what it is we're talking about here. I'll be explicit. I'm a media man, Mr Dalziel, and I know there's nothing more calculated to bring everyone from the Press running to Hollywood with their tongues and their cheque-books hanging out than a story which involves a high-class sex murder, or the British Royal Family. So how could even a computer come up with anything better than the tale of a Royal who does the business on his lovely American wife, then fixes things so that his best friend who's been screwing her hangs for it.'