The Price of Butcher's Meat (21 page)

“And she walked away from the funeral with a title on her letterhead
and the Avalon money in her purse,” said Heywood.

“So all this land and the old house used to belong to the Denhams,”

I said. “No wonder that poor lass Esther looks so pissed off.”

That got me a surprised glance from Heywood, who said, “Oh, she
always looks like that, except when she’s sucking up to Lady D.”

I said, “Must be nice to have a smart understanding chap like
Stompy for your dad so you don’t have to go sucking up to any bugger.”

Roote laughed and said, “Bravo, Andy. Your compassion does you
credit.”

“It’s got limits,” I said. “So Lady Denham’s got the chinks, and Sir
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Teddy and sis are sticking close as shit to a blanket in the hope some of
it rolls their way when she topples off the twig?”

“I think that sums it up,” said Roote.

“Could be a long wait,” I said. “The old bird looks good for another
thirty years or more. And ain’t she got blood relatives of her own, like yon
skinny lass Clara?”

“My, you really are a detective, Mr. Dalziel,” said Heywood, recovering from my little put-down. “That’s right. Quite a lot, I gather. And,
though most of them are very long shots indeed, there’s a whole bunch
of her first husband’s relatives on the card.”

“Looks like I’m not the only detective,” I said. “Only here two minutes and you’ve got all the local crack noted and analyzed! So, rich old
lady, lots of hopeful relations. Hope she locks her windows at night and
doesn’t go out in the dark.”

She said, “Your line of work has clearly clouded your view of human
nature.”

I said, “You reckon? You did the Pollyanna psychology course, did you?”

She said a bit defiantly, “I know it’s a cliché, but I do think there’s
good in everybody if you look hard enough.”

“Me too,” I said. “That’s why I became a cop—so’s I could spend my
life turning up stones looking for it.”

I glanced down at Roote as I said this, but he just grinned back up at
me like I’d offered him a compliment and said, “Charley, dear, I wonder
if I could trouble you to get me a glass of fruit juice. Pomegranate if
there is any, but the ubiquitous orange will do. And I see Andy’s glass is
empty . . .”

“Sure,” she said. “Would you like it in an earthenware jug?”

“What’s that about a jug?” I asked as she walked away.

“Ah, the sweet enigma of a woman’s words,” he said. “It is not for us
to seek meaning. Andy, now we’re alone, there’s something I want to ask
you.”

“Ask away,” I said. “But tek note—just because I won’t hit a man in
a wheelchair doesn’t make us fi rst- name friends.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Would you prefer the official title then? Lady D

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was certainly very impressed when I told her you
were head of

Mid-Yorkshire CID.”

Now the change in buffalo woman’s attitude was explained. She clearly
enjoyed power, and anyone that smelt of it probably turned her on.

“Mr. Dalziel will do,” I said.

“Oh, thank you kindly,” he simpered. I found myself liking the sourpuss lass who’d shoved him aside more and more.

“So what’s it you want to ask?” I demanded.

He turned very serious and said, “The thing is, I’m asking for a review of my case in the hope of getting the verdict overturned. I hoped
you might support my appeal.”

Not many folk can gobsmack me, but somehow Roote’s learned the
trick.

“Eh?” I said.

“It’s a question of getting into America for the publication of my
Beddoes biography. The dean of St. Poll University called in some favors to get me a special dispensation a couple of years back—but since
nine-eleven, if you’ve got three penalty points on your driver’s license,
they’re reluctant to let you in. I need to be there, for interviews and
signings. Keeping me out is a violation of my basic human right to
make a living!”

Just then Heywood came back with a drinks tray. Just as well else I
might have forgot me scruples and picked Roote up, wheelchair and all,
and hoyed him through the window! Instead I downed my bubbles in
one, then grabbed another glass, hers I suppose, and drank that too. I
drew the line at Roote’s juice. I weren’t that far gone. Heywood didn’t say
owt, just buggered off back to the drinks table.

At last I could speak.

“You want me to support your appeal against a conviction which my
evidence helped to get? A conviction that’s only ever bothered me because I reckon the sentence should have been twice as long!”

“Exactly,” he said. “You can see your support would really impress the
court.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

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I said, “I need another drink.”

And I’d have gone after the lass only my legs didn’t seem to want to
work.

Roote reached up and got a hold of my arm.

“Really, you mustn’t try so hard,” he said seriously.

“What the fuck are you on about?” I demanded.

He pulled me down so he was talking in a low voice right into my
face.

“When you’ve been as close to death as we have,” he said, “you don’t
just take a single step back to where you were; it’s a long, long journey.”

“Thank you, Dr. Roote,” I said. “I were wondering what I were doing
in a conva-fucking-lescent home, and now you’ve spelt it out. I’m
conva-fucking-lescing!”

“I’m not just talking physical here,” he said. “It’s a long way back to
yourself. Mostly we do it by acting ourselves. We remember the way we
were and we devote all our energy to trying to get back into the part,
even if it involves drinking fifteen pints before breakfast. But it is just a
part, Andy. Now’s the time, while you’re still relearning it, to pause and
consider just who this being is that’s doing the learning.”

My head were really spinning now. Didn’t know whether it were
from Festerwhanger’s bubbles or Roote’s babbles. Didn’t care either. I
pulled my arm free and came close to keeling over, except someone got
a hold of my other arm and I heard Pet Sheldon say, “Time to be on our
way, I think, Andy.”

Places I normally drink, no bugger calls closing time on me. I forced
the world back into focus. Distantly I saw buffalo woman beckoning me
like I was a headwaiter. I gave her a smile and a wave and said to Pet,

“You’re right, luv. Take me to bed.”

The fresh sea air hit me like a fl ying fi sh and I leaned heavily on Pet
as we tacked toward the old house. There were a din like the clatter of
the weaving room in an old wool mill as an ancient motorbike and sidecar went rattling by. The rider had his helmet and visor on, but I recognized Mr. Godley’s beard. Funny, it were likely the fresh air, but just the
sight of him made me feel better.

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“There goes the healer,” I said, managing to straighten up a bit. “Old
Festerwhanger takes him on, you could all be out of work.”

“I shan’t hold my breath,” she said. “It’s nursing gets sick people better, not dosing them with herbs, or sticking them with skewers.”

“Nay, lass, you shouldn’t rush to mock what it says in the Bible,” I
said.

“Laying on of hands and that stuff?” she said. “We’ve moved on a
bit since then, I hope. Just because that chap looks like Jesus doesn’t
mean he’s going to raise you from the dead. So let’s get you to your bed,
shall we?”

“That’s what I’m talking about, luv,” I said. “Old Testament therapy.

Like King David and Abishag the Shummanite. Any chance of fixing
that for me?”

She knew her Bible ’cos that made her laugh.

“My old gran always used to say the devil could quote scripture,” she
said. “Now shut up or I’ll drop you here on the drive and let Lady Denham run you over with that rust bucket of hers. She’s a menace, that
woman.”

She spoke so vehemently, I thought, There’s a bit more than road
rage here! What’s she done to rattle your cage?

It took me another half dozen paces to work it out. Back afore the big
bang, I’d have seen it half an hour ago.

It’s old Festerwhanger! Pet’s got the hots for him too! It must really
get up her nose, seeing the way he fawns on Lady D and she treats him
like her personal property.

I said, slurring it a bit to encourage indiscretion, “Time for her to
marry again then. Tried it twice, so she must have a taste for it.”

“Woman of her age should know better,” said Pet, very pursed-lips
proper. “Do you need to lean on me quite so much? A couple of glasses
of wine and you’re wobbling like a blancmange. I thought you detectives
all had hollow legs.”

I straightened up a bit, but it were hard. Must be all that rubbish
the quacks have been pumping into me. That’s twice a couple of
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glasses have reached parts that it used to take fifteen pints to get
close to.

Pet got me back in my room, laid me in my bed, laughed when I invited her to join me for a bit of Platonic dialogue, and buggered off.

Soon as she’d gone I got up and checked my sunken treasure in the cistern. Half a bottle of malt and Mildred. Checked no bugger had been
interfering with either and took a slug of the Caledonian cream.

Always reckoned that Dr. Scotch was a cure for everything, but this
time I’m having me doubts. That’s why I’m sitting here on the bog, talking to Mildred. Good spot for meditation. Don’t need one of them fancy
computers if you’ve got a comfy bog—soon have this case sorted out.

What the fuck am I talking about!? What fucking case? Am I going
doolally? Mebbe being off the job’s giving me withdrawal symptoms, so
everything starts looking like a case waiting to happen . . . victim set
up . . . suspects in place . . . motives well established . . . great detective
on the spot . . . all waiting for a writer to give them the nod . . .

For fuck’s sake, you daft bugger, you’ve let yon scrote Roote get inside
your mind! All that crap about relearning your part. And it’s this place
too. The Avalon. Sandytown. The sooner you get off this bog and into
your bed, the better.

But I’ve definitely got this feeling something bad is coming . . . something very real . . .

Oh Jesus Christ! and here it is . . . !

18

Oh, Mildred, what have I done?

Woke up feeling great, sort of cleansed and purged. No wonder after
what came out in the bathroom, and if any bugger don’t believe me, I
can play them the sound effects, courtesy of Mildred!

Better out than in, they say, and this morning I really did feel better.

Put my dressing gown on and went and had breakfast on the terrace. Pet
stopped to have a chat, told me I looked like Noël Coward, and we had
a laugh together. Then I went back to my room and me and Mildred
were just reviewing what I’d said and done at the party when there was
a tap at the door. It were Pet, not smiling anymore. She said, “You have
a visitor, Mr. Dalziel,” all formal, but afore I could ask her what was
amiss, she was bundled aside by buffalo woman who said, “Thank you,
Nurse Sheldon, I won’t keep you from your duties anymore.” Then she
came into the room and shut the door in Pet’s face!

I thought, Watch out, lad. Likely it’s your lily-white body she’s after,
and you in your dressing gown! I made sure Mildred were switched on
just in case it ever came to court!

Needn’t have worried, it were my brains, not my body, she wanted!

Or mebbe that should worry me more. I’ve listened to the recording half
a dozen times, don’t know whether to take it seriously or not. I mean, a
lot of rich old biddies think someone’s trying to kill them, don’t they?

Any road, I think I reassured her. I were certainly glad to get shut of
her. After she’d gone I didn’t feel quite as bright as I’d done before so I
stripped off and got into the shower. Ten minutes lightly boiled then
thirty seconds quick freeze usually gets me fighting fit! The light boiling
were working its magic and I were enjoying a bit of a singsong, seeing
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how many verses of “The Indian Maid” I could remember when the shower
door opened behind me and I felt a pair of arms go round my waist and
what felt like a pair of soft pumpkins press into my back.

I thought, “Right first time, Dalziel! It really is your lily-white she’s
after. Prepare to repel boarders!”

I spun round and put my hands up to the pumpkins to push her
away. Plenty to push against, I tell you!

Then the steam cleared a bit, and I realized the pumpkins I had my
hands on weren’t Lady D’s but Pet Sheldon’s!