The Price of Butcher's Meat (47 page)

He started talking. The style was anecdotal, the tone light and T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 3 4 9

amusing. It was, thought Pascoe, like listening to a young gent of an earlier age just back from doing the Grand Tour. Where the reason for his journey was touched upon, it came over as hardly weightier than a visit to various spas to take the waters.

Pascoe fi nally interrupted.

“So in the end, there was nothing that gave any hope?”

He hadn’t meant to be quite so blunt, but that was how it came out.

Roote’s eyes widened in a parody of shock.

“Do you think you might be spending too much time with dear Andy, Peter? I should watch that. In answer to your question, hope never dies, though sometimes it changes. I have the consolation of philosophy, of course.”

“This Third Thought stuff? Andy told me you tried it on him.”

“Did he indeed? Perhaps the seed has found a crack in even that stony ground. Yes, that was something else I approached not altogether seriously but which has since proved stronger than I imagined.

Like my friendship with you. Whoops, sorry, I don’t want to embarrass you again. Getting back to hope, Peter, there was something which I’m reluctant to share with anyone, yet you of all people deserve to share it. Not hope exactly, but hope of hope. I hardly dare think about it, let alone talk about it.”

He paused as if marshaling his words, then resumed.

“In terms of care and consideration, the Avalon Clinic at Davos was by far the most comfortable institution I visited. I don’t mean just physically, but psychologically. I felt at home there, but of course I didn’t want to feel at home in a clinic, so eventually I moved on, always searching. One man’s name kept cropping up—a Dr. Hermann Meitler. I found him in a small research establishment near Dresden.

His official area of expertise was sports injuries, would you believe?

If you recall, the old Democratic Republic had a rather dubious reputation for their attitude to performance-enhancing treatments. In terms of medals, they were always looking for the philos opher’s stone 3 5 0

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which would turn everything to gold. And they didn’t let consideration of things like casualties along the way hinder their research.”

“Sure this guy was called Meitler, not Mengele?” said Pascoe with distaste.

“Behind his back, possibly,” laughed Roote. “He was certainly a man who regarded humans as problems to be solved rather than individuals to be cared for. The demolition of the Berlin wall and the invasion of Western standards of accountability had deprived him of his endless supply of experimental material. Once he got the idea that in me he’d found someone ready to go the extra mile, and willing to pay for the privilege, we got on famously.”

“But he didn’t do the miracle,” said Pascoe.

“No,” said Roote. “And yes. He treated me in ways that would certainly have got him struck off in the UK. I didn’t mind. And I was right not to mind. For eventually he made me feel again, Peter. I’d always kept up the electrical toning routines even though I couldn’t feel a damn thing. I was determined that if the miracle ever did happen, I wasn’t going to fall over because my muscles had completely atrophied. Then one day, I felt a tingle. A comic word, tingle, isn’t it?

Certainly made me laugh with joy. I felt a tingle where I had felt nothing since I got shot.”

“But that’s marvelous!” exclaimed Pascoe. “So what happened?”

“Nothing happened. I spoke with Meitler. He made it clear there was a choice involved. Not be killed or cured. That I’d have gone for, no hesitation. No. It was between the possibility of cure and the equal possibility of being left as a thinking vegetable. That gave me pause. Was I ready to take that risk?”

“And you weren’t?”

“I needed time to think before I took it. I went away, and spent the next six months making up my mind and changing it. Eventually I returned to the Davos Avalon where my previous stay had suggested I might find a solution to my problems. When I got back there, I discovered my old mentor, Dr. Alvin Kling, had done a T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 3 5 1

six-month exchange with Lester Feldenhammer of the Sandytown Avalon. Happily, Lester and I soon found we were on the same wavelength and I struck up an even closer relationship with him than I’d had with Alvin.”

“So you asked for his advice?”

“No,” said Roote. “Shortly after I met him, I read in the papers that Dr. Meitler was dead. He’d been under investigation by the German medical authorities for some time. It seems that finally the police were getting involved. One night Meitler’s laboratory went up in flames. His body was found in the ashes. Accident, suicide, it was impossible to tell. All his research records were destroyed, among them, I assume, mine.”

Fleetingly the thought that death seemed to follow Franny Roote around drifted across Pascoe’s mind, but there was no room for it to lodge there alongside this hint of a possibility of further recovery.

“That must have been a terrible shock, Franny!” he exclaimed.

“I think I’m beyond shock now, Peter,” said Roote.

“But this tingle, is it still there?” demanded Pascoe.

“Ah, the tingle! Is it the real tingle of renewal or just the delusory tingle of hope? Peter, perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken to you. Third Thought has taught me to deal with hope, but now I fear I’ve set all its chimeras loose to trouble you.”

“I just don’t see how you can feel this tingle and not do anything about it!”

“Let myself be poked and prodded and X-rayed and analyzed again? I would need to think long and hard about that. What if they told me nothing has changed? Good-bye hope. Or what if they confirmed there has been a change? Wouldn’t I once again be faced with some form of the choice Meitler spelt out to me?”

“At least you could talk to this Dr. Feldenhammer. Or isn’t this his fi eld?”

“In fact, Lester specialized in neurology before turning to psychia-try. He would be the perfect man to consult. Indeed, as I hesitate to 3 5 2

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decide my future, Lester is one of the best of my reasons for remaining here in Sandytown.”

“Just one of the reasons?”

Roote smiled and said, “Oh yes, there were many others. Lester told me about Tom Parker and his plans for the town. He was confi -

dent that my Third Thought ideas would be greeted enthusiastically by Tom, and he was certainly happy to let me have the chance to air them in the clinic to those who wanted to hear. In addition, I found after my long sojourn abroad, I was homesick for England, and especially for Yorkshire, where so much significant in my life has happened. So when he returned to Sandytown at the end of his six months, I came with him.”

It all sounded perfectly logical, but when did any information vouchsafed by this young man not appear so?

The thought felt like a disloyalty, but until the brutal killings of Lady Denham and Ollie Hollis had been resolved, Pascoe knew he had to follow every line of inquiry.

He said, “Franny, this is more than just a social call, you understand that?”

“Of course. I’d be worried if it weren’t. This is a dreadful business. Anything I can do to get it out of the way, you’ve only to ask.”

“Okay. Now you first met Lady Denham when you came to Sandytown at the start of this year, right?”

As trick questions go, it was hardly the trickiest. Indeed, there was no reason Roote should have met the woman during the trip to Switzerland mentioned in Heywood’s e-mails, nor, if he had, why he should want to conceal it, but the faint smile that touched the young man’s lips suggested he appreciated the prevarication.

“No, I met her first at the Davos Avalon toward the end of last year,” he said. “She was on a skiing holiday with her nephew and niece and she made a courtesy call on Lester Feldenhammer.”

“Courtesy?”

Roote laughed out loud.

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“Peter, you are so good! Here less than twenty- four hours and you’ve already winkled out that dear old Daphne had serious designs upon Lester. Yes, I’d guess her choice of locale for her holiday—probably the main reason for taking it at all—was her desire to keep tabs on her chosen one. Conversely, I would speculate that one of Lester’s reasons for organiz ing the exchange was to put him out of Daph’s reach for a while.”

“You know this for a fact?”

“No. Lester has never confided anything about his private life,”

said Roote. “I used the word
speculate
advisedly, just as I used the word
courtesy
to describe Lady D’s call. Her ultimate purpose may have been predatory, but on the couple of occasions I saw her, she was accompanied by her niece, Esther, so unless what she had in mind was a troika, I would be wrong to imply on that occasion a deeper motive.”

“Franny,” sighed Pascoe, “you’re not at some academic conference.

Just tell it as you’d tell it to . . . Mr. Dalziel, say.”

Roote laughed again and said, “Okay. Daph was a woman of strong appetites, none of which was diluted by age. She loved wealth, status, and sex, not necessarily in that order. Hollis gave her wealth, and a bit of status. He’d bought Sandytown Hall and the Lordship of the Hundreds. Denham gave her a title and she maneuvered the poor devil so that she squeezed what profit she could out of him. And Feldenhammer is wealthy enough both from his earnings and money he’s inherited from his family connections—he’s one of the Milwau-kee dairy-product Feldenhammers—blessed are the cheese makers for they shall be stinking rich—you’ll have heard of them?”

Pascoe shook his head.

“Never mind. Point is, Daph liked it round here ’cos she was the local great lady. She enjoys status, and another thing about Lester is, he has an international reputation, so she could envisage a future traveling to conferences in exotic places, and if her English title didn’t get the natives kowtowing, her celebrity husband would.”

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“She sounds a bit . . . calculating,” said Pascoe.

“None more so. But let’s not forget the sex. She was, I’d say, an enthusiast. She had to have the hots for any guy she went after, meaning that money and status weren’t enough, they had to be able to do the job.”

“Does this mean she was promiscuous?”

“I thought we were talking à la Dalziel! You mean, was she putting it about? Who knows? But she’d have made sure she did it so discreetly, no one noticed. As I say, she was hugely jealous of her status.”

This fit in with what Esther Denham had told him. She and Roote might not share much else, but they shared a sharp eye.

Thinking of Esther brought her brother into his mind and he said,

“So, no toy-boys? I hear her nephew liked to flash the family jewels on her private beach . . .”

“My, Peter, how do you discover such details? Yes, it’s true, and I’m sure Daphne was not averse to admiring the display. But as for touching, as well as the risk of looking ridiculous if it got out, that would have meant giving up the power she had over him. That was the unifying element of her three passions—wealth, status, sex—they all gave her power. In the end, slaves revolt, worms turn, lapdogs foul the silken laps they rest on. Look for someone who’d had enough and you’ll find your killer!”

That was as far as Roote was willing to go, despite Pascoe’s invitation to him to suggest possibilities. But he was happy to give thumbnail sketches of all the locals. What struck Pascoe was the general absence of malice, indeed the many hints of affection, in his comments. He sounded at ease with himself and his life, almost happy. Perhaps he was in love, thought Pascoe, who had learned never to ignore the conventional. Remembering Dalziel’s suggestion that Franny might have his eyes on Clara Brereton, he listened carefully for any underlying note of special interest when he talked of her, but detected none. In fact, his most open admiration was T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 3 5 5

reserved for Charley Heywood, whom he could only have met a couple of times.

“A bright girl, sharp eyes and a sharp mind; give her a few more years and I wouldn’t mind lying on her couch myself,” he concluded.

Pascoe laughed and said, “She rates you pretty highly too. Up there with Ted Denham and Sidney Parker in the list of Sandytown’s top attractions.”

“Well well,” said Roote thoughtfully. “Poor lady, she were better love a dream.”

This fell more sadly on Pascoe’s ears than anything he’d heard the young man say.

He glanced at his watch and said brightly, “Time to go, I’m afraid.”

“You’ll come again?” asked Roote.

“Of course. Now I’ve found you, I’ll keep real close tabs on you.

One thing, Franny. Is it true you’re thinking of mounting an appeal against your conviction? Or were you just winding the Super up?”

“Would it surprise you if I were serious, Peter?” he asked.

Pascoe shook his head.

“I’m long past being surprised by you, Franny.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I? Let’s say it depends on how I feel when I wake up in the morning. Sometimes it seems a great idea, sometimes it seems pointless. Bit like waking up, I suppose.

Don’t worry. Whatever I do, I’ll try to keep you out of it. And whatever I tell you will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

Then he gave his birds-out-of- the-trees charming smile and added,

“But not necessarily in that order. Good-bye, Peter.”

They shook hands.

As Pascoe got back in his car, Roote called, “One thing I wondered about. Of course you and clever Sergeant Wield have probably got it sorted already, but why was the hog roast timetable delayed?

Might be worth a look. Take care, Peter.”

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Pascoe drove away down the rutted lane.

On the road, he got out of the car to close the rickety gate. As he did so, his eyes quartered the surrounds. No problem once you started looking. In one of the cracks in the old sandstone gatepost, a sensor glinted, and high in the holly bush, painted the same shiny dark green as the leaves, a tiny CCTV camera looked down on him.