The Price of Butcher's Meat (52 page)

There’s been a dreadful accident at Sandytown Hall. It’s poor Clara.

She’s fallen over the cliff, and they think she’s going to die.”

5

After Peter Pascoe set off down the drive, Franny Roote had poured another cup of coffee and rolled his chair into the barn. He pointed a remote control at the LCD panel on the wall and watched as a sharp picture of the entrance gate came into view.

Pascoe’s car appeared.

He nodded approval as he saw Peter looking for the sensor and when he waved at the camera, Roote smiled and waved back.

When the car pulled away, he sipped at his coffee and gave himself over to self-examination. He was not by nature introspective but the instinct of self-preservation had long since persuaded him that knowing himself was the key to successful action. Without being a sociopath, he recognized what might be termed sociopathic elements in his makeup. Society to him was an ocean that could either buoy you up or drive you down. He knew how to work with its currents and tides so that they took him where he wanted to be rather than fi ght against them and risk ending up beached and exhausted. But this did not mean he felt himself detached from society’s conventions and relationships. His immorality had limits and his amorality stopped a long way short of total indifference to ethical judgments. For him the human race was a source of constant entertainment rather than a pernicious race of odious vermin. There were a few of them who inspired in him feelings of loyalty and of love, and even those he regarded as sideshow monsters he could view with an almost affec-tionate amusement that occasionally came close to sympathy.

Lady Denham had stood high on his list of monsters but he admired her energy, her uncompromising forthrightness, and, though T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 3 9 1

he was thankful not to have run the risk of becoming its object, her undiminished sexual drive. She was like a great bulbous view-blocking beech tree whose removal opened up all kinds of distant vistas, but whose absence you could still deplore. That she’d had some hold over Lester Feldenhammer he was sure. What it was he hadn’t been able to discover, but he’d back Andy Dalziel to suss it out, if he hadn’t done so already. That was the mark of the man, to know things, after less than a fortnight in Sandytown, that the famous Roote nose had not sniffed out with six months’ start! You had to admire the fat bastard. Okay, like Lady D he belonged to the genus
monstrum
—and he was ten times more dangerous than she was—but though Roote might fear him, he could not get close to hating him.

But it was neither of these monsters who had triggered this bout of self-examination.

It was Pete Pascoe. No monster this, but a man he’d started by respecting and ended by loving.

Not in any physical sense. He hadn’t been lying when he assured the detective that there was nothing of homoeroticism in his feelings.

He knew all about sexual love, the lullings and the relishes of it. This wasn’t it. No, the measure of his feelings for Peter was the pain he felt in having had to lie to him.

Normally in the world according to Franny Roote, success in deceit was a source of delight, a whimsy in the blood, leaving him so limber he felt that, snakelike, he could skip out of his skin. But not this time. He had tried to salve his unease with prevarication—
but
not necessarily in that order
—clever stuff, but he no longer wanted to be clever with Pascoe, he wanted to be open. He had tasted the clean savor of openness and it was addictive. There were monsters enough in the world to play mind games with, but the heart was too soft a ground not to be damaged by such sharp twists and turns.

He longed for an end to deceit and happily the time was now ripe to end it. But not by confession. In his observation and experience of 3 9 2

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the world, the truth rarely set you free. Indeed it was more likely to get you banged up!

No, by one of those paradoxes he loved, his route to openness lay through that super- subtle labyrinthine hinterland of his mind ruled by Loki, the Nordic spirit of trickery and mischief. He did not doubt that his old familiar would show the right moment, the right place.

Meanwhile, as in all areas of human endeavor, the key to success was information, and not being too scrupulous about how you got it.

Every good policeman knew this, and Peter Pascoe was a very good policeman. He hadn’t actually said it, but somehow it was clear that he had access to Charley Heywood’s e-mails, and that he found them useful. Presumably she was using her laptop linked to her mobile. He went to his workstation and from a drawer retrieved the piece of paper bearing her e-mail address and mobile number. He didn’t anticipate meeting any of the problems that accessing Wield’s system at the Hall had given him, and in fact, as he worked, it almost seemed as if Charley, with the arrogance of youth, reveled in her insecurity!

Twenty minutes later he made himself another cup of coffee and settled down to read.

6

Once again Pascoe arrived at Sandytown Hall to find Wield in full control.

“She didn’t look good,” said the sergeant. “Head injuries, God knows what bones are broken, very faint pulse. Didn’t dare touch her because of worrying about her spine. Ambulance service said it would be half an hour minimum, mebbe more. Big pileup north of York. All the roads snarled up. Didn’t know if she’d last half an hour.

Thought of trying to whistle up a chopper, then Bowler said, ‘What about the Avalon?’ I rang them, seems they’ve got the lot up there, small ambulance, paramedics, plus fully kitted intensive care unit.

Fortunately the tide was way out, so the ambulance could get round the rocks. Never thought I’d say thank God for private medicine!”

“So what do they think?”

“No feedback yet. I’ve sent Novello up there to keep an eye on things. I’ve secured the whole of the cliff path and the private beach.

And I’ve recalled the CSIs.”

They were standing on the ledge looking at the broken rail. The wood had certainly rotted where the screws fastening it to the metal stanchion had penetrated. The cord that had been used to make it good was still in place round the stanchion, but the rail had snapped off a few inches farther along where the wood was reasonably sound.

“Would need quite a bit of pressure to break this, I should have thought,” mused Pascoe. “And wasn’t there a warning notice?”

“Over there,” said Wield, pointing to a square of hardboard lying facedown a couple of feet along the ledge. “Could have got blown down during the storm.”

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“And the pressure?”

“Stopped to take a breather and admire the view. Leant her full weight against the rail. Crack, and she’s gone.”

“She didn’t look all that heavy to me. Could there be someone else involved?”

“Me and Bowler can’t have been more than a couple of minutes behind her. No way anyone could have evaded us by coming up. If they went down, they must have moved like lightning. The beach was completely empty when we reached the ledge.”

“But you still called the CSIs?”

“I’d have called them even if I’d seen her fall,” said Wield. “When you’re investigating murder, every death’s suspicious.”

“Quite right,” said Pascoe, starting to climb back up to the garden. “It doesn’t sound like Brereton will be answering questions for a while, if ever. You say she was found in Lady Denham’s room. What we need to work out is what she was after there.”

“Mebbe she were looking for these,” said Wield, producing the photos. “Bowler found them. He spotted a drawer we’d missed in the desk. Seems his parents wanted him to go into the family cabinetmaking business.”

“Maybe he should have taken their advice,” grunted Pascoe un-gratefully. He examined the photos. “They look like they’re having fun. Any identifi cation yet?”

“Haven’t had much time since I got them,” said Wield. “Been a bit busy.”

“Sorry. Leave them with me then. And I’ll get Frodo Leach to check out the drawer. Now let’s talk to Bowler, see if there’s anything more he can remember.”

Wield said, “Young Hat’s a bit shook up, Pete. I think he reckons he should have got to Witch Cottage earlier and possibly have saved Ollie Hollis. Now he’s blaming himself for not stopping the lass when she said she was going for a swim.”

“That sounds like a step in the right direction,” said Pascoe indifferently.

T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 3 9 5

They found Bowler at the top of the path. He looked close to the point of collapse. Wield’s heart went out to him, but Pascoe said,

“You look like shit, Hat. Either snap out of it, or go home. You’re no use to anyone like this.”

There had been a time, thought Wield, when he’d have held the lad’s hand and tried to talk him out of his depression.

On the other hand, this new approach seemed rather more effective. Bowler straightened up and said, “I’m fine, sir. Really.”

“That’s the ticket,” said Pascoe heartily. “So let’s go through it all again, from the moment you noticed someone in the hall.”

He took the young DC through events step- by-step. When they’d finished, Pascoe said, “Thanks. Now go and write your statement while it’s still fresh.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Bowler.

He still did not look happy, but at least he no longer looked defeated.

“Mebbe when he’s done, he should go home,” suggested Wield.

“What on earth for?” said Pascoe. “We need all the bodies we can muster.”

“Way things are going, seems we’re getting a steady supply of them,” retorted Wield, for once letting himself be provoked.

Pascoe looked at him unblinkingly for a second, then his face relaxed into a rueful smile.

He said, “Sorry, Wieldy. Maybe it’s me should be sent home!

Three bodies and counting. Oh shit. And here’s three more I could do without.”

They looked across the lawn. Around the side of the house, a motorcycle combo came laboring. The reason for the strain on its engine was not far to seek. Behind Godley on the pillion sat Charley Heywood, her arms wrapped round the healer’s waist, while in the sidecar, like the effigy of some oriental god paraded to bless the rice crop, rode a serious-looking Andy Dalziel. By contrast, Gordon Godley wore a blissful smile.

The combo came to a halt. PC Scroggs, eager to atone for his 3 9 6

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earlier dereliction, came hurrying forward, his face stern with the resolution of Horatio about to confront the ranks of Tuscany. Then he spotted Dalziel, skidded to a halt, and went into reverse.

Pascoe did not move but let the Fat Man come across the lawn to him.

“Pete, lad,” he said. “Just heard the news. How’s the poor lass?”

“We’re waiting to hear. Andy, what are you doing here? And why have you brought those two?”

“Fair do’s, I think they brought me. And not to worry, I think I’ve talked them out of making a complaint against you. In fact, if you’ve got any sense, you’ll kiss and make up with yon Charley and get her onboard. She’s bright as old Fester’s teeth. Oh aye. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. You asked me to talk to Pet and Fester, remember?

But first things first, this Clara, did she jump or were she pushed?”

Pascoe noted the old familiar imperious tone and recalled his feelings of loss and despair when he’d first seen the Fat Man stretched out in intensive care, as lifeless and forlorn as some deserted hulk found floating on a silent sea. To see him now, masts restored, wind filling his sails, should have been an undiluted joy; but was that just a small breath of nostalgia he felt ruffling his soul?

He ignored it and said, “Looks like an accident. She was going down the cliff path, reached the ledge with the dodgy rail, leaned against it, and it gave way. But we’re keeping an open mind.”

“For God’s sake!” exclaimed Charley Heywood, who’d followed the Fat Man across the lawn. “Can’t you two stop being cops for a minute? Who gives a fuck how it happened? How’s Clara? That’s the main thing.”

Pascoe stared at her for a moment, then said quietly, “Of course it is, Miss Heywood. But as none of us can know how she is until we hear from the Avalon, where she’s been taken, forgive me if I carry on being a cop for the time being.”

Dalziel made a face at Charley that she read as an admonition to keep her mouth shut, then he said, “So what happened then?”

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In response to a nod from Pascoe, Wield told his story.

Dalziel said, “So if there had been anyone else involved, they’d have had to get down the cliff almost as fast as the poor lass to be out of sight by the time you got there?”

“That’s right, sir,” said Wield. “And there defi nitely weren’t anyone down there.”

“He could have hidden in the cave.”

All eyes turned on Charley.

She said, “If someone pushed Clara over, he could have heard you coming down the path and hidden in the cave till you went rushing down to the beach after Clara, then climbed up here and headed off through the woods.”

Dalziel regarded her with a parental pride.

“Told you she were bright,” he said.

Pascoe said, “Oh yes. The cave. I remember. In your e-mail. The cave where you claim to have seen Sir Edward and Miss Brereton in fl agrante.”

Charley noted the
claim
and recalled the Fat Man telling her that Pascoe was inclined to take everything she said with a pinch of salt.

Before she could give battle, Wield said, “Where exactly is this cave, miss?”

“It’s off to the left from the ledge,” she said. “Up a bit, among the shrubs. If you look, you can see a faint track.”

Pascoe and Wield exchanged glances.

Wieldy said, “Shall I . . . ?”

“No,” said Pascoe. “Just in case, let’s not risk contamination. Leave it to the CSI. Thank you, Miss Heywood. Anything else you’d care to contribute?”

His tone was even and polite, but to Charley it felt as if it were dripping with sarcasm. She looked at the Fat Man. He returned her look blank-faced but she read there an assurance,
I promised I’d say
nowt without your say-so. Up to you, lass.