The Price of Butcher's Meat (55 page)

“Wow,” said Pascoe.

“Wow indeed. They were not on good terms, but as you may already know, by the late Mr. Howard Hollis’s will, on his widow’s decease the Hollis family farmhouse reverts to his half brother.”

“Yes, we knew that. Anything else you’d like to draw our attention to?”

“Let me see. To Miss Petula Sheldon of the Avalon Clinic she leaves a bed.”

“A bed?”

“Yes. A single bed, specifi ed as ‘the narrow hard single bed which will be found in what used to be the housemaid’s room.’ I do not completely grasp the significance of this, but doubt if it is kindly meant.

The Parthian shot from beyond the grave is a not uncommon testa-mentary feature, attractive in that it is unanswerable.”

“Except by dancing on the grave and living another fi fty years,”

said Dalziel.

“Not perhaps an option for all of us. But I do not wish to give the impression that my late client’s small bequests were always motivated by malice. There is for instance the sum of one thousand pounds left to each of the children of Mary and Tom Parker of Kyoto House, the money to be invested on the children’s behalf till they are eighteen, with the rider that a small portion of the interest may be used to buy them ice cream on their birthdays. Another legatee is Mr. Francis Roote of Lyke Farm Barn, who gets a thousand pounds toward the purchase of a motorized wheelchair. And a sum of ten thousand pounds is left to the Yorkshire Equine Trust on condition that they take care of her horse, Ginger, for the rest of his life.”

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This made Pascoe smile. Franny had been right. A monster with a heart.

“Mebbe the horse did it,” muttered the Fat Man.

Pascoe frowned his distaste. His mobile rang. He looked at the display, mouthed
Novello
at Dalziel and Wield, and excused himself.

Outside he said, “Hi, Shirley. What’s the news?”

“Good and bad. Bad is she’s broken her right leg, her right arm and collarbone, plus several ribs, and she’s cracked her skull right open. Good news is that they don’t think there’s any serious damage to her spine and she’s stable.”

“Conscious?”

“No. And until she is, they won’t be able to assess the full extent of the damage to her head. Worst case is, she could be brain damaged.”

“Are they planning to move her to a specialized unit?”

“Not till they’re certain they won’t do more damage by moving her.

Anyway, I’m no expert, but this place makes the last NHS hospital I visited look like a doss-house. Dr. Feldenhammer’s whistling up relevant con sultants from the Central and other places. Seems they do this all the time for their rich clientele. He’ll wait till he gets their advice before deciding. Unless Clara’s got good medical insurance, the sooner she gets out of here the better, else the sight of the bill will probably kill her!”

“I hope no one’s relying too heavily on her expectations under Lady Denham’s will,” said Pascoe.

“Why’s that, sir?”

“She gets a bit but not a lot.”

“This will, when’s it dated?”

“Couple of weeks ago? Why?”

“Something else I was ringing to tell you. I had a look at her clothes. In the patch pocket on her trousers I found a handwritten will, signed by Lady Denham, and dated the day before yesterday.”

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“What does it say?”

“Not a lot,” said Novello, clearly enjoying her spotlight moment. “It leaves everything to something called the Yorkshire Equine Trust.

And here’s the really interesting thing, sir. The witnesses are Mr.

Oliver Hollis and Miss Clara Brereton. So she knew about it, and my guess is, if the earlier will leaves her anything at all, something’s better than nothing, and she wasn’t about to let this one see the light of day!”

Pascoe didn’t say anything for a long moment while he tried to take in the implications of this.

“Sir? You still there?”

“Yes, Shirley. You haven’t let anyone else see this will, have you?”

“No, sir,” said Novello, sounding hurt.

“Good. Find anything else that might be useful?”

“Just her mobile.”

“Right. Where are you now, Shirley?”

“I’m in the corridor outside the intensive care unit.”

“Excellent. Stay there. Make a note of everyone who has anything to do with her, and let them see what you’re doing. I’ll send someone to relieve you, then get yourself back here ASAP. Something you can do to pass the time is check who Brereton’s been ringing today, who’s been ringing her, with times. Can you manage that?”

“Think so, sir,” said Novello with the long- suffering tone of one to whom taking moving pictures on her mobile while playing sudoku, listening to Nickelback, and checking her e-mails was second nature.

“Fine, but above all don’t let Brereton out of your sight for a second. If you want a piss, ask for a bottle!”

He used the vulgarism deliberately to reinforce his command.

From Dalziel it would have passed unnoticed.

He didn’t go straight back into the drawing room but headed outside. PC Scroggs snapped to attention. He saw that Charley Heywood was now sitting in the middle of the lawn talking earnestly, but not to 4 1 6

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Godley. Her companion was a tall, broad-shouldered, clean- shaven young man. There was no sign of the healer.

“Who’s that?” he said to Scroggs.

“Miss Heywood’s brother, sir. Thought it would be all right as she came along with the Super.”

Some things didn’t change. If the Prince of Darkness came along with the Super, that would be passport sufficient for all subsequent horned and hooved arrivals.

He realized Scroggs was regarding him fearfully.

“Yes, that’s fine,” he said. “You hurt your back or something? You’re standing awfully stiff. I’d get it seen to, son. No shortage of therapists round here.”

Leaving the bewildered constable, he made his way to the Incident Room, where he found Seymour and Bowler.

To the latter he handed the envelope containing the photographs.

He said, “The man is Dr. Feldenhammer. Blow up the best view of the woman’s face, get rid of the doctor, then take it to the Avalon.

Could be she was a patient there last autumn, perhaps an Indian.

We need an ID. But be discreet. Check for rumors, but try not to start any.”

“Right,” said Bowler, clearly taking this as a sign that he was forgiven.

Pascoe turned to Seymour and said, “Dennis, I want you up at the clinic too. Relieve Novello. You’ll be watching Clara Brereton. And I mean watching. No one goes near her without a good medical reason.

But watch the staff too, okay?”

“Yes, sir. Presume there’s a good police reason why I’m doing this?”

Pascoe smiled and said, “Sorry. I think she may have been attacked and I don’t want it happening again. Now go!”

“Hello again,” said a voice behind him. “We can’t keep on meeting like this, Pete.”

He turned to see the cheerful face of Frodo Leach, the CSI.

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Pascoe walked outside with him, explaining what had happened.

“So did she fall or was she pushed? Won’t be easy, Pete, but who likes easy?”

“It would make a pleasant change,” said Pascoe. “One more thing, if she was pushed, there’s a cave in the cliff face where the perp may have hidden before making his escape. Have a good look there. That young woman can tell you where it is.”

He pointed toward Charley Heywood.

“Will do. Rest quiet, my chief, the experts have the task in hand!”

“I’m pleased to hear it. When you’re done there, I’d like you to take a look at Lady Denham’s bedroom in the hall.”

“Thought your lot had searched it already?”

“They managed to miss a secret drawer in the old desk. Fortunately another of my lot spotted it later.”

“I love a secret drawer!” said Leach. “What did your clever DC

find in it?”

“Some photos,” said Pascoe. “But I think something may have been taken out of it. That’s your task, Frodo. I want to know who’s been in there besides Lady Denham, okay?”

“If there’s been a mouse in there, we’ll have its DNA and prints,”

declared Leach confidently. “Talking of which, those bits and pieces we got from the shed—a few partials. Two matches with the samples your guys supplied, both named Hollis. One was the poor devil who got killed last evening, the hog roast man, so it’s not surprising. The other was a Mr. Alan Hollis. That was on a piece of silver foil from a champagne bottle.”

“He runs the local pub, they supplied the booze, so that’s not surprising either,” said Pascoe. “I hope you are going to surprise me.”

“Sorry! One other thing, on the victim’s blouse, on the front where the red wine stain was, we found a small tear, as if something had caught there.”

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“Something like . . . ?”

“God knows!” said Frodo cheerfully. “Probably not a thorn, or a fingernail—they would have left traces. Metal, perhaps.”

“Great,” said Pascoe wearily. “Don’t think we’re going to hang anybody on that.”

“Hanging’s your job. Me, I just tell you what I know,” said Leach.

“See you later!”

As Pascoe returned to the main house, the front door opened and Mr. Beard stepped out followed by his secretary.

He said, “There you are, Chief Inspector. I think I have waited long enough. I cannot see how I can do more to assist you and I need to make arrangements to let the beneficiaries hear the terms of the will, and then, as an executor, I shall begin the complex task of tying up Lady Denham’s estate.”

Behind the lawyer, Pascoe could see Wield and Dalziel, their faces in their very different ways conceding defeat. Beard must be a very powerful personality indeed to walk away from these two, thought Pascoe.

There was an ever so well brought up click from the Daimler as the chauffeur opened the rear door.

Pascoe said, “In that case, thank you for your help, sir.”

“Yes. Good-bye.”

Dalziel now wore an expression which said that if he’d been unable to keep the lawyer from leaving, it was little surprise that Pascoe should fail too.

“One thing though,” said Pascoe to the lawyer’s back. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be in too much of a hurry to summon the presumed beneficiaries. You said yourself, the will you have is the last one
that
you know of.
Always a mistake to raise false hopes, isn’t it?”

He didn’t wait for an answer but walked into the house past his two colleagues and returned to the drawing room.

First Wield followed, then the Fat Man. The three of them resumed their previous seats.

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After about thirty seconds, Miss Gay entered, gaze fixed on the ground, like a shy bride, and took her seat at the side table.

A pause, and then the lawyer appeared.

Pascoe waited till he was once more seated on the sofa.

Then he said, “Right, let me tell you what I know.”

8

Charley and George sat on the lawn and talked. Occasionally a police officer passing to or from the Incident Room looked at them doubtfully, but a quick consultation with PC Scroggs confi rmed their surprising legitimacy. At least it was surprising to Charley.

From being treated as a reluctant witness cum suspect, she was now being given free rein to bask in the sunlight within striking distance of two crime scenes. In her own mind she was quite convinced that Clara’s fall had not been an accident. This was something she would like to discuss with Fat Andy. She knew Pascoe was the man in charge, but far from reassuring her, his change of attitude had made her even more cautious. She was beginning to realize there was a lot more to Dalziel than appeared at first glance, but she felt that each new revelation simply revealed more of the truth of the man. Pascoe’s changes were more protean. She was a long way from getting a grip on the central core.

For the moment she concentrated her attention on convincing her brother that her outburst of weeping was a natural female phenomenon, of no deep psychological significance. The trouble was, he had hardly ever seen her cry as they grew up. Her stoicism was famous, and when pain or frustration had brought George close to tears, he’d become used to the admonition, “Look at Charley—do you think this would make her cry?” His alarm now was both touching and irritating.

The last thing Charley wanted was a negative report to get back to Willingden. An inde pendent adult woman she might be, but if the Headbanger thought his little girl needed protection, nothing would T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 2 1

stop him from descending on Sandytown like the Stompy of old, bent on teaching a pint-size scrum half a bit of respect.

She had a great advantage in that, as the closest to George in age, she had been his most frequent guardian, mentor, entertainer, and fellow conspirator. The habit of subservience was deep ingrained, and soon he was reassured that her tears had merely been one of those woman things that cloud a man’s horizons briefly but quickly pass if you pay them no heed.

George was a simple soul in the very best sense of the phrase. He was bright enough, in the top half of his class at school, and from an early age demonstrated a firm grasp of both the practicalities and the economy of farming. But his attitude to life was one of sunny optimism. He saw everything in black and white; he liked everyone he met until they proved themselves unlikable, upon which he shrugged and moved on, his conviction that the world and its inhabitants were on the whole bloody marvelous undinted. Girls loved him and he loved them back, but so far he’d never gone steady with anyone, declaring that he’d need to find someone like his sister Charley, and there was only one of her.

Away from home, at college, Charley’s explorations of what made human beings tick had for a time woken awful doubts about incestu-ous love, but soon as she came home for the vacation and saw his open honest face and broad grin, all such fears had fled away. Seeing him enjoying himself like a kid in a sweetie shop during their skiing holiday at Davos, and hearing her lucky friends’ rapturous reports of their encounters, disposed of any residual worries.