Underworld (14 page)

'Good Lord,' said Pascoe, impressed. He went to the door and peeped out, feeling more like Wayne in Rio Bravo than Caine in Zulu.

'No one out there at the moment,' he said.

'No one to be seen,' said the sergeant.

Pascoe closed the door.

'I'll just see how my wife's statement's coming along,' he said.

He went towards the stairs. Behind his back, the sergeant smiled faintly, then became serious as the door opened and Chief Inspector Wishart came in, looking surprisingly happy for a man who'd just been down a mine to investigate a murder he didn't want.

'Inspector Pascoe!' he called to Pascoe's disappearing back.

Pascoe turned and viewed the Scot's approach with surprise.

'When you say you're not going to be long, you mean it, don't you?'

'I told you, just a quick look. But I really wanted to get back before you left, Peter,' said Wishart putting his arm round Pascoe's shoulders and ushering him up the stairs. 'A funny thing's happened. We were on this wee train, the paddy they call it, and I must have been looking a bit uneasy because the pit-manager who was with me said, "Don't let it worry you. Just think that up there only a few hundred yards at most is Little Hayton." Well, that rang a bell. There's a nice pub there, does lovely meals. I went there once last time I was in this neck of the woods. But then it struck me. Little Hayton's over the line. It's not South at all, it's in Mid-Yorks. So when we got to the spot they found Satterthwaite, I said, "What's up there now?" And he worked it out on this map he's got of the workings.'

'Where's all this getting us?' asked Pascoe uneasily.

'A long way from here,' said Wishart gleefully. 'Peter, a crime belongs to the Force whose patch it's found on, right? Well, this chap Satterthwaite: even allowing for a large margin of error and the fact that he was found under a couple of thousand feet of earth, it is incontrovertibly Mid-Yorkshire earth he was found under. Peter, I honestly believe this may turn out to be your body after all!'

Chapter 9

Dan Trimble, Chief Constable of Mid-Yorkshire, was a small man with a sharp face and prominent ears. He was still very new in the job. His predecessor, Tommy Winter, had tended to let things slide in his final phase, preferring to deal with trouble by devolution and absence. Trimble, by contrast, preferred to meet problems face to face, and one of them was facing him now.

'I reckon it's like mineral rights,' declared Dalziel.

'I'm sorry?'

'The bloody coal doesn't belong to the farmer whose field's up above, does it? It belongs to them as mines it, which in this case is the Coal Board as represented by Burrthorpe Main, which is South's baby.'

'A body is not coal,' said Trimble.

'Tin.'

'I'm sorry?'

'You'd be more used to tin, sir, coming from Cornwall,' said Dalziel with the benevolent beam of a man willing to make allowances.

In fact Dalziel quite approved of Trimble whom he'd backed very profitably in the selection stakes. But neither professional approval nor personal profit could be allowed to obscure basic issues such as who ran what in Mid-Yorks. He knew he couldn't win this present argument but he also believed there was nowt like a few teeth marks in the ankle to make a postman tread carefully next time he came bearing bad news.

'We've got to learn to bow gracefully to the inevitable, Andy,' Trimble said.

Aye, but you've not so far to bow as me, thought Dalziel with the amiable scorn of the large for the small. That he didn't say it out loud was a measure of his relative respect for the man.

'And this is what's been decided,' continued Trimble. 'The investigation of Harold Satterthwaite's death will be a joint operation. It makes sense even if there hadn't been this absurd complication of whose body it really is. It makes sense because South's Head of CID is currently on special assignment in Ulster and Chief Inspector Wishart is a little junior for what looks like a potentially trouble-some case; it makes sense because we've already become involved to some extent; and in the opinion of some of the policy makers, it makes sense to provide a buffer between a highly sensitive community and a local force they haven't yet re-learned to trust.'

'So we're a buffer now?'

'Well, you certainly have the build for it, Andy,' smiled the Chief Constable, running his gaze up the CID man's mountainous frame. Supposedly, one of the privileges of rank was not having to worry about what you said, but when Trimble peaked at Dalziel's face, he saw his remark registered there like a price in a till.

'I'm not altogether convinced of all these arguments myself, Andy,' he went on hastily. 'But I am convinced of the overall usefulness of a joint approach. I hardly need tell you that this involves two basic principles. One is to solve the crime. The other is to make sure we get our share of the credit. OK?'

'Aye,' grunted Dalziel without enthusiasm. 'One more thing, sir: I understand there's a promotion meeting later today. My lad, Pascoe: what's holding up his promotion to CI? There's buggers I'd not trust to come in out of the rain leapfrogging ahead of him.'

'Rain is the favoured environment of frogs.' said Trimble mildly.

'You what?'

'Nothing. Andy, you must know that promotion is not in my gift. Mine is merely one voice among many, and as a comparatively new off-comer, it's not even a particularly strong voice. But if there's any special case you wish me to advance at the meeting . . .'

'Aye, there is. Mebbe you can pass this on to the many,' said Dalziel.

A quarter of an hour later, on his way to his office, he met Wield.

'Morning,' he grunted, 'You look bloody rough.'

'I had a disturbed night, sir.'

'Oh aye. Anything I ought not to know about?'

From a lesser man there might have been a hint of sexual innuendo. From Dalziel the signal flashed like the lamp on a police car,

'I was looking after Mr Pascoe's kiddie.'

'You'll know all about this Burrthorpe business, then. Well, it's our business too, as from now. Come on. Let's get the ground cleared, then mebbe we can make a start.'

Dalziel's approach to ground-clearing made more use of the bulldozer than the hoe. He rang Burrthorpe, asked for Wishart, requested a progress report, listened yawningly for thirty seconds, then said, 'In other words, nowt? What's the matter with this lad, Farr? It'd save me a drive down there if you could charge him in the next couple of hours.'

'There's nothing concrete to tie him in,' said Wishart.

‘We haven't found the weapon. And no one in Burrthorpe's saying anything, at least not to us.'

'What about his clothes?'

'He changed and showered before he left the pit, so we went to collect his pit-black, that's the gear he wears to work in. Only it wasn't there.'

'Sod me. There you are! What do you buggers in South want? Doves and a voice from a cloud? Find it and you've likely got the sod!'

'We're looking. The gateman remembers him going out on his bike, but reckons he wasn't carrying anything like a bundle of clothes and a pair of boots, so we're concentrating on the yard itself. I think our best bet could be an admission when Farr's fit enough to talk. The hospital'll be checking him over shortly.'

'Oh aye! In that case, I'd best come down myself.’

‘When?’

‘Oh, any time, lad. Any time at all.'

He put down the phone, grinned at Wield and said, 'That'll be something for 'em to look forward to. Now, Wieldy, what went off last night?'

'I think you ought to ask Mr Pascoe that, sir,' said Wield.

'All right! If the bugger's got in yet.' He picked up the internal phone, pressed a couple of buttons, and said, 'Peter! You've never got out of bed? See if you can manage to stagger up here. Wieldy thinks there's one or two things I should ask you about last night.'

He banged the receiver down and glared at the sergeant as if daring an objection. But Wield's mouth stayed shut and his face remained as unreadable as the weathered inscription on a tombstone.

Pascoe entered without knocking.

Dalziel said, 'You look worse than he does and he's got a head start. I get landed with someone else's case on someone else's patch, and I'm supposed to be helped by the living dead! Questions, Peter. Your missus, what's Farr to her?'

'A student.'

'And her to him?'

'A lecturer.'

'Oh aye? Me, I was never at college, so you tell me, Peter. Did you ring up a lot of your lecturers when you got pissed and fell off your bike?'

'No. But this is different. A different kind of course, a different relationship. These are mature students, the course is developmental rather than academic.'

'Not much mature about this lad, Farr, from the sound of him,' growled Dalziel. 'How'd you feel when Ellie shot off to pick him up?'

Pascoe rubbed his thin features with his hand, like a man who has just walked through a cobweb.

'Why are you asking these questions?' he asked.

'Just so I'll know whether I can use you on this case or not,' said Dalziel. 'Can I?'

Pascoe said softly, 'The reason I was late this morning was I took Ellie's own blood sample to the hospital to be tested. I'm happy to say it came out well below the limit. That, as far as I'm aware, disposes of the only possible objection to me assisting on the case.'

'That's all right, then,' said Dalziel genially. 'Why'd you and the sergeant not say that to start with and save us all this idle chatter? Right, Peter, I want you to get hold of Boyle and Watmough. I recall asking you to have a word with Boyle earlier in the week, but I suppose you've done bugger-all, as usual.'

'He's never in. But why do you want me to see Mr Watmough?'

'Because he claims in the
Challenger
that there are people in Burrthorpe who know exactly what happened to Tracey Pedley and to her killer. One of them's quoted as saying, "We never trusted the law much here in Burrthorpe, not even before the Strike. What's a child killer get these days? A few years inside with good grub and colour telly, then he promises to behave and they turn him loose till next time! No, it's best if you take care of your own, the good and the bad. We learned that a long time since." I want to know who, if anyone, said anything remotely like that. I want to know who's been hinting all this time that Colin Farr's father did that poor lassie in, and I want to know in particular if the name of Harold Satterthwaite comes up in connection with this or any other rumour. Oh, and you might ask Mr Watmough politely if he could let us have sight of any personal notes he may have made relating to the disappearance.'

Pascoe knew he should never be surprised by Dalziel, but he constantly was. Of course, he might already have had a long chat with Wishart and been thoroughly briefed on Farr's background. But it was more likely, he told himself bitterly, that the fat bastard had tapes of all his phone conversations with Wishart.

But even that didn't explain the full extent of Dalziel's apparent knowledge.

He said, 'I don't recall reading anything like that in Mr Watmough's article last Sunday, sir. He hinted he was going to prove it probably couldn't have been Pickford who abducted Tracey Pedley. And he mentioned a rumour in Burrthorpe that the killer was local and had himself committed suicide. But all this stuff about local vigilantes, where does that come from?'

'Next Sunday's piece, lad,' said Dalziel softly.

'Next Sunday . . . ?'

'You didn't think I was going to sit on my arse while that long streak of owl-shit smeared my name and do nowt, did you?' said Dalziel, his face set in a mask of malevolence that made Wield look like a matinee idol.

‘Forewarned is forearmed. But I didn't reckon on the Good Lord dropping him quite so plumb into my lap.'

'You think the Good Lord killed Harold Satterthwaite then, sir?"

Dalziel regarded Pascoe for a moment, then decided to accept this as a joke rather than a reproach and let out a snort of laughter.

'Mysterious ways, right enough!' he said. 'Mysterious bloody ways. Me and God both!'

Pascoe didn't push any further. In fact, there was nowhere to push. Whatever Dalziel's personal motives, interviewing Watmough was a necessary step.

He said, 'One thing, it may be a bit hard not to let on that I've got advance knowledge of next Sunday's article.'

'No, it won't,' said Dalziel 'Because you haven't! You don't think Ogilby's lawyers are going to let him print a word of this once they hear what went off last night? No, before he's through, he'll be down to reminiscing about his exciting days in traffic. Where they're always looking for lively ex-CID men. So let's start acting like real detectives, eh?'

Pascoe smiled wanly and left. Behind him Dalziel and Wield exchanged glances which to the casual eye might have looked like a freeze-frame from Frankenstein Meets Godzilla but in which they registered their mutual concern.

'He'll be all right,' said Dalziel. 'Wieldy, I want Farr's movements after he left the pit. Best to backtrack him from that phone box. Check where they found his bike, then get your legs across that phallic symbol of yours and track him back to Burrthorpe.'

'Yes, sir. But won't Mr Wishart . . .'

'Mr Wishart reckons Farr's going to tell him all. Me, I reckon he's over-optimistic. Farr talks body-language to cops, I gather. He throws them through plate-glass windows. I want to sort this one out proper, for all our sakes. Especially for . . . Just get to it, Wieldy!'

And back in his own office Pascoe was trying to ring Ellie as he had done from the hospital lab, as soon as he got the news about her blood sample. Now as then the phone rang and rang.

He went to see ex-DCC Watmough.

Chapter 10

Colin Farr woke from a dream-haunted sleep in which he ran in terror down the tailgate pursued by a runaway tram loaded with a tangle of naked limbs. Half awake, for a moment the image of those twisted arms and legs became erotic instead of necrotic and he deliberately pushed himself away from terror towards a fantasy in which he shared his bed with Stella Mycroft and Ellie Pascoe.

Ellie. Last night came back, not suddenly because in fact it had never been far from his consciousness either waking or sleeping, but with the sad insistence of dawn to a still weary traveller.

He was in trouble. Cautiously he moved to check whether he was also in pain. There was certainly the echo of pain in various parts of his body, but the only pang positive enough to be worth wincing over was at the back of his head. He raised his hand to rub it.

'Awake, are you? You must be the only bugger in this place that's not been awake for hours save them as snuffed it during night.'

The speaker was a police constable slouched in an arm- chair by the hospital bed. He yawned widely, showing well-filled teeth.

'Me, I'd just nodded off when they started beating bed-pans in my ear. Hungry? You've missed breakfast but as it's near on nine o'clock, they'll likely have got lunch on the go.'

'Cup of tea'd be nice,' said Farr. 'What are you doing here?' 'Guarding you,' said the constable, rising and heading for the door.

'What from?'

The man laughed. He was middle-aged, well-built, but with muscles running to flab. He had the red face of a jolly monk.

'What from! That's good. What from!' He opened the door and called, 'Sister, he's awake. Tell doctor, will you? And is there any chance of a cup of tea? Better still, two cups. Thanks, love.'

He returned to the bedside.

'We'll see about breakfast after the quack's checked you over,' he said.

'I'm not hungry,' said Farr.

A nurse came in, shook a thermometer and put it in Farr's mouth. While it was still there, a white-coated Asian doctor appeared and examined the chart at the foot of the bed. The nurse removed the thermometer and showed it to the doctor who gave her the chart to make an entry, then approached Farr and shone a pencil light into his eyes.

'Any pain?' he asked.

'Bit of a headache.'

'You shouldn't drink so much. Follow my finger with your eyes. Good.'

He pulled back the sheet and probed and prodded at shoulders, chest and legs.

'India rubber and iron by the feel of you,' he said.

'Does that mean he can be shifted?' said the constable hopefully.

'Shifted? Why?'

'We're keen to question him.'

'I'm keen to keep him alive. You'll have to ask your questions here under strict medical supervision. Liquid diet, Nurse. And that doesn't mean more beer, Mr Farr. I'll see you later.'

'Bloody foreigner,' said the constable. 'Still thinks we use rubber truncheons. Nurse, can I have the phone?'

The nurse wheeled in a mobile phone and the policeman rang Burrthorpe and reported the situation.

'Anyone been asking after me?' said Farr to the nurse.

'Your mam came up in the night and saw you sleeping. I think she's been on the phone this morning, but I don't know about anyone else.'

The constable finished his conversation and replaced the receiver.

'Can I use that?' asked Farr.

'No way, sunshine. Who do you want to ring, BUPA?'

'What about visitors? Can I have visitors?'

Now the policeman laughed.

'You'll have visitors all right,' he said. 'But don't expect many grapes.'

The first visitor was Detective Chief Inspector Alex Wishart. Though grapeless, he at least started conventionally, inquiring after Farr's health. But when the young man replied equally conventionally that he was all right, Wishart moved smoothly into his proper role, saying, 'Fit enough to answer a few questions, then?'

In the corner Detective-Constable Collaboy was taking notes. The uniformed constable whom Wishart addressed as Vessey had been dispatched to enjoy a cup of tea. It would be easy lying here in a warm comfortable bed listening to this soft-spoken courteous Scot to forget what was going on.

'So you felt unwell and you told Neil Wardle you were going to leave. And he said . . .'

'He told me to be sure to let Satterthwaite know.'

'Why Satterthwaite?'

'He were the deputy in charge of that section.'

'Fair enough. And was that all that Wardle said to you?'

'I can't recall owt else.'

'Didn't he say something like, "And be careful, Col. No bother, no matter what he says"?'

Farr put his hand to his head and said slowly, 'He said, "If the bugger says anything, tell him you don't want any bother and will he take it up with the Union." '

'You see. You remember very precisely when you try.'

'More than you do from the sound of it,' said Farr.

'Why did Mr Wardle think it necessary to make this warning?' asked Wishart.

'Deputies don't like men going off in the middle of shift,' said Farr.

'Is that all?'

'No, but it's an important part of it and I'd like to be sure your girl's got it down.'

Collaboy looked up angrily and Wishart said, 'It's all right, Constable. Miners' humour. The trick is not to bite, isn't that so, Mr Farr?'

'The trick is knowing when it's meant,' said Farr.

'I see. To resume: accepting that there might be an irritated reaction from a deputy as part of a general principle, what particular reaction or interaction between you and Satterthwaite was Wardle warning you against?'

'Am I supposed to understand all that?' mocked Farr. 'And me just a poor working lad.'

'Me too,' smiled Wishart. 'Shall we both play stupid or would you rather develop the role alone?'

Farr nodded, not in response but at some judgement of his own.

'Harold Satterthwaite didn't like me and I didn't like him,' he said. 'There was likely to be trouble most times we met. Just verbal, though it had come close to blows odd times. That's what Neil were getting at.'

'Any particular reasons for this friction?'

'Mebbe, but I think they were almost as much effect as cause. When you got down to it, we just naturally hated each other's guts.'

'That's very frank of you, Mr Farr.'

'No point in lying about what every big mouth in Burrthorpe knows. But it doesn't matter anyway as I never saw the sod on my way outbye.'

'Did you look for him?'

'Not very hard. I just wanted to get out.'

'Did you ask anyone if they'd seen him?'

Farr smiled. He looked not much older than seventeen when he smiled, thought Wishart. As beautiful and as dangerous as a fallen angel. My God, am I on the turn? he mocked himself. But his professional mind was thinking of Ellie Pascoe and the effort her husband had put into keeping up an appearance of simple domestic upset rather than personal crisis. It wasn't yet clear to Wishart how much Pascoe was still fooling himself.

'I think you know I did,' Farr answered, 'I ran into another deputy and told him I were going off shift and asked him to tell Satterthwaite.'

'This was Mr Mycroft?'

'That's right. And before you ask, I don't get on very well with him either.'

'You seem to have a problem with authority, Mr Farr.'

'No problem,' said the young man with easy assurance.

'Mr Mycroft says he advised that you ought to see Mr Satterthwaite personally.'

Farr shrugged and winced.

'I can't have been listening,' he said. 'I was in a hurry to get out. I just got on the paddy and didn't stop till I was back on the bank.'

'Your ringer,' said Wishart. That's what they call it, isn't it? Your working tool. Did you take that with you when you left Wardle and your other workmates?'

'I dare say so. Or mebbe not. Someone else would need it, wouldn't they?'

'I assume so. Wardle and the other man, Dickinson I think it is, seemed uncertain, though on the whole they favoured seeing you leave empty-handed.'

'It's funny how people find it hard to remember, you must find that all the time,' said Farr.

'Too true. You showered on the way out, I suppose.'

'Bloody right! And it were a bloody sight hotter than it normally is at proper knock-off time.'

'And you'd normally leave your pit-black in the dirty lockers?'

'I'd hardly take it with me, would I?' said Farr but his scornful assertiveness faded even as he spoke. 'Hold on. You mean it's not there? And you think I hid it in case there were traces of blood or anything on it?'

Now it was Wishart's turn to smile.

'That's very sharp for a poor working lad,' he said. 'Why didn't you go home?'

'What?'

'You were ill. Why not go home and seek rest, relief, medical advice?'

'The fresh air made me feel better. I didn't want to worry my mam by getting back early. I thought I'd just go for a ride around till it were my normal time for getting back.'

'But you were already well past that when you rang Mrs Pascoe.'

'Look, she's got nowt to do with any of this.'

'I don't suppose she has. Why did you ring her in particular?'

'I don't know. I suppose I just wanted to talk to someone who had nowt to do with Burrthorpe or the pit.'

'And she came to mind first?'

'First and last,' said Farr savagely. 'All the other buggers I know on the outside are likely tossing around in the Bay of Biscay. And I'd not have rung 'em anyway.'

'Why?'

Farr answered hesitantly, as if dealing with a question of his own.

'I made some good marras but not for talking to, you understand. Oh, if I got into a fight or into bother with the pigs or if I were strapped for cash, they'd stick by me, no question. But sorting things out in your mind, that takes something . . . different.'

'Like Mrs Pascoe?'

'Aye. She might be a bit stuck up and a bit of a dogooder, but she'd know what I was on about and be able to listen and not end up by saying another pint would put me right, or I ought to get active in the Union, or wasn't it time I found a nice girl and settled down and had a family?'

'So you rang her. Her husband answered, I believe.'

'Aye.'

'But you didn't ring off?'

'Eh?' Farr looked puzzled, then he laughed scornfully and said, 'I'm not her fancy man, if that's what you're thinking.' ‘Why the hell should I ring off?'

'Husbands can misunderstand things,' said Wishart, watching him closely. 'For all you knew, Mr Pascoe could have been a short-tempered heavyweight boxer.'

'Could have been. I doubt it, but. Women like her usually end up married to teachers, them kind of twats.'

'So you never talked about Mr Pascoe?'

'No. Why should we? Hey, he's not a heavyweight boxer, is he?'

Wishart smiled and shook his head. It had bothered him that Farr, possibly on the run after committing murder, should ring up the house of a police inspector and be unconcerned when a man answered the phone. But Ellie had obviously decided that her close links with the filth wouldn't create a climate of confidence in her class.

'What did you want to talk to Mrs Pascoe about?' he inquired.

'What?'

'You rang her because you wanted to talk to someone with a different outlook from your marras. That was what you said, wasn't it? All right. Talk about what?'

'That's my business,' retorted Farr.

'It could be mine,' said Wishart.

'How's that?'

'If you wanted to talk to her because you were confused about what to do after bashing Harold Satterthwaite over the head and dumping his body in the gob, that'd be my business, wouldn't you say?'

'Aye.'

'So?'

'So ask Ellie . . . Mrs Pascoe, if that's what I wanted to talk about, and when she says no, you'll see I'm right and it's none of your sodding business, won't you?'

Wishart regarded him shrewdly and said, 'I dare say the truth is what with the booze and that bang on your head, you can't really be sure yourself what you did talk about.'

It was a subtle bait. Amnesia must look a very tempting escape route from these persistent questions, but once taken it was damnably hard to follow.

Farr shook his head, winced and said obstinately, 'No, I don’t forget things, not even them I'd like to forget.'

He sank down against his bank of pillows and his eyes closed. If his smile bore him back to boyhood, this weariness was more regressive still, turning him into a lost child. Wishart felt a sudden pang of conscience. The doctor had set a strict time-limit on questioning of his patient and Wishart had assured him that at the first sign of fatigue, he would desist. But his professional instinct was to press on now while the defences were weak.

But before he could speak, there was a sound of voices outside and the door burst open. Wishart looked round guiltily, sure it was the doctor, come to accuse him of the third degree. Instead he saw two strangers, one male, middle-aged, balding, dressed in a creased blue suit and clutching a battered briefcase in nicotine-stained fingers. The other was female, in her thirties, with spiky red hair, dressed in an apple green jump suit, and carrying a glossy leather document case under her arm.

Wishart, suspecting Press, rose instantly and prepared to be outraged.

'Who the hell are you?' he demanded.

They both spoke at once and as neither seemed prepared to concede the primacy it was only the coincidence that they were both saying more or less the same thing that allowed Wishart to grasp at their thread.

'You're both his solicitor?' he said incredulously.

'Wakefield,' said the man. 'Neil Wardle asked me to come on behalf of the Union.'

'Pritchard,' said the woman. 'A friend of Mr Farr's was concerned that he might be unrepresented.'

Wishart felt like Solomon called to judgement. Perhaps he should offer the patient to be dissected. After all, they were in the right place for it. But before he could pronounce, a third figure appeared, like Jove in a masque, rising to mend mortal destinies. It was Dalziel, flushed and breathing hard after climbing the stairs to avoid the concentrated contagion of a hospital lift.