Authors: Reginald Hill
'No, but I'm here and he's not. Mind you, he will be soon, I expect, meanwhile I thought I might do myself a bit of good.'
'And that's why you're out at the Old Mill Inn?'
'Just looking the family over, checking out angles.'
'You haven't spoken to them yet?'
'Not yet.'
Pascoe smiled to himself at the thought of the young man's still-to-come first encounter with John Huby.
He said, 'Getting back to Sarah Brodsworth . . .'
'Yes.'
'Mr Goodenough gave the impression you might be checking on
her
background.'
'Did he now?'
'Was he right?'
'Was Sammy Ruddlesdin right?' grinned the reporter.
Pascoe was beginning to find the grin rather irritating.
'Tell you what I can do,' he said. 'I'm not in a position to confirm or deny rumours, you must see that. But I could, if you like, introduce you to John Huby and pave the way as best I can to an interview.'
It was an offer so ludicrous that only inexperience would even consider it, let alone accept it.
'All right,' said Vollans. 'Yes, I did try to check out Sarah Brodsworth. WFE as far as I can make out is a gang of mouldy-oldies, relicts of the Raj, and I couldn't see where she fitted in as an individual. But if she's a member of a group, then there's some very good security. In fact, I can find precious little about her as a member of the human race!'
'When you say group, you mean right-wing group, and she could be a plant, after the money?'
'That's what I wondered. Right wing, left wing, what's it matter? The money's the thing. What about you, Inspector? You got anything on her?'
'Not yet.'
He saw that the rush at the bar was over. Huby glanced around and looked as if he might be about to retreat to the living quarters. There was no sign of Seymour yet.
'Take a seat,' said Pascoe to Vollans. 'I want a word with Mr Huby before I introduce you. A seat out of earshot, I mean.'
Grinning again, Vollans rose from his bar-stool and withdrew to a table.
'Mr Huby,' called Pascoe. 'Could you spare a moment?'
'I might've known you buggers'd not be here for the beer alone,' said Huby.
'It's very good beer,' complimented Pascoe. 'I gather you visited Troy House the other day.'
'Any reason I shouldn't?'
'None whatsoever. I just wondered what the purpose of your visit was.'
'If you've been talking to that cow Keech, likely you'll know already.'
'She said something about you being interested in papers or letters or anything post-dating Mrs Huby's will.'
'That's right.'
'What precisely were you . . . ?'
'Owt that'd prove that bloody will's a load of cobblers! You don't have to be Sherlock bloody Holmes to ravel that out, do you, Mr bloody Inspector? I wanted to have a good look around, that was all.'
'Did Miss Keech object?'
'No. She were as nice as ninepence. Why shouldn't she be, but? She's come out of it all right, set up for life. Me, what've I got but a back-yard full of building bricks I've not paid for!'
'And did you find anything?'
'Not a bloody sausage.'
'Not even in the filing cabinet?'
'Not even there.'
'You did look in the filing cabinet?'
'Yeah, why not? Here, what's that old bitch been saying?'
'Nothing, nothing,' assured Pascoe. 'I just wondered how you got in to the cabinet if it was locked.'
Huby thrust his face close to Pascoe's.
'With a key, lad. With a bloody key! Keech unlocked it for me and stood over me while I went through it, and if she tells you owt different, she's a bloody liar!'
Huby's harangue had drawn the attention of several customers who clearly considered the landlord's ill-tempered outbursts as a free cabaret act.
Pascoe said gently, 'She didn't say anything different, because she wasn't asked. What she does say, however, is that to the best of her knowledge, Alexander Huby had no birthmark on his buttock.'
'Does she?' said Huby indifferently. 'That's not what I heard, but she ought to know, I suppose.'
Out of the corner of his eye, Pascoe saw that Seymour had returned and sat down at a table near the window.
'Yes, I suppose she ought. By the way, that young blond fellow by the fireplace is a reporter from the
Sunday Challenger.
He'd like a word if you have a moment. seems a nice young chap.'
Huby looked suspiciously towards Vollans, then came around the bar and made towards him. Pascoe downed his beer. Seymour's was still untouched on the counter. He offered his own glass to Mrs Huby and asked for a refill.
As he paid, he said casually, 'Last night, you remember Mrs Windibanks rang while I was talking to your husband. She didn't say if she was still in town or not, did she?'
It was a flimsy subterfuge but enough for the open honest landlady who replied, 'No, she didn't mention where she was ringing from.'
Pascoe said, 'Well, it doesn't matter,' picked up Seymour's beer and took it to him at his table.
Jane arrived simultaneously with the sandwiches.
'I've done you some crumbly cheese and some nice chicken breast with a bit of my own spicy chutney,' she breathed into Seymour's ear as she leaned against him to place the plates on the table.
Pascoe was surprised to note that the DC's response was on the chilly side of lukewarm. He was also surprised to observe simultaneously that Huby had gone over to Henry Vollans and, far from offering him the anticipated verbal violence, seemed to be chatting almost amicably and was now actually sitting down. Doubtless he was telling him the story of the will and poor old Gruff-of-Greendale, residing in his everlasting sleep by the fire-place, was soon going to be launched into space once more.
'What's up with you?' he said to Seymour as Jane retreated, looking rather piqued. 'Gone off busty blondes, have we?'
Seymour replied by taking a sandwich and biting it viciously.
'You were a long time gone,' said Pascoe. 'Find anything interesting?'
'Nothing helpful. I went all over and couldn't spot anything to do with the case.'
There was more to come, Pascoe guessed.
'But . . .?' he probed.
Suddenly it came out.
'I got upstairs in her bedroom,' said the redhead with all the indignant pain of disenchanted idolatry. 'Didn't expect to find anything there, but I like to be thorough. I was poking around some bookshelves and there they were!'
'What, for God's sake?'
'A blonde wig and a bloody great pair of falsies! You can't trust anything these days!'
Pascoe tried to look sympathetic but a grin tugged at his mouth and finally he laughed so heartily he almost choked on his sandwich.
John Huby in close conference with Henry Vollans was distracted by the sound.
Glaring balefully in Pascoe's direction he said, 'Listen to that! You'd think that people came in here to bloody well enjoy themselves!'
Chapter 4
Mrs Miriam Hornsby was sixty-ish, stout, and wore enough make-up to keep the Kemble going for a fortnight. She moved in an aureole of roseate fragrance through which on every breath came a waft of what Dalziel's specialized nose identified as barley wine.
'Have you eaten, love?' he asked solicitously.
'Yes, thank you. There was a buffet on the train,' she replied in what to his ear was merely a London accent with a slight overlay of refinement to match the solemnity of the occasion.
None of these observations of voice, scent or appetite was a put-down in Dalziel's mind. Where there was leisure for refreshment there could still be time for grief; indeed, the barley wine smell tended to predispose him in her favour; he had once enjoyed a robustly meaningless relationship with a well-made lady who favoured strong ales.
'Well, let's get it over with,' he said, intuitively adopting the hearty no-nonsense approach he sensed best suited her emotional make-up.
At the mortuary she clung tightly to his arm in preference to the proffered support of WPC Aster who was chaperoning them, and as she looked down at the still, dark features of the young man whom death seemed to have shrunk back to childhood, he felt the full weight of her distress.
'Is this your grandson, Cliff Sharman?' asked Dalziel formally.
She nodded. 'You have to say it, love,' he instructed her.
'Yes, that's him, that's Cliff,' she whispered. Tears came with the words and ran glistening spoors across her powdery cheeks.
As they came out of the chilly steel box of the actual mortuary into the plastic anonymity of the vestibule, Dalziel was surprised to see Sergeant Wield standing there.
'Hello,' he said. 'You better?'
'I'd like a word,' said Wield.
'Aye. Let's get Mrs Hornsby here a cup of tea, shall we? No, better still, let's get out of here!'
He led the way out. Two hundred yards away was a pub, the Green Tree, not named after any visible vegetation. It was just past closing time and the landlord was ushering the last customers into the afternoon air prior to locking up.
'Hello, Steve,' said Dalziel, who knew half the town publicans by name and the rest by reputation. 'We'll just sit quiet a few moments in your snug. You might fetch us a couple of barley wines in one glass and I'll have a Scotch, and you'd better have one too, Sergeant, you don't look too clever to me. Oh, and an orange juice for the young lady here. Uniformed officers shouldn't be seen drinking on duty!'
The landlord sighed but did not demur. Mrs Hornsby, who had been weeping steadily all the way from the mortuary, glimpsed herself in the bar mirror and headed for the Ladies followed by WPC Aster.
'What're you doing at the mortuary, Sergeant?' inquired Dalziel.
Wield said, 'I'd been to see the body.'
'Sharman's? Oh aye. Didn't know that Mr Pascoe had put you on this case. In fact, I'm sure he said you'd gone off sick.'
'I knew him,' said Wield dully. 'I came in this morning and Seymour started telling me about this body they'd found. I wasn't paying much attention till he said it were the same lad he'd arrested for shoplifting last week.'
He fell silent. Dalziel said, 'Is that what you mean when you say you knew him.'
'No. I knew him before that. He was ... a friend. I couldn't believe what Seymour told me at first. But I looked in the book and there it was. Cliff Sharman. I had to get out of the Station. I've just been walking around all day. I didn't have much idea where I was, what I was doing. Then I found myself here. I had to see him. Mebbe it was mistaken identity. Mebbe it was . .'
His voice faltered. Dalziel asked unnecessarily, 'Was it him, your mate?'
'Oh yes,' said Wield. 'Oh yes. I came out and I saw your car drawing up. So I waited.'
'You were going to come and see me anyway, likely?' suggested Dalziel, half helpful, half sarcastic.
'I don't know,' said Wield indifferently. 'I came out. There you were.'
Before Dalziel could say anything further, the door opened and Mrs Hornsby appeared, repaired.
'Sit quiet and say nowt,' said Dalziel. 'We'll talk later. Here, luv, sup this. It'll make you feel better.'
Gratefully the woman downed half her drink.
'I knew it'd end badly,' she said suddenly, the layer of refinement washed out of her voice. 'But never in my wildest dreams did I think that it'd end like this.'
'What do you mean, end badly?' asked Dalziel.
She drank again and said, 'Cliff was always wild. Like Dick, his father. I never liked him from the day Joanie took up with him, but there's no telling children, is there? It wasn't just his colour, though that didn't help. I've got nothing against 'em personally, you understand, but it makes things that bit harder, bound to, isn't it?'
'Colour? Your son-in-law was . . .?'
'Black, wasn't he? Not jet black, but dark brown, a lot darker than Cliff. That was one blessing when Cliff came along, he was just sort of heavy tanned, you know, could pass for an Eyetie or one of them Maltesers, well, you've seen him for yourself. But Dick, he was black outside and he could be black inside too . . .'
She paused as if uneasy at the histrionic hyperbole of her assertion, then nodded as if to confirm that she meant it.
'Black . . .' prompted Dalziel.
'Not all the time, I mean, he could be a bundle of laughs and he knew how to spend and enjoy himself, Joanie would never have fancied him else, stands to reason, don't it? But he was always on the lookout for people putting him down, bit of a chip on his shoulder, know what I mean?'
'About his colour?'
'Well, that, yes. But other things too. He was brought up in a home, Nottingham or somewhere like that. When he was beered up and the black mood was on him he'd talk about it sometimes. He reckoned his mam was white, or mebbe it was his dad that was white, and he'd been dumped there because he was black, something like that. Well, anyway, they seemed to get along all right, him and Joanie, and Cliff came along, accident that was, I reckon Joanie would've had an abortion but Dick wouldn't wear it. So they muddled on. He was away from home a lot, and that probably helped things. He worked up West, in hotels and places, porter, doorman, barman sometimes, so he often lived in, it was handier. Joanie went her own way, but discreetly, like. Then one night, it's about ten years back now but I remember it like yesterday, this friend she was out with had one too many and there was an accident on the bypass and . . .'