Authors: Reginald Hill
'What about him?' demanded Mrs Sharman with sudden suspicion. 'He's dead.'
'Yes, of course, he is,' said Pascoe reassuringly.
'What do you want to talk about him for? I can't even remember what he looked like.'
Her face screwed up into a grimace which he feared was the harbinger of grief.
He said huskily, 'I don't want to upset you . . .'
'Upset me? Only thing'd upset me was if you told me that the bastard wasn't dead after all and they wanted me pension back!'
She put her wizened hand to her lips in a stagey gesture of amazement that she had let this sentiment slip out, but Pascoe doubted if there was much accidental in it.
He reminded himself that she was old and infirm and that shortly he would be telling her that her grandson was dead. He reminded himself too that she had once been young and fair and turned the heads of men - well, two at least, Sergeant Sharman and the unknown black who had fathered her son. But he found it hard to get through the dislike to the compassion.
'No, he's dead, all right,' he said, 'It's really your son I wanted to talk about . . .'
'My son?' She sat up straight, knobkerrie raised with far from accidental menace. 'What son? I've got no son!'
This was worse than he had imagined. The poor little bastard had been put out of her mind as well as her life.
The nurse was looking at him, her eyebrows raised in puzzlement as if to say, are you sure you've got this right?
He resolved to cut through the miasma once and for all.
He said formally, 'Mrs Sharman, the records show that you gave birth to a son in November 1944. A certificate to this effect exists in the registrar's office at Maidstone in Kent, and though it may be inaccurate in naming Sergeant Sharman as the father . . .'
The stick came down with a thud, narrowly missing his left foot, but it was a gesture of triumph, not aggression.
'It's the black bastard you're talking about, isn't it?' she cried, 'It's not me you want, sonny, it's
her!
She was never his wife. Thought she was, but she had a shock coming to her, just like he'd have had a shock if he'd come back alive and seen what she wanted to pass off as his baby! Oh, you should've seen her face! Thought she'd be getting the pension at least, she did! Came to see the family, they never liked me, sweet-talked them round, Richie's true love and all that baloney even if they weren't really married, but they wanted to see the baby, didn't they? Richie's child, their grandson, and she had to show it. Tried hard enough not to, but you can't keep a baby hid forever. They're often dark to start with, she said. It's the blood being near the surface or some such thing. Oh, it was the blood all right! Three months on and it was black as night, and they wasn't having that, not being chapel and all.'
She was getting so excited that Pascoe became alarmed that she was about to have a fit. Then he focused on her coldly gleeful eyes and ceased to be alarmed.
Leaning forward, he said quietly but distinctly into her left ear, 'Shut up.'
'Mr Pascoe!' protested the nurse, rising.
He ignored her.
'I just want the bare story, Mrs Sharman,' he said. 'Save the entertainment for your friends. Just give me the history. If you can't, I've no doubt there are others who will.'
This threat was enough. Better to be a simple broadcasting machine than to be switched off altogether.
The story was old as time and sad as old bones.
A hasty wartime marriage followed by instant separation and, Pascoe guessed, on the woman's part almost as instant infidelity. Returning from North Africa in 1943, Sharman had found a situation which had prompted him to seek an instant legal separation and institute divorce proceedings. A decree
nisi
had been granted but before it could be made absolute, news of Sharman's death in action had come. Shortly afterwards the woman claiming, and probably believing, herself to be Sharman's wife had contacted the family, who were obliged to tell her that their son's earlier marriage had not been legally dissolved and therefore all pension rights devolved on the first wife. Whatever sympathy and financial help might have been offered to the second quickly vanished with the realization that the child she had borne could not be Sharman's.
'So what became of her?' asked Pascoe.
'How should I know?' said the old woman indifferently. 'Her kind usually do all right, don't they?'
Pascoe rose slowly. Possibly, indeed probably, there was some saving grace in this rag-bag of antique malice, but for once he could not find in himself the energy to seek it out. Was he at last entering the third condition of the human soul? Optimism; pessimism; cynicism.
'Welcome aboard,' he could hear Dalziel saying. 'Quarters are comfy, victuals not bad, and the company's grand!'
Feeling empty, he thanked the nurse and left.
Chapter 9
Stephanie Windibanks was a swift, efficient packer. Her husband had once remarked on this unshared talent and she had replied tartly that it came easily when you were married to a man who made a habit of staying at hotels he couldn't afford. Arthur had laughed. There were few things that failed to amuse him. Triumph or disaster were received with equal amusement, and another grand plan.
Suddenly she found there were tears in her eyes at the memory.
There was a knock at the door.
'Come in,' she called, stooping over her case.
The door opened, footsteps sounded heavily behind her and a voice boomed, 'Going off somewhere, luv?'
'Superintendent Dalziel,' she said. 'I thought you were the porter.'
'Knock knock knock,' said Dalziel. 'Nice room. They do you well here.'
'What do you want, Superintendent?'
'Just confirmation,' said Dalziel.
'Then I suggest you see a bishop,' retorted the woman smartly.
'Sorry?' said Dalziel who believed in sinking smart- alecs in explanation. 'Bishop? Is that the manager? You mean, he could help?'
'Help with what?' said Mrs Windibanks, too nimble to be pinned down to explanation of her repartee.
'I don't know. Mebbe he saw you.'
'Saw me doing what?'
'Going into Mr Goodenough's room last Friday night.'
'What?'
'Shall I ask him?'
'You may do what you want, Mr Dalziel,' said the woman. 'I meanwhile will get myself back to civilization as soon as may be possible.'
'That's why I'm here,' said Dalziel. 'To help. See, the thing is, if I can be sure of where you were last Friday night when you say you were in your room but weren't answering the telephone, then I'll not be worried if you shove off, will I? And if it turns out you were in Goodenough's room, that kills two birds with one stone, doesn't it?'
She stood in front of him and regarded him unblinkingly.
'You've spoken to Mr Goodenough, have you?'
'Oh no,' said Dalziel, shocked. 'I mean, chivalry apart, a Scottish Presbyterian with a wife and two children's not going to admit he let himself be screwed by a woman nearly twenty years older than him, is he? Well, not right off anyway.'
She glared at him with a cold fury which touched him only as a light frost touches a polar bear. Finally she thawed into a smile and then dissolved into laughter.
'I'll treasure these memories, Mr Dalziel,' she said. 'Whenever I feel that London's a noisy, nasty place, I'll think of you. All right, yes, I did wander along to Mr Goodenough's room that night. There were one or two points of our agreement I wanted to get clear in my mind. We had a talk and a drink, nothing more.'
'Well, I'm glad that's sorted,' said Dalziel genially. 'So it's back to London, is it?'
'That's right.'
'Then mebbe a holiday? A few days in the sun?'
'Perhaps. Why do you ask?'
'No reason. I just wondered if mebbe you were planning a trip to Tuscany, a little sojourn in the Villa Boethius perhaps.'
There was a rap at the door and a voice called, 'Porter, madame.'
'Go away,' said Stephanie Windibanks, her gaze fixed speculatively on Dalziel. 'I'll let you know when I need you.'
'I could have had her, I reckon,' said Dalziel complacently. 'She just about spelled it out.'
'But you didn't?' said Pascoe.
'What do you take me for, lad?' said the fat man indignantly. 'Do you think I'd screw up a case just to screw up a woman?'
'No, but it'd not surprise me to find you'd managed to have your cake and halfpenny,' retorted Pascoe, who was still smarting under Dalziel's smug reproaches about the inadequacy of his telephone calls to Florence.
'You missed the point, lad,' the fat man had said. 'All you were interested in was, could Pontelli be Alexander Huby? Well, mebbe not
all
, but mainly. I asked 'em to go back a bit, find out who he worked for, what he was doing. All that stuff about background, date of birth, family, and so on that you were interested in, that was getting you nowhere. I got a list of properties and agencies. And then I got them to look up the official records of each one till I heard a name that clicked. It's connections that matter in this business, lad. Only connect, then you've got 'em by the short and hairies!'
'And who do we have in that interesting grip?' inquired Pascoe.
'Windibanks and her precious son,' said Dalziel gleefully.
'On what charge?'
'Fraud, theft, how should I know? I just catch the
buggers,' protested Dalziel. 'She's been getting rental from a property that's not hers these past three years, that's something. And it's as plain as the nose on your face that they put Pontelli up to claiming he was Huby.'
'That'll be hard to prove with Pontelli dead,' said Pascoe.
'At least I'll give 'em a nasty time proving they had nowt to do with killing him! Now, what've you been up to in Nottingham?'
Pascoe told him and finished by saying, 'But I expect I didn't ask the right questions there either!'
Dalziel looked at him narrowly.
'Peter,' he said carefully, 'at that college of yours, did they never teach you, when a man's too old to learn, he's likely too bloody old to promote?'
Pascoe actually felt himself blushing. Petulance was not large among his vices.
'Sorry,' he said. 'What should I have asked?'
'How the fuck do I know?' replied Dalziel. 'Connections, lad. You just keep on asking everyone everything till you make a connection. You think Sharman's dad's important?'
'No, well, maybe. I don't know. It may turn out it's like what you said about Pontelli being Huby, irrelevant to the main line, but I can't see any other direction just now.'
'Then let's chase along this one with all possible speed!' Proclaimed Dalziel, reaching for his telephone.
'What about the expense?' said Pascoe slyly.
'Expense? What're you on about, lad? These buggers out there are paying for protection, and we'd come cheap at twice the price!'
He dialled. After two rings a bright young voice said, 'New Scotland Yard, can I help you?'
'Commander Sanderson, please.
Detective-Superintendent Dalziel, Mid-Yorkshire here.'
A few moments later a voice growled, 'Sanderson here.'
'Sandy!' said Dalziel. 'Andy Dalziel. That's right. I knew you'd be glad to hear from me. What I like is a man who doesn't need to be reminded when he owes a favour. Now here's what else I'd like . . .'
Stephanie Windibanks rang her son at the Kemble and within seconds of the phone being put down, Rod Lomas was ringing Lexie Huby at Messrs Thackeray etcetera.
'Lexie; Rod. Listen, I've just had Mummy on to me. That fat copper's been round. He knows about the Villa Boethius.'
Lexie did not respond to his agitation.
'Well, they were bound to find out, weren't they?'
'Were they? Oh God, what'll happen now?'
'I've been checking on that,' said Lexie. 'Nothing much, as far as I can see. The villa will go into Aunt Gwen's estate, of course. As for the rent, say nothing. If they make a fuss, say there was a verbal agreement and let them prove different.'
'Should we offer to pay back the money?'
'In law, that's almost as good as a confession,' said Lexie.
'And what about Pontelli?'
'Deny everything. He's dead. He won't contradict you.'
'But the connection's so obvious . . .'
'It always was,' said Lexie sharply. 'You should have thought of that when you started this business. If the worst gets to the worst, you can always blame your dad.'
'Lexie!'
'Why not. (a) he's dead as well, and (b) it's true.'