"Right again,' said Dalziel with almost paternal pride. ‘Go on.'
'Go on where? I need ten times more information to make the next jump. Look, I can offer you hypotheses which put Tallantire in the clear and hypotheses which paint him black as a miner's snot-rag, and I can probably do you most points in between. OK, there's definitely something odd going on, but it may not be the kind of oddness you're looking for. Have you thought of that?'
Dalziel poured more whisky.
'Be a good little hostess,' he said, 'and fetch my case in from the hall.'
Pascoe had been trying to forget about the case.
'What's in it?' he asked uneasily.
Dalziel laughed and said, 'You're scared mebbe I've come to spend the night! Calm down, your reputation's safe. It's Wally's papers. I stowed them in the left luggage and I've just picked them up now when I came off my train.'
Not bothering to hide his relief, Pascoe got the case.
Dalziel opened it and arranged its contents in three untidy piles on the floor.
'I did a quick sort out before I stashed it,' he said. Wally was a bugger for order on the job, but when it came to his own stuff, he kept things in a right tip.'
'Reminds me of someone,' murmured Pascoe.
'Aye, there's some mucky buggers about,' agreed Dalziel. 'This lot here's letters, bills, that kind of stuff. Nowt there for us. This pile's some stuff he was putting together on his old cases. He were thinking of writing his memoirs when he retired. Well, he never made it.'
'What happened exactly?' asked Pascoe.
'The usual,' said Dalziel. 'Heart attack. He carried far too much weight, I were always on at him about it. He'd been down to London, died in the train back. He were in a carriage by himself and went on to Newcastle before anyone noticed. I thought of him today as I travelled back.'
Amusement at the idea of Dalziel warning anyone about the dangers of obesity mingled with sympathy at the note of genuine regret.
'I'm sorry,' he said.
'No need to be,' said Dalziel briskly. 'Well, not much. Wally would have hated retirement. Writing his memoirs was just his way of trying to spin things out a bit longer, I reckon. I doubt it would have come to owt.'
'Anything much on the Mickledore case?'
'Aye, some interesting stuff. One thing I don't have, but, is his notebook. He was a great scribbler on the job, was Wally. Used to say his own notebook was the only bedside reading he ever wanted. Man who noted everything could solve everything. I hope Adolf and his vultures didn't get their claws on it, else it'll be long gone. But this is what Adolf would give his left bollock to get hold of.'
He handed Pascoe a handwritten sheet.
I am Cecily Kohler from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. For the past two and a half years I have been working as nanny to the Westropp family. On the night of August 3, 1963. I went into the gunroom at Mickledore Hall where Mrs Pam Westropp was cleaning a shotgun. Something happened, I don't know what, but it went off accidentally and killed her.
It was unsigned.
'Whose writing is this?' asked Pascoe.
'Wally's. This too,' said Dalziel, passing another sheet.
I am Cecily Kohler from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. I am an American citizen employed by the Westropps to look after their children. I liked my job except that I didn't much care for Pam Westropp who was always picking on me. We had a fight about something in the gunroom and a gun went off, killing her.
'What the hell is all this?' demanded Pascoe.
Dalziel passed another sheet.
I am Cecily Kohler from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Mr James Westropp is very nice but his wife was funny, always up and down and the children never knew where they were with her. So in the end for their sake I decided to kill her in the gunroom and fix things so it would look like an accident.
'And this,' said Dalziel.
I am Cecily Kohler from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. 1 hated my employer because she was always up and down, like she was on drugs, and neglected the children. Also she slept around. So I decided to kill her and arrange things so it would look like suicide.
'Just one more,' said Dalziel.
This one was different, not an original but a photocopy and written in a different, much less precise hand.
I am Cecily Kohler, from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. For the past two and a half years / have been working as nanny to the Westropp family. It was through my job that I met Ralph Mickledore when he visited the Westropps in the States. We became lovers and because of this, though I'd never planned to work abroad, I decided to accompany the family when they returned to England. I liked my job except that I didn't much care for Pam Westropp. Her husband is very nice but she was up and down, like she was on drugs or something. Sometimes she'd not come near the children for days, then she'd be all over them, interfering with my work, and close to smothering them with hugs and kisses, but soon as one of them needed a diaper changed or brought their feed back, she'd get tired of them and push them back at me, like it was my fault. Also she slept around. I knew that Ralph had been with her, I think she threw herself at him, and when she found out he was going to get married, she threatened to tell everyone about everything, and it would have ruined everything, for me as well as Ralph, so I suggested we should kill her. It was my idea, I would have done it myself only I needed his help to make it look like suicide. She really deserved it and the only thing I'm sorry for is little Emily. I took the children out in the canoe so I could drop the key in the lake, I mean the key Mick had fixed so it wouldn't open the gunroom door. Then I thought I'd hide because I
was frightened of talking to the police again. I wasn't thinking straight after what I'd done, the longer I stayed under the willows, the more confused I got, the light on the water, the wind in the trees all seemed to get in my mind somehow. I'll never forgive myself for what happened to Em. There's no punishment they can give me to get me right for that.
Signed: Cecily Kohler, August 5, 1963.
'This is her actual confession?' said Pascoe. 'Written by herself? So what about the others, in Tallantire's hand?'
'You're the clever cunt. What do you make of them?'
'I know what Mr Hiller would make of them. Tallantire drafting confession after confession, using them to beat away at the girl till it didn't seem a matter of whether she would confess, but merely of which version she would choose. And all the time using her guilt at the kid's death to turn the screw. In the end, when he's got her word perfect, he says, OK, write it and sign it. It's like filming Monroe. When she got it right, it was a take, sod everything else!'
'I don't like the way your mind's running on lasses with big knockers,' said Dalziel reprovingly. 'So that's how you see it, eh? Good. Now you know why I didn't want Adolf getting his hand on this lot.'
'Look, sir,' said Pascoe unhappily, 'I know I said I'd help, but if something comes up suggesting there may have been irregularities . . .'
'You can put that tender conscience back in the pickle jar,' growled Dalziel. 'I'll tell you why Wally took so long getting Kohler to cough. It weren't because he was grilling the lass till she didn't know her arse from her elbow. No, the trouble was she were ready to sign anything from the start! So long as it didn't incriminate Mickledore, that is. That's all that Wally wanted, to stop her protecting her lover. Her guilt was never in doubt, but she couldn't have done it by herself - '
'Of course she felt guilty,' interrupted Pascoe. 'The little girl had drowned - '
'You mean, she'd drowned the little girl,' said Dalziel. 'Oh, you can wrap it up as accident or whatever you like, but I was there, remember? I came up with that kid's corpse in my arms and I saw Kohler's face closer than I see yours. And she knew she'd killed her, believe me. She knew!'
He sank a cleansing drench of Scotch, then went on in more measured tones. 'At the trial, most people agreed with her when she said there was no punishment bad enough. There were plenty who reckoned she should have hung alongside Mickledore, or even instead of Mickledore.'
'I can vaguely recall people talking about her like she was some kind of monster,' said Pascoe. 'Then the Moors case came along, and that changed all the definitions. So what you're saying is Tallantire suspected she was protecting Mickledore and used these drafts to edge her in deeper and deeper till he got the admission he wanted? But what put him on to Mickledore in the first place?'
'Instinct, lad. He told me, the minute he set eyes on the bugger, he thought,
that's my man!
What's that sour face for?'
'There is a school of thought which prefers the evidence to lead to the man.'
'Don't give me that crap. You know as well as I do, most times you've got your perpetrator long afore you can prove it. First thing Wally did when he got called in was contact the Yard and ask them to dig out anything they could on Mickledore's town life, particularly any rumours of naughties with Pam Westropp.'
'And when did they come through? Stamper on the radio seemed to think it wasn't till Monday afternoon.'
'That's right. Not a dickie from London all day Sunday or Monday morning. It was Bank Holiday, of course, so everybody who was anybody would be warming their backsides on the beach. Except Sempernel, this fellow from the funny buggers. Well, he were younger then, probably drew the short straw, so he got dragged off his li-lo and sent up here to make sure no one really important was inconvenienced by the nasty northern police.'
'And what did he do?'
'Nowt really. Just drifted around like a wanked-out waiter, always moving off if you caught his eye. But I reckon when he saw that Wally meant business, he rang his bosses, and they decided that once the Press got on to it, them shit-stirrers would waste no time dropping hints about Mickledore's gambling debts and stirring Pamela's porridge and mebbe even his liaison with the whisky lass. So if Wally were going to read about it on Tuesday morning, he might as well be told on Monday afternoon, so's he could get the whole thing sewn up.'
'But all that provided was motive. He still had no real evidence against Mickledore till he squeezed this confession out of Kohler!'
'Means, motive, opportunity, plus Kohler's confession. What the fuck else do you want?' demanded Dalziel.
'What about this key? The one Mickledore fixed so it wouldn't open the door, the one Kohler says she threw in the lake? Did they find it?'
They sent the divers down, naturally. But it's a big lake. The jury seemed happy to do without it.'
'And that's OK?' Pascoe laughed. 'Who was it said juries are like thimblerig, the trick is working out which bum is sitting on the brain. Wasn't it . . . you? Sorry. What happened in court anyway?'
'Kohler condemned herself. She pleaded guilty, didn't give evidence, just sat there looking like she thought the whole thing were a waste of time. Came across like Lady Macbeth.'
We loved her because she loved us.
William Stamper's words in his radio programme. How could such a change come about?
'And Mickledore?'
'Pleaded innocence and ignorance. Did his honest country squire act like he were at an audition. He were so open you could've parked buses in him. I began to think he might get away with it. But one way and another the prosecution managed to get the other side of his life into the picture. And there was always the sight of Kohler sitting there, like something he'd rather have kept in his attic. Funny thing when the verdict came in, but. From all accounts he still thought he'd get off, but he didn't turn a hair when the foreman said, "Guilty." Raised his eyebrows a bit, like he'd been dealt a club when he'd have preferred a diamond. And when he was asked if he'd owt to say before sentence, he said loud and clear, "As you at least must know, my lord, I am totally innocent of this crime and do not doubt that eventually I shall be proved so." Kohler, on the other hand, who'd pleaded guilty, collapsed and had to be hospitalized. Mental and physical breakdown. She spent the first six months of her sentence in hospital.'
'And Mickledore? Did he appeal?'
'In a manner of speaking. He didn't get official leave, but he asked to see Wally. Hang on, here it is.'
He dug around in the case notes pile and came up with a thickish sheaf of typed pages stapled together.
'What's this?' said Pascoe.
'I told you Wally were thinking of writing his memoirs. He got as far as doing an outline. Here we are. This is the bit about the Mickledore case.'
Pascoe took it and read.
After the trial, Mickledore asked to see me. Said he assumed I was an honest man. If so, I wouldn't want doubts, but I must have them, the way things had gone so easily. I told him get on with it. He said he'd hoped it wouldn't come to this, but now he had to tell truth. It was James Westropp who'd killed his wife. He'd kept quiet out of loyalty, hoping all through trial for acquittal. I said, what about Kohler? He said she was Westropp's mistress, so besotted by him. she'd do anything, especially after causing his daughter's death. I said, where's the proof? He said that was my job. All he knew was that Westropp was getting protection because of who he was. Claimed he himself had been given to understand he'd be OK if he just kept quiet, but he'd never expected things to go this far. Now he was getting worried. Desperate. I said, to come up with such a story. He said, for Christ's sake, Tallantire, don't turn out a crook like the rest of them. All I ask is that you double-check everything. In the end, I promised. Checked. Nothing. Mickledore trying it on. NB. Westropp not available then. Might be interesting now all dust has settled to check where he is and get his reaction to Mickledore's attempts to incriminate him.