'He talked to you about this?'
'He mentioned his visit to the jail.'
'How hard would he check? I mean, from what you say, he was certain from the start that Mickledore was his man. Also he got a lot of kudos out of the case, didn't he? High point of his career, that sort of thing.'
'That'd make him check all the harder,' said Dalziel aggressively.
It was, thought Pascoe, time to change the subject.
He said, 'These memoirs. You don't know if Wally got as far as trying to find a publisher?'
'Not that I know of. Why do you ask?'
'There are quite a few pencilled corrections, they look professional, as if maybe some editor had read the outline. It comes automatically to these people. They couldn't read a shopping list without correcting it.'
Pascoe spoke with the expertise of a man who'd seen the returned scripts of his wife's novel.
'Let's have a look. Aye, you're right. That's not Wally's hand. But why'd he send summat like this to a publisher?'
'To give an idea of the kind of book he proposed, in the hope of getting some money up front before he started the job proper.'
'Aye, that'd be Wally's way,' agreed Dalziel. 'Let's have a look.'
He scattered the pile of correspondence over the floor, then cried triumphantly, 'Here we are. By God, he got a tickle. Cagey old sod!'
The letter was headed Treeby and Bracken with a WC1 address. It read:
Dear Mr Tallantire,
Thank you for the outline which I now return. I've taken a copy for my own reference as I think it certainly has potential, particularly if you can get the emphasis right. I've starred the chapters which look most interesting to me. If you are coming to London in the near future, why don't we have lunch and discuss how we might proceed? Looking forward to hearing from you.
Yours sincerely, Paul Farmer (Editor)
Underneath in Tallantire's hand was scribbled 12.30, March 22.
Pascoe flipped through the outline. There were asterisks by a few of the chapter headings, mainly one, sometimes two. The Mickledore Hall case alone had three. He started pointing this out to Dalziel but the Fat Man was staring at the date.
'Bloody hell,' he said. 'That's the day Wally died. On his way back from the Smoke.'
Suddenly Pascoe felt cold.
Dalziel went down on his knees and started doing a loaves-and-fishes on the correspondence file, apparently creating as he distributed. Soon most of the carpet had vanished beneath a sea of litter.
'Nowt else,' he said.
'Perhaps they heard he'd died,' said Pascoe. 'Or it could be they decided there was nothing in it for them after all.'
'You don't buy a man lunch to turn him down,' growled Dalziel. 'What do you know about this Treeby and Bracken outfit anyway?'
'Hang on,' said Pascoe. Ellie's literary ambitions had added a
Writers' and Artists' Year Book
to their library. He flipped through the pages. 'Not a lot of help. No longer exists as an independent imprint. Got gobbled up by Centipede a few years back. But hang on. There's a list of Centipede's current directors here and there's a Paul Farmer among them. Could be the same.'
'Right. Give him a bell in the morning, see if he remembers owt.'
'Why me?'
'Right up your street, talking to poncy sods like publishers. Right. On your feet. Have you had your supper?'
'No, but look, I'd really rather . . .'
'Come on, lad. Not going mean on me, are you?'
'Mean?'
'Aye. I treated you last night. Your turn tonight. Fair do's.'
Pascoe thought of his vegetable casserole, two hundred calories tops.
He said, 'I'm definitely not going to the Black Bull.'
'That's handy, 'cos I'm not either.'
In the doorway Pascoe paused to look back. The lounge looked like a field after a pop festival.
'Hurry up,' said Dalziel. 'We're late.'
'For what?' said Pascoe, suddenly alarmed at the prospect of something worse than a leap in his cholesterol level. 'I'm not doing any more burgling.'
'What are you on about? There's someone I want you to meet, that's all. Someone every good cop ought to meet at least once.'
'Who's that, then?'
'Old Percy Pollock, that's who.'
Pollock? Good God, you don't mean Pollock the hangman?'
'That's the boy. Good company is old Percy. But he's a stickler for punctuality, so get your finger out. I suppose in his line of business he never cared to be kept hanging around!"
EIGHT
'What a night it has been! Almost a night... to bring
the dead out of their graves.'
A storm broke over the city as they drove to their rendezvous. This was the pathetic fallacy at work, thought Pascoe, a fancy compounded by his realization that they were heading for a pub called the Blind Sailor. Now was the time when a genuine golden bough would come in most useful, for weren't they going to meet the ferryman himself, whose strong muscles had floated many a poor wretch across to the further shore? It was a fancy he did not share with Dalziel.
At first sight, Percy Pollock was a disappointment. White-haired and frail, he leaned on a knotted oak stick as he rose to greet them, bowing his head gravely as he was introduced. But he did not offer his hand till Pascoe proffered his.
They sat at an old cast-iron table with a raised brass rail in the shadowy snug of which they were the sole inhabitants. Dalziel ordered drinks, and even paid for them, the whiles chatting about the weather, the price of tea, and the progress of various members of the Pollock family. It still amazed Pascoe how much the Fat Man knew about everyone. Perhaps it explained his cavalier attitude to records. Pollock's replies were slow and courteous, and gradually a sense of the man's powerful presence stole over Pascoe. It derived from a kind of inner stillness, a steady undramatic self-assurance. Perhaps this is what you got from a career spent seeing men not afraid of God afraid of you.
At last, the formalities finished, Dalziel bought another round, settled himself comfortably, and said, 'Now, Percy, what I'd really like is a bit of a chat about Ralph Mickledore.'
'Mad Mick? Aye, I thought it might be about him,' said Pollock.
'Why Mad Mick?' asked Pascoe.
'It's what the warders called him. Not to his face. It was always Sir Ralph to his face. Does that surprise you, Mr Pascoe? Like I say, courtesy costs nothing, and besides he were very well liked inside.'
Dalziel said, 'Percy took his job very seriously. When he knew he had a client in the offing, he opened a file, talked to the fellows looking after him, found out what made him tick, isn't that right, Percy?'
'That's right,' said Pollock. 'There's more to hanging a man than knowing his build and weight. No two men will take it the same way. Be prepared was always my motto. And besides, no matter what he may have done, no man deserves to be taken off by a stranger.'
'So you'd start your homework soon as the verdict came in?' said Dalziel.
'Oh yes. No waiting for appeals or aught of that,' said Pollock. 'I never like to feel rushed. Often it meant it was wasted effort, of course. Sentence commuted. Happened more and more often after the war. Well, I never grudged the time. But with Sir Ralph, I knew it wouldn't be wasted, almost from the start I knew.'
Oh aye,' said Dalziel. 'And how was that?'
The old man turned his candid blue-eyed gaze on the detective and said, 'I can't rightly tell you that, Mr Dalziel. Things were said. After a while I knew. This one wasn't for reprieve. Short of a voice from Heaven, and maybe not even then, this one was for the drop.'
Dalziel shot Pascoe a glance. Signifying what?
'But why did the warders call him Mad Mick?' persisted Pascoe.
'Because he made them laugh,' said Pollock unexpectedly. 'He just acted like he was at home most of the time. Mr Hawkins, the chief officer, would be walking past and Sir Ralph would bellow, "Hawkins, pop out and get me an
Evening Post,
there's a good chap." He called them all by their surnames, no misters, but no one took offence because he didn't do it to give offence. And he was just the same with the governor. "Nugent," he would say, "the food in here's appalling. I'm having a few brace of pheasant sent from the estate for the chaps on my wing. Hope the cook's up to it. Perhaps you'd care to join us?" And he'd mean it, you see. He wasn't taking the piss, if you'll excuse the expression.'
It was at moments like this that Pascoe knew why the English had never gone in for a socialist revolution. You can't expect flagellants to throw away their whips.
'When they weren't lost in admiration, did his guards reckon he was guilty?' he asked abruptly.
The old man regarded him mildly and said, 'Those of us who work for the prison service can't afford such speculations, Mr Pascoe. You can't sit with a man the night before he hangs if you think he's innocent. And you certainly can't put a rope around his neck.'
'Aye, but did he ever say owt about the murder, Percy?' said Dalziel.
'I suppose he'd talk about it to the police and his solicitor when they came a-visiting, but according to Mr Hawkins, he acted like he was innocent, or at least he acted like he didn't believe he'd hang, right up to the end. Week before, he even asked one of his guards to put a fiver on a horse for him.
Said he knew the trainer and it was due a win. The man went straight to Mr Hawkins.'
'Because it was against the rules?' said Pascoe, puzzled.
'Because the race wasn't scheduled till two days after the execution date,' said Percy Pollock.
This gave them all pause for a few moments. Dalziel was the first to break the silence.
'And you yourself, Percy, when you finally made direct contact, how did he strike you? What did he say?'
Across Pascoe's mind flickered a black and white image of Miles Malleson in
Kind Hearts and Coronets
asking the condemned duke for permission to read the ode he had composed to mark the occasion.
Difficult to top that, but Percy came close.
'He said goodbye to everyone. Then he cupped his ear like he was listening and said, "Hush!" We all hushed, and listened. Nothing. Then he laughed and said, "Sorry, I thought I heard a galloping horse. Cheer up, Nugent -" the governor was looking as upset as ever I've seen him - "it looks as if it's going to be a far, far better thing after all. Thank you, Mr Pollock. At your convenience." And that was it, gentlemen. Forty-five seconds later. Sir Ralph was dead.'
'You're very precise,' said Pascoe.
'Yes, sir. This was by way of being a record. Usually I reckon on between fifty and eighty from the time I take them out of the cell, depending on how they move. But he stepped out so sprightly it was all done in forty-five. And he was my last, my very last, so it'll stand forever, I suppose.'
There was a note of melancholy nostalgia in his voice that revolted Pascoe but before he could speak, Dalziel said, 'You had your contacts at the women's jail at Beddington too, I expect, Percy.'
'Oh yes. It's a long time since I had to take off a lady, a long, long time. But I had my contacts.'
'Anyone who would have been working there when Kohler topped the wardress?'
Pollock thought a moment, then said, 'There's Mrs Friedman. She retired the year after, I think. She was there.'
'And where is she now?'
'She lives locally, I believe. Would you like me to check, Mr Dalziel?'
'I'd appreciate it, Percy. Now, will you have another drink?'
'No, thank you,' he said, standing up. 'Time I was home to my supper. Goodbye, Mr Pascoe. A pleasure to meet you.'
He offered his hand. Presumably his initial hesitation had been conditioned by the reluctance of some people to shake the hand that had slipped the noose over so many necks. Pascoe felt this reluctance more now than he had on first encounter, and to cover his slowness in responding, he said lightly, 'The bet Mickledore wanted placed, what happened?'
'Oh, it was put on. In fact, when word got around, so many officers not to mention the inmates and their families, backed the horse that its odds shortened from twenties to fives.'
'Oh aye?' said Dalziel. 'And did it win?'
Percy Pollock smiled sadly.
'I'm afraid not. It fell at the last fence and broke its neck.'
They sat in silence for a while after Pollock had left, Dalziel because he was eating a steak and kidney pie with double chips, Pascoe because he felt deeply depressed.