He said, 'Please yourself, sunshine.'
When he got out at his destination, he felt as happy as a round-the-world sailor to feel solid land beneath his feet. He half-expected to find Linda Steele lurking, but if she was, she was making a good job of it. What he did see was Cissy Kohler striding along the pavement, trailing more spray than a waterskier.
He hesitated only a moment before deciding what to do. A crook out on licence was still a crook, and a cop off on leave was still a cop. Not even cars driving on the wrong side of the street altered that relationship, though they did remind him he ought to tread a little more lightly than on the sidewalks of Mid-Yorkshire. So he slapped his hand on her shoulder with only enough force to bruise her collarbone, not to break it.
He was surprised that she put up no resistance. Like Rampling, she clearly recognized him but that was no reason. On the contrary, he'd have thought.
Perhaps she knew that Waggs and a couple of Hesperides heavies were waiting in the flat? But there was no sound as they entered and it felt empty.
She turned to face him and he saw her clearly for the first time. Prison had pared her to the bone. His glimpse of her on television hadn't conveyed to him the full extent of the change. It wasn't just a question of three decades of ageing, there was simply nothing left of the young woman whose world had come to an end in 1963. Except perhaps for the eyes. They were regarding him now with the same empty blankness, like windows in a derelict house, that he recalled as he'd burst to the surface with the lifeless body of Westropp's daughter in his arms.
There'd been water running down her face then and there was water running there now, dripping from her cheeks and chin on to the expensive carpet.
'Get yourself dried,' he said harshly. 'I can't abide a wet woman.'
'It's a matter of taste,' she said enigmatically.
But she headed for the bathroom. He heard the door being locked, then the shower started up. This suited him nicely. He did a quick turn round the living-room and found nothing of interest. He pushed open a door. A bedroom. In the wardrobe male clothes only. So she and Waggs weren't kissing cousins. In fact, from the way she'd clutched her Bible at the press conference, he guessed she'd sublimated all that stuff, and any notion of guilt along with it most likely.
Waggs travelled light or was a very careful man. He passed on to the other bedroom. It looked even barer with little that was feminine in sight, but the Bible on the counterpane told him it was Kohler's. Searching was easy because there was next to nothing to search.
He heard the bathroom door open but he didn't move. He had no objection to her finding him in here. In fact it was probably a good thing to establish their relationship from the start. Cop and criminal. Not all the religion in the world was going to change that.
There were footsteps behind him. He didn't turn, waited for her indignant protest, readied himself for his crushing response.
Then it occurred to him that he could still hear the distant shower. No louder, still running.
It hadn't been the bathroom door.
The thought dead-heated with the blow, which was either very expert or very lucky as it caught him at precisely the right point on the stem of his neck to switch off all the juice running between his mind and his muscles. He fell heavily across the bed, still conscious in the way that a man who has drunk a couple of bottles of Scotch might be still conscious. His senses struggled to maintain a limited service. Touch had gone completely; he could feel nothing. Smell, taste and sight were occupied by the counterpane up against which his nose and mouth were pressed, giving his eyes about an inch of focus which wasn't enough. Hearing was faint and intermittent, like a patrol radio in a dead area.
Two voices. A man's. A woman's.
H
ERS
: . . . what . . . hell . . . you done . . .
His: . . . found . . . here . . . thought . . . burg . . .
H
ERS
: ... in papers ... at Hall . . . waiting . . .
I
. . . to clinic . . .
His: . . . Almighty . . . why . . . told you . . . what . . .
H
ERS
: ...n't let .. . your name ... no diff . . . thought . . . said . . .
His: . . . yeah . . . Ciss . . . ruined . . . thing . . . back . . . tell . . . William . . . afternoon . . .
H
ERS
: . . . sure . . . home . . . day . . .
H
IS
: . . . sure . . . grab . . . quick . . . way . . . burg . . . wakes . . .
H
ERS
: ... all right . . . doc . . .
His: . . . fine . . . side . . . barn . . . move ... of here . . .
Reception was fading. Perhaps all it required was a slight adjustment of aerial direction. He tried to move his head and straightaway went spiralling into a darkness where the only signals were meaningless bleeps from long dead stars, and, beyond them, silence.
SEVEN
'Not a theory; it was a fancy.'
Peter Pascoe read the letter for the tenth time. It was unheaded except for the date, 3 September 1976.
Dear Miss Kohler,
Your letter has reached me, reviving memories of a pain I would rather have forgotten. My first instinct was to ignore completely what you had written, it smacked so much of a mind driven to desperate self-delusion by all those years in prison. But in case silence should be interpreted however insanely as affirmation, I will make this one effort at communication.
Your craziest insinuations I refuse to dignify with a rebuttal, but your suggestion that I must bear some of the responsibility for Emily's death I find so repugnant that I must throw it back at you with scorn. She was in your care and it was because of the failure of that care that she died. Until you are willing to accept fully the burden of your guilt, you will hardly be fit to return to the world at large.
Yet you tell me you are hoping to return in the near future. If this is the decision of the authorities, so be it. I offer no comment except to say I will brook no further attempt to communicate with me. I have recently remarried and have even taken on a new name, so attempts to harass me will be in vain. My lawyer has been instructed to open all letters addressed care of his office and to destroy any from you.
To wish you luck in the future would seem merely ironic. All I will wish is that you may find a way of forgetting the events of that terrible weekend, or at least the strength to desist from trying to force them back into the minds of others.
Yours sincerely, James Westropp.
Someone tapped the window of his car.
He turned his head, saw the uniform and said, 'Oh shit.'
Opening the door, he climbed out.
'Excuse me, sir,' said the young constable, 'but could I see your driving licence?'
'Forget that,' said Pascoe. 'Take a look at this.'
He produced his warrant card.
The young man studied it uneasily.
'I'm sorry, sir, but is this official? I mean, should we have been informed?'
'Don't worry,' said Pascoe. 'You haven't blown a stake-out. I'm in Harrogate on private business, visiting an . . . acquaintance in those flats. She isn't in, so I was waiting. I take it someone rang in to report a strange man loitering with intent?'
'That's right. A Mrs Wright.'
Pascoe looked up, saw the figure watching from a window which he gauged was in the flat next to Miss Marsh's.
'I'm sorry, sir, I'll still have to check this out,' said the constable.
'Of course you will. I may have forged it with my Toytown printing kit. Look, so you don't have to hang around while they buzz through to my patch, see if you can get Mr Dekker to the communications room.'
DCI 'Duck' Dekker was an old sparring partner. His sarcasms were infinitely preferable to the risk of alerting Hiller he was back on forbidden territory.
He was in luck.
A short while later a familiar grating voice said, 'Detective Chief Inspector Dekker here. What's this all about, Tomkin?'
Pascoe leaned forward to speak into the mike.
'Duck? Peter Pascoe. Constable Tomkin, who has been most courteous and efficient, needs to know I am what I say I am.'
'Does he now? Mebbe I need to know what it is you say you're doing afore I say what you are.'
'Just visiting, Duck. Private business.'
'Oh aye? Well, I suppose it's better not crapping on your own doorstep, eh?" said Dekker with scant regard for the fact that he was blackening Pascoe's reputation on an open airwave. 'You're a sly one, but! Tomkin, you there? Let Mr Pascoe go with a stiff warning as to his future behaviour. Out.'
Pascoe sighed, looked at the young man's face, saw doubt there, said, 'Joke. Look, why don't we go in and reassure Mrs Wright together?'
And perhaps at the same time get some indication of Mavis Marsh's whereabouts.
Mrs Wright, a plump, middle-aged, twinset-and-pearls kind of woman, was glad to be reassured, but not herself very reassuring.
'Miss Marsh? Oh, she's in. Of course I'm sure. I can hear her radio in my bathroom. She never leaves anything plugged in when she goes out. Terrified of fire, you see.'
'When did you last actually see her?' asked Pascoe.
'This morning. Well, heard her actually. I was going out and I heard a man's voice, then Miss Marsh's saying, "Please come in," and I looked, and I saw a man stepping into her flat.'
'What did he look like?' asked Pascoe.
Oh, a very respectable kind of man. I mean, not a plumber or meter-reader, nothing like that. Tallish, wearing one of those nice short overcoats that army gentlemen used to wear. I only saw him from behind for a second, but he looked rather distinguished.'
It could of course simply be that Miss Marsh did not wish to receive any other visitor that day but Pascoe was growing concerned.
He said to Tomkin, 'Perhaps you ought to try her.'
'Me?'
'It's your patch,' reminded Pascoe. 'I'm just visiting.'
They went together and rang the bell, then rapped on the door. Pascoe called, 'Miss Marsh? Miss Marsh? Are you all right?'
Nothing.
He looked at the constable, who said, 'Mebbe there's a spare key?'
They both looked at Mrs Wright who had silently followed them.
'I don't have one. Probably the managing agents do,' she said doubtfully.
Tomkin reached for his personal radio. Pascoe stayed his hand.
'I think it'd be wise not to delay,' he said.
'You reckon? OK, if you say so, sir.'
The youngster took a step back. This time Pascoe interposed his whole body.
'It looks a very solid door,' he said.
'And she'll have the security chain on,' said Mrs Wright. 'If she's in, she always has it on.'
Pascoe turned to the door. Screening his actions from the woman, he used his Swiss Army knife to remove a small section of the jamb, then inserted the narrow strip of tapered plastic which Dalziel called his Access card.
When he felt it catch the tongue, he pushed. The door swung open. It wasn't on its chain.
He went across the narrow photo-lined hallway and opened the lounge door. It was the same well-ordered temple of opulence he recalled from his previous visit, and Miss Marsh was sitting in the same deep armchair. The only difference was that this time she was dead.
The lolling head, staring eyes and sagging mouth were evidence enough, but he confirmed it at her wrist. There was no sign of violence. The
Telegraph
she had been reading lay on the floor a few inches below her dangling hand. Beside her chair stood an elegant wine table on which rested a half empty cup of tea and a plate with a currant scone on it. The radio was tuned to Radio 4.
'Is she dead?'
He turned to see Mrs Wright in the doorway alongside PC Tomkin.
'Yes. Tomkin, perhaps you'd escort Mrs Wright back to her flat and ask if you can use her phone. I'd get Mr Dekker down here if I were you.'
He waited till they had gone, then using a handkerchief, he quickly checked the other rooms. Bedroom and bathroom were as tidy as you'd expect in a first class hotel. Only the kitchen showed signs of occupation. There was a baking tray with two scones still in it on top of the oven and, poignantly, the sweet evocative scent of baking still in the air.