The Price of Butcher's Meat (27 page)

Roote was still clattering crockery in the kitchen, a little more loudly than necessary?

Mebbe he wants to give me time to poke around, thought Wield. Happy to oblige!

He rose and went to the workstation. It was a top-of-the-range setup. A clued-up operator could probably go almost anywhere he wanted on this. Tempting for a man in a wheelchair…no, Wield corrected, tempting for any clued-up operator, as he knew!

“Questions?” said Roote, appearing out of the kitchen with a tea tray bearing mugs, teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, and a cake set across the arms of his wheelchair.

“Aye. Did you see this bearded man again when you were out on the lawn?”

“No, I didn't,” said Roote. “I thought I heard some movement in the shrubbery, as though someone were pushing through it, but I actually saw nothing more.”

“Pity,” said Wield, returning to his chair. “And it's a pity you didn't hang around to give this bit of information to us a lot sooner,
Mr. Roote. You're not the only person who had time to get home, change his clothes, and dry himself off.”

“I've no idea what time you arrived at the hall, Mr. Wield, but I suspect the person I saw would have had ample time to do all that anyway.”

“Mebbe so, but you could have told Sergeant Whitby, who got there a lot sooner.”

“Ah yes. Sergeant Whitby.”

Had he put into words what his tone implied, Wield might have felt impelled by his sergeants-union loyalty to offer a defense. As it was he answered silence with silence and accepted the mug of tea that Roote poured for him.

So much for taking control of the interview, he reflected as he sank his teeth into a slice of Madeira cake. At least in his assessment of this, Roote had been completely accurate. It was delicious.

“So, may I sign it?” said the young man.

“Aye, it'll do. For now.”

Roote took the statement and signed it with a flourish, then handed it back and watched as Wield countersigned.

Then he said, “Now tell me about dear Peter Pascoe. Does he know I'm here? When may I hope to see him?”

“Aye, he knows. Sir Edward tell you he was here?”

“Yes, I believe he did. Though I would have guessed. With poor Mr. Dalziel hors de combat at the Avalon, who else would be entrusted with a case of such moment?”

“You've met Mr. Dalziel then?”

“Oh yes. Fate threw us together, though it can't have been too arduous a task for Fate in a place the size of Sandytown. Not altogether himself, I felt, but majestic though in ruin. The second occasion we met, I was glad to see him getting closer to his old self. In fact, the improvement was so marked I felt able to ask his assistance with my appeal.”

“Your appeal?”

“For a review of my conviction, which I hope may result in a pardon.”

Wield drank some tea, then said in a voice as flat as Norfolk, “You asked the superintendent to help you appeal against your conviction?”

“That's right.”

Wield drank some more tea.

“And he said…?”

“He undertook to give it serious consideration. I always found him a man open to reason and compassion: His outward semblance doth belie his soul's immensity.”

Wield finished his tea.

There must be something in it, he thought. Magic mushrooms maybe.

He folded the statement, put it in his notebook, stood up, and said, “I'd best be off. Thanks for the tea. And the cake. By the way, what brought you here to Sandytown?”

It was meant to be casual, but Roote grinned broadly and said, “Of course. You'll need to be debriefed by Peter. The answer is, familiarity and coincidence, Mr. Wield. When I finally gave up my quest for a cure and resolved to return to England, where else would I come but Yorkshire, which has played such a significant part in my life?”

“Like getting you jailed, getting you shot, and getting you crippled?” said Wield, thinking, If the bugger wants straight talk, let him have it!

“Indeed, though I try not to dwell on those things. Fate may have decreed I live my life like a gnome, but I try to record it like a gnomon, telling only the sunlit hours.”

He paused as if anticipating applause, though whether for his mental resolution or verbal convolution wasn't clear. Wield's face remained as unreadable as a footballer's biography. Roote smiled and went on, “That explains Yorkshire. But why Sandytown? you wonder. During my wanderings around Europe in my vain search for restoration—I
even visited Lourdes, God help me!—which He didn't—the best palliative care I encountered was at one of my first ports of call, the Avalon Clinic at Davos. I returned there last year when I finally admitted defeat. Not for treatment—I knew I was beyond that—but because I needed to be somewhere that I would get understanding without pity. To be accepted is the first step to acceptance, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Wield?”

Wield said, “Mebbe,” and glanced surreptitiously at his watch.

“To cut a longish story short,” resumed Roote, “I was disappointed to find that Herr Professor Doktor Alvin Kling, the head of the clinic, with whom I had struck up a good relationship, was away on a six-month exchange with a colleague. But I soon found that the man he'd exchanged with, Lester Feldenhammer, was even more on my wavelength. Talking to him, plus of course my renewed involvement with Third Thought, brought me back fully to the realization that life must be tasted to the full, not wasted in pursuit of a vain dream. And when I discovered that Lester's home clinic was the Avalon, here in Yorkshire, it seemed like a sign. So back in January I relocated here, and it was the best move I ever made.”

Wouldn't be difficult, seeing where your other moves got you, thought Wield.

“How did Dr. Feldenhammer take it?” he asked.

“He was delighted. From being a patient, I was converted to being a kind of colleague, unpaid, of course. Lester has such an open and receptive mind. Most mainstream medical practitioners would have found Tom Parker's enthusiasm for alternative therapies at best quirky, at worst positively dangerous. But Lester has thrown his own energy and the resources of the Avalon wholly behind Tom's Festival of Health.”

Wield looked at his watch again, this time openly, and said, “Very interesting. Now I'd best be off. Thanks again.”

“My pleasure. And you'll give Peter my fond regards, and tell him I should love to see him. But it's his call. If he's uncomfortable with
the idea, I shall completely understand. This must be a very important case for him, I'd guess.”

“Oh? Why's that?”

“With Mr. Dalziel hors de combat…need I say more? I very much hope Peter does well.”

“I'll tell him. 'Bye now.”

As he rode away, Wield tried to score his encounter with Franny Roote. The best he could get it to was a points draw, but in his heart it felt like the man in the wheelchair had shaded it. It was a small comfort to remember a remark of Dalziel's: If you ever find yourself thinking you've got the better of yon bugger, that's when you're in real trouble.

His mobile rang as he approached the lane end. He halted, put the phone to his ear, and said, “Wield…what? Hang on…reception's lousy.”

He ran the bike out of the crowding trees onto the road.

“That any better? Okay, Hat. What were you saying?”

He listened, then said, “Have you contacted Mr. Pascoe? Do it! I'm on my way.”

And thrusting Franny Roote right out of his mind, he set the Thunderbird roaring back toward Sandytown.

As Peter Pascoe approached the Avalon Clinic, he had a dilemma.

Who should he contact first, the two witnesses—Dr. Feldenhammer and Nurse Sheldon—or Andy Dalziel?

Proper procedure required that as chief investigating officer he made straight for the witnesses.

But Dalziel, though on sick leave, was still his boss, and having been on the spot for a little while he might be able to provide some useful background…

No, scrub that!

It was simply an excuse to mask his awareness that one of the horns of his dilemma was bigger and sharper and could penetrate a lot deeper than the other, an awareness heightened by what he now acknowledged was a growing taste for independence.

During his years in Mid-Yorkshire CID, Pascoe had grown used to being answerable only to himself and Dalziel. The Fat Man's absence had left a huge gap that no other senior figure could possibly fill. At first he was always aware of it. But in the last week or so he had felt it less and less, not because anyone was filling it, but because he himself had somehow expanded into the space.

Eventually Daddy Bear would come back home and bump Goldilocks out of his bed. That was an inevitable part of the scheme of things. But it belonged in the future. In the present Dalziel was a convalescing colleague, taken out of the loop both by medical regime and bureaucratic regulation, and not even the unfortunate coincidence of a big case exploding right on his doorstep entitled him to move back into his old space.

So, dilemma solved. Professional duty first, sick visit second.

The golden gates of Avalon loomed ahead. He peeped his horn. A man emerged from a small gatehouse, opened the gates, and waved him forward.

He drew up alongside the gatekeeper and wound down his window.

“Detective Chief Inspector Pascoe to see Dr. Feldenhammer.”

Behind him Pascoe heard his rear door open. The car's suspension sighed under a sudden weight. He looked in his mirror knowing what he would see. It was still a shock. Though it shouldn't have been. Why would God leave important decisions to mere mortals when he could so easily take them himself?

“You took your time,” said that all-too-familiar voice. “Okay, Stan, this is the bugger I were telling thee about.”

“Right, Mr. Dalziel. I'll see you later.”

The gatekeeper waved the car forward.

Pascoe obeyed.

“Bear left here,” commanded the Fat Man. “That's it, toward the old house.”

“Where, no doubt, I shall find Dr. Feldenhammer,” said Pascoe, trying to get back on even terms.

“Don't be daft. Old Festerwhanger can wait. Any road, he's got Pet up there with him. Probably giving her one. Common reaction to some traumatic episodes, that's what the book says.”

This was the point to stop the car and resume control. Instead Pascoe heard himself ask, “Whose book? And who is Pet?”

“Pet Sheldon, head nurse. And Fester's own book.
Posttraumatic Stress—A Patient's Guide.
Catchy title, eh? You'll likely have seen the movie. He gave me a copy. Bet he didn't think I'd read it, but I whipped through it, looking for the mucky bits. Park here.”

Pascoe brought the car to a halt but he kept the engine running. He'd made up his mind. This was as far as he was going.

“Sir…,” he began, but it was too late. The rear door had opened, and the car almost sighed its relief as the Fat Man got out
and set off toward the house, not once looking back to check he was followed.

“Shit,” said Pascoe, and got out.

They crossed a terrace area where a few people sat at small circular wrought-iron tables, drinking coffee or wine. The early evening air was balmy. The storm had merely freshened things up, not signaled the end of summer. The drinkers could have been guests at an Italian villa watching Il Duce returning from an evening stroll, followed by his faithful bodyguard.

The process ended in a bedroom that looked up to luxury-hotel standards. A couple of stars at least above the Cedars, the police convalescent home. Was Cap footing the bill? Couldn't see Dalziel going along with that. Maybe he had insurance. Or maybe a grateful criminal community had taken up a subscription to keep him out of the way.

“Look, sir…,” he tried again, but the Fat Man cut across, saying, “First things first. Sit yourself down.”

He opened a drawer and took out a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

Pascoe lowered himself into the single armchair and watched as Dalziel poured an inch of liquor into one glass, three inches into the other.

To Pascoe's surprise, he received the larger measure.

“Slainte!” said the Fat Man, flopping on the bed. “Welcome to Zombieland. Good to see you, Pete, even though you've not brought any grapes.”

“Like you say, I'm on duty…”

“Always mek time to pick the flowers along the way, lad. Or the grapes. Any road, what's the verdict?”

“Early days and I've got an open mind,” said Pascoe.

“Eh? On me, not the case, you daft bugger! You've been running your eye over me like an Aberdeen undertaker wondering whether to charge by the inch or the ounce.”

“I think I'll tell them to put the flowers on hold,” said Pascoe. “Seriously, you're looking fine. Much more like your old self, and your old self must know that, unless you know something pertinent to my investigation, I should not be here socializing.”

“Pertinent? Socializing? Ee, I've missed you, lad, but not a lot. Right, let's make it official. Questions?”

“Let's start with basics. Were you acquainted with the deceased?”

“Buffalo woman, you mean. Daph Denham. Aye, met her a couple of times. First time were in the Hope and Anchor. That's our local. Nice drop of ale. Landlord knows his beer and knows how to keep his customers happy. Name of Hollis…”

“That's a name that keeps cropping up,” said Pascoe, looking at his list. “That would be Alan…?”

“Right. Good lad. They're all relatives of the famous Hog Hollis, tha knows, the Taste of Yorkshire. Any road, that's where me and Daph first met. Didn't make a good impression. In fact, she looked at me like I'd just escaped from Dartmoor. Couldn't really blame her as I'd lost one of my slippers. But things were different when I saw her at Fester's party day before yesterday…”

“Fester's party?” interrupted Pascoe, seeking sense in this surreal flow.

“Lester Feldenhammer's party. It's one mad round of pleasure here. Kill or cure, that's the Avalon motto. Where was I? Buffalo woman. She gave me the glad eye. Naturally I thought mebbe she'd succumbed to me boyish charm—seems she were a bit of a goer, by all accounts—bit long in the tooth, but there's many a good tune played on an old double bass—”

“Could we stick to the point?” said Pascoe sharply. “Presuming there is one!”

“Ooh, hoity-toity! What's next? Rubber truncheons? I didn't talk to her at the party. To tell the truth, I weren't feeling too clever. But yesterday morning, she came bursting into my room, like a heifer on heat.”

“Just tell me what she wanted,” said Pascoe wearily.

“Nowt really. Usual daft woman's stuff,” said Dalziel casually. “She wanted to tap into my constabulary expertise. She'd got some silly notion into her head that someone were trying to kill her.”

I should have known it, thought Pascoe. The old sod enjoys jerking me around, but he'd not get in my way unless he thought it was important.

“You got details, I presume?” he said.

“Oh yes,” said Dalziel. “I've got details.”

He stuck his right hand under the mattress and came out with what looked like an MP3 player.

He's going to play some music in case we're being bugged, guessed Pascoe.

“Meet Mildred, memory on a stick,” said Dalziel almost proudly. “State-of-the-art recorder, more sensitive than a parson's dick. Present from Fester. Thinks keeping an audio diary could have a beneficiary effect, therapeutically speaking.”

Nice piece of mimicry—if Feldenhammer spoke like W. C. Fields!

What next? wondered Pascoe. Dalziel bragging about state-of-the-art technology was like that first chord from Dylan's electric guitar.

“And has it?” he asked.

To his surprise, Dalziel didn't snort a blasphemous denial, but hesitated a moment before saying, “Don't know. Mebbe it has. Any road, like I say, it's useful for filling in the gaps till me memory catches up with me bones. More important here, it'll carry on recording even if I've got it stuck in my pocket.”

“You mean you actually recorded what Lady Denham said to you?” said Pascoe, amazed. “But why…?”

“I had it handy when she burst in, and just in case it really were my lily-white body she was after, I switched it on. I've got my reputation to think of, tha knows. But for once, I were wrong. Listen.”

He pressed a button and a woman's voice, strong, deep, authoritative, began to speak.