The Price of Butcher's Meat (30 page)

They stepped into a tiny hallway, and the sergeant shouted, “Hello! Miss Lee!”

There was the sound of movement behind a half-open door to the left.

Being the closer to it, Hat pushed it fully open and said, “Miss
Lee?” brightly, because that's what his lips were programmed to say, even though his mind was already calculating the odds against Miss Lee having a grizzled black beard. Still, in this day and age, especially when you were investigating the death of an elderly titled lady roasted in her own hog basket, it would be silly to rule anything out.

Later he realized these irrelevant thoughts were the smoke screen his subconscious was trailing across his conscious mind in an effort to soften the full grotesquerie of what he was seeing.

The bearded man had half turned toward the door, his face a picture of guilt surprised. He was standing next to a table with a padded top. On it, facedown, lay a man, stripped to the waist, his head resting on his crossed arms. From his naked back and shoulders protruded perhaps half a dozen of what looked like quills, four or five inches long, stripped of their feathers, leaving just a touch of color at the tip.

Except for one.

This one, in the middle of the back near the top of the spine, only protruded a couple of inches at most and the bearded man's right hand was still clasped tight about it.

Hat felt himself shouldered aside as Whitby shoved by him.

“Right, you bugger, let's be having you,” he shouted.

The man put up no resistance as Whitby forced his hands behind his back and snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. He then pushed the prisoner toward Hat, saying, “Watch him!” and turned his attention to the figure on the table.

The bearded man looked straight into Hat's eyes. He seemed to be trying to say something, but no words came.

Whitby had raised the prone figure's head. His fingers ran down the neck, seeking a pulse. Finally he replaced the head gently on the crossed arms.

“He's dead,” he said disbelievingly.

“Is it Hollis?” demanded Hat fearfully.

“Aye, it's Ollie. He's dead!”

It was as if saying it a second time brought home the truth of the situation.

He spun round, thrust his face close to the prisoner's, and said with quiet savagery, “You bastard! If there were any justice left in this soft bloody country, you'd hang for this!”

Then to Hat, in a voice full of a frustration that rang in the young constable's ears like accusation, “Five minutes! If only we'd got here five minutes earlier!”

Disaster!!

Theyve arrested Mr Godley! I cant believe it—they must be mad—& not just for 1 murder but 2! It was in the
News
this morning—all the details of Lady Ds death—plus another murder last evening. Ollie Hollis—the gate man at the pig farm—who was in charge of the hog roast—killed on Miss Lees treatment couch—& the article says Mr Godley was caught in the act—sticking one of Miss Lees acupuncture needles into Ollies back!

Its got to be a mistake. OK—hes a nutter—but his nuttiness is believing he has the power to cure people—not to kill them! But the
News
piece is emphatic—goes on about the guy in charge—some plod called Pascoe—& how we can all rest safe in our beds with brains like his on the police payroll. Must be bollocks—stake my professional reputation on it—when I get one!

But—as usual—Im way ahead of myself.

Significant events since my last.

First—this woman cop turned up to take statements from Tom & Mary & me—theyre doing everyone who was at the hog roast—natch.

She seemed all right—bit understated—no makeup—drab gear—could be one of the sisterhood—butch end—but Im not sure. Name of Novello—rang a bell—some old b&w musical mum once made us watch on the box I think—do you recall?

Anyway—I quite liked her—gave her my statement—using my e to you—hot off the press—to double-check memory—& seeing this she asked if she
could read it—& next thing Im running off copies of all the stuff Ive sent you with my impressions of Sandytown!

Once she went I soon started wondering if it had been such a good idea. She promised for her eyes only—more or less—but I started thinking of all the crime soaps where the cops idea of a good time is lager & chips while they drool over the latest confiscated porn videos! But she seemed OK—& if us girls cant trust each other—who can we trust?

Pause for mocking laughter!

Anyway—my worries soon pushed to the back of my mind when Mary appeared with a new development. Dear kind Tom had got to worrying about Clara—the poor relation—or maybe not so poor now—who knows?!—down at the hall all by herself. So hed phoned her & invited her to stay here at Kyoto—& shed accepted. No problem about bedrooms—even with me staying they still have a couple spare—but Mary wondered whether—in the circs—putting Clara into a strange room in a strange house was a great idea & it had occurred to her that maybe sharing with someone her own age—ie me—might not make more sense—no pressure on me to agree. Cant say I really fancied it—but—like we all know—theres no pressure like no pressure—so of course I said yes—fine with me—if Clara herself was OK with it.

I was glad Id agreed when she turned up—she looked wrecked! I reckon all the activity around the hall when the police arrived had kept her going—but now she was able to relax & take in what had actually happened she was sinking fast through the first stages of shock.

Mary had put her idea to her & shed said yes—but I got the impression that if theyd suggested she slept in the greenhouse shed have agreed. I took her up to my room—Id cleared all my junk off the other bed & she sat down on it. She hadnt spoken a word on our way upstairs—& I didnt know what to say—me—the great psychologist!—so I said Id leave her to sort her stuff out—& I did.

Downstairs Tom & Mary were deep in conversation—with little Miss Minnie in a corner—pretending to read a book but taking everything in. The other children were already in bed—but Min—whos big on rights—like having her
own room—insists on staying up half an hour longer. Tonight—in the excitement—shed drawn it out much longer by keeping a low profile—but Mary finally spotted her & said—Minnie you should be in bed.

Looking for a diversion—shes good at diversions—Min burst out—they should have interviewed me & Paul & the others too—we were there—we were witnesses!

Technically she was right—I thought. Tom & Mary exchanged glances—then Tom said—yes—but I dont think you witnessed anything dear—

—yes I did—said Min—loving center stage.—I saw people wandering around during the storm—at least I think I did—

—did you dear?—said Mary—but I dont suppose thats very important—

—that policewoman thought it was!—riposted Min.

That got their attention.

Tom said—she spoke to you? she asked you questions?—

This was in a quiet scary sort of voice I hadnt heard from him before—& I began to feel sorry for Novello.

—yes—sort of—said Min—she said Id need to do it again properly—on tape—for the record—

She spoke in a different voice too—a bit subdued—like she recognized her dad was really annoyed.

Mary said—all sweet reason—if Minnie wanted to talk to the young woman—thered be no way of stopping her dear—

—perhaps not—but she should have sent for one of us straightaway—said Tom unappeased. Then in his normal tone with a big smile to Min—all right darling—give me a kiss—time you were in bed I think—

This resumption of normal service was clearly a great relief to Min. She hugged him tight—then her mum—then me—saying—will you come & tuck me in Charley?—

I looked at Mary who smiled & nodded.

What Minnie the minx wanted—of course—was a chance to pump me—but when I let her see I wasnt in a pumpable mood she changed tack & said—I wish I could share your room too Charley—Im really scared being by myself tonight—all plaintive enough to melt a glacier!

I said—thats terrible Minnie—tell you what—Ill ask your mum if you can go in with Paul & the others—

That shut her up—& I got out—but not before shed made me promise to take her swimming at the hotel tomorrow! Must think Uncle Sid—being a man—is more pumpable! God—they start young these days!

Before I went down I looked in on Clara to see how she was getting on.

She was lying facedown on the bed—long pale legs sprawled wide—& Im shamed to admit at first all I could think of was the barts Halloween apple buttocks bob-bob-bobbing between them.

Then I realized she was crying—no—weepings the word—sobs coming up from deep deep down—like Icelandic geysers.

I sat down beside her & put my arms around her—thinking I might have been a bit simplistic casting her & Lady D as Sara & Miss Minchin in
A Little Princess.
This was real grief. Or if it wasnt—she deserves a barrowload of Oscars!

I said—there there—& other subtly consoling phrases known only to us professionals—but it didnt help that pretty soon I was sobbing away too—interesting form of mimetic reaction—remember how we always used to set each other off?—mum too—like that time she took us to see
The Bridges of Madison County
—& we got asked to leave!

Finally we dried up—& dried off—& with the barriers down—for a moment at least—she told me that she really owed Lady D whod picked her up at a v low point—just been dumped by her boyfriend (that brought loathsome Liam into my mind first time in days!)—& not getting on with her mums new partner (dad had done a runner before she was born). Then Lady D showed. Seems Claras grandad had been Lady Ds favourite cousin—& when she said come & live with me it was one of those offers you cant refuse. Not that Clara wanted to.

She told me—if I hadnt come to Sandytown I think by now Id have been—well I dont know what Id have been but it wouldnt have been good. Im really going to miss Aunt Daph—I owe her everything—

& you repaid her by shagging the randy bart—who she was saving up for better things!—I thought—my old mean streak reviving for a moment.

But what the hell—in her shoes—or out of them—Id probably have done the same!

By now we were best buddies—sharing theories about what had happened—hers being that it was down to some extreme animal rights group—mine that someone shed crossed—with Hen Hollis at the top of the list—had finally flipped. Both theories were based on the grotesque circumstances—Clara seeing the body in the hog roast basket as an ideological statement—me as demonstrating advanced dementia.

She told me about the policemen whod interviewed her—a sergeant & an inspector—must be that Pascoe—both pretty sharp—she reckoned. I told her about my girl—said Id been impressed too.

Nothing like talking to a trained professional to get you back on an even keel—& eventually she felt well enough to come downstairs & have some nourishing broth—but it didnt surprise me when she excused herself soon after & headed for bed.

When I went up she was sound asleep under the duvet so I wasnt bothered by those long pale legs this time. Thought I wouldnt sleep but went out like a light. Woke early this morning—but not so early as Clara. Met her coming out of the bathroom & we dodged around each other—very much back to our old polite acquaintance. Probably regrets opening up to me last night—common reaction.

But all that was scrubbed from my mind when I got downstairs to find Mary & Tom staring gobsmacked at the
News
article. I could see breakfast was going to be delayed—so I rushed back up to my laptop to give you an update.

Sandytown—Home of the Healthy Holiday!
—What a laugh! Bet your daily round of death—disease—& attacks by passing insurgents—feels really dull now!

God knows what today will bring—Im off to breakfast—need to keep my strength up—but watch this space!

 

Love

Charley xxxx

Could hardly keep me eyes open after Pascoe left last night. Had to ring Cap though. Self-interest. She doesn't bother much with listening to the news—says most of it's lies and all of it's bad!—but the minute she does hear Sandytown mentioned she'd be on the phone, and I didn't want my beauty sleep disturbed.

I was right. She knew nowt. I filled her in and she went sort of quiet, then said she'd heard of Lady Denham, but no one deserved to die like that. I didn't ask how she'd heard of her 'cos I guessed she were on some ANIMA hit list! She said she hoped I wasn't going to get mixed up in the investigation. I said no way, I'm only here for the cure. Any road, Pete Pascoe was in charge and he'd made it pretty clear he didn't want me peering over his shoulder. That seemed to reassure her. While her and Ellie have always been a bit suspicious of each other, she seems to think Pete's a good influence!

After we'd finished talking, I fell into bed and slept like a babbie. Woke up bright and early, feeling best I'd done for an age. Thought it must be down to seeing Pete again. Chatting to him about the case had got me back in the groove, just like the old days. Then Pet came along while I were having me breakfast and said there'd been another murder.

I said, Every time I see you these days, you tell me there's been a murder.

Since our session in the shower, Pet and I have been sort of formal friendly, neither of us referring directly to it, but summat like that between you and a lass is always there. At least if you're my age. Mebbe today's youngsters just take it in their stride, like having a tasty takeaway!

Any road, nowt like murder for taking your mind off sex, and when she said it were headlines in the
Mid-York News,
I asked her to fetch me a copy.

Didn't need to look for the byline. Way it made Pete out to be a cross between Jesus and Hercules Parrot, had to be yon long streak of printer's ink, Ruddlesdin. Him and Pete have always been far too close. For my money, all you get from scratching journalists' backs is dirty fingernails. Hope the sod's got it right this time, else Pete's going to look like a right nana.

Don't know why I was wasting my sympathy on him, but. This must have been that call he got as he were leaving. And the rotten bugger didn't bother to come back in and tell me!

When Pet said Pascoe hadn't been round to interview her or Fester last night, this confirmed it. The cheeky sod were getting ideas above his station. And there was me falling over myself not to get in his way.

Well, all that were changed now. If Ruddlesdin were right and they'd got their man, they'd have spent the night grilling him and if he cracked, the celebration could just be beginning!

And if Ruddlesdin were wrong, Pete 'ud need all the help he could get.

I told Pet I needed to get down to the hall tootie-sweetie, and she said right off she'd give me a lift. I'd like to think it were me manly charm that made her so willing to help, but I soon realized it were interrogation time again, and having me in her car were easier than having me in the shower. She tried hard to find out if I thought the investigation were really over. Mebbe she'd lain awake all night, worrying that, faced with the choice of topping or tupping old Daph, Fester had gone for broke! She must really be hot for the bugger. Has to be true love, being willing to jump into bed with me for his sake! Or mebbe I'm being romantic, and she's got something to hide herself.

As she dropped me off at the hall, she said to be sure to give her a
ring if I needed a lift back, so she were certainly keen to have a second bite at the cherry.

Wouldn't have minded a second bite at hers if I hadn't vowed to be a good boy.

There was a uniform outside the front door, having a quiet fag. Nearly swallowed it when he saw me getting out of the car. Name of Mick Scroggs, I recalled. Nice enough young lad, even if he does come from Mexborough. I asked him where I'd find the DCI. He said he'd called a briefing in the incident room. I were surprised to hear that weren't in the hall itself. Typical Pete that. Me, I'd have been in one of them big drawing rooms with the comfy sofas.

I tapped the young Scroggs's chest afore I moved on and said, “Listen, lad, if I get there and find I'm expected, I'll come back and by the time I've finished relocating your personal radio, you'll be able to get Five Live by farting, right?”

He didn't say owt but I think he got the message.

When I shoved the incident room door open, I thought it 'ud be like old John Wayne coming into a bar, everyone freezing, then diving for cover. Instead, after a moment of shock, it were big smiles all round and folk telling me it were good to see me and shaking my hand, and I started to feel a right old Scrooge. Mebbe Pete's smile were a bit strained, and it's hard to tell if Wieldy's grinning or passing a hard turd, but I swear young Bowler had tears in his eyes and Ivor Novello even gave me a hug!

I could see at once that this was no breakfast celebration, confirmed when Pete said, “Good to see you, sir. I presume you've seen this morning's
News
? You probably won't be surprised to learn that the report of my apotheosis has been slightly exaggerated. So sit yourself down, and if you've got anything you'd like to say, I know we'd all be delighted to hear it.”

The lad's good, no denying it. If he'd gone into politics, he'd be prime minister by now.

The room setup were great, just what I'd have expected from them
two. I clocked the display boards. Everything neatly laid out, connections made with different-color ribbons, just what the troops need. All right having everything correlated on computers, but a screen's a glass darkly. Seeing it up on a display board is what brings you face-to-face.

Couldn't fault the way Pete ran the briefing either. Wieldy were a great help, of course, specially when Pete started using words of more than three syllables. He'd got everyone there, even Jug Whitby for local knowledge. Good thinking. A wise cop makes sure his team can see the wood as well as the trees. Let the buggers compartmentalize and they can miss connections. Pete knew that.

Well, he would, wouldn't he? He'd had a wise cop teaching him!

I don't think any on 'em can have slept much, but Wieldy had got a coffee machine organized and there was plenty of it, thick and black and sweet the way cops like it, none of this modern fifty-seven varieties and all piddle.

Naturally Pete started with Ollie Hollis. Everyone there knew there was a suspect in custody, but they could see as well as I could that no one was popping champagne corks and they had to be told why. Or, because it were Pete, made to work out why.

He said, “The needle driven into his back damaged the spinal cord between vertebrae C-three and C-four, causing paralysis of the legs and arms. Also the shock may have triggered a violent asthma attack. Unable to move from his prone position because of the paralysis, he would have experienced grave difficulties in breathing, which eventually led to asphyxiation.”

It had taken me a while to realize Pete talking like this were deliberate. Me, I like to give it straight in language the dimmest plod could understand. Pete prefers to make the buggers concentrate real hard, ask questions, draw conclusions. The bright ones like Bowler and Novello knew this was a chance to shine.

Bowler got in first here. Found out later from Wieldy the silly young sod were beating up on himself for not having got to Witch Cottage
afore Ollie Hollis got killed. Mebbe that's why he were so pleased to see me—thought I looked like a friendly face!

He said, “You mean there was a significant gap between him being stabbed by the needle and dying?”

“Possibly as much as thirty minutes,” said Pete. “Which means…”

What it meant to Hat was, the earlier the attack had taken place, the better for his guilt feelings! But he's too bright a lad to say that.

He said, “Then it's hardly likely that guy Godley would have hung around all that time with his hand on the needle, is it?”

“No, it's not,” said Pascoe. “Which means his story of discovering Hollis and trying to remove the needle could well be true.”

Even though it was what they'd all been expecting, there was a moan of disappointment.

“We cutting him loose then?” asked Bowler.

“Not yet,” said Pete. “He may be telling the truth about Hollis, but several witness statements mention him having a violent altercation with Lady Denham and until we get a satisfactory explanation of that, he's going nowhere.”

Understandable but dangerous. When the rest of the press, who'd be feeling a bit disgruntled at being upstaged by a provincial rag, realized Ruddlesdin had got it all wrong, they'd likely put his continued detention down as spite.

Now Pete moved on, or back, to Daph's murder.

Wieldy had the PM details and laid them out with his usual precision.

Cause of death strangulation. Contusion on brow looked more likely to have been sustained by, say, falling against a hard object rather than being hit by a weapon. Whatever, someone had almost immediately decided to finish the job off with his bare hands. Or, seeing as Daph weren't in a state to fight back, with
her
bare hands. Good news were that she was dead afore she started grilling. Heat made establishing an exact time of death hard, but they reckoned between thirty minutes and an hour before she'd been discovered.

And there were seminal traces in her vaginal passage.

“You mean she'd been raped?” interrupted Novello, not clever, as Wieldy prides himself on saying what he means.

Pete cut in, “There were no signs of violence around the genital area, and the estimate was that the coitus had occurred some hours before death, so it seems likely it was consensual.”

Wield resumed.

Clothing was charred but a large red stain on the front of her dress had been identified as red wine. Spatter pattern suggested it might have been thrown rather than simply spilled. No glass found at scene, though a champagne cork, some silver foil, cigarette stubs, and food remains were recovered from the hut. Possible DNA samples from food. Partial fingerprint on the foil.

“So we'll need prints from everybody who was at the party,” said Pete.

“In hand,” said Wield.

“Where else would they be?” said Pete.

They did a nice double act, those two, and it got an appreciative laugh.

“Questions, comments,” Pete invited.

Bowler got in quick.

“Sounds like someone had been having a bit of a party in the hut, then did a tidy up, got rid of any glasses or bottles. Wonder why.”

“And what's the result of your wondering, Hat?” asked Pete.

“Could be there was someone else there as well as Ollie Hollis, but they didn't want to draw attention to it,” he offered.

“Good point,” said Pete. He'd got there already, of course, but like I say, he loves to make the buggers think.

Novello now got in on the act. Nothing like feeling upstaged by your rival for putting the brain cells into overdrive.

She said, “If Ollie Hollis suffered from asthma, it's not likely that he smoked, is it?”

I was pretty sure Pete would have worked this out for himself too, but he gave Ivor a big smile and said, “Excellent point. We'll check it out. Not so many smokers around these days. Something to ask everyone you
interview. Now let's think about motives in both cases, which may or may not be connected. I don't want anyone making assumptions till we have firm evidence of a connection. So, motive.”

According to Pete, there were two main lines, the most obvious the usual one: money. Who profited? Daph's lawyer, Beard, wouldn't discuss the will over the phone but was on his way north already. Meaning there has to be serious dosh involved. Them London briefs charge an extra one percent for every mile they go north of Hampstead.

Till he got here, the only person definitely benefiting from Daph's exit was Hen Hollis. (When he were mentioned, Novello shot young Bowler a grin and I saw him wince. Besides not getting to Witch Cottage early enough, seems he'd also run into Hen last night without knowing it. Crap never hits you in single dottles, it comes in volleys!) Jug Whitby, who it seemed to me were a lot guiltier than Bowler for not getting to Ollie earlier, were told off to fetch Hen in. Don't hold your breath, I thought.

The other line was animal rights activists. Hollis's Ham had been targeted, Daph herself had been personally threatened, and various alleged attempts on her life were being examined. (Caught my eye as he said this, like he were signaling, Keep quiet about your part in this—so I did.) Placing her body in the hog roast cage suggested a possible link here.

Now Pete paused again for questions and comments. Straight off, the young 'uns were at it again, scoring brownie points. Bowler tried to make up some of his lost ground by bringing up Tom Parker's bro, Sidney. Way he dresses, the car he runs, obviously lives high on the hog. Pete winced—doesn't like jokes in bad taste—but I reckon it were an accident. Happens to me all the time. Bowler pressed on: As the victim's financial adviser, maybe it was worth looking at the way he was handling her money? Novello chipped in with the notion that maybe Sid Parker and Ted Denham had some deal cooking behind Lady Denham's back. She just happened to know that they'd had a secret meeting at Denham Park, and she speculated that it could have
been about the possibility of turning the Denhams' stately home into a gambling casino or a care facility. Instead of asking her where the fuck all this were coming from, Pete nodded approvingly, so he must have some idea.