The Price of Butcher's Meat (41 page)

Once again Pascoe arrived at Sandytown Hall to find Wield in full control.

“She didn't look good,” said the sergeant. “Head injuries, God knows what bones are broken, very faint pulse. Didn't dare touch her because of worrying about her spine. Ambulance service said it would be half an hour minimum, mebbe more. Big pileup north of York. All the roads snarled up. Didn't know if she'd last half an hour. Thought of trying to whistle up a chopper, then Bowler said, ‘What about the Avalon?' I rang them, seems they've got the lot up there, small ambulance, paramedics, plus fully kitted intensive care unit. Fortunately the tide was way out, so the ambulance could get round the rocks. Never thought I'd say thank God for private medicine!”

“So what do they think?”

“No feedback yet. I've sent Novello up there to keep an eye on things. I've secured the whole of the cliff path and the private beach. And I've recalled the CSIs.”

They were standing on the ledge looking at the broken rail. The wood had certainly rotted where the screws fastening it to the metal stanchion had penetrated. The cord that had been used to make it good was still in place round the stanchion, but the rail had snapped off a few inches farther along where the wood was reasonably sound.

“Would need quite a bit of pressure to break this, I should have thought,” mused Pascoe. “And wasn't there a warning notice?”

“Over there,” said Wield, pointing to a square of hardboard lying facedown a couple of feet along the ledge. “Could have got blown down during the storm.”

“And the pressure?”

“Stopped to take a breather and admire the view. Leant her full weight against the rail. Crack, and she's gone.”

“She didn't look all that heavy to me. Could there be someone else involved?”

“Me and Bowler can't have been more than a couple of minutes behind her. No way anyone could have evaded us by coming up. If they went down, they must have moved like lightning. The beach was completely empty when we reached the ledge.”

“But you still called the CSIs?”

“I'd have called them even if I'd seen her fall,” said Wield. “When you're investigating murder, every death's suspicious.”

“Quite right,” said Pascoe, starting to climb back up to the garden. “It doesn't sound like Brereton will be answering questions for a while, if ever. You say she was found in Lady Denham's room. What we need to work out is what she was after there.”

“Mebbe she were looking for these,” said Wield, producing the photos. “Bowler found them. He spotted a drawer we'd missed in the desk. Seems his parents wanted him to go into the family cabinet-making business.”

“Maybe he should have taken their advice,” grunted Pascoe ungratefully. He examined the photos. “They look like they're having fun. Any identification yet?”

“Haven't had much time since I got them,” said Wield. “Been a bit busy.”

“Sorry. Leave them with me then. And I'll get Frodo Leach to check out the drawer. Now let's talk to Bowler, see if there's anything more he can remember.”

Wield said, “Young Hat's a bit shook up, Pete. I think he reckons he should have got to Witch Cottage earlier and possibly have saved Ollie Hollis. Now he's blaming himself for not stopping the lass when she said she was going for a swim.”

“That sounds like a step in the right direction,” said Pascoe indifferently.

They found Bowler at the top of the path. He looked close to the point of collapse. Wield's heart went out to him, but Pascoe said, “You look like shit, Hat. Either snap out of it, or go home. You're no use to anyone like this.”

There had been a time, thought Wield, when he'd have held the lad's hand and tried to talk him out of his depression.

On the other hand, this new approach seemed rather more effective. Bowler straightened up and said, “I'm fine, sir. Really.”

“That's the ticket,” said Pascoe heartily. “So let's go through it all again, from the moment you noticed someone in the hall.”

He took the young DC through events step-by-step. When they'd finished, Pascoe said, “Thanks. Now go and write your statement while it's still fresh.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Bowler.

He still did not look happy, but at least he no longer looked defeated.

“Mebbe when he's done, he should go home,” suggested Wield.

“What on earth for?” said Pascoe. “We need all the bodies we can muster.”

“Way things are going, seems we're getting a steady supply of them,” retorted Wield, for once letting himself be provoked.

Pascoe looked at him unblinkingly for a second, then his face relaxed into a rueful smile.

He said, “Sorry, Wieldy. Maybe it's me should be sent home! Three bodies and counting. Oh shit. And here's three more I could do without.”

They looked across the lawn. Around the side of the house, a motorcycle combo came laboring. The reason for the strain on its engine was not far to seek. Behind Godley on the pillion sat Charley Heywood, her arms wrapped round the healer's waist, while in the sidecar, like the effigy of some oriental god paraded to bless the rice crop, rode a serious-looking Andy Dalziel. By contrast, Gordon Godley wore a blissful smile.

The combo came to a halt. PC Scroggs, eager to atone for his ear
lier dereliction, came hurrying forward, his face stern with the resolution of Horatio about to confront the ranks of Tuscany. Then he spotted Dalziel, skidded to a halt, and went into reverse.

Pascoe did not move but let the Fat Man come across the lawn to him.

“Pete, lad,” he said. “Just heard the news. How's the poor lass?”

“We're waiting to hear. Andy, what are you doing here? And why have you brought those two?”

“Fair do's, I think they brought me. And not to worry, I think I've talked them out of making a complaint against you. In fact, if you've got any sense, you'll kiss and make up with yon Charley and get her onboard. She's bright as old Fester's teeth. Oh aye. That's one of the reasons I'm here. You asked me to talk to Pet and Fester, remember? But first things first, this Clara, did she jump or were she pushed?”

Pascoe noted the old familiar imperious tone and recalled his feelings of loss and despair when he'd first seen the Fat Man stretched out in intensive care, as lifeless and forlorn as some deserted hulk found floating on a silent sea. To see him now, masts restored, wind filling his sails, should have been an undiluted joy; but was that just a small breath of nostalgia he felt ruffling his soul?

He ignored it and said, “Looks like an accident. She was going down the cliff path, reached the ledge with the dodgy rail, leaned against it, and it gave way. But we're keeping an open mind.”

“For God's sake!” exclaimed Charley Heywood, who'd followed the Fat Man across the lawn. “Can't you two stop being cops for a minute? Who gives a fuck how it happened? How's Clara? That's the main thing.”

Pascoe stared at her for a moment, then said quietly, “Of course it is, Miss Heywood. But as none of us can know how she is until we hear from the Avalon, where she's been taken, forgive me if I carry on being a cop for the time being.”

Dalziel made a face at Charley that she read as an admonition to keep her mouth shut, then he said, “So what happened then?”

In response to a nod from Pascoe, Wield told his story.

Dalziel said, “So if there had been anyone else involved, they'd have had to get down the cliff almost as fast as the poor lass to be out of sight by the time you got there?”

“That's right, sir,” said Wield. “And there definitely weren't anyone down there.”

“He could have hidden in the cave.”

All eyes turned on Charley.

She said, “If someone pushed Clara over, he could have heard you coming down the path and hidden in the cave till you went rushing down to the beach after Clara, then climbed up here and headed off through the woods.”

Dalziel regarded her with a parental pride.

“Told you she were bright,” he said.

Pascoe said, “Oh yes. The cave. I remember. In your e-mail. The cave where you claim to have seen Sir Edward and Miss Brereton in flagrante.”

Charley noted the
claim
and recalled the Fat Man telling her that Pascoe was inclined to take everything she said with a pinch of salt.

Before she could give battle, Wield said, “Where exactly is this cave, miss?”

“It's off to the left from the ledge,” she said. “Up a bit, among the shrubs. If you look, you can see a faint track.”

Pascoe and Wield exchanged glances.

Wieldy said, “Shall I…?”

“No,” said Pascoe. “Just in case, let's not risk contamination. Leave it to the CSI. Thank you, Miss Heywood. Anything else you'd care to contribute?”

His tone was even and polite, but to Charley it felt as if it were dripping with sarcasm. She looked at the Fat Man. He returned her look blank-faced but she read there an assurance,
I promised I'd say nowt without your say-so. Up to you, lass.

She said, “There is something else, Mr. Pascoe. About the cave. I
made a mistake. It wasn't Clara I saw there with Teddy Denham. It was Sidney Parker.”

Pascoe passed his hand over his face, hiding any reaction.

“Not Clara Brereton but Sidney Parker. I see,” he said musingly. “Well, that was certainly quite a mistake, Miss Heywood. What relevance it might have I don't know, but before we draw any conclusions from it, we need to be absolutely sure—”

Dalziel, seeing the young woman was once more ready to be provoked, got in quickly, “We've been through all this, Pete. Miss Heywood's sure. Me too.”

“In that case, sir, the matter is, of course, beyond all doubt,” said Pascoe, draining all irony from his voice. “To be quite clear, Miss Heywood, your error was only in the personnel involved, not in the activity? The two men were also in flagrante?”

Charley said, “Yes. Ted was definitely buggering him.”

The Fat Man grinned. He was beginning to really like this lass.

Pascoe showed no emotion. “So in the light of this, are you now saying that all that stuff in your e-mails about Ted Denham coming on to Miss Brereton, not to mention yourself, was probably a misinterpretation also?”

Charley looked as if she might be considering physical violence for a moment, then said, “No way. All right, to some extent it might have been a smoke screen to put Lady Denham off the scent, but at a guess I'd say Ted's bisexual.”

Pascoe echoed, “A smoke screen? To hide what? And why?”

“From what little I got to know about Lady Denham, I'd say there wasn't much chance of her leaving anything to a gay,” said Charley.

“Except mebbe a couple of her evening gowns,” said Dalziel cheerfully.

Again Pascoe looked from the woman to the Fat Man.

He said, “If I could have a word in private, sir?”

He set off walking toward the hall. Dalziel winked at Charley and followed.

“So you weren't here when the lass got attacked?” he said as he caught up.

“No,” said Pascoe shortly. “I was visiting Franny Roote.”

“You mean interviewing him?”

“That too. It's all right, Andy. As I told you last evening, I can keep my personal feelings and professional responsibilities separate.”

“As the bishop said to the actress,” said Dalziel. “So, this private word you want—not in trouble, am I?”

“Only like Brer Rabbit in the bramble bush,” said Pascoe, halting and turning to face the Fat Man. “I'd like to get back to your agreed professional involvement in the investigation, if you don't mind. Perhaps you'd care to tell me how you got on with the interviews you volunteered to do at the Avalon?”

Dalziel grimaced and said, “Getting a bit above myself, am I? Old habits, eh? Like me, they die hard. From now on in, I'll play it by the book. You're the boss.”

“I know I am,” said Pascoe. “The interviews. Sir.”

Dalziel gave him a digest of his conversations with Sheldon and Feldenhammer.

“And your conclusions?”

“Ho'd on. I'm not done yet.”

Now he gave an account of his visit to Kyoto House. As he related Minnie Parker's contribution, Pascoe groaned.

“Jesus, Andy,” he said. “We've already had Tom Parker banging on about Novello interviewing the girl without a responsible adult present. If he finds out you've been questioning her about people screwing on the beach, you could be in big trouble.”

“It weren't like that,” protested Dalziel. “She just came out with it. Could be completely the product of her imagination for all I know.”

“I don't think so,” said Pascoe, producing the envelope with the photos. “Anyone you recognize here?”

Dalziel examined them for a moment, then said, “Hope old Fester rubbed some sunblock onto his buttocks.”

“Fester? This is Dr. Feldenhammer, is it?”

“Oh aye. No doubt. And the lass must be this Indian lady Minnie told us about.”

“Indeed. I'm afraid this means we'll have to talk to the girl again. I'll try to play down how we got the info, but maybe you'd better start working on a good explanation of how you came to be talking to her unofficially without a responsible adult present.”

“Don't preach to me, lad, not till you've started shaving,” retorted Dalziel, forgetting his recent resolution to play the underling. “Any road, Charley Heywood's a responsible adult, and a bright one too. I'm not the only one straying off the straight and narrow here. She lays a complaint about you bugging her private conversations, you'll know what trouble is. If I were you, I'd start building bridges with that lass.”

“No conversation with a suspect in custody can be called private,” declared Pascoe, trying for the forensic high ground.