The Price of Butcher's Meat (46 page)

As they approached the gate of Sandytown Hall, Sammy Ruddlesdin's battered old Fiesta leading the way, George's Land Rover behind, Dalziel saw that he'd been right about the growing media interest. Their way was barred by a pack of journalists and photographers.

Sammy began to brake, but the Fat Man's hand fastened like a clamp about his thigh.

“Accelerator, Sammy, not brake,” said Dalziel. “If the buggers don't get out of the way, run 'em down. Then turn left up the hill.”

At the top of North Cliff, he directed the Fiesta along a skein of country lanes till thirty minutes later he was satisfied they'd shaken off any journalist attempting pursuit. Then he navigated the car back to the coast road and reentered the town by way of South Cliff with the Land Rover close behind.

They parked behind the Hope and Anchor and went into the pub by the rear door. A clever journalist who knew him might have been waiting in the snug, but only Ruddlesdin fitted that bill, and when they entered the room, they found it empty.

“That was fun,” said George Heywood with a grin. “I expect you've worked up a thirst, Mr. Dalziel. What are you having?”

Dalziel nodded approvingly. This was as it should be, young man eager to buy drinks for his elders. But not in this case.

He said, “You can buy me one later, lad. This round's Mr. Ruddlesdin's.”

Sammy said, “Name your poison,” with the complacency of one who knew that any expense docket marked Drinks for DS Dalziel would be passed on the nod.

He took the order to the bar and rang a bell for attention. After a pause, Jenny the barmaid appeared.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “Bit shorthanded. Alan's popped up to the Avalon.”

“Oh aye?” said Dalziel. “Not badly, is he?”

“No, have you not heard? That cousin of Lady Denham's, Clara, she's up there. She had a fall. We got word she recovered consciousness and we had a whip round for some flowers and Alan said he'd run them up there.”

“Friend of his then?”

“We all liked her and we felt a bit sorry for her too, specially Alan, knowing what Lady Denham could be like. He used to say she went over his accounts like a spy satellite, she could spot an error from fifty miles up. I hope the old cow—sorry, shouldn't speak ill of the dead—I hope the old lady's left Clara comfortable in her will. Worth millions, they say?”

She ended on a question mark, looking hopefully at Dalziel.

Bet everyone in Sandytown knows exactly who he is by now, thought Charley. And they assume that, if anyone knows anything, it will be him.

Curiously she found herself assuming much the same.

But all he said was, “Aye, wills are funny things. But isn't Mr. Beard staying here? You'd best ask him.”

“More chance of getting my granda to speak, and he said nowt but Bugger Blair! for ten years,” said Jenny. “Now he says nowt but Bugger Brown!”

She took the order and began pouring drinks. The door opened and Franny Roote rolled through it. His jaw dropped in a show of stagey surprise that felt to Charley as if it concealed the real thing.

“All my favorite people under one roof,” he said. “Mr. Dalziel. Charley. And George. This has to be George, I assume? I see a family resemblance, and Charley's told me so much about you, I feel as if I know you already.”

He reached out and the two young men shook hands. Ruddlesdin came back from the bar, bearing drinks. Roote grinned up at him.

“And it's Mr. Ruddlesdin, star reporter of the
News
, if I'm not mistaken. Long time no see, Mr. Ruddlesdin.”

Sammy said, “Eh?” looked more closely, then glanced from the man in the wheelchair to Dalziel and back again.

“It's Roote, isn't it?” he said cautiously. “Franny Roote?”

“Yes. You interviewed me once, or was it twice? Good piece, lousy photo.”

“I recall. What are you doing here then?” He tried to sound casual, but his eyes were bright with speculation.

“Oh, a bit of this, bit of that,” said Roote, smiling. “So how're things going up at the Hall, Andy? I hear they've taken the bart and his sister in for questioning. Serious stuff, is it? I mean, can we expect a statement soon?”

Again all attention was on the Fat Man.

He took a long draft of his beer, then said, “I daresay.”

“Make a note of that, Mr. Ruddlesdin. Quote of the week. Detective Superintendent Dalziel says, ‘I daresay.'”

It struck Charley that Roote was in a slightly manic mood. There was a sense of barely repressed energy about him, in contrast with his usual aura of cool control.

Dalziel didn't react. His attention was concentrated on the door, which Roote had left open. Suddenly he put his glass down, said, “I need a leak. And I've spat in that beer,” stood up, and went out. Charley saw him step into the path of a young woman who'd just come down the stairs into the passage between the snug and the main bar. He paused as if to apologize, then the door swung shut behind him.

“So, George,” said Roote, “have you come to rescue your sister? Must be worrying for your family when suddenly the Home of the Healthy Holiday turns into the Costa de Muerte!”

“Rescue Charley? You must be joking,” laughed George. “As far as I'm concerned, she's always been the one who did the rescuing.”

“I can believe it,” said Roote. “Ever since she came here, we've all felt ourselves very much the object of her attention. We shall miss her when she finally goes.”

Charley felt herself disproportionately complimented by what was, after all, a mere polite token of regret.

She said, “So what was this interview about, Mr. Ruddlesdin? I didn't realize Franny was famous.”

Roote looked quizzically at the journalist who, perhaps for the first time in his adult life, felt embarrassed.

But he was saved from replying by the door opening again, this time to admit Alan Hollis.

“Sorry, Jenny,” he said. “Been rushed off your feet?”

“No, it's been fine. How's Clara?”

“Broke an arm and a leg and some ribs, still pretty shocked, but they say they're pleased with her,” replied Hollis. “They just let me in long enough to pass on everyone's good wishes, and the flowers, of course. She said to tell everyone thank you, and that was about as much as the poor love could manage.”

“Anyone got any idea what happened yet?” asked Ruddlesdin.

“Not yet. Seems she can't recall a thing.”

“Folk are saying that the Hall was never a lucky place for them as lived there,” said Jenny. “That's why it stood empty so long afore Hog Hollis bought it. And look what happened to him. Then Lady Denham. Now poor Clara.”

“You saying she's inherited the Hall?” said Ruddlesdin sharply.

“I've no idea,” said Jenny. “If anyone deserves it, she does.”

“Don't worry, lass. Everyone will get what they deserve,” said Dalziel, who had somehow reentered the room without attracting attention. Nimble on his pins for a big man, thought Charley.

The barmaid looked unimpressed by the Fat Man's assertion and Hollis said, “Right, Jenny, I'll take over here. You get back to the bar.”

“How do, Mr. Hollis,” said Dalziel. “Everything all right up at the Avalon?”

The landlord repeated what he'd told the others, adding, “All the nurses were talking about that healer fellow, Godley, him as is one of Tom Parker's circus. Seems they were all dead worried she'd never wake up, or not be right when she did, then after he'd been with her a couple of minutes, she opened her eyes and was fine. Makes you think, doesn't it?”

“Godley? This the same guy they thought they'd caught in the act at the acupuncturist's last night?” asked Ruddlesdin, his nose twitching at the scent of a good human interest story.

“The guy
you
thought they'd caught in the act,” said Dalziel heavily. “If he decides to sue the
News
for that piece you wrote about him, likely you'll need his healing touch once your editor's done with you.”

He sat down, drained the rest of his beer, looked at George, and said, “Now you can buy me that pint, lad.”

As George went to the bar, the Fat Man said to Charley with a ponderous archness, “Does make you think, but. Handy chap to have around, yon Godley, if he's really got the gift.”

Charley yawned to indicate her indifference to this geriatric matchmaking.

Roote said, “Might come in handy for your thesis, Charley. Or have the last couple of days redirected your interest away from alternative medicine to offender profiling?”

She said coldly, “I'll be glad to get back to my own work.”

“Ready to come home then, Charley?” said George, placing a foaming pint in front of the Fat Man.

She became aware that Roote and the Fat Man were both looking at her, waiting for her answer.

She said, “Yes, but I'll stay as long as I think I can be useful at Kyoto House. This business has put a lot of strain on poor Mary.”

It sounded nice and altruistic, she thought, so long as no one cared to inquire if sitting in a pub supping ale was the best way of helping a friend take care of her family.

The door opened again. In stepped Sergeant Whitby. He clearly
had the tunnel vision of one who has spent too much time fantasizing about a drink so cold you could trace your name in the condensation on the glass.

With never a side glance at the seated drinkers, he made straight for the bar, sank on a stool, and said, “Pint of the usual, Alan. I've bloody well earned it.”

“Bad day, Jug?” said the landlord, who'd started drawing the pint as soon as the door opened.

“Bad!” echoed the sergeant. “I've been running around half the county looking for that daft cousin of thine, all because yon fancy Dan from CID says
it's imperative we talk with Mr. Hen Hollis.
”

As parodies of Pascoe went, it wasn't bad, thought Dalziel. He wondered if he should interrupt before the sergeant got more personal, but decided it might be fun to wait.

“The bugger's nowhere to be found, so finally I gives up and goes along to the Hall to report in. And what do I find? Only that they've arrested yon Ted Denham and his sister and they're taking them off to headquarters for questioning. Did anyone think to give me a call and let me know? Did they, buggery! No, all that long streak of gull shit and his bunch of fairies can think of is—”

“JUG!”

The word fell on Whitby's ears like the clap of doom.

He spun round on his stool. The expression on his face made Munch's
Scream
look like a smiley.

“Mr. Dalziel,” he stammered.

“Outside,” said the Fat Man.

He slammed the door behind them so hard those inside felt the increase in air pressure.

“How long to retirement, Jug?” he asked.

“Nine months, sir.”

“Full sergeant's pension?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No, sir! I ever get as much as a sniff of a whiff of a rumor that
you're standing around a pub bar, bad-mouthing your superiors and letting all and sundry in on confidential police information, you'll find yourself booted out so hard, you'll need a cushion when you're sitting in the benefits office trying to persuade them to give you the dole. Understand me, lad?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. Get back in there then and finish your drink. Say nowt to no bugger. If the pub bursts into flames, don't even yell, Fire! You got that?”

“Got it, sir.”

He waited till the chastened sergeant had reentered the snug, then he walked outside into the street and thumbed a number into his mobile.

“Pascoe.”

“What the fuck's going on?”

“Good day to you too, Andy. Glad you rang. I was just going to call you and bring you up to speed. I've decided that we need to move things on a bit. The Denhams have both been arrested and are presently en route to HQ for formal interviews. We don't have the facilities here and of course we don't have secure accommodation.”

“You're going to bang them up?” asked Dalziel incredulously.

“I don't anticipate releasing them in the next few hours,” replied Pascoe carefully.

“So what brought this on?”

Pascoe related Esther's version of the discovery of Lady Denham's body.

“She's stuck to it. Her brother sticks to his story, i.e., that he was banging Sidney Parker till the storm broke. Parker confirms the timings. And both Ted and Esther assure me they were together all day till you picked them up, thus alibiing him for Clara Brereton.”

“The phone calls?”

“Oh yes. He had pat answers there too. He rang her in the morning to see how she was. She was interrupted in her reply and promised to ring him back later, which she did, to say she was fine.”

“Bit risky if it's a lie, when he don't know what she's going to say when she wakes up.”

“Perhaps he did know. We got hold of his mobile. Last call he made just before you and Novello turned up at the park was to the Avalon. I reckon he got hold of Feldenhammer, whistled a couple of bars of that vulgar song you told me about…”

“‘The Indian Maid.'”

“Indeed. Then he invited the doctor to give him a full and frank account of the patient's progress. ‘Miraculously conscious' must have been bad news. But total memory loss must have fallen on his ears like the Pilgrims' Chorus.”

“That another vulgar song then? Isn't this all a bit clever-clever for someone who keeps his brains in his boxers?”

“Not when you've got your sibylline sister murmuring in your ear.”

“Thought her name were Esther.”

“Oh, Andy, Andy. I have to go now. Naturally I'm heading back to HQ to take charge of the interrogations.”

“Naturally. You talked to Desperate Dan yet?”

“Of course. I promised the chief he'd be the first to know about any significant development. He was pleased to hear there's been progress.”