The Price of Butcher's Meat (60 page)

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 T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 5 5

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 4 5 6

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you’re standing around a pub bar, bad-mouthing your superiors and letting all and sundry in on confidential police information, you’ll fi nd yourself booted out so hard, you’ll need a cushion when you’re sitting in the benefi ts office trying to persuade them to give you the dole.

Understand me, lad?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. Get back in there then and fi nish 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 confi rms 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 fi ne.”

T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 5 7

“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.”

“I bet he was. Progress is grand, but don’t get ahead of yourself.

Take care.”

“You too, Andy. See you soon, I hope. Next time I’ll remember the grapes.”

Dalziel switched off and stood in thought for a couple of minutes.

What he was trying to think about was the case, but what kept getting in the way was the fact that suddenly he felt bloody knackered.

Could this uneasiness he felt about the investigation just be a symptom of his own debility rather than a sign that Peter Pascoe had got things wrong?

“Andy, are you all right?”

He turned to see Charley Heywood regarding him with concern.

He must have been standing here a bit longer than he thought.

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R E G I N A L D H I L L

“Nay, lass, I’m fi ne.”

“You sure? We got worried, you were so long.”

We
, he saw, as he accompanied her back into the snug, consisted of the Heywoods and Franny Roote.

“Where’s Ruddlesdin?”

“He took off a couple of minutes back.”

Shit. He must have gone out of the back door into the car park and was probably heading back to town now, wanting to be on hand if and when any news came out of HQ. Even if nothing new broke in the next few hours, the Denhams’ arrest would give his fertile imagination more than enough material for a sensational headline.

Not your problem, he told himself.

Charley said, “Would you like George to give you a lift back up to the Avalon?”

He said, “Not afore I’ve finished the pint your brother were kind enough to buy me.”

Hollis and Whitby had been head to head over the bar, but any conversation between them stopped as soon as the Fat Man reentered.

After a moment or two, the landlord said, “Point of law, Mr.

Dalziel. I were just asking Jug: What would happen to all the money Lady D left Ted if it turned out he did have something to do with her death?”

“I’m not a bloody lawyer,” growled Dalziel. “And if I was, likely you couldn’t afford me.”

A sup of his beer as well as smoothing his ruffles reminded him what a good cellar Hollis kept. Also this was a landlord who’d taken him in without comment or objection when he was dressed in jimjams, dressing gown, and one slipper. Such a man did not deserve rudeness.

He said, “But if Sir Ted
were
convicted of murder, he can never touch the money, that’s for sure. I reckon that the other legacies would stand, so you’ll be able to sort out yon dungeon you call a cellar, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 5 9

Alan Hollis regarded him coldly.

“No, it wasn’t bothering me, Mr. Dalziel, and I won’t let it bother me till Lady Denham’s decently buried and the bastard who murdered her’s behind bars.”

“I’m sorry, lad,” said Dalziel fulsomely. “I were out of order. I reckon Ted’s share would be treated like Daph had died intestate. So the family could claim. Blood family, that is.”

“You mean the Breretons?” said Hollis.

“Aye. Doubt if the Hollises would have a claim,” said Dalziel.

“Sorry, there I go again. Us cops have big feet.”

“I’d guess you usually know where you’re planting yours,” said Hollis with a faint smile. “But I really am happy with what I’ve got. I was wondering about young Clara.”

“Depends,” said Dalziel. “How close related is she? And how many more of the Breretons are still alive and kicking?”

Whitby gave a cough and looked at the Fat Man like a schoolboy putting his hand up in class.

Dalziel gave him a permissory nod.

“Daph Brereton were an only child,” he began, “but there were two uncles and an aunt, all dead now, I should think. Derek, that’s the eldest, he had two daughters and a son, while his brother Michael had at least one boy, mebbe more, and Edith had three boys. I think Clara is grandchild to Derek’s eldest son, which makes her a cousin twice removed, is it, or three times—”

“Too far already,” interrupted Dalziel. “If there’s full cousins still alive, plus their children, then Clara’s so far out of the running, she wouldn’t even figure in the betting.”

“For God’s sake!” snapped Franny Roote. “We’re talking about a murdered woman here! We’re talking about people we know who are under arrest, rightly or wrongly—not that that matters, once the law in this country gets its claws into you. The system needs its victims and sometimes it’s not too choosy who they are!”

He ended abruptly, looking rather fl ushed.

Dalziel looked at him goggle eyed.

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“Bloody hell, lad,” he exclaimed. “I thought it were yon Third Thought crap you’d got mixed up with, not Amnesty International!”

“You know me,” said Roote, recovering his normal control. “Always sensitive to an injustice. Not that I anticipate one here. Not with Peter Pascoe in charge, and you getting back to your normal rude health, Andy.”

“Less of the rude,” said the Fat Man. “Sergeant Whitby, now that you’ve displayed your local knowledge, how about putting it to some practical use? When you came in you were moaning on about wasting your time looking for this guy Hen Hollis. Has anyone told you to stop looking for him?”

“No, not as such, but I thought—”

“Don’t start thinking at your age, Jug, it’ll get you confused. Just do what you’re told. Carry on looking.”

“But I’ve looked everywhere,” protested the sergeant.

“Have you looked at Millstone?” asked Alan Hollis.

“No. He’s not been there since Daph chucked him out after Hog died,” objected Whitby. “It’s been let go to wrack and ruin. Why’d he want to go out there?”

“Because,” said Hollis, “it’s his again now, isn’t it? At least it will be, once the will’s settled.”

“What’s Millstone?” asked Dalziel.

“Millstone Farm, where Hog and Hen grew up,” explained Hollis.

“Hog left it to his wife, but just for her lifetime. Now it reverts to Hen.”

“And you reckon he wouldn’t worry about waiting for the legal stuff to get settled afore moving back in?”

“Not too big on legal stuff, Hen,” said the landlord, smiling.

“There you are, Jug. Get yourself out there, take a look. And if you find the bugger, bring him in and let me know.”

“Yes, sir. Where will you be?”

Where will I be? wondered Dalziel. Not at the Hall for sure. The circus and its new ringmaster had left town. No point in hanging T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 6 1

around there like a leftover clown. He could sit around here another hour or so, supping pints. That was tempting. But not as tempting as the prospect of that nice comfy bed up at the home.

He said, “Likely I’ll be up at the Avalon, taking a well-earned rest.

Young George, what fettle? I think I’m ready for that lift now.”

“My pleasure,” said George Heywood.

13

Sergeant Jug Whitby was not a revolutionary. No way was he going to break out the flag of freedom and lead a charge against the monstrous regiment of Andy Dalziel. By rank, by personality, by sheer bulk, the Fat Man held him in thrall.

And yet he was carved from the same hard stone as the superintendent, he belonged in the same long tradition of inde pendent bloody-mindedness, he looked at the world through the same dark- shaded spectacles. In short, he too was a Yorkshireman. Come to think of it, as a Whitby, he was probably a truer bluer Yorkshireman than the fat old sod. What sort of name was Dalziel anyway?

Touch of the tartan there, hint of the whacky macs from over the Border.

So though he was never going to face up to the Fat Man and say Bugger off!, with every yard he put between himself and the actual terrifying presence, his sense of what was due to him as keeper of the law here in Sandytown and district these twenty-five years reasserted itself.

Yes, he’d carry out the order, pointless and stupid though he reckoned it were. But he’d do it in his own time, at his own speed. First he’d assert his statutory right to refreshment by heading home to the Sunday joint cold cut plus bubble and squeak his wife prepared for him every Monday, regardless of season or weather. Then he’d exercise his statutory right to rest by taking his usual thirty-minute nap in his favorite armchair, followed by his statutory right to recreation by watching his favorite American cop show on the box.

And only then, refreshed and restored, would he go and take a T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 6 3

look at Millstone Farm to confirm what he was certain of, that it was unoccupied by anything but rodents, bats, and spiders.

“You’re nivver gan out now?” his wife demanded as he began to pull his boots on about nine thirty.