A Killing kindness

On his return to the station he was held up at the entrance to the car park by the emergence of an ambulance. He watched it move quietly down the service road, turn into the main traffic stream and was interested to note that only then did its lights start flashing and bells clanging.

Entering, he went straight up to Dalziel's room.

'Where the hell have you been hiding?' demanded the fat man.

'What's up? I saw an ambulance.'

'You don't know? God, you'll go far. Lily-white hands,' sneered Dalziel. 'They've just carted Lee off to hospital, all right?'

Pascoe was not offended by his superior's tone. He'd grown accustomed to his style and besides, he could see the fat man was worried.

'What happened?'

'Nothing. I had a few words with him. He just kept on moaning about this pain. I thought he was shooting the shit so I…'

'Yes, sir,' prompted Pascoe.

'I just yelled at him,' said Dalziel. 'What do you think I did? Next thing, he's lying on the floor. Well, then I called the quack. He says it could be appendix, he's not sure. Those bastards never are! So we got an ambulance.'

'You were alone when you questioned him, sir?'

'Yes,' said Dalziel.

Pascoe thought for a moment. He'd never seen his superior quite so ill at ease before.

'You'll have called the ACC, sir?' he said.

'That twat! Why should I want to call him?'

'Before someone else does,' said Pascoe. 'Excuse me.'

He went downstairs. Wield was ahead of him, studying the logged entries of the Lees' admission.

'Trouble?' said the sergeant.

'If we all do our duty, we'll come to no harm,' said Pascoe. 'Let's have a look at the chimney.'

He whistled when he saw the book.

'That's a long time.'

'And he was complaining from when he arrived. Said he'd been punched,' said Wield.

'The woman, she's still here?' asked Pascoe. 'Jesus! Get her out, get her down to the hospital, you go with her. And hang about there. Take a WPC to keep an eye on her, you watch him. They're both in police custody still, right?'

Back in Dalziel's office he found the fat man talking on the phone.

'Yes, sir,' he was saying. 'Both of them. She may be an accomplice.'

Pascoe scribbled on a bit of paper and passed it over. Dalziel glanced at it. His tone became injured.

'Of course, sir,' he said. 'She's at the hospital now. With one of my sergeants and a WPC. We're not without feelings, sir.'

He winked conspiratorially at Pascoe who felt at the same time relieved and uneasy. He was willing to close ranks a bit, but he had no intention of letting loyalty loom larger than legality. That was all right for the public schools, not so hot for the public service.

'That's all right then,' said Dalziel, replacing the receiver. 'Thanks, Peter.'

'For what? I was just tidying up,' said Pascoe.

He must have stressed the particle more than he intended.

'As opposed to covering up?' said Dalziel. 'Not to worry, lad. I won't drag you to the scaffold with me! Or mebbe that bugger Lee won't come out of the anaesthetic eh? They're mostly black buggers down there, operate with assegais!'

He roared with laughter.

'Or mebbe he'll be too busy answering charges to make them,' he continued.

'I hope you haven't got him lined up for the Stanhope killing, sir,' said Pascoe, glad to be back at the job in hand. 'I think you'll find he's about nine inches too tall.'

'Eh?'

Briefly Pascoe sketched his interview with Rosetta Stanhope.

'Christ, this should have been spotted earlier,' said Dalziel angrily. 'This has been bloody sloppy. And it's not the only thing either.'

In his turn he related the news about Brenda Sorby's money and the suspected tie-up with the notes found in Lee's caravan.

'What made you look in the flour jar, sir?'

'It was out of place up there with his valuables,' said Dalziel. 'Silly bugger probably didn't like to leave it in the kitchen where it'd have been inconspicuous but might have tempted his missus!'

'You don't think she knew about it?'

'Who knows?' said Dalziel. 'It'll be interesting to see whose prints are on the notes, if those idle buggers at the lab ever get round to looking at them! Whether she knows or not, Lee's got his own subtle methods to keep her mouth shut. Have you seen her face? By the way, talking of battered wives, I had lunch with yours today. Funny company she keeps.'

'It would seem so,' so Pascoe.

'Aye. That Lacewing. At the Aero Club. The fellow who runs it. Greenall, his name is, do you know owt about him?'

'Never heard of him,' said Pascoe. 'Why?'

'Nothing really. Just that while every other sod was saying how strange it was for an important fellow like me to be wasting his time on a tuppenny-halfpenny break-in, he just seemed to take it for granted. Still, the world's full of funny buggers and he pours a liberal Scotch. What else have you been up to that I ought to know about, Peter?'

Pascoe told him about Wildgoose and his visit to the Linden Garden Centre.

'Odd sod, is he?' said Dalziel.

'Not by contemporary standards,' protested Pascoe. 'In fact, of his type, almost conventional.'

'Abandons his family, screws young girls, dresses like a teenager, and spends his holidays on the golden fucking road to Samarkand? That's conventional, is it?' snarled Dalziel. 'God, give me the Dave Lees any time. At least he was born a bloody gyppo.'

This interesting sociological discussion was interrupted by a tap on the door. It was the desk sergeant.

'Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there's a young lady downstairs. Name of Pritchard. She's a solicitor, sir. Says she's come about Mr and Mrs Lee.'

'That Lacewing bitch!' roared Dalziel. 'Tell her to… no, just tell her the Lees are no longer being held here. If she doesn't go quietly, ask to see her authorization to represent them. And if she can't show you that, which she can't, boot her out.'

'I'm not to mention the hospital then, sir?' said the sergeant.

Dalziel clasped his huge grizzled head in his large spatulate hands.

'Oh God,' he said. 'No wonder murders get done! You mention the hospital, Sergeant, and you're likely to end in it. Get out!'

His bellow almost drowned the telephone bell. Pascoe picked up the receiver. It was Harry Hopper at the lab.

'That fertilizer you sent us. Well, that's what it is. Fertilizer. Proprietary brand, just like it says on the bag. No usable prints on the bag. Yes, the same stuff as they found on McCarthy's clothes. But as we know, that doesn't signify as there were bags of the same stuff in Mr Ribble's shed.'

'Thanks, Harry,' said Pascoe. 'I didn't expect any more.'

'Is that Hopper?' demanded Dalziel. 'Ask him if he's got owt for me yet.'

'I heard,' said Hopper before Pascoe could relay the message. 'There's a report on the way. Nothing startling, except that the money had been sodden wet, then dried out.'

'Wet?' echoed Dalziel who had brought his right ear close to the receiver. 'How wet?'

'The notes had been totally immersed in water and then dried out. Simple as that,' said Hopper. 'It's in the report.'

Pascoe and Dalziel looked at each other speculatively, then the fat man made a dismissive gesture towards the phone.

'Thanks, Harry,' said Pascoe.

'Hang about,' said Hopper. 'I hadn't finished with you when we were so rudely interrupted. We also had a look at the sack.'

'The sack?'

'The one you'd put the fertilizer bag in. We're very thorough despite the lack of proper appreciation.'

'And?' said Pascoe, aware of Dalziel's imminent impatience.

'Much more interesting. Dust, earth, the expectable stuff. Plus a few soft fibres. And a scattering of small globular achenes. He doesn't keep canaries, your man, does he?'