Then to the Fat Man he said, “How do, sir? Seems that some joker thought it would be funny to deliver the Captain here a load of bullshit.”
“Now why on earth should anyone want to do that?” said Dalziel.
8
When Pascoe told Hat Bowler that they were going to see Lavinia Maciver, the young man was bewildered. No fool, he’d picked up the message over the past twenty-four hours that the brass, for reasons best known to themselves, were bent on keeping him away from Blacklow Cottage, and this morning he’d thought mutinously of ignoring Dalziel’s suggestion that he might like to spend Saturday at his desk, easing himself back in to work. He was after all still officially sick, and the sweet medicine of fresh-baked bread shared with Miss Mac’s family of birds was surely the better therapy.
But a suggestion from Dalziel was like an offer from a Mafia godfather-you rejected it at your peril.
In the car he sat in silence, his bewilderment changing visibly to distress.
Pascoe tried light conversation but in the end he pulled over to the verge and said, “Right, Hat. My idea in bringing you along was, first, to make sure I didn’t get lost. And, second, to reassure your friend, Miss Mac, that she had nothing to fear from my visit. But with you sulking and brooding in the background, she’s going to think at the very least I’ve come to put her birds in an aviary. So what’s bugging you?”
“It’s just that I don’t know what’s going on, sir,” he said.
“Join the club. But it’s part of a DC’s job description that much of the time he won’t have the faintest idea what’s going on, so there has to be more. Either spit it out, or I’ll get on the radio and rustle up a car to take you back to the station.”
The thought of Pascoe going on alone did the trick.
Hat said at a rush, “It’s just that there’s something you might notice when you’re there, and I didn’t mention it because I didn’t think it was any of our business, not in the circumstances, and what with the new guidelines and everything…”
“Whoah!” said Pascoe. “Take it slowly, Hat. Like you were giving evidence in court. Then maybe I’ll have some faint idea what you’re talking about.”
Hat took a deep breath and started again.
“The first time I was there, I noticed there was a bit of a smell but what with bread baking, and the windows open so that the birds can get in and out, it didn’t really register. Then yesterday I started working in the garden, and though the stalks were all dried up I thought, hello. Then I checked in the lean-to greenhouse and there were these trays of shoots and, though I’m not an expert, I thought I recognized what they were.”
He halted as though he’d reached a conclusion.
“Radishes?” suggested Pascoe. “Spring onions? Jerusalem artichokes? Come on, Hat. Spit it out.”
“Cannabis,” blurted the youngster wretchedly.
“At last. So let’s get this straight,” said Pascoe. “You’re saying Miss Maciver smokes cannabis? And grows it in her garden?”
“Yes, sir, but it’s medicinal, it’s for her MS and, like I say, I thought with the new guidelines coming in…”
“We apply the law. We don’t interpret it, nor do we anticipate it,” said Pascoe sternly. “Have you talked to her about this?”
“No, sir.”
“That at least is a relief.” Pascoe looked at the unhappy young man for a moment then went on, “Are you going to lighten up or would you rather stand by the roadside looking miserable till the car comes to pick you up?”
Hat said, “I’ll be fine, sir. Really.”
He wanted to ask what Pascoe was going to do about the dope but, though young, he was wise enough to know that some answers were like plastic filler-they only hardened up when exposed to air.
He didn’t know whether to be pleased or not when, on approaching the cottage, he saw the wine-coloured Jaguar parked outside.
“Mr Waverley’s here,” he said to Pascoe.
“So I see.”
On setting out, if asked, Pascoe would have declared a preference for finding Miss Maciver alone. But now, instead of disappointment, he began to see a way of short-circuiting matters.
The front door was open so Hat led the way straight in with the confidence of an habitue. He found there was no need to affect relaxation and pleasure; the smell of new-baked bread, the welcoming smile on Miss Mac’s face, the excited flutter of wings, all these combined to flood his heart with content.
Even Mr Waverley, seated at the kitchen table, seemed pleased to see him, though his gaze grew speculative as it passed to Pascoe whose nose so far had picked up nothing but the mouth-watering smell of baking.
“Hello, Miss Mac,” said Hat. “How’re you doing? You’ve met Mr Pascoe, I think. He said he was coming out this way, so I got a lift.”
Pascoe noticed the not-too-subtle effort at dissociation and smiled.
“Good morning, Miss Maciver,” he said. “And Mr Waverley, too. How are you, sir?”
“I’m feeling particularly well at the moment,” said Waverley. “The year’s at the spring and day’s at the morn: God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.”
“I’m glad to hear it, said Pascoe. “Though you might get an argument in Whitehall or Washington.”
Miss Mac had pulled out a chair for Hat and when he sat down she pushed the loaf on the table invitingly towards him and a couple of tits fluttered down from the roof beam to settle on his shoulders.
“And Mr Pascoe, won’t you sit and have a bite or a cup of tea at least?” she said.
“Yes, Mr Pascoe, why don’t you take my chair?” said Waverley, rising. “I have to be on my way, I’m afraid.”
“You keep busy for a retired man then?” said Pascoe.
“Oh yes. When you’ve spent a lifetime in my kind of work, even in retirement you’re always in demand,” said Waverley, meeting his eye and smiling. “Tax problems never go away, do they?”
“Indeed not. In fact, you might be able to help me there, if you wouldn’t object to my picking your brain,” said Pascoe.
“By all means. Why don’t you walk out to the car with me?” said Waverley.
He said goodbye to Miss Mac and Hat. Pascoe noticed that though the birds were unfazed by Waverley’s proximity, they didn’t seem to treat him with the same easy familiarity they displayed to Hat, but that might only have been down to the youngster’s energetic way with a loaf of bread.
As they walked down the garden path together, Waverley said, “So, how can I help you, Mr Pascoe?”
“By telling me the truth,” said Pascoe.
Waverley made no effort to look puzzled. He walked on in silence as if considering his reply, then shook his head.
“No, Mr Pascoe, you’ve got it wrong. That is not how I can help you. In fact that would be quite the reverse of helping you.”
Pascoe said, “I think I should be the judge of that.”
A rather sad little smile touched Waverley’s lips.
“Mr Pascoe, all the portents are good for you, all the smart money is saying you will go far. According to your confidential file, which of course doesn’t exist, you have most of the right qualities. You are clever, perceptive, sensitive, discreet, articulate; you have a natural authority but you are not a bully; you are willing to listen to the opinions of others but you are not afraid to make hard decisions. And you do not make the same mistake twice. But there are some mistakes it is fatal to make even once. If you examine the credentials of all those who have climbed the slippery pole before you, you will find one thing they have on top of all the qualities I have just listed. They are able to recognize there are things they should not be the judge of. This is one of them. It is unnecessary for you and it would be unhelpful for you to be told the truth. I have a telephone number you can ring to receive confirmation of this, but in the greater scheme of things it would be marked down as a mistake for you to have found it necessary to make such a call. So let us part friends, me to resume the even tenor of my retirement, you to continue along the busy highway of crime investigation. I’m sure there is work enough there to occupy all the livelong day.”