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.”