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 flushed.
Dalziel looked at him goggle eyed.
“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 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 independent 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 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.
“I told you. Got to take a look out at Millstone.”
“It’ll be pitch black by the time you get out there. Not a spot I’d want to be in the pitch black,” she said. “Won’t it keep till morning?”
After the long and outwardly visible internal debate necessary before any self-respecting Yorkshireman accepted female advice, he nodded and said, “Happen tha’s right. But if the phone rings, you answer it, and if it’s yon fat bastard, tell him I’m out!”
Upright, in the light and warmth of his sitting room, this boldness felt good. Prone in the dark of his bedroom, it soon began to feel foolhardy, and every time he woke during a restless night, it felt foolhardier.
Not long after dawn he rose, resolved to get the useless task out of the way before he was required to explain his dilatoriness.
It occurred to him as he drove slowly up the long, deep-rutted, weed-overgrown lane to Millstone Farm that the last time he’d made this journey, he’d been bringing the sad news of Hog Hollis’s death.
Hen, sole occupant of the house since his brother’s success had taken him to Sandytown Hall and the Lordship of the Hundred, hadn’t invited him in, notwithstanding it was a bitter day and a gusting wind was shooting volleys of sharp sleet against his unprotected back. So he’d wasted no words as he broke the news on the doorstep.
“Hog’s dead.”
“Dead,” said Hen.
There was no question mark but Jug had treated it as a request for confirmation.
“Aye,” he said. “Stroke. Pigs had started on him when they found him.”
“Right then.”
And the door had closed.
Maybe Hen Hollis had retreated to his kitchen and sat there recalling younger, happier days with his brother. Maybe he had wept.
More likely, according to local speculation, he had wandered round the house thinking, It’s all mine now!
If so, there were bigger shocks than his brother’s death to come.
The revelation that everything had been left to Hog’s relict had devastated Hen, but the local speculators weren’t short of explanation.