was the mysterious last utterance of the dying millionaire in Citizen Kane. The Fat Man could be brutally sarcastic if he felt his underlings were patronizing him. “Bowler’s never seen the movie so it meant nothing to him. More important, of course, is whether it meant anything to the councillor.”
“Mebbe. But I can’t see Stuffer going to the flicks unless there was free popcorn. You say young Bowler gave him the kiss of life?”
“So I understand,” said Pascoe.
“Braver man than me,” declared Dalziel. “I’ve had me doubts about the lad, but I reckon anyone who can give Stuffer Steel the kiss of life ought to be put up for the Queen’s Medal!”
Pascoe glanced nervously around in case there was anyone in earshot ready to be offended, but the mezzanine floor which included Hal’s cafe-bar and a book and souvenir shop was deserted except for a couple of uniforms. He’d been reluctant to close the Centre completely, but Dalziel had had no such qualms on his return.
The Fat Man was staring up at a security camera as if contemplating ripping it off the wall.
It wouldn’t have made any difference if he had.
One of the first things Pascoe had done was send Wield up to the security office on the top floor in the hope that there’d be something on video. His own expert eye had told him that the system was far from the state-of- the-art set-up you might have expected in such a new complex. Old-fashioned fixed cameras, and not a lot of them. But he hadn’t been prepared for the news that Wield returned with.
“You won’t credit this,” he said to Pascoe. “System’s not on during the day.”
“What?”
“No. Theory is that the sight of the cameras is deterrent enough. Wouldn’t have been on at night either if Stuffer had had his way.”
“Stuffer?”
“Aye, ironic, isn’t it? Every penny they spent on building this place, they got a battle from Stuffer over it. They had to let him win a few small victories else they’d never have got it finished. Security was one of them. He got the budget for installation, use and maintenance cut by eighty per cent. It was either that or lose a couple of staff.”
“Shit,” said Pascoe. “But it does mean that whoever did this probably knew he wasn’t on Candid Camera. That’s something.”
“Not much consolation to Stuffer, wherever he is, knowing if he’d not been so penny-pinching, he might still be here,” Wield had mused.
“How long’s yon sodding quack going to take?” demanded the Fat Man, turning his attention from the useless camera to the side corridor where the Gents was situated. “What’s he doing in there, for God’s sake? Going through Stuffer’s pockets for change?”
Yon sodding quack was the police medical examiner who was presently examining the councillor’s body. When Bowler’s judgment that Steel was definitely dead was confirmed by the paramedics, Pascoe had made them leave the body where it was, both to prevent further contamination of the scene and to please the imminent superintendent who had been heard to aver that looking at a murder site without a corpse was like eating an egg without a waxed moustache.
“I’m sure he’ll be out shortly,” said Pascoe.
“Talking of bogs, where’s our Boghead at now?”
“Up in the gallery with Wieldy, taking statements.”
There’d been some muttering when he’d told the remaining preview guests that they could not leave till they’d been interviewed, but he’d been adamant. The near certainty that the murder weapon was Jude Illingworth’s lost burin made everyone in the gallery a potential witness. Pursuing the departed guests was going to soak up a lot of man hours, so it made good sense to hang on to those still in the gallery.
“Not that bright when he’s a key witness himself, Pete. It’s his statement I want to hear. Get him down here, will you?”
Pascoe had learned not to defend himself against Dalziel’s reproofs. No way you could win even when you were entirely in the right. Also there was a trade-off, which was that if anyone else dared reprove you, the Fat Man was usually ready to interpose his own body, even if you were entirely in the wrong.
In this case, Pascoe, seeing how shook up the young detective had been by his discovery of the body, had thought it best to keep him fully occupied. Now he went personally to fetch him. It was an act both kind and professional. Bowler must know he wasn’t the Fat Man’s favourite son at the moment and could easily be intimidated into stupidity. So a bit of tender loving reassurance would be timely, both to cheer him up and to make him a better witness.
In the gallery he found the previewers had adopted a defensive huddle round the priapic totem pole, like a herd of antelope scenting a marauding lion. An exception to this was Edwin Digweed who was patrolling round the group with a look of repressed rage on his face, more leonine than cervine. Bowler and DC Dennis Seymour had set up tables by the doorway, presumably to prevent flight, and were busy taking down details. Bowler’s witness was a man so nervously prolix that Pascoe stood around for several minutes before finally intervening by placing one hand under the man’s elbow, easing him out of the chair, and guiding him through the exit, the whiles murmuring the platitudes of gratitude.
“Thanks,” said Hat with a smile that faded when Pascoe told him the superintendent would like a word.
“Just tell him what you told me,” said Pascoe. “You know Mr. Dalziel, he likes to hear things from the horse’s mouth. I’ve already told him that in my opinion you acted with good sense and dispatch and did everything by the book.”
The youngster looked a little reassured and Pascoe asked, “Where’s Sergeant Wield, by the way?”
“He’s through there,” said Bowler, indicating one of the small side-galleries running off the main exhibition area. “There were a few people who’d left the preview but we managed to catch them before they got out of the Centre and he thought it best to keep them separate from this lot as they might be able to tell us something about the councillor’s movements downstairs.”
Plus, having left the gallery, as well as possible witnesses they were potential suspects, thought Pascoe. He strolled across the gallery and peered into the side-room. Among those gathered there he spotted Sam Johnson and Franny Roote, engaged in close conversation; also Dick Dee and Rye Pomona, similarly occupied. He thought of wandering in and suggesting to Wield that he took a specially close look at Roote, then cancelled the idea, partly because it felt neurotic, but mainly because he was sure Wield wouldn’t need any prompting.
“You OK on your own here for a while, Dennis?” he said to Seymour.
“No problem,” said the redheaded DC cheerfully. “Oh, by the way, I processed Mrs. Pascoe first and she said to tell you she’d see you at home later.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” said Pascoe sincerely, knowing that in Seymour’s case the thought would not have included the possibility of ingratiating himself by doing the DCI’s wife a favour. “I would suggest you take Mr. Digweed’s statement soon otherwise I think he’ll explode.”
“Right,” he said as he left the gallery with Bowler, “you might as well take me through the sequence en route.”
“Fine. Well, we came out and down the stairs like we’re doing now
…”
“We being…?”
“Me and Rye, that’s Miss Pomona who works in the reference library.”
“Good. And were there others coming down the stairs at the same time?”
“Oh yes. Quite a lot, in front and behind.”
“Did you notice anyone in particular? I know I asked you before, but as we’re actually on the stairs now…”
Bowler shook his head.
“Not really. Like I said earlier, we were pretty deep in conversation, me and Rye-Miss Pomona, I mean…”
“For heaven’s sake, call her one or the other. I’m not interested in your romantic life,” said Pascoe.
“Sorry,” said Bowler. “Well, when we got here, people started going off different ways.”
They were approaching the mezzanine level which had the huge disadvantage from an investigative point of
