41
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR George Headingley may not have scaled the promotional heights, but he had performed the feat unusual in police circles of achieving his modest eminence without standing too hard on anyone’s face.
Therefore as his colleagues, CID and Uniformed, gathered in the Social Club that night to say their farewells, the atmosphere was more than usually cordial. Pascoe had been to farewell parties where the attendance had been meagre, the jokes sour, and though the banners read Good Luck! the body language spelled Good Riddance. But tonight everyone had made an effort to attend, the contributions to the leaving present had been generous, and the laughter already rising from the assembled men, especially those at Headingley’s crowded table, was good humoured and full bellied.
There’d been a special cheer of welcome and some spontaneous applause when the door had opened to admit Detective Constable Shirley Novello. This was her first public appearance since the shooting which had put her out of commission since the summer.
She looked pale and didn’t move with her usual athletic spring as she advanced to take the seat offered her next to George Headingley, who won another cheer by standing up and greeting her with a kiss on the cheek.
Pascoe went to the table and leaned over her chair.
“Shirley, it’s good to see you. Didn’t know you were coming.”
“Couldn’t miss the chance of making sure the DI really was leaving, could I?” she said.
“Well, don’t overdo it,” he said. “You know what they say about too much too soon.”
“Yes, dead before twenty,” said Headingley.
Beneath the roar of laughter which this evoked, Wield said in his ear, “Pete, Dan’s here, but still no sign of Andy.”
“Great.”
Though Headingley’s popularity was great enough for Uniformed to be there in numbers too, this was essentially a CID party, and Dalziel’s absence meant the duties of host devolved upon him.
He went forward to welcome the Chief Constable.
“Glad you could make it, sir,” he said. “Looks like everyone’s determined it’s going to be a great night.”
Even as he spoke his eyes told him that he was wrong. Trimble’s features had the cast of a man who’d come to bury someone rather than praise him.
“Where is he?” asked the Chief curtly.
“George?”
“No. Mr. Dalziel.”
“On his way,” said Pascoe. “Let me get you a drink, sir.”
On his way wasn’t a positive lie as, presumably, wherever Dalziel was, he purposed at some point to arrive at the Social Club, therefore, whatever he was doing, he could be said to be on his way there.
But the positive truth was that Pascoe hadn’t the faintest idea where the Fat Man was. He had seen him briefly on his return from the Centre but a phone call had taken him away before he could enlarge upon his comment in response to the question of how he’d got on with Dee: “Yon bugger’s too clever by half.”
While being too clever by half was not in itself a guarantee of criminality, it was certainly true that several men so categorized by Dalziel were currently doing The Times crossword before breakfast in one of Her Majesty’s penitentiaries.
Bowler hadn’t been able to add much more about Dee, but he was voluble about his own discoveries and was clearly hurt just this side of the sulks by Wield’s reduction of them to a self-mutilating lexicographer and a German poet who changed his name ’cos he got the piss taken out of him, neither of whom seemed to have any discernible relevance to the case in hand.
For a small man, Dan Trimble had an authoritarian way with a large drink and had downed three of these with no apparent effect on his frame of mind when Pascoe glanced at his watch and murmured, “Show time, I think, sir. The natives are getting a little restless.”
“What? No, no, what’s your hurry? The DI seems to be enjoying himself. Another few minutes won’t hurt. No word from Andy yet?”
“’Fraid not, but any moment now, I’m sure…”
And as if he’d been waiting for his cue, the Fat Man erupted through the main door, emanating good cheer like the Spirit of Christmas Present. Making his way across the room towards Trimble, he paused to smite Headingley on the shoulder, ruffle Novello’s hair, and utter some good thing which set the table on a roar. Then he arrived at the bar, accepted the large Scotch which materialized there, downed it in one, and said, “Made it then! Would have hated to miss your speech, sir.”
“Miss my…? Andy, you said you’d ring.”
“I know I did, and I would have done, only things got a bit complicated…”
He put his arm round Trimble’s shoulders and drew the Chief aside and spoke earnestly in his ear.
“Like Lord Dorincourt giving some friendly advice to Little Lord Fauntleroy,” murmured Pascoe to Wield.
“At least it’s stopped him looking like he’d had his budget cut,” said Wield as Trimble’s expression first of all relaxed, then eased itself into a positive smile as the Fat Man smote his hand to his breast in a histrionic gesture of reassurance.
“I think he’s just sold him a used policeman,” said Pascoe thoughtfully.
Dalziel came to join him as the Chief Constable wandered over to Headingley’s table and put his hand on the DI’s shoulder and made a joke which won a laugh as loud as Dalziel’s had.
“Dan’s going to make the presentation then?” said Pascoe.
“Always was,” said Dalziel.
“Am I going to find out what’s been going on?”
“Why not? Read that.”
He pulled some creased papers out of his pocket and handed them over. Trimble had moved into the centre of the room, there were cries for order, and after the inevitable responses of “Mine’s a pint” had won their inevitable laughs, he began to speak without notes. He had an excellent public manner and as he rehearsed the highlights of the retiring detective’s career with wit and eloquence, it was hard to believe that he’d had any reluctance to be doing so.
Pascoe, who didn’t need to be told of Headingley’s virtues, glanced down at the papers Dalziel had given him. His glance soon became fixed, and after the first reading he went through them again, then gave Dalziel’s ribs, or at least that stratum of subcutaneous fat beneath which he guessed they were situated, an insubordinate poke and hissed, “Where the hell did these come from?”
“You recall Angie, Jax Ripley’s sister, at the funeral? These are copies of e-mails from Jax to her.”
“I’d gathered that. I mean, how did you get hold of them?”
“Angie rang Desperate Dan afore she left for the States on Sunday. When she told him what she were on about, he said he’d like to see copies so she put ’em in the post. No lift on Sunday so he got ’em this morning.”
Their muttered conversation was attracting attention so Pascoe took the Fat Man’s sleeve and drew him away from the bar to the back of the room.
“Watch it,” said Dalziel. “That’s as nice a piece of worsted you’re pulling as you’d see on the Lord Mayor of Bradford.”
“You see what this means? Of course you bloody well see. Georgie Porgie. A fat, cuddly senior officer. Ripley’s Deep-throat was Headingley not Bowler!”
“Aye,” said Dalziel complacently. “Always a bit of a swordsman, George. Hung like a donkey. Resemblance didn’t end there, but.”
The Chief Constable was warming to his task and talking about old-fashioned virtues like loyalty to one’s colleagues and utter reliability.
“You knew!”
“Not till he went sick after she got topped. Then I got to thinking, maybe I’d done young Bowler an injustice. I mean, Ripley were a smart lass. If it’s information you’re after, you don’t start snogging the office boy.”
“And the Chief…no wonder he was having kittens about making the presentation. Doesn’t look good if the
