mouth shut. Have you seen her face? By the way, talking of battered wives, I had lunch with yours today. Funny company she keeps.'
'It would seem so,' so Pascoe.
'Aye. That Lacewing. At the Aero Club. The fellow who runs it. Greenall, his name is, do you know owt about him?'
'Never heard of him,' said Pascoe. 'Why?'
'Nothing really. Just that while every other sod was saying how strange it was for an important fellow like me to be wasting his time on a tuppenny-halfpenny break-in, he just seemed to take it for granted. Still, the world's full of funny buggers and he pours a liberal Scotch. What else have you been up to that I ought to know about, Peter?'
Pascoe told him about Wildgoose and his visit to the Linden Garden Centre.
'Odd sod, is he?' said Dalziel.
'Not by contemporary standards,' protested Pascoe. 'In fact, of his type, almost conventional.'
'Abandons his family, screws young girls, dresses like a teenager, and spends his holidays on the golden fucking road to Samarkand? That's conventional, is it?' snarled Dalziel. 'God, give me the Dave Lees any time. At least he was born a bloody gyppo.'
This interesting sociological discussion was interrupted by a tap on the door. It was the desk sergeant.
'Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there's a young lady downstairs. Name of Pritchard. She's a solicitor, sir. Says she's come about Mr and Mrs Lee.'
'That Lacewing bitch!' roared Dalziel. 'Tell her to… no, just tell her the Lees are no longer being held here. If she doesn't go quietly, ask to see her authorization to represent them. And if she can't show you that, which she can't, boot her out.'
'I'm not to mention the hospital then, sir?' said the sergeant.
Dalziel clasped his huge grizzled head in his large spatulate hands.
'Oh God,' he said. 'No wonder murders get done! You mention the hospital, Sergeant, and you're likely to end in it. Get out!'
His bellow almost drowned the telephone bell. Pascoe picked up the receiver. It was Harry Hopper at the lab.
'That fertilizer you sent us. Well, that's what it is. Fertilizer. Proprietary brand, just like it says on the bag. No usable prints on the bag. Yes, the same stuff as they found on McCarthy's clothes. But as we know, that doesn't signify as there were bags of the same stuff in Mr Ribble's shed.'
'Thanks, Harry,' said Pascoe. 'I didn't expect any more.'
'Is that Hopper?' demanded Dalziel. 'Ask him if he's got owt for me yet.'
'I heard,' said Hopper before Pascoe could relay the message. 'There's a report on the way. Nothing startling, except that the money had been sodden wet, then dried out.'
'Wet?' echoed Dalziel who had brought his right ear close to the receiver. 'How wet?'
'The notes had been totally immersed in water and then dried out. Simple as that,' said Hopper. 'It's in the report.'
Pascoe and Dalziel looked at each other speculatively, then the fat man made a dismissive gesture towards the phone.
'Thanks, Harry,' said Pascoe.
'Hang about,' said Hopper. 'I hadn't finished with you when we were so rudely interrupted. We also had a look at the sack.'
'The sack?'
'The one you'd put the fertilizer bag in. We're very thorough despite the lack of proper appreciation.'
'And?' said Pascoe, aware of Dalziel's imminent impatience.
'Much more interesting. Dust, earth, the expectable stuff. Plus a few soft fibres. And a scattering of small globular achenes. He doesn't keep canaries, your man, does he?'
'What do you mean? And what's an achene?'
'A small hard plant-seed. In this case the plant is cannabis sativa. You'll often find its achenes in bird-food. But if you're not dealing with a bird-fancier, my boy, you're probably dealing with a hash-fancier. Someone's been growing Indian hemp on your patch!'
Chapter 17
This Friday seemed to have stretched out long enough to end the world, let alone the week. And it was still a long way from being over.
Dalziel set off for the lab. He liked to see people face to face when they were telling him something important and the report on the money he regarded as being of the essence. Not even Pascoe's awkwardly expressed opinion that the notes' erstwhile wetness was more likely to prove Lee's innocence than his guilt could deter the fat man.
'The girl was drowned, wasn't she? Near the fairground. Where the Stanhope girl was murdered. Your idea about the missing clothes is all right, Peter. But it's only a theory. Lee's mixed up in it somewhere. There's too many close connections for coincidence.'
'Close?' said Pascoe.
'Like I said, there's the fairground. And don’t forget, Lee and the Stanhope girl were related,' said Dalziel triumphantly.
'By marriage. And very distantly!' protested Pascoe.
'There's no such thing as a distant relation by marriage,' said Dalziel coldly. 'If you don't know 'em, they're close. And if you do know 'em, they're here.'
And off he went, leaving Pascoe to meditate on the Wildgoose connection. When he found himself hypothesizing that the whole of the Linden Garden Centre had been given over to the growth of cannabis and that the murders were in reality a series of gangland killings triggered off by the Mafia's attempt to muscle in on the Mid-Yorkshire rackets, he shook his head, drank a cup of canteen coffee (the strongest anti-hallucinogen known to science) and got Control to raise DC Preece's car for him.
'Report,' he said.
Wildgoose had left the house shortly after Pascoe, Preece told him. He had walked about a quarter of a mile to Danby Row, a street of substantial Edwardian semis not yet overtaken by the spread of multiple occupation though on the fringe of the bed-sit area where Wildgoose's flat was situated. Here he had gone into No 73, where he had remained for forty-five minutes before returning to his flat.
'Was he carrying anything?' asked Pascoe.
A plastic carrier bag. Yes, he'd still got it when he left the house on Danby Row. On the way back he had gone into a bread shop and bought a loaf.
Pascoe said, 'All right, Preece. We can't tie up your valuable body like this for ever. Jack it in now. But on your way back here, find out what you can about who lives at 73 Danby Row. Pretend to be a Mormon missionary or something. On second thoughts, the way you look, a trainee window-cleaner touting for business would be more convincing. See me when you come in.'
Covering up for my superiors, putting down my subordinates, have I finally joined the establishment? wondered Pascoe uneasily.
He picked up his phone again and got through to the hospital to talk to Wield.
'Any word on Lee yet?' he asked.
'They reckon it's a perforated ulcer,' said Wield. 'His wife says he's been suffering with his guts for months. They're going to cut him open and take a look, but not till this evening. The silly sod grabbed a jugful of water and drank about half a gallon while he was lying around, so they won't touch him till that's safely out of the way.'
'Is he still going on about being assaulted?' asked Pascoe.
'I don't know. They won't let me near him. Do you want me to stay?'
'I think so,' said Pascoe after a moment's thought. 'I know it's a bore, but in the circumstances…
