his lordship's features to a cyclonic luridness. Pascoe could admire that. He said soothingly, 'Yes, sir, it's a tragic business, and naturally we're all very keen to see that justice is properly done now and all due reparation made…'
'Reparation? What possible reparation can you people make? God, you can't even be consistent in your errors! That's twice you've buggered me about. Not satisfied with ruining my career, now you wait till I've published my memoirs so you can make a silly arse of me all over again! Thank God I was able to hold back the paperback when I first got wind of this farce. I'm going to have to rewrite a whole chapter, do you realize that?' And Pascoe recalled that whatever order being a lord and a writer and a human being came in, Thomas Partridge was a politician first, foremost and forever. And a disappointed one, the most dangerous sport of the species. You don't feed hungry lions with organic yogurt. Confucius? Or Dalziel? He said insinuatingly, 'If I were you, sir, I'd maybe hold back on the re-write a bit longer.' The wrath cleared from Partridge's face like an April squall. 'Now why do you say that?' he wondered. 'Fellow who came yesterday seemed to think it was all cut and dried. Police cock-up, bad apple, mea culpa, won't happen again sort of thing. Odd dried-up kind of fellow. Me, I prefer bad apples to wizened prunes, I must say. What're you doing in this morgue? This is where we put the bailiffs and local party officials.
Come through here.' He led the way into a light, airy and infinitely more comfortable room. There was a tray on a small table bearing a jug, a couple of mugs and a bottle of rum. 'Sit down. Have some cocoa.
Mustn't have coffee any more, it fouls up the system or so the quack says. Rum?' Pascoe shook his head. 'Suit yourself,' said Partridge, lacing his own mug liberally. 'Now tell me, young man, what exactly are you doing here?' It was time for a drop of honesty, but not too much. Even rum-pickled politicians had been known to choke on that heady brew. 'In fact, as you may have guessed,' said Pascoe flatteringly, 'I'm only sort of semi-official. It's just that when a Force comes under investigation, we like to protect our backs, if you follow me.' 'I can understand that,' said Partridge. 'But this is old news. You'd be a mere boy, there's no way your back needs protecting.'
'It's, I don't know, a matter of honour, I suppose,' tried Pascoe.
Partridge smiled and said, 'Honour, eh?' He took a crested spoon out of the sugar bowl, studied it carefully, then said, 'One; and counting.' Pascoe said, 'All right. Friendship then. Superintendent Tallantire had friends. If, as has been alleged, there has already been one fitting-up, they don't want to see it compounded by another.' ‘If? The Kohler girl's roaming free, isn't she?' 'Yes.' 'So are you suggesting that perhaps she is really guilty after all?' 'No, I mean, look, to be quite honest, sir, as you so rightly point out, it was all well before my time. I'm merely trying to help out…' He put on his boyish appealing face, the one Ellie said set old ladies reaching for the biscuit barrel. 'Help a friend who's one of these friends who're bothered about Tallantire, is that it? I suppose it does you credit. Tallantire's dead, isn't he?' 'His widow isn't,' said Pascoe sternly. 'Spare me the indignation, young man. All I meant was, he can't sue. Mickledore neither. So the ideal solution would be to find that Mickledore was in fact guilty as charged, and that Superintendent Tallantire in his eagerness to make the charge stick interrogated Kohler overzealously and browbeat an admission of complicity out of her.' 'Ideal for the Home Office, perhaps.' 'Whereas if Mickledore were innocent also, and Tallantire was misled rather than a misleader, then that means there was a frame-up perpetrated presumably by the real killer. So tell me, Mr Pascoe, is it as a witness or a suspect you now want to talk to me?' He sat back in his chair and sipped his rummy cocoa and smiled benignly. Stamper had been right in detecting the sharp mind beneath the flummery. 'From my reading of the case, you had a fairly… substantial… alibi.' Partridge laughed. 'Young Elsbeth, you mean? Yes, she was certainly substantial. But as Tallantire pointed out at the time, not without a hint of satire, her estimate of my performance time and my own didn't quite gell. Curious thing, sex. At the age when you want to spin it out forever, often you can't control it. Then later when you'd love a bit of the old explosiveness, it takes so long you sometimes fall asleep. Hello, my dear. Come in and meet another of our wonderful bobbies.' A woman had entered the room. She was dressed for riding and if, as Pascoe guessed, she was Lady Jessica, clearly the pursuit of foxes was less ageing than the pursuit of fame. Her face flushed and her eyes bright from her exercise, she looked twenty years younger than her husband though in truth she was sixty-three to his seventy. Behind her, Pascoe could see a man of about forty, also wearing riding gear. Pascoe recognized him from the papers. This was Tommy Partridge, MP, Minister of State in the Home Office, and a coming man. He was also a going man. Deterred either by the prospect of being nice to a copper or by the glance his mother shot at him, he turned and clattered away.
'You're a small improvement on the last one,' said Lady Jessica, running a cold eye over him. 'But I hope this isn't going to become a habit.' Pascoe had long grown used to discourtesy but this took him by surprise. Partridge with the ready oil of an old politician said, 'Mr Pascoe's come in person rather than phoning just so that he can get my autograph on his book, wasn't that good of him? I'm most flattered.
What's your first name, Mr Pascoe?' He took the book and opened it at the title-page, pen poised. 'Peter.' Pascoe thought that Dalziel would probably have gone on asking questions about Partridge's night with Elsbeth Lowrie despite or perhaps because of Lady Jessica's presence, but every man has his own weapon. He said, 'You were out of the country during the trial, I believe, Lady Partridge. But presumably you followed it via the media?' ‘I don't think we had media in those days, did we, dear?' joked Partridge but his wife replied grimly, 'Why do you presume that?' 'Because of your personal involvement,' said Pascoe. 'A friend was murdered. Another friend accused. It would be natural for you to follow it in the papers. Or if not, surely you and your husband would refer to the trial when you corresponded?' 'He was no friend of mine. Nor was she,' said the woman. 'Is there a point to this catechism?' 'I was merely wondering if you, or you, Lord Partridge, felt any doubts about the verdict or had any reservations about the conduct of the investigation at the time?' Partridge's mouth opened, but his wife was quicker off the mark. 'No. I thought the police behaved with great propriety if not to say delicacy. Policemen still knew their place in those days. As for the verdicts, I saw no reason to question them then any more than I do now. Mickledore was a wastrel, the girl was clearly unstable.' 'Come, come, my dear, de mortuis…' 'The Kohler creature is not dead, Thomas, but roaming free, because of gutlessness in high places!' Pascoe was fascinated enough to risk a provocation. He said, 'You mean you disapprove of the Home Office decision?' She glowered at him and said, 'I presume you are unsubtly referring to my son's recent promotion. Don't worry, his time will come. But meanwhile this gang of grocer's assistants and board school boys have to be allowed to overreach themselves so that decent people can see them for the third-raters they are. Then perhaps we'll see our flag raised high again, instead of wrapped round the balls of cretinous untermensch rioting outside football grounds!'
Pascoe pressed on, 'But the new evidence offered by Miss Marsh…'
'Marsh? What has she to do with anything?' 'It was her evidence about the blood which helped persuade the Home Secretary to release Kohler,' said Pascoe. 'When I talked to her earlier, she implied that if she'd been aware of the importance of this at the time of the trial she would have spoken up then. Now it's understandable that, immersed in her duties and a thousand miles away, she did not keep abreast of events. But you, ma'am, and you, sir…' There was a crack like a gunshot. It turned out to be Jessica Partridge slapping her boot with a riding crop, a gesture Pascoe had never encountered outside of a bodice- ripping movie. 'I've got better things to do than stand here and be quizzed about the oddities of domestics, particularly that Marsh woman,' she cried. 'She remembers your family with great affection,' said Pascoe. ‘Indeed? I find that surprising as the last time I spoke to her was to dismiss her for inefficiency and insubordination,' said Lady Partridge. 'Thomas, I shall shower before lunch. Mr Pascoe, goodbye. I don't expect I shall see you again.' She walked out, splay-footed in her riding boots, her jodhpured haunches swaying centaurishly. Pascoe regarded Partridge blankly, waiting to see if he intended to follow his wife down this patrician road or whether the politician would still hold sway. 'Some more cocoa, Mr Pascoe? No? I think I will.' The rum bottle gurgled. He drank deep, sighed with pleasure. 'Good stuff. My family has old West Indian connections. I spent a long period out there in my youth. This was one of the better habits I picked up.' 'You took your family out to Antigua after the Mickledore affair, didn't you, sir?' 'You have been doing your homework. Good. I approve. That's right. I had come to accept the kind of assault on privacy that government service opens one up to, but I saw no reason why my family should have to put up with it.' It was nobly spoken but with a sufficient hint of self-mockery to make Pascoe risk a familiarity. 'And it must have been easier to speak with one voice when there was only one voice speaking?' 'What? Oh yes. I get you. My wife is an understanding woman, Mr Pascoe. But a private understanding is not the same as a public complacency. No way I could trot Jessica out as the loyal little wife like so many of them did. No, those were dangerous days, desperate days. The Press had been after us all, of course, ever since Jack Profumo talked himself into a corner. There was a new rumour a day; headless men, men in masks, congas of copulating ministers stretching from Whitehall to Westminster! I came in for my fair share of attention, being young and sociable. But once the word got out about me and Elsbeth, I was everyone's favourite fucker. God, the indignities I had to undergo to prove that at least I didn't figure in anyone's snapshots.
