'Nowt, except I thought you and her would be on the same wavelength.'
Stamper shrugged in an effort at unconcern and said, 'In the end, daughters get from their fathers whatever they want. It's sons who have to make do with what their fathers want.'
They were moving much faster now and Dalziel realized that they had got on to a motorway. It must be the M1l. He reached into his inside pocket and took out the large-scale OS sheet he had bought on his way to Stamper's flat. As far as he could make out, the cottage where he hoped to find Kohler was close up against the boundary wall of something called the Ongar Estate, and well off the beaten track.
When Stamper turned off the motorway on to the main road leading to the town of Ongar, he said, 'Slow down, it gets a bit complicated soon.'
He gave directions in clear unambiguous terms with plenty of time for Stamper to adjust. After a series of twists and turns on to progressively narrower roads, Dalziel said, 'All right, pull over.'
Stamper obeyed, bringing the car to a halt on a grass verge. He got out and looked over the hedge across empty fields.
'Lost, are we?' he said.
'No. We passed it a quarter mile back.'
'So what the hell are we doing here?' 'There's a lane down to this cottage. I could see the roof of a car half way down.' 'So she's got a car.' 'Mebbe. But it looked a funny place to park a car to me. More likely they've got a minder.' Stamper said disbelievingly, 'But you're a police superintendent.' 'That's no reason to throw my weight around,' said Dalziel rebukingly. 'Besides, the walk'll do us good. I reckon if we stroll across this field and through yon wood, we'll hit the wall of the Ongar estate that Kohler's cottage is up against. Then we'll just have to follow the wall round till we get there.' As a broad outline, it proved correct. What it omitted was all reference to brambles and briar, bog and barbed wire. Both men bore the marks of their presence by the time they reached the high boundary wall, though surprisingly Dalziel's technique of ploughing straight ahead regardless of obstacles had resulted in rather less damage than Stamper's attempts at circumnavigation. Finally Dalziel said, 'There we are, sunshine. What did I tell you?' The wall curved inwards in a deep U, at the centre of which stood a small cottage. Dalziel didn't make for it straightaway but instead seemed more interested in a pair of holly trees growing against the wall to form a rough archway. In the darkness beneath it was a narrow gate set in the wall. Its flaky rusty bars didn't look as if they had been opened in years but his nose had caught the heavy smell of oil amid the sweet perfume of hawthorn and wild rose. He stooped beneath the hollies and touched the gate. It swung open without a sound. ‘Interesting,' he said, turning back to the cottage. 'Let's see if there's anyone at home.' He walked across the neglected patch of garden to the rear door and tried it. It was locked. Then he walked round the building peering through windows.
'Why don't we just knock?' demanded Stamper. 'There's someone in. I can hear a radio.' 'Aye, you're right,' said Dalziel with heavy sarcasm. 'Must be someone in if there's a radio on. That's the first thing they teach burglars.' 'Are you saying they've gone? I mean really gone? Couldn't they just be out for a walk somewhere?' 'You reckon? Not very inventive for a writer, are you?' 'All right! Just stand where you are!' The words came from behind them. Dalziel turned.
A large young man in baggy slacks and a crumpled linen jacket was staring at them aggressively. 'Morning,' said Dalziel. 'If you want the folk in the cottage, they seem to be out.' 'Out?' echoed the man in puzzlement. Then reverting to aggression he demanded, 'Who the hell are you?' Dalziel flushed indignantly and said, 'I'm Lord Ongar's estate manager and this is his lordship, and he doesn't care to hear language like that. Who are you, anyway? Don't you know this is private property?' The man began to look uncertain and said, 'I'm sorry, but I've got to ask…' 'Oh, you're official, are you?' said Dalziel. 'Mr Sempernel said there'd be someone here taking care of things. We'd better just have a glimpse of your authority to be on the safe side.' The man pulled a wallet from his inner pocket and showed the fat man an identity card. 'Right,' said Dalziel. 'Fair enough.
Perhaps we should have given notice, but we were just out inspecting the estate and his lordship took a fancy to step through the wall and take a look at our famous neighbour.' 'Through the wall…?' 'Aye.
Through the gate,' said Dalziel pointing. The gate clearly came as a shock to the young man. He tried it as Dalziel had done, then went to the back door of the house and, as Dalziel hadn't done, started to beat on it. 'No use,' said Dalziel. 'They're out. But they can't have gone far. They left the wireless on.' 'Oh shit,' said the young man.
Then, remembering Dalziel's reproof, he flashed an apologetic smile at Stamper, said, 'Excuse me,' and hurried away up the lane. 'What's all this Lord Ongar crap?' asked Stamper. 'Was he a cop? Where's he gone?
And where are Kohler and Waggs?' 'Sort of cop but not the sort you ask the time of,' said Dalziel, shepherding Stamper rapidly back the way they'd come. 'He's gone to radio in. I dare say when he mentions us, he'll get told to move his arse back to the house and finger our collars.' 'What for?' 'Personation for a start. You could be in big trouble.' 'Me? I did nothing.' 'You personated a lord, I only pretended to be an estate manager. Not to worry. He'll go chasing after us through yon little gate. We'll be long gone by the time he realizes he's wrong.' 'And Cissy Kohler? Where's she gone?' Dalziel shook his head at the man's obtuseness. 'Where'd you want to go if you'd been banged up for all them years? Unless we've set the dogs on her trail too soon, I'd say that Cissy Kohler's well on her way home.'
FIVE
'What is it?' 'News from the other world!' Within two minutes of driving out of the Partridge estate, Peter Pascoe suspected he was lost. The clincher was a small village pub called the Pear Tree which he was sure he hadn't passed on his outward journey. A good cop noticed such things. He stopped before it to examine his map, glanced at his watch, groaned at how late it was and decided that this might be his best chance of getting a bite to eat before evening. The pub was empty except for a solitary drinker who looked like he could be on his way to a Wizard of Oz party as the Scarecrow. 'Morning,' said Pascoe as he went to the bar. There was no one serving, so after a while he tapped a coin on an ashtray and said 'Hello?' in that tiny tentative voice used by well-brought-up Englishmen to draw attention to themselves without actually drawing attention to themselves.
Nothing happened. ‘TURD!' The thunderous bellow came from behind. He spun round in time to see the scarecrow's mouth closing. What unwitting offence had he committed to merit this abuse? Pascoe wondered. 'What's this bloody din, then?' He spun back to the bar. A large red-faced man was standing there as if he'd been standing there all along. He was glowering angrily at Pascoe. Even for rural north Yorkshire, this was unwelcoming. 'Man wants a drink, turd.' No, not turd, Ted, with the vowel stretched and given a West Country or perhaps Welsh openness. 'You take care of thy own business, Vince Tranter, and I'll take care of me customers. What'll it be, sir?' The man's tone became if not polite at least politic as he addressed Pascoe direct. 'Half of best,' said Pascoe. 'Do you do any food?'
'Pasties,' said Ted. The scarecrow sneezed into his beer. It was a sound as non-phonemic as a sound can get, yet it conveyed derision and warning clear as a Party Political Broadcast. 'I'll just have a packet of peanuts,' said Pascoe. 'The Pear Tree. Interesting name. Because of the Partridge connection, is it?' It was partly polite conversation, but also an instinctive reaction to a potential source of relevant information. 'Likely,' said the landlord. 'That'll be eighty-two pence.' 'I've just been up at the house,' said Pascoe as he paid. 'Is that right?' 'Yes. Matter of business. It was a sad loss to the country when he gave up his seat. Thank God that his son was cast in the same mould, that's what I say.' 'He does well enough,' said the man. This came close to being a thaw and Pascoe, hoping that a very little more pressure would crack the ice, went on, 'We got to talking about the old days. By coincidence I happen to be a friend of the old nanny, Miss Marsh. You'll likely remember her if you've been around some time.' It was like the touch of the Snow Queen's finger. 'Never heard of her,' snapped the man. 'You want owt else?' 'I don't think so,' said Pascoe. 'Grand. I'll get back to me dinner.' He sent a scowl at the scarecrow which included Pascoe in its penumbra, and left.
'Used to be the Green Man,' said the scarecrow. 'I'm sorry?' 'The pub.
He changed it few years back. Said he didn't want a name that had anything to do with them Greens. All long-haired anti-bloods wanting to stop a man doing what he liked with his own property, that's what he said. Asked his lordship's permission to change it to the Partridge Arms.' 'And his lordship said no?' 'Sharp, that one.' There was definitely a Welshness there. 'Knew it would make him look bloody ridiculous, grubby little drinking hole
