but guilty none the less.
And I still think it. You don't do things like that to yourself unless you're guilty!' 'Or obsessed.' 'Guilt. Obsession. Bedfellows, when you get down to it. As I suspect you know. Do you understand women, Dalziel? I don't. Or men either, I suspect. I had a wife who turned out a whore. Well, I could live with that. It's an old tradition of the upper classes. Anything goes as long as you don't frighten the horses. I didn't even mind too much when Mick got in on the act. But it ruined our friendship. He despised me for not minding! Dear old Mick. Strange man. But he paid, of course. You see, Pam didn't just want his lily-white body, she turned obsessional, she wanted… everything! Me, I bedded little Cissy from time to time. She was young, she was attractive, she was there. But damn me, if she didn't turn obsessional too! Why am I telling you all this, Dalziel?'
'Because I remind you of your mother,' said Dalziel. 'Also because you're afraid if you tell your wife, she might not be obsessional enough to go on loving you. So go on. The gist. That's all I want. The gist.' 'And if I don't care to?' 'Then I'll mebbe shake you till that little bit of Newcastle coal falls out of your pocket, and have a word with your missus and your quack, and make sure you fall off your perch, legally, naturally, and very slowly.' Westropp regarded him closely and said, 'Oh Dalziel, I wonder, what really is your own particular obsession?' 'Beer,' said Dalziel. 'I'm parched for a decent pint, so the sooner I get done here, the sooner I'll get back to Yorkshire. Are you sitting comfortably? Then why don't you begin?'
PART THE FIFTH
Golden Boy
ONE
I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey smotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the streets.' Everything ends, and everything starts again. Justice returns, Saturn rules OK, and the first-born son of the new golden age is already dropping out of the skies on his way down to earth. In other words, Dalziel was flying home. Preferring people to clouds, he'd asked for a seat on the aisle from which he studied those around him in hope of booking the same kind of free ride through Heathrow officialdom as he'd got in New York. A nun with five o'clock shadow held his attention for a while, but when he saw her pour three Irish miniatures into one glass and down them in three sips, he acknowledged that such instinctive Trinitarianism could not be affected, and followed her good example with single malt. At Heathrow he found he needn't have worried. As he came out of the tunnel from the plane, a young woman in the kind of smart black and white clothing which stops just short of being a uniform approached him, smiling, and said, 'Superintendent Dalziel?
Your Mr Sempernel says he'd be grateful for a word. If you'd come with me..; ‘Oh aye? What about passport control and my luggage?' ‘That'll all be taken care of,' she assured him. 'Well, that's big of my Mr Sempernel. Lead on, lass.' She might, of course, be leading him to a curtained car and a quick trip to the Tower, but so what? They'd need a bloody big axe. They soon moved away from the hoi polloi and came to a halt outside an unmarked door in a corridor with the cushioned hush of a good hotel. 'I'll let Mr Sempernel know you've arrived. He shouldn't be too long,' said the girl, opening the door.
'Thanks, luv,' said Dalziel, stepping inside. 'Bloody hell!' He had cause for astonishment. Sitting in a deep armchair, drinking coffee from a china cup, was Peter Pascoe. 'Hello, sir. Good flight?' said Pascoe. 'Fair,' said Dalziel, looking round the room. It was thickly carpeted, newly decorated and furnished with several huge armchairs, an old oak coffee table, and a sideboard on which a percolator bubbled alongside a silver tray, bright with bottles. 'Don't tell me,' said Dalziel. 'You've flogged your ring to Sempernel and he's set you up as his toy boy.' 'I'm glad to see travel hasn't spoilt your native charm,' said Pascoe. 'I came to meet you, got paged in the arrivals area, and told that you'd be brought along here. It's a sight better than down there, believe me.' 'I believe you,' said Dalziel, looking out of the window. He could see out across the runways but could hear very little. Soundproofing like this must really cost. He doubted if it was on offer to the poor sods under the flight paths. 'How did they know you were meeting me? In fact, how the hell did you know you were meeting me?' 'Mr Trimble set it up. Somehow he'd found out what plane you'd be on and he seemed to think it would be a nice gesture if I was here to meet you. Also I was able to kill two birds with one stone.'
'Oh aye? And who was the other lucky chicken?' 'Mr Hiller. You were wrong about him, by the way. He didn't back down. Now he's been suspended, pending inquiries into expense claims. His team are tidying up in Yorkshire, so he needed a lift to the Smoke.' 'Good God. I thought Sempernel's toy boy were the lowest a man could get, but Adolf's chauffeur! Well, thank God we've seen the back of him.'
'You're not being fair!' protested Pascoe. 'What he's done took guts.
And probity.' 'Oh aye? Had a heart-to-heart about his motives as you drove down, did you?' 'As a matter of fact, we didn't. Mr Hiller made it quite clear he didn't want to talk about the affair. For my sake, I suspect.' 'Christ, he's got you feeling grateful too! So what did you talk about?' Pascoe hesitated, then said, 'Well, you were mentioned, actually. In fact, Mr Hiller asked me to give you a message.' 'What's that, then? Love and kisses? Or a bit of pious moralizing?' 'No. More like advice, sort of.' Pascoe took a deep breath. 'He said to ask Andy Dalziel if he'd ever thought of sticking his head up his arse and shitting some sense into it. End of message.' Dalziel looked at him in astonishment. Then he began to laugh. 'He said that? Well, mebbe I have misjudged him after all and there's summat more than cold tea trickling through his veins. Talking of which…' He examined the bottles, selected the Highland Park and poured a Trinitarian measure.
'So how have things turned out up there?' he asked. ‘I‘m not sure. I get a sense of everything being wound down. The inquest on Marsh passed without any fuss. Natural causes. I don't think anyone will be sent to replace Hiller. Stubbs says that there'll probably be an inconclusive report along the lines of administrative errors compounded by Kohler's own emotional trauma. She knew what Mickledore had done but wasn't actively involved, sort of thing. So he stays guilty and she gets pardoned, but there's not enough public sympathy to keep the story running as she did let the little girl drown and she definitely killed Daphne Bush. So that looks like that, all neat and tidy. Except for you…' He looked at the Fat Man expectantly. 'Me?
Aye, I could still rock the boat if I took a fancy.' 'But you don't?' said Pascoe doubtingly. 'As long as no one chucks dirt at Wally Tallantire, I'll be happy,' said Dalziel. 'Something bothering you, lad? You look like you've found a spider in your glass.' 'You mean you're willing to let things slide? After all you said about Geoff Hiller?' Pascoe shook his head in bewilderment. 'Didn't you find out anything in the States? From what you said… Didn't you even catch up with Kohler?' 'Oh aye, I managed that. She were pretty elusive but in the end we were able to sit down and have a nice quiet chat. Well, at least it started quiet.' Dalziel smiled reminiscently. He had seen Kohler once more after he left the Bellmain house. Waggs had taken her back to the hotel and that was where he found them, sitting on the bar terrace overlooking the car park. He sat beside them. The waiter came.
That's one thing he liked about America. You could often get a waiter without recourse to threat or bribe. He ordered Scotch for himself, pointed at the others' almost empty glasses and said, 'Again.' 'So what's the word, Dalziel?' said Waggs. 'Stiff upper lips and imperial solidarity?' 'Stiff? Aye, that's the word. Stiff,' said Dalziel. 'As in stiff?' ‘I doubt he'll see the day out. It's been a strain.’ 'Is that a medical opinion? Or a police opinion?' said Waggs. ‘It's an opinion. How're you feeling, lass?' Cissy Kohler said quietly, 'I stopped feeling long ago. It's not a habit I want to get back into.
Not after today.' 'So why'd you come? What's it all been about?' 'Jay told me he was dying. I thought: Sooner or later I'll get out of here and if he's dead, I'll never understand anything. No, that's not quite true. I thought, this is maybe my last chance to want to get out of here. It's wanting that's important. I'd been inside all those years.
I felt I ought to have a last try at making sense of it. I think I may have been wrong.' 'Shouldn't let it worry you, luv,' said Dalziel comfortably. 'I've been on the outside all that time and it doesn't make much sense to me either.' 'Jesus! You do counselling too, do you?' sneered Waggs. 'Sort of. So the two of you set out to get back here before Westropp died in the hope of… what? Hearing some truth that'd set you free? So how's it worked out?' 'I'll maybe tell you that when I hear the truth,' said Waggs. 'I'll give you it,' said Dalziel. 'Only it's not clear-cut. Pam Westropp died. Who killed her?
Everybody, including herself. It was an accident, it was suicide, and likely there was a bit of murder in there
