'I'd have expected some fibres at least in association with remains such as these appear to be. Of course once dispersion started, bones are heavy, fabric's light. I understand you are following Gentry's recommendation of pursuing your search via his sluice?'
'Aye. It made sense.'
'You think so? When speed is of the essence, perhaps. But in this case… nevertheless, if there is any fabric which might be associated with the remains – though how you are going to tell when it has been flushed out under the good doctor's water jets, I don't know – Gentry will be your man. At the least, I hope he may come up with the missing pieces of my jigsaw. Particularly the skull. I long for the skull.'
'May be able to help you there, sir,' said Peter Pascoe.
This time both men started. Lightness of step was one of many things Pascoe had learned from his great master.
He placed a cardboard box carefully on the table.
'Where the hell have you popped up from?' said Dalziel sourly.
'As instructed, I went down to the lab to check on Dr Gentry's progress. This is the first fruit of his labours.'
He reached into the box and produced the gleaming white cranium.
The pathologist took it and observed satirically, 'I'm going to wash that hair right out of this man…’
'Dr Death say owt about hair?' asked Dalziel.
'He seemed confident that with his system of progressively finer filters, he would retrieve anything retrievable,' said Pascoe.
'Can't say fairer than that,' said Dalziel. 'You'll keep me posted, Troll?'
The pathologist wasn't listening but examining the cranium closely with the aid of a magnifier.
'Now we're getting somewhere,' he said. 'Look there, Andy. That long crack running from this compression here. I'd say that wasn't done by the summer's clearance.'
'Someone bashed him you mean? Cause of death?' said Dalziel.
'Could be. I'll let you know as soon as I'm certain, which is likely to be sooner if I'm given a bit of room to work in.'
'You hear that, chief inspector?' said Dalziel. 'Let the dog see the bone. We'll be off then, Troll. No need to see us out.'
The pathologist had shown no inclination to. In fact he now seemed oblivious to their existence let alone their presence.
'Fair loves his work, old Troll,' said Dalziel on the way to the car park. 'Could do with a few like him under me. Enjoy your little jaunt, did you? Nowt like a good family get-together.'
'It was a funeral I went to, sir, not a wedding,' said Pascoe reproachfully.
'All the better. I hate bloody weddings. All them speeches and you've got to buy a present. Funerals now, no one expects you to laugh, and wi' a bit of luck, you come away better off than when you went. You cop for owt?'
'Not really,' said Pascoe. 'My grandmother didn't have much to leave.'
'No? Hope you checked under the carpets and down the chair cushions.'
He hadn't, but he had no doubt Myra had.
He said, 'This body, sir. How are we playing it? From what Wieldy said, sounds like they could be pretty old bones.'
'Aye, the worst kind. I were hoping Longbottom couldn't get at cause of death. Open verdict, closed case. Champion.'
'But it's not looking that way?'
'You heard what he said about the cranium. Best hope now is he can date it so far back that everyone concerned's likely to have snuffed it too. I'll mebbe lean on him a bit.'
'Lean on him…?'
'Few old bones of his own he'd not like resurrected,' said Dalziel, smiling nostalgically. 'Meanwhile, but, we'd best go on like we've got a real live murder case. First thing is to start tracing the history of yon house. That sounds like your kind of thing, lad. Lots of chat, not much mud on your shoes.'
'How kind,' said Pascoe. 'Any suggestions as to where I might start enjoying this sinecure?'
'ALBA bought it. Happen they'll know who they bought it from.'
'So, I should start at Wanwood. Talk to David Batty?'
'David, is it? Oh aye. You were out there getting nowhere in the summer. Got right friendly with this Batty, did you?'
'Not so's you'd notice. I gather his father, Thomas Batty, runs the company and most of his subordinates seem to refer to him as Mr David or Dr David in order, I presume, to avoid confusion.'
'What did you reckon to him?'
Pascoe shrugged.
'We got on OK, no more than that.'
'Wouldn't buy a used syringe from him then?'
'I saw no reason to doubt his honesty,' said Pascoe surprised. 'It was a Dr Fell thing really. Something about him made me feel uneasy. Probably just the way he made certain rather outmoded assumptions about our relationship.'
'Aye. Tried the same with me to start out,' said Dalziel. 'But we ended up big muckers. Any road, don't bother wi' him. Give their head office a ring. That'll be where the records are kept.'
'All right. It's in Leeds, isn't it?'
'That's right. Kirkton, just on the edge.'
'Kirkton?' echoed Pascoe. Into his mind jumped Ada's passport with her place of birth given as Kirkton, Yorkshire. No mention of Leeds.
'That's right. Mean something to you?' said Dalziel observing him shrewdly.
'No, sir. I was just thinking, it's not all that far and these things are often better done in person than on the phone. Less chance of being choked off…'
'You mean you want to waste time driving out there? What the fuck for? It's not your English Heritage sort of place, tha knows. Eat their young out at Kirkton, so they say.'
'Nonetheless,' said Pascoe.
'That's it then,' said Dalziel. 'No arguing with you once you start nonethelessing me. But think on, let the locals know you're treading on their patch. Very thin skins they've got in Leeds. Can't scratch their own arseholes without bleeding.'
As if to demonstrate his own freedom from this grievous failing, he settled back on the bonnet of Longbottom's old Jag and rubbed his buttocks sensuously against the gleaming silver mascot.
'I'll be careful,' promised Pascoe, opening the door of his car. 'Where can I get hold of you in case, just in case, there is a diplomatic incident?'
The Fat Man slid off the Jaguar and started walking away.
'I'll be around,' he tossed negligently over his shoulder. 'Witnesses, interrogations, whatever comes along. You know me, lad, always there where I'm most needed.'
Such uncharacteristic evasiveness aroused the deepest suspicion.
Pascoe applied the ultimate test. Winding down his window, he called after the Fat Man, 'Time for a quick pint in the Bull, sir?'
Dalziel turned his head like a bishop's wife being propositioned by a kerb crawler.
'At this time in the morning? You want to take care, Peter, else you'll be getting a reputation as a drinker.'
To which there was no possible, or at least no passable, reply. iv
As Fate nudged Peter Pascoe ever deeper into his familial past, Edgar Wield was giving the myopic old goddess a hearty shove back.
'Sorry, mate,' he said to the man he'd just contrived to collide with outside a William Hill's betting shop. 'Hey, it's Jimmy Howard, isn't it? Hardly recognized you out of uniform. Mind you, I didn't recognize you in your new uniform yesterday, not till Mr Dalziel said who you were.'
