'There was this man walking past the playground with a dog and it wouldn't do as it was told so he started hitting it with the lead and it was yelling. So I threw stones and then he yelled too.'
Downstairs he saw Ellie at the dining-room table with the exercise-book journal open in front of her. As he watched she knuckled a tear out of her eyes. Quietly he went into the kitchen, turned the microwave up, made a green salad, poured a couple of glasses of wine and brought the meal through on a tray.
Ellie said brightly, 'He's got your attitude to punctuation. When in doubt, miss it out.'
'Him and Bernard Shaw.'
'And his writing's worse than yours. I can't make head or tail of this.'
She indicated the small leather-bound volume.
'You need a glass. It's his trench journal. So far as I can make out it stops in spring 1917 when he was home on leave. He probably left it at home for safekeeping and started a new one back in Flanders. God knows what happened to that.'
'And these?' said Ellie indicating the document folder.
'I haven't sorted them out yet, but it looks like a record of Ada's efforts to get some real information about what actually happened to her father. Letters to the War Office, MPs, that sort of thing. And their replies. A record of frustration. But the earlier documents are the ones that signify. Here. Imagine that dropping through your letter box.'
He extracted a folded and faded sheet of paper and laid it before her. It was from the Infantry Records Office, dated November 1917.
Dear Mrs Pascoe
I am directed to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office that your husband, Sergeant Pascoe, Peter, was sentenced by court martial to suffer death by being shot, and this sentence was duly executed on November 20th 1917.
I am, madam, Your obedient servant.
The signature was illegible.
'Oh God,' said Ellie. 'I can't believe they really sent things like that.'
'Only about three hundred of them,' said Pascoe.
'The bastards, oh the bastards,' said Ellie.
'It was all a long time ago, and what's three hundred against the millions who died in those years,' said Pascoe. 'I paraphrase.'
'Don't get clever,' she said fiercely. 'We've barely enough time and energy to fight the here-and-now battles without busting our guts to right old wrongs. But this isn't a principle in here, Peter. This is a person. This is a whole sodding family!'
She banged her hand down on the open exercise book.
'Yeah. Ironic, eh?' said Pascoe. 'Sorry, I'm not doing an I-told-you-so. I've found myself wishing that Ada had done what she felt tempted to do and burnt the whole bloody lot instead of dumping it in my lap.'
'She might as well have done. It's not as if you're going to be able to get beyond the dead end she hit, are you?'
'I don't know. All I know is that somehow I seem to be right in the middle of it. You know what the house was called where Peter was brought up? Wanwood. And the family his mother nursemaided for were the Grindals. And this medical genius Sam Batty, his descendants and the Grindals' still run the company. Look, there's a letter here from Herbert Grindal, commiserating with my great-grandmother. He was an officer in the Wyfies, and when I was looking through the old records at Wanwood this morning I came across his name as a patient there when it was a hospital during the war. I tell you, it's like being out in the Salient with shit coming at you from all sides!'
Ellie hacked a piece out of her lasagne, glad to be back in her role of the voice of reason.
'No shit, just good story lines for a Victorian novel,' she said. 'Where does it get you? Nowhere. Ada hit a barrier. You're going to need more than a bit of creepy coincidence to get you over it.'
'There's always Poll Pollinger.'
'Details of the trial, you mean? Don't build up your hopes. From the sound of it, these things weren't exactly conducted in ideal circumstances with a stenographer making a verbatim record. You know what he was charged with, you know he was found guilty. I suspect that even if Poll manages to wheedle a transcript out of her bent colonel, it'll occupy half a sheet of paper and won't tell you much more. This is personal, Peter. Keep it that way. Read his journals. From what I've seen so far, he sounds the kind of man you can be proud to be descended from. And if the war and the system broke him, then pray that you and yours will never be tested to breaking point. Every day I look at the telly and see things that make me think, that is beyond my endurance. Do that to me, and I would go under. Maybe we can change some of those things. Meanwhile, be proud, be hopeful, and eat your lasagne.'
'Well, bugger me, as our daughter might have said before Miss Martindale waved her magic wand,' said Pascoe. 'I married a philosopher. Here's looking at you, Socrates.'
He raised his glass. The phone rang.
'Shit,' said Pascoe, feeling Miss Martindale would have approved.
He got up and went through into the hallway. Ellie heard his voice distantly but deliberately made no effort to organize sound into sense.
She saw by his face when he returned that she'd been right. This was not something she wanted to know.
'What?' she asked.
'It was Andy,' he said. 'Wendy Walker's died. And they've arrested Cap Marvell.' xii
By Friday lunch time, Ada's funeral seemed a long, long way away. Presumably Dalziel felt the distance he had travelled in the days between to be just as great if not greater.
Late that Monday night he had set eyes for the very first time on Cap Marvell. During the next couple of days he had, if rumour were right, entered into a meaningful relationship with her.
And on the evening of the third day, he had read her her rights.
The case against her was so far mainly circumstantial. They had found in her Discovery a bicycle clip matching the one found on Wendy Walker's right ankle, plus traces of oil and rust matching those on her cycle. Marvell explained these by claiming that on several occasions she'd given Walker and her bike a lift. In order to fit the machine into the storage area, Walker had removed the front wheel, thus possibly dislodging a considerable amount of rust and oil.
They had also found traces of blood on a rear seat. It was the same group as Walker's. Marvell recalled that one of the group had cut herself on a demo to which they'd been ferried in the Discovery. Tested, this woman proved to be group 'O' also.
There was a fresh scratch on the front bumper of the Discovery, which might have been caused by running over the front wheel of a bicycle, and debris collected from the front tyre treads was being subjected to every test known to Dr Death in an effort to establish a transfer link with either the bike or Ludd Lane.
Cap Marvell's claims to have been at a wedding in Scarborough on the date of the Redcar raid had been substantiated. But closer enquiry had produced the information that a fair proportion of the official guests had been political activists of one sort or another, including Meg Jenkins and Donna Linsey from ANIMA. As for the extra unrecorded guests who turned up for the pub party after the ceremony, it could be assumed though not proven that the proportion here was even higher.
'How far's Scarborough from Redcar? About fifty miles?' said Pascoe.
'Hour's run on a quiet evening in a fast car,' said Wield.
'So someone says, 'This party's a bit dead, who fancies a bit of action? Let's head up the coast and liberate a few downtrodden animals.''
'That would explain the way they acted once they got inside, you know, running riot and wrecking the place. And with the luck of the half-pissed they got away scot-free.'
'After giving poor Mark Shufflebottom a friendly tap on the head to keep him quiet.'
'Only, being half pissed, the tap was a bit harder than intended and the poor sod keels over dead.'
'Not realizing this, they head back down to the party which has picked up again and goes on till the break of day.'
