“Me?” said Dalziel. “Easy. I were here.”
“Here?”
“Aye, lad. Don’t recollect sitting on the stairs, but I was certainly in this house. And for much the same reason. It’s ten years ago to this very day that Pal Maciver Senior, that’s the dad of this lot, him on the wall in the breeks and woolly hat, locked himself in his study, tied a bit of string round the trigger of a Purdy shotgun, looped the other end round his big toe, and blew his head to pieces.”
“Ah,” said Pascoe.
For a moment there didn’t seem anything else to say. Then there seemed to be so much that he took another moment to marshal his words.
“In his study… that’s the same room… and he had an open book on his desk?”
“That’s right. But as I’ve not seen it yet and Bonnick says it were too covered with blood and brain for him to read the title, I can’t say if it’s the same book.”
“But if it were, by which I presume you’d mean the same title not necessarily the same volume, what would that be?”
“Book of poems. Funny little things. Some Yankee bint. Eleanor Dickson, summat like that.”
“Emily Dickinson?”
“That’s the one. Bit weird. Might have guessed you’d know her.”
Ignoring this aspersion on his literary taste, Pascoe was running through what little he knew about the Maciver family history already. He’d met Cressida a couple of times, found her somewhat over intense, and when foolishly he’d wondered aloud how Ellie had come to make a friend out of an aggressive man-basher who, every time she got drunk, attempted to rape her, he’d been lectured on not judging by surfaces. Underneath it all, he was told, Cress was really dreadfully in need of reassurance, and love, probably due to childhood trauma caused by the early death of her parents, which she never talked about.
“I think she was heavily dependent on her brother and they’re still very close, but when he got married, that left a gap in her life. She’s always looking for a strong man to lean on. Trouble is, the bastards always keel over!”
None of this seemed relevant, so he said to Dalziel, “This is a copycat suicide then? That’s what brought you running?”
“Strolling,” said the Fat Man. “Aye, you’re right. Lightning striking twice and all that. Idle curiosity.”
Liar, thought Pascoe, not knowing why he thought it, but knowing he was right.
“But it can’t be exactly copycat, can it?” he said. “This Pal Maciver, the father, I mean, must have been a good bit older-family established, second wife.”
“Mid-forties,” agreed Dalziel. “His lad must be-must have been-barely thirty. At university when it happened, I recall.”
“And Cressida?”
“Boarding school. Final year. She were head girl.”
“That figures. And the younger daughter, Helen?”
“The mobile incubator? She’d have been about nine. She were away in the States with her stepmother. That’s her you saw out there, the classy one.”
Pascoe noted the epithet. In Dalziel’s word-hoard, it usually signified approbation.
“She still lives round here?”
“Aye.”
“Kay Kafka, wasn’t it? That her own name?”
“No. She got married again.”
“To someone called Kafka? That would be one of the Mid-Yorkshire Kafkas?”
“Don’t be racist,” reproved Dalziel. “I once knew a family of Chekhovs, had a farm near Hebden Bridge. Mind you, owt’s possible near Hebden Bridge.”
“This Kafka, was he from Hebden Bridge then?” pressed Pascoe.
“No. A Yank. Her boss,” was the short reply.
There was definitely something here, thought Pascoe. Something not said. He recalled seeing the pair of them meeting beside the ambulance. If she weren’t so slim, he’d have guessed that Dalziel fancied her. But it had long since been established that Mid-Yorkshire CID’s answer to God liked women in his own image, which was to say, with more meat on them than a Barnsley chop.
He said, “So what was the verdict?”
“Suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed.”
“Disturbed by what?”
“Summat at work they reckoned.”
“And work was…?”
“Ash-Mac’s, machine-tool factory on the Blesshouse Industrial Estate. Used to be Maciver’s. Pal Maciver’s dad, that’s our corpse’s granddad, founded it before the last war.”
“Was he called Palinurus too?”
“Liam. Came across from Ireland to make his fortune and didn’t do so badly.”
“Why’d he stick his son with a name like Palinurus?”
“Story is, back home Liam was a blacksmith, no education, but a lot of business sense. Made money some dodgy folk considered was rightly theirs, which was why he left. Came here, used his money to set up in business…”
“As a blacksmith?”
“Blacksmith makes things out of metal. Machine-tool business is just the posh end of blacksmithery. Any road, soon he were doing well, married a local lass, and decided he really ought to get himself an education. Got talking to some schoolteacher over a drink one night who told him the greatest literary work of the century had come out of Ireland and it were called Ulysses. You heard of it?”
“Of course. Joyce.”
“Aye, her. So Liam went off, determined to read all he could about this Ulysses, only when he asked at the library they got the wrong end of the stick and provided him with lots of stuff about myths and legends and the Trojan War and such, all of which he downed like a gallon of Guinness, and when his missus dropped a sprog, he looked for a name in this lot, and came up with Palinurus.”
“Strange choice.”
“Why’s that?”
“He was Aeneas’s helmsman who dozed off at the helm and fell overboard.”
“Oh aye. Drowned, did he?”
“No, actually. He made it to the shore, the first of the Trojans to reach Italy. Only the natives didn’t like the look of him so they beat him to death and chucked him back in the sea.”
“Well, there you go,” said Dalziel. “Could be Liam thought it ’ud be a useful reminder to his lad every time he heard his name that, if he didn’t keep his eyes open, he could end up in a foreign land being shit upon by strangers.”
Pascoe said, “A little career advice with the paternal sex talk would have been more direct.”
“He was Irish, remember. They don’t do direct. And back then I don’t suppose they did sex talks. But old Liam was right up to date when it came to making money. Lots of demand for machine tools during the war and in the post-war years. Everything seemed to be going his way. You’ll recall the other Mac? Mungo Macallum?”
“The armaments man? Before my time, but I met his daughter, the pacifist.”
“Old Serafina. Aye, I remember that. When Ellie got herself into bother with the funny buggers. Well, Mungo and Liam were sort of rivals for a bit, each looking for skilled men and cheap labour. Scotch Mac and Irish Mac they called them. But when Mungo died in the fifties and Serafina set about turning his business into money to finance her causes, Liam filled his boots. Plant, orders, workers, the lot. By the time his boy-let’s call him Pal Senior and the headless wonder back there Pal Junior, wouldn’t want your brain to overheat-when Pal Senior took over, the business were booming. Pal Senior had an education, nowt special but enough to set him up as an English gent. Did all the things gents are supposed to do, like tearing foxes into shreds and blowing small birds to smithereens.”
“Which is how he had the shotgun to blow himself to pieces?”
