“Aye. Could’ve been one of the birds fought back, of course. No, we’d have noticed the bird-shit. Gave all that up in his thirties when he had his accident.”
“Shooting accident?”
“No. As well as huntin’ and shootin,’ he were a bit of a climber in every sense. Yon painting in there shows him at his peak-that’s a joke. You know how those mad buggers like to make life difficult for themselves. Well, he were the first to climb some Scottish cliff, solo, at midnight, on Christmas Day, bollock naked, or summat like that. It were on that mountain in the background. As you can see, him having his picture painted, he were chuffed to buggery. Ironic really.”
“Why so?”
“He went back next year and fell off. Broke this and that. Most of it mended, except his left leg. Couldn’t bend it after that. Not many mountains you can hop up, so it were goodbye to all that. Old Liam was failing, so Pal threw himself into the business, heart and soul. It was his pride and joy, and he was coining so much he were able to put a few down payments on a peerage with the Tories. But all that changed, both the coining and the payments, after seventy-nine when old whatsername started running around like a headless chicken, putting folk out of work. Suddenly it were like Maciver’s was falling off a mountain too. Order book empty, men laid off. Terrible times.”
“Terrible,” agreed Pascoe. “And this is when the takeover happened?”
“Aye. It were looking like rags-to-rags in three generations when this Yank outfit, Ashur-Proffitt Inc, came sniffing round. Pal Senior had a choice between accepting their offer or seeing the rest of his workers laid off. So, no choice. Maciver’s became Ashur-Proffitt-Maciver’s, a.k.a. Ash-Mac’s, and Pal Senior got a fistful of dollars and a seat on the Board, executive director or some such thing. More of a face-saver than a real job, from the sound of it.”
“And that got to him?”
“So they reckoned,” said Dalziel, yawning. “Lots of lolly and nowt to do, sounds like heaven to me, but.”
“So what did you reckon?” asked Pascoe.
“Me? I reckoned he killed himself and that’s all I needed to know. He did it by himself, no one helped him. He weren’t hypnotized or under a spell or owt like that. Simple suicide.”
“Oxymoron,” said Pascoe. “Suicide’s never simple.”
“Oxymoron yourself,” retorted Dalziel. “From our point of view, it’s always simple. Forget the wherefores. The only question is, was it or wasn’t it unassisted suicide? If it was, no crime, so no investigation necessary. End of story.”
“Except that Pal Junior back there’s written another chapter.”
“Sequel, more like. Never as good as the original. I mean from the look of it, he couldn’t even be bothered to write himself new lines, just used his dad’s.”
“What about old Liam? How did he die?”
“Natural causes. Got his three score and ten in, so nowt to concern us there. All you need to do, Pete, is get this wrapped up with minimum pain to the living.”
“One way or another, they seem quite capable of inflicting enough pain on each other,” said Pascoe. “This Mrs Kafka, if she married a Yank, how come she’s still living round here? He doesn’t happen to work at Ash-Mac’s, does he?”
It was a shot in the dark, or rather in the twilight when you see things dimly without always being certain what it is you’re looking at.
“Aye. Boss man. Here, isn’t that the ambulance?” Dalziel said, cupping his ear.
It was, thought Pascoe, one of his more pathetic attempts at diversion.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“No? It’s old age. Plays tricks on the senses,” said the Fat Man sadly.
Pascoe smiled. When Dalziel played the ageing card, a wise man hoarded his trumps. Then all at once his own ear caught the wail of a siren drawing closer.
“Thought I heard it,” said Dalziel complacently. “Nice to know the cavalry sometimes does turn up in time.”
Then came another sound which had both men jumping to their feet.
The piercing yell of a baby, indignant at being launched from its warm safe haven into a strange, cold world.
Now it became a duet.
“So much for the cavalry,” said Pascoe as they hurried down the stairs.
The front door opened to admit two paramedics at the same time as Ellie appeared in the doorway of the lounge. Her hands were bloody, her expression exultant. She could have posed for the Triumph of Motherhood, thought Pascoe. Or Clytemnestra on bath-night.
“Twins,” she declared. “Boy and a girl.”
“Excuse us, luv,” said one of the paramedics, pushing past.
“Everything OK in there?” said Dalziel.
“Mother and babies doing fine,” said Ellie. “I think they might want to take a look at poor Jason though.”
“The dad? He ought to be out here flashing the cigars,” said Dalziel. “Let’s have a look in the kitchen, see if there’s owt to wet the babies’ heads with.”
“Sir,” said Pascoe warningly.
“Oh aye. Crime scene. Not to worry. I always carry emergency rations.”
He went out into the fog.
Ellie said, “Crime scene?”
“Just a form of speaking. You OK, Mother Teresa?”
“I’m fine. You look tired.”
“It’s been a long day,” he said.
Somewhere distantly a church clock began to strike midnight. In the muffling fog it sounded both familiar and threatening, like the bell on a warning buoy tolled by the ocean’s rhythmic swell.
“And here’s another one starting,” said Ellie.
March 21st, 2002
It was the first day of spring and Detective Constable Hat Bowler was lost in a forest.
It wasn’t an uncommon experience. He slept as little as possible these days, knowing that as soon as he closed his eyes he would reawaken among trees crowding so close they admitted only enough light to show him there was no way out.
Dr Pottle had nodded, unsurprised, and said, “Ah yes. The primal forest.”
It was Peter Pascoe who’d taken him to meet the psychiatrist.
Not that there was anything wrong with him.
After the death of… after her death… after…
After the woman he loved more than life itself had died in a car accident…
That had been on a Saturday in late January. He had turned up for work on Monday morning, no bother. Pascoe had taken one look at him and insisted he went to see his GP. The idiot recommended complete rest and psychotherapy. Hat passed this on to Pascoe, expecting him to share his exasperation. Instead the DCI had gone all po-faced and said if he didn’t follow his GP’s advice voluntarily, it would be made official and entered on his record, to be read by every member of every promotion board Hat ever applied to.
This was an empty threat to a man with no future. But he had neither the energy nor the will to resist, so he went to see Dr Pottle and answered questions about his dreams for much the same reasons.
The chain-smoking Pottle listened, his head shrouded like Kilimanjaro, then said, “If you ever did manage to
