House. Examined and recorded. Nil. Meaning that, as far as Forensics were concerned, it could be handed over to the grieving widow.
He opened it and shook its contents on to the desk. Not much. Eighty pounds in notes. Three credit cards. A couple of business cards inscribed Archimagus Antiques, plus phone, fax and e-mail numbers. And another card, this one an eye-catching gold, embossed in red with the name JAKE GALLIPOT and a Harrogate phone number. He thought of ringing it but what the hell for? It would just be procrastination. His risen indignation had declined to a queasy heaviness in the pit of his stomach. Time to face the music. He looked around for some talisman to wear against the impending discord. Finally he opened his desk drawer and took out the tape cassette which Novello had brought to him that morning.
Slipping it into his pocket, he headed for the headmaster’s study.
Edgar Wield was standing by the door, his fist raised to knock. He froze as Pascoe approached and mouthed the words, See me?
Pascoe nodded and motioned to indicate, you first.
But before they could sort out precedence, the door was flung open to reveal the Arch-fear in a visible form.
“Here they are then, Beauty and the Beast! Don’t hang around blocking my light. Step inside, do!”
They advanced and the door crashed shut behind them. The Fat Man then moved to his desk and sat down heavily.
Pascoe contemplated taking a seat also, just to show that senior officers were not to be treated like naughty children, but that would have left Wield standing.
It’s always nice to have a good reason for not doing what you’re afraid of.
“Right,” said the Fat Man, fixing his Medusa stare on Wield, “let’s start with thee. What were you doing skulking around the Golden Fleece this lunchtime?”
“I weren’t skulking. I went there for lunch,” said Wield.
“Not skulking? Coming out of the car park, clocking me in the conservatory, then going into retreat so’s you could spy on me through the hedge, and that’s not skulking? Nay but, I’d like to see you when you do skulk! Who sent you there?”
His gaze flickered to Pascoe as he spoke.
The neurotic old sod thinks I’m having him tailed! thought Pascoe in amazement.
“No one. There’s a booksellers’ convention at the Fleece. Edwin’s doing the arrangements and I went there to meet him for lunch,” said Wield. For the first time Pascoe found himself envying the sergeant’s face. Like a cobbled farmyard, it stayed the same no matter what kind of crap got dropped on it.
“Oh aye?” said Dalziel. “So not skulking, just dropping in to enjoy a literary fucking lunch. Very reasonable.”
He said this like a Scottish judge pronouncing a Not Proven verdict.
His gaze shifted to Pascoe.
“Chief Inspector, I ran into Paddy Ireland just now. Asked him how he were doing with the Maciver suicide. He said as far as he knew you were still dealing with it. When I went to check, I found out that you’d got Novello to dig up all the files on old Pal’s suicide ten years ago, then you’d gone walkabout with her. So spit it out, lad. What the fuck’s happened that I don’t know about?”
What would dare to happen that you didn’t know about? wondered Pascoe.
He said, “Nothing as far as I’m aware, sir.”
“Nothing? Nay, lad, surely summat must have happened to make you decide to ignore my instructions to offload this business on to Uniformed where it belongs. Or did you just forget mebbe? Early onset of Alzheimer’s?”
“No, sir. Just some small loose ends to tie up before I pass it on to Ireland.”
“Small loose ends? So the department grinds to a halt just so’s you can play with your small loose ends? Come on then. Give us a flash of one of them.”
Pascoe played the list mentally. It didn’t take long and nothing in it was going to be a hit.
“Motive,” he said. “No note, just the Dickinson poem, which only shows how religiously he was following his father’s example. And I think the coroner will want some elucidation of motive a little more persuasive than filial piety.”
“Elucidation of motive? Filial piety? Oh, Pete, Pete, why do I always think you must be scraping the bottom of the barrel when you start coming up with the fancy phrases? Balance of the mind disturbed . By what’s not our concern. Could be his hamster died or he met the Virgin Mary in Tesco’s and she said, ‘You’ve been a naughty boy.’ Doesn’t matter. We’re cops, not trick cyclists. So that’s one loose end the less for you to fiddle with. Any more you want to waggle at me?”
Pascoe, who knew when to stop digging, shook his head.
“Good,” said the Fat Man. “I’m glad that’s sorted. So you’ll be handing over everything you’ve got to Paddy Ireland, right? Straight off. Then mebbe you can get down to the job you’re paid for. Now bugger off, the pair of you.”
Wield turned instantly and opened the door.
Pascoe, though he knew like Wellington that sometimes the only choice is between retreating in good order and running like hell, hesitated, feeling deeply resentful.
“Got another fancy phrase for me, Pete?” said Dalziel, not looking up from the file he’d opened.
“No, sir. Just thought you might have been wondering where this had got to.”
He took the Maciver interview tape out of his pocket and tossed it on to the open file. Then he followed Wield out, closing the door very quietly behind him.
They made for Pascoe’s office in silence and sat down, looking at each other po-faced for a few moments. Then they began to grin, and finally laughed out loud, but not too loud.
“Beauty and the Beast!” said Pascoe.
“Aye. Wonder which of us he thinks is which,” said Wield.
“No competition. You got off light. I’m the Beast. But it doesn’t make any difference. Jemmy Legs is definitely down on both of us. You weren’t really trailing him, were you?”
“Do I look mad?” said Wield. “Pure accident. I went to the Fleece like I said and there he was, having a drink.”
“So why’s he reacting like a bishop caught in a brothel?”
The sergeant’s face, which was to rough diamonds what rough diamonds are to the Kohinoor, gave next to nothing away as he replied, “Mebbe the bishop were embarrassed to be caught doing good by stealth. Pete, I know nowt about this Maciver business except what I heard on the news. So what’s gone off?”
Pascoe gave a succinct account of the previous night’s events. When he’d finished he sat back and said, “So there it is. Your turn now.”
“For what?” said Wield.
“To fill me in on what you know and I don’t. And don’t play hard to get. Just spit it out, eh? If I don’t like it, I can always wipe it up with thy tie.”
The line was Dalziel’s. He tried the voice too, not very successfully, but at least it made Wield relax and smile.
“I’m not playing hard to get,” he said. “I’m just not sure I’ve really got owt to tell you. You weren’t around when old Pal Maciver topped himself, were you?”
“No. But Andy filled me in last night.”
“Did he now? Then you’ll know it all.”
“Wieldy, get on with it or I’ll get you crossed off Ellie’s Sticky Toffee Pudding list.”
“Threats, is it? All right, here it is for what it’s worth. The Super knew Maciver, the father I mean. Didn’t like him much. And he knew his wife too, the Yank I mean. Her he liked a lot.”
“Liked? In what sense?”
“Every sense. He once said to me, ‘Never thought I could fancy a skinny lass, Wieldy. Like mackerel. Don’t matter how tasty the flesh is if you’ve got a mouthful of bones. But yon Kay’s a grilse. Full of jilp. Fit for any man’s plate.’”
Wield’s mimicry was spot on, but of course these were his native wood-notes wild, whereas Pascoe was an
