off-comer, and educated at that.
“You’re not saying he put her on his menu, are you?”
“Doubt it. I reckon you’d need a finely tied fly to get a rise out of our Kay, and Andy tends to fish with sticks of dynamite. But there’s definitely something. He knew her before her man topped himself, that was clear.”
“Did he now? And this showed, did it?”
“Oh yes. There was a proper investigation, don’t misunderstand me. It was a bad situation, you could feel it from the start. There was bad feeling in that family, lot of crap flying around. Usually is when a rich widower marries a young bride and then snuffs it a few years on, but this felt worse than usual. Andy sat on it. Hard. He appointed himself Kay’s guardian angel. It was the son, last night’s copycat, who was chucking most of the dirt. Andy choked him off somehow. I expected sparks to fly at the inquest, but I’ve seen livelier games of carpet bowls. Don’t know how the old sod did it, but he did.”
“I thought something like that must have happened,” said Pascoe.
He told Wield about the tape.
“And that was the one you tossed on to his desk just now?” asked Wield.
“That’s right.”
“You made a couple of copies, but?”
“Actually, no.”
“Probably wise,” said Wield after a little reflection. “No point trying to blackmail a man who’s got pictures of the Chief Constable in a backless ball gown dancing the tango with the Mayor.”
“You’re joking,” said Pascoe alarmed.
“Yeah, I’m joking,” said Wield. “It were the veleta. Pete, I think the reason Andy got his knickers in a twist about me clocking him at the Golden Fleece was he was having a drink with Kay Maciver. Kay Kafka as she is now.”
“Ah,” said Pascoe.
They sat in silence for a moment, then he asked, “Anything bother you about what happened ten years ago, Wieldy?”
“I didn’t think so,” said Wield slowly. “You know me, I’m a details man and all the details added up. Man used to being top of the heap finds himself not even on the heap any more. And the heap’s changed out of recognition.”
“How so?” asked Pascoe.
“Maciver’s, even at its biggest and most successful, were always a family firm. They employed a lot of men but no one ever said good day to Mr Pal without getting good day back with his name attached. No clocking on or clocking off. If you were late, it were noticed. If it happened again you were spoken to and if you didn’t have a good excuse, you were warned, but if you did have an excuse, like a new babby disturbing your night so that you overslept, you got offered help. Knocking you up or a change of shift, mebbe.”
“Very patriarchal. And the new regime?”
“Modern streamlined, highly efficient, one warning and you were out on your neck. There wasn’t a strong union presence because, under Maciver, there had never been the need for one. Now the Yankee management was showing Thatcher the way to bash any sign of union life on the head. I checked out the parent firm, Ashur- Proffitt, on the net.”
“You were thorough,” said Pascoe. “That mean you were worried?”
“If a job’s worth doing…” said Wield. “Big corporation, getting bigger, lots of international subsidiaries, financially very buoyant. Made lots of dosh, made enemies too. There were this website, Junius it called itself…”
“Junius?”
“Aye. Mean something to you?”
“Vaguely. Junius was the pseudonym of some eighteenth-century guy who used to write letters and articles saying the government was a load of crap. Had a go at the judiciary and George the Third too, if I remember right. They never found out who he was, not for certain, anyway.”
“Sounds like that’s where this Junius got his name. According to him at least one of the Ashur-Proffitt subsidiaries was mixed up in that Arms for Iran scandal, remember, when that guy North got done for sanction- breaking, arranging for arms to be sold to the Iranians then subsidizing the Contra guerrillas in Nicaragua with the profits. Lot of stuff about Iraq too.”
“You must have dug deep to get on to this Junius site,” observed Pascoe.
“Not really. Whoever set it up had managed to get a hyperlink in the A-P website, so when you clicked on More Information about our overseas operations, suddenly you were transferred to Junius with all this stuff pouring out at you.”
He sounded admiring. To Pascoe, computers were like cars, a tool. In his youth he’d felt fairly competent to deal with minor car troubles, but that had been in a gentler age when lifting up a bonnet revealed as much space as engine. Now every inch was so crammed he had to get his manual out to locate the oil dipstick. With computers he didn’t even have that distant memory to console him. Only Andy Dalziel made him feel expert. In face of real experts, like Wield and his daughter, Rosie, he felt only resentful awe.
“All that this stuff did,” continued the sergeant, “was show me how fast and how far Ash-Mac’s had moved from the old Maciver’s. It must have been a real shock to Pal senior’s system when he realized this. OK, they gave him a token job, but I guess it took a bit of time for it to sink in just how token it was. Mebbe he reacted by trying to throw his weight around till someone took him aside and spelt it out that he was yesterday’s man. He must have felt betrayed, Worse, he must have felt he’d betrayed all his employees. I could see how he might have cracked.”
“So, no loose end?” said Pascoe.
“None that I could see. Mebbe none that I wanted to see,” said Wield. “I put it out of my mind and never gave it another thought. Not till I caught the news this morning. And I found myself coming over all bothered by it, just like I had before. I thought hard about it, couldn’t see any reason why I should be bothered, so I put it out of my mind again. Next thing, I clock Andy head to head with Kay. And suddenly I’m bothered again. And now he’s throwing his toys out of the cot.”
“And his teddy’s weighted with lead shot,” said Pascoe. “Wieldy, sorry to go on about it, but you’re quite sure this doesn’t just come down to sex?”
“You think, mebbe ’cos I’m gay, I can’t crack all the hetero codes?”
Pascoe opened his mouth for an indignant denial, changed his mind and said, “Could be. Took me a long time to suss you out, remember?”
“I remember. But it’s not relevant. I don’t think the super plays the sex-for-favours game. And anyway, from what I’ve seen, Andy’s not Mrs Kafka’s type.”
“Her type being…?”
Wield described the scene with Manuel.
“He went up there looking like he was hot favourite for a gold, came down like he hadn’t even got a bronze,” he concluded. “And seems he’s not the first.”
“What?”
“There’ve been others. Not a lot, three or four, well spread out.”
“How the hell do you know this?”
“Doreen, one of the reception girls, comes from Enscombe. I got into conversation with her afore I left.”
“God, Wieldy, you live dangerously. If Himself ever found out you were asking questions…”
“No chance,” said Wield. “In Enscombe we know how to keep things close.”
“Except to other members of the coven, eh? What precisely did Doreen say?”
“Not much. Same types: young fellows who really fancied themselves was how she put it. One was a trainee manager-didn’t know the others, but they all had two things in common: they started by acting like they were God’s gift and they ended chewed up and spat out-her words.”
“Fascinating,” said Pascoe. “Makes you wonder about that stuff on the tape.”
“Does it?” said the sergeant. “Well, I’m glad it’s nowt to do with me. So what are you going to do with your loose ends, Pete? Try and tie ’em up?”
