“Glad you did, Wieldy. I read about Maciver. Tragic.” A pause. For reflection on the mutability of things? Or…? “Any idea what drove him to it, Wieldy?”
Keeps on saying my name like we’re old drinking buddies, thought Wield.
“That’s why I’m ringing, Jake. We just wondered if anything in the work you were doing for him might throw some light on his state of mind.”
Another pause. There’s someone there, guessed Wield. Perhaps just his secretary. Then why hadn’t she answered the phone?
“Sorry, Wieldy,” said Gallipot. “I was just trying to run my mind over my responsibilities re client confidentiality. Not sure how death affects things.”
“Depends whether it’s his or yours, I should have thought,” said Wield drily.
Gallipot’s infectious laugh boomed out.
“Finger right on it as always, Wieldy,” he said. “Hang on. I’ll get the file.”
The phone went quiet, too quiet. He’s not getting a file, thought Wield. He’s sitting at his desk counting up to ten.
He joined in mentally and spot on ten Gallipot said, “Here we are. No, don’t think it’s going to be any help. Some stuff he got offered for his business. He’s in the antiques trade, but you probably know that. Thought it might be a bit iffy and wanted me to check it out. That was a couple of months back.”
“And was it iffy?”
“Not that I was able to find out. I gave him my report, he paid me, end of story. My card must have just got stuck at the back of his wallet.”
No way, thought Wield. It looked pretty new, almost pristine.
“I suppose so. Thanks anyway, Jake. Oh, by the way, how did Maciver come to choose your firm? Yellow Pages job, was it?”
Wield was so casual an old CID man like Gallipot would be on to him like a shot. Slipping in an apparently unimportant question at the end of an interview when the guard was down, a question to which the interrogator already knew the answer, was an old technique. Difference here was Wield didn’t know the answer and hadn’t the faintest idea if it were important or not. But it was slightly curious that Maciver should have opted for a Harrogate PI rather than one closer to home.
Again the pause while Gallipot weighed the risk of giving unnecessary information against the risk of being caught in a lie. Not a risk worth taking, Wield guessed he’d decide. But the hesitation was interesting.
“I did a job for his father many years ago, not long after I went private. I think Mac Junior said he came across my name in his dad’s papers and, being a bit out of the ordinary, it stuck. So after all those canteen jokes about Pisspot and Tosspot, it came in useful, eh?”
“Certainly looks like it, Jake. Thanks for your time.”
“My pleasure, Wieldy. You ever get over this way, give me a ring and we’ll get together and chew over old times. Cheers now, old son.”
Wield replaced the receiver and sat looking at it for a full minute. There was something there, but what? He’d forced Gallipot to give him the truth about how Pal Junior got on to him, but it merely transferred the question back ten years. Why had Pal Senior chosen a Harrogate PI, rather than one located in Mid-Yorkshire? Was this, or anything, worth a trip to Harrogate for a face to face? He weighed time spent against possible gain in the logical balance of his mind. It was no contest. His place was here, doing what he did best, holding things together.
Novello put her phone down, stood up and came towards him.
“That’s that fixed, then,” she said.
He looked at her in slight dismay. If she’d already done all she’d been asked to do, then maybe it was time for him to move over and let the new generation in.
“So what have you got?” he asked.
“Nothing yet,” she said. “Except an appointment in twenty minutes with Maciver’s bank manager. Got his lawyer’s name too, so I thought I’d have a word with him about the will. Better to do it face-to-face, harder for them to pull any client confidentiality crap. Will you be here if I need to check back to you, Sarge?”
He felt a rush of relief. So, not superwoman after all, but she had the makings of a very good detective. Why hadn’t he thought of the lawyer? And she was right about face-to-face, like Pete was right. If you wanted to be sure you were getting the truth, there was no other way.
Every so often granny really needs to be reminded how to suck eggs!
He said, “No, I’ll be out, so you’ll need to ring me on my mobile.”
He picked up his phone, dialled Harrogate Police, and asked for DI Collaboy.
“Jim? Ed Wield here… Aye, it’s been quite a time. Everything OK with you?… Grand. Me too. Listen, Jim, this is a courtesy call to say I’m going to be on your patch later today, visiting an old chum of yours. Jake Gallipot… No, that’s not a courtesy call! It’s just he were working for some guy here who’s topped himself and I’d like to know what exactly he were doing… Just a hunch, probably a waste of time… Owt interesting, you’ll be the first to know… Promise! See you.”
He put the phone down. Collaboy had been the DI with supervisory responsibility for Gallipot at the time of his resignation. Even though there’d been no specific charges against the sergeant, Collaboy always reckoned it was the fall-out from that affair which had kept him stuck at his current rank. The thought that someone was sniffing around his former colleague would not be at all displeasing to him and, knowing Wield’s reputation, he’d pay little heed to his claim that he was coming all the way to Harrogate on a hunch.
But a hunch was all he had.
So what?
Sometimes you had to say Stuff logic! and go with the flow.
4 THE LILY AND THE ROSE
The flow Pascoe was going with took him past the Central Hospital on his way out to Cothersley.
It occurred to him that a man on his way to trample on the susceptibilities of a grieving widow need hardly feel inhibited by interrupting the joy of a newly-delivered mother and he pulled into the visitors’ car park. It was crowded. There must be a lot of sick people in Mid-Yorkshire. Of course the majority of people visiting the sick are not too displeased to have an excuse for turning up late, but to a man given twenty-four hours by Andy Dalziel, seconds are precious. He turned towards the main reception area, ignoring a sign which read Staff Parking Only, and slid his Golf between a BMW and a Maserati.
When he got out, he stood for a while looking at the Maserati, not enviously, though it was a beautiful thing, but because it brought something to mind. Then he recalled Ellie mentioning her discussion with Cress Maciver about the problems of sexual congress in the machine. He could see what she meant.
There couldn’t be many Maseratis in Mid-Yorkshire, he thought. Curiously he checked the parking slot name. V. J. R. S. Chakravarty, Neurological Consultant. Well, there was no law against it. As long, of course, as Cress wasn’t a patient.
As he strode down a long corridor en route to the maternity unit, he saw two figures coming towards him, deep in conversation. One he recognized immediately as Tom Lockridge. The other was a tall, slim, extremely handsome Asian.
So engrossed was Lockridge in his conversation, or rather his monologue, as he seemed to be doing most of the talking, that he didn’t spot Pascoe till they were almost face to face, and didn’t look too pleased when he did recognize him.
“Dr Lockridge,” said Pascoe. “Could you spare a moment?”
“I’m rather busy,” said Lockridge, looking as if he wanted to keep going.
But the other man had paused too and appeared, if Pascoe read him right, not unhappy at the chance of separating himself from his companion.
“Don’t worry about me, Tom,” he said. “Things to do before rounds. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
Flashing a smile at Pascoe which might have set a more susceptible heart racing, he strode away. He was a lovely mover. Pascoe had one of his intuitions.
