When he’d finished, Dalziel said, “Sounds like you’ve taken a real fancy to this bird lady. I met her way back, when her brother topped himself. She made a statement. Routine, nowt important. But I recall she struck me then as being a bit original. Mind you, they all are, the Macivers. No two of them the same.”
“I’ve not met any of the others, sir, and I’ve only met Miss Mac twice, but she’s really great, and she’s so brave with her MS…”
“Aye, I didn’t know about that. Feel sorry for her, do you?”
Hat didn’t have to consider that.
“No way,” he said. “She’d hit anyone with her stick if she thought they felt sorry for her. No, I just like her and she seems to understand me, what I feel, I mean. And because of that I don’t seem to feel it so much, I mean I still feel it, but I feel better too, as if things are still possible, if you know what I mean, sir…”
He regarded the Fat Man uneasily, fearful that this descent into incoherence might signal the end of this period of rapprochement, but his response was to nod and say, “Aye, lad, we’ve all had shocks and losses and it’s never any use anyone telling you you’ll get through it, not till you find out for yourself.”
But now his tone became more businesslike.
“Right, then. You like the bird lady and because you can see her nephew’s death’s upset her, you thought it ’ud be a kindness to check out what the state of play is in the investigation?”
“Yes, sir. But I thought it was just a straightforward suicide, sir. It wasn’t till I started asking downstairs that I realized we were still investigating it as a suspicious death.”
“And that changed everything, of course. You thought, Oh dear, this changes everything, I can’t go shooting my mouth off about an active case, I’d best keep my neb out of this. Right?”
As he spoke, the Fat Man’s eyes were fixed on the faxes in Bowler’s hand.
“Yes. Sir. Really, sir. I came upstairs to say hello to everyone, and OK, maybe I’d have asked a few questions, but there wasn’t anyone here and then this stuff started coming through the fax and when I looked I could see it was details of Mr Maciver’s phone calls. But I was just looking, sir. I mean I wouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know anything, do I? Sir, what is going on?”
“If I tell you, then you will know something, won’t you? Will it go straight back to the bird lady?”
Hat looked him straight in the eye.
“No, sir. No way.”
“Glad to hear it. And this idea of checking up on the state of play, that was yours alone, was it? She didn’t suggest it to you when she found out you were a cop? She does know that, does she?”
“Yes, sir. I told her this morning. I told her all about me. No, she never suggested anything. She wouldn’t.”
“I’ll take your word for it. So, lad, what shall we do with you?”
“Sir?”
“I mean, how are you feeling? Do you want to go home and take a rest after all your exertions, lie in bed with some soft music on the gramophone, feel sorry for yourself. Or are you fit enough to do some work?”
Hat downed his whisky.
“What had you in mind, sir?” he said boldly.
“Good lad! Well, seeing as you seem to have got very attached to them telephone records, why don’t you start there? I’ll get the file from Mr Pascoe’s room so we can see the full picture.”
“Yes, sir. What exactly are we looking for, sir?”
“I haven’t got the faintest idea, lad. And as there’s no bugger around to give us a hint, we’ll just have to play it by ear. But I’ll tell you one thing. If we find nowt, this is one time I won’t give a toss!”
Most Yorkshire villages, even those most famed for their attractiveness, have retained a comforting workaday ambience. The sixteenth-century cottages may be painted in twentieth-century pastels and festooned with Mediterranean-style window boxes, but there’s cow shit on the main street to show that the true bucolic still persists.
Not so with Cothersley. Any cow entering here had better wipe its feet and keep a tight ass, thought Pascoe. Even the speed bumps seemed to have been designed to wreck any suspension less sturdy than a Range Rover’s, though they didn’t seem to be inhibiting the desire of a convoy of mini-buses to shed the Cothersley dust from their tyres.
In the centre of the village the road furcated on either side of a manicured green across which the rather severe facade of St Cuthbert’s church frowned at the Dog and Duck, apparently disapproving its dazzling whitewashed walls and cute new painted sign as much as Andy Dalziel. Outside it stood a police car.
Pascoe drew up behind it, got out, and, not wanting to risk interrupting serious police business at a critical stage, peered through a window. His view was partially blocked by a menu promising bar meals in which goujons and rocket garnish figured largely. Beyond this he could make out a deal of tartan upholstery and walls festooned with enough horse brass to refurbish the Household Cavalry. He shifted his angle of view and finally glimpsed Mid-Yorkshire’s Finest at their dangerous and demanding work.
Constables Jennison and Maycock were standing side by side at the bar with their heads tipped back to extract the last drop of liquid from their pint glasses, observed by a military moustached man in a blazer and regimental tie.
The glasses were then set on the bar with something of reluctant finality and Pascoe retreated to lean against their car, facing the pub doorway.
It was a fairly wide door but not wide enough to permit the pair to exit abreast. Maycock came first, stopping suddenly when he saw Pascoe, with the result that Jennison bumped into him.
“What’s up, you daft sod? Good job I weren’t excited else you might have had to marry me,” cried Joker. “Oh shit.”
The last was sotto voce, caused by glimpsing Pascoe.
“Hello, sir,” said Maycock, recovering. “Didn’t think this would be important enough for CID.”
“What is this?” enquired Pascoe.
“Got a call from the Captain…”
“Captain?”
“Captain Inglestone, the landlord. Little bit of bother. Seems some joker circulated several care-homes in the area to say that the Dog and Duck was offering special pensioner discounts this lunchtime, eighty per cent off all drinks and meals. A lot of them made a special effort to get out here.”
“I think I saw them leaving.”
“Aye, we persuaded them, but it were a close-run thing,” said Jennison. “There was a popular motion to drown Captain Inglestone in his own slop tray. If he hadn’t agreed to dish out free half-pints all round, I don’t know what might have happened.”
“And as old age pensioners, that was your free beer you were drinking just now, was it?”
“No, sir,” said Maycock. “That was by way of experiment. Seems some joker had doctored one of his kegs so that when he put it on yesterday, the beer came out blue. Had to dump the lot and flush out his pipes and we were just making sure the new lot were fit for human consumption. Sir.”
“Not a very popular man, this captain, by the sound of it,” said Pascoe.
“Probably his mother loves him,” said Jennison. “Specially if she lives a long way off.”
Pascoe turned away to hide a smile. Across the green, a dusty hatchback pulled up in front of St Cuthbert’s. The driver got out, looked across at the three policemen and gave a wave.
It was Dolly Upshott, Pal Maciver’s assistant and the vicar’s sister.
She’d abandoned her Archimagus outfit and looked much more at home in full country-girl kit, green Barbour sweater straining over her bosom, cord breeks doing the same over her bum, long shapely legs plunging into green wellies. The crown of unruly brown curls remained the same. Curate’s fiancee in a Wodehouse short story, thought Pascoe. Better than him at golf and her parents object.
Though Wodehouse had never observed, to his knowledge, just how sexy green wellies could be.
She opened the hatch. The back of the car was filled with cardboard boxes and she bent forward to lift the first of these out. The resultant seam-popping curve of cord over shapely buttock was something to make gods
