“He comes, he comes,” said the Fat Man suddenly. “At last he comes. I feel his presence among us, the one who started all this crap.”
Somehow Pascoe didn’t think he was referring to the Paraclete.
“Sir,” he said. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic.”
“On the high intellectual fast track?” said Dalziel with mock incredulity. “Is it possible? Right, recap for the DCI. Wieldy, you first. Don’t worry I’ve heard it all before. It might sound better second time round.”
The sergeant glanced at Pascoe ruefully, then with a clarity and brevity so familiar you hardly noticed them any more, gave an account of his visit to Jake Gallipot, concluding, “Confirmed DOA at the hospital. We’ll need to wait for the PM, but nothing at first glance to contradict death by electrocution. Contusion on back of skull consistent with striking head against something sharp, like the corner of a desk, after being thrown there by the shock.”
“But this isn’t how you see it?”
“Jake knew his way around computers. He wasn’t the kind of guy who goes poking about inside one with the power still on.”
“Overconfidence can kill too.”
“That’s what Jim Collaboy said. Like I say, I suggested the absence of back-up disks was suspicious, but he didn’t seem much bothered. One other thing. There was a digital camera in a desk drawer. I checked the images. Meant nothing except the last one. It was a photo of a man and woman caught with their pants down, so to speak. Didn’t recognize her, but the fellow looked a lot like our Dr Lockridge. Probably not relevant unless…”
“Ah,” said Pascoe. “You’ve not seen Mrs Maciver, have you?”
“No,” said Wield.
“Let me introduce you.”
Pascoe produced the evidence bag in which he’d put the ripped photograph.
“Ooh,” said Novello over his shoulder. “Bet that hurt.”
Dalziel, who’d been quieter longer than anyone could remember, grabbed the picture and said, “Soft porn, is it now? Right, Pete, fill us in, unless it’s a secret.”
“You know me, sir, I don’t believe in secrets,” said Pascoe, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “A woman, Mary Lockridge, I believe, delivered this to Sue-Lynn Maciver this morning. Along with a good right hook. It’s very interesting, but I don’t see where it gets us. Now we probably know why Maciver really hired Gallipot. To check his wife out. Not without reason.”
“Found out she were playing away, balance of mind upset, tops himself,” said Dalziel hopefully.
“Don’t think so, sir,” said Pascoe. “Maciver doesn’t strike me as that type. No, I see it as a contraindication. The time and date indicate this was taken ’round about the very time Maciver was dying. Frankly I wouldn’t imagine a man contemplating suicide would give much of a damn what his wife’s getting up to. I can’t really see what it can have to do with our case.”
“But it might help in looking for someone with a motive for killing Gallipot,” said Novello. “Sarge, this guy you said was seen leaving the building, could it have been Lockridge?”
“Which guy was this?” demanded Pascoe. “You’ve been doing house-to-house as well, have you, Wieldy?”
“No,” denied Wield. “Jim Collaboy put one of his lads on to asking questions round the other offices. He reported in when I was at the station. Someone looking out of the window spotted someone leaving the building, description, male, wearing a hat-a trilby, she thought. Didn’t pay much heed and looking down from the first floor doesn’t give the best view anyway. But no one in any of the offices recalled having dealings with a guy in a trilby that morning.”
“I’m sure I’ve seen Dr Lockridge in a trilby,” said Novello. “So maybe…”
“Forget Lockridge,” interrupted Pascoe. “I was talking to him at the hospital this morning, so unless he’s got wings…”
Novello subsided, looking crestfallen at having her theory shot down so comprehensively.
“Mr Waverley wears a trilby,” said a low and hesitant voice.
It was Hat Bowler. When all eyes turned his way, he looked like he wished he’d kept it a bit lower and hesitated a bit longer.
“Is that a riddle, lad? Or a message from the other side?” asked Dalziel long-sufferingly. “Who the fuck is Mr Waverley?”
Bowler looked so unhappy that Pascoe took pity.
“He’s a friend of Miss Lavinia Maciver,” he said. “But how do you know him, Hat?”
Dalziel shot Bowler a glance like an Olympic shot-putt and said, “Well, tell the DCI, lad.”
Hesitantly and ignoring a bit of eye-rolling from Novello, Hat gave an account of his acquaintance with Lavinia. Her he spoke of with undisguised enthusiasm.
“But all I know about Mr Waverley is that he’s an old friend. He came to tell her about her nephew’s death. Oh, and he’s a retired VAT inspector.”
“That’s definitely a strike against him,” said Dalziel. “But we’ll need a bit more if we’re going to fit him up for murder. Is there more?”
“He got a phone call when I was there this morning, and he left straight after,” persisted Hat.
“Oh aye? And you managed to hear this call, did you?”
“Not really. You see, he was out in the garden and I was eating a bit of toast and Scuttle was chattering away on my shoulder ‘cos he wanted a bit…”
“Scuttle?”
“He’s a coal-tit…”
Dalziel hid his face behind his hand and rubbed it as if trying to raze his nose.
“A coal-tit,” he syllabled softly. “Did you get its address?”
“It lives at Miss Mac’s…” began Bowler, then let his voice fade away.
“Of course it does. With Noddy and Big Ears. That it, lad? Or do you have owt that comes within pissing distance of suspicious?”
Bowler racked his brain. All the brownie points he’d won with Dalziel by his discovery of the Dolores recording seemed to be sliding away.
“There was something…” he said. “But it’s probably nothing really
… It’s just that Mr Waverley sounds ever so faintly Scottish, only when he started talking just for a second he sounded, I don’t know, Australian…”
“Australian?” said Dalziel, fanning himself with a file as if all this was bit too much for his delicate constitution. “Having a conversation with a kookaburra, were he?”
“No,” said Bowler defiantly. “I heard him say “Good day” when he answered his phone, but it came out the way Aussies say it. Gedye.”
For a fleeting moment Pascoe saw the ghost of a reaction drift across Dalziel’s face, then it was gone.
“Well, gedonyer, cobber,” he said in a dreadful approximation of Oz-speak. “Now would you like to flap your wings and rejoin us in the real world? Ivor, your turn.”
Pascoe, taken aback by the force of Dalziel’s put-down and irritated by Novello’s ill-disguised Schadenfreude, said rather sharply, “Yes, let’s hear what entertaining discoveries you’ve made, Shirley.”
Unfazed, Novello, in a style which attempted with some success to emulate Wield’s, told the story of her adventures among the bankers, lawyers and Avenue ladies.
Impressed despite himself, Pascoe said, “Well done, Shirley. Now that is interesting,” aware that Dalziel’s eyes were watching him under a brow louring like a typhoon sky.
He’s daring me to make assumptions or even build hypotheses, thought Pascoe. Well, let the old sod wait!
He said briskly, “Now, where are we? Top-of-the-bill time. Must be your spot, sir.”
Dalziel’s gaze modified from threatening to sardonic. He picked up his phone, dialled a number and passed it to Pascoe.
“Have a listen,” he said.
He put it to his ear, heard it ring, then the answer service clicked in.
He listened.
