But today did not seem a good time to start countermanding orders from the Godhead.
He said, “Well, don’t overdo it,” a comment which brought a cynical snort quickly modified into a sneeze from Novello. Pascoe shot her an admonitory glance and went to meet his doom.
The Fat Man was replacing his phone as Pascoe entered.
“Sorry I’m late, sir, but…”
“Bugger buts. Late’s late,” said Dalziel without any real force. “I’ve just been talking to Kay and told her we’d be out to see her a bit later.”
“But we didn’t have an appointment,” protested Pascoe. “In fact I’d have preferred to take her by surprise.”
“You’d need to get up a bit earlier to do that, lad,” said Dalziel. “Any road, I didn’t ring her, she rang me.”
“How convenient. What for?”
“Two things,” said Dalziel, ignoring the slight sneer. “One was to tell me about what went off at Moscow House last night. Seemed surprised I didn’t know about it. Not as surprised as me, but.”
He looked questioningly at Pascoe who said, “Sorry, sir, just heard what happened from Wieldy myself this morning. I was going to put you in the picture.”
“I really appreciate that, Pete. The other thing she rang about is she’s worried about her husband.”
“Like Mrs Dale used to be?”
“No joking matter, this, lad,” said Dalziel heavily. “Seems he went off to London yesterday so’s he could catch a morning flight to America from Heathrow.”
“Yes, I was there when he left,” said Pascoe. “I think he said he had to go in to Ash-Mac’s first.”
“That’s right. Well, she expected him to ring her some time last night…”
“So why did she go out?” interrupted Pascoe.
“You not heard of mobiles, lad?” demanded Dalziel with a scorn ill becoming in one who had once opined that if he wanted something that whistled in his pocket, he’d fill it with twigs and buy a canary. “And answer services? There was no call, no message. This morning she rang the airport hotel he usually stays at. He was booked in but he hadn’t showed. His flight goes in half an hour and he’s not checked in for that yet either. I got on to the railway car park and they went and had a look and they’ve just confirmed Kafka’s car is parked there.”
“So what do you think’s going on, sir?”
“Could be in the boot, I suppose, but I doubt it. Have you read your paper this morning?”
“Haven’t had time, sir.”
“No? Coming in at this hour, I’d have thought you’d have had time to read War and sodding Peace. Bit in it about Ashur-Proffitt in the States. Seems the authorities are taking a long close look at the business like they did with that Enron mob. And it seems one or two of their top execs saw what was coming and have taken to the hills.”
Pascoe said, “And you think that Kafka…?”
“Why not? You go out scrumping apples and you see the farmer coming, you run like hell.”
“Just like that? Leaving your wife to fend for herself. Or do you think she might know something, sir?”
Two days earlier, even yesterday, he would have expected such a suggestion to trigger a violent rebuttal, but now the Fat Man just glowered at him. He felt no triumph at having been party to sowing seeds of doubt, only a sense of loss.
He said, “The reason I was late, sir, was Dolly Upshott came to see me. This is her statement.”
He took the microcassette out of his pocket and pressed the “play” button.
When it finished, Dalziel said, “And what did you tell her?”
“I told her that if she thought we had an agreement she was mistaken,” said Pascoe, unhappy at the memory.
“Oh aye? I bet that bleeding heart of thine were leaking like a sieve.”
“She was very upset,” said Pascoe.
“Didn’t try any of her Dolores stuff on you, I hope?”
“Of course not,” snapped Pascoe. “I advised her to go home and get on with her jumble sale and try to put it all out of her mind and, with a bit of luck, she might not hear from me again.”
“God, you’re a bigger liar than I am,” complimented the Fat Man. “This turns into a murder case, how’re you going to keep Dolores out of it?”
“Yes, but if it stays as a suicide case, there’s no reason to involve her.”
Dalziel did his gobsmacked face.
“Am I hearing right? After running around squawking like a headless chicken these past days, you’re saying you think this might be suicide after all?”
“I never said it couldn’t be,” protested Pascoe, slightly indignant at the characterization. “All I know is there’s a lot of oddities, and a few pointers to suggest that Mrs Kafka might have been involved in some way. There’s a history of bad blood between her and Maciver, and now Miss Upshott’s statement suggests she might have had a more immediate motive for wanting rid of him.”
“Which is?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, Kay Kafka seems to make a hobby out of putting young men through the ringer. I’m sorry, sir, but it seems there’s been quite a stream of them.”
He paused to make room for a Dalzielesque explosion, but none came. Why should it? If the Fat Man was interested in you, it was hard to do a lot in Mid-Yorkshire that sooner or later wouldn’t come to his notice.
He went on, “It’s not hard to understand her motivation after listening to that tape you gave me…”
“Spare me the psycho-crap, lad,” growled Dalziel. “Just give me the gist of your so-called argument.”
“All right. She’d shagged Jason then given him his marching orders like the rest. Then a couple of years later she discovers Helen is crazy for him. She thinks she can frighten the guy off, but to her surprise he stands up to her. Now she has a real problem. If she pulls the whole shebang down around their ears it could end with them taking off together anyway, leaving her without what seems to be the most important person in her life. So she takes a long hard look at the alternative. And she gets to thinking, is this really such a bad thing anyway? Helen’s going to marry some day anyway, and here we have a handsome lad, a really hot lover, good breeding stock, in a good secure profession, not too bright, but bright enough not to want to risk his job by amatory adventures. Plus, and I’m certain this was of the essence, she believed he was really deeply in love with the girl. So she gives the thumbs up, but only after making sure Jason is fully apprised of the rules.”
“Pity the stupid bastard didn’t stick to them,” grunted Dalziel.
“As I’ve often heard you say, sir, a man can’t turn aside from his cock. And he had Pal Maciver on his case. If Kay wanted the Dunn household to be a little paradise, Pal was the serpent, only this time he went for the fellow.”
“And why’d he do that?”
“Malice. Long-standing hate of his stepmother. At first he probably just thought it amusing to know that any time he wanted he could distress Kay by sowing a little discord in his sister’s marriage. But infidelities are forgivable. Chances were that Jason would be taken back into the fold and wicked old Pal hurled into the outer darkness forever. But once Jason let slip that he’d screwed Kay, Pal had a weapon of mass destruction. This wouldn’t just rock the marital boat. This could destroy Kay’s relationship with Helen forever.”
Dalziel shook his great head, whether to express disenchantment with his fellow man or disagreement with Pascoe’s theory wasn’t apparent.
“So why’d he not just blow the gaff?”
“And miss out on the fun? No, he’d let Kay know that he knew. He probably set it up as a blackmail operation, which would explain those payments into his account. But that was never the real object. That was just a way of keeping Kay dangling. He could jerk the cord from time to time, by asking for more money, say. Or by pretending a crisis of conscience and suggesting to her it might be best to let it all come out in the open. Making Kay pay, that was the name of the game.”
“Pay for what?”
“For whatever he believed she’d done to him and his family. We may never know the truth of that.”
Dalziel said with a force no less strong because his voice was unusually quiet, “I know the truth, lad, never doubt that. Get on with your fairy tale.”
