Arms and the Women (39 page)

Pascoe stood, looking at the slim white envelope in his hand.

Shit. He wished it hadn't come. OK, it was the letter not the package, but it might just contain a formal rejection and a request for the return postage if she wanted her script back. Did publishers do things like that? He'd never met any, not even professionally, though presumably some were penny-pinching bastards. Maxwell had been a publisher, hadn't he? And he'd certainly pinched a lot more than pennies. A good sign was that the envelope was handwritten, implying a personal interest. Or maybe they were just economizing on secretaries.

Only one way to find out.

He tore open the envelope and took out the single sheet it contained.

The letter was unambiguous but he read it three times just     to be sure.

Then he shouted out, 'Yes, yes, yes, yes, YES!' like a porn movie star having a climax, and grabbed the receiver.

There are few things more frustrating than riding from Ghent to Aix and finding nobody in.

He let the phone ring at Nosebleed Cottage for several minutes before putting down the receiver.

Still, a pleasure delayed was a pleasure heightened, wasn't that what they said in the sex manuals?

The doorbell rang. It was Wield.

'Come in, come in,' said Pascoe. 'Grab a seat. What would you like to drink? Tea? Beer? Champagne?'

The sergeant looked at him curiously and said, 'Tea'll do. You're very bouncy. Tracked down Lord Lucan, or what?'

Pascoe was tempted to share his news, then thought, no, no one should hear this before Ellie, not even that doyen of discretion, Edgar Wield.

'No. That's tomorrow, isn't it? Today he just wants us to find Kelly Cornelius. How'd you get on?'

'Interesting.'

Wield described his adventures in the park, concluding, 'Then finally just when I was thinking of packing it in, I saw Old Joe, you know, the bus-station beggar who always tries to get nicked for Christmas. He was just coming into the park from the town side. He says there's a lull about teatime and he likes to take a kip in the sun before he does the homeward-bound shift. He did the same yesterday and yes, he remembered Kelly Cornelius. Good description. Lovely girl, legs all the way to heaven, was how he put it. I said I hoped he wasn't turning into a dirty old man, clocking girls' legs, and he said he couldn't help it as she was on a bike, moving at speed, with her skirt trailing round her neck.'

'Nice picture,' said Pascoe. 'So, the bike again.'

'I headed back to the cricketers then. The young lad, the gormless one I mentioned before, he was coming away. Said it was boring. I remember the feeling, standing around at long stop all day, never getting a bowl, and out first ball. I thought, mebbe not so gormless after all. This time I listened to him. He's definite not only that he saw Cornelius on a bike, but that he saw the old woman she'd spoken to by the canal on the same bike, coming from the direction of the car park, and heading up the rise towards the public bogs.'

'Before or after they spoke?'

'After. And when he saw Kelly a bit later, she were shooting down the track from the bogs. She went across the grass, which impressed him as it's against the regulations and a parky chased her. At least he assumed it must be a parky as why would anyone else bother?'

'Nice logic. Definitely not so gormless. This old woman, how old would that be?'

'I wondered about that too. At his age anyone over twenty who doesn't look like Cornelius or Michael Owen probably qualifies as old. I asked him if she was older than me, say. He thought a bit then said, mebbe.'

Pascoe was feeling an uneasiness, the same kind of uneasiness which had made him want to focus his attention on Cornelius after the attempted abduction of Ellie, and he guessed he was going to need the same obliquity of view to detect its source.

A prolonged peal at the doorbell which could only harbinger Dalziel prevented any experiment.

'Sorry I'm late. Had to go back to the factory,' he said. 'Ee, I could murder a cup of tea and a wad.'

Pascoe brewed some tea to the required strength and with some trepidation dug out the last six inches of his favourite walnut cake, a slice of which he'd been looking forward to enjoying in bed with his hot chocolate nightcap. Nothing could compensate for the absence of Ellie's warm and willing body from his side, but walnut cake, whose crumby presence she absolutely forbade in the bedroom, was a small consolation.

Wield refused, which was a good start. But the Fat Man said, 'Aye, why not?' and sliced himself a good three inches.

'Right,' he said, after washing down his first cetacean mouthful with a torrent of hot black tea. 'How'd you get on?'

Wield repeated his story, then Pascoe outlined his investigations, pausing for comment when he mentioned the car.

'Lots of blue Golfs around,' said Wield. 'Could be coincidence.'

'Coincidence is when I get into bed with Maggie Thatcher,' said Dalziel. 'More loose ends here than at a monk's wedding, and I don't like the way some of 'em tie up. And if she's got her car, why's she end up on a bike? Were that all planned in advance?'

'Not in any detail, I imagine. But she knew she was going sometime, so she shoved her favourite photos in her bag just in case she didn't come back. When her accomplice told her about the bike plan, she jumped at it. Cool as you like, she drifts off to the shops to buy some basic female survival gear plus a knapsack to carry it in while the old bird puts the bike in the ladies. Then it's over the hills and faraway with Sempernel's men flat-footed. I think she probably enjoyed it.'

'Aye. Smart lass from the sound of it,' said Dalziel. 'Smarter than you two buggers if that's all you've managed to find out.'

Wield and Pascoe exchanged glances, then the DCI said mildly, 'I thought starting from nothing we did OK, sir.'

'You didn't start from nothing, lad. You started from knowing that she's taken off and that's where you've finished from the sound of it. All this fancy detective work you've been doing, has it left either of you with any notion where she's gone to? No, don't bother to answer. God, it's enough to drive a man to gluttony.'

As if to illustrate the depths of his distress at their incompetence, he seized the remaining chunk of walnut cake and thrust it into his mouth.

Hope the fat bastard gets indigestion, thought Pascoe surlily.

'OK, sir,' he said. 'When you've finished chewing, are you going to tell us what you found out?'

There had to be something. The Fat Man never sneered at others' empty hands unless he himself was the bearer of trophies.

Another draught of tea, and he said, 'George Ollershaw. I knew he might be worth a look.'

'Actually,' said Pascoe, 'I think it was me who suggested you look at him. So, is he an accomplice? Could he have set up the escape? Hey, Wieldy, this old woman in the park, did the boy say there was anything odd about her, the way she moved, I mean?'

'George Ollershaw in drag?' exclaimed Dalziel in mock-outrage. 'He's a member of the Gents and a Mason!'

He bellowed a laugh, then said, 'No, it's a nice thought, but you're barking up the wrong tree. Listen and I'll tell you a story, then mebbe you'll tell me what it means. Five years ago the old Nortrust Building Society demutualized itself. This means it stopped being owned by its members, that is them as saved with it or got mortgage loans from it, and became a bank, a public company, with shares on sale on the stock exchange and paying dividends to its shareholders, most of who didn't have savings with it or take out mortgages from it. You with me?'

'As it's happened innumerable times in the past decade, I think we all grasp the principle, sir,' said Pascoe.

'Is that right? Well, I'm glad you grasp summat. It seems that Ollershaw had a lot of his money invested in the building society, so he had a vote like any other investor, but he kept in the background during the debate about the change, only coming into prominence later after it was all signed, sealed and on the point of being delivered. And now it turned out there were a problem. You see, it seems the Nortrust, like a lot of the old building societies and savings banks, had been founded way back by some benevolent buffer who felt the workers would work a sight better if they learnt the art of regular saving. That way they could take on the kind of long-term debt like a mortgage, which made them even more dependent on a regular wage, and what's more they'd have some chance of repaying it.'

This, to Pascoe, seemed a somewhat cynical way of looking at the motives of Victorian philanthropy, but he set aside the ethical discussion for a later date.

'So where is this leading, sir?' he asked.

'Don't be impatient,' said Dalziel, looking sadly at the empty cake plate. 'I'm getting there fast as me failing strength can manage. This problem which no one had spotted was that the founder of the Nortrust Building Society had provided the original building, that great black granite job on the old High Street where the bank's headquarters is now, and where our Kelly worked. Plus, as the building society prospered and needed branches all over Mid-Yorkshire, he provided these too. Very philanthropic fellow, but sharp with it. Seems that he didn't actually give these buildings to Nortrust, lock, stock, and freehold. No, he gave them on a perpetual lease with a peppercorn ground rent. But, and here's the catch, in the head lease of each such building was a clause setting out the purposes for which the building was to be used. Which is, not to labour the point, as a building society. Legally it could be argued, and with good chance of success, so I'm told, that by converting from a mutual to a PLC, the terms of the lease were broken and the freeholder was entitled to evict the leaseholder and regain full rights over the properties.'

'Let me guess,' said Pascoe. 'George Ollershaw turned out to be the freeholder.'

'Right on. Yes, our George had been quietly acquiring all these apparently valueless freeholds over the years, and he waited till the changeover to bank status was irrevocable, but before the share flotation had taken place, then he pounced. Now Nortrust had a real problem. It wasn't just that if they went to court, they might well lose and then have to renegotiate leases with George or find new premises, it was the devastating effect that news of this glitch was likely to have on confidence in the new bank and therefore its share price. It was all sorted quietly. George ended up with his pockets stuffed with share options, a seat on the board, and a hefty salary as the head of the Investment Department. At least he seemed to have proved he'd got the credentials for that job!'

Pascoe shook his head as though to dislodge a persistent fly and said, 'Very interesting, but what's it got to do with Kelly Cornelius, sir?'

To his surprise, Dalziel said, 'Haven't the faintest idea, but it could have something to do with your missus. Distantly.'

'Ellie?'

'You've not got another in the attic, have you?'

'Could you stop being enigmatic, please,' said Pascoe forcefully. 'What do you mean?'

'I wish I knew, lad. It's just that when you get mixed up with twisted minds like Pimpernel, you start making crazy connections. Thing is, the guy who founded the Nortrust Building Society way back was one Mungo Macallum, the old-time arms king, and, more to the point mebbe, he was yon Feenie Macallum's father, and she's a playmate of your Ellie, I gather?'

'Yes,' said Pascoe slowly. 'She runs this Liberata thing, human rights, women in prison, that sort of thing . . . but I don't see how or why . . .'

But he was beginning to see something, as elusive and quick-melting as the first flake of a blizzard.

'Me neither,' said Dalziel. 'Something Ivor said to me rang a bell though. That's why I went back to the factory to dig it out. She'd checked this Feenie to see if anything was known. Only thing of interest to us was a dangerous-driving conviction a few years back. She ran this guy off the road and when our lads got there, it turned out they knew each other and he was screaming attempted murder and she was screaming natural justice! Well, he quietened down later and so did she, and it came down to dangerous driving. But thing is, the guy was George Ollershaw and for the past God knows how many years, he'd been Feenie's accountant and financial adviser.'

'Oh shit,' said Pascoe.

His vision had cleared. He was seeing an ancient sit-up-and-beg bicycle, leaning drunkenly against the
Pompon de Paris
outside his front door.

'Wieldy,' he said. The boy in the park, or Old Joe, did either of them describe the bike?'

'Not Joe. Too busy with the legs. But the lad said it were pretty ancient, not a racer or a mountain bike, certainly. Heavy-looking. Oh, and it was painted what he called a cacky-brown. Might have meant khaki, or mebbe not.'

'So what's on your mind, lad?' demanded Dalziel.

He told him about the bike.

The Fat Man looked pleased.

'Well, that does it, eh? Too many connections for coincidence. I think we ought to have a word with Feenie Macallum. Any idea where she lives, Peter?'

'Excuse me, I've got to ring Ellie.'

Pascoe went to the phone and dialled the number of Nosebleed Cottage.

It rang and rang but as before there was no reply.

'Oh shit!' he exclaimed again. 'Novello's mobile. I've got the number somewhere . . . Wieldy?'

Wield repeated the number without thought. Pascoe dialled.