Arms and the Women (21 page)

And he emerged at the other end with not a hair out of place, everything under wraps, the dogs of the Press happily chewing their drugged titbits, the wolves of Westminster howling at nothing closer than the moon, which at that time looked like Gaw's for the asking. But there's many a slip . . .

Oh yes, he has cause for resentment. But so have we all.

Back to the Fat Man.

He stirred things up, no doubt about that. He displayed a touching loyalty to a dead colleague upon whom Gaw found it convenient to tip any residual blame for miscarriages of justice, etc.

But in the end, Gaw saw to it that Mr Dalziel came nowhere near the real truth . . .

Or if he did he was clever enough to keep it to himself.

He gives away nothing . . .

Could a man who looked so brutish be so bright? Perhaps. After all, are not these electronic urns a memorial more lasting than monumental marble to man's protean soul?

And Gaw Sempernel has added an ambiguous footnote.
Should not be under-estimated. . . perhaps.
Of course, it's rumoured among the young ones that old Gaw spends an hour each morning looking in the mirror till he's convinced he really is himself.

Oh, I could tell them a thing or two about how Gaw once liked to disport himself in the morning . . .

No more of that.

But an analysis of what actually happened over in the States when the Mickledore business blew up again does suggest that our plump Innocent Abroad was more manipulator than manipulated.

So, one to watch. One who is close to DCI Pascoe who 'accidentally' encountered Kelly Cornelius on the Snake Pass and whose wife is an acolyte of Feenie Macallum's.

All very vague.

The only positive reason for Mr Dalziel's presence in
Leaves
seems to be that Gaw who likes to cover all contingencies is not totally convinced that the
cordon sanitaire
he has thrown around Kelly Cornelius will keep the unsavoury superintendent from sticking his nose in.

Forewarned is forearmed.

But that works both ways.

Clever cool calculating Sir Gawain has thought to give an extra twist to the stopper that keeps this fat genie in his bottle.

What fun it might be to simply crack the bottle and let him out!

And more than fun. A new way to pay old debts.

But how to approach this monster?

Let's see ... no home computer, no fax, not even an answer machine!

Ned Lud, thou shouldst be living at this hour!

But though he shakes the earth with his dinosaur tread, yet his police force with quiet but unrelenting step marches on into the new millennium.

Think of it as ancient magic, ol' man Dalziel. Think of it as Sibyl's leaves fluttering down onto your desk. And then just be yourself. . .

He just keeps strolling . . .

just keeps on strolling .. .

along . . .

xvi

oats for St Uncumber

Andy Dalziel pretended to believe that e-mail was what they called a transvestite in Lancashire, so it was with some trepidation that Sergeant Harmony from the computer room entered the great man's office.

'E-mail for you, sir. For your eyes only,' he said.

'Oh aye? What's it say?'

'Don't know, sir, I've not looked at it,' said Harmony, scenting a trap.

'How do you know it's for me then?'

'Looked as far as your name, sir. Didn't read any more.'

'Bollocks,' said Dalziel, taking the print-out. 'How's that lovely missus of thine?'

'Fine, sir.'

'Tell her I want a tango with her at the next kneesup.'

'I surely will, sir,' said Harmony retreating, grateful to have escaped so lightly.

The Fat Man read his e-mail twice, sat back in deep thought, read it again, then leaned back in his chair and bellowed, 'SHOP!' And waited. But only the echoes came.

After a while he rose, flung open his door and went striding through the CID offices like Uranus through his starry halls, and like Uranus he found them empty. There was no escaping the fact. Mid-Yorkshire CID was short-staffed.

A couple of its members were on leave. Not that this meant anything to Andy Dalziel who lumped holidays, meals and sleep together as privileges granted by his personal benevolence and which could be curtailed or cancelled at his personal whim. So the wise detective headed for faraway places and left no forwarding address, and these two were very wise detectives.

Of those who remained, one was in hospital recovering from a broken leg, a couple were out on enquiries, Pascoe was pissing about in Sheffield talking to yon looney, Roote, DC Bowler was standing watch over Ellie Pascoe, and Sergeant Wield was entertaining Rosie Pascoe at Enscombe.

Sometimes he thought Mid-Yorks CID should be retitled Pascoe's Private Army.

But there should have been someone here.

God-like, his thoughts were commands.

The door opened and Shirley Novello came in.

'Where the hell have you been?' he demanded.

'I just popped down to the washroom, sir,' she said.

'Oh aye? What's up? Spotted a crack in tha make-up, didst'a?'

Provoked by her awareness that at work her face was practically a cosmetic-free zone, Novello said briskly, 'No, sir. Actually, I needed a piss.'

Dalziel looked at her in amazement and said, 'Nay, lass, don't shatter an old man's illusions. What are you working on?'

He didn't wait for an answer but rustled through the papers on her desk.

'Feenie Macallum? Yon batty old do-gooder? What in God's name are you bothering yourself with her for?'

'Just covering all the angles, sir,' said Novello, with what she hoped was an air of brisk efficiency. 'She turned up at the DCI's house yesterday evening, and for some reason she seemed to think our surveillance had something to do with her, and I thought, with everyone so worried about Mrs Pascoe and everything, I'd better check out what the meeting was about.'

In fact, it hadn't been any kind of concern for Ellie that had sent her down to Records, it had been mere vulgar curiosity, plus a dislike of making a fool of herself.

'Waste of time,' said the Fat Man dismissively. 'It 'ud be in aid of Women with Headaches or Underage Welsh Refugees with Acne. What the hell's Wilgefortis? Something you rub on your chest?'

He was looking at her scribblings.

She thought of his likely reaction to her explanation, considered a selection of lies, then thought, what the hell?

'St Wilgefortis, sir. One of the Queen of Portugal's septuplets. She took a vow of virginity but her father wanted to marry her off to the King of Sicily. Virginity wasn't going to be part of the deal, so she prayed to God to make her too unattractive to marry.'

Dalziel said, 'Oh aye? I think I've met her sister. So what happened?'

'She grew a moustache and a beard, sir. The King of Sicily got the next boat home. And her dad was so pissed off, he crucified her.'

The Fat Man nodded as if this made good sense, then examined her upper lip and chin closely and said, 'You trying to tell me something, Ivor?'

'Just that she prayed while she was dying that women everywhere who felt sorry for her and acknowledged her pain should be freed from all trials and troubles and encumbrances.'

'And what the hell has this got to do with owt you're getting paid public money for?'

'She was known by various other names. One of them was Liberata. This is the name of Miss Macallum's organization which is a trust she set up to work on behalf of women who've been wrongly imprisoned and tortured and generally abused by repressive regimes.'

Dalziel shook his head and said, 'So this is how you spend your time? I'm all for freedom of religion, luv, but not in working hours. Specially not all this foreign crud.'

'English women were especially fond of her,' said Novello defensively. 'They called her St Uncumber and they used to lay offerings of oats under her statue and pray that she'd uncumber them of their menfolk.'

'You're joking? Bloody hell. My wife were always making porridge and I hated the stuff.'

This did not seem a profitable avenue to explore.

Novello said, 'Anyway, Miss Macallum is in our records. Mainly in connection with various protest groups. Obstruction. Abusive language. Breach of the peace. Plus one conviction for dangerous driving. Ran some guy off the road. Seems he knew her and was trying to avoid her and at first he wanted her done for attempted murder. Looks like she's a pretty physical lady when the mood takes her.'

'You're not looking at her for threatening Ellie, I hope?' said Dalziel.

'No, sir. Just being thorough.'

'Thorough's grand but not if it's wasting time. Listen, I need your help. A woman's touch. Who the hell's that?'

This in response to the shrill of a telephone.

Novello listened carefully then said, 'Sorry, sir. Don't recognize the voice.'

'God spare me from women comedians,' groaned Dalziel. 'Well, answer it, lass, if it's not against your religion. And if it's not mass murder or my knighthood, tell 'em to get stuffed.'

Novello picked up the phone and listened.

'The DCI, for you, sir,' she said.

Dalziel took the phone and bellowed, 'What's up? Got lost and ringing for directions?'

Then he listened for a while, and said, 'Jesus, Peter, nowt's ever simple with you, is it? Will he snuff it? . . . So no harm done . . . Yes, I've got the letter back. Covered with prints but none of 'em Roote's . . . Aye, you'd best hang around. Leave the scene and them buggers in South Yorkshire will likely fit you up for attempted murder . . . Yes, I know you should be back for Cornelius, but don't worry. I'll sort it out. Keep in touch.'

He banged the phone down and stood there scratching his great head as if in search of something he'd buried there.

'Something happened, sir?' ventured Novello.

'You could say. That nut Roote the DCI went to check out in Sheffield, well, he's found him with his wrists slashed in a bath. I never asked, but I bet the daft bugger pulled him out.'

Novello considered the alternatives and said, 'But if he was alive, sir . . .'

'What? Oh aye, see what you're getting at. Question is, which is worse, a looney on your conscience or blood on your trousers? I've been there, and believe me, lass, you never get it out.'

Uncertain which stain he was referring to, Novello said, 'If this guy's tried to top himself, along with the letter that looks pretty much like an admission, doesn't it, sir?'

Dalziel smiled sadly at her and said, 'Nice to be young, is it? Aye, I can remember when I used to go jumping to conclusions like a newborn lamb. Now I'd not believe the Pope if he came to me with a signed confession. Didn't you hear me say there's nowt to connect the letter to Roote?'

'What about the language, sir? I thought the DCI reckoned it were in some sort of cod old-fashioned English.'

'Like what Shakespeare wrote, tha means? I hope you're not turning out to be another of them arty-farty types, Ivor.'

'No, sir. Bored me to tears at school . . .'

Except there had been a drama teacher at the comp, after she'd been chucked out of the convent school, shoulders like a draught horse, black hair bubbling out of the neck of his shirt and promising to cascade all the way down to his crotch . . .

She shook the memory loose and went on, '. . . but if it is like this revenge stuff Roote's studying . . . ?'

'Studying Enid Blyton doesn't make you Noddy,' he said impatiently. 'Or mebbe it does. Any road, like I said, I need your help. I bet you did secretarial studies like all the girls, eh? Means you ought to know your way around filing systems. I need the DCI's notes on Kelly Cornelius and he's always moaning I leave his room a mess.'

It took him thirty seconds to get impatient and join in the hunt, and when Novello saw the chaos he managed to create in the further half-minute it took her to unearth the file, she resolved that in the unlikely event he ever wanted something from her handbag, she'd defend it like her honour. Or maybe even harder.

She said, 'I think this is it, sir,' opening the file just to make sure.

'Oh aye? Give us it here then.'

But something had caught Novello's eye.

'Sir, what's a red tab with CCR mean?'

'It means it's nowt for gabby little girls to be sticking their nebs into,' said Dalziel, grabbing the file.

Even from Dalziel, this was intolerable. Perhaps fortunately there was a moment of mental debate between the response verbal and the response physical, each equally violent, which she used to turn away and smother both.

Her back must have been eloquent, however, for he said, 'Nay, lass, don't take on. If it's any comfort to you, it means hands off to nebby detective supers too. CCR. Chief Constable Refers. Means there's things going off that are reckoned too important for us poor bloody infantry to mess with.'