Pictures of Perfection (11 page)

‘What is that thing?’ he asked.

‘Heraldically it’s a halcyon which in mythology guaranteed calm seas when it was brooding on its floating nest. Its real-life equivalent is the kingfisher. According to tradition, i.e. Guillemard propaganda, there were kingfishers nesting along the Een when the first Guillemards settled here in ten-sixty-something, and as long as they continue there, the family will enjoy halcyon days.’

‘Must be pleased there’s one here at the moment,’ said Wield, recalling Mrs Pottinger.

‘My, what sharp eyes and ears you have, Sergeant,’ she said smiling.

Wield smiled back, thinking how nice it was to get information without having to suffer Digweed’s savage putdowns.

When they reached the entrance to Green Alley he pointed to the lintel and asked, ‘What’s
Fucata non Perfecta
mean?’

‘Depends who you ask.
Fucata
means painted or rouged, and by extension forged or counterfeit. It’s either feminine singular or neuter plural. Thus the family will tell you it means either things which are painted cannot be perfect, or a rouged woman has got something to hide. In either case the implication is that the Guillemards play by the rules, what you see is what you get.’

‘What if I ask in the village?’

‘There are some who might go along with the Guillemards’ claim to honesty by assuring you it means we’re not perfect, we’re a bunch of phonies!’

‘And you, miss?’

‘At the moment I’m rather in sympathy with the answer you’d get from the habitués of the Morris just before closing time.’

‘Which is?’

‘
Fucata non Perfecta
means fuck you, Jack, we’re all right! Ah, here we are.’

She led the way into a small clearing. The fitful wind twitched the clouds and let a meagre ration of spring sunshine filter through the arching shrubs to light up the blossom of an old laurustinus leaning rather wearily against a little stone bench.

‘How very odd,’ murmured Kee, letting her gaze drift all round the glade. ‘I’m afraid it’s gone.’

‘What? The hat?’ said Wield.

‘Not just the hat. The whole dashed statue!’

‘Miss H. is an elegant pleasing pretty-looking girl, about nineteen, I suppose, or nineteen and a half, or nineteen and a quarter, with flowers in her head and music at her finger ends.’

Frances Harding, having escorted Pascoe to the door, looked ready to flee back into the house. The sun, happening to break through the clouds at this moment, touched her face, letting Pascoe see clearly what before he’d only got a vague impression of. Unsure and self-effacing she might be, but now it struck him as the uncertainty of spring, and he guessed there was a definite self here to efface. Her eyes, when not cast modestly down, were bright with intelligence and blue as the ribbon which tied back her hair. For a moment he was reminded of someone. Girlie perhaps? Or the Squire? He didn’t think so.

He said, ‘Could you show me where the walled garden is?’

She started as if he’d made an immoral suggestion and said quickly, ‘I must go back in. Grunk’s rehearsing.’

‘Grunk?’

‘The Squire,’ she said. ‘Great-uncle … it’s my
name … look, I have to go, he hates to be without music.’

‘Surely he can press a switch himself?’

The incomprehension on her face sparked comprehension on his.

‘I’m sorry. What a twit. It was you playing, wasn’t it? I thought it was Casals or someone on tape!’

Her pale face flushed with pleasure, turning from snowdrop to almond blossom. A man might spend his time less profitably than striving to induce this effect, thought Pascoe.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘It would just take a minute. And he’s got to drink his tea. My tea too! If I go myself, heaven knows where I’ll end up!’

For a second longer she hesitated, wrinkling her nose like some young coney sniffing the air outside the family burrow, then she said, ‘All right.’

She moved with unobtrusive speed and Pascoe found he had to make an effort to keep up. They went round the side of the house past a Victorian cast-iron conservatory which looked to be held up by a rampant vine growing within.

‘That’s the walled garden over there,’ said the girl, pointing towards a rough-hewn granite wall rising eight or nine feet above the unkempt lawn and looking as if it might have been built to keep the natives out rather than a garden in.

Distance away was about sixty yards, judged Pascoe, wondering how good the Squire’s eyes were. As he approached it became apparent there
would be no problem about anyone running around its rampart, which from the density of the grassy fringe growing out of it looked to be at least a couple of feet wide. The entrance door which faced away from the Hall was solid oak and firmly locked.

‘How long since the key was lost?’ asked Pascoe.

‘A little while,’ said Fran vaguely. ‘In fact I don’t think anyone’s seen it since Mr Hogbin went.’

‘Hogbin?’ said Pascoe, recalling this was the name of the old man who’d reported the altercation between Bendish and the Hells Angel.

‘He lives at the Lodge. He looked after the gardens till he had a stroke before Christmas.’

‘And nobody’s wanted to get in here since then?’

‘There’s not a lot to do in the winter. And Girlie says it’s hard enough looking after what you can see!’

Pascoe, looking round, took her point. There was a large tract of formal lawn bounded by outcrops of shrubbery, with further afield the blossom of orchards, the spring green of woodland, and above all the brooding brownness of the naked moor.

‘Not much point in taking too much care if you’re going to have your Cousin Guy’s skirmishers trampling all over the place,’ he said lightly. ‘Interesting mix, that, a Health Park and a battlefield.’

She shook her head so vigorously the blue ribbon came loose, allowing her hair to veil her face, preventing him from reading the emotion there.

‘I’ve got to get back to Grunk,’ she said.

She set off but after a few paces paused and waited.

So I’m not trusted to wander at will, thought Pascoe.

Back at the house he said, ‘Thanks, Miss Harding. I hope I get the chance to hear you play again. When’s the Squire’s next performance?’

‘Tomorrow at the Reckoning,’ she said. ‘That’s when everyone comes to pay their rents. But I’m sure you won’t need to stay in Enscombe that long.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Pascoe, realizing too late the accidental rudeness, but it didn’t matter anyway as she’d already vanished into the house.

He turned away to see Sergeant Wield coming down the drive accompanied by a classically beautiful blonde. Beauty and the Beast, thought Pascoe. Dalziel would have said it. Does that make me any better than the Fat Man?

‘’Afternoon, sir,’ said Wield formally. ‘This is Miss Scudamore who runs the Gallery in the High Street. Thought you might be interested in what she’s got to say.’

The woman gave a brief and lucid account of her sighting of the hat.

‘And now you say this statue’s vanished?’

‘The Sergeant needed to see the hole in the ground where it had been standing before he was convinced,’ said Kee. ‘Makes you wonder if Doubting Thomas was a policeman.’

She smiled to show there was no malice in her frivolity.

Wouldn’t have made any difference, thought Pascoe. Wield was no princess to be bruised by peas.

‘I’d not be surprised,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Thanks for your help, miss.’

‘My pleasure. Call again before you leave. My sister’s a fast worker when divine inspiration descends.’

With a cool nod at Pascoe she walked away.

‘What was that about divine inspiration?’ asked Pascoe, thinking he detected a reaction to this apparently innocuous parting shot.

‘Nowt,’ said Wield. ‘You got anything yet?’

‘I’m not sure. Funny place. Nice pub. Did you get in?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ said Wield with emphasis. ‘Didn’t get into the Wayside Café either. Thought you had to be a superintendent before you could spend time in them places.’

‘Whoops,’ said Pascoe. ‘Well, if you’ve not been eating and drinking, just what have you been up to? And Fat Andy said you’d fill me in on this Hells Angel.’

Pascoe seemed disproportionately entertained to learn that Wield had been the villainous biker, but he listened with close attention to everything else the Sergeant told him. He had great respect for Wield’s powers of observation and reasoning. Also it was important to his own self-esteem to keep his end up. Wield had been a sergeant while he
was still a constable. Now promotion had taken him several steps beyond the older man and in some ways it was much more important to convince Wield that his advancement was justified than Dalziel. Correction. Nothing was more important than keeping Dalziel sweet. But it was terror that motivated him there while with Wield it was affection.

They walked up the drive as they talked till they reached the scene of Wield’s encounter with Bendish.

‘Of course, all this is less important now that we’ve got the much later sighting at Scarletts,’ said Pascoe. ‘But this thing about the hat intrigues me. This little girl …’

‘Madge Hogbin. She lives in the Lodge with her grandparents.’

‘One of whom is old Mr Hogbin who had a stroke, lost the key to the garden, and was watching out of his window when you met Bendish,’ said Pascoe, not to be outdone in local knowledge.

‘Aye. And he’s still watching,’ said Wield.

‘So he is. Let’s go and have a chat, shall we?’

The door was opened by Mrs Hogbin whose ‘turn’, Pascoe recollected, had saved the WI from further exposure to the Squire’s balladry. Her bright eyes and rosy cheeks suggested that the ‘turn’ might well have been theatrical rather than medical.

She waved aside Pascoe’s attempts at explanation with the unflattering assertion, ‘Makes no
matter who you are. He doesn’t get far with the frame, so I push in anyone who comes a-calling. Witnesses, travellers, insurance men, he don’t mind so long as he gets a bit of crack.’

Mr Hogbin was standing in the shallow window bay, leaning into his aluminium walking frame as if it were a pulpit, and peering down at the nodding daffodils with all the noble intensity of Doctor Donne about to say something striking about bells. He didn’t move or turn his head even when his wife said, ‘Here’s someone to see you, luv. Bobbies they say they are.’

‘Mr Hogbin,’ said Pascoe. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Pascoe and this is Detective-Sergeant Wield. We’re trying to get hold of Constable Bendish and I gather you saw him yesterday afternoon.’

‘Aye. I told Sergeant Filmer all about it.’

His voice was strong and slow, with a discernible pause between words, though whether this was an aftermath of the stroke or just a natural habit wasn’t easy to say.

‘Can you tell us, please?’

The old man turned his head now. He looked at Wield without recognition, which probably meant his long sight was good enough for action but not for detail.

He said, ‘I saw our Madge come running out of the bushes slap bang into this motorbike.’

‘Oh dear, that must have been a shock,’ said Pascoe.

‘Nay. Fellow were hardly moving. It were her
own fault and I could see she weren’t hurt. So she runs on into the house. Then Mr Bendish appears …’

‘How? I mean, where did he come from?’

‘Out of the shrubbery,’ said Hogbin.

‘The same bit as your Madge comes out of?’

‘Aye. Likely she’d been up to some mischief and he were chasing her. They’re good chums mainly, but she can be a cheeky little monkey when she wants.’

‘So you saw the Constable and this motorcyclist talking …’

‘Aye. I got the impression Mr Bendish were giving him a rollicking.’

Pascoe smiled and said, ‘He probably deserved it. And what happened then?’

‘I got called for me tea.’

‘So you didn’t see the end of this … discussion?’

‘No, but likely it came to nowt. Not like in old Chaz Barnwall’s day. Clip a kid’s ear just for looking cheeky, would old Chaz. As for someone taking a swing at him, he’d have parted their hair with his truncheon!’

Pascoe exchanged a puzzled glance with Wield, then said, ‘What makes you think PC Bendish wouldn’t defend himself?’

‘Saw him, didn’t I? Not long back. Bang! Down he goes, hits the ground, gets up, all bleeding. And what’s he do? Goes off meek as a lamb, doesn’t even look back.’

‘Where was this? Who hit him?’ asked Pascoe.

But the old man’s only response was to shut his lips tight and shake his head, and his wife came forward saying, ‘Now don’t overtax yourself, Jocky. I think he’s had enough for now, gets tired easy, you shouldn’t pay too much heed to what he says, past and present gets all mixed up …’

On this tide of words the two detectives found themselves washed out into the kitchen, a pleasant light room full of spicy baking smells and with its walls lined with childish pictures.

‘Did Madge do these?’ guessed Wield.

‘That’s right. Always painting and drawing, our Madge. They do a lot of art at school. Mrs Pottinger’s a right good painter herself, so I reckon she thinks it’s important.’

‘But you don’t?’ said Pascoe, smiling.

‘So long as it doesn’t interfere with spelling and arithmetic, I suppose there’s no harm in it. But such odd things she paints. That’s one she did herself last evening. Now what’s that meant to be, I ask you?’

Pascoe looked at the painting Wield was peering at. To his eye it looked like two figures clad in blue having a fight.

‘A wrestling match?’ he guessed. ‘What do you think, Wieldy?’

But Wield said nothing. He was recalling his gently lustful thoughts as he watched Harold Bendish strutting his stuff around the motorbike yesterday, and wondering if little Madge Hogbin was gifted
with ESP. For to his guilty eye the painting showed quite clearly two policemen locked in a passionate embrace!

Refusing Mrs Hogbin’s offer of a cup of tea, the detectives left.

Outside, Pascoe said, ‘What do you make of that? How confused is the old boy?’

‘Not much, I’d say, and his missus even less,’ said Wield. ‘It ’ud explain Bendish’s bruise and cut hand if he’d been in a ruck.’

‘But his hard-man image doesn’t make it sound likely he’d back down.’

‘Depends how in the wrong he was,’ said Wield.

‘Maybe. But it still sounds out of character. Like this flashing. From the sound of things, the only flashing this fellow is likely to do is with his roof light when he flags down some mum for pushing her pram too fast … Bloody hell!’

It wasn’t a pram that came speeding up behind them but a Land Rover, horn blaring, driver grinning broadly as he sent the two policemen tumbling into the lower reaches of a rhododendron bush.

‘Who the hell was that?’ cried Pascoe as the vehicle swept out of sight down the drive with no diminution of speed.

‘Guy the Heir, I think,’ said Wield, standing up gingerly and testing his limbs and trousers for damage.

‘Right. Let’s go and talk to the lunatic,’ said Pascoe grimly.

They found the Land Rover in front of the Hall.
Three young men and a green-haired girl had got out and were busy unloading boxes of equipment. Identifying their leader as the athletically slim man wearing a Barbour jacket and a superior air, Pascoe approached him and said, ‘Excuse me, sir, could I see your driving licence?’

Guy Guillemard looked him up and down insolently and said, ‘Are you selling brushes or have you brought your chum for the cure? Don’t think we do plastic surgery.’

His acolytes laughed appreciatively.

‘You might care to look at this, sir,’ said Pascoe, holding his warrant before the man’s eyes. ‘Now, your licence, please.’

Guillemard examined the warrant with mock awe, then he said, ‘No, I don’t think I want one, so why don’t you just piss off?’

Taken aback, Pascoe checked to make sure he hadn’t pulled out his library card by mistake. He hadn’t.

‘Perhaps you can’t read,’ he said. ‘The name’s Pascoe. Detective Chief Inspector Peter Pascoe.’

‘You were one of the oiks littering the drive, right?’

‘I was one of the pedestrians you almost ran over.’

‘Can’t hit gold every time, can we? But if you are a cop, you ought to be aware that as this driveway is not a public highway but private property, whatever breach of the road traffic regulations you are alleging doesn’t apply. I could be a one-eyed
epileptic fifteen-year-old, and drunk as a skunk to boot, and you couldn’t touch me. So why not give it a rest, Sherlock, and if you want to block the traffic, go and do it on a busy motorway.’