Recalled to Life (22 page)

The huge Inkerstamm building had risen from the eastern wasteland of the city and was a dominating presence as you drove down the Ml, though reaching it once you left the motorway proved problematical. And actually getting inside looked likely to prove impossible.

Dalziel came to a stop at a security barrier painted like a barber's pole. For a while nothing happened, then out of the cabin at the pole's end strolled a guard built on the same lines as the building ahead. He was dressed like an American highway patrolman, and from his belt dangled a truncheon carved from a bough of oak and polished till it reflected the sun which vanished behind him as he stooped to the window with the complacent smile of a man used to complete physical domination.

'Got yourself lost, luv?' he inquired.

Dalziel, who knew that the further south you got in the county, the more unisex 'luv' became, felt neither insulted nor invited, but he had to admit to a feeling which came close to intimidation.

He produced his warrant card with his most fearsome scowl and said, 'I'm here to see Sir Arthur Stamper.'

The guard's smile broadened.

'Just you sit there a while, Mr Dalziel,' he said, mispronouncing the name, 'and I'll see if there's anyone home.'

He strolled back to his cabin, spoke into a phone, listened, wrote something down and ambled back out.

'Your lucky day,' he said. 'You're expected. Wear this at all times.'

He handed over a plastic lapel badge with Dalziel's name and arrival time printed on it in indelible ink.

'I'm not a bloody parcel,' snarled Dalziel.

'Take that off and you could end up being wrapped and delivered like one,' laughed the guard as he raised the barrier with one finger. Even allowing for the counterweight, it was an impressive performance.

Dalziel was checked again twice, once in the car park, once at the main entrance, and his irritation kept him from wondering how he came to be expected when no one knew he was coming.

His second interlocutor said, 'You'll be met in the atrium,' as he opened the door.

'What's one of them when it's at home?' demanded Dalziel, but he received no answer and would probably have heard none as he stepped with incredulous awe into what had to be the largest urinal in the world which even provided trees for visiting dogs.

It took him only a moment to grasp that the tinkling came from a series of central fountains and the figures niched round the walls were statues, but the green and white tiles remained unadjustably lavatorial and the trees, though thin and etiolated, were undoubtedly trees.

Threading her way through this ectopic boscage came a woman, high heels clicking on the tesselated floor.

'Superintendent Dalziel?' she said, getting the pronunciation right. 'You're early. Come this way.'

Dalziel might have asked, 'Early for what?' if a more pressing question had not been occupying his mind.

Was William Stamper after all a Queen of Crime? How else to explain his appearance here in a fetching white blouse and grey pencil skirt?

All answers came together.

'I'm Wendy Stamper,' said the woman. 'By the way, I thought it was a Mr Hiller who had the appointment to see my father?'

'My colleague,' said Dalziel. 'He'll be along shortly.'

But not too bloody shortly, he hoped, as she led him into a lift which ascended at a knee-trembling speed that made him think nostalgically of his hot youth.

He said, ‘I were talking to your brother yesterday. He didn't remember me at first sight either.'

'Either?'

'Aye. We met at Mickledore Hall. I were just a young bobby then, the one who gave you the bull's-eyes.'

The lift stopped and they stepped out into a discreetly lit, plushly carpeted corridor. The woman looked at him frowningly.

'Sorry,' she said, it was a long time ago. I was only a child.'

'Your brother's memory was very good once he got going.'

'My brother makes a living out of fictions,' she replied. 'Would you like some coffee?'

They had moved into what might have been an elegant drawing-room were it not for the computer terminal alongside the rosewood desk.

'No, thanks,' said Dalziel, gingerly settling on to a chair with that expensive antique look which in his experience often meant woodworm. It sighed but held. 'I could mebbe manage a Scotch, but.'

A lesser woman might have glanced at her watch. Wendy Stamper went without hesitation to a cabinet and from a decanter poured him a measure which had the twin merits of being generous and a malt of great quality and strength.

He rolled it round his mouth, failed to identify it and asked, 'What's this, then?'

'Glencora,' she said. He'd never heard of it and she added, it's a very small company, and most of its output goes for export.'

Which explained the strength. He'd read somewhere that the Yanks liked their liquor stronger because they preferred their drinks in mixtures, which in the case of Glencora was like using fresh salmon to make fish fingers.

He said, 'You don't get on with your brother, then?'

'Did he say that?'

'No, but it stands to reason. You working here and him having nowt to do with your dad.'

'You can agree to differ without falling out,' she said.

'Oh aye? Even when he reckons your dad's a jumped-up nowt who tret his wife like shit?'

She didn't let herself be provoked, even managed a slight smile.

'I think I do recall you now. I assume it's the Mickledore Hall business you want to talk to him about? Because that woman has been let off?'

'You didn't like Cissy Kohler, then?' he said.

She thought, then said grudgingly, 'Yes, I suppose I liked her well enough.'

But you don't want to like her, thought Dalziel.

He said, 'Do you still think she did it?'

She replied, 'Who else?' but it came out as a real question rather than the rhetorical affirmation she probably intended.

A buzzer sounded on her desk. She picked up a phone, listened, said 'Right,' and put it down.

'He'll see you now,' she said to Dalziel. 'Come this way.'

If the daughter's office was Regency lady's drawing-room, the father's was Victorian gentleman's study. Stamper rose from behind a huge desk and came to meet him, hand outstretched.

'Come in, Mr Dalziel. It's been a long time since we met. You were only a constable. You've come a long way since then. Congratulations.'

'You've not done so bad yourself, Sir Arthur,' said Dalziel, slightly taken aback by this easy recognition. But why not? Stamper himself was little changed except for a deeper channel in his greyer hair. And if there had been any rough edges to his social act all those years ago, they had been long since polished away.

'Drink?' he said. 'I've got a whisky I'd be glad of your opinion on . . .'

'Glencora, you mean? I've tried it and I'll not say no to the other half.'

He sank into a leather sofa big enough for a small orgy and said, 'By gum, you've got some nice stuff in here.'

It was a test. Gentlemen didn't boast about their possessions. Self-made Yorkshiremen gave you provenance and price.

'Have I? I suppose I have,' said Stamper with a faint note of surprise at finding himself judged a man of taste.

He handed Dalziel a crystal tumbler full of the pale nectar and sat behind his desk.

'One tends to accumulate things,' he said. 'But I'm not what you'd call a collector. Except for the desk. I collected that. Recognize it?'

'Any reason I should?' asked Dalziel.

‘It's from the library at Mickledore Hall! They sold off some of the furniture before the National Trust got their claws on the place.'

'I see. You wanted a souvenir? Present from Blackpool sort of thing?'

'I wouldn't quite put it like that. But it was undeniably a memorable weekend. None of us came out of it unchanged.'

'Pamela Westropp didn't, that's true,' said Dalziel. 'And Westropp neither. And Partridge's career went up the spout too. But I can't see how it affected you, Sir Arthur.'

'No?' Stamper sounded faintly surprised. 'Ah well. I suppose what you're here for is to find out if I had any doubts about the verdict. Well, I can put your mind at rest. I had none, nor did I find anything reprehensible in the way that Superintendent Tallantire conducted the case.'

'But now that Kohler's been set loose . . .'

'Administrative incompetence,' said Stamper shortly.

'You mean, like someone left the door open and she just walked out?' said Dalziel.

'I mean that the woman should either have been paroled years ago or if, as is reported, she refused to apply for parole, this should have been judged
prima facie
evidence of mental derangement and she should have been returned to the psychiatric hospital she started her sentence in.'

'But if she's innocent - and that's what the Home Secretary reckons isn't it . . . ?'

'Yes, yes,' said Stamper testily. 'So perhaps she didn't help Mickledore directly, but at the very least she probably knew what he was up to and afterwards felt guilty enough to associate herself with the crime. Silly notions these lovesick girls get, don't they?'

'I wouldn't know, sir,' said Dalziel stolidly. 'Must have been a nasty shock for you too, being such a close friend of Sir Ralph's.'

'We weren't all that close.'

'Close enough for him to borrow money, but?'

'To borrow a tenner some degree of closeness may be necessary,' said Stamper. 'For larger sums, a commercial arrangement is enough.'

'You got your money back, did you, sir?'

'I got what I wanted. Money's not everything, Dalziel. But perhaps you find that hard to understand.'

'Job satisfaction, you mean? Oh, I think  I understand that.'

'Then perhaps you'll understand what a joy it was to be a British businessman in those days. The 'fifties and early 'sixties. We'd won the war from 'thirty-nine to 'forty-five, but we nearly lost it again from 'forty-five to 'fifty- one. Cleaning up after those socialists was a frightful chore, but we did it, by God we did it! And we got our reward.'

'Oh aye. I remember. You'd never had it so good.'

'And Macmillan was right! And we'd have had it even better if it hadn't been for that stupid tart! Sixteen years we lost because of her.'

'I always heard Mr Profumo had summat to do with it as well,' said Dalziel, with a mild attack of feminism. 'Any road, the good days came round again for you and your mates.'

‘Indeed they did. But it never felt the same. In those days we were set fair to get back on top of the heap again. Now, we've got to struggle to keep up with the French, for God's sake!'

He glanced at his watch. End of interview? thought Dalziel. Instead Stamper plucked the glass from his hand and said, 'Refill?'

'As much as you like. It's grand stuff.'

'I'm glad of your approval. I always take expert advice before an investment.'

‘Investment? You mean . . . ?'

Sir Arthur smiled. 'Come, come. Can't have senior police officers mixed up in insider dealing, can we?'

'I suppose not. Getting back to Sir Ralph, did he strike you as the kind of man who'd sacrifice himself for a mate?'

'What?' Stamper considered. 'Yes, it's possible. Certain kinds of breeding develop a sense of loyalty incomprehensible to outsiders.'

'Like in pedigree dogs, you mean? I've never thought of it like that,' said Dalziel, his face aglow with innocent interest.

A line of loathing momentarily creased Sir Arthur's mask. A phone squeaked on the huge desk. He picked it up, listened, and said, 'No, that's fine. Send him up.'

Replacing the receiver and his good-natured smile, he said, 'How's your drink, Mr Dalziel?'

So once again, all was made clear.

It was Hiller who'd arrived, Dalziel had little doubt of that, and even less that this clever bastard had known all along his own visit was unofficial, keeping him talking to engineer a head-on collision with Adolf.

Sooner or later such a confrontation was inevitable. Dalziel wasn't frightened of it, but he'd rather it had been later, and he didn't care at all to be manoeuvred into it. He could lie about their discussion, of course, but it occurred to him that the sly bastard probably had a tape running in his desk. On the other hand, it had been Stamper who set the reminiscence ball rolling by recognizing him . . .

He said, 'Well, it's been nice talking about old times. Sir Arthur, but I really must get down to business. Private security forces. There's been a lot of concern expressed lately about the use of private security groups, the way they're recruited and trained, and the limits of their authority. We've got an inquiry team operating in Mid-Yorkshire and I'm going round neighbouring police authorities gathering facts. Now, here at Inkerstamm you've got your own organization and there's been some disquiet expressed about it . . .'