Underworld (21 page)

Chapter 2

Dalziel's fingers inside his shirt scratched ineffectually at his ribcage. It was like trying to play a polystyrene- wrapped zither.

'Tell me again,' he said patiently.

'He rang. It were about six. He said he'd come off shift early again.’

'Again? He'd done it before?'

Stella Mycroft lit another cigarette and said, 'Aye. That's what again means down here.'

She was a pretty lass, thought Dalziel. Pretty and possibly passionate and certainly bright. He inserted the 'possibly' because during his alcoholic interrogations at the Welfare, he had elicited many wishful fantasies about Stella's love-life but nothing more positive than the firm assertion from Tommy Dickinson that Colin Farr had been 'shagging her rotten'.

But she was certainly bright, clubbing his googly questions all over the field with a violence that was often superfluous. Let's try her with a Yorker, he thought.

'When? Why? How do you know?' he rapped.

It was no problem to her.

'Not long back. He had a row wi' Harold Satterthwaite. He came round to see me,' she rapped back.

All this Dalziel knew.

'What did he want?'

'What do you think?'

'To bed you?'

'Aye,' she said, blowing a jet of smoke at him. 'Not that he were much bothered about a bed.'

'And?'

'I told him to get lost. We'd gone steady once, been engaged, but that were a long time back and now I was a respectable married woman.'

'And he went?'

'I thought he did. But he must have hung around in the hall. I went upstairs and when Gav came off shift he found someone had lit the fire and made a right sooty mess down the wall.'

'You told him who it was?'

'Of course. Why shouldn't I? I'd done nowt wrong.'

'What did he do?'

'He wanted to go after Col, what else? That's all you lot ever think of, isn't it? Screwing, drinking and fighting.'

'Oh aye? And which of these did he want to do to Mr Farr - screw him, buy him a drink, or fight him?'

'You're a real joker, aren't you?' said Stella.

'Some of my fans laugh all the way to the dock,' said Dalziel. 'Did your husband go after Farr?'

'No. I told him nowt had happened, I mean nowt to worry about, but if he went running off to play the hard man with Col, then all the nosey gossips round here would be sure there was something going on between us.'

'Which there wasn't?'

'I told you. Are you deaf or what?'

'So why did he ring you when he walked out of the pit yesterday?'

'God knows. He were in a really funny mood, rambling on about the pit and him never going down there again. I couldn't follow most of it.'

'Drunk?'

'I didn't think so. More confused. Upset, like.'

'And did he mention Mr Satterthwaite?'

'No,' said Stella definitely.

'He didn't confess to you that he'd killed him?'

'No, he didn't.'

'But didn't you tell someone earlier today that that was precisely why he had rung you? To confess?'

The woman thought a little while, then nodded and said, 'That copper's wife. She told you. Well, I suppose you've got to stick together. Yes, that's what I said to her. I just wanted to shock her, I suppose. I'd heard about her running around after Col like she owned him or something. I thought: Right, I'll shock you down to your stretch marks, you stuck-up old cow.'

Dalziel scratched his upper lip to suppress a smile. That was a description of Ellie Pascoe he would always treasure.

'And did it shock her?'

'Not as much as I thought. And that set me to thinking. I knew he'd rung her later - I could see that that got up her nose, him ringing me first when he were sober, her being second choice when he'd got pissed - and I reckon he must have gone on about something happening down the pit to her like he had to me.'

'You mean you think he may have confessed to Mrs Pascoe?'

'No! I didn't say that either. Do you buggers never listen? He didn't confess to me. And I'm bloody sure he didn't confess to her.'

'But?'

'But he said enough to make us both wonder just what the hell it was had happened. And when we heard about Harold Satterthwaite . . .'

'You put two and two together?'

'That's it, mister. Are we going to be much longer? If we are, I'll need to go for a pee.'

'Be my guest,' said Dalziel.

Alex Wishart was sitting drinking a cup of coffee in the incident room.

'Finished, sir?' he asked when Dalziel came in.

'I don't know,' said the fat man uncertainly. Wishart felt alarmed. Lack of certainty here was like a shortage of fivers at the Bank of England.

'What did you make of Mycroft?' said Dalziel.

'Sticks to his story that Farr pulled a knife from under the pillow and said he'd cut his eyes out if he didn't give him his clothes. Vessey says he was sitting there calm as you like when he found him.'

'That Vessey,' said Dalziel evilly, 'I'd plant him in a slag heap if he were mine.'

'He'd probably grow,' said Wishart. ‘The alternative is almost as far-fetched as the knife attack. Mycroft helped Farr voluntarily. But why should he? They hated each other's guts as far as I can make out.'

'Then why go to see Farr at all?'

'To gloat? Or maybe to try to find out for himself if Farr did the killing. Mycroft was a big mate of Satterthwaite's.'

‘That could be it. Who's with him now?'

'Sergeant Wield. You've got a treasure there, Super. He must get confessions just by sitting there looking at people.'

'You reckon? From what I've seen round here he'd likely win prizes in a beauty competition,' said Dalziel shortly. 'Look, you go in and chat to that lass. She's nervous. I want to know why.'

Wishart looked at the bulky figure louring over him like the wreck of a cooling tower and sought for the words of diplomacy.

'Some people are made nervous by the police, sir,' he ventured.

'So they bloody should be,' grunted Dalziel. 'Only her kind, fitted carpets, duck-down duvets, no kids, and Christmas in Morocco, I'd have expected her to come on all lady-like with simple nerves. Instead she's playing it real hard. Mebbe she's just reverting; must have been basic survival kit round here, being able to fight your corner. But I think that Farr said something to her a bit more positive than she's saying now.'

'And she told her husband and he went to see Farr to check?'

'Mebbe. Except, in that case, Mycroft should be shouting it out of the windows that Farr killed his mate.'

Wishart finished his coffee and stood up.

'I'll give her a whirl anyway,' he said. 'Good Lord! Hello, sir. What brings you out here?'

Dalziel turned. Standing in the doorway was Neville Watmough.

'Hello, Alex,' he said, shaking the Scotsman's hand. 'It's good to see you again.'

'And you, sir. Of course you know . . .'

He looked from Watmough to Dalziel and said, 'Of course, you do. Look, I've got to go now. See you later, shall I?'

'I hope so.'

With considerable relief to everything except his curiosity, Wishart left, closing the door firmly behind him.

'Well, Andy. Here we are. Just like old times.'

'Oh aye? You look fucking terrible, Nev. Retirement not suiting you?'

Watmough smiled faintly and said, 'It suits me well enough. There are things I miss, things I don't. You for a start, Andy. No point in beating about the bush. Let's start by saying I don't like you. Never have. Not from way back when there was a lot less of you to dislike. No need to tell me it was mutual. Me, I was always aware the job had a public face. You never were. What-you-see-is- what-you-get-Andy.'

'Hiding lights under bushels either gets you a burnt bushel or puts out the light,' said Dalziel.

'Except that I always suspected you were really twice as clever as you let on. And I always knew you were a good cop in the strict sense.'

'You mean I went to church regular?'

'No. You put thieves away regular.' Watmough pulled out a chair and sat down. He really didn't look well, ‘I fell among thieves a bit, Andy,' he resumed, 'I didn't realize just how much they'd stolen till Pascoe came to see me this morning. He's your public face really, isn't he?'

'Or I'm his public behind, depending how you look at it,' said Dalziel equably. 'So, Peter came to you in a flash of blinding light and you fell off your rocking-horse, right?'

'It was when he started quoting next week's article at me that I realized how far things had gone.'

'That must have been a shock,' said Dalziel complacently.

'More than you realize. The shock was not that you'd had access to it. I don't think I can any longer be shocked by any of your antics, Andy. No, the shock was that I didn't recognize it at all. I'd been a bit taken aback by the trailer that they printed to my memoirs, but Ogilby told me they had to do a big come-on to pull the readers in, it was just a form of advertising hype which even the most serious papers and publishers went in for. Then the first episode appeared. I'd done a draft, Monty Boyle had taken it to edit it for the paper, the result . . . well, I dare say you saw the result . . .'

'You mean you weren't threatening to tell the world what a useless lot Mid-Yorks CID were?' said Dalziel disbelievingly.

'Your Sergeant Wield did make a balls-up, and that had to come out as it threw a whole new complexion on the Pedley case. But I'm not interested in pillorying good officers like Wield. Admittedly it'd be nice to see you squirm, but you've got more blots than copy in your copybook and it's never seemed to bother you, so it's hardly worth the effort.'

Surprisingly, this hurt Dalziel far more than any frontal assault could do. To be savaged by Rover the Wonder Dog was comic; to be ignored was demeaning.

'What do you want, Nev?' he demanded, letting discomfiture show.

Watmough savoured his reaction. It had not been anticipated - he was not a subtle enough psychologist for that - but once appreciated, the lesson would not be forgotten.

'I saw Ike Ogilby at luncheon. I told him that I had no intention of letting any more of my alleged memoirs be published in his paper. He was unimpressed and assured me that Boyle had enough material from our informal conversations and his own research to continue with the articles for some time. He also assured me that if I read my contract, I would see the
Challenger
was legally entitled to proceed in this fashion. I told him that if he did, it would be to the accompaniment of public denials in every competitor paper that these were my memoirs, or bore any resemblance to my memoirs. There the matter rests.'

'WelI, bravo, Nev,' said Dalziel. 'So you're not as daft as you look. But you needn't have come all this way to let me know. Incidentally, was Monty Boyle sitting in on this lunch? I'm more interested in that bugger's memoirs than yours just now and he's proving harder to pin down than a rabbi's foreskin.'

'No, he wasn't,' said Watmough, interestingly, ‘even Ike Ogilby was inquiring if Boyle had been in touch with me recently. He hasn't. I should like a word with him myself. But to get back to the point; you sent Pascoe to talk to me . . .'

'Aye. And a lot of help you were,' grunted Dalziel.

'I'm sorry. I wasn't at my best. It was all getting me down a bit. But I did promise to give the matter my attention later. I didn't really pay him much attention. I said I'd heard about this murder at Burrthorpe, but I'd really just caught a headline on the news. I thought Pascoe's visit was just a rather unsubtle form of harassment dreamt up by you! It wasn't till I got my mind sorted out later and listened to the news properly that I realized I actually might be able to help.'

'You?' said Dalziel.

'Yes. Let's be certain the media have it straight. You have a man called Farr helping with your inquiries into the death of a man called Satterthwaite, right?'

'In a manner of speaking,' said Dalziel.

'And this man Farr is the son of William Farr who was the last person to see Tracey Pedley alive, would I be right in thinking that?'

'That's it. This Billy Farr who you don't seem to have investigated very thoroughly because you were so bloody sure Pickford had done the job,' sneered Dalziel.

'Don't forget Sergeant Wield's contribution to that certainty,' said Watmough. 'But you're right. It would be a poor officer who didn't check out every possibility thoroughly....'

'Aye, well, it's all water under the bridge,' said Dalziel magnanimously.

'Kind of you to say so, Andy,' said Watmough, smiling faintly. Dalziel scratched his nose. This was a different Watmough. He'd always thought of the other's rank as a shield and cover. Perhaps after all it had been simply a straitjacket.

'All the same, I'm glad that I did,' resumed Watmough.

'Did what?'

'Check out Billy Farr's story.' That smile again.

'And he was in the clear? Great. Though I don't recollect seeing owt in the record which Alex Wishart showed me.'

'It wasn't in the record.' He took a small leatherbound notebook out of his pocket. 'This is what I call my commonplace book, Andy. Quite distinct and separate from my official notes, so no need to look disapproving. Just personal observations, that sort of thing.'

'Christ, how long have you been planning your memoirs, then?'

'Long enough not to let Ike Ogilby foul them up. Here it is. Now I got this in strict confidence . . .'

'Confidence? In a murder investigation? There's no such thing!' said Dalziel scornfully.

'Not if it's pertinent to the case, no,' agreed Watmough. 'But this wasn't...'

'Not when it eliminated a suspect?'

'I got this information on the day that Donald Pickford killed himself,' said Watmough. 'That, God help me, seemed to eliminate everyone. But Farr was definitely out, whatever way you look at it.'

'Oh aye? And why've you decided to break this so- called confidence now?'

'Because now I think it may be pertinent to a murder case, Andy. Your case. I've come to do my duty and I've come to do you a favour. But most of all, Andy, I've come to hear you say thank you!'