Underworld (3 page)

Chapter 4

By half past nine, Colin Farr was moving between his seat and the bar with a steady deliberation more worrying to Pedro Pedley than any amount of stagger and sway.

'Young Col all right, is he?' he asked Neil Wardle as the taciturn miner got another round in.

'Aye,' said Wardle, apparently uninterested.

But when he got back to the table, he repeated the question as he set pints down before Farr and Dickinson.

'All right. Col?'

'Any reason I shouldn't be?'

'None as I can think of.'

'Right, then,' said Farr.

'What's that, Neil? A half? You sickening for something?' said Tommy Dickinson, his face flushed with the room's heat and his vain efforts to catch up with his friend's intake.

'No, but I'm off just now to a meeting,' said Wardle.

Wardle was on the branch committee of the Union. During the Great Strike there had been times when his lack of strident militancy and his quite rationalism had brought accusations of 'softness'. But as the Strike began to crumble and the men began to recognize that no amount of rhetoric or confrontation could bring the promised victory, Wardle's qualities won more and more respect. There'd only been one 'scab' at Burrthorpe Main, but many who had weakened and come close to snapping knew that they too would now be paying the price of isolation if it hadn't been for Wardle's calm advice and rock-like support. Since the Strike he'd been a prime mover in the re-energizing of the shattered community. And it was Wardle who'd pushed Colin Farr into seeking a place on the Union-sponsored day-release course at the University.

'Bloody meetings!' said Dickinson, 'I reckon committee's got a woman up there and they take a vote on who gets first bash!'

Wardle ignored him and said, 'There'll be a full branch meeting next Sunday, Col. You'll be coming to that?'

'Mebbe,' said Farr indifferently. 'They'll likely manage without me, but.'

'Likely we will. But will you manage without them?'

'Union didn't do my dad much good, did it?' said Farr savagely.

'It did the best it could and he never complained. Col, you were grand during the Strike. It were a miracle you didn't end up in jail, the tricks you got up to. Nothing seemed too much bother for you then. But the fight's not over, not by a long chalk. The Board's got a long hit list and only them as are ready and organized will be able to fight it.'

'Oh aye? Best day's work they ever did if they put a lid on that fucking hole!' exclaimed Farr.

'You fought hard enough to keep it open in the Strike,' said Wardle.

'I fought. But don't tell me what I fought for, Neil. Mebbe I just fought 'cos while you're fighting, you don't have time to think!'

Wardle drank his beer, frowning. Dickinson, who hated a sour atmosphere, lowered his voice to what he thought of as a confidential whisper and said, 'See who's just come in? Gavin Mycroft and his missus. They're sitting over there with Arthur Downey and that cunt, Satterthwaite. Right little deputies' dog-kennel.'

'I saw them,' said Farr indifferently.

'Here, Col, you still fancy Stella?'

'What do you mean?'

'Come on. Col, you were knocking her off rotten when you were a lad, up in the woods by the White Rock. By God I bet you made the chalk dust fly! And don't say it weren't serious. You got engaged when you went off, and you didn't need to, 'cos you were stuffing her already!'

He smiled at the perfection of his own logic.

'That's old news, Tommy,' said Farr.

'And you were well out of that,' said Wardle. 'Marrying a deputy in middle of the Strike and going off to Spain on honeymoon while there were kids going hungry back here! That's no way for a miner's daughter to act.'

'What did you want her to do?' exclaimed Farr. 'Spend her honeymoon camping on a picket line?'

'See! You still do fancy her!' crowed Dickinson.

'Why don't you shut your big gob, Tommy, and get some drinks in?' said Farr.

Unoffended, the young miner rose and headed for the bar. Wardle called after him, 'No more for me, Tommy. I've got to be off and look after you buggers' interests.'

He stood up.

'Think on, Col. If you're going to stay on round here, make it for the right reasons.'

'What'd them be?'

'To make it a place worth staying on in.'

Farr laughed. 'Clean-up job, you mean? Justice for the worker, that sort of stuff? Well, never fear, Neil. That's why I've stayed on right enough.'

Wardle looked at the young man with concern, but said nothing more.

'Bugger off, Neil.’ said Farr in irritation, it's like having me dad standing over me waiting till I worked out what I'd done wrong.'

'He were a clever man, old Billy,' said Wardle.

'If he were so bloody clever, how'd he end up with his neck broke at the bottom of a shaft?' asked Farr harshly.

'Mebbe when he had to transfer from the face, he brought some of the dark up with him. It happens.'

'What the hell does that mean, Neil?' said Farr very softly.

'Figure of speech. See you tomorrow. Don't be late. Jock never is.'

Left to himself, Colin Farr sat staring sightlessly at the table surface for a while. Suddenly he rose. Glass in hand, he walked steadily down the room till he reached the table Dickinson had called the deputies' dog-kennel.

The three men seated there looked up as Farr approached. Only the woman ignored him. She was in her mid-twenties, heavily made-up, with her small features diminished still further by a frame of exaggeratedly bouffant silver-blonde hair. But no amount of make-up or extravagance of coiffure could disguise the fact that she had a lovely face. Her husband, Gavin Mycroft, was a few years older, a slim dark man with rather sullen good looks. Next to him, in his forties, sat Arthur Downey, also very thin but tall enough to be gangling with it. He had a long sad face with a dog's big gentle brown eyes.

The third man was squat and muscular. Balding at the front, he had let his dull gingery hair grow into a compensatory mane over his ears and down his neck.

This was Harold Satterthwaite. He regarded Farr's approach indifferently from heavily hooded eyes. Mycroft glowered aggressively, but Arthur Downey half rose and said, 'Hello, Col. All right? Can I get you a drink?'

'Got one.' said Farr. 'Just want a word with Stella.’

The woman didn't look up, but her husband rose angrily, saying, 'Listen, Farr, I'll not tell you again . . .'

Downey took his sleeve and pulled him down.

'Keep it calm, Gav. Col's not looking for bother, are you, Col?'

Farr looked amazed, then said with an incredibly sweet smile, 'Me? Nay, you know me better than that, surely? It's just that me mam wants Mrs Mycroft's receipt for potato cakes. It's all right if your missus gives me a receipt, isn't it, Mr Mycroft, sir?'

Mycroft was on his feet again, his face flushed with rage. Then Pedro Pedley was between the two men, collecting empty glasses from the table.

'Everything all right, gents?' he said pleasantly.

'Nowt we can't take care of ourselves, Peter,' said Satterthwaite, staring with cold dislike at Colin Farr. He was Pedley's brother-in-law and shared with his sister the distinction of using the steward's real name.

'Not in here, you can't,' said Pedley. 'Down the hole or in the street, you do what you like. In here you do what I like. Arthur, you've got some sense . . .'

He jerked his head towards the door. Downey gently took Farr's elbow.

'Come on, Col,' he said coaxingly. 'Let's go and sit and have a chat. It'd be like old times for me. Your dad and me had some good nights in here . . .'

'Not that many, Arthur,' sneered Satterthwaite. 'He didn't dare show his face in here much at the end. I'll give you that, Farr. You've got real nerve. I'd not have thought even you would have had the brass balls to come in here tonight of all nights.'

Farr swung towards him. His glass fell from his hand and crashed to the floor, scattering beer and splinters.

Downey flung his arms round the youth to restrain him. Pedley said, 'Belt up, Harold! Col, you get yourself out of here else you're banned. Now!'

Farr was trying to struggle free from Downey's restraint, then suddenly he relaxed.

'You know what, Harold?' he said. 'You're full of shit. It's time somebody took you apart but who wants to get covered in shit?'

Tommy Dickinson arrived from the bar, his face wreathed with concern.

'What's going off, Col?' he asked. 'I've got you a beer.'

'I think mebbe Col's had enough,' said Pedley.

'You're right there, Pedro,' said Farr. 'More than bloody enough!'

He pulled free from Downey, seized the glass from Dickinson's hand, drained it in a single draught and banged it down in front of Satterthwaite with a crash that almost shattered it.

'Take it easy, Col,' said Downey.

'You can fuck off too,' snarled Farr. 'Call yourself a friend? What did you ever do for my dad? What did any of you ever do?'

He pushed his way past Dickinson and headed for the exit door.

Dickinson slurped hastily at his pint and said, 'I'd best go after him.'

'He'll be better left,' advised Downey.

'What the fuck do you know?' said Dickinson rudely. But when Pedley said, 'Arthur's right, Tommy. Best leave him, for a bit anyway,' the chubby miner allowed himself to be led back to the bar where he was soon retailing a lurid version of the incident to eager ears.

Downey resumed his seat, looking anxiously towards the door.

'For Christ's sake, Arthur, why do you get so het up over a loonie like yon bugger?' demanded Satterthwaite.

'His dad were my best friend,' said Downey, defensively.

'So you keep telling us when most'd keep quiet about something like that. Or is it just that you think mebbe May Farr'll become your best friend too if you wet-nurse her daft bloody son?'

Downey's long face went pale but Stella Mycroft said slyly, 'Arthur just likes helping people, don't you, Arthur? Then mebbe they'll help him.'

'Oh, you can talk, then?' said Mycroft. 'I didn't hear you say much when that bastard were talking to you.'

'No need, was there?' said Stella. 'A lady doesn't need to open her mouth, or anything, when she's got three old- fashioned gentlemen around to defend her honour, does she?'

Satterthwaite snorted a laugh. Downey looked embarrassed. And Gavin Mycroft regarded his wife in baffled fury.

Outside the Welfare, Colin Farr had paused as the night air hit him, taking strength from his legs but doing little to cool the great rage in his head. He looked around as if he needed to get his bearings. The Club was the last building at the western end of the village. After this the road wound off up the valley to a horizon dimly limned against the misty stars. But there were other brighter lights up there, the lights of Burrthorpe Main.

Farr thrust a defiant finger into the air at them then turned towards the town and began to stagger forward.

Soon the old grey terrace of the High Street was shouldered aside by a modern shopping parade. Business, badly hit by the Great Strike, was picking up again, as evidenced by the brightly lit supermarket window plastered like a boxer's face with loss-leader Special Offers. Farr pressed his forehead against the glass, enjoying its smooth chill against his fevered skin.

A car drove slowly by, coming to a halt before the Welfare. A stout man got out. He stood on the Club steps rolling a thin cigarette, then instead of going in, he walked along the pavement towards Colin Farr.

'Got a light, friend?' he asked.

'Don't smoke. Bad for your health,' said Farr solemnly.

'You're an expert, are you?' laughed the man. He was studying Farr's face closely in the light from the supermarket window. 'It's Mr Farr, isn't it? From Clay Street?'

'Depends who's asking.'

'Boyle's the name. Monty Boyle. You may have heard of me. Here's my card.'

He undid his jacket and took a card out of his waistcoat pocket.

'I was thinking, Mr Farr,' he went on. 'We may be able to do each other a bit of good. I'm supposed to be seeing someone at your Club, but that can wait. Is there somewhere quiet we can go and have a talk, and a coffee too? You look like a man who could use a coffee.'

'Coffee,' said Farr, studying the card closely. 'And somewhere quiet. It's quiet here. And lots of coffee too.'

Boyle followed his gaze into the supermarket where a pyramid of instant coffee dominated the window display.

'Yes,' he said with a smile. 'But I don't think they're open.'

'No problem,' said Colin Farr.

And picking the man up as if he weighed fifteen pounds rather than fifteen stone, he hurled him through the plate- glass window.

Fifty yards away the doors of a parked car opened and two uniformed policemen got out. The younger, a constable, ran towards the supermarket. Behind him at a more dignified pace walked a sergeant. The constable grabbed Colin Farr from behind as he stood laughing at the man sprawled amidst the wreck of the coffee pyramid. Farr drove his elbow back into the policeman's belly and turned to grapple with him.

'Now then, young Colin, behave yourself,' said the sergeant reprovingly.

'That you, Sergeant Swift? Don't go away. I'll sort you out after I'm done with this bugger.'

So saying, Farr lifted the constable in the air and hurled him after Monty Boyle.

Sergeant Swift sighed and raised his night stick.

'Sorry, lad, I can't wait,' he said and brought it down with moderate force and perfect aim on the base of Farr's neck. Then he held out his arms to catch the young man's body as he fell into a darkness deeper and blacker than riding the pit.

Chapter 5

'And how was the people's poet today?'

'Sorry?'

'The young man in your class whose literary style you so admired.'

'He wasn't there,' said Ellie.

'Oh dear. A drop-out. I wondered why I found you so glum. Hello, Rosie, my love! How's life in the University crèche? Have they got you on to nuclear physics yet?'

Pascoe picked up his daughter and held her high in the air to her great delight.

'No, not a drop-out,' said Ellie. 'He couldn't be there because he's in jail.'

'Jail? Good Lord.'

Pascoe replaced Rose on the sofa and sat down beside her.

'Tell me all,' he said.

'He was in some kind of fracas with a policeman. I assume it was the kind of horseplay which, if indulged in with another miner, would have got his wrist slapped. With a cop, of course, it amounts to sacrilege.'

'You assume that, do you?' mused Pascoe. 'Is it an assumption based on evidence? Or, like that of the Virgin Mary, on faith and a dearth of eye-witnesses?'

Ellie's indignation was not to be diverted to the conspiracy of clerics, attractive target though it was.

'An educated guess,' she retorted. 'As for evidence, I rather thought you might have mentioned the case to me before this, or does it come under Official Secrets?'

'On the contrary. Assaults on police officers are, alas, so commonplace that they can go pretty well unnoticed, even in the Force. Like accidents to miners. As long as they don't put a man in hospital for more than a few hours, who cares? But you must have had his mates' version?'

'Not really,' admitted Ellie. 'He's the only one from his pit, so the others have only known him since he came on the course. One of them saw a paragraph about the case in his local paper.'

'So where is he from, this whatsisname?'

'Farr. Colin Farr. He works at Burrthorpe Main.'

'Burrthorpe. Now that rings a bell. Of course. Both mysteries solved.'

'I didn't know there was even one.'

'Mystery one. Why did it ring a bell? That was where one of the kids went missing that Watmough put in the Pickford frame. And our beloved ex-DCC never missed a chance of dragging the Pickford case into his many farewell speeches.'

'You mean this man Pickford murdered a Burrthorpe child?'

'Possibly. They never found her body. But Pickford's suicide gave Watmough the chance to load several unsolved child-molestation cases on to him, plus the Pedley girl's disappearance. Must have helped the serious- crime statistics a lot.'

'Jesus!' said Ellie. 'How comforting! And what was the other mystery? You said there were two.'

'Oh yes. Mystery two. Why don't I know about the assaulted copper? Because Burrthorpe's in the South Yorks area, that's why! Only just, mind you. Another quarter-mile and it would be on our patch, but as it is, the battered bobby is not one of Mid-Yorkshire's finest, therefore I know nothing.'

'How typically parochial!' mocked Ellie. 'How far is it? Twenty miles?'

'Nearer thirty, actually. That's quite a long way for your lad to come, isn't it? He must be very keen to get out of Burrthorpe Main once a week.'

'He's certainly found an ingenious way of staying out even longer, hasn't he?' said Ellie, a little over-savagely.

'Yes, dear. You don't know anywhere round here where a hungry policeman could get a meal, do you?'

Ellie rose and went to the door.

'It's salad,' she said as she passed through. 'I was a bit pushed.'

Pascoe leaned over and looked down at his daughter who returned his gaze from wide unblinking blue-grey eyes.

'OK, kid,' he said sternly. 'Don't play innocent with me. You're not leaving this sofa till you tell me where you've hidden the rusks.'

Next morning Pascoe, finding himself with a loose couple of minutes as he drank his mug of instant coffee, dialled the number of South Yorkshire Police Headquarters, identified himself and asked if Detective-Inspector Wishart was handy.

'Hello, cowboy!' came the most unconstabulary greeting a few moments later. 'How's life out on the range? Got running water yet?'

It was Wishart's little joke to affect belief that Mid-Yorks was a haven of rural tranquillity in which the only crimes to ruffle the placid surface of CID life were rustling and the odd bit of bestiality. Any note of irritation in Pascoe's response would only result in an unremitting pursuit of the facetious fancy, so he said amiably, 'Only downhill. In fact things are so quiet here I thought I'd give myself a vicarious thrill by talking to a real policeman about some real action.'

'Wise move. Anything in particular, or shall I ramble on generally while I'm beating up these prisoners?'

'You could fill me in on one Colin Farr, of Burrthorpe. He got done for thumping one of your finest last week.'

'Oh. Any special reason for asking, Peter?' said Wishart suspiciously.

'It's all right,' laughed Pascoe. 'I'm not doing a commando raid. It's personal and unofficial. My wife knows him, in a tutorial capacity, I hasten to add. She was concerned that he'd missed one of her classes, that's all.'

'Blaming it on the police in general and you in particular, eh?' said Wishart, who had the shrewdness of a Scots lawyer which is what his family would have preferred him to be. 'Burrthorpe, you say? Indian territory that. It was almost a no-go area during the Strike. You'll remember the great siege? They just about wrecked the local cop- shop. I believe they've rebuilt it like a fortress. There's a sergeant there I've known for years. I'll give him a buzz if you can hang on.'

'My pleasure,' said Pascoe.

In the ensuing silence Pascoe cradled the phone on his shoulder and burrowed in the bottom drawer of his desk in search of a packet of barley sugars he kept there. Man could not live on health food alone. When he surfaced, he found himself looking into the questioning gaze of Andrew Dalziel. Usually the fat man came into a room like an SAS assault team. Occasionally, and usually when it caused maximum embarrassment and inconvenience, he just materialized.

'Busy?' said Dalziel.

'Yes,' said Pascoe, carefully letting the barley sugar slip back into the drawer.

'Won't bother you, then. I just want a look at your old records. Mine are a mess.'

He peered towards Pascoe's filing cabinets, with the combative expectation of a new arrival at the Dark Tower. Pascoe, who knew why his superior's records were in a mess (if he couldn't find anything, he shook the offending file and shouted threats at the resultant shower of paper), rose in alarm. The phone was still silent.

'Was it something in particular, sir?' he said.

'I'm not just browsing if that's what you mean,' growled Dalziel. The Kassell drugs case will do for starters. I know you weren't concerned directly but I know too you're a nosey bugger, so what have you got?'

What's he doing digging up old bones? wondered Pascoe as he put the phone on the desk and went to the cupboard in which he stored his personal records.

‘Thanks, lad. I'll keep an ear open for you, shall I?'

Sticking his head out of the cupboard, Pascoe saw that Dalziel was in his seat with the telephone at his ear, taking the paper off a barley sugar.

'That's OK,' he said with studied negligence, it's not really important.'

'It better had be, lad,' said Dalziel sternly. 'Official phones these are. Some bugger rang Benidorm last week and no one's confessing. Wasn't you, was it? No. Not cultural enough for you, Benidorm. Can you find it?'

Pascoe resumed his search, spurred on by the need to get Dalziel out before the need arose to explain his query to South.

'Got it,' he said in dusty triumph a moment later. But it was too late.

'Hello,' said Dalziel in a neutral voice which, probably deliberately, might have passed for Pascoe's. 'Go ahead.'

He listened for a moment then exploded. 'Ripper! What do you mean he's a ripper? No, this isn't Peter. This is Dalziel. And who the fuck are you? You're not speaking from Benidorm, are you?'

He listened a while longer then passed the phone to Pascoe.

'Inspector Wishart from South,' he said. 'Says your man's a ripper down Burrthorpe Main. Gave me a nasty shock, that. This the Kassell stuff? I'll take good care of it, lad.'

'Yes, sir.' said Pascoe, who foresaw already the dog-eared, beer-stained state in which his lovely records were likely to return to him. 'Official inquiry, is it, sir?'

From the door Dalziel flashed him a smile as reassuring as a crack in new plaster.

'As official as yours, I expect, lad.'

He went out. Pascoe said, 'The coast's clear.'

'Jesus,' said Wishart. 'You might have warned me Geronimo had broken out again; let's do this quick, eh? Here's what the record says.'

That night he said to Ellie, 'I picked up some info on your protégé, if you'd like to hear.'

'Official version, you mean? Go on. I like a well-crafted

tale.'

'Simply, he got drunk, took offence at something a stranger in the street said to him, got into a fracas and pushed the man through a shop window. That may have been an accident. Certainly, it turned out the man didn't want to bring charges. Which was odd. As evidently he turned out to be a journalist, one Monty Boyle, chief crime reporter on the
Challenger
. Makes you think . . .’

Ellie was not in the least interested in what it made him think.

'But the good old fuzz persuaded him to change his mind,' she said angrily.

'Not really. A couple of local cops witnessed the incident. When they approached, Farr attacked one of them, throwing him through the window too, and had to be restrained by the other. That was the assault he was charged with.'

'Now I've got it,' cried Ellie in mock delight. 'A bit of drunken horseplay, the kind of thing that passes for high spirits at Twickers or Annabel's, is escalated to a criminal assault by heavy-handed police intervention.'

'It's a point of view,' said Pascoe gravely. 'It's certainly true that if he hadn't assaulted the constable, the whole thing might have been smoothed over with a police caution.'

'But you can't turn a blind eye to saying boo to a bobby,' said Ellie.

'Not when he needs seven stitches in his hand,' said Pascoe, incidentally, since you don't ask, the
Challenger
reporter was hardly damaged at all. It appears that Burrthorpe's not the kind of place you encourage cop-bashing. They had a full-scale riot there during the Strike and the police station was just about wrecked.'

'So a young man goes to jail and gets a permanent criminal record
pour encourager les autres?'

'The record was there already,' said Pascoe. 'He had several counts against him during the Strike.’

'Who the hell didn't? And they can't have been all that serious, otherwise he wouldn't have kept his job under the famous victimization scheme!'

'True. But beyond and outside the Strike, he's obviously been a wild lad. Most serious was when he got done for assaulting a Customs officer at Liverpool. Before you ask, no, he wasn't coming back from holiday. He was a merchant seaman, didn't you know that? A good teacher should know all about her pupils. Anyway, it didn't amount to too much, I gather. Farr felt he was being unduly delayed by officialdom and threw the man's hat into the ocean, then offered to send the man after it. He's very fond of throwing people around, it seems. But you can see why the magistrate wouldn't think a mere fine was enough in this last case.'

'Oh yes,' grunted Ellie. I suppose he was lucky to escape the strappado.'

'He only got a week. Five days with remission. He'll be back for your next class. What's the topic to be? Law and Order?'

'Peter, that's not funny, merely crass,' snarled Ellie.

Pascoe considered.

'No, I don't think so,' he said quietly, it may not be terribly funny but I don't think it's at all crass, not between consenting adults in domestic bliss. As a professional communicator, you should be more careful. Intemperance of language is to thought what drunkenness is to courage: it makes a little go a long way.'

'Is that original? Or is it a quote from some other prissy, pusillanimous time-server?'

'Is that live? Or are you miming to the latest hit on the Radical Alliterative label?'

Ellie smiled, with only a little effort.

'I'll let you be original if you let me be live,' she said.

'Deal.'

He smiled back and went upstairs to see Rose, who was also smiling as she slept.

The difference was, her smile looked as if it went all the way through.