Recalled to Life

They stopped at a chippie a few streets from Dalziel’s house. He was obviously well known here, raising two fingers as he went through the door and being served immediately over the head of a thickset youth who said, more in puzzlement than complaint, ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Doctor,’ said Dalziel. ‘It’s an emergency. I’ve got a fish diabetic in the car.’

When they got to Dalziel’s house they found it had been burgled.

It was the usual job. Kitchen window smashed, drawers ransacked.

‘Portable radio, brass carriage clock, gold cufflinks, ten quid in loose change,’ said Dalziel after a quick scout round. ‘Draw that curtain to keep out the draught and let’s get stuck into our haddock afore it gets cold.’

He deposited a ketchup bottle and two cans of beer on the kitchen table, sat down and began to unwrap his fish and chips.

‘Aren’t you going to …?’

‘What? Ring the station and drag half the squad round here to scatter dust over me haddock and chips? You know the score, lad. Five per cent clear-up on your normal opportunist break-ins, so what’s the odds on this?’

Pascoe slowly unwrapped the newspaper round his fish. It was the local Evening Post and he found himself looking at the weekly Crime Round-up column where the trivia of brawls and burglaries enjoyed a mayfly’s exposure. Here was an explanation of Dalziel’s cynicism. But not of its phrasing.

He chewed a chip and said, ‘Why should the odds be any worse on clearing up this job?’

‘’Cos it weren’t opportunist and it weren’t a break-in,’ said Dalziel promptly. ‘Probably came in through the front door, smashed that window as an afterthought on the way out.’

Pascoe went to the window and examined it, went through into the entrance hall and looked at the front door.

‘What makes you say that?’ he asked, returning to his seat in the kitchen. ‘I can’t see anything.’

‘Me neither. You’ve got to give credit where it’s due. Are you not going to eat that haddock?’

‘If it wasn’t just a straight break-in, what were they after?’ insisted Pascoe.

Dalziel, who had rapidly devoured his own fish, broke a bit off Pascoe’s and put it in his mouth.

‘Wally Tallantire’s papers, I’d guess,’ he said chewily.

‘What? But Mrs Tallantire said there weren’t any. Didn’t she?’

‘Adolf’s not the trusting type,’ said Dalziel sadly.

‘But I don’t believe he’s the burgling type either.’

‘No, he’d not do owt as chancy as that. But he’d mebbe pass on his thoughts to them as would.’

‘You mean this security connection you’ve dreamt up?’ Pascoe laughed incredulously. ‘You’re telling me they’d set up a break-in just to have a look for some non-existent papers?’

‘Who said they were non-existent?’

‘You mean you have got them? This gets worse. Just what the hell are you playing at?’

‘Playing at? Don’t know what you mean,’ said Dalziel, helping himself to more fish.

‘Concealing evidence. Stealing computer files. For Christ’s sake, what are you dragging me into?’

‘You make everything sound so sodding sinister! All I’m trying to do is protect a mate’s reputation. You’d do the same, wouldn’t you?’

‘If it was worth protecting, maybe,’ said Pascoe savagely.

‘Oh aye? How about if I said your Ellie’s a mixed-up cow who’s finally found an excuse to run off to her mam? Whoops, watch it, lad. You wouldn’t hit a man who’s left you some haddock, would you?’

Pascoe found he was standing with his fists balled. He tried to unclench them, found he couldn’t.

‘What was that in aid of?’ he said softly.

‘Just showing that sticking up for a mate’s got nowt to do with truth. Even if Wally turned out as guilty as hell, I’ll still smack any bugger that says so.’

Pascoe’s hands relaxed.

‘All right, Socrates,’ he said. ‘But it’s not as simple as that.’

‘Never is, not in life, but law’s different. “Guilty or not guilty?” – “Please, m’lud, it’s not as simple as that.” Christ, the judge would hit the ceiling, then cling on up there so he could shit on you from a great height! No, our Adolf won’t be perhapsing around with this one, not when there’s no bugger to answer back.’

‘There’s you.’

‘Aye, there is, isn’t there? Story of my life, answering back.’

‘Perhaps you’d better start answering me,’ said Pascoe, resuming his seat.

‘Sure you want to know? Ignorance might be your best defence.’

‘It never has been with you,’ said Pascoe.

‘True. You’re much better off knowing and lying,’ said Dalziel. ‘So ask away.’

Pascoe chewed on a cold chip. Dalziel had lied about leaving him some haddock. And what else?

He said, ‘It’s back to basics. That tape’s filled me in on the authorized version, but I need to be brought up to date on the revised version too. I missed the telly programme and didn’t pay much heed to the newspaper reports. So what happened to make the powers-that-be admit an error?’

‘Jay Waggs happened for starters. He’s a bit of a chancer by the sound of it. Media man, try his hand at anything, but always on the lookout for the shortcut to the big time. He claims to be a distant relative of Kohler’s and says he was brought up on these stories of Cousin Cissy who disgraced the family and was locked up in the Tower of London. He researched the case, came over here, got permission to visit her, and, according to him, became convinced there’d been a miscarriage of justice. He got some backing from Ebor television because of the Yorkshire connection and made a programme about the case. I’ve got it on video.’

Dalziel rose and put a cassette into his video machine.

‘Dead giveaway, that,’ he said as he pressed the start button. ‘First thing any self-respecting burglar nicks nowadays is your VTR. Another beer?’

‘Why not?’ said Pascoe resignedly.

He caught the can Dalziel tossed him and pulled the ring opener as the screen bloomed into colour.

It was a slick, well made programme. Its pluses were Mickledore Hall, now a National Trust property with its decoration and furnishing virtually unchanged from ’63, and Waggs himself, who came across with a uniquely American combination of brashness, sincerity and charm. Its big minus was the almost total absence of direct contribution from those present during the fatal weekend. To compensate, Lord Partridge’s memoirs were extensively quoted; there was a distant glimpse of Elsbeth Lowrie, now a buxom farmer’s wife, feeding hens; and in a rather grisly interview, Percy Pollock, the public hangman, now a frail white-haired septuagenarian, testified that Ralph Mickledore had gone to the scaffold protesting his innocence.

‘He would, wouldn’t he? interposed Dalziel.