Death’s Jest-Book

‘Not so tricky we didn’t bang him up,’ said Dalziel complacently.

‘He’s had the benefit of a prison education since then,’ said Wield.

He was speaking figuratively but the Fat Man pretended to take him literally.

‘Fair do’s but,’ he said. ‘He didn’t come out a sociologist like most of the buggers as get educated inside. I really hate it when I hear one of them bastards on the chat shows.’

The DCI closed his eyes and Wield said quickly, ‘Mebbe we should wait and see what the Cambridge fire people say.’

The phone rang so aptly that he wasn’t in the least surprised when Pascoe, who’d snatched it up, mouthed Cambridge at them.

Eyes less keen than Dalziel’s and Wield’s could have worked out it wasn’t good news.

Pascoe said, ‘Thanks a lot. If anything else comes up … yes, thank you. Goodbye.’

He put the receiver down.

‘So?’ said Dalziel.

‘Nothing suspicious,’ said Pascoe. ‘As far as they can make out, the fire started in a leather armchair, probably caused by a lighted cigar butt which had slipped down behind the cushion. Only sign of any accelerant was an exploded brandy decanter.’

‘Aye, well, bunch of drunken dons smoking big cigars in a building that’s probably failed every fire regulation laid down over five hundred years, that’s asking for trouble,’ said Dalziel. ‘Well, I’m glad we’ve got that out of the way.’

‘For God’s sake,’ said Pascoe, ‘you don’t think that someone like Roote was going to get to work with a can of paraffin, do you? No, he was there, he tells us he was there, puffing away on a cigar with the best of them. That’s what probably gave him the idea.’

‘Oh aye? You got second sight now, Peter?’ said the Fat Man. ‘Pity they don’t take account of that in the Criminal Evidence Act. I think that’s enough about Roote for one day. I don’t mind my officers having a hobby so long as they do it in their own time.’

Angrily Pascoe retorted, ‘And how do you feel about your officers ignoring prima-facie evidence of crime? Sir?’

‘Prima facie? That ’ud be an Italian waiter with his throat cut and Roote standing over him with a knife in his hand? Wieldy, them statistics I’m doing for the Chief, how’m I getting along with them?’

‘You’ve finished them, sir.’

‘Have I? Jesus, I must’ve sat up half the night. It’s no fun being a superintendent. You’d best come along to my office in five minutes and tell me what I think of them afore I pass them on to Desperate Dan. How’s young Ivor settling back in, by the way?’

Ivor was Dalziel’s sobriquet for DC Shirley Novello, who had taken a bullet in the shoulder during the summer and only recently returned to work full time.

‘Looking fine, sir,’ said Wield. ‘Very sharp and eager to make up for lost time.’

‘Grand. Now we just need Bowler back and we’ll only be slightly under fucking strength instead of seriously under fucking strength. When’s he due to start?’

‘This week, Wednesday I think, sir.’

‘Not till Wednesday?’ said Dalziel incredulously. ‘You’d think the bugger had had major surgery. Here, pass us that phone and I’ll give him a wake-up call.’

Up till now Dalziel had made little effort to hurry Bowler from his sickbed, knowing how easy it was for a convalescent hero to be turned into a gung-ho cop who’d killed a suspect through use of excessive force. But now the Board of Enquiry had finally cleared Bowler of all culpability, the case was altered.

‘Shouldn’t bother,’ said Pascoe. ‘I gather Ms Pomona’s taken him away for a weekend of rest and recuperation. They won’t be back till later today.’

‘What? Off with his light o’ love, is he? If a man’s fit enough to shag, he’s fit enough to work, says so in the Bible. Wait till I see him. Wieldy, them figures, five minutes right? By the way, Pete. Chief’s taking me out to lunch. His treat for all my hard work. With luck I won’t be back till tea-time, so if anyone wants me, you’ll have to do.’

‘Yes, sir. Except I’ll be in court myself this afternoon,’ said Pascoe.

‘Oh aye, the Linford committal. Nowt to worry about there, we’ve got the scrote sewn up tighter than a nun’s knickers, right?’

‘Right,’ said Pascoe. ‘Though Belchamber will be looking to do a bit of snipping …’

‘Sod the Belcher,’ growled Dalziel. ‘Nowt he can do long as your witness, the Carnwath lad, stays strong. No second thoughts after that scare on Saturday?’

‘Oz is rock solid,’ said Pascoe. ‘And they can’t get at him directly. Not married, no current girl, parents dead. Only close family is a sister in the States. She is coming over for Christmas, but not till Wednesday, by which time it’ll be sorted, God willing.’

‘Then what are you moaning about? Wieldy, five minutes.’

The Fat Man left.

Pascoe watched the great haunches swing out of sight and said, ‘You’ve made yourself indispensable to Rustybum, Wieldy. Could be a fatal mistake.’

‘No, way I look at it is, if the station goes up in flames and Andy can only get one person out, it’ll be me over his shoulder and down the drainpipe. Talking of flames …’

He looked significantly at the letters lying on the desk in front of Pascoe.

‘You think I’m overreacting too?’

‘I think something about Franny Roote’s got to you in a big way. And I think that he knows it and he’s enjoying jerking you around.’

‘So you agree that he’s setting out to provoke me with these confessions … all right, half-confessions?’ said Pascoe hopefully.

‘Mebbe. But that’s all they are, provocations. One thing I’m certain of about our Franny is, he’s not going to put himself at risk.’

‘So your advice is … ?’

‘Forget it, Pete. He’ll soon get tired and concentrate on manipulating his new friends.’

‘You’re probably right,’ said Pascoe gloomily.

Wield observed his friend closely, then said, ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

‘No. Well, yes. It’s silly but … look, Wieldy, if I tell you this, not a word to Andy, eh?’

‘Guide’s honour,’ said Wield girlishly.

Pascoe smiled. Even though he was now living openly with his partner, Edwin Digweed, at work Wield rarely let slip the mask with which he’d concealed his gayness for so many years. This brief flash of campness was a reassurance stronger than a dozen notarized oaths sworn on Bibles and mothers’ graves.

He said, ‘In the letter, you remember the bit where Roote stands up to give Sam Johnson’s paper? He looks at the clock and it’s nine o’clock on Saturday morning, and then he looks down and he sees … here it is … it was you, Mr Pascoe. There you were, looking straight at me.’

He raised his eyes from the paper and looked at Wield with such appeal that the sergeant touched his arm and said urgently, ‘Pete, it’s just a try-on. It’s that German doppelganger stuff he’s picked up from Charley Penn. It’s for frightening kids with …’

‘Yes, I know that, Wieldy. Thing is, last Saturday I took Rosie to her music lesson in St Margaret Street, and I parked outside the church to wait for her. And I saw him.’