A Killing Kindness

‘Tell me, Inspector,’ she said in a hard, clear voice, ‘I’d say you were a bit younger than Sergeant Wield, right?’

‘A bit,’ he admitted.

‘And yet he is so much pleasanter than you. It looks to me as if the nastier you are in the police force, the higher you’re likely to get. Right? I bet I’m right. Goodbye, Inspector!’

Wait till you meet my boss, thought Pascoe as he left. You don’t know how right you are!

As he drove away he saw in his rear-view mirror the man Dave heading back towards the tent.

Keen for a report on the conversation? he wondered.

But wasn’t everybody fascinated by a connection with a murder case?

He put it out of his mind and hurried towards the station, eager to tell Sergeant Wield he’d got an admirer.

Chapter 4 (#ulink_65dd51ad-3364-5d0b-b25a-f28263a7b1d9)

Alistair Mulgan sipped his tomato juice carefully. He would have preferred a large gin partly because he wasn’t paying and partly because his metabolism seemed to be very sympathetically inclined towards large gins these days. But the Northern Bank did not care to have its staff breathing alcohol over its customers and since becoming acting manager of the Greenhill branch after the manager fell under a bus (nothing to do with alcohol of course) three weeks earlier, Mulgan had determined to set a perfect example. Now nearly forty, he had come a long way from his humble beginnings in rural Derbyshire, but for the past few years had felt that his career was bogged down. Each full week as acting manager had given him hope that the appointment would be made permanent, hope reinforced when clients started inviting him out to lunch. Though even here fate, as usual, had distributed its gifts with grudging hand and instead of the looked-for filet mignon at the White Rose Grill, he had just been offered the choice between chicken-in-the-basket and scampi-in-the-basket at the Aero Club bar.

‘First time here, Mulgan?’ said his host. ‘How d’you like it?’

Mulgan looked round. A group of young men were drinking pints and noisily exchanging gliding experiences. Three women were sitting in a corner beneath a fluorescent notice announcing that Friday and Saturday were disco nights. On the blue emulsioned walls a formation of china Spitfires banked through photographs of smiling young men in flying kit towards an old school clock whose face was ringed in RAF colours. The hands, propeller-shaped, stood at twelve-fifteen.

‘It’s very nice,’ said Mulgan politely.

‘Yes, I thought we’d meet here. It’s handy for us both and I hate them stuck-up places with their fancy prices. Besides, I’m going up a bit later on, so I’d have to be here anyway. You ever tried it, Mulgan?’

His host was Bernard Middlefield who with his brother John was co-owner and dictator of a small electrical assembly plant on the Avro Industrial Estate. Middlefield Electric was feeling the pinch of the latest credit squeeze and Mulgan guessed that these new friendly overtures in his direction were just so much bread scattered on the waters. He was not offended. Middlefield under his abrupt, loud-mouthed manner was a sharp enough operator. Chicken-in-the-basket today meant that he had been spotted as being possibly worth filet mignon tomorrow. That was one thing about these Yorkshiremen. You knew precisely where you were with most of them.

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Mulgan. ‘What kind of plane do you fly?’

‘Plane? Not a plane, Mulgan. Do you never look up from that desk of yours? It’s gliders we fly here. Though planes have been known to land, isn’t that right, Austin? Alistair Mulgan. This is Austin Greenall, our CFI, that’s Chief Flying Instructor, secretary, and master of all trades.’

‘As you see,’ said the man who had taken the place of the middle-aged woman who had been behind the bar to start with. ‘Except cooking. We’re short-handed today. Summer flu, would you believe! Jenny has to keep an eye on the kitchen too, so if there’s anything else you require from the bar, I’m your man.’

‘No, thanks. These’ll do us. I’m flying and Mr Mulgan’s got to keep his head clear else he’ll get his sums wrong at the bank.’

‘I thought I recognized you,’ said Greenall. ‘The Club account’s there.’

‘Watch him,’ said Middlefield to Mulgan. ‘He’ll be wanting to screw some money out of you for another couple of planes if he can.’

‘The Club does own some planes already, then?’ said Mulgan.

‘A plane. We’ve got a Cub we use for towing but it’s long past its best. And there’s a Cherokee owned by a consortium of local businessmen, Mr Middlefield included. No, it’s the gliding that keeps us going. Just.’

‘But not if you have your way, eh, Austin? He’s only been here five minutes and he’s got ambitions to turn us into Heathrow.’

‘Hardly. I just think there’s a lot that can be done to improve facilities and attract members.’

‘As long as you keep in mind it’s not like Surrey up here. We know what we like and we like value for money. How’s our grub coming on? Take a look, there’s a good chap.’

Greenall smiled amiably and left the bar.

In the corner Ellie Pascoe said to Thelma Lacewing, ‘Why doesn’t your secretary hit him with a bottle?’

‘Middlefield’s on the committee, also a JP,’ said Thelma. ‘But mainly he’s a reactionary shit. For instance, trying to get the weekend discos stopped on the grounds that they breed immorality. I keep a very close eye on that sod, I tell you.’

The two women made a striking contrast. Ellie was long-limbed, mobile, though the taut line of her athletic figure was now slackened by the contours of pregnancy; black-haired, grey-eyed, and with a face that after thirty-odd years was handsome rather than pretty, and her chin gave promises of determination her character kept. Thelma’s face had the frank wide-eyed pensive beauty that goes with folded wings and flowing white robes and that a monk might dream of without sin. She was a dental hygienist.

‘Let’s get down to business,’ she said. ‘Ellie, are you going to sink cow-like into the placid, man-pleasing, expectant-mother role, or are you going to cut your brain off from your belly and start doing some real work for WRAG?’

‘Depends what you mean by real work,’ said Ellie.

The third woman spoke. This was Lorraine Wildgoose, teacher of French at a local comprehensive school. She had a striking face, with high cheekbones and intense eyes. Her hair was at fag end of an old freak-out cut and her figure had the kind of thinness that derives from nerves rather than diets.

‘Vacancies in all areas,’ she said. ‘Typing, telephoning, tea-making.’

‘Propagandizing, preaching, protesting,’ murmured Thelma.

‘Not to mention subverting, suborning, and sabotaging,’ added Lorraine.

‘I rather fancied assailing, assaulting, and assassinating,’ said Ellie, not to be outdone. ‘But seriously, look, I want to help, but also I want some time to write. I’m into another novel. I’ve finally got over my feelings of failure with the first. I mean twenty-two publishers can’t be wrong! And I really want to get this new one sorted out before this.’

She patted her stomach disgustedly.

‘We’ve all got calls on our time,’ flashed Lorraine. ‘Two kids, a pending divorce and an unbalanced husband takes a bit more of your time than a couple of neatly turned paragraphs.’

This unexpected outburst brought a hiatus in the conversation which was filled by the timely arrival of Greenall with their baskets of food. At the bar the discussion seemed to be getting a little heated too.

‘Well, you know your own employees best, I dare say,’ Middlefield was saying. ‘But give me leave to know something too. When you’ve been on the bench a bit, you get to read between the lines. I mean, just look at the facts. A field behind a pub! A shed on an allotment! The canal bank! Not the kind of places you’d look to meet the vicar’s wife, are they?’

‘I can assure you, Brenda Sorby was as nice and decent a young woman as you could hope to meet,’ protested Mulgan, his rather fleshy face pinking with indignation or embarrassment.

‘That’s how they all seem,’ scoffed Middlefield. ‘You see a bit more of the world in my line than yours, I dare say.’

‘You’re not saying those poor women deserved what happened to them?’

‘Don’t be daft! But them as take chances can’t complain overmuch when things go wrong.’

‘Those women certainly can’t complain, can they?’ said Thelma in a clear, carrying voice.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Middlefield turning on his stool to view her. ‘Oh, it’s you, Miss Lacewing.’

‘I’ll just fetch the tartare sauce,’ murmured Greenall. He retreated to the kitchen.

‘I suppose you might say that unaccompanied women coming to places like this take the chance of overhearing primitive sexist prejudices being expressed by loud, ill-informed men,’ continued Thelma.

‘I expect I know as much about it as you, young woman,’ said Middlefield grimly.