Death's Jest-Book (15 page)

Pascoe had been in on this case
almost from the start, which was late one November night when John
Longstreet, twenty-six, taxi driver, had arrived home from his
honeymoon with his wife, Tracey Longstreet, nineteen. Home was a flat
in Scaur Crescent on the Deepdale Estate. Because the street in front
of the flats was lined with cars, Longstreet had parked opposite. As
he unloaded the cases, his young wife, eager to enter her new home,
had set out across the road, pausing in the middle of it to turn and
ask him if their honeymoon had left him so weak he needed a hand.

As he started to reply to the
effect that he'd soon show her how weak he was, a car came round the
corner at such speed it threw his wife ten feet into the air and
thirty feet forward so that she crashed down on the windscreen of the
braking vehicle, slid along the bonnet and rolled off under the
wheels. The low-slung machine trapped her beneath the chassis,
dragging her along the road for two hundred yards before finally
scraping itself free of what remained, and accelerating away into the
night.

Pascoe first saw John Longstreet
forty-five minutes later at the City Hospital. He was advised by the
attendant doctor that he was in such deep shock it was pointless
talking to him. Indeed, when Pascoe, ignoring the advice, took a seat
next to the man the only coherent phrase he managed to get out of him
was 'black skull' repeated over and over.

But for Pascoe it was enough. He
put it together with another phrase elicited from the one extremely
distant independent witness to the effect that it was a 'yellow
sporty job going a hell of a lick', and he set off towards the
substantial residence of Walter Linford.

Wally Linford was an entrepreneur
who'd ostensibly made his fortune out of a travel company in the
loadsa-money eighties, but in CID it was known this side of proof
that his true metier was the financing of crime. Not directly, of
course. Projects would be vetted, proposals assessed, terms agreed,
at some distance from the man himself. And his approval would never
be written, indeed often not spoken, but just made manifest in the
form of a nod. If things went wrong, Wally stayed right, able to
enjoy the fruits of his investments and bask in the respect and
approval of his fellow citizens, to whom he appeared as a fair
employer, a generous supporter of good causes, and a loving father.

This last at least was true. He
had one son and heir. It was perhaps all he wanted because, contrary
to the common run of things in which the new mother under pressure of
all her new responsibilities shows a disinclination for sex, it was
Wally who vacated the marriage bed after Liam's birth. His wife, a
quiet, rather introverted young woman, neither complained about nor
commented on this state of affairs for some five years until, rather
belatedly catching a whiff of the rampant feminism strutting the
streets of Mid-Yorkshire in the eighties, she appeared one night in
her husband's room to petition for her rights only to find the
situation already filled. By a muscular young man.

In divorces generally, judges are
inclined to favour the mother in matters of custody. In cases like
this, it is more than an inclination, it is almost an inevitability.

But Wally had turned to
Chichevache, Bycorne and Belchamber who specialized in avoiding the
inevitable. And Liam had grown up under the sole tutelage of his
father.

And yet he had by no means turned
out as his father might have wished him.

Loud, louche, and loutish, he
made no effort to win the respect of the common citizenry, or indeed
of anyone. He seemed to see it as his bounden duty to dispose of as
much of his father's wealth as he could in the pursuit of personal
pleasure with no regard whatsoever for the rights and comforts of
others. And his father, apparently blind to his defects, did nothing
to disabuse him of this belief. His eighteenth birthday present six
months earlier had been a canary yellow Lamborghini Diablo and he'd
already run up nine penalty points on his licence for speeding. In
fact it was suggested by some that had it not been for Wally's
standing in the community and close friendship with several members
of the Bench, Liam would have been disqualified long since.

Well, that was between them and
their conscience, thought Pascoe as he headed straight round to the
Linford mansion. What was more interesting to him was the fact that
Liam had thought to enhance the beauty of his machine by having a
grinning black skull stencilled on the bonnet.

There was a car in the driveway
of Linford's house, but it was a Porsche, not a Lamborghini. Wally
Linford himself answered the door, courteously invited him in. Liam
was in the lounge, enjoying a drink with his friend, Duncan Robinson,
known as Robbo, another young man whose parents had more money than
anything else. Pascoe enquired after the Lamborghini. Oh yes, Liam
replied, he had been driving it that night. He'd gone to the Trampus
Club, met some friends, had a dance and a few drinks, just a few but
he realized when he got up to leave that he might be over the limit,
so like a good citizen he had accepted a lift home with his old mate,
Robbo. Check it out, the Diablo should still be in Trampus's car
park.

Pascoe made a call. They sat and
waited. The reply came. The car wasn't there.

Shock! Horror! It must have been
stolen, declared Liam.

And I'm to be Queen of the May,
said Pascoe and arrested him. He tested positive both for booze and
coke. Put him in the car and he was going down for a long, long time.

But this didn't prove easy. Robbo
vigorously confirmed Liam's story, and several other people at the
club recalled hearing the lift being offered and accepted before the
two of them left together. The Diablo was found nearly eighty miles
away, burned out, despite which Forensic managed to find enough
traces of blood to make a match with the dead girl's. So it was
definitely the accident vehicle, but the distance involved gave
further support to Liam's story. No way would he have had time to
drive that far, torch the car and get back home before Pascoe arrived
to arrest him. CPS were shaking their heads very firmly.

Then a witness came forward, Oz
Carnwath, a student at the local Poly earning some money by working
at Trampus's as an occasional barman. He'd been dumping rubbish in
the big wheelie bin at the rear door when he saw Liam and his friend
cross the car park, each get in his own car, then drive away
separately. He'd kept his mouth shut at first, not wanting to get
involved, and believing that Liam would get his come-uppance without
any help from himself. But when the youth reappeared in the club,
boasting that he was home and free, this stuck in Carnwath's throat
and he went to the police.

So far Robbo had stuck to his
story, though not without uneasiness in face of Pascoe's assurance
that, if Liam was found guilty, the police wouldn't rest till he
joined him in jail for attempting to pervert the course of justice.
But clearly he was even more scared of what Wally Linford would do if
he came clean. In addition he must have been mightily reassured to
see the firm of Chichevache, Bycorne and Belchamber retained for the
defence.

But Pascoe suspected Wally
wouldn't put all his trust in legalities, and ordered a close watch
to be kept on Carnwath till they got his evidence into the record at
the committal proceedings. So far the business with the lost
undertaker had been the only scare. And yet. . .

He saw Marcus Belchamber coming
through the main entrance of the court complex and felt relieved that
soon the action would commence. Then it dawned on him that Belchamber
was alone. No Liam. No Wally.

No sodding trial!

'Mr Pascoe, I'm so sorry, but it
seems we are wasting our time today. Young Mr Linford is too ill to
attend. Possibly the advance guard of this new flu virus which is
rife in London. Kung Flu, they call it, a play I assume on Kung Fu,
because it knocks you down and leaves you helpless. I have the
necessary medical certificate, of course. Forgive me. I must go and
apprise the Bench.'

The man smiled apologetically.
One civilized cultured guardian of the law exchanging courtesies with
another, both of them engaged in the great pursuit of justice.

And yet as Pascoe left the court
he felt more stitched up than the Bayeux Tapestry. '

With
Fat Andy being lunched by the Chief Constable and Pascoe locked in
mortal combat with Marcus Belchamber, Wield anticipated having the
Black Bull pretty much to himself. And if there were any junior
colleagues taking advantage of their superiors' absence to linger
late, one glower from the most frightening features in the Force
would send them scurrying back to their desks.

But the two DCs he saw as he
entered the bar showed no signs of scurrying.

They were Hat Bowler and Shirley
Novello, deep in conversation. Slightly surprising, as he got the
impression that Bowler regarded Novello as his most potent rival.
Perhaps, both having been wounded in the line of duty, they were
swapping scars.

They stopped talking as he
approached.

'Nice to see you, lad,' he said.
'When are you due back? Wednesday, isn't it? Breaking yourself in
gradual, is that the idea?'

'Actually, I was hoping to see
you, Sarge,' said Hat.

'Is that right?' said Wield.
'I'll just get myself a pie and a pint first.'

'My shout’ said Novello.

As she waited at the bar, she saw
Bowler talking earnestly to Wield. She guessed he was telling him the
story of returning to his girlfriend's flat and finding it burgled.
He'd come in, looking for Wield, but when she told him that the
sergeant had gone out at the end of the morning and not reappeared
yet, he had started talking to her, not because he regarded her as a
confidante, she guessed, but merely as a rehearsal for what he was
going to say to Wield. She suspected there was more to his tale than
he'd told her, but now that his true audience was here, she'd
probably get to hear the lot.

When she returned to the table
Bowler was just reaching a rhetorical climax.

'So, you see, it's got to be
Charley Penn!' he pronounced with all the fervour of Galileo reaching
the end of his detailed proof that the earth went round the sun.

Wield was regarding him with all
the enthusiasm of an overworked Inquisition officer who didn't fancy
having to attend yet another bonfire at the height of an Italian
summer.

'Why so?' he said.

'Because Lorelei's that
German-stuff he messes with, and because he hates me and Rye, and
because I've got a description ... oh hell!'

'Well well well! What's this? A
wounded heroes' conference? It's purple hearts all round! And mine's
a pint!'

Andy Dalziel had burst through
the barroom door, radiating more geniality than a Harrods Santa
Claus, but Hat Bowler flinched away from the glow like a scientist in
the presence of a reactor gone critical.

How could this be? he asked
himself aghast. Hadn't he in his cleverness rung the station and
established that Pascoe was in court and the Fat Man wasn't expected
back from lunch with the Chief before dusk, leaving the way clear for
him to buttonhole Wield in the Bull?

What Bowler hadn't made
allowances for was that chief constables earned their extra thousands
by being even cleverer than detective constables. Dan Trimble,
knowing from experience that lunch with Dalziel could blend
imperceptibly into high tea then supper, had arranged to be bleeped
by his secretary. The bleep had come with their puddings, the meal
already having begun to stretch, but the loss of a creme brulee
seemed a small price to pay for an early escape. He made a brief
phone call, put on a concerned look, then explained with much apology
that urgent business required his instant return to his office. 'No
need for you to rush, Andy,' he said as he rose. 'Enjoy your pudding.
Have a drink with your coffee. I'll leave the bill open.'

Trimble was a decent man and it
was guilt that made him utter these words, but the guilt even of a
decent man is a delicate flower and his had faded before he reached
his car, leaving him asking himself, aghast, 'Did I really say that?'

Behind him Dalziel finished his
bread and butter pudding, sampled the Chief's creme brulee, ordered
two more with the comment, 'Tell the chef this is nice nosh, only he
don't give a man enough to put in his eye!' then, washing down his
Stilton with a large port, he applied himself to the serious business
of choosing what malt to drink while his coffee went cold.

Despite this he was on his way
back to the station at half past two, which was a lot earlier than
he'd anticipated. He was in a taxi, having gone to the restaurant in
the Chief's official car, and thinking it a shameful thing for a man
to have no better place to go to on an afternoon he'd regarded as
taken care of than his place of work, he commanded the driver to
divert to the Black Bull.

He paid off the cab with a
generous tip which went down on the receipt he collected to send to
Trimble's office for reimbursement. The thought of the Chief's face
when he saw it (hopefully at the same time as he registered the extra
creme brulees and the malts) had filled him with a delight which had
bubbled over into his somewhat over-effusive reaction at the sight of
Hat Bowler.

'What did I say, Wieldy?' he went
on. 'Out of his hospital bed and into his lass's, he'll be so full of
vim, he'll not be able to wait to get back to work! Isn't that what I
said?'

'Not as such’
said Wield, observing that young Bowler, once Dalziel's
bete noir,
did not seem delighted at his apparent upgrading to palace
favourite, even though it was in the presence of Novello, his main
rival for the spot. She had returned from the bar with Dalziel's
drink. To get Wield's, she'd had to wait her turn, but at the sight
of Dalziel, Jolly Jack, the lugubrious landlord, had pulled a pint in
a reaction worth a Pavlovian paper.