Death's Jest-Book (29 page)

He picked up his file and riffled
through the papers.

'Here we are, Roote's father was
a civil servant who died when his son was two years old. Confirmation
of what Roote himself says in his letters several times, that he lost
his father so early he has no memories of him whatsoever.'

'What is that, Peter?' said
Ellie, staring at the file.

‘This?' said Pascoe,
suddenly remembering that Dalziel's were not the only sharp eyes it
was sometimes wiser to keep things hidden from. 'Oh, just some notes
about Roote I had lying around. Seemed a sensible place to keep these
letters in.'

'Looks a bit bulky for just some
notes’ said Ellie. 'And that note you were extracting that
stuff about Roote Senior from . . . ?'

'Well, actually it's a copy of
Roote's college file, just background details

'Holm Coultram College, you
mean?' said Ellie. 'Those files were confidential!'

'Come on! He was a suspect in a
serious investigation.'

'Oh yes. You don't happen to have
a copy of my file there too, do you?'

'No, really subversive material I
keep in a safe down the nick,' said Pascoe.

She smiled, with just the
slightest sign of effort as if it had occurred to her that it was
after all Christmas Day.

'Enough shop talk,' she said. 'I
thought we'd get the troughing over early so that we can walk it off
together while there's still some light in the sky, OK?'

'Fine,' said Pascoe. 'I'll pop
out and work up an appetite with our two monsters.'

Take Rosie a woolly, will you?
She's beginning to look quite blue out there, but don't tell her that
or she'll just insist on stripping off to show she doesn't feel the
cold.'

'Can't think who she gets it
from,' said Pascoe.

He rose with
Dark Cells
in one hand and in the other the file which he
shook at her as he headed for the door, saying, 'See? Next to nothing
in it. I know I may be just a bit obsessive about the guy, but
doesn't it make sense to keep some sort of track on him now he's
elected me his number one correspondent?'

To his surprise, Ellie said, 'You
may be right, love. Listen, last word on the subject today, OK?
Either drop the whole thing or do the job properly. Dig deep as you
can into Roote's roots; and while you're at it, before you go around
badmouthing Ms Haseen, why not check her out professionally with
someone like Pottle? Rosie, luv, what's up?'

Their daughter had burst into the
room wearing her best exasperated look.

'It's this whistle,' she said. 'I
think it's broken.' . 'Why's that?'

'I can't hear it.'

'But you're not meant to be able
to hear it.'

'But I don't think Tig can hear
it either. I blow and I blow and he pays no heed at all.'

Ellie shot a warning glance at
her husband, who was grinning broadly, and said, 'I know exactly what
you mean, darling. But it doesn't mean Tig can't hear it. It's just
that male dogs can be very stubborn, and sometimes you've got to work
really hard to get them to do the simplest things. Why don't you get
your dad to help you? I think you'll find he's a bit of a
specialist.'

Hat
Bowler, not being a particularly literary sort of chap, though he was
making efforts in that direction to keep pace with Rye Pomona, might
have found it hard to offer a detailed gloss of the phrase
hoist
with his own petard,
but he knew exactly what it meant. Christmas
had posed a problem. His parents were expecting him home. The only
unmarried one of four children, he'd been looking forward to at last
quieting their unease at his continued lack of attachment by showing
off Rye, who, admitting to no family of her own, might have been
expected to jump at the chance of Yuletide with the Bowlers.

Instead she had turned down the
invitation flat. At first he had taken her refusal as tactical, a (he
hoped) Parthian shot in the bad time she had given him for going
against her wish not to make the break-in official. So he had waited
till they were emerging from a moment of maximum closeness and
repeated the invitation.

She rolled away from him and
said, 'Hat, don't you listen? I said, no thanks, I'm just not up for
a big family Christmas, OK? But I understand how much your parents
and your brothers and sister and their offspring will be looking
forward to seeing you. And I'll look forward just as much, or even
more, to seeing you when you get back. Don't try to turn me into a
little Orphan Annie out in the snow while everyone else is in the
warm having a good time. I shall be perfectly happy celebrating
Christmas by myself.'

He was corning to recognize the
note of finality in her voice and he'd protested no more. But he had
gone away and brooded and determined that it was time she too
discovered he could take a stand. Take away one member of a large
family having a good time and what was left was still a large family
having a good time. Take away one lover from a pair of lovers and
what was left was two unhappy people.

So he crossed his fingers and,
before he could change his mind, pausing only to check that he had
the CID room to himself, he took out his mobile and rang his parents'
number.

As he spilled out his carefully
prepared lie about losing out in the Christmas leave lottery, he
could feel his mother's huge disappointment even before she tried to
hide it, and by the time he put down the phone, he felt like the
worst kind of criminal low-life who deserved everything a gouty judge
could throw at him.

And it seemed that God agreed.

'Well, that's good,' said
Sergeant Wield's voice behind him. 'Here's me just heard Seymour's
down with flu, so having to decide whether it's you or Novello gets
pulled in to fill the gap on the Christmas roster, and what do I find
but a volunteer? Well done, lad.'

'Come on, Sarge,' said Hat
desperately. 'At least ask Novello. She might prefer New Year.'

'Nay, good Catholic girl like her
'ull want to be off at Christmas.'

'Good Catholic! You know she's
been going out with that big bearded sergeant in the Transport Police
and he's married with four kids.'

That's between her and Father
Kerrigan, who no doubt gets a blow-by-blow account at confession, so
let's not be having any religious prejudice here, eh?'

'But, Sarge . . .' Hat began to
plead. Then he looked into that rocky landscape of a face and
realized there was nothing for him here but a hard landing.

He kept his come-uppance to
himself, accepting DC Novello's gratitude at his reported
volunteering with a self-deprecating grimace and Rye's sympathy with
a philosophic shrug. For a moment when she pulled him down on the
sofa to show how far her sympathy went, he started feeling guilty
again, but not for long.

Christmas morning itself was so
quiet that he didn't even have the consolation of usefulness to salve
his disappointment at not being with Rye.

About eleven o'clock Dalziel came
wandering in, softly whistling 'God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen'. He
nodded approvingly when he saw the amount of paperwork Hat had
shifted and said, 'That's it, lad. Improve the shining hour.'

'Yes, sir. Nothing for us yet
then?'

The Fat Man laughed, scratched
his crotch like a boy scout trying to start a fire, and said, 'Don't
worry, lad. Early days. There's lots of folk out there have travelled
many a weary mile just to put themselves in striking distance of
their nearest and dearest, and it's getting near kick-off time.
Prezzies opened, irritations building, down the pub for a few
soothing bevvies, back an hour later full of good cheer, turkey
burnt, pudding hard-boiled, kids fratching, in-laws sniping - it's a
powder keg, and anything can be a spark. Had a chap couple of years
back slit three throats with the carving knife just because his
missus told him he were making a mess of the bird and why didn't he
let her dad do it?'

'Even that's not exactly
demanding, is it? I mean, it doesn't take much real detective work.'

'Like in the whodunnits?
Shouldn't pay too much heed to them poncy writers, lad. What do they
know? Most on 'em 'ud honk their rings if they saw a bit of real
blood.'

Hat's acquaintance with poncy
writers was limited to Ellie Pascoe and Charley Penn. His dislike of
the latter was strong enough to discount his liking for the former,
so he nodded enthusiastic agreement which probably wasn't a bad
career move anyway.

It occurred to him to wonder how
come the Fat Man, who cracked the whip and sent all the animals
galloping round the ring, should have ended up stuck in the empty Big
Top on Christmas Day. A disaster in his private life? Or a sudden
rush of altruism to the head? On the whole, Hat thought it wise not
to push his luck by asking.

In fact neither mischance nor
nobility had played a part in the Fat Man's decision to take
Christmas duty. Amanda 'Cap' Marvell, his inamorata, was spending the
holiday with her son, Lieutenant Colonel Pitt-Evenlode MC (the Hero,
as Dalziel called him), who had finally found himself a woman
sufficiently unimpressed by his heroics to contemplate becoming his
wife. Dalziel wasn't invited.

'Worried I'll frighten her off?'
Dalziel had asked.

'More likely worried I'll drink
too much bubbly and start feeling you up under the table and that
frightens her off,' said Cap, who had a nice way of putting things.

'Save the bubbly for Boxing Day,'
he'd replied, then told his senior officers they could spend
Christmas with their families as he was coming in and he was worth
any six of them.

He returned to
his office now, opened the huge jar of pickled walnuts he'd found in
one of his socks that morning, poured himself a healthy slug from the
bottle of Highland Park he'd found in the other, and settled down
with
The Last Days of Pompeii,
with his radio monitor bubbling
softly in the background. The minutes ticked by, the pages turned,
the whisky and the walnuts sank, and, as he'd forecast, the
radio-recorded tide of merry Christmas mayhem rose as the Queen's
Speech sailed majestically nearer.

The mayhem so far had all
remained at the 'domestic' level, which meant it hadn't risen above
bruising and cutting with the occasional breaking of bones, all of
which fell within the proper purlieu of Uniform, who were getting
more stretched by the minute.

Then like a hooked fish the Fat
Man felt his attention jerked from first century Campania to
twenty-first century Mid-Yorkshire.

'Disturbance at Church View
House, Peg Lane. Informant Mrs Gilpin, Flat 14. Sounds like another
drunk. Can anyone take it?'

Dalziel laid down his book,
scooped up his radio and said, Tommy, that Peg Lane call, I'll take
it.'

'You will?' The sergeant couldn't
hide his amazement. 'It's just a D and D, sir .. .'

'I know, but it's the season of
goodwill, and I can tell your lads are getting a bit overstretched,
so have this one on CID. Unless you're too proud, that is . . .'

'No, sir. It's yours and welcome.
Cheers!'

Dalziel switched off and
bellowed, 'Bowler!'

Five seconds later Hat appeared
round the door just as Dalziel came through it.

He leapt aside, then fell into
step behind the Fat Man as he raced down the stairs.

'Sir,' he gasped. 'What have we
got?'

'Probably nowt, but I could do
with a breath of fresh air. You drive.'

In the car, Hat said, 'Where to?'

'Peg Lane.'

'Peg Lane? That's where Rye
lives!'

'Aye. And it's Church View we're
heading for. Disturbance. Informant your friend Mrs Gilpin. And I'm
just wondering if the disturber could be our old friend, Charley
Penn. Christ, lad, this is the town I live in you're driving through,
not Le Mans!'

But Hat wasn't listening. He sent
the car hurtling through the thankfully empty streets recalling that
other mad drive only a couple of months before when he'd gone rushing
to Rye's rescue. Could lightning strike twice? Could the second
strike be fatal... ?

Peg Lane was
fairly central so the journey took less than five minutes, though to
Hat it felt like an hour. The narrow street running between the
terraced houses and the eighteenth-century church which gave Rye's
building its name was still as an unused film set. Remove the parked
cars and you could have shot an episode of
Emma
here.

An upstairs window opened and a
woman wearing a red and yellow paper hat leaned out and said, 'I'm
not coming out. It's gone very quiet, but he hasn't left.'

'Who?' demanded Dalziel.

'Him. The mad-looking one your
lad asked about who was here before.'

His lad, Dalziel now realized,
had already vanished into the building.

With a mild oath at the
impetuosity of youth, Dalziel followed.

On the flat over short distances
his bulk was little impediment to velocity, but uphill he went
steady, not caring to arrive wheezing like a badly maintained set of
bagpipes.

He paused on the first landing.
Above him he could hear a thunderous knocking and Bowler's voice
crying, 'Rye! Rye! Are you there?'

Groaning gently, Dalziel resumed
his ascent.

When he reached the next landing,
he saw Charley Perm sitting slumped against the wall beside a door
which Bowler was bouncing off like a demented squash ball. Fearing
that Penn might have been put there by Bowler's fists, he took hold
of the writer's shag of greying hair and raised his head. To his
relief the slack and dull-eyed face showed no sign of physical
assault and every sign of alcoholic impairment.

He caught the DC on his next
bounce and held him tight.

'You'd do better using your head,
lad’ he said. 'Your lass changed the lock, right?'

'Yes, and it's locked and bolted,
which means she's in there, doesn't it?' cried Hat.