Death's Jest-Book (54 page)

Yours ever,

Franny

‘Sou
see what he's saying?' said Pascoe urgently. 'Please, tell me you see
it too.' 'I think it might speed things up if you
^!
tell me
first, Peter,' said Dr Pottle with some sign of irritation.

Pascoe had turned up without an
appointment, brushing aside Pottle's secretary's objection that he
was far too busy working on his opening address to the Psychandric
Society's Symposium which was taking place the following day.

'He'll see me’ declared
Pascoe, making it sound like a threat. 'I just want two minutes. Ask
him.'

And a short time afterwards he
was ushered in to be assured by Pottle that, if he was still there
after one hundred and twenty seconds, the secretary would call
security.

'He's saying
that when he set fire to Albacore's study to destroy the man's
research papers, he also took the opportunity to help himself to the
copy of the
Libellus de Vita Sancti Godriti
which he'd seen
earlier that night.'

'Knowing, of course, that it
would be assumed to have been reduced to ashes in the fire?'

That's right,' said Pascoe
triumphantly. 'You've got it. You're beginning to see just what this
bastard is capable of.'

‘Well,
I can at least say I can see why you should be convinced of
this.'

Pascoe studied this answer which
fell a long way short of the hoped-for endorsement.

'Why's that?' he asked.

'Because, having convinced
yourself he's guilty of arson and attempted murder, you're hardly
going to strain at a little matter of theft.'

'A little matter? This thing was
invaluable!'

'And that makes a difference?'

Pottle made a note on the pad
before him. Upside down, it looked like a meaningless squiggle.
Pascoe had once taken the opportunity offered when Pottle was called
out of his office to have a quick glance at this pad and found that,
right way up, his notes still looked like meaningless squiggles.
Perhaps that's all they were, but it felt like the psychiatrist was
noting every twist and turn of Pascoe's attitudes to Franny Roote.

'Anything more you have to tell
me before you leave?' said Pottle, looking at his watch.

The bugger knows there is,
thought Pascoe.

He thought of saying no, but that
would have been silly. Pointless having a dishwasher and doing your
own pots.

He said, 'Rosie got one of those
trace-your-family-tree kits and Ellie got the notion it would be
interesting to check out Roote

'Really? Bit of an odd idea for
someone as rational as Ellie to get, isn't it?'

'You think my wife is rational?'
Pascoe looked at Pottle with serious doubt.

'You don't?'

'I think she has her reasons that
reason wots not of,' said Pascoe carefully. 'Anyway, these are the
results of her investigation.'

He passed over a file containing
the information Ellie had given him, plus the results of his own
follow-up.

Pottle read through it and
whistled.

'Was that a Freudian or a Jungian
whistle?' asked Pascoe.

'It was an unsophisticated
expression of amazement that one irrational woman could so easily
discover what a well-organized CID seems to have overlooked for many
years.'

'We accepted the records. Only it
seems that the information on which they were based was fed into the
system by Roote himself. At an early age, it should be said.'

'Meaning he decided very early on
that his memories of his father, good and bad, should be completely
private. Whatever the truth of Mr Roote, he undoubtedly presents a
fascinating object of study. I can see why Haseen got so interested
in him. Ellie's findings seem to suggest that, far from being
deceived, Haseen got him to open up more than he'd ever done before.
It's the stuff in the letters about not remembering his father that's
a lie.'

'Didn't I always say you can't
trust the bastard?' said Pascoe. Then, sensing an irrationality here,
he went quickly on: 'It certainly underlines his reasons for hating
the police, who he thinks treated his father so badly. Which all goes
to show how right I am in being suspicious when he smarms up to me.'

That might be a case of throwing
out the baby with the bathwater’ said Pottle. 'His reasons for
lying to you about his father may have changed from desire to keep
your long nose out of his business to a confusion of your function
and the dead man's. His memories of his father's standing as a
policeman, able to deal with all threats that came to his family, are
very powerful.

And it's clear he has a huge
respect for you as a professional

'Come on! He's taking the piss,
isn't he? He's such an arrogant sod he thinks he's brighter than all
the rest of us put together.'

'I think you're wrong. Once he
may have felt so, but getting caught and ending up in the Syke made
him realize that he wasn't Supermind. Realizing how much Haseen had
managed to get out of him must have come as a shock too. His respect
for you made him think it likely that not only would you read
Haseen's book, but that you would identify his disguised presence in
it too. So he pre-empts this by drawing your attention to it en
passant and boasting about the way he put one across on Ms Haseen by
feeding her duff sensational memories of his father. Would you have
read the book, incidentally?'

'No way’ said Pascoe. 'Even
if I had come across it by chance, half a para of her turgid style
would have made me close it fast. He's been too clever by half.'

'Only because he thinks you're
too clever by three-quarters.'

'That's right. He thinks I'm
clever enough to read between his lines and get the real messages,
but powerless to do anything about them! All the pleasure of
boasting, none of the penalties of confession. But he'll over-reach
himself one day and I'll have him!'

'But so far you haven't come
close?'

'No, but one day . . . there has
to be something .. . maybe that dead student of Sam Johnson's in
Sheffield ... he keeps glancing at that. .. I'm sure there's
something there

'Perhaps. But, Peter, motive is
not a constant, you must have observed that. The reason for starting
something is often not the same as the reason for continuing to do
it. It works in both directions. The penniless man who steals out of
necessity may turn into the wealthy man who steals out of greed. Or
the ambitious politician who does charity work because it looks good
on her CV might end up as a passionate advocate of some particular
charity despite the fact that it's having an adverse effect upon her
career.'

'And the objective psychiatrist
can end up getting religion,' said Pascoe. 'I reckon my two minutes
are up. Sorry to leave before the end of the service, but I enjoyed
the sermon.'

'A polite man's rudeness is like
a summer storm; it refreshes the flowers and settles the dust,'
murmured Pottle.

'Freud?'

'No, I just made it up. Peter,
read this letter again, read them all again, and try to look for
patterns other than the one printed on your eye.'

'If I were you, I'd stick to the
day job,' advised Pascoe. 'Gotta dash.'

He left. A moment later his head
reappeared round the door.

'Sorry’ he said.

'A rude man's apology is like
winter sunshine

'Go screw yourself’ said
Peter Pascoe.

Earlier
that same Friday morning a large container lorry had rolled off the
Dutch ferry at Hull dock. The driver handed over his papers to be
checked, then swore in exasperation as the officials invited him to
drive his vehicle into a remote examination bay where a
full
team of searchers stood waiting with their equipment and dogs.

'Poor sod’ said the driver
of a refrigerated lorry which was next in line. 'Looks like that's
his morning gone.'

'More than his morning if what we
hear is true,' said the man examining his papers. 'OK, Joe?'

'OK’ said the officer who
had been giving the lorry a going-over.

'Safe journey, mate.'

The refrigerated vehicle moved
out of the dock complex with the ease of familiarity and was soon on
the motorway heading into Mid-Yorkshire. The driver took out a mobile
phone and rang a pre-set number.

'On my way’ he said.
'Worked a treat. No bother’

He spoke too soon. Half an hour
later he noticed his oil-warning light blinking intermittently. He
banged the instrument panel and it stopped. Then it shone bright red.

'Shit’ he said, pulling
over on to the hard shoulder.

Then, 'Shit shit shit!' he added
as he slid out of the cab and saw a motorway patrol car a few hundred
yards behind him closing fast and flashing to pull in.

'Trouble?' said the police
officer who got out of the passenger door.

'Yeah. Oil pressure. Probably
nothing.'

'Let's take a look, shall we?'

As they took their look, the
police car's driver wandered round the back of the truck.

'Ah’ said the truck driver.
Think I see what it is. Get that fixed in a couple of minutes. Thanks
for your help.'

'You sure?' said the policeman.

'Yeah. No sweat. Twenty minutes
tops’

'Great. We're due off in half an
hour, so it'll be someone else's problem if it turns out more
complicated than you think’ said the policeman, grinning.

'Harry. Got a minute?'

It was the other policeman.

His colleague went to join him.

'Listen. Thought I heard
something.'

'Like what?'

'Like a sort of scratching’

They listened. The driver watched
them for a moment then climbed into his cab.

'There. You hear it?'

'Yeah’

The cop moved swiftly along the
truck and hoisted himself on to the cab step.

The driver had picked up his
mobile. He flashed an unconvincing smile and said, 'Just thought I'd
better ring my boss, tell him I'd had a little hitch’

The policeman reached forward and
took the phone and looked at the number displayed. Then he switched
the phone off.

'Tell you what’ he said.
'Let's not bother him till we see just how little your hitch is.'

Fifty
miles away and an hour later, Wield was sitting in Turk's.

When Lee had rung him and asked
for a meet, the sergeant had suggested the multi-storey again but the
youth had said, 'No fucking way. Froze my bollocks off last time and
the weather's even colder today. Turk's.'

He's calling
the shots, thought Wield uneasily. Which was bad whatever their
relationship was. What did he mean,
whatever?
Lubanski was an
informant, period. Cops who started acting like social workers were
asking for trouble. And whatever he looked like, he wasn't a child at
risk but an adult in need of protection only if he asked for it.

But now, sitting opposite him and
feeling himself drawn willy-nilly into the undisguised pleasure the
boy took in his company, Wield saw the scene as it might look to a
passer-by whose sharp gaze penetrated the steamed-up window. Uncle
and nephew off on a day-trip together. Father and son even. This was
the first time they'd met since the karaoke. Dalziel happily had
seemed preoccupied with something else and Wield had found it easy to
find excuses not to make the effort.

Lee was looking straight at him
and, despite his certainty that his face gave nothing away, Wield hid
his expression behind the mug of foul coffee which the freezing day
had driven him to.

'So what you got?' he asked
brusquely.

'You're in a hurry. Got a date or
something?' said Lee. But not aggressively, not even provocatively.
Just a relaxed joke between friends.

'I've got work to do, yes,' said
Wield.

'Get a coffee break, don't you?
Anyway, I expect you put this down as work.'

He wants some kind of denial,
however qualified.

That's right,' said Wield
brusquely. 'And I hope it's productive. What have you got?'

The hurt in the boy's eyes
brought the protective mug up again.

'That guy rang last night,' he
said sullenly. •

'Which guy?'

'The one he calls Mate.'

'What did he say?'

Lee produced a scrap of paper and
began to read.

'He said it were all fixed his
end for next week but where was the money? And Belchy said not to
worry, it would be there. Then he rang the other guy . . .'

'LB? Thought you said he didn't
ring him direct?'

'Usually he don't. But it sounded
like he'd been hard to get hold of on the net.'

Understandable. Grief was a great
antaphrodisiac. And a great enemy of rational thought. Possibly
Linford was blaming Belchamber for getting Liam out on bail now.

'And he made contact?'

'Yeah. And I'll tell you
something else. I know who LB is now. He's Wally Linford, dad of that
wanker Liam who got himself killed last weekend.'

This was said with such triumph
Wield hadn't the heart to reveal he knew it already.

'How do you know?'

'Said "Linford" when he
answered the phone. And Belchy called him Linford from then on. They
had a right row. Linford was yelling. Belchy never yells, but I could
tell he were getting really uptight. His dick went soft.'

Wield felt Lee watching him
closely as he said this.

He's sussed how it bothers me
when he refers to what he actually does to Belchamber, he thought.
And me being bothered implies a relationship. Not good. But he kept
his tone level and neutral as he asked, 'What were they quarrelling
about?'

'Money. Belchy was worried about
some payment he had to make and Linford was yelling he couldn't be
bothered with all this crap just now and Belchy said mebbe he should
be bothered 'cos his mate were going to be very bothered if he didn't
get the next lot of upfronts and Linford said it had nothing the fuck
to do with him what this mate felt, he was just an investor and kept
a good safe distance away from his fucking clientele, like a fucking
lawyer, things went pear-shaped he walked away from the shit, no skin
off his nose, so stick that in your crown and wear it, your fucking
majesty!'