Deadheads. Reginald Hill
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much for her to do at this fag-end of the academic year, by mutual agreement she had merely made a token return by undertaking some examination marking. Ironically, her resumption of ‘work’ was in reality likely to be quickly followed by a resumption of being out of work, as the following year the college’s pleasant country site was to be sold off and the staff lumped with the staff of the local town-based College of Technology in an Institute of Higher Education. Most of the courses Ellie was interested in teaching would disappear, and as it was rumoured that the local authority were offering trading stamps to staff willing to become voluntarily redundant, Ellie was contemplating perpetual retirement with whatever compensation she was entitled to, so that she could settle to finishing her second novel (the first having remained obstinately unpublished).
‘So I’ve gone gabby?’ said Pascoe. ‘I’ll have to watch that.’
Ellie set his whisky down beside him and sipped her own.
‘Faced,’ she continued, ‘with a choice between regarding this new garrulity as a rather tardy recognition of my strong intellect, rational judgment and complete trustworthiness, and taking it as a condescending, sexist attempt to give the little woman a sop for having to vegetate at home all day, rooted by the brat, I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt.’
‘You hear that, Rose?’ said Pascoe, picking up the baby and holding her face up to his. ‘My life has not been in vain. I may not have much, but I have the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Renegotiable on a weekly basis,’ added Ellie. ‘This week I’ve taken into account that Andy Dalziel is obviously being an even bigger pain in the arse than usual.’
‘Not bigger,’ corrected Pascoe. ‘Different. I get worried about him sometimes. At his best he’s been a great cop. But times are a-changing.’
‘And he’s not changing with them? Well, when the dinosaurs had to go, they had to go. And there in the wings ready to take over is Homo erectus!’
‘You flatter yourself,’ grinned Pascoe.
‘But you are ready to take over, aren’t you, Peter?’ said Ellie thoughtfully. ‘I don’t mean Andy’s job specifically, but you do feel the dinosaurs have been hanging on just a bit too long, don’t you?’
‘Do I? Mebbe so. But I also worry about them. I mean, I sometimes even suspect Fat Andy’s got some powers of self-awareness, and deep down grasps what’s going on. Perhaps this is why he’s seemed a bit uncertain lately. Then other times I’m certain he’s just making sure I look the idiot in all this daft Aldermann business. With a bit of luck, it’ll all blow over before he gets back.’
‘He’s going away? Andy?’
‘Oh yes. I forgot to tell you. Obviously the ACC thinks Andy’s got to bend to the modern world too. He summoned him yesterday to say that circumstances were preventing him from attending the conference at the Yard next week, so he wanted Andy to be our representative.’
‘Not this conference on community policing in mixed societies? The one the Yanks are coming to?’
‘Not to mention Frogs, Krauts and Dagoes, as Dalziel puts it,’ said Pascoe.
‘God help us all. Dalziel will have them going home to train in the use of tactical nuclear weapons!’
The baby, annoyed at not being central to the conversation, gave a sudden struggle in Pascoe’s arms.
‘Come here, darling,’ said Ellie taking her. ‘Time for you to be nodding off, I think. How about a drop of Scotch to see you through the night?’
As she went up the stairs the telephone rang.
Pascoe said, ‘I’ll get it.’
He picked up the receiver, spoke briefly, listened rather longer and was back in the lounge by the time Ellie returned.
‘Anything important?’ she asked, retrieving her whisky.
‘Probably not. Just sheer curiosity on my part. Though on the other hand it is rather odd.’
‘Do I get three guesses?’ enquired Ellie after a moment.
‘Sorry,’ said Pascoe. ‘I was just thinking deep thoughts, that’s all. No, it was your mentioning that chap Burke. I knew it rang a bell. I rang the station and asked them to check if they could. It didn’t take long. Someone there was actually on the case.’
‘Case?’
‘Well, not a case, exactly. But there was an inquest. This chap Burke fell off a decorator’s ladder outside his house and broke his neck. Verdict, accidental death. No suspicious circumstances.’
‘So?’
‘Well, as you said, it’s a bit odd, coming on top of what Elgood’s been saying. Particularly as it seems that Mr Burke was assistant to Mr Eagles, the Chief Accountant.’
‘And Aldermann got that job?’
‘That’s right,’ said Pascoe. ‘Of course, it doesn’t mean anything.’
‘No, it probably doesn’t,’ said Ellie. ‘Elgood didn’t even mention it, did he?’
‘No. That’s true. I’ll mention it to him though,’ said Pascoe. ‘By the way, as a matter of interest, when are you seeing this Aldermann woman again.’
‘Daphne? We’re having coffee together tomorrow. Why?’
‘Nothing. What was your impression, by the way.’
‘I told you. I liked her. Lively and bright, blinkered of course, but far from stupid. Why do you ask?’
‘It’s just that Wield described her as a very pleasant, ordinary, upper-middle-class wife, almost a stereotype. She didn’t sound your cup of tea, that’s all.’
‘Wield said that? Well, I suppose the presence of the fuzz is always inhibiting. Did he tell you how sexy she was?’
‘Sexy?’ said Pascoe, surprised. ‘No, there wasn’t the slightest suggestion … in fact, he seemed to think she was rather plain and homely. You thought her sexy?’
‘Oh yes. Not in a moist-mouth-look-at-me-shaking-my-great-tits way, but definitely sexy. Of course, Wield might well not notice.’
‘Why not?’
But Ellie only smiled and rose to pour some more whisky into her glass.
(Hybrid tea. Richly-scented, lilac-blue blossoms, perhaps an acquired taste.)
When Pascoe arrived at the Perfecta plant early the following afternoon, he found it as silent as a Welsh Sunday.
He hung around a small foyer for a few minutes, coughing loudly as he pretended to examine a small display of lavatorial artefacts, many of them with the Elgoodware insignium. Finally an early-middle-aged woman in a severe black and white outfit arrived and said in a matching voice, ‘Mr Pascoe? I’m Bridget Dominic, Mr Elgood’s secretary. Would you follow me, please?’
Pascoe obeyed, feeling like a hen-pecked husband as he lengthened his stride to keep up with the swift-walking woman, a picture reinforced by the large plastic carrier bag he was carrying. After Dalziel’s hints of Dandy Dick’s sultanic habits, he found Miss Dominic a bit of a disappointment. Perhaps advancing age had brought Elgood into the realm of erotic discipline. Miss Dominic wasn’t a bad name for a good whipper.
They went up several flights of stairs (didn’t they have lifts?) and arrived at a door with Elgood’s name writ large on the frosted glass. This opened on to what was clearly Miss Dominic’s own office. Pascoe was surprised at its dinginess. He’d have expected Dandy Dick to put on a bit more of a display. Or