Deadheads. Reginald Hill
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kissed his wife and daughter and watched as they walked along the pavement together. As forecast, none of the picketing group made any movement more menacing than a slight uplifting of their placards. At the school gate, Daphne and Diana turned and waved.
Aldermann waved back and drove away, thinking that he was indeed a well-blessed man. Even the rain which was now beginning to fall quite heavily was exactly what the garden needed after nearly a fortnight of dry weather. He switched the windscreen-wipers on.
Daphne Aldermann coming out of St Helena’s fifteen minutes later did not feel quite so philosophical about the rain. Her talk with Miss Dillinger, albeit brief, had isolated her from potential lift-givers just long enough for the kerbside crowd of cars to have almost entirely disappeared.
Turning up the collar of her light cotton jacket, she put her head down into the rising wind and, hugging the shelter of the pavement trees, headed townwards. There was a car still parked about fifty yards ahead, a green Mini some five or six years old. A woman was leaning over the front seat putting a baby of about nine months into a baby seat at the rear. The woman was long-limbed, athletically slender, with short black hair and positive, clear-cut features which just stopped this side of wilfulness. There was something familiar about her and Daphne smiled hopefully as she completed her task and straightened up at her approach.
The woman regarded her with clear grey eyes and a half smile as the rain came lashing down.
‘You look as though you’d like a lift,’ she said.
‘Thanks awfully. That’s really most kind of you,’ said Daphne, making round to the passenger door with no further ado. But as she stooped to get in, her eye caught something on the rear seat under the baby. Upside down, the words St Helena jumped out at her. It was a protest placard.
‘It’s all right,’ said the woman behind the wheel. ‘No proselytizing. Just a lift. But it’s up to you.’
She started the engine. The wind wrapped damp fingers around Daphne’s trailing leg.
She pulled it in and shut the car door.
‘What a lovely little boy,’ she said brightly, nodding at the blue-clad baby who nodded back as the car accelerated over a bumpy patch of road.
‘No,’ said the driver.
‘No?’
‘Little, I’ll grant you. But not lovely. And not a boy. My daughter, Rose.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s a nice test of anti-stereotyping.’
‘Really? Well, I still think she’s lovely.’
The woman rolled her grey eyes briefly, but Daphne caught the contumely. It was not a safe way in which to treat an Archdeacon’s daughter.
‘And you,’ she resumed with increased brightness. ‘Are you Rose’s mother? Or her father?’
The woman looked at her in surprise, then threw back her head and laughed so fervently that the car did a little chicanery on the straight road, and Rose, stimulated by either the movement or the laughter, suddenly chortled merrily.
‘Mother,’ said the woman. ‘I’m Ellie. Ellie Pascoe.’
‘Daphne Aldermann,’ said Daphne. ‘How d’you do?’
‘How d’you do,’ said Ellie gravely. ‘You know, I came out so quick this morning that I didn’t have time for any breakfast. Do you fancy a coffee and a bacon buttie?’
‘Why not?’ said Daphne, determined to meet boldness with boldness.
‘Why not, indeed?’ said Ellie, and laughed again.
(Floribunda. Multitudinous tiny lilac-pink flowers with an olde-worlde fairy-tale air.)
‘So Dandy Dick’s finally gone doolally,’ repeated Detective Chief Superintendent Andrew Dalziel, apparently much taken by the assonance and alliteration.
‘I didn’t say that,’ protested Pascoe.
‘Look, lad,’ said Dalziel, ‘you spent the best part of yesterday morning with the man. Have them gold fillings finally rotted his brain or not? It wouldn’t surprise a lot of folk. There’s always been something not quite right about Elgood. Not marrying, and all those fancy waistcoats.’
‘Queer, you mean?’ said Pascoe
Dalziel looked at him in disgust.
‘Don’t be daft,’ he said. ‘He’s tupped more typists in his in-tray than you’ve had hot dinners. There’s many won’t use a lav with his name on it for fear it makes a grab at them. No, he’s just a bit eccentric, that’s all. Nothing you’d look twice at in one of them walking adenoids from Eton; but from a miner’s lad out of Barnsley, you expect plain dressing, plain speaking, and likely a plain wife and six plain kids.’
‘He must be a great disappointment to all his friends,’ agreed Pascoe. ‘But he didn’t strike me as at all unbalanced yesterday. I think he was genuinely reluctant to be making the accusation. He got it out very quick in general terms to start with, almost as though he wanted to commit himself. After that, it took a bit more time, but mainly because, once there was no going back, he relaxed and reverted to what by your account is his more normal mode of speaking.’
‘Oh aye, he goes round the houses like a milkman’s horse, Dick,’ said Dalziel.
Pascoe smiled. His stomach suddenly rumbled and he recalled that he had missed his breakfast that morning. Ellie had been in a hurry, and when he discovered the cause and hinted a doubt whether a picket line was the right place for a nine-month-old-baby, what little time there might have been for the preparation of toast and coffee had been consumed in a heated discussion. Very heated, though not quite at flaming row temperature. Rain beat at the window of Dalziel’s office. He hoped that Ellie wasn’t still striding round somewhere with a banner above and little Rosie behind, dripping in her papoose basket. His stomach rumbled again.
‘You should get up early enough to eat a cooked breakfast,’ commented Dalziel. ‘You’re like something out of Belsen. Me, I was built up on eggs and rashers.’
He beat his stomach complacently and belched. Diets had failed to make any inroads on his waist and recently he had taken to citing his stoutness as evidence of health rather than the cause for concern his doctor believed.
‘I should hope to learn from your example, sir. Now, about Elgood, what do you want me to do?’
It was a blunt question, arising from Pascoe’s determination not to be left with the responsibility for examining or ignoring Dandy Dick’s allegations.
‘Let’s have an action replay of what you’ve got so far,’ said Dalziel, leaning back and closing his eyes.
Pascoe risked a long-suffering sigh and said in a rapid and expressionless voice, ‘The two alleged victims are Brian Bulmer, Perfecta’s financial director, and Timothy Eagles, the Chief Accountant. Bulmer died in a car accident after the office Christmas party. No other vehicles involved, icy road, and his bloodstream showed up at nearly two hundred over the limit. Eagles had a heart attack in a washroom next to his office. The cleaner found him dead.’
‘What’s Dick say Aldermann’s got to do with this?’ interrupted Dalziel.
‘I was getting to that. Aldermann was drinking with Bulmer at the party, or rather plying him with drink, according to Elgood. And he shared the washroom with Eagles.’
‘Post mortem reports?’
‘In Bulmer’s case, death from multiple injuries, and the alcohol level noted. In Eagles’s case, no post mortem.