Mebbe she just scrambled away and fell in. He wouldnt be about to jump in after her, would he? Or mebbe he left her for dead, all neatly laid out, and she recovered enough to roll over. Splash! Or mebbe he was disturbed and just slipped her over the edge, not wanting her to be found while he was still so close in the vicinity. And as for the car, mebbe he pulled her into it, threatened her with a knife, even knocked her out. Or mebbe it was someone shed trust without knowing him, a copper, say. What were you doing that night, Peter?
Laughter (Dalziels). End of discussion.
Curiously, the one thing which seemed to confirm the superintendents judgement that Brendas death was linked with the others, he had treated most dismissively.
Anyone can make a phone call, he said. And everyones got a Complete Shakespeare. Ive got a Complete Shakespeare!
Pascoe sat in his office and studied the pathologists reports which he knew almost off by heart. All three women had been strangled by someone using both hands. The bruising on their necks indicated this and the cartilage in the area of the voice boxes was fractured to a degree which demonstrated the violence and strength of the attack. But the pathologist was adamant that Brenda Sorby had not been quite dead when she went into the water all over me, choking, the water, all boiling at first, and roaring, and seething Pascoe shook the mediums taped words out of his mind and went on with his reading.
There was a degree of lividity down the left side which was unusual for a corpse taken from the water, but it could be explained by the fact that the body seemed to have been wedged in the debris by the canal bank rather than rolling free in the current. Also (another difference from the previous cases) there was some bruising around and underneath the breasts, possibly indicating a sexual assault, though the lacerations caused by the barge propeller had made examination difficult in this area. Elsewhere there was no indication of sexual interference.
Pascoe sighed. The bloody pathologist thought he was having things difficult!
Sergeant Wield came in.
I just had CRO run some of those fairground people through the computer, he announced.
Including Miss Stanhope? said Pascoe with a grin.
Wields creased and pitted face had shown no response to Pascoes twitting about Pauline Stanhopes interest earlier that day. Now he managed something not unlike a grimace.
There was a statement from her and her aunt, he said. Like all the rest. Nothing. This was interesting, though.
David Lee had been in the hands of the police several times. Disorderly conduct had cost him half a dozen fines. In 1974 he had been put on probation for assault on his common law wife. Assaulting a council officer in charge of an operation to move on a gypsy encampment got him three months in 1976, and this had been doubled in 1978 when he punched a police officer who was attempting to stop him from beating another common law wife.
There was also a charge of rape in 1979, dismissed by a majority verdict.
What made you pick on this one? wondered Pascoe. Not because I saw him chatting up Miss Pauline, I hope?
Theres half a dozen others, grunted Wield. If youd care to have a look.
Pascoe thought for a moment.
Tell you what, he said. If Mrs Sorbys such an enthusiast for peering over the Great Divide, perhaps Brenda got roped in too.
And might have known about the Madame Rashid connection, said Wield.
And met Dave Lee through it?
Pascoe shook his head even as he spoke.
Its stretching things a bit, he said. Still, its worth checking. Fancy a trip to the fairground to have your fortune told?
Wield shrugged.
I go where Im sent, he said indifferently.
All right, said Pascoe. Its twelve now. Have your lunch, then with your vigour fully restored go and cross the ladys palm with silver. Either lady, depending whether you prefer mutton or lamb.
I must stop this nudge-nudge, wink-wink bit, he thought as Wield left. Im getting more like Dalziel every day!
A few moments later the phone rang. It was the desk sergeant.
Theres a lady here wants a word with someone in CID, sir, he said. Its a Mrs Rosetta Stanhope.
What? Oh, look, Sergeant Wield probably wants to speak with her anyway, so let him sort it out, will you? He should be on his way out any moment now.
He just went past, sir. I dont think he noticed the lady. He seemed in a bit of a hurry.
The bastard! swore Pascoe. Hes opted for lamb. All right. Wheel her in.
Rosetta Stanhope had adapted well to her chosen environment. In her late fifties, her hair tightly permed with just the suggestion of a blue rinse, dressed in a stylishly cut grey suit with toning shoes and handbag, she could have chaired a WI meeting or opened a flower show without remark. Only a certain rather exotic stateliness of bearing and darkness of skin which even a carefully layered mask of make-up could not disguise hinted at her origins.
Her voice was quiet, a little hoarse, perhaps; the result of twisting her vocal cords to produce her spirit voices? wondered Pascoe.
I met your niece this morning, said Pascoe. You havent seen her?
The woman considered, then smiled.
Youre quite right, Mr Pascoe. I wouldnt do Madame Rashid dressed like this. And I wouldnt go home specially to change just to impress a policeman.
Pascoe was impressed. Shed cut right to the source of his question. Not that you needed to be a mind-reader, but it was a good policemans trick.
So youve left your niece in charge of the future?
Lucky old Wield.
I didnt feel able today, she said. I dont put on a show. Its got to be right.
What about Pauline?
Mrs Stanhope made an entirely un-English moue of dismissal.
Palmistry, she said. Its a craft. You learn it.
Pascoe decided to do a bit of short-cutting himself.
Im afraid youre not going to be able to get an apology out of us, Mrs Stanhope. It wasnt our doing. A denial perhaps, but I tried that yesterday and you saw the report. Im sorry it upset you.
Im not upset, Inspector, she said. Dont heed our Pauline. She probably told you Im not very practical? Well, Im practical enough to let her think so. She needs to be looking after folks, that one. It probably comes of never knowing her mother.
You brought her up from birth, I believe, said Pascoe. Im surprised she doesnt regard you as her mother.
She did when she was young, poor mite. But she had to be told. I remember she was twelve and casting her own horoscope. It wouldnt come right. Well, it wouldnt, would it? Bert and me had always decided to tell her. It was a relief in a way.
Why so?
She knew about me and my background. Im proud of it, why not? And Bert always used to joke that hed stolen me from the gypsies. Pauline and me, we got very close, but I could see it was a bit difficult for a young lass thinking shed got a gypsy mother but not feeling of the blood, if you follow. It were odd, but when we told her, it seemed to bring us even closer together.
And finally she joined that side of the family business?
She could hardly become an engine-driver, could she, even in this age, said Rosetta Stanhope lightly.
I believe its possible, said Pascoe, suddenly picturing Thelma Lacewing wiping her brow with an oily rag on the footplate of the Flying Scotsman. But tell me, Mrs Stanhope, if youre not here to complain, threaten, or cast a gypsys curse, why have you come?
She leaned forward and tapped his desk significantly. Or perhaps she was knocking on wood?
I was upset last night, Inspector. Not by the paper, though that irritated me. I was upset by the contact Id made with that poor girl. I hardly slept. I just kept on getting impressions; no, not visions or words, nothing definite like that; but, like colours and feelings. I let Pauline think it was just the newspaper report that had upset me. I wanted to think things out for myself.
So what do you want, Mrs Stanhope?
She opened her youthfully clear brown eyes in big surprise.
I want to do what that Evening Post said I was doing already, she said. Ive come to help you with your enquiries.
Chapter 6
When Sergeant Wield reached Charter Park the fairground was doing good business. It was a fine sunny day with just enough breeze to cool a fevered brow and send little puffs of cloud, picturesque to the point of artificiality, drifting across the deep blue cyclorama above. The green of the grass and trees, the sparkling band of the river, the bright brash music of the steam organ, all these combined to produce a pleasantly euphoric sensation in the sergeants breast which he allowed to surface in the form of a light almost soundless whistle through gently pursed lips.
His reaction when he reached the fortune-tellers tent and found the flap closed and a folding chair pushed against it to which was pinned a card saying BACK SOON was disappointment, but it was a purely professional emotion. Pascoes winks and nods about Pauline Stanhopes fancy for him were seeds on the stoniest of ground. Wields self-containment and reticence were not linked, as the amateur psychologist might have guessed, to his fearsome appearance. They derived from his early recognition that the best way to conceal one thing was to conceal all things, to have so many secrets that the only important one would not be suspected. And this was that he was wholly and uncompromisingly homosexual. In the police, the usual circular syndrome applied. Homosexuals were disapproved of because they were blackmail risks because they were secretive because they were disapproved of
Ten years earlier Wield had found himself growing increasingly fond of a man called Maurice Eaton, a Post Office executive who was even more anxious than Wield about the damage an open liaison might do to his career. But they had reached the stage of discussing setting up house together in Yorkshire when Eaton was offered a promotion in the North-East. To Wield, the move had seemed tragic at the time, but soon a routine of weekends in Newcastle and holidays abroad had been established which, while it was not without its tensions and dangers, had proved viable for a decade. But though having the centre of his emotional life a hundred miles away had made him safe, it also made him a bit of a cypher. Institutions do not like what they do not understand and now he was stuck at sergeant with younger men like Pascoe leapfrogging over his head.
Eventually something would give, he felt it in his bones. Meanwhile, on with the job.
The stall closest to the fortune-telling tent was an old fashioned penny-roll at which coins were rolled down grooved ramps to land on a numbered chequer board, winning the amount stated if the coin fell plumb in the middle of a square. The man in charge shrugged indifferently, but his sharp-featured helpmeet believed she had seen Pauline leave about twenty minutes earlier. So BACK SOON could mean an hour or so yet.
He ought to get back to the station. He felt a little guilty at the way he had turned a blind eye to Rosetta Stanhope as he left, but it had seemed amusing to reinforce Pascoes impression that he was more concerned with the good-looking niece than the old aunt. But it was very pleasant being out in the sunshine and he found himself asking the penny-roll woman if she knew where he might find Dave Lee.
She gave him a sharp, inquisitive look, then said, He could be on the dodgems, or the waltzer. He helps around when theyre busy.
He doesnt have anything of his own then? A stall, I mean?
The woman answered sneeringly, Hes pure didicoi, not real fair people, dont like regular work, them. There is a stall, a lot of gypsy tat if you ask me. Over there, by the river. Youre a copper, arent you?
No, Im his rich uncle from Australia, said Wield gravely.
The dodgems and the waltzer producing no sign of Lee, he made his way to the stall which did nothing to make him feel the penny-roll woman had been unjust. Even in this temple of tawdriness, this looked extra tawdry and the dark-skinned woman with high, aristocratic cheekbones, one of which was livid with a wide bruise, seemed to be making little effort to entice customers.
Im looking for Dave Lee, said Wield.
What for? Are you going to arrest the bastard? she answered.
Just talk.
Pity. Why not put him in jail for a while?
She seemed sincere.
Why? Whats he done?
Him? What hasnt he?
Suddenly she seemed to tire of the conversation as if even resentment and hatred could not stimulate her interest for long.
Hes not here, she said flatly.
Where might he be?
She shrugged. Wield consulted his notebook.
You dont have a trailer here, do you? Could he have gone back to the encampment?
Another shrug. Wields patience began to go.
All right. Come on.
Come on where?
To the station.
Me? What have I done?
The interest had been restimulated.
You? What havent you? mimicked Wield.
She swore. He didnt understand Romany, but he had no doubt what she was calling him.
He went in the van, she said, gesticulating at the nearby trailer park. Half an hour. To the camp, perhaps. Does he tell me where he goes? If you see him tell him he can
What? asked Wield.
The womans face went sullen, flat, once more. Only the bruise gleamed.
Nothing, she said.
Wield strolled down to the rivers edge. Boats were in large demand and the isthmus was full of people. For two days as a couple of dozen coppers crawled on their hands and knees from one end to the other, it had been closed to the public. The only result had been the most efficient litter-clearing operation in the citys history. Now the picnickers were back, their appetites doubtless whetted by the thought that on this very spot perhaps a girl had been done to death. And if they got bored with that, they could stroll a hundred yards or so down the canal bank and peer greedily across at the blank wall of Spinks Electrical Depository where earlier the same night a watchman had had his skull fractured for the sake of a few cheap transistor radios made in Hong Kong.
Though typically he kept them to himself, Wield had his own carefully worked out ideas about crime and punishment. They included doling out in exactly measured and scientifically monitored doses the kind of pain to the attacker which he had inflicted on the attacked. Nothing to do with barbarities like chopping off hands or cutting off ears. Just the pain.