Pass him the description, said Pascoe, unnecessarily, he was sure, but he said it anyway. Ellie, whod picked up the gist, was hissing something at him.
What?
The car, is it OK?
For a second the words who the hell cares about the sodding car? formed in his mind. But the answer was too obvious for them to get near his lips. Ellie cared. Not about the car, but about the fact that her friend had been hurt acting, albeit unasked, on her behalf. Her concern about the car was, literally, a damage-limitation exercise.
Is the Audi OK? he asked.
Far as we know, no problem. Just neatly parked.
Thanks. He switched off and said, The Audis parked in Leyburn Road. It looks fine.
Thats something, isnt it, Daph?
Daphne managed a smile at her friend and said, Yes, thats something.
She doesnt give a damn either, thought Pascoe. But she understands what Ellies on about.
He said, OK if we move on? This guy, did he speak at all?
Not a word. What in the circumstances do you think he might have found to say?
Well, something like, Take that, you bitch, when he hit you.
Take that, you bitch? Really, Peter, youre so old-fashioned sometimes. No, he said nothing, or nothing I heard. What I did hear was my Audi revving up and I thought, the bastards stealing my car.
Youd left the key in the ignition?
Yes, and my mobile phone on the dash. Is that still there, by the way? No, of course you wont know. Stupid of me, now I come to think of it. If Id got chummy to the car, hed have been dead suspicious soon as he realized I could have rung for help, wouldnt he?
Not as suspicious as hed have been when he turned the key and the engine started first time, smiled Pascoe. Ill check out the phone. Therell be a car waiting to take you home soon as youre ready.
He left Daphne in Ellies care and went out. Dennis Seymour was waiting for him in the corridor, looking anxious. Reason told him his watching brief hadnt extended to covering all Mrs Pascoes friends and acquaintance, but he knew from personal experience that in the matter of a mans family, reason did not always apply. But Pascoe was not in the accusing mood.
He said, So, Dennis. You been racking your brains for me?
Yes, sir. Sorry. Nothing more than what I told you. Like I said, I took a note of every vehicle that went along the street while I was on watch. Nothing acting suspiciously. Controls checked the numbers. Nothing dodgy. All good citizens, nothing known.
OK. Try this for size.
Pascoe repeated Daphnes description of her assailant.
Seymour said, No. Didnt see anyone like that in any of the cars. As for on foot, I saw nobody except the postman. Im really sorry.
Dont be. It takes up space in your mind and I want every iota of your attention focused on Mrs Pascoe. In your sights at all times, OK?
Yes, sir.
Right. Im on my way to Leyburn Road.
Seymour watched Pascoe go with relief. No bollocking, no attempt to suggest he was at fault. But sometimes Pascoe being quiet and reasonable could be as intimidating as Fat Andy Dalziel on the rampage.
In Leyburn Road he found Wield watching the Audi getting a preliminary going-over by a white-overalled technician. There was a mobile phone on the dash.
Hows Mrs Aldermann? asked the sergeant.
Stiff upper lip, literally, said Pascoe. Nose broken, some shock, but still talking. And making sense. Whats happening here?
Ive got a couple of lads checking the shops to see if anyone noticed the car arriving or anyone fitting your description. Also, theyre asking if the shopkeepers can remember any of their customers in the last hour in case they can come up with something.
That was good thinking, but Pascoe didnt say so. Wield would merely be puzzled at being complimented on doing the basics of his job.
Pascoe looked around. The car was parked by the roadside in front of the little shopping complex grocer, greengrocer, butcher, baker, newsagent, hardware store which people in the area used conscientiously, aware that letting themselves be lured by the cheaper prices of the superstore only ten minutes drive away would soon unleash a drowning shower of rain on the Leyburn Road parade. But the shops were rarely so busy that the assistants wouldnt have time to glance outside occasionally.
The technician backed carefully out of the Audi and straightened up with a groan of relief.
Pascoe said, Anything?
The man shook his head and said, Sorry. Looks like he was careful. Everything wiped clean.
Thanks, anyway, said Wield. What now, Pete? Im out of ideas.
Pascoe smiled as if at an absurdity and said, OK, lets suppose this guy left his own car here and walked round to watch my house because he felt hed draw less attention on foot. He steals Daphnes car because he needs to get back here quick, but he isnt panicking. He still takes time to wipe his prints. If hes as cool as that, he wouldnt park next to his own car because thats the kind of thing that draws attention, a man jumping out of one car and getting straight into another. So he parks, gets out, and walks.
As if doing a reconstruction, Pascoe set off at a brisk pace with Wield in close pursuit.
Doesnt help us unless we get a witness saw him walking, panted the sergeant.
I know. But listen, parkings bad around here. Not a lot of room.
Wield could see he was right, but not what he was getting at. In front of the shops there was kerbside parking space for only half a dozen cars. In one direction Leyburn Road curved into a double-yellow-line bend and in the other it ran into the busy ring road via a roundabout, beside which stood a pseudo-Victorian shiny-tiles-and-leaded-lights pub, the Gateway.
It was the pub Pascoe was heading for.
As he walked he explained, When its busy here, shoppers often use the pub car park. Billy Soames, the landlord, wants to avoid getting into dispute with the shopkeepers, so hes put up a sign at the entrance: No charge to shoppers, but it helps if you at least buy a packet of crisps in the bar! Could be thats where chummy parked his own car. Lets ask Billy if he noticed a small suntanned man with a moustache using his facilities this morning.
Why not? said Wield.
His mobile rang. He put it to his ear and listened. When he switched off, Pascoe, who, like an astronomer after a lifetimes study of the pocked and pitted surface of the moon, had learned to interpret a few of the sergeants expressions, said, You look pleased.
Something I recalled from house-to-house yesterday. One of your neighbours, Mrs Cavendish, noticed a car stopping at the end of the street then turning back when all the troops had turned up. Didnt seem important then. But it popped into my mind just now when we got Mrs Aldermanns description of the man who attacked her, so I checked it out.
And?
Her words were, the man was swarthy, moustachioed and sinister.
That sounds like old Mrs C., said Pascoe. And the car?
Metallic-blue. Sounds like a Golf. Could be owt or nowt but the description fits, sort of. She half remembered a bit of the number too, so if it turns out there was a blue Golf in the pub car park
Anyone ever tell you youre a treasure? said Pascoe.
Not since breakfast. By the by, that guy we talked about this morning, the student, Franny Roote. I never saw him. This sound anything like?
Not like the way he was back then. Size might fit, but he was blond.
Perhaps prisons turned him black.
Perhaps. Ill find out tomorrow. Somehow I doubt hes got anything to do with this, but if he has, could be the sight of me will make a good gloat irresistible.
You still fancy Cornelius, do you?
Dont know. Maybe. Theres something odd going on there. You know that they found this message on her computer at the bank? It just said, TIME TO GO. And there was another on her e-mail at her apartment. STILL HERE? OH DEAR. Unsourced, but dated the day she took off. So theres someone in the background.
Ollershaw, you think? Trying to scare her into making a run for it? But he didnt want her caught and talking, so now he wants to pressure you to get her out?
Wields tone was dubious.
Doesnt sound likely, does it? said Pascoe. And I tend to agree with Andy about Ollershaw. Slippery but not physical. Anyway, Im back in court with her tomorrow, so if someone really is trying to twist my arm to go easy opposing the bail application, then theyll need to get in touch soon.
They had reached the pub.
The landlord greeted them with the wariness all landlords exhibit on spotting the fuzz on the premises, but soon relaxed when he understood the nature of their enquiries. Inured by long experience to disappointment or at best ambiguity, Pascoe was almost taken aback when Billy Soames said instantly, Yeah. Sure. I remember them.
Them?
Thats right. I saw them arrive, two of them got out of the car, the little dark one set off down the road and the other one came in and ordered a pint of Guinness and a bag of crisps. First customer of the day. He sat there reading his paper for maybe three-quarters of an hour, then his mate looked through the door and sort of beckoned like he was in a hurry. And the pop-eyed one got up straightaway and went out.
Pop-eyed? What do you mean?
He had these sort of bulging eyes. Light-coloured hair going a bit thin. About forty. Big scar, newish-looking, along the left side of his head. Pasty complexion, didnt look like he spent much time in the sun.
And the car? Did you spot the make, Billy?
Merc sports. White.
Oh. Not a blue Golf, said Pascoe stupidly.
The landlord gave Pascoe a long-suffering look and said judiciously, Well, it wasnt blue, it was white, and it wasnt a Golf, it was a Merc, so Id have to say no, Peter, unless Im deceived, it wasnt a blue Golf. Sorry to be such a disappointment.
Youve done great, Pascoe assured him.
Wield said, Where was he sitting?
Over there. By the window.
Wield wandered across and picked up a newspaper from the windowsill.
Was this the paper he was reading?
Probably.
Carefully Wield fitted the paper into an evidence bag.
Which way did the car go? asked Pascoe.
Out onto the bypass, said the landlord. All this any help to you?
Oh yes, said Pascoe, knowing the value of friendly eyes and ears in public houses. Tremendous. Billy, you are a prince among publicans.
Ill remember that next time Im being hassled about after-hours drinking.
Anything else you can tell us about the man you served?
Popeye? Not really. Didnt have much of a crack, got a delivery just after I served him. Except the way he spoke, that is.
And how was that?
Well, drinking the Guinness it didnt surprise me. He was Irish.
viii
spelt from Sibyls leaves
Im Popeye the pop-up man
So called because hes harder to keep down than Bounce-back Bill Clinton.
Started way back on Bloody Sunday when eleven-year-old schoolboy Patrick Ducannon, uninvolved son of uninvolved parents got shot by the paras.
Registered d.o.a. at Belfast Infirmary, but sat up and asked for his mammy when the priest dropped some hot candle wax on him. (Well, thats the crack, and why not? No reason the devil and Gaw Sempernel should have all the good stories.)
After that, of course he was involved.
And very unlucky or very lucky depending on how close to him you were standing.
Age twenty: dragged out of an exploded bomb factory in Derry covered with burnt flesh and bleeding offal, most of which turned out to belong to his two fellow ham-fisted bombardiers who in death proved so inseparable they had to be buried in the same grave.
Age twenty-four: shot as he drove a stolen car through a checkpoint. Car crashed through a wall and rolled down a railway embankment. Three passengers killed instantaneously. Popeye crawled out of the wreckage and ran down a tunnel from which he emerged a few moments later pursued by a train. Three days in hospital, three years in jail.
Age twenty-nine: shot, stabbed and beaten by a unit of the UVF as he lay in his bed with his girlfriend. She died four days later. He went to her funeral.
Age thirty-three: retired from active service with the IRA, perhaps because of his reputation for out-living everyone he worked closely with. Became a quartermaster, specializing in the acquisition of cutting-edge weaponry which was put in deep storage against the long promised day of total insurrection.
Kept out of trouble for a while till one winters night in Liverpool docks he turned up in the cab of a truck carrying a consignment of arms which we knew had been landed somewhere on the east coast during the previous forty-eight hours.
Straightforward search-and-detain operation went haywire when one of the Provos suddenly reached into his jacket pocket. By the time it was established he was suffering an anxiety asthma attack and was pulling out his inhaler, he was dead, as were two of his companions and even Popeye, naturally the sole survivor, was seriously injured. Worse still (in the Great Gaws eyes at least, for he was in charge of the operation), the truck turned out to be carrying only a small part-load of ammo and a few rifles, not the large consignment of state-of-the-art weaponry Gaw had expected.
It must have been cached en route and there was only you left, Pop-up Popeye, who had any idea where.
That got you off the NHS waiting list and into Gaws own favourite hospital where you got better care than a royal who was a fully paid up member of BUPA. But it was still a close-run thing. Intensive care for two months, convalescent for another six, offered a deal which you refused so reluctantly that it was hard not to believe your medically supported claim that your injuries had left you seriously amnesiac.
The court, however, was unimpressed by this as a defence against the long list of charges prepared against you.
Sentenced to twelve years.
So Popeye the pop-up man, it looked like the system had done what its trained shooters couldnt and buried you.
But
Im Popeye the pop-up man
Let them hit me as hard as they can
Ill be here at the finish
Came the peace process.