He suddenly found himself thinking of that poor bastard Maciver. Of both poor bastards Maciver. Both ending up sitting at a desk with a shotgun under their chin.
Like father, like son.
Him too. Like his father. If serving your country meant getting wounded, then that was the price you had to pay.
And it still left you in debt.
5
The first person Pascoe ran into when he entered the station was DC Shirley Novello. He smiled at her. She didnt smile back. She rarely did, and never automatically.
He had long since decided that here was a young officer worth taking notice of. She was sharp, direct, a quick study, could take orders, think for herself, kept in good trim and when put to the test had proved she was physically brave.
All this was on her record. Not on her record, because the modern politically correct police force eschewed such inconsequential trivia, was any comment on her appearance. This erred on the plain side of unremarkable. A strong face untouched by make-up, short mousy brown hair showing no sign of recent acquaintance with coiffeur or coiffeuse, clothes which were usually some variety of loose-fitting combats in colour ranging from drab grey to drab olive.
Pascoe, however, had seen her dressed for action and knew that the way she looked at work was a deliberate choice. His guess was that here was an officer in a hurry who didnt want to waste time or energy dealing with the Neanderthal dickheads who clutter up every police force. Early in his own career he had let his admiration for the physical attributes of a female colleague show too clearly and he still winced with embarrassment when he recalled how before a raid she had taken him aside and said seriously, Peter, your wet dreams are your own affair, but tonight Id like to be sure youll be watching my back and not my backside.
So, though regrettable, there was no escaping the fact that the initial strategies of a young man and a young woman in a hurry must diverge. Perhaps equally regrettable was the fact that there comes a point when they must rejoin. This was the age of the image, of sharp suits as well as sharp minds. For a man just as much as for a woman it was hard to win the hearts and minds of a promotion board if you went around looking like a loosely tied sack of potatoes.
Pascoe hoped that Novello would suss this out. He balked at the idea of dropping a hint himself, partly because such a comment, however kindly meant, was very much against the spirit of the age, but mainly because he sensed that, despite all his efforts to be approachable, Novello didnt much care for him.
In this he was right, but for the wrong reasons.
What she didnt care for was slim clean-cut men full of boyish charm. What turned her on was a chunky build, good muscular definition and an abundance of body hair. Whenever Pascoe flashed the smile and said something nice to her, he lost all individuality and became a type. But in detective mode, with his mind focused firmly on the task in hand and herself being treated as no more than one of the tools of his job, she admired him greatly. A good-when-she-remembered Catholic girl, she found it easy to think in religious imagery.
There abideth these three, Dalziel, Wield and Pascoe; but the greatest of these (promotion prospects and the present state of the Service being tossed into the pot) had to be Pascoe.
Now the Greatest was asking if the Scariest was in.
No sign yet, sir, she said. And Sergeant Wields got the morning off too.
So its only thee and me, said Pascoe. Heres what Id like you to do.
Quickly he brought her up to speed on the events of the previous night.
And, just to be thorough, and in order to see exactly how much of a copycat it is, Id like you to dive into the evidence store and see what you can find relating to the suicide of Palinurus Maciver Senior. Discreetly. You know how leaky this place is, and I shouldnt like the press making a thing about the copycat element.
In fact he didnt give a toss about the press, it was Andy Dalziel whose antennae he didnt want to alert.
With only a sigh too light to shake a rose leaf down to indicate she thought this was a more than usually sad waste of her valuable time, Novello strode off.
Pascoe watched her go. Nice buttocks, shame about the combat trousers. Then mentally slapped his wrist.
Seated at his desk, he rang Forensic, to be told with some acidity that they too required sleep like normal human beings. So far there was nothing to suggest that Pal Macivers death had been anything but what it seemed, a suicide bizarrely configured to reproduce an exact imitation of his fathers ten years earlier.
Next, witnesses. The circumstances of the previous night hadnt been conducive to getting formal statements from those attending the scene of the death, and the birth. The coroner would certainly want to hear from some of them.
Definitely a job for Uniformed, he could hear Dalziel say. But when Fat Men are away, Thin Men can play, and approaching a newly bereaved wife was surely a task more suited to the diplomatic skills of CID than the Blitzkrieg of the plods.
He dialled the Casa Alba number.
A mans voice said, Yes?
He said, Could I speak to Mrs Maciver, please?
I dont know, said the voice cautiously. Whos calling?
He identified himself.
Sorry, thought you might be press, said the voice. Im David Upshott, the Vicar of Cothersley. Ive just been in to see Mrs Maciver, trying to offer what comfort I could at this terrible time, but Im afraid shes not in a very receptive mood. The doctors with her now. Ill just let them know whos calling.
There was a pause of a couple of minutes then a new male voice spoke.
Tom Lockridge here. That you, Pascoe?
Indeed. Any chance of a word with Mrs Maciver, do you think? Either on the phone or, preferably, I could call out there to talk with her
Not a good idea, said Lockridge brusquely. Ive got her under sedation. I doubt very much shell be fit to talk to you today.
Oh dear. Thats a pity.
Yes, isnt it? But in the circumstances, Pascoe, I cant imagine what on earth you might want to ask that cant wait. Goodbye.
Next he rang the hospital where he learned that Mrs Dunn and her twins were doing as well as could be expected and Mr Dunn, after hanging around most of the night, had finally been persuaded to go home and get some rest.
Pascoe started to dial the Dunns home number, recalled the state hed been in the day Rosie was born, and replaced the receiver. Give the poor devil a couple of hours sleep at least.
Finally he tried Cressidas number and got the answer machine. This was frustrating. If Thin Men were to play, they had to find someone to play with.
On the other hand, perhaps this was the act of some tutelary spirit to save him from his own impetuosity. Disobeying Dalziel was not a path to peace.
On the other hand, perhaps this was the act of some tutelary spirit to save him from his own impetuosity. Disobeying Dalziel was not a path to peace.
He opened a file marked Quarterly Crime Statistics and applied himself to the honing of a report he was preparing thereon.
After half an hour or so of this stimulating activity, he closed his eyes the better to contemplate the rhetorical structure of his peroration.
He was aroused from this creative trance by a cough. Not a Dalzielesque cough, nevertheless a good, firm, Im-here-and-why-are-you-asleep? kind of cough.
He opened his eyes and saw Novello standing in the doorway, clutching a plastic bin liner. She looked rather dusty.
He yawned and said, Shirley, you come bearing gifts but not as a Greek, I hope.
She had learned to ignore Pascoes prattery as easily as she did Dalziels provocations. She advanced to the desk and deposited the bin liner before him.
I dug up this lot, sir, she said. One file, some bits and bobs. Theres a gun down there, but I didnt bring it, seeing as you didnt want to attract attention.
A gun? You mean?
The shotgun he used. Yes.
Why do we still have that? We said goodbye to deodands a long time ago.
Suppose the family could have had it back if theyd wanted, but you wouldnt, would you? I mean, every time you blew a rabbits head off youd be thinking well, youd have to be a bit insensitive.
So it wasnt the same gun last night. Bang goes one bit of the copycat.
But it still stays close, said Novello. I checked the details of last nights gun. Practically identical. Had to be the other half of a matching pair. And the original permit was for two shotguns. No one seems to have picked up on that at the time.
Why should they? It can hardly have been relevant. But hang about-has the permit ever been renewed for the remaining gun?
No, sir. Presumably it just stayed in its cabinet in Moscow House.
No, said Pascoe. Its a single-gun cabinet and, from the look of it, there hasnt been a gun kept in there since Pal Senior took his out to do the deed. So the other gun must have been kept somewhere else. Interesting, but as I doubt if we can pursue Pal Junior for shooting himself without a permit, not important. Worth mentioning, though. Very conscientious of you. And this stuff you did think worth lugging from the store, anything there you found significant?
Significant? Dont know, sir, as Im not sure what youre trying to signify. But there were a couple of things struck me as a bit odd.
Suicides usually are a bit odd, arent they? I mean, even in our neurotic society, its a slightly offbeat thing to do.
You reckon, sir? Seems to me, a guy gets depressed, waits till his family are out of the way, locks himself in his room, blows his head off, thats pretty conventional stuff.
Really? Didnt realize that Vatican thinking was so laid back these days.
Novello was surprised. Heavy-footed religious trampling from the Fat Man, who numbered Joe Kerrigan, her parish priest, among his drinking mates, shed come to expect, but Pascoe generally tiptoed through the tulips of personal belief.
She said dismissively, Im talking as a cop, sir, not a Catholic.
Which are, I trust, both permanent conditions, having in common the ability to believe several impossible things at the same time and before breakfast. So, on the one hand, a straightforward act of self-slaughter. On the other, an instance of that denial of God which is the unforgivable sin for which Judas stood condemned in the eyes of some theologians far more than for his act of betrayal. The black midnight of the soul which holds no hope of dawn. Strong stuff. Can you really keep it out of your cop-think in a case like this?