'Sounds like a bloody war,' grunted Dalziel. 'OK, so yon weird mate of yours in the City Squad knows his businesses. But did he come up with anything really dodgy?'
'No, sir,' Wield admitted.
'I bet he didn't. And I can tell you how TecSec got the job. Bossman there, Captain bloody Sanderson, is an old school chum of Dr bloody Batty. That's how the world wanks, Wieldy. And as more of the folk you and me went to school with are in clink than in the Cabinet or the City, that's why I'm no one's hot tip for Commissioner, and you're not even shortlisted for Queen of the May.'
'What about Patten? He's a partner, remember.'
'Sanderson's not daft, realizes most army officers are only as good as their NCOs, and Patten was a bloody good one. So when they get dumped together — '
'Didn't,' interrupted Wield bravely. 'Patten got out six months before the captain's demob and didn't team up with him till three months after that.'
'Right little mole, aren't you, lad?' said Dalziel. 'So they meet at some reunion. Sanderson says, what are you doing now, sergeant? Patten says, not a lot. Sanderson says, I could use a good man to organize the practical side of things while I do the selling. How do you fancy the job?'
'He's a partner,’ repeated Wield.
'So he invests his severance pay. Everyone gets a lump sum these days.'
'All gone,' said Wield. 'Nowt left.'
'How do you know that? You've not been playing with them buttons again, have you? Hacking into bank statements?'
'No, sir. Had a word with Mr Charlesworth. He had a word with some of his friends.'
Arnie Charlesworth was one of the town's leading bookies and an old drinking chum of Dalziel's.
'Not been taking my name in vain I hope, lad,' he said suspiciously.
'Not in vain, sir. Mr Charlesworth's affectionate respect for you proved very useful. Seems Patten spent his first couple of months out of the army trying to parlay his lump sum into a large fortune by way of various complicated bets. Got pretty close too but in the end there was always a horse fell, or ate a dodgy carrot or something. You know how bookies hate the thought of losing. He paid up. It was either that or intensive care. Then he vanished from the local gambling scene for a few months till the summer when he showed up again as a partner in TecSec with money in his pocket.'
'So he went off somewhere the bookies didn't know him, hit a lucky streak, and worked his leavings back into enough to buy the partnership. Wieldy, you're really straining at this one.'
'You want me to drop it, sir?'
Dalziel finished his pint and looked reflectively into the bottom of his glass.
'You still think there's summat there, do you?' he said.
Taking this not to be solely a hint that another drink would be welcome, Wield said, 'Could be not much in the end, but something, yes.'
‘Then keep prodding. I've put a feeler out to see if this Sanderson had any strikes against him in the army.'
'Officially, sir?' said Wield concealing his pleasure at this retrospective evidence of the Fat Man's confidence.
'Officially's no use. Bloody army starts singing "Onward Christian Soldiers" if any civilian starts asking questions about one of its own. No, this is personal contact stuff. Anything comes up I'll let you know. Meanwhile mebbe I can have half your attention back on this bones-in-the-wood thing. Just because you've dumped a few tons of sludge on Dr Death doesn't mean you can wash your hands and forget about it.'
'No, sir. Almost forgot. Just before I left the factory, there was a message for you from the forensic lab. Seems Dr Gentry's sluices have come up with something.'
'Useful?' said Dalziel hopefully.
Wield shrugged. 'Useful' wasn't a word that Gentry used a lot. He saw his job as making discoveries. The use they were put to was in the purview of coarser life forms, like detective superintendents.
'OK, Wieldy, why don't you shoot along there..'
'Sorry, sir,' said the sergeant firmly. 'I'm off this afternoon. Should have finished more than an hour ago. Unless you're authorizing overtime. .?'
'Only if you'll take washers,' said Dalziel. 'Where the hell's Peter? He's the only one can get any sense out of Death. I knew I should never have let him bunk off to Kirkton. I bet the bugger's sneaking around there, trying to prove he's descended from the Lords of the fucking Manor.'
Though not following the reference, Wield sprang to Pascoe's defence.
'The DCI 'ud not waste time, sir,' he said reprovingly. 'Whatever he's doing, you can bet your last penny it'll need done.'
'Yes, OK, Wieldy,' said the Fat Man. 'But whatever he's doing, it's not worth it if it means I've got to go and talk to yon walking corpse, Gentry!'
ix
The church door was locked.
A man in search of sanctuary, or even just a bit of shelter from the rain, was out of luck in modern Kirkton.
Pascoe turned up his coat collar and leaned against the ancient woodwork. He'd managed to find two Pascoe headstones in the unkempt graveyard before the first spots had signalled that the sad old sun had lost its struggle against the creeping barrage of cloud from the west.
The first stone had been one of the many leaning up against the churchyard wall, presumably not so much signalling the last resting place of those named thereon as that they were somewhere in the vicinity. Many were rendered illegible by the impious abrasion of time, but fortunately the mason who had inscribed the Pasco (sic) stone had struck deep, and though the sharp edges of the lettering had long since been rounded by the wind and rain and moss and frost, the message from the grave remained clear.
'Here lye ye earthly relics of Walter Pasco shoemaker of this parish passed away in ye fifty-third year of his life, April 16th 1742 "His soul at last amended".'
Soul. Last. Mended, thought Pascoe. Someone had had a sense of humour. Modern vicars got rather uptight about what they thought of as unsuitable inscriptions, but surely something like this could only have been devised by people genuinely fond of the dead man who didn't doubt that he was sharing the final joke with them.
The second memorial had still been in place, but even though a century and a half younger, its softer stone and shallower chiselling had rendered it much more difficult to read. No jokes here, just the necessary information and pious exhortation.
'Samuel Pascoe, struck down by Providence in his thirty-sixth year, April 29th 1898. BE YE READY ALSO.'
April, noted Pascoe, definitely seemed to be the cruellest month as far as the Pascoes were concerned. So much for Ellie's mockery of his refusal to let a mild Easter lull him into discarding his undervest too soon. Be ye ready also. He must remember that as a clincher next time discussion of his natural caution came up.
Of course it was possible that neither of these Pascoes was any relation. He'd need to look at something more detailed like the parish records to be sure of that.
'Help you?' said a voice.
A small man in a large suit was peering at him from over a clerical collar just visible beneath a bushy beard, and from under a golfing umbrella bearing the legend: And on the seventh day God played golf.
'If you can open this door, you can offer me shelter from the rain,' said Pascoe.
'Certainly.'
The man produced a bunch of keys, three of which were necessary before the door swung open.
'Vandals,' he explained apologetically. 'Did my other church over at Mackley so thought it best to kill two birds. Prevention better than. Jonathan Wood, by the way. Vicar of this.'