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Pascoe said to her, ‘Look, I’m going to be tied up here for a while. Why don’t you take the car and head off home?’
‘Before I find out what’s happened? You’re joking. Besides, Cress might need me.’
‘I thought that was why I had to pick you up early,’ said Pascoe.
He caught up with Dalziel at the door.
‘You all right, Sergeant?’ the Fat Man said to Bonnick.
‘Fine, sir.’
‘Good. And how about you, son?’
Dunn said, ‘Look, I’m sorry – I was out of … but I was worried – we’d heard that … and he didn’t show, so I thought that … that … that …’
He stammered to a halt. He really was Billy Budd, thought Pascoe.
‘What’s your problem, lad?’ enquired Dalziel. ‘Apart from not being able to finish sentences? Here, don’t I know you?’
‘I don’t think so – please, I didn’t realize …’
‘Yes I do. Rugby club. You sometimes turn out for the seconds, right? Open side? But you can’t play regular because of your work, or summat?’
‘That’s right. I teach PE at Weavers and that means my Saturdays are pretty well spoken for.’
‘PE, eh? That explains about the sentences. Pity, but. You looked a lot better prospect than yon neanderthal that plays for the firsts. No finesse. Kicks folk right in front of the ref. Any of them ladies back there belong to you?’
‘That’s my wife, Helen … the pregnant one.’
‘That right? Planning to get all your family over at once, are you? So she’d be Helen Maciver as was, right? Now Mrs Dunn as is. I’m getting there. Mrs Kafka I know. And yon Cressida, I remember her. The other is …?’
‘Sue-Lynn, Pal’s wife.’
‘Oh aye. All here then. Some bugger must’ve sent invitations.’
‘Is Pal in there?’ said Dunn pleadingly. ‘Has something happened to him?’
‘I’ve no idea. Any reason to think it might have done?’
‘No. I mean, he didn’t turn up … we play squash on Wednesday evenings and when he didn’t show …’
‘Stood you up, did he? And that makes you worry something’s happened to him? I see. People stand me up, it’s when they do appear that something’s likely to happen to them. Maycock, you reckon you can keep this mob at bay?’
‘No problem, sir.’
‘Good lad. Sergeant, lead on. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.’
‘Please, can’t I come with you?’ pleaded Dunn.
‘Nay lad,’ said Dalziel kindly. ‘I think most likely you’re under arrest. Often happens when you assault a police officer. That right, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Bonnick.
‘Don’t worry too much, but. It probably won’t delight the governors at Weavers but it will really impress the kids. Now I’m going to give you a choice. You can either sit in a car handcuffed to the wheel till we’re ready to deal with you, which could be hours. Or you can promise to be a good boy and go and take care of that poor wife of thine before she explodes. Which is it?’
‘No more trouble, really. I’m very sorry,’ said Dunn.
‘Good lad. Off you go. Now, Sergeant, fill me in.’
He listened carefully to Bonnick’s digest of events as they entered the house and climbed the stairs, only interrupting to ask, ‘What made Tweedledum and Tweedledee come up the drive in the first place?’
There was a slight hesitation before Bonnick said, ‘Just a random check, I think, sir. Also some of the girls bring their punters up these driveways, I believe, and we’ve been doing a bit of a blitz on kerb crawlers recently.’
‘Very conscientious pair of officers, then,’ said Dalziel. ‘You’re lucky to have them.’
The old sod knows that most likely they were skiving, thought Pascoe, but he wouldn’t have rated Bonnick if he’d said so.
When they reached the landing, he saw a uniformed inspector standing by a door with a splintered frame. This was Paddy Ireland, a small, rather self-important man, whose trousers always looked as if they’d been re-pressed after he put them on. He turned and acknowledged Dalziel with a parade-ground salute. Behind him through the doorway Pascoe could see a man in a white coverall whom he recognized as Tom Lockridge, one of a small group of local doctors registered as police medical examiners. He was looking down at a man slumped at a desk. At least Pascoe assumed it was a man. Too little of the head remained to make confirmation certain at this distance.
‘Poor bastard,’ said Dalziel. ‘Any ID?’
‘Haven’t been able to check, sir,’ said Ireland. ‘Thought it best to disturb things as little as possible till SOCO had got their photos.’
‘There’s a car parked round the back of the house,’ said Bonnick. ‘Blue Laguna estate, registered owner Mr Palinurus Maciver, who’s also the designated keyholder of the property, so it seems likely …’
‘Let’s not jump the gun, if you’ll pardon the expression,’ said Dalziel. ‘Dr Lockridge, how do? What can you tell us?’
Tom Lockridge had emerged from the room. He didn’t look well.
‘He’s dead,’ said Lockridge.
‘Don’t reckon you’re going to get any argument there,’ said Dalziel, peering towards the shattered figure. ‘But it’s always good to have these things confirmed by an expert. Saves us laymen wasting time with the kiss of life. You wouldn’t like to give us just a bit of detail, but, Doc?’
‘Not long dead,’ intoned Lockridge dully. ‘Two to four hours, maybe. Cause of death, probably self-inflicted gunshot wounds to the head …’
‘Probably?’
‘You won’t know for certain till the pathologist has taken a look, will you?’ said Lockridge, sparking slightly.
‘Won’t know what? That they killed him or that they were self-inflicted?’
‘What? Both. Either. They look to be self-inflicted. He took his shoe and sock off …’
‘Why do you think that was?’
‘I presume so he could pull the shotgun trigger with his toe.’
‘You’re a bugger for presumptions, Doc. Mebbe he were a freemason. Didn’t notice an apron, did you?’
This was a facetious callosity too far, thought Pascoe.
Lockridge evidently thought so too.
‘Mr Dalziel,’ he said very formally, ‘as a doctor, I know the therapeutic value of gallows humour, but I still find your tone offensive. I hope you will take pains to control it before you break the sad news to Mr Maciver’s relations.’
‘Mr Maciver? That’s Mr Maciver, is it? How can you tell?’
They all stared towards the shattered head.
‘I don’t know … I just assumed, with him going missing … Yes, I’m sure it’s Pal … I used to be his doctor, you see.’
‘Is that right? So how about distinguishing marks? Something that ’ud spare us having to give his nearest and dearest a close-up of that?’
‘He does … did … does have a distinct naevus at the base of his spine.’
‘Naevus? Like in Ben Naevus, you mean?’
‘Birthmark,’ explained Pascoe, he knew unnecessarily.
‘Oh aye. But you’ve not taken a look?’
‘No. I assumed you’d want the body left as undisturbed as possible till your SOCO people had finished in there.’
‘SOCO? You think there’s been a crime then, Doc?’
‘I know there’s been a suspicious death. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way. You’ll have my report as soon as possible.’
He started to peel off the protective overall but Dalziel said, ‘Hang about, Doc. Do us a favour. Just pop back in there and check out yon naevus thing, just so’s we can be sure.’
For a moment Lockridge looked as though he might refuse, then he turned, went back into the room, pulled the dead man’s shirt-tail out of his trousers, peered down for a moment, then returned.
‘It’s him,’ he said shortly. ‘Can I go now?’
He didn’t wait for an answer but removed his overall and hurried away down the stairs.
‘Bit pale round the gills, weren’t he?’ said Dalziel. ‘And he didn’t even tuck the poor sod’s shirt back in.’
‘He knew the guy. Bound to be a bit of a shock, seeing him dead,’ said Pascoe.
‘Don’t be daft. He’s a doctor. Spends his life looking at dead folk that were alive on his last visit. Show me a quack who’s not used to it and I’ll pay hard cash to get on his panel.’
‘Perhaps he was a friend as well as a patient.’
‘Former patient. Aye, that might do it. Someone you think you know tops himself, it makes you wonder about all the other buggers you think you know.’
‘Tops himself? Getting a bit ahead of the game, aren’t you, sir?’ said Pascoe.
‘That’s how you win matches, lad. Any road, door locked and bolted on the inside. Windows with the kind of shutters that ’ud keep a tax inspector out. Gun between his legs, shoe and sock off. Lots of little hints there, I’d say.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Pascoe obstinately.
‘Oh God, you been at the John Dickson Carr again? What more do you want?’
‘A note would be nice, for a start.’
‘A note, eh? Any sign of a note, Paddy?’
Inspector Ireland let out a long-suffering sigh. The fact that he was a teetotal Baptist born in Heckmondwyke and able to trace his ancestry back a hundred and fifty years without any sign of Irish blood hadn’t saved him from being nicknamed Paddy, and the more he protested, the more he found himself treated as a fount of knowledge on all matters Eireann.
‘Name’s Cedric,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t say. I followed procedure and kept out to minimize the risk of contamination.’
‘But you’ve been inside, Sergeant, and I’ve no doubt Tweedledum and Tweedledee went clumping all over the place.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Bonnick. ‘Didn’t see a note though.’
‘Pity,’ said Dalziel. ‘There ought to be something …’
‘To confirm it’s suicide, you mean?’ said Pascoe triumphantly.
‘No,’ said the Fat Man irritably. ‘In fact, if you studied your statistics you’d know that seventy per cent of genuine suicides don’t leave a note, while ninety-seven per cent of fakes do … Hang about. Not a note. A book! Now I recall. There ought to be a book. Isn’t that a book on the desk, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Bonnick, surprised. ‘There is a book.’
‘Didn’t notice what it was, did you?’
‘No, sir. Got a bit splattered with blood and stuff. You’d need to scrape it off first.’
‘Not squeamish, are you? Doesn’t come well from a sergeant, squeaming.’
‘Just following procedure, sir, touching as little as possible till the scene’s been examined.’
‘Which will be when? You did give SOCO the right address, didn’t you, Paddy?’
‘Of course I did,’ Ireland assured him, looking offended.
Three things were troubling Pascoe. One was the suspicion that the Fat Man had just invented the suicide note statistics. The second was his apparent power of precognition. There ought to be a book. And lo! there was a book!
The third was the still unanswered question of why the hell he was here at all. Off duty, what had there been in a shout to a possible suicide to bring him hurrying from the comfort of his fireside? Even the fact that his inamorata, Cap Marvell, was away at present didn’t explain that.
His speculations were interrupted by noises below. Fearful that Cressida had led an assault, he peered over the balustrade and saw to his relief that the SOCO team had finally arrived. They paused to pull on their white coveralls and then came up the stairway.
‘About bloody time,’ said Dalziel. ‘Don’t be all night at it, will you? And try not to leave a mess.’
He set off down the stairs. Pascoe hurried to catch up with him.
‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Do I take it you’re assuming control of this case?’
‘Me? Simple suicide? Nay, lad, you got here first, you’re the man in charge.’
