Reginald Hill - Child's Play

Suddenly she found there were tears in her eyes at the memory.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ she called, stooping over her case.

The door opened, footsteps sounded heavily behind her and a voice boomed, ‘Going off somewhere, luv?’

‘Superintendent Dalziel,’ she said. ‘I thought you were the porter.’

‘Knock knock knock,’ said Dalziel. ‘Nice room. They do you well here.’

‘What do you want, Superintendent?’

‘Just confirmation,’ said Dalziel.

‘Then I suggest you see a bishop,’ retorted the woman smartly.

‘Sorry?’ said Dalziel who believed in sinking smart-alecs in explanation. ‘Bishop? Is that the manager? You mean, he could help?’

‘Help with what?’ said Mrs Windibanks, too nimble to be pinned down to explanation of her repartee.

‘I don’t know. Mebbe he saw you.’

‘Saw me doing what?’

‘Going into Mr Goodenough’s room last Friday night.’

‘What?’

‘Shall I ask him?’

‘You may do what you want, Mr Dalziel,’ said the woman. ‘I meanwhile will get myself back to civilization as soon as may be possible.’

‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Dalziel. ‘To help. See, the thing is, if I can be sure of where you were last Friday night when you say you were in your room but weren’t answering the telephone, then I’ll not be worried if you shove off, will I? And if it turns out you were in Goodenough’s room, that kills two birds with one stone, doesn’t it?’

She stood in front of him and regarded him unblinkingly.

‘You’ve spoken to Mr Goodenough, have you?’

‘Oh no,’ said Dalziel, shocked. ‘I mean, chivalry apart, a Scottish Presbyterian with a wife and two children’s not going to admit he let himself be screwed by a woman nearly twenty years older than him, is he? Well, not right off anyway.’

She glared at him with a cold fury which touched him only as a light frost touches a polar bear. Finally she thawed into a smile and then dissolved into laughter.

‘I’ll treasure these memories, Mr Dalziel,’ she said. ‘Whenever I feel that London’s a noisy, nasty place, I’ll think of you. All right, yes, I did wander along to Mr Goodenough’s room that night. There were one or two points of our agreement I wanted to get clear in my mind. We had a talk and a drink, nothing more.’

‘Well, I’m glad that’s sorted,’ said Dalziel genially. ‘So it’s back to London, is it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Then mebbe a holiday? A few days in the sun?’

‘Perhaps. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason. I just wondered if mebbe you were planning a trip to Tuscany, a little sojourn in the Villa Boethius perhaps.’

There was a rap at the door and a voice called, ‘Porter, madame.’

‘Go away,’ said Stephanie Windibanks, her gaze fixed speculatively on Dalziel. ‘I’ll let you know when I need you.’

‘I could have had her, I reckon,’ said Dalziel complacently. ‘She just about spelled it out.’

‘But you didn’t?’ said Pascoe.

‘What do you take me for, lad?’ said the fat man indignantly. ‘Do you think I’d screw up a case just to screw up a woman?’

‘No, but it’d not surprise me to find you’d managed to have your cake and halfpenny,’ retorted Pascoe, who was still smarting under Dalziel’s smug reproaches about the inadequacy of his telephone calls to Florence.

‘You missed the point, lad,’ the fat man had said. ‘All you were interested in was, could Pontelli be Alexander Huby? Well, mebbe not all, but mainly. I asked ’em to go back a bit, find out who he worked for, what he was doing. All that stuff about background, date of birth, family, and so on that you were interested in, that was getting you nowhere. I got a list of properties and agencies. And then I got them to look up the official records of each one till I heard a name that clicked. It’s connections that matter in this business, lad. Only connect, then you’ve got ’em by the short and hairies!’

‘And who do we have in that interesting grip?’ inquired Pascoe.

‘Windibanks and her precious son,’ said Dalziel gleefully.

‘On what charge?’

‘Fraud, theft, how should I know? I just catch the buggers,’ protested Dalziel. ‘She’s been getting rental from a property that’s not hers these past three years, that’s something. And it’s as plain as the nose on your face that they put Pontelli up to claiming he was Huby.’

‘That’ll be hard to prove with Pontelli dead,’ said Pascoe.

‘At least I’ll give ’em a nasty time proving they had nowt to do with killing him! Now, what’ve you been up to in Nottingham?’

Pascoe told him and finished by saying, ‘But I expect I didn’t ask the right questions there either!’

Dalziel looked at him narrowly.

‘Peter,’ he said carefully, ‘at that college of yours, did they never teach you, when a man’s too old to learn, he’s likely too bloody old to promote?’

Pascoe actually felt himself blushing. Petulance was not large among his vices.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘What should I have asked?’

‘How the fuck do I know?’ replied Dalziel. ‘Connections, lad. You just keep on asking everyone everything till you make a connection. You think Sharman’s dad’s important?’

‘No, well, maybe. I don’t know. It may turn out it’s like what you said about Pontelli being Huby, irrelevant to the main line, but I can’t see any other direction just now.’

‘Then let’s chase along this one with all possible speed!’ proclaimed Dalziel, reaching for his telephone.

‘What about the expense?’ said Pascoe slyly.

‘Expense? What’re you on about, lad? These buggers out there are paying for protection, and we’d come cheap at twice the price!’

He dialled. After two rings a bright young voice said, ‘New Scotland Yard, can I help you?’

‘Commander Sanderson, please. Detective-Superintendent Dalziel, Mid-Yorkshire here.’

A few moments later a voice growled, ‘Sanderson here.’

‘Sandy!’ said Dalziel. ‘Andy Dalziel. That’s right. I knew you’d be glad to hear from me. What I like is a man who doesn’t need to be reminded when he owes a favour. Now here’s what else I’d like …’

Stephanie Windibanks rang her son at the Kemble and within seconds of the phone being put down, Rod Lomas was ringing Lexie Huby at Messrs Thackeray etcetera.

‘Lexie; Rod. Listen, I’ve just had Mummy on to me. That fat copper’s been round. He knows about the Villa Boethius.’

Lexie did not respond to his agitation.

‘Well, they were bound to find out, weren’t they?’

‘Were they? Oh God, what’ll happen now?’

‘I’ve been checking on that,’ said Lexie. ‘Nothing much, as far as I can see. The villa will go into Aunt Gwen’s estate, of course. As for the rent, say nothing. If they make a fuss, say there was a verbal agreement and let them prove different.’

‘Should we offer to pay back the money?’

‘In law, that’s almost as good as a confession,’ said Lexie.

‘And what about Pontelli?’

‘Deny everything. He’s dead. He won’t contradict you.’

‘But the connection’s so obvious …’

‘It always was,’ said Lexie sharply. ‘You should have thought of that when you started this business. If the worst gets to the worst, you can always blame your dad.’

‘Lexie!’

‘Why not. (a) he’s dead as well, and (b) it’s true.’

There was a silence.

‘You’re taking this very coolly,’ said Lomas. ‘What if they question you again about Friday night?’

‘I’ll stick to my story,’ said Lexie. ‘You and I were at the opera. Only, I’ve got a season ticket, so you’d better have had a return, in the gallery. All right?’