Reginald Hill - Under World

‘Mrs Pascoe?’

‘That’s her,’ said Pascoe, ‘I think.’

He went out and wandered around till he found an empty office with a telephone. He sat down and rang his home number. There was a heart-chilling delay before the call was answered.

‘Hello?’ said a gruff voice eventually.

‘Wieldy?’

‘Who else? Sorry if I took a long time. I was outside.’

‘Don’t tell me. Looking for a kitten up a tree?’

A few days ago a neighbour’s kitten had got stuck up a tree in the Pascoes’ garden. Rosie had heard it crying and had been delighted when Pascoe rescued it and brought it into the house. Her delight, however, had turned to anger and grief when the neighbours had gratefully claimed it. Clearly determined that the next one was going to be hers, she now heard kittens crying in every gust of wind.

‘You should have warned me,’ said Wield.

‘If I’d warned you about everything, I’d not have left yet. Cats apart, is everything all right?’

‘Grand, thanks. And you?’

‘It’s getting sorted. I’ll tell you about it when we get back, which I hope won’t be too long. Meanwhile make yourself at home, and if you get knackered waiting, don’t hesitate to bed down in the spare room.’

‘Will do.’

‘And thanks, Wieldy. Cheers.’

‘Hello. Who’re you?’

A spotty-faced young man was standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to be aggressive or not. Pascoe made up his mind for him by flashing his warrant card and learning in return that this was Detective-Constable Collaboy.

‘Just the man,’ said Pascoe. ‘My wife’s along the corridor writing a statement. She’s a witness in the Satterthwaite case. When she’s finished, she’ll need someone to go through it with her and then witness her signature. Could you see to that?’

The young man agreed without enthusiasm. Perhaps Ellie’s reputation had already spread. And if it hadn’t, it was soon going to, Pascoe thought with a sinking heart as he led Collaboy into the room where he’d left Ellie, and found it empty. As they’d walked along the corridor, his ear had caught and dismissed as none of his business a distant hubbub of upraised voices. But somehow deep in his small intestine he had known it was his business all along.

He ran lightly down the stairs. The noise grew louder as he approached the station desk area and when he pushed open the door, he saw that his small intestine was blessed with the same power of divination as Dalziel’s piles.

Pressing round the desk, behind which stood Sergeant Swift, was a crowd of people who were thinking seriously of becoming a mob. Prominent, almost pre-eminent, among them was Ellie. Pascoe stood and watched her for a moment. She always flung herself wholeheartedly into debate. Her hands reinforced her arguments as clearly as sign language to a deaf man. He watched them as they stabbed emphatic fingers at Swift, cut through his denials with scything sweeps, clutched at her bosom in righteous indignation, fluttered to her flaming cheeks in shock, cupped her ears in disbelief. She was beautiful and he loved her and he would not have her change one iota, except that maybe at this moment it would be nice if she were sitting at home, dandling Rosie on her knee, while his slippers warmed before the fire.

Thrusting such recidivist thoughts from his mind, he advanced to join the merry throng. Central to it was a woman in her early forties, thin, pale, a pretty face, but her eyes deep shadowed by worry or illness or both. This, he quickly inferred, was Colin Farr’s mother. Supporting her, metaphorically, though his hand did rest comfortingly on her shoulder, was a long skinny man, angular of limb and body, with a narrow anxious face. Behind them crowded a chorus of Burrthorpians of both sexes. It seemed that Mrs Farr was claiming a mother’s right, potent in lore if not in law, to see her son. Ellie had clearly joined in the debate, and the locals, though by no means tyros in the art of simple abuse, had quickly acknowledged a virtuoso and settled back to enjoy the performance. Pascoe listened for a while and though he too could not but admire the force and the rationality of his wife’s arguments, he felt that an impartial judge would finally have to award the sergeant the laurels for his patient repetition.

‘Ellie,’ Pascoe interposed finally. ‘He’s not here. I told you before. Listen to what the sergeant says. He’s not here . He’s gone to the hospital.’

It was clear that Ellie, having till now concentrated all her rhetoric on police mendacity, was quite prepared to switch in mid-trope to police brutality. Pascoe cut her short by addressing himself politely to the woman. ‘Mrs Farr? I think you’ll find your son has been taken to the County Hospital. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s quite normal in these matters.’

‘Who’re you?’ demanded the thin man with an ill-fitting attempt at aggressiveness.

‘Detective-Inspector Pascoe, and you sir are …?’

‘Downey. Arthur Downey. I’m a friend of May’s, Mrs Farr’s.’

‘Pascoe?’ said the woman. ‘Any relation to her?’

Ellie said quickly, ‘This is my husband. He’s from Mid-Yorks, nothing to do with this case.’

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ said Pascoe, sotto voce .

‘Does our Colin know about him?’ asked Mrs Farr.

Ellie glanced quickly at Pascoe.

‘No,’ she said. ‘It never came up.’

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ murmured Pascoe.

‘It came up when you came round for tea,’ said Mrs Farr scornfully. ‘I remember asking you what your man did.’

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ crowed Pascoe for the third time but his heart was no longer in the joke. Ellie had made no mention of going home to tea. Dear God, it sounded like an old-fashioned courtship.

Ellie’s demotion from rabble-rouser to police nark was immediate and absolute. She made no effort to resist as Pascoe drew her aside, only saying, ‘Thanks a million.’

‘For the truth? Think nothing of it. Which should be easy. As you clearly do. Now let’s concentrate on getting away from here. You’ve given a sample?’

‘Yes. And I’ve got my own in case one of these bastards decides to slip some gin in it.’

‘A wise precaution. That just leaves your statement. This is Detective-Constable Collaboy who has kindly volunteered to assist you in this business. Oh, by the way, since you ask, Rosie’s well. Wieldy on the other hand has been introduced to the joys of phantom kitten rescuing.’

It was perhaps a low blow but it worked.

‘Oh shit,’ said Ellie and went off meekly with a bemused Collaboy.

Pascoe went in search of the small canteen in the basement. Here he sat and drank a cup of coffee that was so awful in every particular that he bought another just to confirm it was no flash in the pan. Then he went up to the desk where all was now peaceful.

‘Quieter now, Sergeant,’ he said.

‘In here mebbe,’ said Swift. ‘But they’ll be out there waiting.’

‘You’re not really expecting trouble, are you?’ said Pascoe.

The man shrugged.

‘You weren’t here during the Strike, sir. Ever see that film, Zulu ? Well, that’s what it were like in here that night we had the bother. Except that in the film the redcoats stood their ground. We had more sense. We ran! Since that night, I’ve been ready for anything. A mob’s like a dog. Once it’s bitten, it can always do it again.’

‘Good Lord,’ said Pascoe, impressed. He went to the door and peeped out, feeling more like Wayne in Rio Bravo than Caine in Zulu .

‘No one out there at the moment,’ he said.

‘No one to be seen ,’ said the sergeant.

Pascoe closed the door.