Reginald Hill - Under World

‘And she came to mind first?’

‘First and last,’ said Farr savagely. ‘All the other buggers I know on the outside are likely tossing around in the Bay of Biscay. And I’d not have rung ’em anyway.’

‘Why?’

Farr answered hesitantly, as if dealing with a question of his own.

‘I made some good marras but not for talking to, you understand. Oh, if I got into a fight or into bother with the pigs or if I were strapped for cash, they’d stick by me, no question. But sorting things out in your mind, that takes something … different.’

‘Like Mrs Pascoe?’

‘Aye. She might be a bit stuck up and a bit of a do-gooder, but she’d know what I was on about and be able to listen and not end up by saying another pint would put me right, or I ought to get active in the Union, or wasn’t it time I found a nice girl and settled down and had a family?’

‘So you rang her. Her husband answered, I believe.’

‘Aye.’

‘But you didn’t ring off?’

‘Eh?’ Farr looked puzzled, then he laughed scornfully and said, ‘I’m not her fancy man, if that’s what you’re thinking. Why the hell should I ring off?’

‘Husbands can misunderstand things,’ said Wishart, watching him closely. ‘For all you knew, Mr Pascoe could have been a short-tempered heavyweight boxer.’

‘Could have been. I doubt it, but. Women like her usually end up married to teachers, them kind of twats.’

‘So you never talked about Mr Pascoe?’

‘No. Why should we? Hey, he’s not a heavyweight boxer, is he?’

Wishart smiled and shook his head. It had bothered him that Farr, possibly on the run after committing murder, should ring up the house of a police inspector and be unconcerned when a man answered the phone. But Ellie had obviously decided that her close links with the filth wouldn’t create a climate of confidence in her class.

‘What did you want to talk to Mrs Pascoe about?’ he inquired.

‘What?’

‘You rang her because you wanted to talk to someone with a different outlook from your marras. That was what you said, wasn’t it? All right. Talk about what?’

‘That’s my business,’ retorted Farr.

‘It could be mine,’ said Wishart.

‘How’s that?’

‘If you wanted to talk to her because you were confused about what to do after bashing Harold Satterthwaite over the head and dumping his body in the gob, that’d be my business, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Aye.’

‘So?’

‘So ask Ellie … Mrs Pascoe, if that’s what I wanted to talk about, and when she says no, you’ll see I’m right and it’s none of your sodding business, won’t you?’

Wishart regarded him shrewdly and said, ‘I dare say the truth is what with the booze and that bang on your head, you can’t really be sure yourself what you did talk about.’

It was a subtle bait. Amnesia must look a very tempting escape route from these persistent questions, but once taken it was damnably hard to follow.

Farr shook his head, winced and said obstinately, ‘No, I don’t forget things, not even them I’d like to forget.’

He sank down against his bank of pillows and his eyes closed. If his smile bore him back to boyhood, this weariness was more regressive still, turning him into a lost child. Wishart felt a sudden pang of conscience. The doctor had set a strict time-limit on questioning his patient and Wishart had assured him that at the first sign of fatigue, he would desist. But his professional instinct was to press on now while the defences were weak.

But before he could speak, there was a sound of voices outside and the door burst open. Wishart looked round guiltily, sure it was the doctor, come to accuse him of the third degree. Instead he saw two strangers, one male, middle-aged, balding, dressed in a creased blue suit and clutching a battered briefcase in nicotine-stained fingers. The other was female, in her thirties, with spiky red hair, dressed in an apple-green jump suit, and carrying a glossy leather document case under her arm.

Wishart, suspecting Press, rose instantly and prepared to be outraged.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.

They both spoke at once and as neither seemed prepared to concede the primacy it was only the coincidence that they were both saying more or less the same thing that allowed Wishart to grasp at their thread.

‘You’re both his solicitor?’ he said incredulously.

‘Wakefield,’ said the man. ‘Neil Wardle asked me to come on behalf of the Union.’

‘Pritchard,’ said the woman. ‘A friend of Mr Farr’s was concerned that he might be unrepresented.’

Wishart felt like Solomon called to judgement. Perhaps he should offer the patient to be dissected. After all, they were in the right place for it. But before he could pronounce, a third figure appeared, like Jove in a masque, rising to mend mortal destinies. It was Dalziel, flushed and breathing hard after climbing the stairs to avoid the concentrated contagion of a hospital lift.

‘’Morning, Chief Inspector Wishart,’ he said. ‘What’s this? A public meeting?’

During Wishart’s explanation, it seemed to him that Dalziel’s flush pulsated like a nuclear core as he looked at Pritchard. But there was nothing but sweet reason in his tone as he said, ‘No problem, is there? The client chooses the lawyer, not the lawyer the client. Mr Farr, which of these legal eagles would you like to crap on you?’

Colin Farr, who had kept his eyes resolutely closed during all that had passed hitherto, recognized in Dalziel’s voice that summons which cannot be denied.

He sat up, regarded those present with unwelcoming eyes, and said, ‘None of ’em. You can all fuck off. And that includes you, Porky!’

In the hospital car park Adrienne Pritchard climbed into an ancient green Mini.

‘What happened?’ demanded Ellie. ‘You’ve been gone hardly any time.’

Laconically the solicitor told her tale. When she got to the bit when Colin Farr called Dalziel Porky , they both laughed.

‘I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time,’ said Ellie. ‘I shouldn’t have dragged you out here.’

‘You did rather give the impression your boy was being held in a dungeon with no access to legal aid, whereas … well, never mind. He looked fine, by the way.’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes, I could see you were dying to ask but afraid of giving yourself away. A little pale with interesting shadows under the eyes. Very Romantic poetish. I could see the attraction.’

‘Adi, there is nothing going on!’

‘I’ll see you in court,’ said the other disbelievingly, opening the car door and struggling out over the coils of unreconstructed seat-belt. ‘Ellie, why don’t you get a decent car? Two minutes in this heap and your husband would be on his way to the car showroom — by taxi!’

‘Are you going back to town?’ asked Ellie.

‘You’ve guessed. There’s nothing for me here. If young Lord Byron up there does decide he needs a lawyer, he’ll be all right with that shark the Union sent along. Are you heading back too? I’ll drive along behind you if you like, to pick up the pieces.’

‘No, thanks, I’ve got a couple of things I want to do here.’

‘By yourself? Well, as long as you don’t frighten the horses. See you.’

Ellie watched Adrienne get into her shiny red sports car and roar away.

‘At least mine’s British,’ she muttered, turning the ignition key to produce a pneumonic wheeze. Before she could try again, a fist like a fender rapped against the passenger window which was almost immediately filled by a face like a flitch.

‘I thought it were you,’ said Dalziel with delighted surprise, opening the door and climbing in. ‘Just visiting, I hope? A rich relative, is it?’