Reginald Hill - Under World

‘Don’t muck around, Andy,’ said Ellie irritably. ‘You know it was me that got Adi Pritchard to visit Colin Farr. So Peter was right when he said you lot might get landed with this case.’

‘Yes. I’ve got him working on it himself. But don’t worry. He’s a long way away from here.’

He tapped his nose in a gesture both salacious and conspiratorial. Ellie was not certain which element most offended her, but what she was sure of was that in-fighting with Dalziel was like trying to tickle a grizzly to death. The only valid approach was with a flame-thrower from fifty yards.

She said, ‘I hope you get the man who killed Mr Satterthwaite very soon. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

He didn’t move but said, ‘Reckon we’ve got him already. Your friend, Farr. Bird in the hand, like they say.’

‘What evidence do you have?’ she asked angrily.

He smiled and said softly, ‘I didn’t say we’d got any evidence yet. Just that we’ve got him . Evidence’ll turn up. Weapon. Bloodstained clothes. Something he did or said on his way out of the mine. Or later when he got himself kaylied and came off his bike. Said nothing significant to you, did he?’

‘You’ve read my statement,’ evaded Ellie.

‘Aye, I’ve read it,’ said Dalziel. ‘Funny, that, I thought. Here they were, sitting in a car — it’d be this car, would it? very cosy — and neither of ’em said owt to the other. Some people might take that the wrong way, of course.’

‘You dirty-minded old sod,’ said Ellie, her resolve not to be provoked bending as easily as it usually did.

He looked at her in amazed indignation, and said, ‘Nay, Ellie. You’ve got me wrong. I never meant owt like that. All I was trying to say was, if you don’t fill in the detail of what you and him did say, some folk might think you were trying to cover up for him. Now I know how easy it is to think things aren’t worth putting down in a statement, all the ordinary trivial chat. “Nice weather we’re having, have you seen the price of eggs in the market? That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing, my sister in London had one just like that four or five years ago.” The sort of thing you and your mates pass the time of day with over your morning coffee.’

I’ll kill him! thought Ellie wildly.

Steadying her voice she said, ‘No, we didn’t talk about the price of eggs or the dress he was wearing.’

‘No? Then what did you talk about?’ asked Dalziel. ‘No, don’t answer me now. Have a good think about it and then you can broaden out your statement when you call in at the local station later on.’

‘At the station?’

‘Aye. That was why you drove all the way down here, wasn’t it? To modify your statement and mebbe check up on the result of your blood test.’

Her expression showed him that she had forgotten all about the test and also that Pascoe hadn’t been in touch with her since he called at the lab that morning. Probably because she had already left to winkle out Pritchard. Possibly because he felt in the mood to let her sweat a little longer. Well, it was none of his business to interfere between man and wife. Yet.

He said, ‘Aye. Could be serious that, Ellie. Lose your licence, big fine. They’re really cracking down. So I’ll see you later likely. Cheers now.’

He opened the door and unwedged himself from the low seat. As he got out, Ellie saw with anticipatory delight that the coil of seat-belt had wrapped itself round his ankles.

Dalziel stood upright, stretched, raised a huge arm in farewell, and walked away. Around his legs the belt tightened, tautened, and snapped, as without a stumble or a hesitation he strode towards the hospital.

Disappointedly, Ellie turned the key again. The engine came to life with the reluctance of one who has gone happily to his long rest after a race well run. Adi was right, it was time she had a decent car, it was time she asserted herself in a hundred ways.

It was also time, she told herself with a return to humour as she nosed out of the car park, that the Women’s Movement recognized that five minutes with Andy Dalziel was worth a month’s budget of professional propaganda.

Fifteen minutes later without any conscious debate or decision she found herself parking round the corner from the terraced house in which May Farr lived with her son.

She felt herself observed as she approached the front door and not just by the police car parked further along Clay Street. Burrthorpe must be abuzz with what was going on. They might close ranks against outsiders but within the tribe there would be no shortage of slanderous speculation, prurient analysis and malicious gossip.

The door opened before she could knock.

‘Come in,’ said May Farr, ‘before the whole street clocks you.’

She led the way into the little front room. Ellie had a sense of someone else in the house, probably in the kitchen.

‘Right,’ said the woman after checking that the net curtains were draped for maximum obfuscation. ‘What do you want?’

She stood facing Ellie, her arms folded under her breast in the classic working-class pose of female aggression.

Ellie said, ‘I was up at the hospital and I thought I’d come and see you.’

‘Did you see Colin?’

‘No, but I gather he’s all right, physically I mean.’

‘You didn’t see him? I’d’ve thought they’d’ve let you in.’

‘Because my husband’s a policeman?’

‘You said it.’

‘Mrs Farr, you’d be surprised how few privileges being married to a copper brings you. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. Nor am I apologizing for Peter. It’s his job. It’s what he is. And if he did something else, it’d be a loss to the police and the public alike. A loss to people like you and Colin, Mrs Farr.’

‘And what are people like me and Colin like?’ asked the woman with undiminished aggression.

‘In trouble,’ said Ellie gently.

May Farr digested this.

‘Sit down,’ she said finally. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea. There’s some massed.’

Ellie would have preferred coffee or better still a stiff scotch, but she knew that the offer of tea was like salt in a Bedouin’s tent. Also it gave May an excuse to go into the kitchen and update whoever it was she had in there.

The tea appeared in the same delicate china cups that had been used on her previous visit. Conversation waited till the ceremony of milk, sugar and tasting was complete.

‘Right, Mrs Pascoe,’ said May Farr. ‘I admire the way you’ve stuck up for your man, but if you’re not ashamed of him, why’d you lie about him when I asked you last time?’

‘Because it didn’t seem to matter then. I mean the truth would have mattered perhaps. It might have set you and Colin against me.’

‘You think we all hate the police, do you?’

‘A lot of you have had some cause, I think.’

‘Is that what your man thinks too? No, forget I asked that. It’s your business, married business. What I do want to know is why you’re so keen to stick your neb into our business, Colin’s and mine?’

‘I didn’t so much stick it in as have it rubbed in,’ retorted Ellie, with whom a little humble pie went a long way. ‘He rang me last night, asked me to help him. I didn’t volunteer.’

‘You didn’t refuse either. You’re not after Colin, are you, missus? He’s not your what-do-they-call-it? bit of rough, is he?’

‘I wouldn’t call your son a bit of rough, Mrs Farr,’ said Ellie steadily. ‘I like him but I’m not after him. As for him, he could be after me but I’m not sure he likes me.’

‘It was you he rang.’

‘I don’t know how surprising that was because I don’t know who else he might have rung,’ said Ellie. She was aware of the ambivalence and evasion at the heart of nearly all her answers, but her main concern was to keep things simple and straightforward as far as her own part in this drama went. Back home she might be Cressida, but here in the Greek camp she was just a walk-on part.