Reginald Hill - The Price of Butcher

“No,” she insisted serenely. “I was alone. Teddy was never there. I’m sure that Sid Parker will be able to provide him with an alibi.”

“So am I,” said Pascoe. “If the love of a sister can do as much, then surely the love of a lover will not fall short. Mr. Parker’s story will, I fear, carry as much or as little weight as yours.”

“You don’t seem to regard love very highly, Mr. Pascoe.”

“Oh, but I do. It comes second only to truth in my pantheon,” said Pascoe. “I’m going to talk with your brother now. Knowing him as you do, how do you think he’s going to stand up to interrogation?”

“Very well. All he’s got to do is tell you what little he knows. As such a devout worshipper of truth, eventually you’ll have to acknowledge the presence of your deity.”

He felt he was beginning to see what Andy Dalziel had clearly seen from the beginning, the real woman beneath the polished shell. From the Fat Man she won sympathy. From himself she won merely admiration.

Her one point of weakness was Ted. He did not doubt for a moment that she was trying to cover up for him.

But he didn’t doubt either that her serene confidence in her brother’s ability to be able to withstand close interrogation was misplaced. That was the trouble with love. It made you do silly things. But worse, it made you blind to weakness.

He said, “I’ll let you know how I get on then, shall I?”

Then he stood up and left the room.

As they approached the gate of Sandytown Hall, Sammy Ruddlesdin’s battered old Fiesta leading the way, George’s Land Rover behind, Dalziel saw that he’d been right about the growing media interest. Their way was barred by a pack of journalists and photographers.

Sammy began to brake, but the Fat Man’s hand fastened like a clamp about his thigh.

“Accelerator, Sammy, not brake,” said Dalziel. “If the buggers don’t get out of the way, run ’em down. Then turn left up the hill.”

At the top of North Cliff, he directed the Fiesta along a skein of country lanes till thirty minutes later he was satisfied they’d shaken off any journalist attempting pursuit. Then he navigated the car back to the coast road and reentered the town by way of South Cliff with the Land Rover close behind.

They parked behind the Hope and Anchor and went into the pub by the rear door. A clever journalist who knew him might have been waiting in the snug, but only Ruddlesdin fitted that bill, and when they entered the room, they found it empty.

“That was fun,” said George Heywood with a grin. “I expect you’ve worked up a thirst, Mr. Dalziel. What are you having?”

Dalziel nodded approvingly. This was as it should be, young man eager to buy drinks for his elders. But not in this case.

He said, “You can buy me one later, lad. This round’s Mr. Ruddlesdin’s.”

Sammy said, “Name your poison,” with the complacency of one who knew that any expense docket marked Drinks for DS Dalziel would be passed on the nod.

He took the order to the bar and rang a bell for attention. After a pause, Jenny the barmaid appeared.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “Bit shorthanded. Alan’s popped up to the Avalon.”

“Oh aye?” said Dalziel. “Not badly, is he?”

“No, have you not heard? That cousin of Lady Denham’s, Clara, she’s up there. She had a fall. We got word she recovered consciousness and we had a whip round for some flowers and Alan said he’d run them up there.”

“Friend of his then?”

“We all liked her and we felt a bit sorry for her too, specially Alan, knowing what Lady Denham could be like. He used to say she went over his accounts like a spy satellite, she could spot an error from fifty miles up. I hope the old cow-sorry, shouldn’t speak ill of the dead-I hope the old lady’s left Clara comfortable in her will. Worth millions, they say?”

She ended on a question mark, looking hopefully at Dalziel.

Bet everyone in Sandytown knows exactly who he is by now, thought Charley. And they assume that, if anyone knows anything, it will be him.

Curiously she found herself assuming much the same.

But all he said was, “Aye, wills are funny things. But isn’t Mr. Beard staying here? You’d best ask him.”

“More chance of getting my granda to speak, and he said nowt but Bugger Blair! for ten years,” said Jenny. “Now he says nowt but Bugger Brown!”

She took the order and began pouring drinks. The door opened and Franny Roote rolled through it. His jaw dropped in a show of stagey surprise that felt to Charley as if it concealed the real thing.

“All my favorite people under one roof,” he said. “Mr. Dalziel. Charley. And George. This has to be George, I assume? I see a family resemblance, and Charley’s told me so much about you, I feel as if I know you already.”

He reached out and the two young men shook hands. Ruddlesdin came back from the bar, bearing drinks. Roote grinned up at him.

“And it’s Mr. Ruddlesdin, star reporter of the News , if I’m not mistaken. Long time no see, Mr. Ruddlesdin.”

Sammy said, “Eh?” looked more closely, then glanced from the man in the wheelchair to Dalziel and back again.

“It’s Roote, isn’t it?” he said cautiously. “Franny Roote?”

“Yes. You interviewed me once, or was it twice? Good piece, lousy photo.”

“I recall. What are you doing here then?” He tried to sound casual, but his eyes were bright with speculation.

“Oh, a bit of this, bit of that,” said Roote, smiling. “So how’re things going up at the Hall, Andy? I hear they’ve taken the bart and his sister in for questioning. Serious stuff, is it? I mean, can we expect a statement soon?”

Again all attention was on the Fat Man.

He took a long draft of his beer, then said, “I daresay.”

“Make a note of that, Mr. Ruddlesdin. Quote of the week. Detective Superintendent Dalziel says, ‘I daresay.’”

It struck Charley that Roote was in a slightly manic mood. There was a sense of barely repressed energy about him, in contrast with his usual aura of cool control.

Dalziel didn’t react. His attention was concentrated on the door, which Roote had left open. Suddenly he put his glass down, said, “I need a leak. And I’ve spat in that beer,” stood up, and went out. Charley saw him step into the path of a young woman who’d just come down the stairs into the passage between the snug and the main bar. He paused as if to apologize, then the door swung shut behind him.

“So, George,” said Roote, “have you come to rescue your sister? Must be worrying for your family when suddenly the Home of the Healthy Holiday turns into the Costa de Muerte!”

“Rescue Charley? You must be joking,” laughed George. “As far as I’m concerned, she’s always been the one who did the rescuing.”

“I can believe it,” said Roote. “Ever since she came here, we’ve all felt ourselves very much the object of her attention. We shall miss her when she finally goes.”

Charley felt herself disproportionately complimented by what was, after all, a mere polite token of regret.

She said, “So what was this interview about, Mr. Ruddlesdin? I didn’t realize Franny was famous.”

Roote looked quizzically at the journalist who, perhaps for the first time in his adult life, felt embarrassed.

But he was saved from replying by the door opening again, this time to admit Alan Hollis.

“Sorry, Jenny,” he said. “Been rushed off your feet?”

“No, it’s been fine. How’s Clara?”

“Broke an arm and a leg and some ribs, still pretty shocked, but they say they’re pleased with her,” replied Hollis. “They just let me in long enough to pass on everyone’s good wishes, and the flowers, of course. She said to tell everyone thank you, and that was about as much as the poor love could manage.”