Reginald Hill - The Price of Butcher

She said, “Franny, hi.”

“Clara,” said Roote. “Hi! Come and meet my old friend, Andrew Dalziel. Mr. Dalziel, this is Clara Brereton.”

She came toward us. She were a lovely mover even with the bags. Fair do’s, probably being skinny helps here, though my Cap doesn’t get many complaints on the dance floor.

She said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Dalziel,” like she knew how to spell it. And she was another who didn’t blink when she spotted how I were dressed.

I said, “Likewise, lass.”

“Why don’t you join us?” said Roote, giving her the full smarmy-charmy treatment.

She sat down, saying, “Just till Auntie comes. Teddy’s taking us to lunch at Moby’s. He’s supposed to be meeting us here.”

She looked relieved to set the bags down.

I said, “They don’t deliver round here then?” just to make conversation.

Roote chipped in, “Indeed they do, but there’s a small charge, and why pay that when you’ve got your own personal service?”

They smiled at each other. Something going on here? I wondered. With Roote, owt’s possible. A gent would likely have made an excuse and left them to get on with it, but gents don’t find themselves sitting in public bars in their dressing gowns. Any road, I wanted to see how Roote would play it. But there weren’t time to make his play.

The door opened again and another woman entered, this one a bit more to my taste. The way her gaze fixed on Clara and Roote, I guessed straight off this were the aunt. She were knocking on, sixties bumping seventy, but well preserved, and built like a buffalo, with an eye to match. If there weren’t enough meat on young Clara to make a Christmas starter, there were plenty here for a main course with something left over for Boxing Day. Not bad looking for an old ’un, but in a very different way from her niece. No smooth pallor here, but weathered oak. Only thing in common were the determined chin that age had carved on her face into a bit of an icebreaker. This was a woman used to getting her own way.

She said, “There you are, Clara. You’ve got the shopping? Good. No sign of Teddy? No matter, so long as he turns up in time to pay the bill. Time for a quick one here I think. Alan!”

The landlord was ahead of the game again. There was already a G and T on the bar and an orange juice. No prizes for working out whose was which.

“Good day, Lady D,” said Roote. “I hope you are keeping well.”

“I am always well, Franny. I firmly believe most ailments are the invention of the medical profession to extort money from fools.”

She brayed a laugh like it never struck her some poor sod in a wheelchair might not find this all that funny. Roote just grinned and said, “If Tom Parker wants a living testimony to the health-giving properties of Sandytown, he need look no further than you.”

She preened herself and said, “Kind of you to say so, Franny. It’s true I have been blessed with a strong and lasting constitution. In fact, I do believe I never saw the face of a doctor in all my life on my own account, but only on the two unhappy occasions when I was told of the death of a husband.”

Roote looked solemn for a moment, then said slyly, “But surely, Lady D, you have seen the face of Dr. Feldenhammer, very much on your own account, and on occasions not so unhappy?”

She laughed archly, like a cracked hurdy-gurdy playing “The Rustle of Spring,” and I reckon if she’d had a fan, she’d have rapped his knuckles with it as she said, “You naughty boy, that tongue of yours will get you into trouble one day.”

“Then I shall call on you for a character reference,” said Roote. “Can I introduce my old friend Andrew Dalziel?”

I’d seen those buffalo eyes taking me in during all this byplay and I don’t think she much liked the look of me or mebbe it was just my outfit.

I said, “How do, missus?” and in return she gave me a nod that would likely have broken my nose if she’d been close up, then turned to hoist herself onto a bar stool, showing off a pair of haunches a man would be proud to have the tattooing of. The landlord put her drink before her and she leaned forward to engage him in a low-voiced conversation.

The lass gave Roote’s hand a quick sympathetic squeeze, then went to the bar to join her aunt.

I took a drink of me ale. Didn’t taste as good as before. Nowt wrong with the beer, but. It were me. Should have stopped with the first and certainly skipped the scotch. I definitely weren’t feeling up to snuff. Mebbe that was what made me say, all surly, “You’ll not get anywhere there, lad. Rich aunts look after dependent nieces.”

One thing for Roote, he may play games but he doesn’t play silly games, like pretending not to understand.

“Dependent nieces have wills of their own,” he said, giving me a stage wink.

“Aye, and so have rich aunts, and they make bloody sure anyone gets cut out of them who doesn’t toe the line,” I said. “Any road, it could be a long wait if she’s as fit as she looks.”

“Oh yes. Dear Lady Denham is nothing if not healthy. And wealthy, of course,” he murmured.

“And wise?” I said.

“In making and keeping hold of money, very wise indeed,” he said.

“Why am I not surprised?” I said. “And I bet you know how much she’s kept hold of, to the last decimal place.”

He grinned and said, “You are forgetting, I suspect, that thanks to dear Peter Pascoe’s aid and acumen, I am now a man of moderately independent means, even without the income I generate by my writing. If such a one as I could have any interest in the fair Clara, it would only be centered on her pilgrim soul.”

When an ex-con starts talking about pilgrim souls, I know he’s talking crap, but I knew Roote weren’t lying about the money. Pete had felt so grateful and guilty, he’d moved heaven and earth to make sure Roote got top compensation from Criminal Injuries, plus the leisure complex where he got shot had had a personal injury clause in their insurance which a smart brief persuaded a judge covered Roote’s case. Best of all, Roote had just got back from the States on the day he got shot and when Pete were sorting out his stuff, he realized his travel insurance didn’t expire till midnight. The buggers wriggled and wiggled like they always do, but in the end the same brief who’d done the leisure complex got them to cough up for total disability. When eventually it turned out Roote was going to be able to manage a wheelchair, this got considerably pared down, but it still amounted to a hefty chunk of money.

I said, “Independent means ain’t the same as independence.”

I were just talking about money but soon as I said it, I saw it could be taken as a crack about his legs. Me and buffalo woman had a lot in common. But I knew better than to say sorry and get the piss taken out of me, so I went on quick, “So what’s this writing that’s making your fortune? You’re not Lord Archer in disguise, are you?”

“Happily not,” he said. “Nor did I mention a fortune. It’s academic stuff mainly, so it pays peanuts when it pays at all. I managed to finish my PhD thesis during my convalescence. Yes, strictly speaking it’s Dr. Roote now, but no need to be embarrassed-I don’t use the title. Strangers find it confusing and keep telling me about their back pain. Now I am completing Sam Johnson’s critical biography of Thomas Lovell Beddoes. You recall dear Sam, my old supervisor, who was so foully murdered before he could finish his masterwork?”