Child's Play (28 page)

Pascoe made a note.

'Now tell me about your visit to Italy,' he said.

Lomas frowned, then let it dissolve into his frank, open smile.

'You saw the labels on my suitcase,' he said. 'Clever old detective, you! Yes, I was in Italy in the summer. I'd run around like a mad thing looking for work after the Salisbury Festival. Finally I said, for turning away, let summer bear it out, and accepted Mummy's offer to sub me abroad.'

'Your first visit to Italy, was it?'

'No. I've been several times.'

'Where do you go?'

Pascoe's pen was poised.

'Here and there.'

'Tuscany?'

'Yes. I've spent a lot of time in Tuscany. Look, what's all this about?'

'Did you ever come across Alessandro Pontelli?'

Lomas didn't pretend not to know the name. 'You mean the dead chap, the one who turned up at the funeral? What the hell are you trying to say, Inspector?'

Pascoe said gently, 'I'm just asking a simple question, Mr Lomas.'

'Then the simple answer is no.'

'That's fine. Do you still smoke marijuana, by the way?' Lomas shook his head in slow amazement. 'By God, once you've got a record, you've really got a record! Do you really expect me to answer that?'

'Why not? You admitted smoking it in court. All I'm asking is if you've given up the habit.'

'But why? What's it to do with anything?' 'Nothing that I know of. The boy who got killed near Troy House last night, he had some marijuana in his possession.'

'You're scraping the barrel, aren't you?' said Lomas, unconsciously echoing Dalziel's accusation.

'Very probably.'

He became aware of someone at his shoulder. He looked up but not very far. It was Lexie Huby.

'Rod, I've got to get back. Mr Eden's working through the lunch-hour and he's got a load of typing for me.'

'OK,' said Lomas. 'But you'll call in at Troy House tonight to check on Keechie? Mrs Brooks is very good, but she's got her own family to look after.'

'Yes, of course I will. My class finishes at eight.'

'If you hang on a sec, Miss Huby, I'll walk back with you,' said Pascoe, trying his winning smile again. 'I need to see Mr Thackeray. Oh, by the way, Mr Lomas, this friend you stayed with last Friday night. Did he live in Leeds by any chance?'

It was an often productive technique, the sudden probing question just when the suspect thought it was all over. This time too it looked set to enjoy success.

Lomas actually twitched and when he opened his mouth it was only to let out a dry nervous cough.

'You were in Leeds, weren't you?' said Pascoe pleasantly.

'Of course he was,' said Lexie Huby in a tone of exasperation.

Pascoe looked at her in surprise.

'He was at the opera with me.
Madam Butterfly.'

'Was he?' said Pascoe.

He turned back to Lomas. All signs of discomfiture had vanished. He smiled at Pascoe and said, 'She's determined to convert me from the straight theatre.'

'You rang Miss Keech. Said you wouldn't be returning to Troy House because you were staying with a friend.'

'And so I did,' grinned Lomas lecherously. 'So I did.'

'I've got to go,' said Lexie Huby. She leaned forward and pecked Lomas on the cheek. Pascoe recalled the eye-poking evasion with which she had greeted the actor's attempt at an embrace only a week before. The girl turned away and made for the exit.

Pascoe said, 'We'll talk again soon, Mr Lomas,' and went after her.

The girl moved so quickly that he didn't catch up till they were outside the theatre.

'Hold on!' he said, it must be a good job for you to be so keen to get back to it.'

'It's all right.'

He digested this, then said, 'But not so good as being a solicitor?'

'You looked in my briefcase,' she said.

This omission of a couple of steps in the reasoning process was impressive. Or perhaps he'd just forgotten to fasten it up.

'What're you doing? A-levels followed by SFE? Or do you want to do a degree?'

'Whatever I can manage,' she said indifferently.

'Mr Thackeray must be pleased.'

It took him a couple of paces to interpret the silence.

'He doesn't know? But why? Surely there would be . . .'

'I don't need favours.'

'Favours? Everyone's entitled to an education.'

'Entitled?' She didn't raise her little voice, but she was speaking with greater vehemence than he had known in their brief acquaintance. 'Kids are entitled to what adults let 'em get. And adults are entitled to what they can afford.'

'And that's it? You're over eighteen. You're adult. What can you afford?'

Suddenly, transformingly, she grinned.

'Not much. Choosing for myself mebbe. If I'm lucky.'

They were at the office building. Pascoe glanced back. Seymour was tracking a few yards behind like a Royal bodyguard. Pascoe mouthed 'Car' at him and the redhead nodded and turned away.

As they clambered the creaking old wooden stairway, he said, 'You'd rather I didn't mention your course to Mr Thackeray?'

She shrugged her narrow shoulders indifferently.

'You'll likely do what suits you best,' she said. 'I'll see if Mr Eden's by himself.'

Thackeray did not look too pleased at being interrupted. His desk was littered with papers and his jacket hung over the back of his chair. But he rose punctiliously and began to put it on as Pascoe entered at Lexie's behest.

'Forgive me,' he said. 'So busy. Some new development?'

'Not really,' said Pascoe. 'I gather Mr Dalziel's told you about Mrs Windibanks's possible identification of Pontelli as Alexander Lomas.'

'Yes. He rang last night. Extraordinary, quite extraordinary.'

'Isn't it? And Mr John Huby confirms it. On the other hand, Miss Keech denies any knowledge of such a mark. But what I really want to get clear is, if Pontelli
is
Huby, where does that leave us in law?'

'Oh dear,' said Thackeray. 'Let me see, let me see. The situation still retains a certain ambiguity, I fear. At first sight it would seem that with Alexander Huby still being alive after his mother's death and having made a verbal claim to his inheritance in this very office, then the Huby estate should be treated as
his
estate.'

'I see. Now as I understand it, under the rules of intestacy, this would elevate John Huby of the Old Mill Inn to his main heir?'

'His only heir. But you're forgetting something, Mr Pascoe. Alexander Huby, if so he be, has been living in Italy for forty years. He may be married with a large family. He may have made a will of his own leaving everything to his local football team!'

Pascoe shook his head.

'He's not married as far as the Italian authorities know. And there are no obvious next of kin. In any case, if there were, they would be the real Pontellis, wouldn't they, if he
was
Huby and if there was a real Pontelli. I don't know about a will.'

'And I don't know about Italian intestacy laws, assuming his Italian citizenship is genuine,' resumed Thackeray. 'But sticking to what we do know, and to English law, the real difficulty still remains with Mrs Huby's will. It states that PAWS, CODRO, and WFE cannot get the money until 2015 unless her son's death is proven beyond all possible doubt before that time. I confess it was I who cajoled her into adding that rider, though I wanted "reasonable" not "possible". But she was on to me, I'm afraid. The thing is, if Pontelli is proven to be Alexander, then it might be argued that under the terms of the will, his death has simply been proven beyond all possible doubt, and the charities get the estate immediately.'

'But that's absurd! I mean, he's the heir.'

'But did he make proper legal claim to the estate before he died?'

'Is that necessary?'

'Not usually, of course. But it would be interesting to argue that Mrs Huby's sole intention was that her son should be able to enjoy the benefits of her estate while he lived, not that these benefits should be distributed haphazardly around Italy, always supposing that Pontelli has a family there.'

Pascoe left, feeling little the better for his visit.

Seymour was waiting for him, parked recklessly on a double yellow.

'Where to, sir?' he asked.

'The Old Mill Inn,' said Pascoe. 'We may get a bite to eat there if you hurry.'

He wished he hadn't said this. Not even a detailed account of their several other purposes in visiting John Huby could distract the redhead from what he saw as the main one and the need for speed to achieve it. But despite his desperate driving, it looked at first as if Seymour was to be disappointed.

'Food!
' said John Huby as though it were a four-letter word. 'We do sandwiches, but they finished half an hour back.'

'I'll make some more, Dad,' offered Jane Huby, fluttering long eyelashes at Seymour who responded with a smacking of lips which had more to do with lust than hunger.

Huby growled a reluctant assent and the girl went off, swinging her haunch provocatively. Seymour sighed deeply. Pascoe paid for their drinks, but decided to postpone his talk with the landlord. The bar was pretty crowded and rustic drinkers were clearly as sensitive to the approach of last orders as Faustus was to his last midnight. Huby and his wife were fully occupied.

Seymour noticed this too and murmured, 'I'm going for a run-off, sir. I noticed as we came in there was a door marked
Private
just beyond the Gents. Worth a quick poke around while everyone's nice and busy here, do you think?'

'You mean, illegal entry without a warrant in case you might come across something removed from Gwen Huby's filing cabinet? Or something suggesting collusion with Mrs Windibanks? Or anything else linking Huby to either of these murders?' said Pascoe. 'I find that quite outrageous. If I thought that was your intention, I'd forbid you to move.'

'Yes, sir,' said Seymour. 'Shall I go and have my pee?'

'Don't get lost,' said Pascoe.

Seymour grinned and left.

A voice said, 'Inspector Pascoe, isn't it?'

He turned to find the young blond-haired reporter, Henry Vollans, at his elbow.

'We met at the Kemble party,' Vollans said.

'I remember. What are you doing here? You're a good way off Leeds.'

'I had to come across this way this morning first thing for an appointment, only the fellow didn't turn up,' said Vollans. 'Fortunately there were one or two other things to follow up.'

'At the Old Mill Inn?'

'Why not? You're here!' said Vollans slyly.

'Even policemen need refreshments. As a matter of

interest, your name was mentioned to me earlier this morning.'

The young reporter looked threatened for a moment, then quickly recovered.

'Complimentarily, I hope?'

'I gather you were at Maldive Cottage in Ilkley when Mr Goodenough of PAWS called the other day.'

'Right.'

'Do you mind telling me what took you there?'

Vollans hesitated, then said, 'Sammy Ruddlesdin speaks very highly of you, Mr Pascoe.'

'That's nice.'

'He reckons you're the kind of chap who strikes a fair bargain, not like some who'll take everything, then renege on the giving.'

'Sammy says that? I'll remind him next time he starts moaning at me about non-cooperation! What were you doing there, Mr Vollans?'

'Sniffing at the edge of a story,' said Vollans. 'Mrs Falkingham's an old correspondent of the
Challenger's
so when we noticed WFE might be in line for a big hand-out, we thought we'd take a look. Mrs Huby's will of itself was worth a mention, but like my editor says, there's usually a cuter angle if you care to crawl around for it.'

'And was there? A cuter angle, I mean?'

'Well, Mr Goodenough turning up while I was there, that was a bit of luck. Opens up the story a bit.'

'And Mrs Falkingham's assistant, Miss Brodsworth, was she able to open it up any more?'

Vollans gave his Redford grin.

'Not half as much as something else I heard this morning.'

'Yes?'

'I heard a rumour that there's a body in the mortuary

which some people reckon might belong to the missing heir.'

Pascoe digested this. They'd kept the Huby connection as quiet as possible, but there were too many people who knew something about it for total leak-proofing.

He said, 'You're not the
Challenger's
crime reporter, are you? I've met him, fat man called Boyle.'