Good Morning, Midnight (8 page)
“He does… did… does have a distinct naevus at the base of his spine.”
“Naevus? Like in Ben Naevus, you mean?”
“Birthmark,” explained Pascoe, he knew unnecessarily.
“Oh aye. But you’ve not taken a look?”
“No. I assumed you’d want the body left as undisturbed as possible till your SOCO people had finished in there.”
“SOCO? You think there’s been a crime then, Doc?”
“I know there’s been a suspicious death. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way. You’ll have my report as soon as possible.”
He started to peel off the protective overall but Dalziel said, “Hang about, Doc. Do us a favour. Just pop back in there and check out yon naevus thing, just so’s we can be sure.”
For a moment Lockridge looked as though he might refuse, then he turned, went back into the room, pulled the dead man’s shirt-tail out of his trousers, peered down for a moment, then returned.
“It’s him,” he said shortly. “Can I go now?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but removed his overall and hurried away down the stairs.
“Bit pale round the gills, weren’t he?” said Dalziel. “And he didn’t even tuck the poor sod’s shirt back in.”
“He knew the guy. Bound to be a bit of a shock, seeing him dead,” said Pascoe.
“Don’t be daft. He’s a doctor. Spends his life looking at dead folk that were alive on his last visit. Show me a quack who’s not used to it and I’ll pay hard cash to get on his panel.”
“Perhaps he was a friend as well as a patient.”
“Former patient. Aye, that might do it. Someone you think you know tops himself, it makes you wonder about all the other buggers you think you know.”
“Tops himself? Getting a bit ahead of the game, aren’t you, sir?” said Pascoe.
“That’s how you win matches, lad. Any road, door locked and bolted on the inside. Windows with the kind of shutters that ’ud keep a tax inspector out. Gun between his legs, shoe and sock off. Lots of little hints there, I’d say.”
“Nevertheless,” said Pascoe obstinately.
“Oh God, you been at the John Dickson Carr again? What more do you want?”
“A note would be nice, for a start.”
“A note, eh? Any sign of a note, Paddy?”
Inspector Ireland let out a long-suffering sigh. The fact that he was a teetotal Baptist born in Heckmondwyke and able to trace his ancestry back a hundred and fifty years without any sign of Irish blood hadn’t saved him from being nicknamed Paddy, and the more he protested, the more he found himself treated as a fount of knowledge on all matters Eireann.
“Name’s Cedric,” he said. “Couldn’t say. I followed procedure and kept out to minimize the risk of contamination.”
“But you’ve been inside, Sergeant, and I’ve no doubt Tweedledum and Tweedledee went clumping all over the place.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bonnick. “Didn’t see a note though.”
“Pity,” said Dalziel. “There ought to be something…”
“To confirm it’s suicide, you mean?” said Pascoe triumphantly.
“No,” said the Fat Man irritably. “In fact, if you studied your statistics you’d know that seventy per cent of genuine suicides don’t leave a note, while ninety-seven per cent of fakes do… Hang about. Not a note. A book! Now I recall. There ought to be a book. Isn’t that a book on the desk, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bonnick, surprised. “There is a book.”
“Didn’t notice what it was, did you?”
“No, sir. Got a bit splattered with blood and stuff. You’d need to scrape it off first.”
“Not squeamish, are you? Doesn’t come well from a sergeant, squeaming.”
“Just following procedure, sir, touching as little as possible till the scene’s been examined.”
“Which will be when? You did give SOCO the right address, didn’t you, Paddy?”
“Of course I did,” Ireland assured him, looking offended.
Three things were troubling Pascoe. One was the suspicion that the Fat Man had just invented the suicide note statistics. The second was his apparent power of precognition. There ought to be a book. And lo! there was a book!
The third was the still unanswered question of why the hell he was here at all. Off duty, what had there been in a shout to a possible suicide to bring him hurrying from the comfort of his fireside? Even the fact that his inamorata, Cap Marvell, was away at present didn’t explain that.
His speculations were interrupted by noises below. Fearful that Cressida had led an assault, he peered over the balustrade and saw to his relief that the SOCO team had finally arrived. They paused to pull on their white coveralls and then came up the stairway.
“About bloody time,” said Dalziel. “Don’t be all night at it, will you? And try not to leave a mess.”
He set off down the stairs. Pascoe hurried to catch up with him.
“Sir,” he said. “Do I take it you’re assuming control of this case?”
“Me? Simple suicide? Nay, lad, you got here first, you’re the man in charge.”
“In that case, there’s a couple of questions I’d like to ask you
…”
“Not now, lad, not when there’s a poor woman out there waiting to be told she’s a widow,” reproved the Fat Man.
So saying, he pulled open the front door, bounced Maycock aside with his belly and stepped out into the night.
11 SD+SS=PSOut here, the mist was in total control. It gave bulk while it removed substance. Somewhere in the wooded garden, an owl uttered a long wavering screech that made Pascoe’s nape hair prickle.
Helen and Jason had got back into the Volvo, Ellie was talking to Cressida alongside the Spider, and Kay Kafka was standing to one side with a mobile to her ear.
“Where’s the wife gone?” said Dalziel.
“I don’t know,” said Pascoe. “But as I’m in charge, I think I ought to be the one who breaks the news.”
Meaning, until he knew different, this was a suspicious death and everyone connected with the dead man was a suspect.
“You reckon? Sometimes these things are better coming from a more sensitive and mature figure,” said Dalziel. “Where the hell’s the daft tart got to anyway?”
Pascoe spotted a movement in the front seat of the Audi that had been parked outside the house when he first arrived. Its headlights came on and the engine started as he peered towards it. The front passenger door opened and Sue-Lynn got out. The car pulled away and he recognized Tom Lockridge’s profile as it went past.
“I think the doctor may have saved us the bother,” he said. “He can’t have heard of your sensitive bedside manner.”
“Don’t know how. It’s famous in three counties…”
“… the county court, the county jail and the County Hotel,” Pascoe concluded the old joke. He watched as the Fat Man advanced to meet the approaching woman and heard him say in a gently melancholy voice, “Mrs Maciver, Tom Lockridge has told you the dreadful news, has he? I’m so sorry.”
She looked as if she didn’t believe him and said, “Can I see my husband now?”
“Soon,” said Dalziel. “Come on inside and let’s find you somewhere to sit for a bit…”
He started leading her towards the house.
Pascoe said, “Sir, a quick word.”
“Excuse me, luv,” said Dalziel.
He stepped aside with Pascoe and said in an irritated tone, “What?”
“You can’t take her inside, sir.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Until we can confirm suicide, the whole house is a crime scene, and you don’t escort a principal suspect on to a crime scene.”
“Principal suspect? You crazy or what, lad?”
“Just quoting you, sir. SD+SS=PS, that’s what you’re always drumming into the DCs, isn’t it? Suspicious death + surviving spouse = prime suspect. Sir.”
“Keep your voice down! You’ll be getting us all sued. What did you have in mind then? Take her down the nick and shine a bright light into her eyes?”
Over Dalziel’s huge shoulder Pascoe saw that Cressida and Kay had advanced to confront Sue-Lynn with Ellie not far behind.
“What’s happening?” Cressida demanded. “What have they told you?”
Sue-Lynn said, “He’s dead.”
“Oh Jesus. What happened? How…?”
“He shot himself. Just like your pa.”
“Shot himself? In there? When?” cried Kay.
“What the hell does it matter when?” exploded Cressida. “Just now. Ten years ago. That’s two down. Are you done now, bitch?”
“Cressida, I’m so sorry, I’m truly deeply sorry… this is dreadful, dreadful…”
Of the three women, it was Kay Kafka who looked the most genuinely distressed, observed Pascoe. The emotion that twisted Cressida’s face was anger, while Sue-Lynn’s features were mask-like which might be the result of shock or just the glazing effect of her complex make-up.
Jason Dunn was out of his car now, once more torn between his eagerness to join the group and find out what was going on and his desire to help his wife, who was also trying to re-emerge from the Volvo.
Sue-Lynn said, “You two want to stay out here and fight, that’s your business. I want to see him. Superintendent, I insist you take me to see him. Right now!”
She spoke in the voice that got waiters and shop assistants jumping.
Dalziel scratched his crotch reflectively, then replied in a fawning Heepish tone, “I’m sorry, Mrs Maciver, I know what you must be feeling, but it’s not my decision. Chief Inspector Pascoe’s in charge here. It’s him who’s calling the shots.”
Not the most diplomatic of phrases in the circumstances, thought Pascoe as he sought for the right words to pour oil on these turbulent waters.
But he was saved from proving his diplomatic skills by a long, wavering cry, which for a second he thought was the owl again.
Then it was joined by a male voice raised in alarm and, looking towards the Volvo, he saw that Helen Dunn had sunk back into the car.
“Help me!” cried Jason. “Please someone, help me! The baby’s coming!”
Kay set off at a run with the other women close behind.
“I’ve seen your bedside manner,” said Pascoe to Dalziel. “So, how’s your obstetrics?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but went to his car and said tersely into his radio, “DCI Pascoe at Moscow House in the Avenue, Greenhill. Get an ambulance down here fast as you can. Woman in labour.”
“By God,” said Dalziel behind him. “This is one up for community policing. Don’t worry if your loved one snuffs it. Your modern caring force comes fully equipped with a replacement.”
“Better than that, Andy,” said Ellie who’d come running back from the Volvo. “Two for the price of one. They say she’s having twins.”
“Size of her, I’m surprised it’s not a football team,” said Dalziel. “What’s happening?”
“Her waters have broken. You’ve got an ambulance coming, I take it?”
The radio crackled and a voice said, “Control to Mr Pascoe. Re that ambulance for Moscow House, could be a delay. There’s been a pile-up in fog on the bypass and they’re a bit stretched.”
“So’s that poor girl,” said Ellie. “Look, if it’s going to take that long, I think we ought to get her into the house.”
Dalziel looked at Pascoe and raised his eyebrows.
Pascoe said, “Wouldn’t it make more sense to drive her direct to hospital?”
“If things happen as quickly as I think they might, she doesn’t want to be bouncing around in the back of a car,” retorted Ellie. “There’s light in there, isn’t there? And I’m sure it’s a damn sight warmer than out here. I’ll get it organized.”
She didn’t wait for an answer but returned to the Volvo.
“Shit,” said Pascoe.
“Best-laid plans, eh?” said Dalziel. “Not to worry. Thank your lucky stars it’s only a suicide, not a real crime scene.”
Again that certainty. But no time now for deep questioning. Pascoe headed for the house to reorganize his defences.
Maycock he relocated at the foot of the stairs.
No civilian goes up there,” he commanded. “And I mean no one. Anyone tries, stop ’em. Anyone persists, arrest ’em. Anyone resists arrest, cuff ’em. Is there any other way up there?”
“There’s a back stair,” said Sergeant Bonnick, coming down from the landing, followed by Inspector Ireland. “What’s going on, sir?”
Pascoe explained.
“You cover that back stair, Sergeant. Same as here. No one goes up it, OK? Paddy, how are they doing up there?”
“You know SOCO. Slow but sure,” said Ireland, for once not reacting to his sobriquet. “When they’ve finished the study, they want to know how much of the rest of the house you want done.”
“Tell them to have a look round upstairs,” said Pascoe. “Doubt if there’ll be much point down here once this mob start milling around, but let’s try to keep their movements as confined as possible.”
He went across the hall and flung open a door that led into a large bay-windowed drawing room full of bulky pieces of furniture shrouded in dust sheets.
“You reckon there’s something dodgy about this suicide, Pete?” said Ireland, curious why Pascoe should have any concern about the ground floor.
“I hope not,” said Pascoe. “But if there is, I don’t want things muddied by having the whole place turned into a maternity hospital. We’ll put Mrs Dunn and the others in here till the ambulance comes, and we’ll try to keep them in here.”
“You’ll be lucky,” said Ireland with the cynicism of a father of five, four of whom had been born at home. “Woman in labour, every female within half a mile becomes Queen of the Universe.”
“We’ll just have to do our best, but if any of them do have to come out, I want to know the reason why and I want a record kept of exactly where they go. And I mean exactly. Got that, Paddy?”
“Yes, sir,” said Ireland placatingly. “I’ve got it.”
He’s wondering why I’m being so neurotic, thought Pascoe.
Maybe I should wonder the same.
Does my sensitive nose really scent something untoward about this business, or am I merely reacting to Fat Andy’s ready acceptance of suicide and mysterious hints of preknowledge?
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