The Wood Beyond (5 page)

Dalziel said, 'I don't give a toss if they belong to the Dagenham Girl Pipers and they've come here to rehearse, they're witnesses is all that matters. So what did they witness?'

'Well, I've got one statement on tape so far. The others aren't being very cooperative but this lass...’

'Aye. Wendy Walker. First time in her life she's been cooperative with the police, I bet. Let's hear this tape then.'

Headingley led him to a small office where the recorder was set up. Dalziel listened intently then said, 'This Cap, the one with the chest...’

'Marvell. Captain Marvell, get it? She's the boss, except that she and Walker don't see eye to eye.'

'I noticed. She sounds a bit of a hard case.'

'Yes, sir. Patten, that's the TecSec chief, reckons she had serious thoughts about taking a swing at him.'

'Could pack quite a punch with that weight behind it,’ said Dalziel, smiling reminiscently.

'It were a set of wire cutters she was swinging. We've got them here, sir. Give you a real headache if these connected.'

Dalziel looked at the heavy implement and said, 'Bag it and have it checked for blood.'

'But no one got hurt,' protested Headingley.

'Not here they didn't.'

'You don't mean you think maybe Redcar .. . but they're women, sir!'

'World's changing, George,' said Dalziel. 'So what else have you been doing, apart from collecting one statement?'

'Well, I had a talk with Dr Batty when I got here .. .'

'He was here when you arrived?'

'Yes, sir. Expect that Patten rang him first. Then I got things organized outside, and I thought I'd better see if we could rustle up some sort of refreshment for the ladies. I asked that fellow Howard - he used to be one of ours - but he said he couldn't leave the door, so I went to look for myself. Found the staff canteen, got a tea urn brewing

'You must be the highest paid tea boy since Geoffrey Howe left the cabinet,' said Dalziel. Still, at least old George knew his limitations. Why get wet and in the way outside when you had someone like Wieldy, who could organize a piss-up on a Welsh Sunday, fifty miles from the nearest brewery.

'So what now, sir?' said Headingley. 'Statements?'

Dalziel thought then said, 'Walker's the only one with owt to state and we've got hers. Give them all their cup of tea, take details, name, address, the usual, keep it all low key and chatty, but see if you can get any of them to let on they've been here before.'

Headingley was looking puzzled and the Fat Man said with didactic clarity, 'Tie 'em in with last summer's raid here and we're well on the way to tying 'em in with Redcar.'

'Oh yes. I see. You really think then - '

'Not paid to think, George. I employ someone to think for me, and the bugger's at a funeral so we'll have to get by on our lonesome. Patten!'

Closed doors and thick walls were no sound barrier and a moment later the TecSec man appeared.

Dalziel said, 'The ladies are going along to the staff canteen for refreshments then they'll be going home. I presume you've got all your animals locked away?'

'Don't worry. They won't get anywhere near the labs,' said Patten confidently.

'Nay, lad, it's your men I'm talking about. No more strong-arm stuff, you with me?'

'Because they're female, you mean? Listen, that chunky cow, the one they call Cap, she nearly took my head off with a bloody great pair of wire cutters.'

'Is that right? Your head looks OK to me,' said Dalziel examining it critically.

'No thanks to her,' said Patten. 'All I'm saying is, if my men get assaulted . . .'

'They should count their blessings,' said Dalziel. 'There's a place in Harrogate where it costs good money to get beaten up by a handsome young woman. Like the address? All right, George? Everything under control?'

'Yes, sir. What about you, sir?' said George Headingley. 'Where are you going to be?'

'Me?' said Dalziel smacking his lips in anticipation. 'I'm going to be wherever Dr Batty keeps his single methanol.'

vii

As Pascoe drove north the following morning, the weather got worse but his mood got better. By the time he got within tuning distance of Radio Mid-Yorkshire, his car was being machine-gunned by horizontal hail, but the familiar mix of dated pops and parish pump gossip sounded in his ears like the first cuckoo of spring.

I must be turning into a Yorkshireman, he thought as he sang along with Boney M.

A newscast followed, a mixture of local and national. One item caught his attention.

'Police have confirmed the discovery last night of human remains in the grounds of Wanwood House, research headquarters of ALBA Pharmaceuticals. Tests to ascertain the cause of death are not yet complete and the police spokesman was unwilling to comment on reports that the discovery was made by a group of animal rights protesters.'

It sounded to Pascoe's experienced ear that Andy Dalziel was sitting tight on this one, and with one of those mighty buttocks in your face, even the voice of nation speaking unto nation got a bit muffled.

It also confirmed him in his half-formed resolution that it was worth diverting to dispose of Ada's ashes. Dalziel believed that time off on any pretext meant you owed him a week of twenty-five-hour days. With a possible murder on his hands, he'd probably raise that to thirty, particularly as Pascoe had been in sole charge of the investigation into the ALBA raid last summer. It had only merited a DCI's involvement because of the possible connection with the killing at FG's labs up at Redcar. There's always a certain pleasure in solving another mob's case, but Dalziel who was a good delegator had neither interfered nor complained when Pascoe had reported that the investigation was going nowhere. On the other hand Pascoe did not doubt he would be held personally responsible for not having noticed the presence of human remains out at Wanwood even if they turned out to have been buried six feet under!

So, dispose of Ada, else the urn could end up sitting on his mantelpiece for some time, and his guess was that even someone as conscientiously house-humble as Ellie would draw the line at such an hydriotaphic ornament.

Leeds was only a little out of his way. With luck he could be in and out in half an hour.

This pious hope died in a one-way system as unforgiving as a posting to the Western Front. Even when he arrived where he wanted to be, where he wanted to be didn't seem to be there any more. At least the hail had stopped and the blustery wind was tearing holes in the cloud big enough for the occasional ray of sun to penetrate.

He pulled into the car park of a pile-'em-high-sell-'em-cheap supermarket and addressed an apparently shell-shocked old man in charge of a convoy of errant trolleys.

'Is this Kirkton Road?'

'Aye,' said the man.

'I'm looking for the West Yorkshire Fusiliers' barracks.'

'You've missed it,' said the man.

'Oh God. You mean it's back along there,' said Pascoe unhappily regarding the one-way street he had just with such pain negotiated.

'Nay, you've missed it by more 'n ten years. Wyfies amalgamated wi' South Yorks Rifles way back. Shifted to their barracks in Sheffield. Call themselves the Yorkshire Fusiliers now. War Office sold this site for development.'

'Bugger,’ said Pascoe.

Ada's wishes were precise if curious.
My ashes should he taken by the executor of my will and scattered around the Headquarters of the West Yorkshire Fusiliers in Kirkton Road, Leeds.

Knowing her feelings about the army, Pascoe did not doubt that her motive was derisory. She would probably have liked to leave instructions that the urn was to be hurled through a window but knew she would need to moderate her gesture if she hoped to have it carried out. But moderation must surely stop a long way short of being scattered in a car park!

'Museum's still here but.’ said the man, happy to extend this interruption of his tedious task.

'Where?' said Pascoe hopefully.

'Yon place.'

The man pointed to a tall narrow granite building standing at the far end of the car park, glaring with military scorn at the Scandinavian ski-lodge frivolity of the supermarket.

'Thanks,' said Pascoe.

He drove towards the museum and parked before it. Close up the building looked even more as if it had been bulled, boxed and blanco'd ready for inspection. Pascoe collected the urn from the boot, scuffed his feet on the tarmac to make sure he wasn't tracking any dirt, and went up the steps.

The lintel bore a mahogany board on which was painted a badge consisting of a white rose under a fleur-de-lis, with beneath it
WEST YORKSHIRE FUSILIERS - Regimental Museum.
The paint was fresh and bright, the brass door knob gleamed like a sergeant major's eye, and even the letter box had a military sharpness which probably terrified any pacifist postmen.

Pascoe turned the knob, checked to be sure he hadn't left fingerprints, and entered.

He found himself in a large high-ceilinged room, lined with display cabinets and hung with tattered flags. It was brightly lit and impeccably clean, but that didn't stop the air from being musty with the smell of old unhappy far-off things and battles long ago.

Pascoe moved swiftly through a series of smaller rooms without finding any survivors. He even tried calling aloud but there was no response.

Sod it! he thought. The absence of witnesses should be making things a lot easier. All he had to do was scatter and scarper! But somehow, even without a witness, the thought of sullying these immaculate surfaces with powdered Ada was hard for an obsessively tidy man. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust .. . but there had to be some old dust for the new dust to go to!

He tried a pinch in the darkest corner he could find but it stood out like a smear of coke on a nun's moustache. Finally he settled on a fireplace. Even this looked to have been untroubled by coal for a hundred years, and the Victorian fire irons which flanked it stood as neat and shiny as weapons in an armoury. But it must have known ash in its time. And what after all was this philopolemic building but a mausoleum in need of a body?

His conscience thus quietened, Pascoe unscrewed the top of the urn, took out a handful of dust, examined it for fear, found it, and with an atavistic prayer, threw it into the grate.

'What the hell do you think you're playing at?' demanded an outraged voice.

He turned his head and looked up at a tall grey-haired man wearing an indignant expression, a piratical eye patch and a hairy tweed jacket with the right sleeve pinned emptily across the breast.

Time, thought Pascoe, for the disarming smile, particularly as the man's present hand was pointing what looked like a flintlock pistol very steadily at his head.

'You may find this a trifle hard to believe,' said Pascoe. 'But I do hope you are going to try.'

viii

It was clear that Troll Longbottom's forecast was right. These bones were going to be a long time coming.

The drenching dark which had finally made them abandon the hunt the previous night had been replaced by fitful sunlight, but visibility did little to make the job more attractive.

'Could lose a man down there,' said Wield looking down into the water-filled crater.

'I can think of a couple we'd not miss,' said Dalziel. 'Even if we pump it out, the mud's going to be a problem.'

'The lads last night reported a lot of big granite slabs,' said Wield. 'They should give us something to work from. But you're right. We could spend more time digging each other out than old bones.'

'Same thing in my case,' said Dalziel. 'Good God, have you got a twin or what?'

This last was to Troll Longbottom who was edging his way towards them along the duckboards.

'Just thought I'd check to see if you had anything more for me yet,' he said with a smile which wouldn't have looked out of place at a pirate masthead.

'Oh aye?' said Dalziel. 'If they'd asked you to take a look at Julius sodding Caesar, you'd have told 'em to wait till they invented the video camera. So how come twice in twelve hours I've found you up to your fetlocks in clart, breathing fresh air?'

'Friendship, Andy. Friendship.'

'Well thanks a lot, Troll. I didn't realize you cared.'

'Not for you,' said the pathologist with a grimace not so different from his smile. 'For David Batty.'

'What's that mean? You shagging his missus or something?'

'Or something, Andy. So, anything more for me to look at?'

'Give us a chance! And did you not get plenty last night? Thought all you needed for a life history was a fingernail and a pinch of belly-button fluff.'

'You flatter me,' said Longbottom. 'But I do need just a little more in order to confirm my preliminary dating.'

'You've got a dating? Why'd you not say so? Come on, let's hear it.'

'I should say from what I've seen so far that the remains were certainly more than five years old.'

'More than five?' echoed Dalziel in disgust. 'Is that the best you can manage? I've got lads just out of training could have come up with that!'

'Well, it
was
mainly monosyllabic, wasn't it? What I really need is a jawbone. You can tell a lot from dental work. And a bit of flesh would be a real godsend.'

He spoke with such enthusiasm that Dalziel laughed.

'Tell you what, Troll,' he said. 'If I were you, I'd turn vegetarian.'

'And I you,' said the pathologist elliptically, prodding the Fat Man's gut. 'Now I must be off. Some of us have work to do.'

'I'll be in touch,' bellowed Dalziel after him, then turning to Wield he asked, 'So, what do you think?'

'Bit of mutual backscratching?' suggested Wield. 'This Batty's not just Research Director, he's the son and heir of Thomas Batty who owns the whole company. Useful contact for Mr Longbottom.'

'Don't use a lot of drugs when your specialty's dead 'uns,' objected Dalziel.

'I think you'll find Mr Longbottom's an influential man on his NHS Trust's governing body, sir. Also I hear he's got a twenty-per-cent share in that new private hospital on the Scarborough Road.'