Wanwood House had had pieces added to it in the modern Portaloo style, but basically it was a square solid Victorian building, its proportions not palatial but just far enough outside the human scale to put a peasant in his place. Thus did the nineteenth-century Yorkshireman underline the natural order of things.
His twentieth-century successors were more self-effacing it seemed.
âDonât advertise much,â observed Dalziel looking at a discreet plaque which read ALBA PHARMACEUTICALS Research Division. âAnd thereâs nowt on the gate.â
âMight as well have put a neon sign on the roof for all the good itâs done them,â said Longbottom ringing the bell.
The door was opened by a man in a dark green uniform with the name âPATTENâ and a logo consisting of an orange sunburst and the letters âTecSecâ at his breast. He was leanly muscular with close-cropped hair and a long scar down the right cheek which, helped by a slightly askew nose, suggested that at some time the whole face had been removed and rather badly stitched back on. Dalziel viewed him with the distaste of a professional soldier for private armies. But at least the man sized them up at a glance and didnât do anything silly like asking for identification.
He ushered them through the nineteenth into the twentieth century in the form of a modern reception area with a stainless-steel desk, pink fitted carpet and hessian-hung walls from which depended what might have been a selection of Prince Charlesâs watercolours left standing in the rain.
One of three doors almost invisible in their hessian camouflage opened and a slim fair-haired man in his thirties and a dinner jacket, who reminded Dalziel of someone but he couldnât quite say who, came towards them saying, âMy dear chap, youâre soaked. No need, Iâm sure. The fuzz must have plenty of pensioned-off sawbones all too keen to earn a bob doing basics.â
Assuming none of this solicitude was aimed at him, Dalziel said, âAye, and we sometimes make do with a barber and a leech. Youâll be Batty, I daresay.â
âIndeed,â said the man regarding Dalziel with the air of one nostalgic for the days of tradesmenâs entrances. âAnd you â¦?â
âSuperintendent Andrew Dalziel,â offered Longbottom.
âAh, the great white chief. Took your time getting here, superintendent.â
âGot the call on my way back from a meeting in Nottingham,â said Dalziel. He saw Longbottom smile his awareness that the meeting in question had taken place under floodlights on a rugby pitch.
âWell, at least now youâre here, perhaps you can tell the bunch of incompetents whoâve preceded you to get their fingers out and start imposing some sort of order on this mess.â
âIâll do my best,â said the Fat Man mildly. âTalking of messes, sir, thatâs a right one youâve got out there. Looks like a health hazard to me.â
âOn the contrary, itâs a cordon sanitaire,â said Batty. âAfter the damage those lunatics did last summer, it was quite clearly beyond the police forceâs competency to protect us, so we took steps of our own to thwart these criminals.â
âCriminals,â echoed Dalziel as if the word were new to him. âYouâll be prosecuting then, sir?â
Batty said, âIf itâs left up to me, we will! Normally we donât care to give these lunatics the oxygen of publicity, but I suspect in this case, some exposure is already unavoidable?â
âAye,â said Dalziel. âHaving a body dug up in your back yard usually gives off a lot worse stink than oxygen.â
âAs I feared, though I suppose the exact nature of the publicity depends on how diplomatically things are handled. Troll, what can you tell us?â
Dalziel gave the pathologist a look which dared him to speculate an inch further than heâd done on the edge of the crater.
âEarly days, David, early days,â murmured Longbottom.
âAnd getting close to early hours,â said Dalziel looking at his watch. âMebbe I could see the witnesses now â¦?â
âYes, I suppose so. Patten will take you along. Troll, letâs try to get your outside dry and your inside suitably wetted.â
With an apologetic mop and mow at Dalziel, the pathologist let himself be led away. Dalziel who kept his slates as carefully as any shopkeeper, chalked up another small debt against Battyâs name and followed the security man through one of the hessian doors and down a long corridor.
âWeâve got them locked up down here,â he said.
âLocked up?â
âThey are trespassers, and once they got into the building, they ran amok. One of my men got hit in the stomach, I was threatened â¦â
âOh aye?â said Dalziel, interested. Mebbe this could have some connection with Redcar after all. âAnyone get really hurt?â
âMore dignity than owt else,â said Patten enigmatically. âThatâs where they are.â
Theyâd turned left at a T-junction in the corridor. Ahead, Dalziel had already observed another TecSec man slouching against a door, his head wreathed in smoke. As soon as he became aware of their approach, he straightened his uniform and snapped to attention. There was no sign of a cigarette. Dalziel admired the legerdemain and bet on the big front pocket of the dark green trousers.
âAt ease, Jimmy,â said Patten. âThis is Superintendent Dalziel.â
âI know,â said the man. âHow do you do, sir.â
Dalziel was used to being recognized but liked to know why.
âDo I know you?â he said.
âNot exactly, sir. But I know you. I was at Dartleby nick till I took the pension. Uniformed. PC Howard, sir.â
âJumped ship, did you? All right, lad. You can piss off now.â
The man looked unhappily at Patten who said, âWe do have our orders â¦â
âThatâs what Eichmann said, and they hanged him. So bugger off. And by the way, Howard â¦â
âYes, sir?â
âYour cockâs on fire.â
Leaving the ex-policeman beating at his pocket, Dalziel stepped into the room and halted dead in his tracks.
âBloody hell,â he said.
Gently steaming against a big radiator were eight women, each mucky enough to have set Dalzielâs granny spinning in her grave.
That Wield, he swore to himself. He kept quiet on purpose. Iâll punch the bugger handsome!
One woman detached herself from the huddle and came towards him, saying, âThank God, hereâs tâorgan grinder. Now mebbe we can get shut of the monkeys.â
She glared towards Patten as she spoke. He returned the glare indifferently. Dalziel on the other hand studied the woman with the intense interest of a gourmet served a new dish. Not that there was much to whet the appetite. She had less meat on her than a picked-over chicken wing and her cheeks were pale and hollow as wind-carved limestone.
Memory stirred. That business down the mine when Pascoe got hurt â¦
He said, âYouâre one of them Women Against Pit Closures lot from Burrthorpe. Walker, isnât it? Wendy Walker?â
She stepped by him and slammed the door in Pattenâs face. Then she said, âThatâs right. Got a fag?â
He pulled out a packet. He rarely smoked now, not because of health fears, still less because of social pressures, but because heâd found it was blunting his ability to distinguish single malts with a single sniff. But he still carried fags, finding them professionally useful both as ice-breakers and cage-rattlers.
âYouâre a long way off the coalface, luv,â he said, flicking his old petrol lighter.
âCoal?â
She drew the word into herself with a long breath that reduced the cigarette by an inch of ash.
âWhatâs that?â she said on the outgoing puff. âThey shut Burrthorpe last year like theyâve shut most on tâothers. Them bastards made a lot of promises they didnât keep, but when they said theyâd pay us back for the Strike, by God they kept that one!â
âItâs still a long way from home.â
âHome is where the hate is, and thereâs nowt left to hate in Burrthorpe, just an empty hole in the ground where there used to be a community.â
âIâm sorry to interrupt this reunion and the Channel 4 documentary, but you, whoever you are, how long are we to be restrained by these thugs in these disgusting conditions?â
The voice, as up-to-Oxford county as Walkerâs was down-to-earth Yorkshire, belonged to a small sturdy woman, her short-cropped black hair accentuating the determined cast of her handsome features. This one too brought a memory popping up in Dalzielâs mind, hot as a piece of fresh toast, of a woman heâd known and liked â more than liked â down in Lincolnshire after Pascoeâs wedding ⦠He hadnât thought about her for years. What could have pressed that button? he wondered as he stared with undisguised pleasure at the way this womanâs wet sweater clung to her melopeponic breasts.
âNay, lass,â he said. âNo oneâs restraining you, whoever you are. You can bugger off any time you like, once youâve made your statement. You have been asked to make a statement, Miss er â¦?â
âMarvell. Amanda Marvell. Yes, weâve been asked but most of us are refusing till such time as we have proper representation.â
She glared accusingly, and in Dalzielâs eyes, most becomingly, at Wendy Walker who snapped, âYeah, Iâve made my statement. In fact, when it comes down to it, Iâm the only one whoâs really got owt to state. Mebbe more than youâll care to hear, Cap. All I want is to get out of here.â
âYou surprise me, Wendy,â said Marvell, all cool control. âWhat happened to all the big talk about going for the jugular and taking no prisoners? First sign of trouble, and youâre all for breaking ranks.â
âYeah? Mebbe I should have been more choosy who I formed ranks with in the first place,â snarled Walker.
âReally? You mean we donât match up to the standards of your mining chums? Well, I can see that. Once they encountered real opposition, they pretty soon crumbled too, didnât they?â
There was a time when a provocation like this to a Burrthorpe lass would have started World War Three, and indeed a small red spot at the heart of those pallid cheeks seemed to indicate some incipient nuclear activity. But before she could explode, a round-faced blonde who looked even wetter and more miserable than the rest said, âWendyâs right, Cap. This is serious stuff. It was bones we found out there, a body. Letâs just make our statements and go home. Please.â
Marvellâs et-tu-Brute look was even more devastating than her jâaccuse glare, and Dalziel was experiencing a definite wringing of the withers when the door opened and George Headingleyâs broad anxious face appeared.
âHello, sir. Heard you were here. Can we have a word?â
âIf we must,â said Dalziel reluctantly, and with a last mnemonic look at Cap Marvellâs gently steaming bosom, he went out into the corridor.
âAll right, George,â he said. âFill me in.â
Headingley, a pink-faced middle-aged man with a sad moustache and a cream-tea paunch, said, âThat lot in there belong to ANIMA, the animal rights group and they wereââ
Dalziel said, âI donât give a toss if they belong to the Dagenham Girl Pipers and theyâve come here to rehearse, theyâre witnesses is all that matters. So what did they witness?â
âWell, Iâve got one statement on tape so far. The others arenât being very cooperative but this lass â¦â
âAye. Wendy Walker. First time in her life sheâs been cooperative with the police, I bet. Letâs hear this tape then.â
Headingley led him to a small office where the recorder was set up. Dalziel listened intently then said, âThis Cap, the one with the chest â¦â
âMarvell. Captain Marvell, get it? Sheâs the boss, except that she and Walker donât see eye to eye.â
âI noticed. She sounds a bit of a hard case.â
âYes, sir. Patten, thatâs the TecSec chief, reckons she had serious thoughts about taking a swing at him.â
âCould pack quite a punch with that weight behind it,â said Dalziel, smiling reminiscently.
âIt were a set of wire cutters she was swinging. Weâve got them here, sir. Give you a real headache if these connected.â
Dalziel looked at the heavy implement and said, âBag it and have it checked for blood.â
âBut no one got hurt,â protested Headingley.
âNot here they didnât.â
âYou donât mean you think maybe Redcar ⦠but theyâre women, sir!â
âWorldâs changing, George,â said Dalziel. âSo what else have you been doing, apart from collecting one statement?â
âWell, I had a talk with Dr Batty when I got here â¦â
âHe was here when you arrived?â
âYes, sir. Expect that Patten rang him first. Then I got things organized outside, and I thought Iâd better see if we could rustle up some sort of refreshment for the ladies. I asked that fellow Howard â he used to be one of ours â but he said he couldnât leave the door, so I went to look for myself. Found the staff canteen, got a tea urn brewing â¦â
âYou must be the highest paid tea boy since Geoffrey Howe left the cabinet,â 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.
âSo what now, sir?â said Headingley. âStatements?â
Dalziel thought then said, âWalkerâs the only one with owt to state and weâve 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 theyâve been here before.â
Headingley was looking puzzled and the Fat Man said with didactic clarity, âTie âem in with last summerâs raid here and weâre well on the way to tying âem in with Redcar.â
âOh yes. I see. You really think thenââ
âNot paid to think, George. I employ someone to think for me, and the buggerâs at a funeral so weâll have to get by on our lonesome. Patten!â
Closed doors and thick walls were no sound barrier and a moment later the TecSec man appeared.
Dalziel said, âThe ladies are going along to the staff canteen for refreshments then theyâll be going home. I presume youâve got all your animals locked away?â
âDonât worry. They wonât get anywhere near the labs,â said Patten confidently.
âNay, lad, itâs your men Iâm talking about. No more strong-arm stuff, you with me?â
âBecause theyâre 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.â
âIs that right? Your head looks OK to me,â said Dalziel examining it critically.
âNo thanks to her,â said Patten. âAll Iâm saying is, if my men get assaulted â¦â
âThey should count their blessings,â said Dalziel. âThereâs 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?â
âYes, sir. What about you, sir?â said George Headingley. âWhere are you going to be?â
âMe?â said Dalziel smacking his lips in anticipation. âIâm going to be wherever Dr Batty keeps his single methanol.â
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.
âPolice 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.â
It sounded to Pascoeâs 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 Adaâs 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, heâd 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 DCIâs involvement because of the possible connection with the killing at FGâs labs up at Redcar. Thereâs always a certain pleasure in solving another mobâs 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 didnât 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-âem-high-sell-âem-cheap supermarket and addressed an apparently shell-shocked old man in charge of a convoy of errant trolleys.
âIs this Kirkton Road?â
âAye,â said the man.
âIâm looking for the West Yorkshire Fusiliersâ barracks.â
âYouâve missed it,â said the man.
âOh God. You mean itâs back along there,â said Pascoe unhappily regarding the one-way street he had just with such pain negotiated.
âNay, youâve missed it by more ân ten years. Wyfies amalgamated wiâ South Yorks Rifles way back. Shifted to their barracks in Sheffield. Call themselves the Yorkshire Fusiliers now. War Office sold this site for development.â
âBugger,â said Pascoe.
Adaâs wishes were precise if curious. My ashes should be 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!
âMuseumâs still here but,â said the man, happy to extend this interruption of his tedious task.
âWhere?â said Pascoe hopefully.
âYon place.â
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.
âThanks,â 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 blancoâd ready for inspection. Pascoe collected the urn from the boot, scuffed his feet on the tarmac to make sure he wasnât 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 â Regimental Museum. The paint was fresh and bright, the brass door knob gleamed like a sergeant majorâs 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 hadnât 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 didnât 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 nunâs 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.
âWhat the hell do you think youâre playing at?â 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 manâs present hand was pointing what looked like a flintlock pistol very steadily at his head.
âYou may find this a trifle hard to believe,â said Pascoe. âBut I do hope you are going to try.â
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.