Again he smiled and Pascoe felt the charm again.
He returned the smile and said, ‘Mr Dalziel’s a very perceptive man. He apologizes again for not being able to see you himself.’
‘Aye, well, I won’t hide that I’d rather be talking to him. I’ve known him a long time, you see.’
‘He’d probably be available tomorrow,’ said Pascoe hopefully.
‘No, I’m here now, and I might as well speak while it’s fresh in my mind. If Andy Dalziel says you’re all right to talk to, then that’s good enough for me.’
‘And Mr Dalziel told me that anything you had to say was bound to be worth listening to,’ said Pascoe, hoping to achieve brevity if he couldn’t manage postponement.
What Dalziel had actually said was, ‘I haven’t got time to waste on Dandy Dick this morning, but he’s bent on seeing someone pretty quick, so I’ve landed him with you. Look after him, will you? I owe him a favour.’
‘I see,’ said Pascoe. ‘And you repay favours by not letting people see you?’
Dalziel’s eyes glittered malevolently in his bastioned face like a pair of medieval defenders wondering where to pour the boiling oil, and Pascoe hastily added, ‘What precisely does this chap Elgood want to talk to us about?’
‘Christ knows,’ said Dalziel, ‘and you’re going to find out. Take him serious, lad. Even if he goes round the houses, as he can sometimes, and you start getting bored, or if you’re tempted to have a superior little laugh at his fancy waistcoats and gold knick-knacks, take him serious. He came up from nowt, he’s sharp, he’s influential, he’s not short of a bob or two, and he’s a devil with the ladies! I’ve bulled you up to him, so don’t let me down by showing your ignorance.’
At that moment Dalziel had been summoned to the urgent meeting with the ACC which was his excuse for not seeing Elgood.
‘Here, I’ll need some background,’ Pascoe had protested in panic. ‘Who is he, anyway? What’s he do?’
But Dalziel had only smiled from the doorway, showing yellow teeth like a reef through sea-mist, ‘You’ll have seen his name, lad,’ he said. ‘I’ll guarantee that.’
Then he’d gone. Pascoe was still none the wiser, so now he put on a serious, no-nonsense expression.
‘Can we get down to details, Mr Elgood? This man we’re talking about, he works for your company, you say? Now, your work … what does that involve precisely?’
‘My work?’ said Elgood. ‘I’ll tell you about my work. I went into the army at eighteen, right at the start of the war. I could’ve stayed out easy enough, I was down the pit at the time, coal-face, and that was protected. But I thought, bugger it, I can spend the rest of my life hacking coal. So I took the king’s shilling and went off to look at the world through a rifle sight. Well, among all the bad times, I managed a few good times, and I wasn’t ready to go back down the pit when I came out. I’d put a bit of cash together one way and another, and I had a mate who was thinking the same way as me. We put our heads together to try to work out what’d be best to do. There was a shortage of everything in them years, so there was no shortage of opportunity, if you follow me. In the end, we settled on something to do with the building trade. Reconstruction, modernization, no matter how you looked at it, that was a trade that had to flourish.’
‘So you went into building,’ said Pascoe, with a sense of achievement.
‘Did I buggery!’ protested Elgood. ‘Do you know nowt about me? Me and my mate thought about it, I admit. But then we stumbled on this little business just about closed down during the war. They made pot-ware. Mainly them old jug-and-basin sets, you’ll likely have seen ’em in the antique shops. Jesus, the price they ask! It makes me weep sometimes to think …’
‘Elgood-ware!’ exclaimed Pascoe triumphantly. ‘On the lavatory bowls. I’ve seen it!’
‘I’ve no doubt you have if you’ve been around these parts long enough to pee,’ said Elgood smugly. ‘Though them with the name on’s becoming collectors’ pieces too. Lavs, washbasins, baths, sinks, we did the lot. It was hard to keep up with demand. Too many regulations, too little material, that was the trouble, but once you got the stuff, you stuffed the rules, I tell you. We expanded like mad. Then the technology began to change. It was all plastic and fibreglass and new composition stuff and we needed to refit throughout to keep up. There was no shortage of finance, we were a go-ahead business with a first-class record and reputation, but once the word gets out you’re after money, the big boys start moving in. To cut a long story short, we got taken over. We could have gone it alone, I was all for it myself, but my partner wanted out, and I.C.E. made a hell of a generous offer, with me guaranteed to stay in charge. Of course, the name disappeared from the company paper, but so what? I can take you to a hundred places round here where you can still see it. Some people write their names on water, Mr Pascoe. I wrote mine under it, mainly, and it’s still there when the water runs away!’
Pascoe smiled. Despite Elgood’s prolixity and his own weariness, he was beginning to like the man.
‘And the company’s name. Was it I.C.E. you said?’ he asked.
‘Industrial Ceramics of Europe, that means,’ said Elgood. ‘The UK domestic division’s my concern. Brand name Perfecta.’
‘Of course,’ said Pascoe. ‘I’ve driven past the works. And it’s there that these er-killings are taking place?’
‘I never said that. But he’s there. Some of the time.’
‘He?’
‘Him as does the killings.’
Pascoe sighed.
‘Mr Elgood, I know you’re concerned about confidentiality. And I can understand you’re worried about making a serious allegation against a colleague. But I’ve got to have some details. Can we start with a name? His name. The one who’s doing the killings.’
Elgood hesitated, then seemed to make up his mind.
Leaning forward, he whispered, ‘It’s Aldermann. Patrick Aldermann.’
(Hybrid tea. Profusely bloomed, richly scented, strongly resistant to disease and weather.)
Patrick Aldermann stood in his rose-garden, savoured the rich bouquet of morning air and counted his Blessings.
There were more than a dozen of them. It was one of his favourite HTs, but there were many close rivals: Doris Tysterman, so elegantly shaped, glowing in rich tangerine; Wendy Cussons, wine-red and making the air drunk with perfume; Piccadilly, its gold and scarlet bi-colouring dazzling the gaze till it was glad to alight on the clear rich yellow of King’s Ransom.
In fact it was foolish to talk of favourites either of variety or type. The dog-roses threading through the high hedge which ran round his orchard filled him with almost as much delight as the dawn-red blooms of the huge Eos bush towering over the lesser shrubs which surrounded it. It was beginning to be past its best now as June advanced, but the gardens of Rosemont were geared to bring on new growth and colour at every season so there was little time for regret.
He strolled across a broad square of lawn which was the only part of the extensive garden which fell short of excellence. Here his son David, eleven now and in his first year at boarding-school, played football in winter and cricket in summer. Here his daughter Diana, bursting with a six-year-old’s energy, loved to splash in the paddling pool, burrow in the sand-pit and soar on the tall swing. There would be a time when these childish pleasures would be left behind and the lawn could be carefully brought back to an uncluttered velvet perfection.