He was on his feet shaking the newcomer’s hand like a bushman killing a snake. Hiller had recovered from his shock and was now regarding Dalziel with wary neutrality.
‘How are you, er, Andy?’ he said.
‘I’m grand. And who’s your friend?’
‘This is Detective-Inspector Stubbs. Stubbs, meet Detective-Superintendent Dalziel, Head of Mid-Yorkshire CID.’
Hiller’s tone underlined the title.
Stubbs held out his hand. ‘Hi. Glad to meet you, Supe.’
‘Supe?’ echoed Dalziel. ‘Up here we drink supe. Or if it’s homemade, we chew it. Will you be staying in West Yorkshire long enough to learn our little ways?’
Stubbs glanced at Hiller, who said, ‘Actually, er, Andy, we’re on our way to your neck of the woods. This is just in nature of a courtesy call on Mrs Tallantire in passing.’
‘I see. In passing Skipton? On your way to Mid-Yorks HQ? From South Thames?’
As he spoke, Dalziel’s finger traced two sides of a rectangle in the air, and he smiled an alligator’s smile.
‘Now that’s what I call courtesy! Maudie, isn’t it nice of Geoff here to come so far out of his way just for old time’s sake? Incidentally, Geoff, I presume you’re expected at my shop? I was talking to the Chief yesterday afternoon and he said nowt.’
‘The Home Office should have phoned Mr Trimble this morning,’ said Hiller.
‘That explains it. It’s my day off, which is why I’m here. Social call on an old friend. Mebbe it’s your day off too?’
‘No,’ said Hiller. ‘Not really. I’m afraid there is a business element to my call, Mrs Tallantire. You may have heard that some question has arisen as to the safety of the verdict in the Mickledore Hall murder case. In fact, Cecily Kohler has been released and the Home Office has ordered an inquiry into the affair. Your late husband, Detective-Superintendent Tallantire, conducted the original investigation and will naturally figure in the inquiry which I have been instructed to take charge of.’
‘Now isn’t that funny? Andy and I were only just now talking –’
‘And you’ve come to warn Maudie that the Press will probably be sniffing around,’ intervened Dalziel. ‘Now that is kind. I leave you in good hands, Maudie. Me, I’d best be off. Geoff, I know it’s not a nice job you’ve got, poking around in other buggers’ rubbish bins, but where’d we be without the garbage collectors, eh? I promise you, you’ll get nowt but cooperation from my department. I’ll see you tomorrow, likely.’
Hiller tried to look suitably grateful but couldn’t get beyond the expression of a postman assured the Rottweiler is just a big softy.
‘Actually, er, Andy, we hope to be in situ later today.’
‘You can be up to your necks in situ for me, Geoff, but it’s my day off, remember? What did you think I was going to do? Head straight back and start shredding the files?’
He laughed, kissed Maudie on the cheek and said, ‘Take care, luv. I’ll see myself out. See you soon.’
He went out, closing the lounge door firmly behind him. As he opened the front door noisily, he reached into the cloakroom, picked up the suitcase and exited with a slam that shook the stained glass panel.
Separating Maudie’s driveway from her neighbour’s was a low brick wall. He leaned over and placed the case behind it. As he reached the gate, he heard the front door open behind him. He turned to see Stubbs coming out. He’d always been a distrustful bastard, that Hiller. It was good to know some things didn’t change.
‘Need something from the car,’ said Stubbs as he joined him.
‘Oh aye? Hair curlers, is it?’ said Dalziel.
As he drove away he saw the inspector return to the house without opening his car. He drove slowly round the block, parked outside Maudie’s neighbour’s and walked briskly up the drive. A window opened as he retrieved the suitcase and he looked up to see a woman viewing him with grave suspicion.
‘Yes?’ she called sharply.
Dalziel pulled the video out of his pocket, and held it up like a votive offering.
‘Are you on line with the Almighty, sister?’ he intoned. ‘Are you plugged in to the Lord? I’ve got a video here that’ll turn your telly into the Ark of the Covenant!’
‘No, thank you!’ she cried in alarm and slammed the window shut.
Shaking his head, he returned to the car.
It was like he’d always thought.
There was no love of religion in West Yorkshire.
‘I am not surprised; I knew you were here … if you really don’t want to endanger my existence – go your way as soon as possible and let me go mine. I am busy. I am an official.’
‘An habitual criminal is easy to spot. Ask him, “Where were you when President Kennedy was shot?” and he’ll say, “I was at home in bed reading a book. I can bring six witnesses to prove it.”’
There was a dutiful titter. Perhaps it’s the way I tell them, thought Peter Pascoe.
He looked at the twenty young faces before him. Children of the ’seventies. Adolescents of the ’eighties. Lawmen of the ’nineties. God help them.
He said gently, ‘Who was President Kennedy?’ Pause. A lowering of eyes to avoid catching his. Make the question easier. ‘What country was he president of?’
An uncertain hand crept up.
‘America, sir?’
‘That’s right. Would that be North or South America?’
The irony of superiors is unfair because it forces you to take it literally.
He went on quickly before anyone could try an answer, ‘What happened to him? Well, I told you that. He got shot. Does anyone know the year?’
They probably didn’t know this year! No. That was unfair. He was confusing truth and truism. Everyone remembers what they were doing when Kennedy died. Everyone except a few billion who weren’t born; or didn’t know of his existence, or didn’t give a toss that it was over. Everyone in America, then? Maybe. Probably their kids had the date and data drummed into them with the Pledge of Allegiance. But this lot, why should they be expected to know anything about other people’s myths?
‘Was it nineteen sixty-three, sir?’
‘Yes. Yes, it was.’
He looked at the speaker with disproportionate pleasure. Another hand was waving urgently. Perhaps the floodgates had opened and all his cynical doubts about the ignorance of this generation were going to be washed away. He pointed at the hand-waver, nodded, waited to be amazed.
‘Sir, it’s half past. We’re due in the gym with Sergeant Rigg.’
He knew Sergeant Rigg. A no-neck Welshman with a black belt and a short way with latecomers.
‘You’d better go, then.’
He looked at his notes. He still had three sides to go. Before she left, Ellie had warned him to go easy on the midnight oil. (Trying to offer a pastoral substitute for scarcer emotional goods?) He pushed the distasteful thought away and concentrated on her words.
‘You start by thinking if you speak very slowly you might spin it out for five minutes. You end by gabbling