Mr Polchard’s property, every one of these houses would be reduced to rubble within a fortnight. Then they left. Fifteen minutes later his garden shed blew up and burned with such ferocity it was a pile of cinders long before the fire brigade got near. No complaint was made, but Police Intelligence soon picked up the story, which Dalziel retailed now, at length, to signal his interest in Roote was over.
But Pascoe listened with barely concealed impatience to the oft-told tale and used it as a cue to wrest the subject back.
‘Polchard’s not the only one who’s good at fires,’ he said. ‘This fire Roote writes about at St Godric’s, I’ve got several newspaper reports here and I’ve been on to the Cambridge Fire Service Investigation Department and they’re getting back to me …’
‘Hold on, lad. Stop right there,’ said Dalziel. ‘I’ve not had this letter X-rayed and tested for poisoned ink like you, but I have read it, and I don’t recall owt in it coming in hosepipe distance of an admission of arson! Did I miss summat? Wieldy, how about you?’
The sergeant shook his head.
‘No, definitely no admission, not as such …’
‘There you go again. Not as such! As what then if not such?’
Pascoe had had enough.
He interrupted angrily, ‘For Christ’s sake, what’s up with you two? It’s as plain as the nose on your face, he’s mocking us, that’s the whole point of the letter. Even without the letter, I’d have known something was wrong. Look at the facts. Franny Roote is a nobody, an ex-con, working as a gardener. Then his tutor, Sam Johnson, gets killed and Roote manages to sweet-talk Johnson’s sister into dropping his almost completed book on Beddoes into Roote’s lap. Suddenly from being an academic nobody, he’s set for the big league. One obstacle – there’s competition in the shape of this guy Albacore, who looks set to get his oeuvre in the shops several months earlier. Roote and Albacore meet. Albacore thinks he’s cut a deal. Take Roote on board, squeeze the juice of Johnson’s researches out of him, and then, of course, he’d be able to drop Roote like the nasty little turd he is. Only he doesn’t know yet that this turd’s got teeth.’
Dalziel who’d been listening with his great maw open in maximum gobstopped mode burst out, ‘A turd with teeth! I told thee, this is what comes of reading modern poetry!’
Pascoe who was a trifle vain about his style looked embarrassed but pressed on, ‘But what happens? There’s a fire and Albacore ends up dead and his work goes up in smoke. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Like I say, I’d have been suspicious if I’d read about it in the paper. But that’s not enough for the scrote! He has to write to me and gloat about it!’
‘Gloat? I got no gloat. How about you, Wieldy? You step in any gloat? And if you say not as such, I’ll pull your tongue out and ram it up your neb!’
Wield touched his lips with his tongue as if rehearsing the manoeuvre and said, ‘Not … that I could say definitely was gloating. But like I say, if Pete’s got a feeling … and I agree that Roote’s a tricky bastard …’
‘Not so tricky we didn’t bang him up,’ said Dalziel complacently.
‘He’s had the benefit of a prison education since then,’ said Wield.
He was speaking figuratively but the Fat Man pretended to take him literally.
‘Fair do’s but,’ he said. ‘He didn’t come out a sociologist like most of the buggers as get educated inside. I really hate it when I hear one of them bastards on the chat shows.’
The DCI closed his eyes and Wield said quickly, ‘Mebbe we should wait and see what the Cambridge fire people say.’
The phone rang so aptly that he wasn’t in the least surprised when Pascoe, who’d snatched it up, mouthed Cambridge at them.
Eyes less keen than Dalziel’s and Wield’s could have worked out it wasn’t good news.
Pascoe said, ‘Thanks a lot. If anything else comes up … yes, thank you. Goodbye.’
He put the receiver down.
‘So?’ said Dalziel.
‘Nothing suspicious,’ said Pascoe. ‘As far as they can make out, the fire started in a leather armchair, probably caused by a lighted cigar butt which had slipped down behind the cushion. Only sign of any accelerant was an exploded brandy decanter.’
‘Aye, well, bunch of drunken dons smoking big cigars in a building that’s probably failed every fire regulation laid down over five hundred years, that’s asking for trouble,’ said Dalziel. ‘Well, I’m glad we’ve got that out of the way.’
‘For God’s sake,’ said Pascoe, ‘you don’t think that someone like Roote was going to get to work with a can of paraffin, do you? No, he was there, he tells us he was there, puffing away on a cigar with the best of them. That’s what probably gave him the idea.’
‘Oh aye? You got second sight now, Peter?’ said the Fat Man. ‘Pity they don’t take account of that in the Criminal Evidence Act. I think that’s enough about Roote for one day. I don’t mind my officers having a hobby so long as they do it in their own time.’
Angrily Pascoe retorted, ‘And how do you feel about your officers ignoring prima-facie evidence of crime? Sir?’
‘Prima facie? That ’ud be an Italian waiter with his throat cut and Roote standing over him with a knife in his hand? Wieldy, them statistics I’m doing for the Chief, how’m I getting along with them?’
‘You’ve finished them, sir.’
‘Have I? Jesus, I must’ve sat up half the night. It’s no fun being a superintendent. You’d best come along to my office in five minutes and tell me what I think of them afore I pass them on to Desperate Dan. How’s young Ivor settling back in, by the way?’
Ivor was Dalziel’s sobriquet for DC Shirley Novello, who had taken a bullet in the shoulder during the summer and only recently returned to work full time.
‘Looking fine, sir,’ said Wield. ‘Very sharp and eager to make up for lost time.’
‘Grand. Now we just need Bowler back and we’ll only be slightly under fucking strength instead of seriously under fucking strength. When’s he due to start?’
‘This week, Wednesday I think, sir.’
‘Not till Wednesday?’ said Dalziel incredulously. ‘You’d think the bugger had had major surgery. Here, pass us that phone and I’ll give him a wake-up call.’
Up till now Dalziel had made little effort to hurry Bowler from his sickbed, knowing how easy it was for a convalescent hero to be turned into a gung-ho cop who’d killed a suspect through use of excessive force. But now the Board of Enquiry had finally cleared Bowler of all culpability, the case was altered.
‘Shouldn’t bother,’ said Pascoe. ‘I gather Ms Pomona’s taken him away for a weekend of rest and recuperation. They won’t be back till later today.’
‘What? Off with his light o’ love, is he? If a man’s fit enough to shag, he’s fit enough to work, says so in the Bible. Wait till I see him.
