Arms and the Women. Reginald Hill
pocked and pitted surface of the moon, had learned to interpret a few of the sergeant’s expressions, said, ‘You look pleased.’
‘Something I recalled from house-to-house yesterday. One of your neighbours, Mrs Cavendish, noticed a car stopping at the end of the street then turning back when all the troops had turned up. Didn’t seem important then. But it popped into my mind just now when we got Mrs Aldermann’s description of the man who attacked her, so I checked it out.’
‘And?’
‘Her words were, the man was swarthy, moustachioed and sinister.’
‘That sounds like old Mrs C.,’ said Pascoe. ‘And the car?’
‘Metallic-blue. Sounds like a Golf. Could be owt or nowt but the description fits, sort of. She half remembered a bit of the number too, so if it turns out there was a blue Golf in the pub car park…’
‘Anyone ever tell you you’re a treasure?’ said Pascoe.
‘Not since breakfast. By the by, that guy we talked about this morning, the student, Franny Roote. I never saw him. This sound anything like?’
‘Not like the way he was back then. Size might fit, but he was blond.’
‘Perhaps prison’s turned him black.’
‘Perhaps. I’ll find out tomorrow. Somehow I doubt he’s got anything to do with this, but if he has, could be the sight of me will make a good gloat irresistible.’
‘You still fancy Cornelius, do you?’
‘Don’t know. Maybe. There’s something odd going on there. You know that they found this message on her computer at the bank? It just said, TIME TO GO. And there was another on her e-mail at her apartment. STILL HERE? OH DEAR. Unsourced, but dated the day she took off. So there’s someone in the background.’
‘Ollershaw, you think? Trying to scare her into making a run for it? But he didn’t want her caught and talking, so now he wants to pressure you to get her out?’
Wield’s tone was dubious.
‘Doesn’t sound likely, does it?’ said Pascoe. ‘And I tend to agree with Andy about Ollershaw. Slippery but not physical. Anyway, I’m back in court with her tomorrow, so if someone really is trying to twist my arm to go easy opposing the bail application, then they’ll need to get in touch soon.’
They had reached the pub.
The landlord greeted them with the wariness all landlords exhibit on spotting the fuzz on the premises, but soon relaxed when he understood the nature of their enquiries. Inured by long experience to disappointment or at best ambiguity, Pascoe was almost taken aback when Billy Soames said instantly, ‘Yeah. Sure. I remember them.’
‘Them?’
‘That’s right. I saw them arrive, two of them got out of the car, the little dark one set off down the road and the other one came in and ordered a pint of Guinness and a bag of crisps. First customer of the day. He sat there reading his paper for maybe three-quarters of an hour, then his mate looked through the door and sort of beckoned like he was in a hurry. And the pop-eyed one got up straightaway and went out.’
‘Pop-eyed? What do you mean?’
‘He had these sort of bulging eyes. Light-coloured hair going a bit thin. About forty. Big scar, newish-looking, along the left side of his head. Pasty complexion, didn’t look like he spent much time in the sun.’
‘And the car? Did you spot the make, Billy?’
‘Merc sports. White.’
‘Oh. Not a blue Golf,’ said Pascoe stupidly.
The landlord gave Pascoe a long-suffering look and said judiciously, ‘Well, it wasn’t blue, it was white, and it wasn’t a Golf, it was a Merc, so I’d have to say no, Peter, unless I’m deceived, it wasn’t a blue Golf. Sorry to be such a disappointment.’
‘You’ve done great,’ Pascoe assured him.
Wield said, ‘Where was he sitting?’
‘Over there. By the window.’
Wield wandered across and picked up a newspaper from the windowsill.
‘Was this the paper he was reading?’
‘Probably.’
Carefully Wield fitted the paper into an evidence bag.
‘Which way did the car go?’ asked Pascoe.
‘Out onto the bypass,’ said the landlord. ‘All this any help to you?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Pascoe, knowing the value of friendly eyes and ears in public houses. ‘Tremendous. Billy, you are a prince among publicans.’
‘I’ll remember that next time I’m being hassled about after-hours drinking.’
‘Anything else you can tell us about the man you served?’
‘Popeye? Not really. Didn’t have much of a crack, got a delivery just after I served him. Except the way he spoke, that is.’
‘And how was that?’
‘Well, drinking the Guinness it didn’t surprise me. He was Irish.’
viii
spelt from Sibyl’s leaves
I’m Popeye the pop-up man…
So called because he’s harder to keep down than Bounce-back Bill Clinton.
Started way back on Bloody Sunday when eleven-year-old schoolboy Patrick Ducannon, uninvolved son of uninvolved parents got shot by the paras.
Registered d.o.a. at Belfast Infirmary, but sat up and asked for his mammy when the priest dropped some hot candle wax on him. (Well, that’s the crack, and why not? No reason the devil and Gaw Sempernel should have all the good stories.)
After that, of course he was involved.
And very unlucky or very lucky depending on how close to him you were standing.
Age twenty: dragged out of an exploded bomb factory in Derry covered with burnt flesh and bleeding offal, most of which turned out to belong to his two fellow ham-fisted bombardiers who in death proved so inseparable they had to be buried in the same grave.
Age twenty-four: shot as he drove a stolen car through a checkpoint. Car crashed through a wall and rolled down a railway embankment. Three passengers killed instantaneously. Popeye crawled out of the wreckage and ran down a tunnel from which he emerged a few moments later pursued by a train. Three days in hospital, three years in jail.
Age twenty-nine: shot, stabbed and beaten by a unit of the UVF as he lay in his bed with his girlfriend. She died four days later. He went to her funeral.
Age thirty-three: retired from active service with the IRA, perhaps because of his reputation for out-living everyone he worked closely with. Became a quartermaster, specializing in the acquisition of cutting-edge weaponry which was put in deep storage against the long promised day of total insurrection.
Kept out of trouble for a while till one winter’s night in Liverpool docks he turned up in the cab of a truck carrying a consignment of arms which we knew had been landed somewhere on the east coast during the previous forty-eight hours.
Straightforward search-and-detain operation went haywire when one of the Provos suddenly reached into his jacket pocket. By the time it was established he was suffering an anxiety asthma attack and was pulling out his inhaler, he was dead, as were two of his companions and even Popeye, naturally the sole survivor, was seriously injured. Worse still (in the Great Gaw’s eyes at least, for he was in charge of the operation), the truck turned out to be carrying only a small part-load of ammo and a few rifles, not the large consignment