Arms and the Women. Reginald HillЧитать онлайн книгу.
Some shock from the assault and the loss of blood, but nothing that a good night’s rest won’t put right. I’ve got a nurse cleaning her up now, then she’ll be ready to go home. What is it? Your friendly neighbourhood mugging? Were you with her when it happened, Ellie? Can check you out as well, if you like.’
He was looking at the blood on her T-shirt.
‘No, thanks,’ said Ellie. ‘This is Daphne’s. I got there later. I’m fine.’
It wasn’t a complete lie. She consulted her body and mind and found that she felt a lot better than she thought she ought to. Perhaps like a vampire I need blood to feed on, she thought, watching as Pascoe, with an apologetic smile in her direction, drew Sowden a little way along the corridor and spoke to him in a low voice.
When he rejoined her she said, ‘So?’
‘So you heard it all. He wasn’t keeping anything back for my ears only.’
‘Well, I’m pleased about that, else this new, violent doppelgänger of mine might have been tempted to break his nose too.’
But she smiled as she said it. She liked John Sowden. He was pretty sound on issues like abortion and euthanasia and he had a mouth to die for.
A few moments later they were allowed into the treatment room where they found Daphne sitting on the edge of a bed, drinking tea.
She said, ‘Ellie, have you seen the state of me? I shall have to go into purdah for a month at least.’
‘No, you look fine, honestly. You’ll have those English-rose looks back in no time.’
‘An English rose I don’t mind but not when I’m wearing it bang in the middle of my face. Oh God, has anyone been in touch with Patrick? No way I can go to the garden centre like this. They’d probably spray me with an anti-black-spot mixture.’
‘I tried your home number on my mobile,’ said Pascoe. ‘No reply. Give us the name of this garden centre and I’ll make sure he gets a message to come here and collect you.’
‘No, please. Just say I can’t make it to lunch, I’ll see him at home later,’ said Daphne firmly. ‘It’s called Mossy Bank. Thank you, Peter, you’re a darling.’
Pascoe stepped aside to make the call and Ellie sat on the bed next to her friend and put her arm around her.
‘Watch out for blood,’ said Daphne. ‘This blouse is ruined.’
‘It’ll come out,’ said Ellie. ‘And I’m well spattered already.’
‘Are you? Let me see. Oh, I’m sorry. I hope it’s not one of your best.’
Ellie, knowing well Daphne’s view that baggy T-shirts, especially those printed with subversive messages, were the nadir of style and taste, laughed out loud and said, ‘I’ll insist that you personally buy me an exact replacement in the market. So, my girl, what the hell did you think you were playing at, provoking this hoodlum? He might have had a knife or a gun or anything.’
‘Didn’t see why you should have all the fun. But why is it when a snotty-nosed Trot like you mixes with the lowlife, you get to kick them in the balls, while a respectable Tory lady like me ends up in hospital?’
Before Ellie could answer, Pascoe rejoined them, saying, ‘That’s done. Daphne, I hope you haven’t been telling Ellie your tale because you’re just going to have to tell it to me again.’
‘She was just going to start,’ said Ellie.
‘I was just going to tell you it was all your fault, actually,’ said Daphne. ‘I had it all sorted. I was going to stroll up to this fellow and distract his attention. Then while he had his back turned on your house (after the count of one hundred, remember?), you were going to get your guardian angel to come scooting along to make an arrest. Except that just as I got to him, you came belting out of your driveway, waving your arms and screaming at that poor policeman in the car. Naturally my man realized something was up and turned to make his getaway. Equally naturally, I attempted to grapple with him and keep him there. Upon which he nutted me, I think is the phrase. It’s something I’ve often seen on the telly and I’ve always assumed its effect was a touch exaggerated, like people in Westerns being hurled backwards when someone shoots them. Now I know better. It’s a funny thing how much closer I’ve got to the realities of lowlife since I met you, Ellie.’
‘It’s another funny thing,’ said Ellie, ‘that now you can’t talk down your nose, you sound almost normal.’
‘Daphne,’ said Pascoe quickly. ‘This man, can you describe him?’
‘Well, he was furtive, you know. Perhaps not so much furtive as simply loitering. That’s what made me notice him, though, as I told Ellie. I wouldn’t really have paid any attention if she hadn’t told me about her dreadful experience of yesterday…’
As Daphne Aldermann got older, she sounded more and more like an archdeacon’s daughter, thought Pascoe. Or rather the way you expected an archdeacon’s daughter to sound in an old black and white play, circumlocutory and slightly prissy, with audible inverted commas appearing round any modernism. She should have been a judge. Or at least a magistrate. Yes, she was precisely the type of woman who, despite valiant efforts to broaden the selectorate, still dominated on the magisterial bench. Not that she’d ever shown the slightest ambition in the direction so far as he knew. And while she might make bath sound like an American novelist, she could pronounce the shibboleth which got you admitted to Ellie’s friendship so there had to be more to her than met the eye. Which was probably true of her husband also. A quiet, charming man who lived for roses, he had been in the frame for not one but several apparently accidental deaths. Nothing was ever proved, and in his company Pascoe blushed to recall his suspicions. And yet… and yet…
‘Could you describe him, please, Daphne?’ he said.
‘Yes, of course. Sorry, I’m jabbering a bit, aren’t I? First time I’ve been assaulted, you see. Comes as a shock, especially when the motive isn’t sexual. No, that’s a stupid thing to say, it would obviously have been a much greater shock if he’d then gone on to rape me. What I mean is, he just nutted me as if… well, as if I were a man.’
‘Not an English gentleman then?’ murmured Pascoe, winning a Medusa glare from Ellie. ‘Sorry.’
‘No. You’re right. I mean, I’m not saying he wasn’t English, or British anyway. As Ellie keeps on telling me, we’re a rainbow society now. But he certainly wasn’t Anglo-Saxon. He was dark, not negroid, just well-grilled, like Ellie. I wish I tanned like that but with my colouring all you get’s a splotchy pink. Still, they say nowadays it’s bad for you, too much sun, gives you skin cancer… not that I’m suggesting for one moment, dear, that you’re in danger of that. No, I’m sure in your case it’s all down to natural pigmentation…’
‘Putting aside the interesting question of Ellie’s ethnic origins,’ said Pascoe, ‘you’re saying this fellow was well-tanned? Hair?’
‘Yes, of course. Sorry, I mean it was black, cut short, I don’t mean shaven, not like those – do they still call them bovver boys?’
‘The term is, I believe, a trifle passé,’ said Pascoe. ‘So, short hair. Moustache? Beard?’
‘Yes, now I come to think of it, he did have a moustache,’ said Daphne. ‘Not a big one. Short too. Like his hair. In fact, he was very neat generally, almost dapper. He would have made a very good head waiter at a decent restaurant.’
Was she taking the piss? He glanced at Ellie, who gave him her sardonic smile. She had once advised him, not much point in mocking Daphne when she’s so much better at it herself. But it was hard to resist the temptation. And she seemed to enjoy it in a harmlessly flirty kind of way. Harmless because there wasn’t the slightest sign he turned her on, and he himself had never gone overboard on English roses, who, in a metamorphosis which might have been of interest to Ovid, often seemed to age into English