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Authors: Reginald Hill
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for a character reference,” said Roote. “Can I introduce my old friend Andrew Dalziel?”
T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 5 1
I’d seen those buffalo eyes taking me in during all this byplay and I don’t think she much liked the look of me or mebbe it was just my outfi t.
I said, “How do, missus?” and in return she gave me a nod that would likely have broken my nose if she’d been close up, then turned to hoist herself onto a bar stool, showing off a pair of haunches a man would be proud to have the tattooing of. The landlord put her drink before her and she leaned forward to engage him in a low-voiced conversation.
The lass gave Roote’s hand a quick sympathetic squeeze, then went to the bar to join her aunt.
I took a drink of me ale. Didn’t taste as good as before. Nowt wrong with the beer, but. It were me. Should have stopped with the first and certainly skipped the scotch. I definitely weren’t feeling up to snuff.
Mebbe that was what made me say, all surly, “You’ll not get anywhere there, lad. Rich aunts look after dependent nieces.”
One thing for Roote, he may play games but he doesn’t play silly games, like pretending not to understand.
“Dependent nieces have wills of their own,” he said, giving me a stage wink.
“Aye, and so have rich aunts, and they make bloody sure anyone gets cut out of them who doesn’t toe the line,” I said. “Any road, it could be a long wait if she’s as fit as she looks.”
“Oh yes. Dear Lady Denham is nothing if not healthy. And wealthy, of course,” he murmured.
“And wise?” I said.
“In making and keeping hold of money, very wise indeed,” he said.
“Why am I not surprised?” I said. “And I bet you know how much she’s kept hold of, to the last decimal place.”
He grinned and said, “You are forgetting, I suspect, that thanks to dear Peter Pascoe’s aid and acumen, I am now a man of moderately independent means, even without the income I generate by my writing. If such a one as I could have any interest in the fair Clara, it would only be centered on her pilgrim soul.”
5 2
R E G I N A L D H I L L
When an ex- con starts talking about pilgrim souls, I know he’s talking crap, but I knew Roote weren’t lying about the money. Pete had felt so grateful and guilty, he’d moved heaven and earth to make sure Roote got top compensation from Criminal Injuries, plus the leisure complex where he got shot had had a personal injury clause in their insurance which a smart brief persuaded a judge covered Roote’s case. Best of all, Roote had just got back from the States on the day he got shot and when Pete were sorting out his stuff, he realized his travel insurance didn’t expire till midnight. The buggers wriggled and wiggled like they always do, but in the end the same brief who’d done the leisure complex got them to cough up for total disability. When eventually it turned out Roote was going to be able to manage a wheelchair, this got considerably pared down, but it still amounted to a hefty chunk of money.
I said, “Independent means ain’t the same as independence.”
I were just talking about money but soon as I said it, I saw it could be taken as a crack about his legs. Me and buffalo woman had a lot in common. But I knew better than to say sorry and get the piss taken out of me, so I went on quick, “So what’s this writing that’s making your fortune? You’re not Lord Archer in disguise, are you?”
“Happily not,” he said. “Nor did I mention a fortune. It’s academic stuff mainly, so it pays peanuts when it pays at all. I managed to fi nish my PhD thesis during my convalescence. Yes, strictly speaking it’s Dr.
Roote now, but no need to be embarrassed—I don’t use the title. Strangers find it confusing and keep telling me about their back pain. Now I am completing Sam Johnson’s critical biography of Thomas Lovell Beddoes.
You recall dear Sam, my old supervisor, who was so foully
T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 5 1
I’d seen those buffalo eyes taking me in during all this byplay and I don’t think she much liked the look of me or mebbe it was just my outfi t.
I said, “How do, missus?” and in return she gave me a nod that would likely have broken my nose if she’d been close up, then turned to hoist herself onto a bar stool, showing off a pair of haunches a man would be proud to have the tattooing of. The landlord put her drink before her and she leaned forward to engage him in a low-voiced conversation.
The lass gave Roote’s hand a quick sympathetic squeeze, then went to the bar to join her aunt.
I took a drink of me ale. Didn’t taste as good as before. Nowt wrong with the beer, but. It were me. Should have stopped with the first and certainly skipped the scotch. I definitely weren’t feeling up to snuff.
Mebbe that was what made me say, all surly, “You’ll not get anywhere there, lad. Rich aunts look after dependent nieces.”
One thing for Roote, he may play games but he doesn’t play silly games, like pretending not to understand.
“Dependent nieces have wills of their own,” he said, giving me a stage wink.
“Aye, and so have rich aunts, and they make bloody sure anyone gets cut out of them who doesn’t toe the line,” I said. “Any road, it could be a long wait if she’s as fit as she looks.”
“Oh yes. Dear Lady Denham is nothing if not healthy. And wealthy, of course,” he murmured.
“And wise?” I said.
“In making and keeping hold of money, very wise indeed,” he said.
“Why am I not surprised?” I said. “And I bet you know how much she’s kept hold of, to the last decimal place.”
He grinned and said, “You are forgetting, I suspect, that thanks to dear Peter Pascoe’s aid and acumen, I am now a man of moderately independent means, even without the income I generate by my writing. If such a one as I could have any interest in the fair Clara, it would only be centered on her pilgrim soul.”
5 2
R E G I N A L D H I L L
When an ex- con starts talking about pilgrim souls, I know he’s talking crap, but I knew Roote weren’t lying about the money. Pete had felt so grateful and guilty, he’d moved heaven and earth to make sure Roote got top compensation from Criminal Injuries, plus the leisure complex where he got shot had had a personal injury clause in their insurance which a smart brief persuaded a judge covered Roote’s case. Best of all, Roote had just got back from the States on the day he got shot and when Pete were sorting out his stuff, he realized his travel insurance didn’t expire till midnight. The buggers wriggled and wiggled like they always do, but in the end the same brief who’d done the leisure complex got them to cough up for total disability. When eventually it turned out Roote was going to be able to manage a wheelchair, this got considerably pared down, but it still amounted to a hefty chunk of money.
I said, “Independent means ain’t the same as independence.”
I were just talking about money but soon as I said it, I saw it could be taken as a crack about his legs. Me and buffalo woman had a lot in common. But I knew better than to say sorry and get the piss taken out of me, so I went on quick, “So what’s this writing that’s making your fortune? You’re not Lord Archer in disguise, are you?”
“Happily not,” he said. “Nor did I mention a fortune. It’s academic stuff mainly, so it pays peanuts when it pays at all. I managed to fi nish my PhD thesis during my convalescence. Yes, strictly speaking it’s Dr.
Roote now, but no need to be embarrassed—I don’t use the title. Strangers find it confusing and keep telling me about their back pain. Now I am completing Sam Johnson’s critical biography of Thomas Lovell Beddoes.
You recall dear Sam, my old supervisor, who was so foully
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