The straw-haired, bulging-eyed man produced a flattened cylinder of ivory and pressed a stud to release a long, slightly curved blade. Delicately he nicked two of the plastic containers which packed the case, licked his index finger, inserted it into the first incision, tasted the powder which clung to his damp flesh, repeated the process with the second, and nodded his accord.
The dark man closed the case then took the others outstretched hand.
Nice to do business, said bulging eyes. My best to young Kansas.
The other looked puzzled for a moment then smiled. The older man too had a speculative look on his face as he held onto the others hand rather longer than necessary. Then he too smiled and shook his head as though to dislodge a misplaced thought, let go and took the grip to the jeep where he laid it on the back seat.
By now the loading of the truck was complete and the four diggers stretched their aching limbs in the mouth of the cave and unwound their protecting scarves. Two were ruddy-faced with their exertions, the other two flushed dark beneath their sallow skins.
The first pair went towards the jeep while the second pair joined the slim man who was securing the tailgate of the truck.
These two looked at each other, exchanged a brief eye signal, then reached for the holsters beneath their arms, drew out automatic pistols, and moved towards the jeep, firing as they walked. The two ruddy-faced diggers took the bullets in their backs and pitched forward on their faces while ahead of them the straw-haired man fell backwards, his eyes popping even further in astonishment under the fillet of blood which wrapped itself around his brow.
One of the gunmen continued to the jeep and leaned into it to retrieve the grip. His companion meanwhile turned back to the truck where the slim man was standing as if paralysed.
Chiquillo! he called. Recuerdo de Jorge. Adiós! And let go a long burst.
The slim man felt a whip of hot pain along his ribcage which sent him spinning like a top behind the truck. The rest of the burst went straight through the mouth of the cave where the bullets ricocheted around the granite walls and up into the high vault, triggering first a rustling ripple, then a squeaking, wing-beating eruption of bats.
The gunman paused, looking up in wonderment as the bats skeined out of their rocky roost and smudged the dark air overhead. So many. Who would have thought there would be so many?
Then as they vanished among the trees he resumed his advance.
But the pause had been long enough for the slim man to reach under the truck and drag down the weapon taped beneath the wheel arch.
He shot the gunman through the leg as he passed by the trucks rear wheel, then through the head as he crashed to the ground.
The second gunman dropped the grip and crouched low with his weapon aimed towards his dying companion.
But the slim man came rolling out of the other side of the truck, and gave himself time to take aim and make sure his first shot found its target.
The second gunman held his crouching position for a moment, then toppled slowly sideways and lay there, gently twitching, his visible eye fixed on the trees high vault. The slim man approached carefully, one arm wrapped round his bleeding side, and emptied the clip into the watching eye.
Then he sat down on the grip and pulled open his shirt to examine his wound.
It was more painful than life-threatening, flesh laid bare, a rib nicked perhaps, no deeper penetration. But blood was pouring out and by the time hed bound it up with strips of shirt torn from the dead gunman at his feet, hed lost a lot of blood.
He opened the grip, took out one of the packets the pop-eyed man had nicked, poured some of the powder into his hand, raised it to his nose and took a long hard sniff.
Then he took out a mobile phone and dialled.
Soy yo si I did not think so soon sipoco not so wide as a barn door the CP it has to be I am sorry dos horas quizá tres si at the CP si, bueno te quiero adiós.
He put the phone away and picked up the grip, wincing with pain. As he moved away, he thought he sensed a movement from the vicinity of the jeep and turned with his gun waving menacingly.
All was still. He hadnt the strength for closer investigation. And in any case, his gun was empty.
He resumed his progress to the truck.
Getting the grip into the drivers cab and himself after it was an agony. He sat there for a while, leaning against the wheel. Did something move by the jeep or was it his pain giving false life to this deadly tableau? Certainly in the air above, the bats, reassured by the return of stillness, were flitting back into the mouth of the cave.
He dipped into the grip again, sniffed a little more powder.
Then he switched on the engine, engaged gear, and without a backward glance at the gaping cave, the gloomy lake or the bodies that lay between them, he sent the truck rumbling into the dark tunnel curving away through the crowding trees.
High on the sunlit, windswept Snake Pass which links Lancashire with Yorkshire, Peter Pascoe thought, Im in love.
Even with a trail of blood running from her nose over the double hump of her full lips to peter out on her charming chin, she was grin-like-an-idiot-gorgeous.
You OK? he said, grinning like an idiot till he realized that in the circumstances this was perhaps not the most appropriate expression.
Yes, yes, she said impatiently, dabbing at her nose with a tissue. Is this going to take long?
The driver of her taxi, to whom the question was addressed, looked from the bent and leaking radiator of his vehicle to the jackknifed lorry he had hit and said sarcastically, Soon as I repair this and get that shifted, well be on our way, luv.
Pascoe, returning from Manchester over the Snake, had been behind the lorry when it jackknifed. Simple humanitarian concern had brought him running to see if anyone was hurt, but now his sense of responsibility as a policeman was taking over. He pulled out his mobile, dialled 999 and gave a succinct account of what had happened.
Better set up traffic diversions way back on both sides, he said. The roads completely blocked till you get something up here to shift the lorry. One injury. Passenger in the taxi banged her nose. Lorry driver probably suffering from shock. Better have an ambulance.
Not for me, said the woman vehemently. Im fine.
She rose from the verge where shed been sitting and moved forward on long legs, whose slight unsteadiness only added to their sinuous attraction. She looked as if she purposed to move the lorry single-handed. If it had been sentient, she might have managed it, thought Pascoe.
Silly cowd have been all right if shed put her seat belt on like I told her, said the taxi driver.
Perhaps you should have been firmer, said Pascoe mildly. Who is she? Wherere you headed?
No reason why he should have asked or the driver answered these questions, but without his being aware of it, over the years Pascoe had developed a quiet authority of manner which most people found harder to resist than mere assertiveness.
The driver pulled out a docket and said, Miss Kelly Cornelius. Manchester Airport. Terminal Three. Shes going to miss her plane.
He spoke with a satisfaction which identified him as one of that happily vanishing species, the Ur-Yorkshireman, beside whom even Andy Dalziel appeared a creature of sweetness and light. Only a hardcore misogynist could take pleasure in anything which caused young Miss Cornelius distress.
And she was distressed. She returned from her examination of the lorry and gave Pascoe a look of such expressive unhappiness, his empathy almost caused him to burst into tears.
Excuse me, she said in a melodious voice in which all that was best of American lightness, Celtic darkness, and English woodnotes wild, conjoined to make sweet moan, but your cars on the other side of this, I guess.
Yes, Im on my way home to Mid-Yorkshire, he said. Looks like Ill have to turn around and find another way.
Thats what I thought youd do, she said, her voice breathless with delight, as if hed just confirmed her estimate of his intellectual brilliance. And I was wondering, I know its quite a long way back, but how would you feel about taking me to Manchester Airport? I hate to be a nuisance, but you see, Ive got this plane to catch, and if I miss it, I dont know what Ill do.
Tears brimmed her big dark eyes. Pascoe could imagine their salty taste on his tongue. What she was asking was of course impossible, but (as he absolutely intended to tell Ellie later when he cleansed his conscience by laundering his prurient thoughts in her sight) it was flattering to be asked.
He said, Im sorry, but my wifes expecting me.
You could ring her. Youve got a phone, she said with tremulous appeal. Id be truly, deeply, madly grateful.
This was breathtaking, in every sense.
He said, Surely therell be another plane. Where are you going anyway?
Silly question. It implied negotiation.
There was just the hint of a hesitation before she answered, Corfu. Its my holiday, first for years. And its a holiday charter, so if I miss it, there wont be much chance of getting on another, theyre all so crowded this time of year. And Im meeting my sister and her little boy at the airport, and shes disabled and wont get on the plane without me, so itll be all our holidays ruined. Please.
Suddenly he knew he was going to do it. All right, it was crazy, but he was going to have to go back all the way to Glossop anyway and the airport wasnt much further, well, not very much further
He said, Ill need to phone my wife.
Thats marvellous. Oh, thank you, thank you!
She gave him a smile which made all things seem easy the drive back, the phone call to Ellie, everything then dived into the taxi and emerged with a small leather case like a pilots flight bag.
Travelling light, thought Pascoe as he stepped back to get some privacy for his call home. The woman was now talking to the taxi driver and presumably paying him off. There seemed to be some disagreement. Pascoe guessed the driver was demanding the full agreed fare on the grounds that it wasnt his fault he hadnt got her all the way to Terminal 3.
Terminal 3.
Last time hed flown out of Manchester, Terminal 3 had been for British Airways and domestic flights only.
You couldnt fly charter to Corfu from there.
Perhaps the driver had made a mistake.
Or perhaps things had changed at Manchester in the past six months.
But now he was recalling the slight hesitancy before the sob story. And would a young woman on holiday really travel so light?
Pascoe, he said to himself, youre developing a nasty suspicious policemans mind.
He turned away and began to punch buttons on his phone.
When it was answered he identified himself, talked for a while, then waited.
In the distance he heard the wail of sirens approaching.
A voice spoke in his ear. He listened, asked a couple of questions, then rang off.
When he turned, Kelly Cornelius was standing by the taxi, smiling expectantly at him. A police car pulled up onto the verge beside him. An ambulance wasnt far behind.
As the driver of the police car opened his door to get out, Pascoe stooped to him. Screened by the car, he pulled out his ID, showed it to the uniformed constable and spoke urgently.
Then he straightened up, waved apologetically to the waiting woman, flourishing his phone as if to say he hadnt been able to get through before.
He began to dial again, watching as the policemen went across to the taxi and started talking to the driver and the woman.
Hi, said Pascoe. Its me. Yes, Im on my way but theres been an accident no, Im not involved but I am stuck, the roads blocked, and Im going to have to divert yeah, take me when I come give Rosie a kiss hows she been today? yes, I know, its early days itll be OK, I promise love you bye.
He switched off and went back to the taxi.
What the hell do you mean, I cant go? the young woman was demanding. Anger like injury did nothing to detract from her beauty.
Sorry, miss, said the policeman stolidly. Cant let you leave the scene of an accident where someones been injured.
But Im the one whos been injured so if I say it doesnt matter
Doesnt work like that, said the policeman. Need to get you checked out at hospital. There may be claims. Also youre a witness. Well need a statement.
But Ive got a plane to catch. Her gaze met Pascoes. Corfu. Its my holiday.
A sharp intake of breath from the policeman.
Certainly cant let you leave the country, miss, thats definite, he said. Heres the ambulance lads now. Why not let them give you the once-over while I talk to these other gents?
Pascoe caught her eye and shrugged helplessly. She looked back at him, her face (still beautiful) now ravaged with shock and betrayal, as Andromeda might have looked if Perseus, on point of rescuing her from the ravening dragon, had suddenly remembered a previous appointment.
Well, if youre done with me, Officer, I think Id better start finding another route home, he said, looking away, unable to bear that devastatingly devastated expression.
The constable said, Right, sir. Weve got your name in case we need to be in touch. Goodbye now.
As he made his way back to his car, Pascoe reflected on the paradox that now he felt much more guilty about Kelly Cornelius than he had before, when it had just been a question of simple reflexive desire.
Women, he thought as he sat in his car and put the necessary enquiries in train. Women! All of them queens of discord, blessed with the power even on the slightest acquaintance to get in a mans mind and divide and rule. Look at him now, sitting here when he should be heading home, checking out his vague suspicions like a good professional, uncertain whether he would be bothering if he hadnt felt so ready to submit to this lovely creatures control, with part of him hoping even as he started the process that he was going to come out of this looking a real dickhead.
Women. How come they didnt rule the universe?
COMFORT BLANKET
Arms and the Men they sang, who played at Troy
Until they broke it like a spoiled childs Toy