Good evening, sir, said Dalziel genially. Im a police officer. Is there somewhere we can sit down and have a little chat?
He advanced slowly as he spoke, his face aglow with that deceptive warmth which, like a hot chestnut in your lap, can pass at first for sensuous delight. But before he got quite within scorching distance, the gun arm moved and the muzzle came round till it was pointing at Dalziels midriff.
He was no gun expert but he had experience enough to recognize a large-calibre revolver and to know what it would do to flesh at this range.
He halted. Suddenly the debate had moved from the abstract to the actual. He turned his attention from the weapon to its wielder and to his surprise recognized him, though he had to bang shut his mental criminal files to get a name. There was a connection with the police but it wasnt professional. Not till now.
How do, Mr Swain, he said. It is Mr Swain, the builder, isnt it?
Yes, said the man, his eyes focusing properly on Dalziel for the first time. Thats right. Do I know you?
You may have seen me, sir, said Dalziel genially. As Ive seen you a couple of times. Its your firm thats extending the garages behind the police station, isnt it?
Yes. Thats right.
Detective-Superintendent Dalziel. He held out his hand, took a small step forward. Instantly the gun was thrust closer to his gut. And in the split second before launching what might have been, one way or another, a fatal attack, he realized it was not being aimed but offered.
Thank you, he said, taking the barrel gently between two huge fingers and wrapping the weapon in a frayed khaki handkerchief like a small gonfalon.
The transfer of the weapon released the younger mans tongue. He screamed, Shes dead! Shes dead! Its your fault, you bastard! You killed her!
Oh God, said Swain. She was trying to kill herself I had to stop her, Waterson the gun went off Waterson, you saw what happened are you sure shes dead?
Dalziel glanced at the man called Waterson, but cataplexy seemed to have reasserted its hold. He turned his attention to the woman. She had been shot at very close range. The gun he judged had been held under her chin. It was a powerful weapon, no doubt about that. The bullet had destroyed much of her face, removed the top of her head and still had force enough to blow a considerable hole in the ceiling. The last oozings of blood and brains dripped quietly from her long blonde hair to the carpeted floor.
Oh yes, said Dalziel. Shes dead all right.
Interestingly his stomach was feeling much calmer now. Could it be the running that had done it? Mebbe he should take up jogging. On second thoughts, it would be simpler just to avoid mineral water in future.
What happens now, Superintendent? asked Swain in a low voice.
Dalziel turned back to him and studied his pale narrow face. It occurred to him he didnt like the man, that on the couple of occasions hed noticed him around the car park with his ginger-polled partner, hed felt they were a right matching pair of Doctor Fells.
There are few things more pleasant than the coincidence of prejudice and duty.
Impatient are we, sunshine? he said amicably. What happens now is, youre nicked!
part two
Adam: Alas what have I done? For shame!
Ill counsel, woe worth thee!
Ah Eve, thou art to blame;
To this enticed thou me.
The York Cycle: The Fall of Man
February 14th
Dear Mr Dalziel,
I want to say Im sorry. I was wrong to try to involve a stranger in my problems, even someone whose job it is to track down wrongdoers. So please accept this apology and forget I ever wrote.
In case youre wondering, this doesnt mean Ive changed my mind, only that next time I feel in need of an untroubled and untroubling confidant, Ill ring the Speaking Clock! That might not be such a bad idea either. Times the great enemy. You look back and you can just about see the last time you were happy. And you look ahead and you cant even imagine the next time. You try to see the point of it all in a world so full of self-inflicted pain, and all you can see are the pointless moments piling up behind you. Perhaps counting them is the point. Perhaps the best thing I can do with time is to sit listening to the Speaking Clock, counting off the seconds till I reach the magic number where the counting finally stops.
Im growing morbid and I dont want to leave you with a nasty taste, though Im sure a pint of beer would wash it away. Im writing this on St Valentines Day, the feast of lovers. You probably wont get it till StJuliannas day. All I know about her was she specialized in being a virgin and had a long chat with the Devil! Which do you prefer? Silly question. You may be a bit different from other men but you cant be all that different! So forget Julianna. And forget me too.
Your valedictory Valentine
CHAPTER ONE
Peter Pascoes return to work was not the triumphal progress of his fantasies. First he found his parking spot occupied by a heap of sand. For a fraction of time too short to be measured but long enough to excoriate a nerve or two, he read a symbolic message here. But his mind had already registered that the whole of this side of the car park was rendered unusable by a scatter of breeze blocks, hard core, cement bags, and a concrete mixer.
Behind him a horn peeped impatiently. It was an old blue pick-up, squatting low on its axles. Pascoe got out of his car and viewed the scene before him. Once there had been a wall here separating the police car park from the old garden which had somehow clung on behind the neighbouring coroners court. Thered been a tiny lawn, a tangle of shrubbery, and a weary chestnut which used to lean over the wall and drop sticky exudations on any vehicle rash enough to park beneath. Now all was gone and out of a desert of new concrete reared a range of unfinished buildings.
The pick-ups peep became a blast. Pascoe walked towards it. The window wound down and a ginger head, grizzling at the tips, emerged above a legend reading SWAIN & STRINGER Builders, Moscow Farm, Currthwaite. Tel. 33809.
Come on, said the ginger pate, some of us have got work to do.
Is that right? Im Inspector Pascoe. Its Mr Swain, is it?
No, its not, said the man, manifestly unimpressed by Pascoes rank. Im Arnie Stringer.
Whats going on here, Mr Stringer?
New inspection garages. Whereve you been? demanded the man.
Away, said Pascoe. Not the best time of year to be working outside.
It had been unseasonably mild for a couple of weeks but there was still a nip in the air.
If bobbies with nowt better to do dont hold us back talking, well mebbe get finished afore the snow comes.
If bobbies with nowt better to do dont hold us back talking, well mebbe get finished afore the snow comes.
Mr Stringer was obviously a graduate of the same charm school as Dalziel.
It was nice to be back.
Retreating to the public car park, Pascoe entered via the main door like any ordinary citizen. The desk area was deserted except for a single figure who observed Pascoes entry with nervous alarm. Pascoe sighed deeply. While he hadnt really expected the Chief Constable to greet him with the Police Medal as journalists jostled and colleagues clapped, he couldnt help feeling that three months absence to mend a leg shattered in pursuit of duty and a murderous miner deserved a welcome livelier than this.
Hello, Hector, he said.
Police Constable Hector was one of Mid-Yorkshires most reliable men. He always got it wrong. He had been everything by turns beat bobby, community cop, schools liaison officer, collators clerk and nothing long. Now here he was on the desk.
Morning, sir, said Hector with a facial spasm possibly aimed at bright alertness, but probably a simple reaction to the taste of the felt-tipped pen which he licked as he spoke. How can we help you?
Pascoe looked despairingly into that slack, purple-stained mouth and wondered once more about his pension rights. In the first few weeks of convalescence he had talked seriously about retirement, partly because at that stage he didnt believe the surgeons prognosis of almost complete recovery, but also because it seemed to him in those long grey hospital nights that his very marriage depended on getting out of the police. He even reached the stage where he started broaching the matter to Ellie, not as a marriage-saver, of course, but as a natural consequence of his injury. She had listened with a calmness he took for approval till one day she had cut across his babble of green civilian fields with, I never slept with him, you know that, dont you?
It was not a moment for looking blank and asking, Who?
I never thought you did, he said.
Oh. Why? She sounded piqued.
Because youd have told me.
She considered this, then replied, Yes, I would, wouldnt I? Its a grave disadvantage in a relationship, you know, not being trusted to lie.
They were talking about a young miner who had been killed in the accident which crippled Pascoe and with whom Ellie had had a close and complex relationship.
But thats not the point anyway, said Pascoe. We ended up on different sides. I dont want that.
I dont think we did, she said. On different flanks of the same side, perhaps. But not different sides.
Thats almost worse, he said. I cant even see you face to face.
You want me face to face, then stop whingeing about pensions and start working on that leg.
Dalziel had come visiting shortly after.
Ellie tells me youre thinking of retiring, he said.
Does she?
Dont look so bloody betrayed else theyll give you an enema! She doesnt want you to.
She said that to you?
Dalziel filled his mouth with a bunch of grapes. Was this what Bacchus had really looked like? AA ought to get a picture.
Of course she bloody didnt, said Dalziel juicily. But shed not have mentioned it else, stands to reason. Got any chocolates?
No. About Ellie, I thought He tailed off, not wanting a heart to heart with Dalziel. About many things, yes, but not about his marriage.
You thought shed be dying to get you out of the Force? Bloody right, shed love it! But not because of her. She wants you to see the light for yourself, lad. They all do. Its not enough for them to be loved, theyve got to be bloody right as well! Your mates too mean to bring you chocolates, is that it?
Theyre fattening, said Pascoe, loyal to Ellies embargo.
Pity. I like chocolate. So drop this daft idea, eh? Get the years in first. And youve got that promotion coming up, theyre just dragging their feet till theyre sure you wont be dragging yours. Now Id best be off and finger a few collars. Oh, I nearly forgot. Brought you a bottle of Lucozade.
He winked as he put it on the bedside locker. The first bottle hed left, Pascoe had taken at face value and nearly choked when a long swig had revealed pure Scotch.
This time he drank slowly, reflectively. But the only decision he reached after another grey night was that on your back was no place for making decisions.
Now here he was on his feet, thinking that on your back might not be such a bad place after all.
Constable Hector, he said in a low voice. I work here. DI Pascoe, remember?
In Hectors memory a minute was a long time, three months an eternity.
Hes going to ask for identification, thought Pascoe. But happily at that moment, Sergeant Broomfield, chief custodian of the desk, appeared.
Mr Pascoe, good to see you back, he said, offering his hand.
Thanks, George, said Pascoe with almost tearful gratitude. I thought I might have been forgotten.
No chance. Hey, have you heard about Mr Dalziel, though? Got himself a killer, single-handed, last night. He says that round here theyre so certain of getting caught, theyve taken to inviting CID to be present! He doesnt get any better!
Chuckling, the sergeant retired to the nether regions while Pascoe, conscious still of Hectors baffled gaze, made his way upstairs. He had brought his stick, deciding after some debate that it was foolish to abandon it before he felt ready. But as he climbed the stairs he realized he was exaggerating its use. The reason was not far to seek. Im reminding people Im a wounded hero! he told himself in amazement. Because there wasnt a reception committee, and because Fat Andy has somehow contrived to upstage me, Im flaunting my scars.
Disgusted, he shouldered the stick and tried to run lightly up the last couple of stairs, slipped and almost fell. A strong hand grasped his arm and supported him.
I expect youd like another three months away from here, said Detective-Sergeant Wield. But theres got to be easier ways. Welcome home.
Wield had the kind of face which must have thronged the eastern gate of Paradise after the eviction, but in those harsh features Pascoe read real concern and welcome.
Thanks, Wieldy. I was just trying to prove how fit I am.
Well, if you fancy a miracle cure, come and touch Gods robe. You heard about his little coup last night?
I got a hint from Broomfield.
Youll get more than a hint up here.
Dalziel was on the phone but he waved them in expansively.
Couldnt take the risk of hanging about, sir, he was saying. He might have been away or we couldve ended up with one of them hostage situations, tying up men and traffic with reporters and the SAS crawling all over the place!
He made them both sound like rodents.
Thank you, sir. Ten oclock? Thatll suit me fine. And Ill make sure them buggers carry on working regardless!
He replaced the receiver.
Good morning, sir, said Pascoe. I gather congratulations are in order.
I believe they are, said Dalziel complacently. Though Desperate Dans got mixed feelings. Doesnt know whether to pat my back or stab it. Either way hell need a box to stand on!