When he reached the café, he had no problem in picking out the caller. Blue-streaked hair, leg-hugging green velvet slacks and a tight blue T-shirt with a pair of fluorescent lips pouting across the chest, were in this day and age not out of the ordinary even in Yorkshire. But hed called himself the suntanned one, and though his smooth olive skin came from mixed blood rather than a Mediterranean beach, the youth would have been impossible to miss even if he hadnt clearly recognized Wield and smiled at him welcomingly.
Wield ignored him and went to the self-service bar.
Keeping you busy, Charley? he said.
The man behind the counter answered, Its the quality of the tea, Mr Wield. They come here in buses to try it. Fancy a cup?
No, thanks. I want a word with that lad in the corner. Can I use the office?
Him that looks like a delphinium? Be my guest. Heres the key. Ill send him through.
Charley, a cheerful chubby fifty-year-old, had performed this service many times for both Wield and Pascoe when the café had been too full for a satisfactory tête-à-tête with an informant. Wield went through a door marked TOILETS, ignored the forked radish logo to his left and the twin-stemmed Christmas tree to his right, and unlocked the door marked Private straight ahead. It was also possible to get into this room from behind the bar, but that would draw too much attention.
Wield sat down on a kitchen chair behind a narrow desk whose age could be read in the tea-rings on its surface. The only window was narrow, high and barred, admitting scarcely more light than limned the edges of things, but he ignored the desk lamp.
A few moments later the door opened to reveal the youth standing uncertainly on the threshold.
Come in and shut it, said Wield. Then lock it. The keys in the hole.
Hey, what is this?
Up here we call it a room, said Wield. Get a move on!
The youth obeyed and then advanced towards the desk.
Wield said, Right. Quick as you like, son. Ive not got all day.
Quick as I like? What do you mean? You dont mean ? No, I can see you dont mean
His accent was what Wield thought of as Cockney with aitches. His age was anything between sixteen and twenty-two. Wield said, It was you who rang?
Yes, thats right
Then youve got something to tell me.
No. Not exactly
No? Listen, son, people who ring me at the station, and dont give names, and arrange to meet me in dumps like this, theyd better have something to tell me, and it had better be good! So lets be having it!
Wield hadnt planned to play it this way, but it had all seemed to develop naturally from the site and the situation. And after years of a carefully disciplined and structured life, he sensed that what lay ahead was a new era of playing things by ear. Unless, of course, this boy could simply be frightened away.
Look, youve got it all wrong, or maybe youre pretending to get it wrong Like I said, Im a friend of Maurices
Maurice who? I dont know any Maurices.
Maurice Eaton!
Eaton? Like the school? Whos he when hes at home?
And now the youth was stung to anger.
Leaning with both hands on the desk, he yelled, Maurice Eaton, thats who he is! You used to fuck each other, so dont give me this crap! Ive seen the photos, Ive seen the letters. Are you listening to me, Macumazahn? Im a friend of Maurice Eatons and like any friend of a friend might, I thought Id look you up. But if its shit-on-auld-acquaintance time, Ill just grab my bag and move on out. All right?
Wield sat quite still. Beneath the unreadable roughness of his face, a conflict of impulses raged.
Self-interest told him the best thing might be to spell out what a misery the boys life was likely to be if he hung around in mid-Yorkshire, and then escort him gently to the next long-distance coach in any direction and see him off. Against this tugged guilt and self-disgust. Here he was, this youth, a friend of the only man that Wield had ever thought of as his own friend, in the fullest, most open as well as the deepest, most personal sense of the word, and how was he treating him? With suspicion, and hate, using his professional authority to support a personal and squalid impulse.
And also, somewhere down there was another feeling, concerned with both pride and survival an apprehension that sending this boy away was no real solution to his long-term dilemma, and in any case, if the youth meant trouble, he could as easily stir it up from the next phone box on the A1 as from here.
Whats your name, lad? said Wield.
Cliff, said the young man sullenly, Cliff Sharman.
Wield switched on the table lamp and the corners of the room sprang into view. None was a pretty sight, but in one of them stood an old folding chair.
All right, Cliff, said Wield. Why dont you pull up that chair and lets sit down together for a few minutes and have a bit of a chat, shall we?
Chapter 3
As soon as Pascoe walked through the door, his daughter began to cry.
Youre late, said Ellie.
Yes, I know. Im a detective. They teach us to spot things like that.
And thats Rosie crying.
Is it? I thought maybe wed bought a wolf.
He took off his jacket, draped it over the banisters and ran lightly up the stairs.
The little girl stopped crying as soon as he entered her room. This was a game shed started playing only recently. That it was a game was beyond doubt; Ellie had observed her deep in sleep till her fathers key turned in the lock, and then immediately she let out her summoning wail and would not be silent till he came and spoke to her. What he said didnt matter.
Tonight he said, Hi, kid. Remember last week I was telling you I should be hearing about my promotion soon? Well, the bad news is, I still havent, so if youve been building up any hopes of getting a new pushchair or going to Acapulco this Christmas, forget it. Want some advice, kid? If you feel like whizzing, dont start unless you can keep it up. Nobody loves a whizzkid thats stopped whizzing! Did I hear you ask me why Ive stopped? Well, Ive narrowed it down to three possibilities. One: they all think Im Fat Andys boy and everyone hates Fat Andy. Two: your mum keeps chaining herself to nuclear missile sites and also shes Membership Secretary of WRAG. So what? you say. WRAG is non-aligned politically, youve read the hand-outs. But what does Fat Andy say? He says WRAGs middle-of-the-road like an Italian motorist. All left-hand drive and bloody dangerous! Three? No, Ive not forgotten three. Three is, maybe Im just not good enough, what about that? Maybe inspectors my limit. Whats that you said? Bollocks? You mean it? Gee, thanks, kid. I always feel better after talking to you!
Gently he laid the once more sleeping child back on her bed and pulled the blanket up over her tiny body.
Downstairs he went first into the kitchen and poured two large Scotch-on-the-rocks. Then he went through into the living-room.
In his brief absence his wife had lost her clothes and gained a newspaper.
Have you seen this? she demanded.
Often, said Pascoe gravely. But I have no objection to seeing it again.
This, she said, brandishing the Mid-Yorks Evening Post.
Ive certainly seen one very like it, he said. It was in my jacket pocket, but it can hardly be the same one, can it? I mean your well known views on the invasion of privacy would hardly permit you to go through your husbands pockets, would they?
It was sticking out.
Thats all right, then. Youre equally well known for your support of a wifes right to grab anything thats sticking out. What am I looking at? This Kemble business. Well, the chap who got kicked is going to be all right, but he cant remember a thing. And Wields looking into the graffiti. Now why dont you put the paper down
No, it wasnt the Kemble story I wanted you to look at. It was this.
Her finger stabbed an item headed Unusual Will.
Published today, the will of the late Mrs Gwendoline Huby of Troy House, Greendale, makes interesting reading. The bulk of her estate whose estimated value is in excess of one million pounds is left to her only son, Alexander Lomas Huby, who was reported missing on active service in Italy in 1944. Lieutenant Hubys death was assumed though his body was never found. In the event that he does not appear to claim his inheritance by his ninetieth birthday in the year 2015, the estate will be divided equally between the Peoples Animal Welfare Society, the Combined Operations Dependants Relief Organization, both registered charities in which Mrs Huby had a long interest, and Women For Empire, a social-political group which she had supported for many years.
Very interesting, said Pascoe. Sad too. Poor old woman.
Stupid old woman! exclaimed Ellie.
Thats a bit hard. OK, she must have been a bit dotty, but
But nothing! Dont you see? A third of her estate to Women For Empire! More than a third of a million pounds!
Who, wondered Pascoe, sipping one of the Scotches, are Women For Empire?
My God. No wonder theyre dragging their feet about promoting you to Chief Inspector! Fascists! Red, white and blue, and cheap black labour!
I see, said Pascoe feeling the crack about his promotion was a little under the belt. Cant say Ive ever heard of them.
So what? Youd never heard of Bangkok massage till you married me.
Thats true. But Id still like to know which of my worldwide sources of intelligence I can blame for my ignorance. Where did you hear about them?
Ellie blushed gently. It was a phenomenon observed by few people as the change of colour was not so much in her face as in the hollow of her throat, the rosy flush seeping down towards the deep cleft of her breasts. Pascoe claimed that here was the quintessence of female guilt, i.e. evidence of guilt masquerading as a mark of modesty.
Where? he pressed.
On the list, she muttered.
List?
Yes, she said defiantly. Theres a list of ultra-right-wing groups we ought to keep an eye open for. We got a copy at WRAG.
A list! said Pascoe taking another drink. You mean, like the RCs Index? Forbidden reading for the faithful? Or is it more like the Coal Boards famous hit list? These organizations are the pits and ought to be closed down?