The previous day, the Fat Man had had to rely on the telephone. When Wield and Digweed got back from their book-buying foray into the Borders, the former had found what the latter called an HMV message on the answering machine. After a terse outline of the situation, Wield had been invited with satirical courtesy to put in an appearance at the incident room in Danby first thing the following morning, weather and social calendar permitting.
It was not a prospect that pleased. Wield, too, remembered Dendale. Like the Fat Man said, it wasnt your collars kept you awake, it was the ones that got away, and Dendale rated high on that insomniac list. OK, Danby was different, thriving, pushing up from village to township, nowhere near as enclosed, and certainly not doomed the way Dendale had been. But it was just a couple of miles west, just a short walk over the Corpse Road
But a mans gotta do something, said Wield. Dont crap on too many kids, kid. See you.
He threw the monkey up into the lower branches of the oak and walked away.
Half an hour later, as he freewheeled his old Thunderbird down the track from Corpse Cottage in order not to disturb Edwin, he was still thinking how pleasant it would be to be still lying abed on such a morning as this. But Danby called. And Dalziel.
He switched on the ignition and kicked the starter and, as the engine roared into life, he cried to a surprised cat on the hunt for early birds, Hi-yo Silver. Away!
In the Pascoe household, too, there was reluctance at all levels.
Pascoe himself, after rising early and settling down to read the Dendale file, had fallen asleep in his chair, and wasnt aroused till Ellie started the morning bustle of getting Rosie ready for school.
His first instinct as he bestirred himself ere well awake was to rush off unshaven and unfed, but Ellies cooler counsel had brought him to his senses and when he rang St Michaels Hall at Danby and was assured by the duty officer that the only thing disturbing the peace was the approaching roar of Sergeant Wields motorbike, he had relaxed in the certainty that on the ground organization was in the best possible hands.
So he had sat down to the relatively rare pleasure of taking breakfast with his daughter.
It did not seem to be a pleasure shared. Rosie blinked her eyes irritably against the sun streaming in through the kitchen window and announced, Im feeling badly.
Her parents exchanged glances. Peter, left in sole charge some weeks earlier, had been targeted by his daughter at breakfast with little sighs and sobs as she bravely forced her branflakes down, till, always a soft target, he had caved in and said, Are you feeling badly or something?
Yes, shed replied. Im feeling very badly.
Then perhaps youd better not go to school, hed replied, secretly glad of an excuse to keep her at home all day with him.
In the event, by halfway through the morning shed recollected that her class was going out on a bird-spotting expedition that afternoon, so made a rapid recovery and nobly insisted it would be wrong of her to remain at home under false pretences.
But the phrase, Im feeling badly, was thereafter used as a formula to unlock her fathers heart when necessary.
Ellie Pascoe, however, was made of sterner stuff.
I told you to keep your sunhat on yesterday, she said indifferently.
I did, retorted Rosie. All the time.
Of course you did, said Pascoe. Even when you were swimming underwater.
Dont be silly, she snapped. It would float away. Do I have to go to school?
Oh, I think so, he said. I think I saw Nina waiting at the gate for you just now.
No, you didnt. I told you. She got taken again. By the nix. I saw her get taken.
Pascoe looked at Ellie, who made an I-forgot-to-mention-it face.
Perhaps her dads rescued her again, he said.
Not yet he wont have. It was only yesterday. Youll be sorry if I get taken too.
Not so much a conversation-stopper as a heart-stopper.
Well, try to hang around as long as you can, he said lightly. Its the same for me too, you know. Id rather stay at home.
Not the same, she said sullenly. You havent got a stiff neck.
And you have? Like the people of Israel, he laughed. We should have called you Rose of Sharon.
Being a curious child, she usually insisted on explanations of jokes she didnt understand, but this morning all she did was repeat with great irritation, Dont be silly.
Ill try not to, said Pascoe, rising. See you tonight.
Her skin was warm to his kiss.
At the front door he said, She does look a bit flushed.
You would too if youd been running around in the sun all day, said Ellie.
I was, he said. And no doubt will be again.
Well, keep your sunhat on, said Ellie, determinedly cheerful. She had listened to his weary account of the days frustrations when he got home the previous night, held him close for a while, then poured him a large whisky and talked brightly about Rosies trip to the seaside. At first he thought her motive was purely distraction, but after a while he became aware that it was her own mind she was distracting too, from her unbearable empathy with Elsie Dacre. So he had switched on the TV allegedly in search of the news and instead had got a late-night discussion on the growing problem of juvenile runaways. A psychiatrist called Paula Appleby whose strong opinions, linguistic fluency and photogenic features had got her elected the thinking mans thinking woman was saying, When a child disappears, rather than simply looking for the child, we should be looking at first the parents, who are often the cause, then the police, who are more likely to be part of the problem than its solution.
Time for bed, Pascoe had said, switching off.
Now he looked up at the perfectly laid blue wash of the sky and guessed that hours earlier the Dacres dark-rimmed, sleepless eyes had watched it pale from black to grey and then to pink and gold, and sought in the returning light and the rising birdsong some hint of that freshness and hope that had always been there before, but was now nowhere to be found.
And then his minds eye ran up the Corpse Road and over the sun-rimmed Neb and looked down into Dendale still filling with pearly light.
It seemed to him that he saw far below a shadowy figure who peered up towards the fells gilded rim, then threw up its arms in welcome or derision, before slipping silent and naked into the still dark waters of the mere.
Daylight visions now, he thought. Were they better or worse than waking in the dark and still smelling the mud of Passchendaele?
Peter! said Ellie in a tone that told him shed spoken his name already.
Sorry, he said. Miles away.
Yes, Ive noticed. Peter, dont you think
But the moment wasnt ripe. A voice said, Lovely morning again, sod it! and they saw the postman coming up the drive. He handed Pascoe two packages, one small, one large. Both were addressed to Ellie, but when he proffered them, she took the small one and ignored the other.
Oh, good, she said, tearing it open. That Mahler disc.
Songs for Dead Children. Just the stuff for a summers day, he said, taking it from her hand and replacing it with the other package which bore a well-known publishers logo. What about this?
If I want cheering up, Ill listen to Mahler, she said.
Perhaps theyve just sent your script back to ask you to make a few minor revisions? he offered.
Bollocks, said Ellie. Ive got these Braille-sensitive fingers. They can read get stuffed through six layers of wrapping. Weird design.
She was determined not to talk about the novel. He looked down at the disc which bore a silhouette drawing of a girls or cherubs profile, spouting a line of music. He found himself thinking of Dendale, though the connection seemed slight. Then he spotted what it was. In the bottom right corner, as on the map from the Dendale file, were the initials E.W. Not of course Edgar Wield this time, but, as was confirmed when he turned the disc over and read the small print on the back, Elizabeth Wulfstan.
Does the translation, sings the songs, designs the cover; I wonder if she plays the instruments in the orchestra? he said.
Very likely. Some people get all the talent, which is why theres so little left over for the rest, said Ellie, dispiritedly.
Itll happen, love. Really. Youve got more writing talent in your little finger than any of those London creeps licking each others bums in the Sunday reviews, he said loyally, putting his arms round her.
They clung together as if he were going back to the Front after all too short a leave.
Then he got into his car and drove away.
THREE
How many times? said Father Kerrigan.
Five.
Jesus! With the same fellow, was it?
Yes, Father, said Detective Constable Shirley Novello indignantly.
And on the Sabbath, too.
Does that make it worse?
It doesnt make it any better. Five times. Its this hot weather I blame. Is he one of mine? Dont tell me. Ill recognize him by the weary way he walks. And this is why I didnt see you in church yesterday? You were too busy fornicating.
No, Father. I told you. We went off to the seaside for the day, and it just sort of happened.
No, my girl. Once it just sort of happens, five times takes enthusiasm.
It wasnt easy, thought Novello as she left the church a little later, being a modern woman, a Roman Catholic, and a Detective Constable all at the same time. They got in each others way. To the soul sisters, a good screw was exuberating in your own sexuality; to the holy father it was the sin of fornication. As for her job, there were times when it required her to behave in ways equally offensive to both the sisterhood and the Fatherhood.
She arrived at the Danby incident room five minutes late. No sign of Dalziel (thank you for that at least, God); or Pascoe. But Wield was there.
Sorry, Sarge, she said. Went to confession.
Somehow telling a lie in these circumstances didnt seem on.
Hope you got it on tape, said Wield.
A joke? She made a guess and smiled.
You werent here yesterday? Me neither. Get up to speed, then Id like you to take a closer look at these three car sightings.
Super around?
Up the dale with DI Burroughs and the search team.
And Mr Pascoe?
Along shortly. Hes checking the shop.
An excuse for lateness? They covered each others backs, these two.
The thought must have showed. Wield said, Or mebbe hes at confession too. Takes longer as you get older, they say.
Another joke? He was in an odd mood today. She found herself a computer screen and went to work.
Three cars. In the early stages of a case like this when you went in mob-handed, with rough-terrain search teams, house-to-house enquiries, media appeals, etc. etc., what you rapidly got was a vast amount of clutter. Which is why the better part of investigation was elimination. (Pascoe.) Not easy. Probably by the time she sorted out these three, thered be several others reported. Sunday was a bad day for witnesses. People went off for the day, didnt get back till late. Thered be huge gaps in yesterdays house-to-house. Not her problem. Yet.