September 24. This has been a dreadful day. I thought that since Selly sailed last week, I had observed a slight softening in Father, as if he relented his harshness to his son and heir, and, though too pigheaded to change his mind, was converted to a gentler, more rational regime in regard to the rest of us. So I told him about me and Stanley. Or rather, coward that I am, I told Mummy and let her pass on the news. I knew when I heard his cry of rage from the stables that Id made a gross miscalculation! It was all Mummy could do to stop him from locking me in my room and heading down to the vicarage with a horsewhip. But at least its done. I feel quite serene. Nothing will stop me from marrying Stanley now. Its silly but I find the only thing that really worries me is that I cant see Stanley getting much help from Father in his efforts to rebuild the village school!
October 26. Today Stanley and I were married in St Marks at Byreford. It was a disappointment not to have the ceremony in our own church but at least I was spared the threat of interruption from Father, who would have seen this as the ultimate provocation! I slipped up to the Hall this morning to see Mummy. She wept a lot and said that Father was implacable and wouldnt I change my mind even now? How little she understands. I bumped into Guy who is home for half-term. He had the cheek to lecture me about disgracing the family by marrying an atheist socialist agitator! He really is the most obnoxious little snob. I have written to Selly baldly stating the facts. I hope he may be more sympathetic, though I know hed never have the strength of will to stand up to Father. I thought of Selly later as I came out of church, and who should I see among the onlookers but little Agnes Foote, now Agnes Creed, for when I spoke to her she told me, blushing, that shed married an old flame of hers from Byreford and by the look of her, he has not been long in doing his progenitive duty. The euphemism is Mummys. She speaks rarely of such things and always as a necessary pain. I hope I shall not think of it so. Soon I shall know. Stanley, who has stayed downstairs to smoke a pipe, has had time to burn a ton of tobacco by now! Shall I ring a bell to summon him to his progenitive duty? Then we would see how modern he is. But I think I hear him now.
CHAPTER ONE
Here I am once more in this scene of dissipation and vice, and I begin already to find my morals corrupted.
Wield usually walked to work. It wasnt far and the exercise did him good. But these werent the only reasons.
He lived his life in compartments and the bike did not belong in the same compartment as the job. There was no hard and fast rule. Hed use it if necessary. But why attract attention? He was out if being resolved never to deny his sexuality meant being out, but that didnt mean he had to wear a Kiss-me-Quick T-shirt, did it? It was all perfectly reasonable.
Yet his mind, which could collate evidence, analyse statements, and parse PACE, with a speed and clarity beyond computer programming, knew that perfect reasoning is a perilous plan for living. Perfection has no safety net. One slip and it shatters.
When the job was going well, when he was fully involved with his work both on and off duty, he could imagine things were OK. Leisure in short bursts he could pack with his martial arts classes, his Gilbert and Sullivan discs, his motorbike maintenance, his Rider Haggard novels.
But when he had a full day off, or, worse, several full days, the truth came rushing up to meet him. These compartments were empty. There was no one to share them with. There had been no one for longer than he cared to remember. There was part of his life he hadnt just compartmentalized; hed walled it off and plastered over the bricks.
It wasnt simply a matter of sex. A man could do without that and still function. Or if he couldnt, there were outlets of minimal risk.
But companionship, closeness, care; sorrow at parting and joy at reunion; planned trips and surprise treats; accusations, apologies, quibbles, quarrels, and quiet breathing; all the pain and pleasure of shared existence; this was what hed walled himself off from, raising a dust of desolation which no amount of fresh spring air blasted over his face as he roared through the highways and byways of rural Yorkshire could blow away.
This time hed been off for almost a week. If hed made an issue of it he was probably entitled to more like a month. It had felt like a year. But now at last it was over, and precisely on the first stroke of twelve from the town-hall clock, he passed through the imposing portals of Mid-Yorkshire Police HQ. He felt his heart leap, or at least lurch, as he smelt the dusty disinfected odour of the place, but it would have taken an ECG machine to detect the movement.
The last note of the hour was sounding as he reached the CID floor. Simultaneously a bulky figure stepped out of an office and a voice like a sports day tannoy system boomed, My God, someones rubbed the bottle and let the genie out! What time of day do you call this, Sergeant?
And Wield knew he was back home.
The time of day my holiday finishes, sir, he said.
Holiday? I hope youve brought me a stick of rock, cos I know just the place to stick it!
Judging the threat to be non-personal, Wield advanced to make his obeisance to the Head of Mid-Yorkshire CID and Master of All He Cared to Survey, Detective-Superintendent Andrew Dalziel.
Trouble, sir?
Owt or nowt. You know Sergeant Filmer?
Terry? Aye. Section sergeant out at Byreford, isnt he?
Thats the bugger. Well, he reckons one of his ploughboys has gone walkabout.
Ploughboy was Dalziels personal nomenclature for any uniformed officer stationed in the sticks. For decades the arrangement had been for each sizeable village to have its own resident constable under the immediate supervision of a Section Office in some centrally placed small township. Economy disguised as efficiency was causing a radical shake-up of the system, and in the not too distant future the village bobby would vanish completely. Wield, like most thinking coppers, regretted his imminent demise. This was hands-on policing with good public relations, and the additional advantage that it provided a testing ground to see how promising youngsters coped with responsibility.
If Sergeant Filmer says hes missing, he ought to know, said Wield.
You reckon? Thing is, its the lads day off. He clocked off at noon yesterday and hes not due back on till eight tomorrow morning. Only Filmer calls in at the police cottage first thing this morning says there was a report he needed, but I reckon he just likes to stick his neb in, keep them on their toes and theres no one there.
But its his day off.
Makes no matter to Filmer. He uses his key to get inside, checks the bedroom, finds the beds not been slept in.
So he got up early and made the bed. Or found somewhere better to sleep last night.
Against the rules. You dont sleep away from home without you inform your Section Office.
You dont ring up at midnight and say, Hey, Sarge, Ive struck lucky, do you? said Wield.
My reaction, just. Not Filmer. He checks the wardrobe. If the lad did strike lucky, he went on the date wearing his uniform, cos it isnt there. Next he checks the car. Its alongside the cottage, badly parked, unlocked, with stains on the passenger seat.
Bloodstains?
Strawberry jam for owt I know, growled Dalziel. Now Filmers right up in the air. Starts making what he calls discreet inquiries. I can hear him. Ive lost a constable, anyone seen him?
And had anyone?
Not since yesterday afternoon. But first off he finds some old sod who reckons he saw our missing ploughboy about tea-time having a set-to with a Hells Angel
In uniform? Or out?
In. So Filmer decides either there was an emergency which got him back in uniform, or mebbe this old boy whos rising eighty and recovering from a stroke is a bit confused. He keeps on asking, and, lo and behold, he finds himself another witness in the village who also recalls having a bit of bother yesterday with a Hells Angel. Only he got closer and he gives a description which makes this bugger sound like a cross between King Kong and Rasputin. Now Filmer really panics. First off he radios in a right alarmist report to the Mother Superior, who naturally lobs the buck straight upstairs to Desperate Dan, who cant find me cos Im out doing some real police work, so he drops it like a steaming hot turd right into the lads lap. If Id been around itd have got slung back with interest. Let Uniformed take care of their own, say I!
So whats the state of play now, sir? asked Wield, who had no problem identifying the Mother Superior as Chief Superintendent Almond, the new Head of Uniformed Branch, while Desperate Dan was of course Chief Constable Daniel Trimble, and the lad was Wields very good friend, Chief Inspector Peter Pascoe.
You know Peter. Always a soft touch. Though fair dos, by the time he gets landed, yon daft bugger Filmer has decided that he can kill two birds with one stone by bringing in the ploughboys car for Forensic to check the stain, and the witness to look at our Family Album to try and spot King Kong.
He put a witness in a car he wants Forensic to look at and drove him here? said Wield incredulously.
See what I mean? Pete decides hed best go and tiptoe through the turnips himself, to see what damage has been done. Left me a note. He can be a wilful bugger when he wants.
Wield had a good face for hiding smiles, a capacity he used now.
And Filmer?
Hes in here with his star witness turning pages. You have a word with him, Wieldy, come the old Sergeants Union, see if hes got owt sensible to say. I seem to make him nervous, cant think why.
Another smile was absorbed and Wield pushed open the door.
The shining bald head of Sergeant Filmer was bent alongside the shining silver head of a man peering at a pageful of photographs.
At the sound of the door, both heads turned.
Filmers face registered relief as he recognized Wield.
The witnesss face registered first surprise, then relief also.
And Wields face for once allowed his feelings of disbelief, comprehension and dismay to be printed clear.