He raised his eyes to look at the inscription carved on the cross.
It was dedicated to the memory of one Arthur Treebie who quit this vale of tears aged ninety-two, grievously deplored by his huge family and armies of friends. Possibly Treebie himself, anticipating the gap he was going to leave, had chosen the consoling text:
'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.'
Pascoe read it, shivered, glanced once more around the empty churchyard, and hurried back to the comfort of his car.
Earlier that same Saturday morning, Detective Constable Hat Bowler had awoken from a dream.
Ever since the incident in which he sustained the serious head injury he was officially still recuperating from, his sleep had been broken by lurid nightmares in which he struggled once more with the naked blood-slippery figure of the Word-man. The difference from the reality was that in his dreams he always lost and lay there helpless while his towering assailant clubbed him again and again with a heavy crystal dish till he slipped into unconsciousness with the despairing screams of Rye Pomona echoing through his broken head. And when he awoke into a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets, it was the memory of those screams as much as his own pain and fear that he brought with him out of the dark.
This morning he woke once more into a tangle of sheets and a memory of Rye calling out, but this time there was nothing of fear or pain in his memory, only love and joy.
In his dream he'd been lying in his hotel bed, his body a burning brand in a cold, cold waste of circumspection, wondering whether he was a wise man or an idiot not to have pressed his suit with Rye to either a conclusion or a rejection, when he had heard his door open and next moment a soft naked body had fused its warmth with his and a voice had murmured in his ear, Thank God for equal opportunities, eh?' And after that she had spoken no more till those final wordless but oh so eloquent cries which had climaxed their passionate coupling.
He groaned softly at the sweet memory of the dream, tried to relax once more into that happy slumber, rolled over in the broad bed, and sat up wide-awake.
She was there. Either he was still dreaming, or…
Her arms went round him and drew him down.
'How's your head?' she whispered.
'I don't know. I think I'm having delusions.'
'So why don't we delude ourselves again?'
If this was dreaming, he was happy to sleep forever.
Afterwards they lay intricately twined together, listening to the hotel coming to life around them and the birds, later than the humans on these dark mornings, beginning to waken outside.
'What's that?' she said.
'Goldfinch.'
'And that?'
'Mistle thrush.'
'I like a man who knows more than I do’ she said. 'Hungry?'
'What had you in mind?'
'Sausage, bacon and egg, for starters.'
She rolled away from him, picked up the bedside phone and dialled.
He listened as she ordered the full English for two in his room.
'Have you no shame?' he asked.
'Just as well I haven't,' she said. 'Or were you planning to surprise me last night?'
He shook his head and said, 'No. I'm sorry. I wanted to, Jesus, how I've been wanting to! But I just lost my bottle
'Why?' she said curiously. 'You've never struck me as the retiring virgin type, Hat.'
'No? Well, usually… not that there's been a lot… but in most cases it didn't matter, being turned down, I mean. Some you lose, some you win, that sort of thing. But with you I was terrified I'd lose everything by pressing too hard. I had to be sure you really fancied me.'
'Girl fixes up a three-night break in a romantic country hotel and you're not sure?' she said incredulously.
'Yeah, well, I thought… then we got here and you'd booked separate rooms.'
‘Fail-safe in case… anyway, you had the cue to look disappointed and say, "Hey, do we really need two rooms?'"
'Oh, I was disappointed,' he said with a grin. 'If I'd been on duty, I'd have gone out and arrested the first ten people I saw smiling and charged them with being happy. So, disappointed yes, but maybe not altogether surprised.'
'Meaning?'
'Meaning that during these past few weeks you've been concerned and caring and great fun to be with, all those things, but I always felt there was some kind of limit, you know: this far is fine but one more step and it's on your bike, buster! Am I making sense?'
She was listening to him with a frowning intensity.
She said, 'You think I was playing hard to get?'
'Crossed my mind’ he admitted. 'But it didn't seem your style. Though a couple of weeks back when things seemed to be going really well… do you remember? And I was thinking, this is the night! Then you got a headache! Jesus! I thought. A headache! How unoriginal can you get?'
'You've been mixing with too many dishonest people, Hat’ she said. 'If I say I've got a headache, I mean I've got a headache. So you thought because I didn't jump into bed with you the first time you got horny, I must be… what? What have you been thinking these past few weeks, Hat?'
He looked away then looked back straight into her eyes and said, 'I sometimes thought, maybe you're just grateful because of what happened. Maybe that's the limit, whatever gratitude can give but no more. Well, I couldn't have put up with that forever, but I wasn't ready yet to take the risk of making you say it. So that's the kind of wimpish wanker you've got yourself mixed up with.'
'Wimp you may be, but you can give up the wanking, eh, Constable?' she said, drawing him close to her. 'I love you, Hat. From now on in, you're safe with me.'
Which seemed to Hat even in these days of equal opportunity a slightly odd way of putting it, but he wasn't about to complain, and indeed in her arms he felt so utterly invulnerable to anything fate could hurl against him, even if it took the form of Fat Andy Dalziel in berserker mode, that perhaps she had the right of it.
A blizzard rages across a desolate landscape, thunder rolls, wolves howl. Away in the distance there is movement. Gradually as the swirling snow parts the viewer sees that it's a horse, no, three horses, pulling a sleigh. And as it gets nearer the passengers became visible, a man and a woman and two children, and they are all smiling, and as the din of the raging storm dies to be replaced by the swelling strains of Prokofiev's 'Troika' music, the viewpoint swings round to show over the horses' tossing heads the turrets and towers of what looks like a small city emerging from the white plain, above which arcs with a brilliance like the Northern Lights the word ESTOTILAND.
'Christmas starts in Estotiland,' intones a voice like the voice of a transatlantic God. 'Here in Estotiland you'll get so much fun out of shopping you'll never think of dropping. And don't forget, Estotiland is open from eight a.m. to ten p.m., and all day Sunday. So all you kids, git your mom and pop to hitch up the pony to the sleigh and head out here first thing tomorrow. But be careful. You may never want to go home again!'
Music climaxes as the sleigh, which is now seen to be the point of a broad arrow of many other sleighs, leads them all into the shining city.
'What a load of crap’ observed Andy Dalziel from his sitting-room door.
'Andy. Didn't hear you come in.'
'Not surprised, with that din on. Do I get a kiss or will that make you miss your favourite commercial?'
He leaned over the sofa and pressed what a less welcoming and resilient recipient than Cap Marvell might have felt as a blow rather than a buss on her lips.
The advertising break was ending and the presenter of Ebor TV's early evening show was revealed half-engulfed in a deeply yielding armchair.
'Welcome back,' he said. 'Just to remind you, my guest tonight is that man of many hats, lawyer, campaigner, charity worker and historian, Marcus Belchamber.'
The picture changed to a shot of a man of early middle age, wearing a dinner jacket of immaculate cut, who was sitting in a sister chair to the presenter's, but with no threat to
his steadiness of posture or alertness of mien. Steady grey eyes looked out of the head of an idealized Roman senator topped by lightly greying locks so immaculately groomed that they might indeed have been set there by a maestro's chisel rather than a barber's craft. This was a gentleman in whom you could place an absolute trust.
Dalziel made a farting noise with his lips.
'Mind if I watch this item, love?' said Cap.
'I'll get us a drink,' said the Fat Man, heading for the kitchen.
He and Cap Marvell didn't cohabit, but as their relationship matured, they'd exchanged keys, and now one of the delights of returning home for Dalziel was the possibility of finding a light on, a fire burning and Cap sitting on his sofa, or sleeping in his bed. She assured him that she felt the same, though he'd exercised his privilege of entry to her flat with great care after the occasion on which he'd been woken, stark naked on her hearth rug, by the scream of a campaigning nun who was her house guest.
From the sitting room he could hear the presenter's voice.
'Before we talk more about the Round Table Disadvantaged Children's Christmas Party which you're in charge of this year, Marcus, I'd like to have a word with you about another treat for both adults and kids which you've helped make available for us over the next few weeks. This is the chance, possibly for most of us the last chance, to see the Elsecar Hoard. For anyone out there that doesn't know it, I should say that under one of his many hats, Marcus is President of the Mid-Yorkshire Archaeological Society and is acknowledged nationally, indeed I might say internationally, as one of the country's foremost experts on Yorkshire during the Roman occupation.'
'You're too kind,' said Belchamber in that rich timbred voice which some had compared not unfavourably with that of the late Richard Burton.
'Perhaps you'd give us a bit of background just in case there's anyone left in the county who hasn't been following the saga?'
'Certainly. The Elsecar Hoard is perhaps Yorkshire's most precious historical treasure, though strictly – and herein lies the nub of the problem which emerged about a year ago – it doesn't belong to Yorkshire but to the Elsecar family. The first Baron Elsecar emerged as a power in the county at the end of the Wars of the Roses and the family flourished for the next three centuries, but a natural conservatism, with a small c, left them ill-prepared for the industrial revolution and by midway through Victoria's reign they had fallen on hard times. The greater part of their land, much of which later proved to be rich in minerals and coal, was sold at depressed agricultural prices to pay off their debts.
'In 1872, the eighth baron was draining a boggy section of one of the few remaining estates, in what any competent geologist could have told him was a vain hope of finding coal, when his workers hauled up a bronze chest.
'When opened, it proved to contain a large quantity of Roman coinage mainly of the fourth century, plus, more importantly, numerous ornaments of widely varied provenance, ranging from native Celtic designs to Mediterranean and Oriental. Particularly striking was a golden coronet formed of two intertwining snakes -'
'Ah yes’ interrupted the presenter, who had the TV personality's terror that if left out of shot long enough he would cease to exist. 'This is what's known as the serpent crown, right? Isn't it supposed to have belonged to some brigand queen?'
'A queen of the Brigantes, which is not quite the same thing’ murmured Belchamber courteously. 'This was Cartimandua, who handed over Caractacus to the Romans, but her connection with the crown is tenuous and owes more, I believe, to Victorian sentimental horror at the betrayal than any historical research. Snakes in our Christian society have come to be linked with treachery and falsehood. But, as you know, in the symbolism of Celtic art they have quite a different significance
'Yes, of course’ said the presenter. 'Quite different. Right. But this Hoard, where did it actually come from? And was it simply a question of finders keepers?'
'In law, there is no such thing as a simple question’ said Belchamber, smiling.
'You can say that again, you bastard’ muttered Dalziel in the kitchen.
'Scholars theorized that the Hoard was probably the collection of an important and well-travelled Roman official who found himself, either through choice or accident, isolated in Britain when the Roman rule broke down early in the fifth century. The big legal question was whether the chest had been deliberately hidden by its owner, thinking it prudent to conceal his treasure till quieter times came, in which case it would have been treasure trove and the property of the Crown; or whether it had simply been lost or abandoned, in which case it was the property of the land-owner. Fortunately for the Elsecars, the matter was settled in their favour when further drainage revealed the remains of a wheeled vehicle, suggesting the chest was being transported somewhere when accident or ambush had caused the carriage to overturn and sink in the swamp.'
'So it was theirs, no question? Why didn't they sell it straight away if they were so hard up?' asked the presenter.
'Because good things like bad often come in bundles, and at just about the same time the heir apparent to the baronetcy caught himself a rich American heiress, so they stowed the Hoard in the bank vault against a rainy day
'Which has now arrived’ interrupted the presenter, seeing his producer making for-God's-sake-hurry-this-along signals from the control room.
Dalziel clearly felt much the same. He'd returned with drinks and was sitting next to Cap on the sofa, glowering at the screen with an intensity of hatred which he usually only saved for winning Welsh rugby teams.
'So Lord Elsecar has put the Hoard on the market’ continued the presenter at a gallop. 'The best offer to date has been from America, the British Museum has been given the chance to match it, but so far, even with lottery money and a public appeal, they're still well short of the mark. So as a last gasp, and following a suggestion made, one might even say a pressure exerted, by the Yorkshire Archaeological Society led by yourself, the Elsecars have agreed for the Hoard to go on tour, with all profits from admission charges to go to the Save Our Hoard Fund. Will they do it?'
Belchamber made hopeful noises. Cap Marvell laughed derisively.
'Not a hope,' she said. 'They're so far short they'd need everyone in Yorkshire to go five times to get anywhere near! First time I've seen a lawyer who can't add up!'
That's great,' said the presenter. 'So there you are, all you culture vultures, take the family along to see the money your ancestors spent and what they spent it on back in the Dark Ages. The Hoard will be on exhibition in Bradford till the New Year, then in Sheffield till Friday, January twenty-fifth, after which it moves to Mid-Yorkshire. Don't miss it! And now the Christmas Party. How many kids are you hoping to get this year, Marcus?'
Dalziel stood up and said, 'Like another drink?'
I've hardly touched this one,' said Cap as she picked up the remote control and zapped the sound off. 'But I can take a hint. Is there some all-in wrestling on another channel you want to watch?'
'No. It's just I hear quite enough of yon turd, Belcher, without letting him into my own parlour’ said Dalziel.
'I take it this means he represents criminals and does a rather good job of it?'
'He does better than a good job,' said Dalziel grimly. 'He bends the law till it nigh on breaks. Every top villain in the county's on his books. I'm late tonight 'cos there was a scare with our one witness in the Linford case, and guess who's representing Linford.'
'You're not suggesting that Marcus Belchamber, solicitor, gentleman, scholar and philanthropist, goes around intimidating witnesses?'
'Of course not. But I don't doubt it's him as told Linford's dad, Wally, that the case was hopeless unless they got shut of our witness. Any road, it turned out a false alarm and I left Wieldy soothing the lad.'
'Oh yes. Is the sergeant a good soother?'
'Oh aye. He tells 'em if they don't calm down, he'll have to stay the night. That usually does the trick.'
Cap, who sometimes had a pro
blem working out when Dalziel's political incorrectness was post-modern ironical and when it was prehistoric offensive, turned the sound back on.
'You look awfully smart, Marcus,' the presenter was saying. 'Off clubbing tonight?'
Belchamber gave the weary little smile with which in court he frequently underlined some prosecution witness's inconsistency or inanity, and said, 'I'm driving to Leeds for the Northern Law Society's dinner.'
'Well, don't drink too much or you could end up defending yourself.'
'In which case I would have a fool for a client,' said Belchamber. 'But rest easy. I shall be spending the night there.'
'Only joking! Have a good night. It's been a privilege having you on the show. Ladies and gentlemen, Marcus Belchamber!'
Belchamber rose easily from the depths of his chair, the presenter struggled to get upright, the two men shook hands, and the lawyer walked off to enthusiastic applause.
'He's a fine-looking man’ said Cap provocatively.
'He'd look better strapped on the end of a ducking stool’ said Dalziel.
'And did you notice that DJ? Lovely cut. Conceals the embonpoint perfectly with no suggestion of tightness. Next time you see him, you really must ask who his tailor is.'
This was a provocation too far.
'Right, lass, if you just came round here to be rude, you can bugger off back to that fancy flat of thine. What did you come round for anyway?'
She grinned at him and ran her tongue round the rim of her glass.
'Actually I just thought I'd pop round to see what you wanted for Christmas’ she said languorously.
‘I’ll need at least thirty seconds to have a think’ said Dalziel. 'But it's not a tangerine in a sock, I can tell you that for starters.'
Delective Sergeant Edgar Wield was in a good mood as he mounted his ancient but beautifully maintained Triumph Thunderbird and said farewell to Mid-Yorkshire's Central Police Station with a quite unnecessary crescendo of revs. A couple of uniformed constables coming into the yard stood aside respectfully as he rode past them. He was still a man of mystery to most of his junior colleagues, but whether you thought of him as an ageing rocker who ate live chickens as he did the ton along the central reservation of the Ml or believed the rumours that he was matron -in-chief of a transvestite community living in darkest Eendale, you didn't let any trace of speculation and or amusement show. Dalziel was more obviously terrifying, Pascoe had a finger of iron inside his velvet glove, but Wield's was the face to haunt your dreams.
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