It would take a great leap of the imagination, or no imagination at all, to think that, thought Pascoe.
‘No, he’s here, Sergeant,’ said a woman’s voice.
In the doorway of the farmhouse a woman had appeared. She was small and neat and had been baking. Her hands were floured and she wore a dark blue apron over a grey dress. Her long hair was tied up in a square of blue silk, giving a wimpled effect. Indeed, with her grey dress and above all a stillness of body and softness of voice which seemed to reflect some deep calm within, she could have passed for a nun.
‘How do, Mrs Hardcastle,’ said Clark. ‘All right if we come in?’
Pascoe noted the formality of their exchange, contrasting with the use of first names man to man. But he got the impression that there was little correlation between form of address and warmth of feeling here. On the contrary.
It was a relief to step out of the hot dung-scented air of the yard into the cool interior, but the contrast didn’t stop at temperature. Here was no sign of neglect. Everything was neat and cherished. The old oak furniture glowed with that depth which only comes from an age of loving polishing, and brass candlesticks shone on the long wooden mantelshelf flanking almost religiously a large head-and-shoulders photograph of a young girl. Other pictures of the same child were visible; in the nook by the fireplace where in old times a saltbox would have stood, and on each of two low windowsills, which also held vases of wild flowers among which Pascoe recognized foxgloves and hawk’s-beard, glowing like candles lit to light a lost sailor home.
‘You’ll take a glass of lemon barley against the warm?’ said the woman.
‘Can’t think of anything I’d like more,’ said Pascoe.
She called, ‘Jed. Visitors,’ up the stone stair which rose at one end of the long low-beamed room, then went out into the kitchen.
For a few moments there was no sound. Then, just as Mrs Hardcastle returned bearing a tray with glasses and a pot jug, footsteps clattered down the stairs and a young man erupted into the room.
He had nothing of his father’s wariness or mother’s calm, but emanated nervous energy even when he stood still, which was not often. He was slightly built, dressed in a black T-shirt and the kind of tight-fitting jeans which gave a male profile once only enjoyed by aficionados of the ballet. What happened if you got excited? wondered Pascoe.
‘Yeah?’ said the youth, staring defiantly at Clark.
‘Nice to see you, too, Jed,’ said the sergeant. ‘Couple of questions we’d like to ask. About Saturday night.’
The youngster’s stare had moved round to Pascoe who was drinking his lemon barley and finding it as cool and refreshing as a thirsty cop could desire.
‘Who’s this? Your minder?’
Trying too hard to sound big, thought Pascoe. Especially for a boy who hadn’t run any further from the estate office than home. It had been his intention to stand back and let Clark’s local knowledge have room to play. But with the weak it was often familiarity that gave strength, and Clark’s most effective interrogatory weapon, which seemed to be a clip round the ear, could hardly be used in present company.
He stepped closer to the youth and said pleasantly, ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Pascoe. I’m making enquiries into the disappearance of a young girl yesterday morning. How old are you, Jed?’
‘Seventeen, just turned.’ He shot an enigmatically accusing glance at his mother then went on ‘You gonna send me a card or something?’
‘No,’ said Pascoe equably. ‘Just want to check you’re an adult in the eyes of the law. That way we don’t need to bother your parents to accompany you down to the station. Sergeant, bring him.’
He turned away. Mrs Hardcastle looked like he’d just condemned her son to death. Her husband stood in the doorway, his features working angrily. Even Clark looked shell-shocked.
Pascoe halted his progress to the door, turned back and said, ‘Of course, if you answer a couple of questions here, we may not need to trouble you further. Who actually did the spraying? It’s always interesting to see if the stories match. Was it you or Kittle?’
It worked. The boy said, ‘You been talking to Vern? What’s he say?’
Pascoe smiled enigmatically and said, ‘Well, you know Vern.’
‘What the hell’s this mad bugger on about?’
Hardcastle senior had found his voice at last.
Pascoe said, ‘I’m talking about the words BENNY’S BACK, sprayed by your son and his mate on the old railway bridge and various other sites around the village. And in view of the fact that Lorraine Dacre went missing yesterday morning, I’m interested to know why he sprayed them.’
‘It had nowt to do with that,’ protested the boy. ‘We did it Saturday night. We knew nowt about the Dacre lass then.’
‘So why’d you do it?’ demanded Pascoe. ‘Just got an urge, did you? Thought it would be funny? Maybe seeing those words put the idea of taking the girl in someone’s mind. Maybe it put it in your mind or Vernon’s mind…’
‘No!’ screamed the boy. ‘I did it ‘cos I’ve had it up to here with Benny fucking Lightfoot. He’s been around this house all my life. Take a look around, see if you can find a picture of me or our June. No, there’s nowt but our Jenny who got took by Benny Lightfoot all them years ago. We even have a cake for her on her birthday, candles and all, can you believe that? Well, it were my birthday on Saturday and I tret myself to a long lie-in and I got up at dinner time, thinking there’d be presents and cards like, and a special meal, and what did I find? I found bugger all! I found Mam sitting there trembling and Dad raging like a mad thing, and you know why? She’d been out and seen Benny Lightfoot! My birthday, and all I get is - “He’s back, Benny’s back!” So I took off out and later I was having a few beers with Vern and he said, “Well, if he’s back, let’s tell the whole fucking world, see if we can’t spoil some other fucker’s birthday.”
‘So you decided to do some spraying? Good thinking,’ said Pascoe.
The youth was trembling with the emotion of his outburst, but his mother looked to be in a worse state.
She said, ‘Oh, Jed, I’m sorry … I’m really sorry…’
Pascoe said, ‘Mrs Hardcastle, I need to ask …’ but Clark had moved past him, almost shouldered him aside and, taking the woman by the arm, he said, ‘I’ll see to this, sir,’ and steered her into the kitchen.
Interesting, thought Pascoe.
He turned to the elder Hardcastle and said, ‘Did you see Lightfoot, too, sir?’
‘No!’ spat the man. ‘Do you think I’d have seen him and not tore his throat out? But I always knew he’d be back. I’ve been saying for years, it’s not over, not yet, not by a long chalk. Them as thought they were safe, they all looked church solemn and said how sorry they were, but all the time they were thinking, “Thank God it was yours not mine, thank God I’ve got away safe.” It’s Elsie Dacre’s kid that’s gone, isn’t it? Elsie Coe as was. She were a girl herself back then when it happened and I recall her dad saying he’d see nowt happened to his lass even if it meant keeping her in shackles. But it has happened, hasn’t it? It has!’
‘We don’t know what’s happened, sir. But we need to look into every possibility.’
He turned to the boy. No defiance or even anger there any more, just a lost child’s face with tears swelling at the eyes.
Hardcastle was right. Whatever the truth about Lightfoot’s return, it hadn’t been over, not for this boy and his runaway sister, because it would never be over for their parents.
He said gently, ‘You’ve been very silly, Jed, and I may need to talk to you again. Meanwhile, hadn’t you best get back to work?’
The boy nodded gratefully, then pushed by his father without a word.
Happy families, thought Pascoe.
He went into the kitchen. Clark had had his innings. He found the sergeant sitting close to Mrs Hardcastle at a long kitchen table, scrubbed almost white by generations of strong country women.
&nb
sp; At sight of him, Clark stood up and said, ‘Thanks then, Mrs Hardcastle. I’ll be in touch. Take care.’
Pascoe let himself be steered out of the house. In the yard he stopped and said mildly, ‘Right, Sergeant. Now persuade me that I shouldn’t be back in there, questioning Mrs Hardcastle for myself.’
‘She’s told me all she knows,’ said Clark.
‘Tell me, then.’
‘She went out on Saturday morning to gather some bilberries. Bilberry pie is a favourite of Jed’s and she wanted to make one for his birthday. The best place for them round here is high up the far side of the dale where it gets the morning sun. She went over there, and went higher and higher and finally got to the ridge. She says she had a fancy to look down into Dendale ‘cos she’d heard about the village showing up again with the drought, but she’d not cared to take a look so far. And when she did look down she saw more than she bargained for. She saw Benny Lightfoot down there, wandering around close by where Neb Cottage used to be.’
‘So what did she do?’
‘Just stood and looked till he looked up the fellside towards her. He were a good way off, but she says she saw him smile. Then she dropped all her berries and turned and ran down the fell all the way home.’
‘When she says he was wandering around, she means walking? On his feet? Not floating over the ground?’
Clark took a deep breath and said, ‘She’s not daft, sir. She’s been through what would have broke a lot of women, but she’s still got all her wits.’
‘And her eyesight? Has she still got that?’
‘I’ve not heard her complain. And she doesn’t wear glasses.’
‘Perhaps she should. How old did Lightfoot look?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Was he the same age as last time she saw him, or did he look fifteen years older?’
‘Don’t know, sir. Didn’t ask.’
Pascoe shook his head irritably. The cooling effect of the shadowy interior plus the lemon barley was rapidly being evaporated by the uncomfortably warm air.
‘You know I’m going to have to talk to her, don’t you?’ he said. ‘I’m going to need a properly witnessed statement.’
‘Yes, sir. But not now, sir.’ Clark’s voice was pleading.
‘Forgive me for being personal,’ said Pascoe, ‘but you haven’t got something going with Mrs Hardcastle, have you?’
‘No,’ exclaimed Clark. Then, more softly. ‘No, not now. Once, a long time since, there was … something. But she had three kiddies, it didn’t seem right, even though her and Cedric … well, who knows what might have happened? What did happen was little Jenny got took. And that was that. Some women might have got out after that. She saw it as a kind of judgement. And the way it hit Cedric, she knew she’d never leave him, come what might. She told me, no need really, I could see it… So now we’re Sergeant Clark and Mrs Hardcastle. But I’ll not see any harm come to her, sir. No matter what.’
He spoke defiantly.
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Pascoe. ‘Look, it’s probably best we see her down at the hall, when Mr Dalziel’s back. Get back in there and tell her we’ll need to see her down there in, say, two hours. That should give us time to get hold of the super.’
‘I’ll ask her, sir.’
‘You tell her,’ said Pascoe fiercely. ‘Middle of an investigation like this is no time for personal feelings, Sergeant.’
Was Clark going to turn out to be a liability? he wondered. It was what he was coming to think of as the Dendale effect. Bit like Gulf War syndrome; hard to define, but impossible to deny once you’d met a few of those suffering from it. Including perhaps the Fat Man himself.
He would prefer to believe Dendale was irrelevant, but all roads seemed to lead back there and till he saw a signpost pointing definitely in another direction, perhaps he ought to follow, if only to confirm a dead end.
He said, ‘Sergeant.’
Clark, moving slowly back to the farmhouse, turned to show an unhappy face and said, ‘Sir?’
‘This fellow, Benny Lightfoot, who was he close to?’
‘No bugger,’ said Clark. ‘A right loner.’
‘So if he did come back, there’s nowhere special he’d head?’
‘Only Dendale, and there’s nowt there for him now, not even with the drought. All the buildings got ‘dozed down before they flooded the dale, including Neb Cottage where he lived with his gran.’
‘His gran. You said she had a stroke. What exactly happened to her?’ asked Pascoe.
‘She dug her heels in, said they’d have to carry her out of her cottage, and that’s what they had to do,’ said Clark. ‘She’d barricaded herself in. I went up there to try to talk some sense into her and I saw her through the window lying on the floor. Another few hours, I reckon she’d have snuffed it.’
‘Lucky you were so conscientious,’ said Pascoe.
‘I’m not sure she saw it that way,’ said Clark. ‘I went to see her in hospital and she didn’t exactly seem grateful.’
‘Did she recover?’
‘Depends who was talking to her,’ said Clark with a reminiscent grin. ‘Any official questions about Benny and she’d lost the power of speech and memory. She was certainly a bit confused and had trouble with finding the right words, but she was soon well enough to be a right trouble to the nurses. They’d have discharged her a lot sooner, only they had to find a place for her to go. She couldn’t look after herself, you see. Even after she got most of her speech back, she was partially paralysed down one side. So it had to be nursing home and she led the Social Services a merry dance when they started making suggestions.’
‘But in the end she went?’
‘No. A niece turned up. Lived somewhere near Sheffield. Said she’d take her. And that’s the last anyone round here saw of her.’
‘So she could be still alive,’ said Pascoe.
‘She’d be getting on, but she’s the kind who’d stay alive forever if she thought folk were expecting her to die.’
‘Can’t remember the niece’s name, can you?’
‘No. But they might still have a record down at Social Services.’
‘Depends who was running the case,’ said Pascoe unoptimistically.
‘I can tell you that. Lass name of Plowright.’
‘You don’t mean Jeannie Plowright who’s head of Social Services at County Hall now?’ said Pascoe, hope reviving.
‘Aye, she’s done right well,’ said Clark. ‘I thought she would. Anyone who could survive dealing with old Mrs Lightfoot was always going to make it right to the top!’
He went into the house. Pascoe took out his mobile and dialled.
‘County Hall.’
‘Social Services. Ms Plowright, please.’
A pause, unfilled (thank God) by soothing music. Then a man’s voice.
‘Hello?’
‘Is Jeannie there, please?’
‘Sorry, she’s out. Can I help?’
‘No. When will she be back?’
‘Not till late this afternoon, maybe early evening. Look, if it’s about…’
‘It’s not about anything you can help with,’ said Pascoe. ‘Can you make sure she gets a message?’
‘I expect so, but listen …’
‘No. You listen. Carefully. My name is Pascoe. Detective Chief Inspector Pascoe. Tell Ms Plowright I shall call to see her in her office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. This is urgent and confidential police business, OK? Subject of meeting: Mrs Agnes Lightfoot, formerly of Neb Cottage, Dendale. You got that? Good. Thank you.’
He rang off. If you see me coming, better step aside, he thought. Bullying Clark for having personal feelings. Now riding roughshod over some poor devil whose name or status I didn’t even bother to find out. Another fifteen stone and I’ll be indistinguishable from Dalziel!
The phone rang.
‘Hello!’ he barked.
‘Peter, it’s me. Listen, don’t worry, but Rosie wasn’t well at school and Mi
ss Martindale sent for me and I brought her home and I thought it was just too much sun or something, then I got to thinking about Zandra so I rang Jill and she said Zandra was a lot worse, and she’d got the doctor there so I started getting a bit concerned and rang Doctor Truman and he’s here now and he says he’d like Rosie to go to hospital for some tests … Peter, can you get there soon… please…’
He’d never heard Ellie like this before. The world reeled as if the great ocean of heathery moor had decided to shrug its shoulders and ease Stirps End Farm off its sandbank.
Then all went still again.
He said, ‘I’m on my way.’
So much for hard cases, he thought. So much for slagging people off for letting personal feelings get in the way. Dalziel was right. If there was a god, he dearly loved a joke.
‘Sergeant Clark!’ he roared.
And set off at a run towards the car.
TWELVE
When Wield and Novello reached Bixford, there was no need to ask for direction.
Towering over the sign extending Bixford’s welcome to careful drivers was a hoarding proclaiming the imminence of GEORDIE TURNBULL (DEMOLITION & EXCAVATION) LTD.
It stood inside a high wire-link security fence running round a site of about an acre. At its centre stood a bungalow on one side of which was parked a bright yellow bulldozer bearing Turnbull’s name in fiery red and on the other a light blue Volvo estate.
It bore not a trace of dirt or dust and sparkled in the sun-light.
Novello drove in through the open gate and parked next to the Volvo.
Wield got out and walked slowly around the estate car, peering in through the gleaming windows. Novello went up to the bungalow and pressed the bell push. After a short delay the door opened. A short stout man appeared, dressed in khaki shorts, a string vest, and espadrilles. His coarse blonde hair was standing on end and he was yawning and rubbing his eyes, as though just roused from sleep. But his yawn stopped and his eyes brightened and a welcoming smile spread like dawn across his round and ruddy face as he clocked Novello.
‘Hello, there,’ he said. ‘Just having a nap, but this is worth waking up for. And what can I do for you, bonny lass?’
On Beulah Height Page 18
