Child's Play

by Reginald Hill

  So immersed was he in his plans that he hardly noticed the police car till he almost hit it.

  Oh shit! he said to himself, thinking of all the reasons why they might be stopping him, which included though it did not end at his recent consumption of three pints of the Old Mill Inn’s excellent bitter.

  ‘Mr Vollans, is it?’ said the uniformed officer stooping to the open window.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Superintendent Dalziel would like a word with you in town, if you don’t mind, sir.’

  It didn’t feel like an arrest, but you never knew with the police. Nor was his mind set at rest when he met Pascoe at the station.

  ‘What’s it all about?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Pascoe honestly. ‘Depends what you’ve been up to.’

  He was given a cup of truly terrible coffee, and it had grown cold and he was growing hot by the time Dalziel’s imminence was felt.

  Pascoe met the Superintendent at the door.

  ‘Later,’ said the fat man. ‘I’d like a word alone with our friend here.’

  Friend came out like a threat. Vollans postponed his indignation like a man on the Titanic postponing his letter to the manufacturers. Slamming the door behind his inspector, Dalziel said without preamble, ‘Someone rang you last night to arrange a meeting to sell you a story about a queer cop, right? What time did he ring?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly. Some time after seven. Our exchange will know.’

  ‘He asked for you personally?’

  ‘Yes. We’d spoken before.’

  ‘About the same matter?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did he give you a name?’

  ‘No. No names.’

  ‘But it was the same voice.’

  ‘Oh yes. Definitely.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Vollans thought, then replied, ‘He said he wanted to meet to talk money. He was ready to spill everything he knew, but he wanted cash in hand. I said, all right, let’s meet. You name the time and place.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Yes. He said eight-thirty this morning in the railway station buffet.’

  ‘And you were there?’

  ‘Yes. And an early rising I had of it too. All for nothing. He didn’t show.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘If you’d not met him before, how do you know he wasn’t there?’

  ‘Well, put like that, I don’t. He was supposed to approach me. I told him what I looked like and what I’d be wearing and that I’d carry a copy of the Challenger. That’d be the clincher. I mean, there aren’t many people carrying Sunday papers in the middle of the week!’

  ‘No? There’s a lot of mean buggers in this town,’ said Dalziel.

  Though delivered with the utmost seriousness, this observation somehow rang an end-of-round bell and for the first time since Dalziel’s entry, Vollans did not feel immediately threatened.

  He said, ‘What’s this all about?’

  Before Dalziel could reply, there was a peremptory knock and Neville Watmough entered.

  ‘Mr Vollans,’ he said. ‘Hello again.’

  ‘You two know each other?’ said Dalziel. ‘That’s cosy.’

  ‘Hello, sir,’ said Vollans.

  ‘It’s good of you to help like this,’ pursued Watmough. ‘Routine inquiries, simple elimination. I’ve just been talking to Mr Ogilby and I mentioned how helpful you were being and assured him he could expect a reciprocal degree of cooperation from us. You might like to give him a ring when Mr Dalziel’s finished with you.’

  ‘I’m finished,’ said Dalziel, scratching his right buttock and producing a sound which made chalk on a blackboard sound like Menuhin on a Strad.

  Vollans found himself being ushered out of the door. Watmough remained on the inside.

  ‘What’s he say?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Dalziel, varying the note by dragging his nails diagonally across the weave of his tight blue serge. ‘Our would-be tipster arranged a meet and didn’t show. No more than that.’

  ‘So there’s no evidence to show that the murdered man and the tipster were definitely the same?’

  ‘Nothing I’d like to see in print, sir,’ Dalziel said ambiguously. ‘No names, no pack drill, if you follow me.’

  Watmough regarded him distrustfully but this was nothing new.

  He said, ‘I insist on …’ then changed his mind.

  He tried again. ‘Andy, you’re a very experienced officer …’

  ‘And you can rest assured I’ll use my experience in the best interests of all of us, sir,’ said Dalziel fulsomely.

  Watmough decided that no words were good words and opened the door to reveal Pascoe standing there, a look of puzzlement on his thin, nearly handsome face. He stood aside to let Watmough pass but Dalziel spoke again before the move was completed.

  ‘So it’s my understanding, sir, that in the Sharman case, you want nothing said or published which might reflect on the good name of the Force without your personal authority.’

  Watmough took a deep breath, said ‘Yes,’ looked as if he instantly regretted it, but before he could add anything further Dalziel had drawn Pascoe into the room and closed the door firmly on the DCC.

  ‘Please,’ said Pascoe plaintively. ‘Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘Take a chair,’ said Dalziel. ‘Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’

  After he had finished, there was silence in the room. Even Dalziel’s scratchy serenade was allowed to fade away as he observed the younger man’s reaction with interest.

  At last he spoke.

  ‘Wield’s queer?’ he said incredulously. ‘Bugger me.’

  ‘Best be careful what you say,’ said Dalziel and roared with laughter.

  Pascoe looked at him with undisguised distaste and Dalziel stopped laughing and said with a sigh, ‘All right. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing. I just don’t think it’s a laughing matter, that’s all.’

  ‘What do you think it is, then? A hanging matter?’

  Pascoe flushed and said angrily, ‘That’s not what I meant at all and you know it. I reckon I’m a damn sight more …’

  His voice tailed away as he saw the fat man’s sly amusement.

  ‘Liberal, is that the word? Some of your best mates are gay? Well, here’s another to join the merry throng!’

  Pascoe took a deep breath and said, ‘All right. Sorry. Let’s start again, sir. You go easy on the jokes and I’ll go easy on the righteousness.’

  ‘Sounds fair,’ said Dalziel. ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘Well, Wieldy himself, for a start. And Watmough. You’ve seen his reaction to the thought of a homosexual copper.’

  ‘He’s not happy,’ admitted Dalziel. ‘He wishes I’d just kept quiet about all this.’

  ‘Yes. Well, why didn’t you, sir?’ asked Pascoe flatly. ‘I assume that Sergeant Wield isn’t connected with the murder, so why risk dragging him into it at all?’

  Dalziel shook his head in only mock-amazement.

  ‘This matriculation you need to get into university,’ he said, ‘does it involve drilling holes in your skull or something? What makes you assume Wield’s not connected with the murder?’

  ‘I know him!’ exploded Pascoe, then, his voice modulating into a minor key, ‘I thought I knew him.’

  ‘Right,’ said Dalziel. ‘You thought. Well, as it happens I don’t think he topped our boy either. But Wield’s connected all right and that’s a fact.’

  ‘I see. And you don’t want to risk your career by being connected with a cover-up?’ said Pascoe scornfully.

  ‘Fuck me pink!’ exclaimed Dalziel. ‘Cover-up? What’s so scary about a cover-up? I’ve done enough covering up in my time to fill in Wharfedale! But why should I do the dirty work when there’s others as’ll do it for me?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You’ve forgotten wh
at Tick-Tock, the Talking Clock, said just now already? Christ almighty, Peter, I’d best write it down and get you to sign it! Listen, lad, Watmough doesn’t want to know about Wield, doesn’t want to know about anything, not till the Selection Committee meets.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘Too late. He’ll be personally in charge of the cover-up by then. Last thing he’ll want the new Chief Constable to know is how he’s been bending the rules.’

  ‘What if he is the new Chief?’ objected Pascoe.

  Dalziel began to laugh. Pascoe didn’t join in.

  ‘And Wield? What about him?’ he said.

  ‘Sick again,’ said Dalziel. ‘Till I tell him he’s better. He’s ploughed himself a deep furrow. Much more and he’ll be buried.’

  ‘But you said he wasn’t mixed up in this!’

  ‘Not in the murder, not directly. But he’s mixed up all right, in every other sense. The boy told him he’d come up here to look for his dad who went missing three years back. They had a row. Wield told him he didn’t believe him and that he reckoned he was just a nasty little crook who’d stopped off in Yorkshire to put the black on him.’

  ‘Well, all the other evidence confirms that.’

  ‘Mebbe. But his dad did go missing three years back. His grandma confirms it and says the boy was very upset.’

  ‘But is there any link with Yorkshire?’

  ‘The grandmother knew none. Said she thought he was brought up in a kids’ home in Nottingham. I’d like you to check that out, Peter, see if there’s anything for us there.’

  ‘Why? Do you believe this story about looking for his dad too?’

  ‘Mebbe. Sharman told Wield he came to Yorkshire because his last contact with his father was a postcard from up here. He also said he’d mislaid the card, so there wasn’t any hard evidence to stop Wield blowing his top. The boy’s gear, what little there is, got left at Wield’s flat. I’ve had a look through it. Nothing of interest except this. I found it tucked away in the middle of a thick paperback.’

  He handed over a postcard. It was addressed to Cliff Sharman in Dulwich. The postmark was illegible except for the year which said 1982.

  The message read: Dear Cliff, sorry about the weekend but I’ll be back soon as I’ve got my business sorted. Take care. Dad.

  Pascoe turned the card over. The photograph was a view of a large Victorian building with a tall central clock-tower.

  He didn’t need to read the inscription. By stepping to the window, he could glimpse a distant side-view of the same clock-tower on the old town hall.

  ‘So the lad was telling the truth, at least in part,’ he said. ‘Wield’s seen this?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dalziel.

  ‘And you left him alone!’

  ‘He wanted to be alone,’ said Dalziel. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll not harm himself.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ demanded Pascoe.

  ‘Because I know the man! Oh aye, so did you; and better, you thought? Well, lad, there’s one difference. I’ve known for years he were bent, so perhaps I’m better qualified to comment now. He’ll not harm himself. I gave him fair warning.’

  ‘Warning? What’s that mean?’

  ‘I told him if he killed himself, I’d have him drummed out of the Force,’ said Dalziel seriously.

  Pascoe shook his head in incredulous bewilderment.

  ‘And what did he say to that?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, he perked up a lot,’ said Dalziel carefully. ‘He asked me why I didn’t go off and fuck myself. What’s that you’re thinking, lad? Seconded? Well, I never mind a vote of confidence. But one thing - don’t go running round to Wield’s place tonight to say you’re sorry for not sussing out his guilty secret. Last thing he needs is a lachrymose liberal. That’s a good word, eh? I got it off Top of the Form on the wireless! So, keep your nose out till tomorrow at least.’

  The fat man grinned maliciously.

  ‘Any road, I reckon I’ve got enough work lined up for you, Peter, to keep you busy till nigh on midnight!’

  Chapter 6

  Lexie Huby’s class finished at eight and she was driving up to Troy House by half past. It was a fine night, but moonless and with enough wind to set the trees trembling and shake out the odd dead leaf. The house was in darkness and the slight figure paused for a while by her car before slamming the door and shutting off the courtesy light which was the only illumination.

  As she headed for the front porch, she heard a noise in the garden. She stopped and turned. There was movement there, in the shadows by the shrubbery, a menacing presence, now still, now beginning to advance.

  Lexie said calmly, ‘Hob? Is that you?’

  And a moment later smiled as her deduction was confirmed and the old donkey’s ears broke the dim skyline above the shrubs.

  Next moment a hand descended on her shoulder and she spun round, shrieking.

  ‘Sorry, miss, it’s only me!’

  It was Constable Jennison, the Greendale policeman, his square face rhomboid with concern.

  ‘Didn’t mean to scare you, but I’ve been told off to keep a weather eye open round Troy House and when I saw the car, I thought I’d better take a look. It’s Miss Lexie, isn’t it? Mrs Brooks said you was expected. She went off about an hour ago, said the old lady was sleeping sound.’

  Lexie, recovered and reassured, said, ‘That’s good. Will you have a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thanks. Got to get on down to the Greendale Inn. Big darts match tonight, first round of the cup.’

  ‘And you’re expecting bother?’

  ‘No way,’ he said. ‘I’m playing! Good night now. I’ll check back later.’

  Lexie let herself into the house with Lomas’s key. There was a note to her from Mrs Brooks in the kitchen saying the doctor had called again and Miss Keech had taken some nourishment and gone to sleep. The doctor was arranging for a nurse the following day. A postscript added that all the animals had been fed despite anything they might say to the contrary.

  Lexie smiled as she read the note. She knew Mrs Brooks and guessed that Jennison’s absence from his darts match had been as much to check on her arrival at the cleaner’s request as to check the security of the house at Dalziel’s.

  She went upstairs to the big bedroom, once Great Aunt Gwen’s, now Miss Keech’s. It was strange. It was easy to imagine in the semidarkness that it was still her aunt lying there, though she and Miss Keech bore no great physical resemblance.

  As she turned to leave, a quavery voice said, ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s only me, Miss Keech,’ she said advancing. ‘Lexie.’

  She switched on the bedside lamp to give confirmation.

  ‘Oh, Lexie,’ said the old woman. ‘Little Lexie. What’s the time?’

  Lexie told her.

  ‘It’s good of you to come to see me. Everyone’s very good when you’re ill, aren’t they? Likes and dislikes, they all get forgotten.’

  Lexie didn’t know how to answer this.

  She said, ‘Would you like a hot drink?’

  ‘No, thank you. A little tonic wine would be nice.’

  Lexie poured her a glass from the bottle on the bedside table. It was mildly alcoholic but she assumed the doctor would have removed it if he felt it was likely to be harmful. Then she helped Miss Keech to sit up, arranging her pillows as a back rest. Her body felt frail and skeletal and she smelt of lavender and old age.

  She sipped the wine thirstily, but not indecorously, her little finger crooked in that much parodied signal of refinement.

  ‘More?’ said Lexie.

  ‘No, thank you, dear.’

  She put the glass down.

  ‘Do you want to sleep now? Or listen to the radio perhaps?’

  Miss Keech smiled like marsh-light on a dark pool.

  ‘You’ve never liked me much, have you, Lexie?’ she said.

  Lexie considered her reply.

  ‘No. Not much,’ she said finally.

  Miss Keech
laughed silently.

  ‘You were always such a blunt little thing. No. That’s wrong. You were always a timid, quiet, rather frightened little girl, but once you set your mind on something, that was it.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Oh yes. I remember when we put you and Jane on Hob. And Hob brayed at Jane and that was enough. She’d never go near him again. You fell off at least a dozen times, but it didn’t matter. You had to be lifted up again. And then when you changed your name! We all went on calling you Alexandra for a while. It was hard to break old habits. But you broke it all right. We could call you Alexandra till the cows came home and you’d carry on like someone stone deaf. It was because of Mrs Huby’s son, wasn’t it?’

  Again Lexie considered before answering.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I never thought much of it, my name being so like his, till one Sunday I said I couldn’t come here to tea, I had too much homework, and Dad lost his temper. He said, Did I imagine he came here to enjoy himself, and the only reason he put up with it was because of securing his family’s future, and Aunt Gwen would be right offended if I didn’t go as I was the only one she really thought anything of because of the music, and because I had the same name as her missing son. It had never struck me before. That was why I’d been christened Alexandra, not because it was a name Mam and Dad liked and wanted to call me, but in order to butter up Aunt Gwen. So I changed it. Jane had always called me Lexie from a little girl. That was my own name, no one else’s.’

  Miss Keech nodded sleepily.

  ‘Yes, that’s you, Lexie … your own name … your own person … it must be a gift … like grace … a precious, precious …’

  Her eyes closed, forcing out of each a tear which might have been just an old woman’s rheum, yet they gleamed as bright as a young woman’s grief.

  And she slept.

  Others talked and listened, waking and sleeping, that night too. Rose Pascoe, content to have summoned her father by her cries on his late return home, let his flow of meaningless words lull her back to sleep.