She spoke hesitantly, uncertainly, but why did he get a feeling that every one of these words had been as carefully thought into place as the notes on a musical score? He had a sense for the second time this night of being none too gently manipulated, but there was a world of difference between Trimble's Cornish wrestling and this oriental massage.
'What was it you wanted the bugger for anyway?' he asked, accepting his cue.
'That's the thing that would make it so difficult, Andy,' said Chung, golden cat's eyes suddenly moon-orbed. 'I wanted him for Lucifer. He'd have to appear with you in the opening pageant so you could cast him down into hell.'
Dalziel began to laugh. At last oriental subtlety and CID technique were on the same wavelength. The end of all interrogation was to make the poor sod want to say what you wanted him to say!
'You know what, luv?' he said. 'You remind me of me!'
And Chung leaned forward so close that he couldn't get his glass to his lips, and murmured, 'I think I have finally found my God.'
part four
Mak: Now were time for a man that lacks what he would;To stalk privily unto a fold, And nimbly to work then, and be not too bold,For he might abuy the bargain, if it were toldAt the ending.Now were the time to reel;But he needs good counselThat fain would fare well,And has but little spending.
The Towneley Cycle:
'The Second Shepherds' Pageant'
February 28th
Dear Mr Dalziel,
Still here. Still resolved. I envy you your job. You may not be winning, but at least you spend your time doing something positive about human unhappiness. I look at my life and wonder how I got where I am. Is it in the stars? The genes? Or is there one decision which, changed, would have changed everything? Well, there's no way to test that, is there? What you see is what you've got. What the world sees is another matter. Perhaps I'm seeing you all wrong, as the world probably sees me all wrong. Perhaps beneath it all, you too are uncertain, confused, unhappy.
No! I can't, I won't believe it! Not Detective-Superintendent Dalziel! I'm not saying that you don't find it horrible that so many people get so brutally killed in this beautiful world of ours, but I'm pretty certain you feel it a blessing that you don't care for most of them! You would probably have thought Alnoth, whose feast day it is, was a nut to live as a hermit in the forest, but you'd have uprooted trees to track down the robbers who murdered him!
Well, that was a long time ago. Looking back, the easiest way to trace the progress of the human race is to follow the blood. Looking forward ... is there anything to look forward to? Yes, of course; there's the Mayor's Ball, dedicated this year to Death with Dignity. How fitting. Can I make it? Let me check my diary. Yes, I should still be around. What about you? I do hope you go. Who knows? Perhaps we could even dance the last waltz together!
CHAPTER ONE
March came in like a lamb though the forecasters, looking down at their print-outs and up at their rooks' nests, predicted its tail would wag with unprecedented ferocity.
Sergeant Wield, landed with the late shift, wasn't much bothered by the weather without, as long as he got a quiet night within, but at 10.30 his phone rang and a vaguely familiar voice said, 'You want Waterson, try the Sally.'
The line went dead. Wield got the station exchange.
'That call, was it for me by name or just for CID?'
'He asked for you, Sarge.'
Wield stood up and pulled his coat on. Weather had become a consideration. There was a mild and muggy night rubbing against his window-pane, but a trail that started in a nice warm pub could lead anywhere. Or nowhere.
The Pilgrim's Salvation stood against the old city wall in a quarter where decay had halted just short of disintegration, and desperate efforts were being made to revivify the mainly Victorian housing stock.
The Sally went back far beyond the nineteenth century, however. Sacred legend claimed that a famous sinner on pilgrimage to the cathedral had died here before he could claim forgiveness by reaching the holy shrine. Miraculously his abandoned staff had taken root beneath the city wall in testimony of God's unlimited mercy. A more profane provenance merely pointed out that this was the first inn the northern heathens reached on entering the city after their long and thirsty journey.
Five hundred years later it was still the haunt of sinners in search of all kinds of succour, but also, increasingly, of staider citizens in search of atmosphere. Which category Waterson might fall into was not yet Wield's concern. He had wasted far too much time on anonymous tips to lose more in idle speculation.
But tonight his time was not being wasted. As he approached the Sally its door opened, spilling light, music, and a quartet of pilgrims on to the pavement. Among them in the moment before the closing door cut off the light, he glimpsed his man. He had only seen him once before but Dalziel's heavy rebukes had stamped those features onto his soul.
Wield had halted and now he remained in the shadows. He hoped he wouldn't have to pluck Waterson from the bosom of his companions. Even if the acquaintance were casual, pub loyalties could be alcoholically strong. But if the man got into the blue Peugeot estate they were all standing round, he would have to take the chance.
He was going to be lucky. Two of the others got into the car, the third remained on the pavement a little longer talking to Waterson before getting into the driver's seat. Wield paused long enough to take the car's number as it passed him, then set out after Waterson who was walking briskly away in the opposite direction. He could simply have called out the man's name. There was after all no criminal charge involved here, so no reason for Waterson to run. But he'd kept his head down so successfully for almost two weeks that he clearly wasn't keen to renew acquaintance with the police, and if his vanity kept him as fit as it kept him fashionable, Wield didn't fancy a race. Time enough to close the gap when they reached busier streets.
Unfortunately Waterson's route was taking them away from the city centre through an old residential area, fairly upmarket sixty years ago but since declined to bedsit commerce within and sexual commerce without. A recent purge had temporarily frightened off the kerb crawlers and driven the pros centrewards, so tonight was quiet. Directly ahead was a small park called Kipling Gardens. Once this had been a well-known pick-up point for gays, but AIDS had cut down traffic here without the need of a police purge. Waterson walked briskly past the main gate. Ahead, the road turned down the further side of the park and Wield prepared to accelerate and make up a bit of ground once his quarry was out of sight. But just as he reached the corner, Waterson halted as if sensing a follower, and swung round. Fortunately Wield was just passing the park entrance and he sidestepped smartly into the shadow of the tall brick gateposts. Here he stood completely still, straining his ears for a renewal of Waterson's footsteps and wondering if he'd been spotted.
'Looking for someone, friend,' said a soft voice behind him.
Startled, he turned. A young man in a brass-studded leather jerkin was smiling at him out of the darkness. He didn't look much more than sixteen or seventeen. Wield smiled back and said, 'Some other time, son. I'm meeting a friend.'
It was a gentle dismissal, partly because he didn't want to risk attracting Waterson's attention but mainly because he had no desire to hassle this kid. But he paid dearly for it.
'Here, we've got ourselves one,' said the youth.
And suddenly the darkness behind him was crowded with figures, four, five, six, Wield didn't have time to count, for they were on him, swinging lengths of wood, branches they seemed to be, fresh ripped off trees in the park, less lethal than clubs or metal piping perhaps, but still heavy enough to rip and cut when wielded with such ferocity.
'Dirty fucking queer passing your fucking AIDS round decent people,' gasped the first youth between blows. This was a crazy irony. Wield's care and control had kept him clear of such situations all his life. Now he was being beaten up by mistake. So he thought later, but not now, for now all his thinking was concentrated on kee
ping on his feet. Once on the ground, the boots would start coming in and God knows what damage might be done.
He'd got his back to the gatepost and his arms were raised to shield his head. A vehicle went by, its headlights sliding over him like a searchlight in a prison camp. He heard it slow to a halt and thought for a moment rescue was coming. His attackers thought so too and hesitated. Then the engine revved noisily and the vehicle accelerated away.
Now the assault resumed with increased fury. His forehead was gashed and blood was streaming down his face. A concerted attack must drive him on to his knees, but fortunately they were coming at him in individual bursts, then springing back, like dogs attacking a badger, which though its situation is hopeless, still has the power to inflict a valedictory wound.
But what wound do they fear from me? Wield asked himself. No weapon, strength failing, covered in blood . . . then it came to him. The AIDS propaganda hadn't done much to still their stupid fears or increase their negligible tolerance, but it had driven home one lesson. The main danger of non-sexual infection came from blood. Hence their keenness to keep their distance as they destroyed him.
Throwing back his head he let out a scream of such ferocity that it momentarily stilled the assault, and into that fraction of silence he bellowed. 'You're right! I've got it! And this time tomorrow you'll all have it too!' And putting his hand to his gashed brow, he started to flick blood into their faces like a priest with an aspergillum.
For a moment it seemed as if their terror would be transformed into even greater violence, but as the first bough was raised to recommence the assault, Wield gasped, 'Sixty seconds you've got to wash it off. Don't you listen to the telly?'
His spurious statistic worked. One of the gang turned and ran into the park. There was a drinking fountain at its centre. The others realized where he was going and with one accord hurled their branches before Wield like palm leaves, and next moment he was alone.
He didn't wait for them to return from their laving, but staggered out of the gateway and across the street. There was no sign of Waterson. Not that Wield could have done much if the man had been standing next to him. It took all his strength to carry him to a house with a light on. Not even his warrant card could persuade the householder to undo the door chain but at least he rang the police, who came prepared to sort out a drunken brawler rather than succour a colleague in distress.
They drove him to the Infirmary where they jumped the long casualty queue with indifferent ease. A pretty Pakistani nurse had started cleaning him up when the cubicle curtain was drawn aside and a voice said, 'Oh my. What happened to you, Sergeant?'
Wield swivelled his eyes to look at Ellison Marwood.
'I got beat up,' he said.
'Anyone I know?' said Marwood, beginning to examine him.
'I doubt it,' said Wield, wincing as the West Indian's fingers probed. 'Are you the only doctor they've got here?'
'You want someone else, man?'
'No. I didn't mean that,' said Wield. 'All I meant . . .'
'Relax. If I really thought it was a racist crack, I would just have left you lying on this trolley for a couple of hours. No, you're just unlucky. If you'd got beaten up half an hour earlier, you'd have missed me. I've just come on. You're my first of the night, so at least I've got both eyes open.'
It took another hour to get Wield X-rayed and stitched. By the time it was done he felt rather worse than when he'd arrived, but Marwood assured him there were no fractures and that a day in bed with a good analgesic would see him fit for work.
'It would be easy to swing you a week in bed if you wanted, but you strike me as one of these grit-your-teeth and do-your-duty types.'
'Man who works twenty-four-hour shifts shouldn't mock dedication, Doctor,' said Wield. 'How's Mrs Waterson keeping?'
'Why do you ask?' said Marwood aggressively.
'Last time we talked, she seemed a bit tense.'
'Do you blame her?' demanded Marwood. 'Once you find Waterson and put him out of the way, she'll be all right, believe me.'
It was the verbal echo that did it . . . once you find Waterson . . . want to find Waterson . . .
'Why'd you ring me earlier tonight, Dr Marwood?' asked Wield casually.
'Ring you? What are you talking about?' said the doctor, but without a great deal of force or surprise.
'All incoming CID calls are taped,' lied Wield. 'It'd be easy to run a check.'
Marwood made no further denial. It was almost as if he were glad to drop the need for pretence. 'OK, it's a fair cop,' he said. 'I'm sorry I did it anonymously but that's the way you fellows work, isn't it? You don't care where the tip-off comes from as long as it's good.'
'This one was good,' agreed Wield. 'Trouble is, it didn't work out.'
'You let him get away, you mean? He didn't do this to you, did he? Not that little weed?'
'He looked pretty fit to me.'
'Physically maybe. But he'd not have the bottle to beat you up, not even if he threw one of his fits.'
'Fits?'
'He can get very aggressive at times. You'd think he was going to pull off one of your arms and start beating you over the head with it. But if you yell Boo! he goes running. He's all mouth, that one.'
'How did you know he was going to be in the Sally?' Wield asked.
'Information received,' said Marwood. 'An anonymous tip. Which I don't have on tape.'
He grinned as he spoke. Wield didn't grin back. It would have been painful and also people generally didn't notice.
He said, 'Mrs Waterson, I suppose.'
'Mrs Waterson's nothing to do with this.'
Marwood had stopped grinning.
'And I suppose she'd got nowt to do with it when Waterson threw his fit and you had to say boo to him.'
'Maybe she did, but so what?' Marwood visibly forced himself to relax. 'Look, man, it was no big deal. It was a hospital party. I danced with her a couple of times. I like her, she's a lovely dancer. He'd had a couple of drinks and he followed me to the gents and started in at me like he'd caught us screwing or something. I was really worried for a moment till he said something about niggers which got me so mad I started yelling back, then suddenly he was retreating so fast I don't think I'd have caught him on a bicycle. When I mentioned it to Pam, to Mrs Waterson, she said it happened all the time.'
'With people he got jealous of?'
'Oh no. He was usually too busy playing his own away games to get jealous. But these explosions could happen any place, any time. That's what lost him his job. He flew off the handle over something and yelled at his boss. It had happened before and he'd got away with it. He was good at his work and they made allowances for artistic temperament. But this time he went too far. So he blew up again, told them he'd go into business on his own account and walked out.'
'You must know Mrs Waterson pretty well for her to tell you all this.'
'Pretty well, but not as well as you're thinking, Sergeant. We're not lovers. She needs someone to talk to, someone to trust. And the only reason I'm telling you this is so you'll have no need to go bothering her with questions. She's going through a hard time and it wouldn't take much more pressure to make her crack.'
Wield sighed. Why did people imagine that vulnerability was a defence against police questioning, especially when a woman was dead and both the men involved in her death were roving free?
'You do know it's a violent death we're investigating?' he said.
'I thought it was some kind of accident. Or was it more than that? Is that why you want to talk to the bastard?'
'He's a witness, that's all,' said Wield, who saw no reason to make Marwood privy to all the other complications in the case. 'Now perhaps you'll tell me how you knew Waterson would be in that pub.'
Marwood shrugged and said, 'All right. It was Pam. I bumped into her as she was coming into the hospital earlier. She was upset, needed someone to spill it out to, and I was handy. She probably regrets it now.'
'Yes, she
probably does,' said Wield ironically. 'So what did she say?'
'She told me that Waterson had rung her earlier and asked her to meet him in the Sally. He said he needed money and could she bring some. He turned up late so they didn't have much time to talk. In any case when she handed over what cash she could get together, he said it wasn't enough and looked set for one of his explosions so she got out quick.'
'Leaving Waterson inside?'
'Yes. And I thought things might be resolved by getting you round there to pick him up. All right, if you wanted to bang him up for a while, that wouldn't bother me either. But I seem to have underestimated your capacity to cock things up.'
'Yes, sir,' said Wield. 'Thanks for your call anyway.'
'Any time.' The doctor hesitated, then said, 'Look, I'd prefer Mrs Waterson didn't know it was me . . .'
Wield grimaced. For his part he felt the doctor deserved the promise of confidentiality, but there was no way of getting Dalziel to rubber stamp humanitarian gestures.
'We'll try to be discreet, sir,' he said. 'But she will have to be interviewed, you understand that?'
'I suppose so,' said Marwood unhappily. 'But it'll be you doing the questioning, will it? You'll keep her out of that fat bastard Dalziel's clutches?'
'No, sorry, can't guarantee that,' said Wield, shaking his head. The resulting pain was like an affirmation of his wisdom at not making that kind of promise. And affirmation even stronger was unsuspectedly close at hand.
The door opened and the pretty Pakistani looked in.
'Sorry, but there's someone out here . . .'
She was gently but irresistibly eased aside and over the threshold tripped the fat bastard himself. He looked from the nurse to Marwood and back again. Then, advancing on Wield, he said, 'Dr Livingstone, I presume? What in Christ's name have the natives been doing to you?'
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