Dalziel smiled like a polar bear.
'Because of the Mysteries, of course,' he said. 'Because your understudy's crap, and Chung reckons you're the very best Devil she's ever directed.'
He was telling the truth. Swain was excellent m his part and Chung had been very annoyed to learn he was likely to be away for as long as a week.
'I'm flattered,' he said, smiling. 'And I do hope you've managed to reach your heaven by the time I return.'
'I'll get there in the end,' said Dalziel. 'I usually do. Don't forget your lines while you're away. I'll be listening carefully.'
'Andy, are you going to get your ass up here or not?' yelled Chung.
'All right, I'm coming,' said Dalziel. And began the long ascent.
Back at the station later, he parked his car in the refurbished car park which was like a constant mocking reminder of his failure. In his office he rummaged through his mail and groaned as he came across another letter from what Pascoe called the Dark Lady. As if conjured by his thought, Pascoe came into the room.
'Stopped knocking, have we?'
'Sorry, sir. Thought you were still at your theatricals. I was going to drop this on your desk.'
'Tell me about it. I'm pig sick of reading words just now.'
'I just had a call from Leeds Central. As you know, they've had real trouble with their football yobs. But because they're highly organized over there, that's meant they're vulnerable to infiltration and the Leeds undercover operation's had one or two excellent results.'
'Send the buggers a medal, then. What's this got to do with us?'
'The word is that during the last couple of seasons some of our City supporters, short of any real action over here, got themselves into the Leeds gang for their jollies. But now they're dividing themselves between the two because they've got big ambitions to make a name for themselves as the City mob. Just first names so far, which isn't much help, but as soon as they can get some real detail, they'll let us know. Promising, eh?'
'Yes, must be nice to get other buggers to do your work for you,' said Dalziel sourly. 'I wish I could manage it. I seem to recollect asking some idle sod to get this joker sorted.'
He tossed the latest letter across to Pascoe who read it with a troubled look on his face.
'Doesn't sound like a joker to me,' he said.
'No? Then get her off my back! Christ, you've had long enough!'
This from a man who found the Dark Lady's plight an irritation too trivial to waste his own precious time on was too unjust for argument. Pascoe rang Pottle and got invited to have a drink in the University Staff Club. The psychiatrist read the letter twice.
'She's very confused,' he said.
Pascoe, with a guest's sensitivity, suppressed the mock amazement which rose to his lips by taking a long pull at his spritzer. Pottle regarded him with a slight smile which suggested he had noted the suppression.
'That may seem obvious,' he went on. 'But what I detect is a confusion beyond the basic mental and spiritual turmoil which has brought her to the point of suicide. It's all to do with this understanding of her own motives which hovers between the conscious and the subconscious. Despite her disclaimer, she began to suspect her use of Dalziel as a sounding-board was also an appeal for discovery, so she ended the correspondence after letter two. Then her need to "talk" grew so strong she had to start again to protect herself from discovery! After another two letters, the pattern repeats itself, and she resolves to stop once more, though this time without announcing it.'
Pascoe interrupted, 'Not out of fear of being tracked down so much as fear that that's what she really wanted?'
'More or less,' said Pottle. 'Several weeks pass. And finally an awareness that she is rapidly approaching the point of no return brings with it a desire to be prevented so strong that she has re-opened the correspondence. Such fascinating ambiguities! She claims to be distressed lest Dalziel had passed the case to a more feeling subordinate. An inspired guess or actual knowledge? Subconsciously, of course, she is probably simply miffed that the Great Detective as she calls him isn't taking her seriously. Happily, you are.'
He regarded the detective sympathetically and poured another inch of Muscadet into his glass, not hiding his disapproval as Pascoe topped it up with soda.
'I'm driving,' said Pascoe. In fact he quite liked the combination and didn't think anyway that the Staff Club's Muscadet was worth getting religious over.
'Last time you said she was probably as likely to give clues for policemen as psychiatrists,' he went on. 'Does it still look that way?'
'I believe so. But they may not be all that obvious.'
'Policemen aren't allowed to ignore the obvious,' said Pascoe. 'I've already asked Mr Dalziel for a list of his partners at the ball. That should eliminate half a dozen.'
'So many? I should have thought one veleta would have sent him reeling to the bar,' said Pottle, who had suffered much abuse from Dalziel over the years. 'Yes, that was certainly a very obvious clue, reducing your suspects by about fifty thousand at a stroke. And she's started talking about methods at last. Jumping under a train. Possibly just a tease. Never take what she says too literally. But clues there are, and there'll be more before the end.'
'She'll write again.'
'Oh yes. No doubt about it. The closer she gets, the more nods and winks she'll give. But you'll need to be sharp. Don't expect a name and address!'
'It'd make life a lot easier,’ said Pascoe.
‘That's what we'd all like,’ said Pottle gently. 'Including your Dark Lady.'
As Pascoe drove back to Headquarters, he brooded on what Pottle had said. He recognized in himself the growth of an obsession, but he did not know or perhaps did not want to know how to combat it. It was all right for Pottle to tell him to be a detective, but he didn't feel like a detective, more like a medium striving to make contact with a lost soul and having to work through some not totally sympathetic spirit guide! These intermediaries often figured as Red Indians, or Chinamen. He'd got Dalziel.
He picked up his car radio mike and intoned, 'Is there anybody there?'
'Say again, over,' crackled the radio.
Hastily he replaced the mike. A chief inspector was too senior to be wild, too junior to be eccentric. It was the sober middle age of a police career. But even the middle-aged were allowed their obsessions and if you had one, there was only one thing to do - ride it till either you fell off or it dropped from under you.
Outside his room, he bumped into Dalziel and said rather aggressively, 'You won't forget that list of your dancing partners, will you, sir?'
Dalziel didn't reply but opened the door and ushered Pascoe inside, then overtook him and sat at his desk.
'This is your in-tray, lad,' he said kindly. 'And this sheet of paper here is the list I promised. And these sheets here are the complete guest list. So if you take this list from this one, you'll find you've got close on two hundred names, one of which might belong to this daft tart who's wasting so much of your highly expensive time.'
'At least it's a life I'm trying to save, not just my self-esteem,' retorted Pascoe, allowing himself to be stung.
'Meaning?' said Dalziel.
Pascoe was already regretting his outburst but he knew better than to back down.
'Meaning we still seem to be spending a lot of time and energy chasing around after Gregory Waterson so you can try to re-open the Swain case.'
'I'm not denying it,' said Dalziel equably. 'But he is a criminal suspect, isn't he?'
'All right. But Tony Appleyard's not a criminal, is he?' said Pascoe obstinately. 'And we seem to have got half the police in north London and all the DHSS looking for him.'
'It's about time them buggers had something useful to do,' said Dalziel. 'Anyroad, I made a promise, lad.'
'To Shirley Appleyard, you mean? But you've said yourself she's not pressurizing you.'
'That's right. I wasn't sure from the start why she really wanted to see him. Stick a knife in him
, mebbe. Anyroad, yes, she seems to have lost interest. Last time I told her I'd heard nowt, she just shrugged and said, I shouldn't bother any more. It's not worth it. Likely he's dead.'
'And why are you still bothering?' asked Pascoe, rancour erased by genuine interest.
'Because it's worth it to me,' grunted Dalziel. 'One, I'll break my own promises, not wait till someone gives me permission. And two, I want to know. He might be a useless specimen but he's from off my patch, and he went south to work, not to die, if that's what's happened to him. I wouldn't put it past them cockneys. Here's a dead 'un, not one of ours, another bloody northerner, when's the next load of rubbish going out to the tip? It's time they knew they've got me to answer to!'
This was the nearest thing to a radical political statement Pascoe had ever heard from the Superintendent. It wasn't going to usher in the Socialist Millennium, but shouted loud enough, it might cause a little unease in Thatcherland.
'Look, sir,' he said. 'I'm sorry if I sounded off a bit . . .'
'Never apologize, never explain,' said Dalziel, rising. 'Just do your job, and never forget the golden rule.'
'Which is?'
'When in doubt, it's your shout. Come on, lad, the Bull's been open for nigh on ten minutes!'
CHAPTER TWO
Eustace Horncastle was no connoisseur of revenge. Hot or cold, it was a dish his cloth forbade him, and he felt this no great deprivation, believing with that fervour reserved for the more militant tenets of his faith that the Lord would repay.
Unhappily, his knowledge of what the Lord would do was not matched by an equal degree of self-awareness. Vengeance, plainly served at whatever temperature, would have been pushed aside with genuine moral revulsion; but Mrs Horncastle could testify that, reconstituted, it had been a staple of his diet for many years.
The way it worked was this. At the conscious level, wrongs were forgiven, slights forgotten, provocations met with forbearance and pain with fortitude. But somehow, somewhere, some time, something would emerge, justifiable in terms of logic, Christian teaching, and the greatest good of the greatest number, which without bearing much resemblance to most known forms of vengeance, yet had its sweet and sour aftertaste.
April 21st
Dear Miss Chung,
You will recall when I promised my support in obtaining for you permission to use the area around the ruins of St Bega 's Abbey as the fixed site for your production of the Mysteries I pointed out that any decision on this would require the ratification of the Cathedral Chapter. For various reasons it did not prove possible to lay the proposal before a full Chapter till yesterday and I regret to inform you that the feeling of the meeting was strongly against the idea. The environs of St Bega's have a very special ambience and it was felt that it would be inappropriate for such a peaceful and holy spot to be used for what is essentially a secular and commercial entertainment.
I do not doubt that the City Council will renew its offer of Charter Park, however, and I assure you of my continued personal support for your endeavours.
Yours very sincerely,
Eustace Horncastle
'Oh you bastard,' said Eileen Chung.
She picked up the phone on her desk at the Kemble and dialled. A woman's voice answered.
'Dorothy, is that you? Hi. Chung here. Is your lovely husband in?'
'I'm afraid not. Can I help?'
'I don't think so. It's not important. I'll catch up with him later,' said Chung with Erinnic certainty. 'How're you doing?'
'I'm fine.'
'That's good. It's time you dropped by for a coffee. I know you're up to your halo with good works and all that, but we can always put you to work if you feel guilty. How about this afternoon?'
The two women had met several times since their encounter over the Pliny tomb. Their exchanges had been light and social but undershot on both sides by a strong current of memory.
'I might do that. Ought I to get Eustace to ring you back?'
It was a strange turn of phrase.
She knows what this is about, thought Chung. And she's hinting a doubt at my strategy.
'No need,' she said easily. 'I'd prefer to see him. Perhaps we can plot an ambush when you come round.'
She replaced the phone. Dorothy Horncastle had been right. She would get nowhere talking to the Canon on the phone. Even face to face her charms were uncertain now that he'd cried Lamia. But without St Bega's, her production felt flat and dull, as flat and dull as Charter Park. She should have taken more care of this. She stood up and walked restlessly around the room. The walls were papered with the Mysteries - storyboard, scripts, routes, costume and pageant designs - it was all there, in every sense. This was what had attracted her in the first place. The only other way to get such a comprehensive statement of life was to do all of Shakespeare from Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night! to And my ending is despair, a journey not to be concentrated into a holiday week!
'What's up with you, lass? You look like you bit an apple and swallowed a worm.'
It was Dalziel. Sometimes you knew backstage when he was in the foyer; others, he came up behind you like a scouting Indian.
'Worm's about it,' she said handing him the letter.
He read it and said, 'Makes a difference using Charter Park, does it?'
'Like playing at Barnsley instead of Wembley,' she said.
'I'm a rugby man meself,' he said, 'and clart's clart whatever the scenery. What's the plan, then?'
She shrugged hopelessly. Dalziel watched and thought that Chung shrugging should have a government health warning. No mere shoulder movement this but an undulation running down her long lithe body like a Mexican wave.
He grinned and said, 'Right. Let the dog see the rabbit.'
'What are you doing?' she asked as he dialled a number on her phone.
'Can't compete with you at shaking titties, luv,' he said. 'But I'm a dab hand at shaking other things, like fists, faith and front row forwards. Hello! Bishop in? He can't be busy, it's not Sunday. Tell him it's Andy Dalziel and there may be a problem about his ticket for the Welsh game next season. What? No, I don't want him to ring back, I want him now. If the monkey's around, the organ-grinder can't be far away.'
He smiled sweetly at Chung, who hissed, 'Who are you talking to, for God's sake?'
'Bishop's chaplain. Nice lad, but he plays lacrosse. Lacrosse! No wonder there's no respect for religion. Hello, Joe. About time. No, the lad got it wrong, of course there's no problem about your international tickets. Have I ever let you down? I'd fix you up with a helmet and let you walk the line if that was the only way to get you in. That's me, reliable. Like you, Joe. You can trust me like I trust you. Right, I'll come to the point, I know you're a busy man. Friend of mine's got a problem . . .'
Ten minutes later he put the phone down and said, 'There you are. All fixed.'
'My God, Andy. And I mean that literally! But what about the Chapter? And I thought the Bish was shit-scared of Eustace?'
'It seems at this Chapter meeting the use of St Bega's wasn't really on the agenda. It had all been fixed ages back. It was old Horny-cassock himself who brought it up and naturally there were a couple of sniping speeches at him because he gets up a lot of noses, and suddenly he says, right, I think I've got the feeling of the meeting and they're into any other business, no vote taken. As for Joe being scared of Horncastle -' Dalziel smiled ursinely - 'who'd you be more scared of, luv? A wanked-out cleric or me?'
'No competition,' said Chung. 'But how do you know him, the Bishop, I mean . . .'
'Didn't anyone tell you I was a failed priest?' said Dalziel so seriously that she let her astounded half-belief show till his huge frame started to shake with convulsions of laughter which were Krakatoa to her Mexican wave.
'Oh, you bastard,' she said joining in.
'I told you,' he said between guffaws. 'He were one of the front row forwards I was good at shaking. Bugger tried to bite me ear off once. I had three stitches. He told me af
ter it were a kind of reverse transubstantiation, my blood tasted like Sam Smith's beer. Now, I'm no bishop, I really am busy, so what about this rehearsal? Lucifer still on his travels, is he?'
'Philip? Yes, it's a damn nuisance. He said a week and its been more than two.'
'Don't worry, luv,' said Dalziel. 'He'll be back, word of God. Now I've got this grand idea for when I'm talking to Noah...’
There had to be easier ways of earning a crust than rehearsing Andrew Dalziel, thought Chung. But, once she got it into his head that though in matters criminal and even episcopal he might reign supreme, in matters theatrical she was boss, he could be sensational as God.
She explained this to Dorothy Horncastle that afternoon. The Canon's wife smiled as if the idea pleased her. Chung, whose curiosity about masks and motives was the mainspring of her professional life, said, 'You like the idea of a big fat copper as God, don't you? What's the appeal? Rude sign at the Church? Put-down for the Canon? Or what?'
It was a step into an intimacy which had yet to be proved, but Chung hadn't got where she was by pussyfooting around.
For a few moments the woman froze, her features setting into just the kind of umbraged mask a lady of her class and condition ought to wear in face of such intrusive familiarity. Then a slow thaw set in, another smile struggled through like a weak spring sun, and she said ruefully, 'Sorry, I'm still getting used to your . . .'
'My big mouth. Say it, hon,' laughed Chung. 'It's my best feature.'
'Your directness,' corrected Dorothy. 'Your honesty.'
'Come on! You're so honest, it drips out of you!'
'No. I obey rules, I follow the law. That's not the same. I only approach real honesty in fantasy.'
'Me too,' said Chung. 'It's my job. But don't think honesty means you've got to put up with crap. It can also mean telling the people who dish it out to go screw themselves.'
'Go screw. . .' Dorothy tested the words. 'I'm not quite sure if I'm ready for that. Don't misunderstand me. All I mean is that profanity should come as naturally as the leaves to a tree or it should not come at all.'
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