She went up to her study to check on Rosie. The genealogy kit she’d got for Christmas had been a great hit, mainly because of a jocular suggestion in the preamble that a study of your ancestry could reveal that you were in fact really a prince or princess.
‘Mum,’ she said when Ellie entered the room, ‘will I ever see Granddad Pascoe?’
Pascoe’s father lived in Australia with his eldest child, Susan. Ellie had met him once when she and Peter were students and she’d stayed overnight at their Warwickshire home. She hadn’t cared for the way he brought up his son’s plans to join the police force and tried to engage her in his objections against them. The fact that she too thought Peter would be throwing himself away made no difference. Fathers should be concerned about their children, but with warmth and understanding, not with chilly uncaring self-righteousness. She sometimes wondered, but not aloud, how large a part the desire to disoblige his father had played in helping Pascoe make up his mind to join the Force.
It had come as no surprise when she re-engaged with Pascoe to learn that his father had joined his favourite daughter in Australia on retirement. He’d never been back. The loss of one grandfather to Alzheimer’s had clearly got Rosie wondering about the other.
‘One day, I’m sure you will,’ she said brightly. ‘And all your Australian cousins.’
Who might be all right. She’d seen photos and they looked quite normal. Anyway, there was time enough for Rosie to learn that families weren’t all sweetness and light.
‘How’s it going, dear?’ she asked. Yesterday she’d got the impression that where dialectics had failed, simple tedium might be succeeding.
‘It’s all right but I think Tig gets a bit bored,’ said Rosie.
Ellie smiled. More and more it was Tig who got bored, Tig who got hungry, Tig who got tired. It was a masterly transference strategy which left Rosie able to assert herself without overt selfishness. Everyone, thought Ellie, should have a Tig.
It was certainly true that the little mongrel sitting under the desk had an air of patient long-suffering which seemed to say, this genealogy’s OK, but when does the action start?
Now! was clearly the answer as Rosie’s mention of his name brought him to his feet with a tail wag that started at the neck.
Rosie slid off her chair.
‘Shall I clear up later?’ she said. ‘Tig looks like he might want to do a dump.’
Clearing away all her gear had been a condition of Rosie’s use of the study, but cleaning up after Tig got precedence.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Ellie, pretty sure she’d been conned again.
She sat down at her desk and began to put together the genealogy pack. It was aimed at the young market, and the introductory blurb urged the tyro genealogist to press older relations for details of family history, adding, ‘but be careful. As people grow older, they are more likely to make little slips of memory. So double-check everything!’
Good advice.
More or less the good advice she’d been giving to Peter about Roote.
Would he take it? Maybe. Maybe not.
On the other hand, she thought virtuously, there wasn’t much point going around dishing out good advice unless you were willing to take it yourself.
And, because she always found the cloak of virtue a rather itchy cloth, she gave herself a good scratch by adding, and wouldn’t it be fun to toss the result of her own researches into Roote’s background in front of Peter and say, hey, I think you missed a bit!
She got the pack papers in order and began to read from the beginning.
The Old Town Hall clock, still standing proud despite the fact that its broad face which once enjoyed a clear view right out to the swell of the northern dales now had to squint through a jungle of tumescent modernity, gathered its strength and struck.
The still and frosty air offered such little resistance to the note that even the benighted inhabitants of Lancashire must have been made aware that here in the very middle of God’s Own County the Old Year was on his way out and the New on her way in.
For a moment there was no competition, then every bell in the town started ringing, rockets climbed into the air to dim the stars with their cascading colours, car horns sounded, revellers round the equine statue of the Grand Old Duke of York in Charter Park which already bore its traditional embellishment of streamers, toilet rolls, and inflated condoms, burst into raucous cheering while in the more sedate confines of the Old Town Hall itself, the guests at the Lord Mayor’s Hogmanay Hop let out a welcoming whoop, then started applying their tongues to the first serious business of the New Year.
One of many things Dalziel liked about Cap Marvell was she gave as good as she got and they might have become linked in a lingual knot it would have taken an Alexander to sever if Margot, the Lady Mayoress, hadn’t exercised her droit de seigneuse by tapping him on the shoulder and saying, ‘Fair do’s, Andy. Save some for old Tom’s breakfast.’
‘By God, Marge, I’d not have liked to be in thy tag team!’ said Dalziel, massaging his shoulder where she’d tapped it.
Not many people dared to call her Marge or make open reference to her former career as a female wrestler, but Margot was not in the mood to be offended. She grabbed Dalziel in a neck lock, gave him a kiss like a hot jam doughnut, said, ‘Happy New Year, Andy!’ then moved on to perform her consort duties round the rest of the guests.
Dalziel winked at Cap then turned his attention to the age-honoured ceremony of embracing every woman of his acquaintance in turn and wishing them a Happy New Year. The greeting ranged from full-length body hug and mouth contact to a chaste cheek peck, though air-kissing happily had not penetrated the heart of Mid-Yorkshire. Dalziel, who was no grabber of unwilling ass, was usually able to gauge to a T the amount of pressure and skin contact each encounter required, but finding himself suddenly face to face with Rye Pomona, he paused uncertain. He’d been delighted if surprised to see Bowler escorting the young woman into the high-vaulted council chamber (now used solely for social functions since the erection of a modern state-of-the-art Civic Centre a few years back), delighted because Rye looked so much better than last time he’d seen her, and surprised that the young couple hadn’t found somewhere noisier, sweatier and younger for their night out. All had been explained when during his welcoming speech the mayor had mentioned their sadness at being without Councillor Steel (‘Save a fortune on catering but,’ Dalziel had whispered to Cap). ‘On the other hand,’ continued the mayor, ‘it gave him great pleasure to have as his personal guests the young people who had contributed so much to the final apprehension of the monster who murdered him.’
So young Bowler was on a freebie. Couldn’t blame him for accepting it, thought Dalziel as he saw the champagne corks flying from the mayoral table. And in fact as the evening went on, the average age of the guests seemed to get lower (or maybe it was just the huge quantities of various elixirs of youth being sunk!) and the band had proved up to anything from Scots traditional through strictly ballroom to dirty disco.
Rye, Dalziel decided, was chaste cheek territory, but as he stooped to administer the salute, she turned her head and kissed him on the lips, not long, but long enough to make him think longer would have been nice.
‘I hope you find everything your heart wants, Mr Dalziel,’ she said seriously.
‘You too, luv. You too.’
His gaze drifted to the woman standing next to her. Bit dumpy, but he liked that. Not bad looking, honey blonde hair over good shoulders, wearing a clinging blue dress cut low enough to show a piste of bosom it would be a pleasure to ski down. He didn’t know her though she wasn’t totally unfamiliar. There was a man by her side. He didn’t know him either, but he looked a bit of a tosser. Narrow, pointed face with restless eyes, one of those linen jackets that looks like it’s travelled from Hong Kong scrunched up in the bottom of a rucksack, brightly flowered silk shirt that showed his nipples, and a pair of trousers cut so tight it would take a chisel to get into the po
ckets which presumably was why he carried a handbag. No doubt there was some modern macho term for the male version, but Dalziel liked to call a spade a spade.
‘Happy New Year to you, too, luv,’ he said, giving her the peck.
‘You too, Superintendent,’ she said.
‘Do I know you?’ he asked.
‘We met briefly on Christmas Day but we weren’t introduced,’ she said.
‘This is Myra Rogers, my next-door neighbour,’ said Rye.
‘I remember,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you again.’
‘And this is Tris, my escort,’ said Mrs Rogers.
Tris, the escort! Has she hired him for the night then? wondered Dalziel. Hope she got a money-back guarantee.
The band which had greeted the New Year with a furious outburst of ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’ now decided that the time had come when the kissing had to stop and, with a bagpipe skirl, they announced the onset of ‘Auld Lang Syne’.
Cap appeared at his side as they formed a circle.
‘Had a good snog then?’ he asked her.
‘Bruised but unbowed,’ she said. ‘Here we go!’
‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind …’
They sang it once with feeling, then repeated the chorus at speed, all rushing into the centre of the circle. Dalziel targeted a man in the Social Service Department who’d given him some grief in a recent case and was pleased to see him retire badly winded.
‘Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?’ said Cap.
‘It were all right. Only one verse but, and even then they get the words wrong,’ said Dalziel, who tended to get a bit SNP at Hogmanay.
‘And you know them all, I suppose?’
‘Bloody right. Me dad taught me and I’ve got the bruises to prove it. My favourite verse is second from last:
And here’s a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie’s a hand o’ thine;
We’ll tak a right good willie-waught
For auld lang syne.’
‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘But what on earth’s a “right good willie-waught”?’
‘Don’t know, but I’m hoping to give you one when we get home. Hello, young Bowler. Enjoying yourself?’
‘Yes, sir. Very much.’
‘Grand. Don’t get a taste for free champagne but. It can come pricey. Here, don’t rush off, they’ve just announced a Dashing White Sergeant.’
‘That would be Sergeant Wield, would it, sir?’
‘Don’t be cheeky. Grab that lass of thine and show us your style.’
‘Don’t think we can do this one, sir.’
‘Then it’s time you bloody learnt.’
It was a terrifying experience being in the same set as Andy Dalziel, who moved his great bulk around with what at first seemed like reckless abandon, but quickly it dawned on Hat that the Fat Man was in perfect control. Like Henry VIII shaking a leg at Hampton Court, he was at the centre of all movement, directing by command and example. And if he was the king, Rye was the queen. Hat knew from visits to discos what a natural mover she was, but tonight was the first time he’d seen her in more formal dances and it was a revelation which made him feel gauche and inadequate.
As the music came to an end and the dancers started to move away in search of refreshment, Dalziel clapped his hands thunderously and shouted, ‘Nay, lads, we’re just getting warmed up! More! More!’ Recognizing the voice of authority when they heard it, the band launched into the tune once again, and Hat too reluctantly turned back to the fray. But strangely it was Rye who resisted. Her hand felt cold and limp in his and her body, which a moment ago had seemed to be floating weightlessly, seemed stiff and heavy.
He said, ‘Hey, come on, can’t let him think he’s worn us out, can we?’
She looked at him and tried to smile. Suddenly he noticed how very pale she was.
He said, ‘You OK, love?’
She said, ‘Yes, fine.’ And indeed as she moved back on to the floor, her step seemed as light and graceful as ever.
They took their places, the band started playing, fairly sedately at first but under Dalziel’s booming demands that they ‘put a bit of oomph into it!’ the beat got faster and faster and soon Hat found himself spinning round at a pace that set his head reeling. He abandoned any attempt to put in the steps but simply concentrated on keeping up with the other members of the set, all of whom seemed determined not to let a big fat cop outface them. But it was no contest. Dalziel danced like a man possessed, but also like a man perfectly under control, never off-balance, never missing a step. Only Rye kept up with him without giving any sign she found it an effort. She winked at Hat whenever the pattern of movement brought them together and when she encountered Dalziel, she looked straight into his eyes with a faintly mocking smile on her lips.
The music was now at breakneck speed and only a macho determination not to show weakness in front of the Fat Man … or Rye … or maybe both … kept Hat going. Dalziel had Rye in his grasp, spinning her round then releasing her to the next in line. Like a queen she moved, such balance, such grace, such … Hat felt a surge of pure pleasure at the notion that she was his … no, not his … not in any controlling, possessive sense … but that he and she were …
His thoughts stuttered to a halt. There was something wrong … no, not wrong … it was Dalziel’s fault … he had thrown Rye from him with far too much force … she was spinning away from the other dancers across the floor … she’d come to a graceful stop in a moment then returned, smiling … but suddenly there was nothing graceful about the way she was moving … from Queen of the Dance under perfect control she had become mechanical doll with the spring broken … still she was turning, but now her arms were flailing the air as if to fight off a swarm of marauding bees … and then she went down.
The music stuttered to a stop. Hat was running towards that writhing, twisting form which wasn’t Rye, couldn’t be Rye, mustn’t be Rye! He was running with all his power, but it felt as if he were running through water.
Her mouth was open but nothing came out. Her eyes were wide and staring but they weren’t seeing anything that anyone else in that room could see. Hat reached her, collapsed to his knees by her side. He was trained to deal with emergencies, but now not a single course of action suggested itself. He could only kneel here feeling a paralysing blackness envelope him, unwilling, unable to let himself admit that everything he loved and thought most lovely in the world could in the twinkling of an eye be reduced to this.
Then Myra Rogers pushed him aside, knelt by the young woman’s head and forced open her mouth to check that her tongue wasn’t blocking the air passage. She looked like she knew what she was doing. Dalziel was close too, shouting, ‘Get a doctor. I’ve seen at least three of the buggers here. Get to the bar, that’s where they’ll be.’ And Cap Marvell had produced a mobile and was talking urgently to the ambulance service.
Rye had stopped moving now. For a moment beyond definition Hat thought she was dead. Then he saw her chest move. A doctor arrived and began to examine her. Myra Rogers eased Hat upright.
‘She’ll be OK,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Probably the heat and all the activity …’
Dalziel said, ‘Ambulance on its way. Can hear it now. She’ll be fine, lad.’
For once the Fat Man’s reassurance felt light and worthless.
The ambulance arrived. As Hat followed the stretcher trolley out, he glanced upwards. It was a clear frosty night. Stars crowded the dark vault of the sky. Was there life up there? Who gave a fuck?
Somewhere close a raucous drunk yelled, ‘Happy New Year!’
Hat climbed up into the ambulance, and the doors closed, shutting out indifferent stars and happy drunks together.
9
The Drunkards
Ellie Pascoe’s New Year had been rather flat. The most bubbly thing about it had been the two bottles of fizz Pascoe had bought. One was your genuine vintage Widow, the other a supermarket selection Cava, the idea being
, Pascoe alleged, to test if they could spot the difference, but really, she guessed, having forked out whatever huge sum had been necessary to get the former, he couldn’t bring himself to double it. They had made a thing out of testing each other blind, but the fun had been rather forced and the only significant result of the experiment was to thwart Pascoe’s efforts to make love to her on the lounge floor. Whenever drink had disappointed them in the past, they had been able to make jokes about it and find other ingenious things to do, but this time he seemed to take it to heart, and her efforts at jollity came out like the clichés of reassurance.
Happily what drink knocks down sleep builds up and she took advantage of his matutinal stiffie before any memory of last night’s fiasco could have an inhibiting effect.
‘That was good,’ he said, ‘though next time I’d prefer to be awake all the way through.’
‘I’ve often wondered what it would be like myself,’ she said. ‘But make a note for next year. Less champers, more con gas.’
‘Yeah, and maybe we’ll go to the Hogmanay Hop.’
‘Good idea,’ she said. But when he rang her later in the morning to pass on news of how the Hop had ended for Rye Pomona, she felt a selfish pang of relief that they hadn’t been there to see it. She’d grown very fond of Hat Bowler. He’d gone through a lot, and to see him suffering again just when he must have thought that from now on in it was going to be roses all the way would have been unbearable. As it was, the shock was diluted by the news that Rye was in no danger, and though she had not yet recovered consciousness, it was a deep and, they hoped, healing sleep that encompassed her.
Ellie was a devout atheist, but it wasn’t such a clinical condition that she feared the odd tot of prayer would bring about a relapse into full religiosity.
She sat before what was to her non-technical mind the most persuasive evidence of the supernatural she had so far discovered i.e. her computer screen, and said, ‘God, if you’re in there, spare a thought for Rye Pomona and for Hat Bowler too. Give them the happiness they deserve. OK?’
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