"Yon dreary stuff," she echoed. "Is this a portmanteau term to cover all my collection? Or did you have some particular piece of dreariness in mind?"
"It were one of them songs about dead children. Mahler. Only it were in English, and she didn't sing it with a Yorkie accent."
"Ah, the Kindertotenlieder. Yes, I've heard it. Very interesting."
The Fat Man laughed.
"Don't much like it, eh?"
"Why do you say that?"
"I've got this lad, Peter Pascoe-you'll likely recall him, Ellie Pascoe's man--he's sort of cultured, degree and such. I've tried to squeeze it out of him but it's like malaria, once you've had it, it stays in the blood, and you never know when you're going to start shaking. Well, I've noticed with him, and buggers like him, whenever they don't much like summat, but it's not polite or fashionable to say it's crap, what they say is, it's very interesting."
Cap Marvell smiled and said, "How you do pin us butterflies down, Andy. But you're right. I didn't care much for the translation, and I didn't think her voice was yet ready for those particular songs."
"So why'd she choose them? More to the point, why'd the record company let her choose them?"
"Her reasons I can't guess at. But the recording company ... well, it's a very minor label, too small to catch anyone really big, so they concentrate on young hopefuls, get them to sign up for three or four discs, and hope by the time they get to the third or fourth some of them will have made it to stardom. Elizabeth has great potential. After the concert, she's heading for Rome, where she's been taken on by Claudia Alberini, one of the top voice coaches in Europe. I suspect that if she dug her heels in and told the record company she wasn't going to sign unless she started with the Kindertotenlieder, they decided it was a risk worth taking. Particularly when she said she wanted to do them in her own translation."
"Why'd that help?"
"It's a talking point. Anything that rouses interest and gets exposure is okay. You still can't make it unless you're good, but if you're good and marketable, then you hit the heights a lot quicker. Nigel Kennedy was a good example back in the eighties."
"Didn't he start speaking funny too?"
"Yes, he did. And you could be right," said Cap. "Beryl reckoned she went on speaking like this at school just to make a statement of individuality, you know, "I might be adopted but I'm not dependent on anyone." But of course now she's starting on her career, she might see it as a marketing image thing. I don't know. Like I say, I don't really know the girl at all. But singing the cycle on Wednesday doesn't look like a good choice."
"Because of Lorraine Dacre, you mean?"
"Indeed. Also musically. I've never heard them without the original orchestral accompaniment. Sandel's a fine pianist, but they're bound to lose something."
A phone rang. It took Dalziel a second to realize it was in his own pocket.
"Bloody hell," he said. "Can't escape these things even in the bog. Hello! Wieldy, what's amiss? Hold on. I can hardly hear you."
He stood up, said to Cap, "I've marked my drink," and went out of the snug.
When he returned she said, "You weren't long. I've hardly touched your beer."
He finished the second pint, looked sadly at the third, and said, "I've got to go."
"Still business before pleasure," she said.
"This business," he said somberly. "Someone's been picked up. Just for questioning, nothing definite, but I need to be there. Sorry."
"Of course you've got to go," she said. "Andy ..."
She hesitated. She'd anticipated having more time for negotiation about a possible future meeting before they parted. She hadn't yet made up her mind how she wanted to play it, but now wasn't the time to prevaricate.
"Andy, there's still a lot to say," she went on. "Promise you'll ring. Or better still call round. I've always got plenty of tofu in the fridge."
This reminder of her vegetarianism brought a wan smile.
"It's a date," he said. "See you."
He hurried out, leaving for possibly the first time in his life an untouched pint on the table.
She drew it to her and took a sip.
Not a gap bridged, she thought. But certainly a bridge commenced, even if it consisted only of pontoons, lifting and shifting in currents and tides, and promising only the most perilous of passages for each to the other's distant shore.
The first hospital gate Pascoe reached had an EXIT ONLY sign.
Pascoe turned in and roared up the drive toward the looming gray building.
There was a parking space vacant next to the main entrance. It was marked CHIEF EXEC. Pascoe swung into it, narrowly missing a reversing Jag XJS. He got out, slammed his door shut, and set off running. Through the Jag's open window a man called angrily, "Hey, you. That's my spot."
Over his shoulder Pascoe called, "Fuck you!" without slackening his pace.
He'd been here before, knew the layout well. Ignoring the elevator lift, he ran up the stairs to the third floor. It required no effort. Far from panting, it was as if his body had given up the need for breathing. There was a waiting room at the end of the children's ward. Through the open door he saw Ellie. He went in and she came to his arms.
He said, "How is she?"
"They're doing tests. They think it might be meningitis."
"Oh, Christ. Where is she?"
"First left, but they say we should wait till they tell us. ..."
"Tell us what? That it's too late?"
"Peter, please. Dick and Jill are here. ..."
For the first time he noticed the Purlingstones, clinging together on a sofa. The man tried a smile which made as little impression on his tense face as a damp match on concrete.
Pascoe didn't even try.
Breaking away from Ellie's grasp, he went out of the waiting room and straight through the first door on the left.
It was a small side ward with only two beds. In one he saw the blond head of little Zandra Purlingstone. In the other, Rosie.
There were doctors and nurses standing round. Ignoring them he went to the bedside and took his daughter's hand.
"Rosie, love," he said. "It's Daddy. I'm here, darling. I'm here."
For a fraction of a second it seemed to him the eyelashes flickered and those dark, almost black eyes registered recognition. Then they vanished, and there was nothing to show that she was even breathing.
Someone had him by the arm. A voice was saying, "Please, you must go. You have to wait outside. Please, let us do our job."
Then Ellie's voice saying, "Come on, Peter. For Rosie's sake, come on."
He was back in the corridor. The door closed. His daughter vanished from his sight.
He said to Ellie, "She recognized me. She really did. Just for a second. She knows I'm here. She'll be all right."
"Yes," said Ellie. "Of course she will."
Two men were coming along the corridor. One wore the hospital security uniform, the other an elegantly cut lightweight linen suit.
The suit said, "That's the fellow. Damn cheek."
The uniform said, "Excuse me, sir, but Mr. Lillyhowe says you've left your car in his reserved place."
Pascoe looked at them blankly for a long moment, then said slowly, "I'm not sure ..."
"Well I'm absolutely sure," snapped the suit. "It was you. And you swore at me--"
"No," said Pascoe, balling his fist. "I mean, I'm not sure which of you to hit first."
The suit took a step back, the uniform a half step.
Ellie moved swiftly into the space created.
"For God's sake," she said crisply to the suit. "Our daughter's in there. ..."
The crispness faded, crumbled. She took a deep breath and tried again.
"Our daughter's in ... Rosie's in ..."
To her surprise she found the world had run out of words. And out of space, except that little room which held her daughter's life. And above all it had run out of time.
She sat in a waiting room, staring at a
poster which proclaimed the comforts of the Patients' Charter. Peter was there, too, but after a few fruitless attempts they made no effort to speak. Why speak when all the words were done? The Purlingstones weren't there. Perhaps they were in another room like this one. Perhaps they were taking a miraculously recovered Zandra home. Either way, she didn't care. Their grief, their joy, was nothing to her. Not now. Not in this helpless, hopeless, endless now.
Something happened. A noise. Peter's mobile phone. Was time starting again?
He put it to his ear. Mouthed something at her. Dee. Ell. Dalziel. Fat Andy. She remembered him as in a dream, so surfeit swell'd, so old, and so profane. Peter was saying to her, "You okay?" She nodded. Why not? He said, "I'll go outside."
In the corridor Pascoe put the phone to his ear again, a gesture somewhat superfluous with Dalziel bellowing full blast, "Hello! HELLO! You there? Sod this bloody useless thing."
"Yes, I'm here," said Pascoe.
"Oh, aye? Where's here? Down a sodding coal mine?"
"At the Central Hospital," said Pascoe. "Rosie's here. They say she may have meningitis."
There was a silence, then the sound of a tremendous crash, as from a fist hitting something hard, and Dalziel's voice declared savagely, "I'll not thole it!"
Who, or what, he was addressing was unclear. Another silence, much briefer, then he spoke again in his more everyday matter-of-fact tone.
"Pete, she'll be okay. Right little toughie that one, like her mam. She'll make it, no bother."
It was completely illogical but somehow the blunt assurance, with its absence of breathless sympathy and request for details, did more for Pascoe's spirits than all the medical staff's qualified reassurances.
He said, "Thank you. She's ... unconscious."
He found he couldn't say in a coma.
"Best thing," said Dalziel with a Harley Street certainty. "Time out to build up strength. Pete, listen, owt I can do, owt at all ..."
Again, no conventional offer of help this. Pascoe guessed that if he hinted the hospital wasn't doing enough, the chief executive would find himself in an interview room, being made an offer he couldn't refuse.
"That's good of you," he said. "Was there some special reason you ringing, sir?"
"No, nowt. Well, in fact we've got someone in the frame. I'm on my way to Danby now. Likely it'll be nowt. Listen, Pete, forget the job ... well, no need to tell you that. But is there owt you were doing that I should know about and no other bugger can tell me?"
"Don't think so," said Pascoe. "Nobby Clark can fill you in on ... oh, hang on, I've made an appointment to see Jeannie Plowright at Social Services at nine tomorrow morning. It's about Mrs. Lightfoot, the grandmother. There's stories about Benny being seen, Clark's got details, and I thought the old lady's the only person he'd want to make contact with, if she's alive, which I doubt, and if he's here, which I doubt even more. Straw clutching. Probably simplest to cancel it if you've got a better straw to clutch."
"No, we'll leave it till I see how things are looking. Pete, I'll be in touch. Remember, owt I can do. Luv to Ellie. Tell her ..."
For once the Dalziel word-horde seemed to be empty.
"Yes," said Pascoe, "I'll tell her."
He stood for a moment, reluctant to move, as if the clocks had stopped and his movement would start them ticking again. A nurse passed him, paused, looked back, and said, "Excuse me, sir, no mobiles in here. They can set up interference."
"Interference?" said Pascoe. "Yes. Of course. Sorry."
He went back into the waiting room and put his arm round Ellie's shoulders.
"Andy sends his best. He says she'll be okay."
"He does? Oh, good. That's it, then. Let's all go home."
"Come on," he chided. "Who'd you rather have being optimistic? The pope or Fat Andy?"
She managed the ghost of a smile and said, "Point taken."
"There's a coffee machine on the next floor, look, it says so here. Let's head down there and treat ourselves."
"Suppose something happens. ..."
"It'll only take a minute. Better than sitting here ... anything's better. ... Everything's going to be fine, love. Uncle Andy's promised, remember?"
The door opened. A woman came in. They knew her name was Curtis. She was the pediatric consultant.
She came straight to the point.
"She's very ill. I'm afraid we can now confirm it's meningitis."
"What kind?" demanded Ellie.
"Bacterial."
The worst kind. Even if he hadn't known that, Pascoe could have guessed from Ellie's expression.
He put his arm round her, but she twisted away. She was looking for someone to hit out at just as he had been with the chief executive and the security man.
He said, "Ellie."
She turned on him and yelled. "What price Uncle Andy now, eh? What price the fat bastard now?"
15
Edgar Wield was feeling quite pleased with himself. He'd got the search under way at Bixford and transported Geordie Turnbull to Danby without so far attracting the attention of any of the flock of carrion crows who called themselves reporters. Downside was that Turnbull's solicitor was also here, closeted in the station's one small interview room with his client.
Then Nobby Clark arrived and told him about Pascoe.
No details. Just that Rosie was in hospital. Wield felt sick. The Pascoes were special to him, the nearest thing to family left for him in this country since his sister emigrated. Edwin ... Edwin was different. Closer, yes. But more important? No; just differently so. He looked at the phone. He could ring up and find out what had happened. But he hesitated. He tried to work out why. Fear at what he might hear? That certainly. But something more ... He probed, and was bewildered to find something that looked like guilt. For what? Was he mean spirited enough to resent this intrusion on his newfound personal happiness? That would be cause enough to make him feel guilty. He hoped to God it wasn't. But if not that, what? He probed deeper, saw more clearly, still didn't believe it. Then had to. He felt responsible. It was an extension of his feelings about this lost-child case. Some cynical, self-despising element at the center of his psyche did not believe he was meant for happiness and was therefore sure that whatever he got of it could only be procured by subtraction from someone else's store. It was an absurdity, an egotism in its way as disgusting as selfish vanity. But he still hesitated to pick up the phone. It was as if by doing so he would acknowledge creating whatever monstrous news awaited his inquiry.
"Super's just driven into the yard," said Clark coming into the office and anxiously checking out his appearance in the glass-fronted photo of the queen.
Fear of Dalziel was a healthy condition, but belief that he was appeasable by gleaming brass, polished boots, or any other kind of bullshit meant that you had more than average cause to be afraid, thought Wield, glad of the diversion.
He went out to the yard and saw the Fat Man sitting in his car as if reluctant to get out. The Sergeant approached and opened the door like a commissionaire.
"How do, sir," he said. "Got some bad news. Clark says the DCI'S--"
"I've spoken to him. They reckon it could be meningitis. She's in a coma."
There it was. The worst. No, not quite the worst. That still lay ahead--perhaps awaiting his phone call. ...
He said, "Oh, shit."
"Aye, that about sums it up. Nowt we can do about it, but, so let's get on with the job."
He climbed out of the car. Wield, undcvd by this display of stoic indifference, fixed his gaze on the vehicle's dashboard, which was cracked in half.
"Having trouble, sir?"
"Aye," said Dalziel, rubbing his left hand. "Speedo got stuck, so I gave it a whack."
"Hope I never get stuck," murmured Wield closing the door gently.
"Hope you're going to get started," said Dalziel. "Turnbull. From the top."
Wield was the Schubert of report makers, compressing into little space what others would have st
ruggled to express in symphonies. Even the fact that the greater part of his mind was struggling to accommodate the news about Rosie Pascoe didn't inhibit the flow, and in the short walk from the parking lot to the station office, where sight of Dalziel sent Sergeant Clark snapping to attention, he brought the Fat Man up to strength.
Mention of Turnbull's solicitor made Dalziel smile. He liked it when suspects ran crying to their briefs.
"Dick Hoddle? Nose goes one way, teeth go t'other?"
"That's the one."
"Bit rich for the likes of Geordie Turnbull, I'd've thought."
"He's done well, sir. His old boss left him the business or something."
"Need to be something like that," said Dalziel. "Didn't strike me as the kind to save up his bawbees. So what do you reckon, Wieldy?"
"Turnbull's cooperating like a lamb," said the sergeant. "Okay, he called up Hoddle, but in the circs, who wouldn't? Waived his right to be present during the search of his premises. Hoddle wasn't happy, but Geordie said something like, if it was a drug bust, it 'ud be different, everyone knew the cops were capable of planting shit all over the place, but not even Mid-Yorks CID was going to fit someone up in a case like this."
Dalziel, unoffended, said, "He's not so daft. This sneaker and the ribbon from the car ...?"
"Novello's taken them round to show the parents. They're not an exact match with the description of what the little girl was likely wearing, but not a million miles off."
"And Turnbull says ...?"
"Seems he often has kids in his car. Does a lot locally, ferrying folk about, kids to football matches, that sort of thing. But not just kids. Old folk, disabled, all sorts. He's well liked."
"So was the duke of Windsor," said Dalziel. "You've still not told me what you reckon."
"Same as in Dendale. I reckon everyone who knows him, even the odd husband who doesn't like him, would be amazed if he turned out to be our man," said Wield. "And I reckon I would too. Which means he's either very, very clever, or we should be looking somewhere else."
"Oh, aye? Any suggestions where?"
Wield took a deep breath and said, "Mebbe you'd best talk to Sergeant Clark, sir."
"I will, when he's recovered from his fit. Can you hear me, Sergeant, or is it rigor mortis?"
Hill, Reginald - Dalziel and Pascoe 17 - On Beulah Height Page 20
