"You think he was right?"
"Of course he was right. The child needed a home. And when she came, it was a lot easier than I thought. Far from bringing a pressure to open that door I'd worked so hard shut, the girl showed no desire to talk about her parents, or Dendale, or anything in the past. In fact she talked very little at all, and less and less as time went by, and I thought (if I thought at all) Oh, good, she's closed a door on the past too. And it seemed to me we could coexist very well in this untroublesome silence."
"She was a child," said Inger in a neutral tone that was nonetheless judgmental.
"I know. I should have ... but I didn't. She seemed fine to me. Okay, she lost a bit of weight, but that pleased me. I used to tell her sometimes she shouldn't eat so many sweets and cakes and stuff, and I thought she was just growing out of a puppy-fat stage."
"How old was she when you realized there was a problem?" asked Inger.
"Realized?" Chloe laughed bitterly. "I never realized. One night there were these terrible screams from upstairs. I rushed up to find Betsy in the bathroom. Her head ... oh, God, what a mess. She'd decided to turn her hair blond, and she'd mixed a hideously strong solution of bleaching powder. ... I got her under the shower and screamed at her to keep her eyes closed and held her there far longer than I should have done, because all the time I was holding her there, I felt I was doing something right and I didn't have to start thinking about what I had done wrong. But finally I got her to hospital. They sorted her out, said she had damaged part of her scalp so badly that her hair would probably fall out and might grow back in patches, but that wasn't what they were worried about, it was her anorexia, and they wanted to know what treatment she was getting for it."
"And you had no idea of this?"
"I don't know. Perhaps I did, deep down, but just didn't want to let her be a trouble to me. Walter had been away on a long trip, a couple of months. Perhaps he would have noticed. He was always closer to her than I was."
"It does not seem so now," said Inger.
"No?" Chloe smiled to herself. Perhaps after all the pianist, by listening so closely to the silences, missed some of the notes. "Ah, well. Certainly back then, it must have been very clear. She was treated by a child psychiatrist, Dr. Paula Appleby, you may have heard of her. I believe she's quite well known. Walter never settled for anything but the best. Dr. Appleby treated Betsy for eighteen months, two years, I don't know how long. I sat back and let Walter take care of all that. I felt guilty now, yes, but I still didn't want to get involved. I had closed a door on Dendale to shut it out. Betsy, too, had closed a door, but it seems she had shut herself in with it, and I didn't want any part of opening all that up again. And when Dr. Appleby said that the business with the hair and the anorexia was her attempt to turn herself from a little fat dark-haired girl into a slim blonde so that she'd be like Mary and we'd love her, I just felt sick. Do I sound like a monster?"
"You sound like you needed help as much as Betsy. I am surprised that Walter did not understand this."
"He was too busy seeing Betsy through her trouble. Dr. Appleby got her talking about the past and wanted us to see the transcripts. She said it was a family problem, we all needed to know all about each other. I refused point blank and I don't think I'd have let myself be persuaded, but it turned out Betsy herself said she didn't mind Walter seeing them, but she didn't want me to have to read them. I think when I heard that, for the first time I felt something like affection for her."
"Because she wanted to save you pain?"
"That was the only reason I could see. After the treatment was over and she was back to normality, if that's the right word, we got on much better. I think we both felt that even if she could never be a daughter to me, on the other hand there was a tie of blood between us which couldn't be denied."
"But despite being normal," said Inger, "she kept on dieting and took to wearing a blond wig?"
"Her hair wouldn't grow back properly. She needed a wig. She asked if I would mind if it was blond. I said, why should I? As for the dieting, I did get worried about this and used to fuss her at mealtimes. Then one day she showed me a chart with all the calorific values of the stuff she ate carefully worked out and said, "No way am I going to stuff myself with cakes and such fodder. This is what I eat, and it's enough, and I don't go off to the lavvy to stuff my finger down my throat and spew it all up either. So never rack thyself, I'll be fine." After that I stopped worrying. She started taking the singing seriously about then. She'd always had a voice, that you know. Now she said she wanted to find out if it was good enough to make her living with. It was about this time we formally adopted her. We'd called her Elizabeth from the start, and when she went to school, it had seemed easier to say her name was Wulfstan."
"She didn't mind?"
"Who knows what goes on in Elizabeth's head? But she said nothing. And when Walter suggested we make it legal, she seemed almost pleased."
"And you?"
"I didn't mind. Somehow it made her less of a reminder of the past. I think that was why I quite welcomed the blond wig and the change of shape too. All that remained of Betsy Allgood out of Dendale was the accent."
"That bothered you?"
"No, but I thought it might cause her trouble, with her classmates, I mean. And later, as she grew up. I once suggested she have elocution lessons. She said, "Why? There's nothing wrong with my voice, is there?"' And I realized she was speaking perfect BBC English. Then she went on, "But I'll not be shamed to crack on like Mam and Dad, and them as don't like it can bloody lump it!" That was the last time I brought the subject up."
"So you became friends."
"I'd not put it strong as that," said Chloe. "But, as I said, we're blood, and you don't need to like your relations all the time, do you? She helped me, I think. Or perhaps it was just time that helped me."
"To get better, you mean?"
"Not really. Like Elizabeth's scalp, there's no cure for what was damaged in me. But you learn to live with a wig. Whatever, four years ago when Walter seemed to be spending more and more time up here at the Works, I heard myself say, wouldn't it make more sense for us to live up there? It took him by surprise. Me too. He said, "You're sure?"' And I said, because I am after all a woman and we must seize our chances, "Yes, but only if we can buy a house in the bell." And here we are."
"You did not want to live in the country?"
Chloe's face went dark and she said softly, "No. I'm a country lass born and bred, but now I can't even bear to look out of the train or car window when we're passing through empty countryside. Now, is that all, Inger? Have I quite satisfied your curiosity?"
"Like sex, only till the next time," said Inger.
Edgar Wield wouldn't have minded a lie-in that morning.
His own sense of guilt had got him up early the previous morning, and the Fat Man's sense of guilt had kept him up late the previous night. But he'd missed his morning visit to Monte in order to get to the hospital, and to miss it again would just add guilt to guilt, so he slipped out of bed at his usual ungodly (edwin's epithet) hour.
Not perhaps all that ungodly, however. For as he strolled through the churchyard, the church door opened and Larry Lillingstone, the vicar, came out. A handsome young man, his present unclerical garb of jersey and shorts made him look more Apolline acolyte than Anglican divine.
Wield ran his gaze appreciatively over the suntanned limbs and said, "Morning, Larry. This what they call muscular Christianity?"
"Just off for my jog," said Lillingstone, smiling. "This truly is the best time of day. You can't believe there's much wrong with the world on mornings like this, can you?"
Wield thought of the Dacres waking from whatever chemical sleep they'd managed, of the Pascoes keeping their desperate vigil by Rosie's bed. But joy was as rare and refreshing as rain these past few days, so he returned the smile and said, "Dead right. Specially if you've been lucky enough to get yourself a bonny lass like Kee Scudamore. I gather congratul
ations are in order."
"How on earth ... we only decided yesterday and I've not told anyone. ..." Then Lillingstone laughed and went on. "What am I saying? This is Enscombe! Yes, Kee's going to marry me, and I'm the happiest ... Bloody hell!"
This impious ejaculation was caused by the sudden descent from the branches of the old yew under which they stood of a small furry figure onto Wield's head, where it clung, gibbering.
"How do, Monte," said Wield, gently drawing the little monkey down into his arms. "What's up, Vicar? Think the devil had come for a visit?"
"It's strange how medieval the mind can be in moments of stress," admitted Lillingstone.
"Never fear. I missed my visit yesterday morning and he's obviously made his mind up it's not going to happen twice, so he's come looking for me, right, Monte?"
"Well, certainly if you ever became Enscombe's second missing policeman, there'd be no need to mount a search party, would there?" said Lillingstone, referring to the event which had first brought Wield to Enscombe.
"No," said Wield thoughtfully. "No. Likely there wouldn't. Excuse me, Vicar, but I think I'd best be getting to work. Enjoy your run. And you, you little bugger, enjoy your nuts."
Putting the muslin bag of peanuts into Monte's paws, he launched the tiny animal up into the yew and watched as he commenced his aerial route back to his tree house in the grounds of Old Hall. Then, with a wave of his hand which comprehended both man and monkey, he set off back the way he'd come.
The first person he saw as he got off his motorbike in Danby was Sergeant Clark, who had the faintly self-important look of a man who knows more than you do.
"Super around?" asked Wield.
"Been and gone," said Clark.
Wield waited, not asking more. "No wonder the bugger's such a good interviewer," Dalziel had once observed. "Face like that's worth a thousand clever questions."
"He's gone to Bixford," said Clark. "Word came this morning, Geordie Turnbull's been attacked."
If he'd been looking for oohs and ahs, he was disappointed.
"Tell us," said Wield impassively.
"Local patrol car were driving by his place early on. Seems the super had said to keep a close eye on Turnbull. Well, the big gate were open. It's always kept shut, save when he's got machinery coming in and out, that is. They went in to check and found Turnbull looking like he'd gone three rounds with Tyson."
Wield, who abhorred imprecision above all things, said impatiently, "Just how bad is he?"
"Looked worse than it was," admitted Clark almost reluctantly. "Few cuts and a squashed nose, they say. Turnbull were trying to patch himself up, and he didn't want to make it official. But the lads called it in anyway."
"Very wise," said Wield.
"So what do you think? There's a lot of folk round here said when we let him go that best thing would have been to kick the truth out of him."
"I hope you got their names, then, 'cos likely Mr. Dalziel will want to talk to them," said Wield heavily. "One thing's for sure, if that was the aim of the exercise, he's off the hook."
"How's that?" asked Clark, puzzled.
"If he'd admitted owt, they wouldn't have left him nursing his wounds, would they?" said Wield. "Something you can do for me, Nobby. That vet I read about, Douglas is it? Where's he hang out?"
Clark told him. Wield put his crash helmet back on and flung his leg over the bike.
"You not going inside?" demanded Clark. "What shall I say if anyone asks after you?"
Wield grinned, like a fissure in a rock.
"Tell them I've gone to see a man about a dog," he said.
Andy Dalziel was meanwhile standing over Geordie Turnbull, looking minded to start where the intruder had stopped.
"You're not helping anyone, Geordie, least of all yourself. He could be back. So why not tell me who it was, what he were after, and I'll sort it?"
"I've told you, Mr. Dalziel. I never saw his face. He jumped me, knocked hell out of me, then took off."
"You're a bloody liar," said Dalziel. "You'd have been straight on the phone to us, in that case. But you're so keen to keep it quiet, you don't even bother with getting treatment in case someone reports it. That eye needs a couple of stitches, I'd say. And your nose could do with being lined up with your gob again."
"Maybe so, but at least I keep it out of other buggers' business," retorted Turnbull spiritedly.
"I think this is my business, Geordie," said Dalziel. "I think this is about them missing lasses."
"Do you think if I knew anything about that, I'd not tell you?" demanded Turnbull. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take your advice and go down to the clinic. As everyone in the place'll know what's happened by now, I might as well save them the trouble of thinking up excuses to come and gawk."
"I'll find out in the end, tha knows that, Geordie," promised Dalziel.
"I don't doubt it, Mr. Dalziel," said Turnbull. "But as it could take you another fifteen years, I won't hold my breath."
It was a parting shot that not even the adamantine defenses of the great Andy Dalziel could parry.
He went out to his car, glaring up at the already ferocious sun as though thinking about tearing it out of the sky. But the eye of God beamed benevolently back, knowing that this fiery fury was nothing but the inflamed swelling round a deep wound of despair.
The eye of God, which makes no distinctions of persons, was beaming with equal benevolence on Police Constable Hector as he left Mid-Yorkshire Police Headquarters and began his slow perambulation through the center of town. His gait was not exactly majestic; in fact he moved as if under the control of a trainee puppeteer who'd got his strings tangled. This was also an apt metaphor for how his superiors felt. Finding a niche for a man of his talents had been difficult. For a time the conventional wisdom was that the public weal would be best served by keeping Hector hid in the bowels of the building, "helping" with records. But the increase in computerization had put an end to that. Though specifically forbidden to touch anything that had switches, buttons, lights, or made a humming noise, Hector's mere presence seemed somehow perilous to the proper function of electronic equipment. "He's a human virus," declared the sergeant in charge. "Get him out of here else he'll be into the Pentagon War Room in a fortnight!" A spell on the desk had brought complaints from the public that they got better service from Mid-Yorks Water. Finally, when the Evening Post supported a local campaign to get bobbies back on the beat with a piece of research from the Applied Psychology Department of MYU showing that life-sized cardboard cutouts of policemen in supermarkets reduced the incidence of shoplifting by half, the ACC said, "Well, we can manage that, at any rate," and Hector was returned into the community.
But not without some necessary fail-safes. He had to radio in every thirty minutes, else a car was sent out to look for him. If his assistance was required in any matter more serious than a request for the time, he had to contact Control for instructions. And in particular, he was strictly forbidden to make any attempt to direct traffic, as his last venture in that area had resulted in a gridlock which made the chief constable miss a train.
But when the copies of Wield's modified photo of Benny Lightfoot had been handed out that morning, Hector had taken his with the rest and registered that they were being instructed to ask people if they had seen this man. The instruction was, in fact, aimed at patrol-car officers, who were advised particularly to check garages in the district in case the camper van had been filled up with gasoline. Door-to-door inquiries were being concentrated on the Danby area. But Hector, delighted to have a task he comprehended, thrust the photo in front of any pedestrians he encountered, demanding, "Have you seen this man?" but rarely staying for an answer as his eager eye spotted yet another target who might pass him by unless he hurried.
It was with some irritation that he felt himself tapped on the shoulder as he blocked the way of a young man on a skateboard. He turned to find himself looking at the woman he'd just questioned.
; "What?" he demanded.
"I said yes," she said.
"Eh?"
"You asked me if I'd seen that man and I said yes."
"Oh."
He scowled partly in puzzlement, partly because he'd just noticed the skateboarder had taken the chance to glide away.
"Right," he said. "So you've seen him then?"
"I said so, didn't I?"
This was undeniable.
He said, "Hang on, will you?" and looked at his personal radio. One of the buttons had been painted fluorescent orange by a kindly sergeant who had then written in Hector's notebook, "Press the bright orange button when you want to talk."
Hector actually remembered this, but checked in his book just to be quite sure.
"Hello?" he said. "This is Hector talking. Over."
He had an official call sign, but no one was foolish enough to insist on it.
"Hector, you're ahead of yourself, aren't you? You're not due to check in for another ten minutes."
"I know. It's yon photo you gave me. I showed it to this woman and she says she's seen the man. What do you want me to do?"
"The pho--his Hector, where are you?"
"Hang on."
He turned his head slowly looking for something to locate himself by.
The woman said, "You're in Bra.gate. Can you hurry this up? I'll be late for work."
"She says we're in Bra.gate, Sarge," said Hector.
"She's still with you, is she? Thank God for that. Stay there, Hector. And whatever you do don't let her leave, right?"
"Right," said Hector. "How shall I stop her?"
"You're a policeman, for God's sake!" yelled the sergeant. "Just keep her there!"
"Right," said Hector again.
He switched off his radio and replaced it with great care. Then he turned to the woman.
"So what's going off?" she asked.
He said, "You are under arrest. You do not have to say anything, but I have to warn you that anything you do say will be taken down--"
Hill, Reginald - Dalziel and Pascoe 17 - On Beulah Height Page 30
