Recalled to Life dap-13

by Reginald Hill

  She saw it but her mind was beyond obedience and she would have plunged straight into the speeding traffic if a hand had not grasped at her arm. She spun round, ready to strike out, to scream. She found herself looking at an elderly man wearing the black clothes, broad-brimmed hat and benevolent smile of an old-fashioned preacher.

  'Lady, you want to die?' he said. 'It's the best offer I've had all morning,' she gasped hysterically. 'Business that bad, huh?' He examined her sympathetically. 'Lady, you sure are wet. How much you charge for fucking you dry?' He thought she was a hooker. Somehow this snapped her self-control back into place. She said, 'Twenty-seven.'

  'Dollars?' he said in surprise. 'Years,' she said. 'I don't think you can afford it.' She walked all the way back to the apartment, driving her limbs at a pace which created enough heat to drive out the damp from her flesh, if not from her clothes. She felt a tremor of something like triumph as she approached the entrance to the building.

  She hadn't achieved anything concrete but she'd ventured out alone, taken risks, and was returning unscathed, ready to fight another day.

  As she pushed open the street door a hand grasped her elbow, a touch light as a feather, tight as a vice. 'Well, Cissy Kohler! Here's a stroke of luck! I were just on my way to see you.' She felt herself guided across the vestibule, past the questing gaze of the concierge, up to the elevator. Its doors only opened if the man at the desk pressed a switch. The grip on her arm relaxed. She looked up into a face she had only seen this close once before in her life. Then too her hair had been dripping water down her brow and her cheeks. The man had not been smiling then as he was now, but his eyes had been the same. He said, 'Smile nicely at the man, Cissy. Then we'll go up and have a little chat about the old days.' All she had to do was shout.

  She looked into those hard condemning eyes. Then she turned towards the concierge and smiled.

  SIX

  'What do you make, madame?' 'Many things.' 'For instance -‘ 'For instance… shrouds.' Dalziel hadn't made a conscious decision to dump Linda Steele. What happened was, it started raining as they came out of the deli. Steele waved at a cab which came to a halt some fifteen yards beyond them. A young man in a business suit immediately jumped in and the cab pulled away. 'Cheeky sod!' exclaimed Dalziel.

  'Happens all the time,' said the woman philosophically. 'Not to me.'

  He saw the cab was balked by the lights at the next intersection.

  Suddenly he was off running. The jails of Mid-Yorkshire were full of people who'd been surprised to discover how fast a man of his bulk could move if properly motivated. He reached the cab, wrenched open the door and fell in. 'What the hell!' exclaimed the passenger angrily. Dalziel, too out of breath to speak, put his huge mouth close to the man's ear and bellowed, 'AAArrgh!' Terrified, the man opened the other door and fell out on to the damp tarmac. 'Hey, what the fuck's happening back there?' demanded the driver. 'You've just been hijacked, sunshine,' gasped Dalziel. The lights changed. The traffic started to move. He looked back and saw Linda Steele, slow in her high heels, coming gamely up behind them. 'So where to?' said the driver, beginning to edge forward with the traffic. 'Libya,' said Dalziel, smiling apologetically out of the rear window. 'But there's somewhere I'd like you to stop off first.' Perhaps eager to be rid of his unexpected passenger, the driver drove in a manner which made the trip from the airport seem like a cortege. It turned out to be counter-productive. As he started to pull up outside the apartment building Dalziel said, 'No. The next one.' 'Jesus! Make up your mind, fella!' Dalziel wasn't listening. He was watching Cissy Kohler standing on the sidewalk. For an uncharacteristic moment he vacillated. Confront her now, or watch and follow? Then the decision was taken out of his hands. Another cab pulled in, Linda Steele got out and Kohler got in. It would have been easy to hail Steele but this time Dalziel did make a conscious decision. 'Right, Ben Hur,' he said.

  'Follow that cab!' Half an hour later his problem had increased by fifty per cent. He could still either confront or follow. But he could also go into the building she'd just come out of and try to find out what she'd been doing there. He could, of course, come back here later, but by then it would be a cold trail. Following by cab wasn't an easy option in city traffic. They'd been lucky to keep in touch this far. As for confronting her, he wanted somewhere quiet and private for that. Or perhaps he was just rationalizing his own unacknowledged reluctance to speak directly with this woman.

  Christalmighty, that was how the lad Pascoe talked! He made up his mind. Cissy Kohler was walking away through the rain. Let her go. He knew where her lair was now. 'What do I owe you?' he said to the cab-driver. 'Apart from my life, I mean?' A small, very discreet plaque above the door said Allerdale Clinic. He went through and found himself in a swish vestibule. Over a counter a receptionist smiled welcomingly at him. Like Linda Steele, she seemed to suffer from an excess of teeth, long rows of perfectly white obelisks, gleaming, symmetrical, like a military graveyard after a bad war. He returned her smile, wondering whether to opt for deception or bribery. 'Can I help you, sir?' she asked. 'Aye. Mebbe. Not me exactly. The wife,' he extemporized, plumping for deceit on the grounds that with dental work like that, bribery was likely to be too rich for his constabulary pocket. 'Has she been suffering long?' said the woman sympathetically.

  Dalziel, who had not seen his wife for nigh on twenty years, certainly hoped so. 'Long enough,' he said vaguely. 'This place were recommended by a friend. Miss Kohler. In fact she said she might be calling in today. You've not seen her, have you?' 'I'm sorry,' said the woman.

  'The name doesn't ring a bell. Would you take a seat, Mr…?'

  'Dalziel.' He examined her face and could find no sign of deceit, but that meant nowt except mebbe she was better at it than he was. Either way, deceitful or genuinely ignorant, she clearly wasn't going to help him. He took the suggested seat and thumbed through the glossies. They were all the latest editions, not the dog-eared relics of yesteryear strewn around your normal English waiting-rooms. The whole place smelt of money. This must be where rich Yanks came to have their corns removed or their faces lifted. He toyed with the idea of returning to Yorkshire with a face lift and a hair transplant. That'd make the buggers sit up! He felt a sudden pang of nostalgia for 'the buggers'.

  To distract himself he filled in a magazine questionnaire to test his assertiveness rating and discovered to his mild surprise that he was almost clinically shy. Pondering this, he doodled idly, blacking out the teeth of make-up models. This turned his thoughts to Linda Steele.

  He felt a little guilty at having slipped her leash, not so much for her sake as for Thatcher's. The man had done him a kindness and might misinterpret his reactions if Steele reported back to him. He took Thatcher's card out of his pocket and looked round for a phone. There was one on the receptionist's desk. The girl herself had vanished.

  Dalziel rose, went to the desk and picked up the phone. 'Mr Thatcher's office. Can I help you?' 'I'd like to speak to Dave, please.' 'Mr Thatcher's busy just now…' 'Tell him it's Andy Dalziel.' All over Yorkshire that was sufficient to make a lot of important people put down their business papers, their soup spoons, even their mistresses, and head for the phone. No reason why it should be Open Sesame here, but no reason not to try either. 'Hello? Thatcher.' 'Dave, just to say thanks for pushing Linda at me. We've sort of got separated, but I'll make sure she doesn't take it out on you…' 'Look, I'm kind of busy right now. Maybe we can talk some other time. I hope things work out.' The tone was distant, the line went dead. He'd been cut off in every sense. Thatcher clearly thought all debts had been paid. 'Up yours too, sunshine!' he barked into the mouthpiece before replacing it. He turned to find the receptionist watching him fearfully. 'Wrong number,' he said. 'How're things going?' 'Ms Amalfi, our executive officer, will see you now,' she said. She led him from the reception area into an airy office with a carpet like quicksand. You could feel it sucking the money out of your pocket. Behind a rosewood desk stood a middle-aged woman wearing a smart b
lack business suit. The paleness of her features was accentuated by jet black hair so tightly drawn back from her brow that it looked like it had been painted on. Her eyebrows had been plucked to baldness and her lips were set so tight, it was difficult to see if she had any teeth at all, which made a change. 'Jancine Amalfi,' she said, offering her hand. 'I'm sorry you've been kept waiting. Please have a seat. I believe you are making inquiries about the possibility of transferring your wife to the Allerdale?' 'That's right. What I'd really like – ' 'A few details first, Mr Dalziel,' she said, fixing him with a gaze which seemed to burn through to his slim wallet of travellers' cheques. 'Forgive me if I'm direct, but we do not deal in false hope here at the Allerdale, only in facts. We shall of course need sight of your wife's full medical record, but an outline picture now would be most helpful, if you feel able to talk about it.' 'No problem,' said Dalziel. 'Good. So tell me, where is the carcinoma located?' 'You what? Carcinoma? That's cancer, isn't it?' 'That's right.' 'No,' said Dalziel emphatically.

  'The lass out there must've picked me up wrong. It's not cancer.' It was one thing to wish a fair dollop of discomfort on his ex-wife, but even his unforgiving nature balked superstitiously at pretending cancer. 'Not cancer? What, then?' 'Piles,' said Dalziel, ingrowing piles. They can be very serious.' ‘Indeed they can,' said Ms Amalfi.

  'But I'm afraid it is you who have got things wrong, Mr Dalziel. The Allerdale Clinic is a cancer treatment centre, with a reputation second to none, I am glad to say.' She was clearly puzzled that he could have made such an error, like someone behind a bank counter being asked for a beer. He said, 'I'm sorry. It was this friend, well, more acquaintance really. Miss Kohler. I heard her talking about the place and must've picked it up wrong. You'll know her likely. Smallish lass. Very thin face, greyish hair. I think she might've been in a bit earlier.' Subtle stuff; might have worked with a backward toddler; all it got him from Ms Amalfi was a long cool look. 'The name doesn't ring a bell,' she said, rising. As resistant to authority as Cissy Kohler was conditioned to it, he still found himself being shepherded through the door, into the vestibule and towards the exit. But before Ms Amalfi could bounce him into the street, – the doors swung open and Scott Rampling came in. Dalziel recognized him instantly. Not that Thatcher hadn't been right. This balding, bulky, cold-eyed, middle-aged man was a million miles from the fresh-faced, blond-haired All-American boy of Mickledore Hall. But Dalziel had sat by that boy, and watched that fresh face as he answered Tallantire's questions, and such impressions to an ambitious young detective were as indelible as those of first love to a romantic poet. Interestingly, he saw the recognition was mutual. And unwelcome. But showing Dalziel he was unwelcome was like shooing a hungry dog with a rib of beef. 'I'll go to the foot of our stairs!' he exclaimed in delight. 'Mr Rampling, isn't it? By gum, what a coincidence. Must be how long? Twenty-seven?

  Aye. It must be twenty- seven years since we met.' He pumped Rampling's hand and waited with interest for his response. To do him justice, it was high quality. 'How're you doing, Mr Dalziel?' he said.

  'I saw your picture in the paper this morning and thought: I wonder, could that be the same? Lot of water under the bridge, huh? We were both a lot younger then. You over here on business or pleasure?'

  'Pleasure mainly, I hope,' said Dalziel. 'Not here, of course. I mean, you don't come to these places for pleasure, do you? No, I'm just paying a quick visit here.' He caught a momentary shift of the eyes towards Ms Amalfi and in the plate glass door he saw her minute shake of the head. Also through the door he spotted a couple of wedge-shaped men staring at him like Dobermans and remembered that Rampling was a very important person. 'I'm sorry I don't have more time to talk now, Mr Dalziel,' said Rampling. ‘I'm visiting a sick colleague, then I've got a couple of meetings. But it would be good to talk to you about old times. Tell you what, why don't I give you a ring if I can see my way clear to having a quiet drink with you before I head back to Washington?' 'That'd be grand,' said Dalziel with maximum effusion. 'I hear you're up for a top job. Congratulations.' 'That's kind of you.

  Goodbye for now, Mr Dalziel.' He made for the door leading to the clinic's interior. Ms Amalfi followed, pausing to glance back at Dalziel who stood at the exit door buttoning up his coat in preparation for the pelting rain. He smiled and waved. 'Bye-bye, Missus. And thanks.' Then he went out. Satisfied, she followed Rampling. Dalziel came back in. 'Sorry,' he said to the receptionist.

  'Something I forgot to say to Scott, to Mr Rampling. How long will he be staying, do you know?' He didn't doubt that once the fearsome Ms Amalfi had a word with her, he'd be Public Enemy Number One, but for the moment he was banking on being sanitized in her eyes by his evident familiarity with someone like Rampling. 'It shouldn't be too long,' said the woman. 'Mr Bellmain's on a fifteen-minute visit cycle.' 'Bad as that?' said Dalziel. 'Poor sod. Get a lot of visits, does he? Family? Friends?' It was a clumsy try. She said coolly, 'Would you like to leave a message for Mr Rampling?' 'Aye. Tell him he forgot to ask the name of my hotel.' He wrote it down. It was, he suspected, surplus to requirements. He went out again, passing the two protectors who looked at him with grave suspicion. 'Tumns in, chests out, lads,' he said. 'You never know who's watching.' A cab pulled up and a rather dumpy woman got out, her face well concealed behind dark glasses and a turned-up Cossack collar. Dalziel was too busy making sure he got into the cab to pay her much heed, but a certain familiarity nagged at him as she walked past the two men with a nod.

  An old film star perhaps? He gave the address of Waggs's apartment.

  'And drive like I'm a flask of nitro-glycerine,' he said. 'Hey?' said the man uncomprehendingly. Dalziel looked at the name on the identity card. It had about fifty letters, most of them consonants. He said, 'Please yourself, sunshine.' When he got out at his destination, he felt as happy as a round-the-world sailor to feel solid land beneath his feet. He half-expected to find Linda Steele lurking, but if she was, she was making a good job of it. What he did see was Cissy Kohler striding along the pavement, trailing more spray than a waterskier. He hesitated only a moment before deciding what to do. A crook out on licence was still a crook, and a cop off on leave was still a cop. Not even cars driving on the wrong side of the street altered that relationship, though they did remind him he ought to tread a little more lightly than on the sidewalks of Mid-Yorkshire. So he slapped his hand on her shoulder with only enough force to bruise her collarbone, not to break it. He was surprised that she put up no resistance. Like Rampling, she clearly recognized him but that was no reason. On the contrary, he'd have thought. Perhaps she knew that Waggs and a couple of Hesperides heavies were waiting in the flat? But there was no sound as they entered and it felt empty. She turned to face him and he saw her clearly for the first time. Prison had pared her to the bone. His glimpse of her on television hadn't conveyed to him the full extent of the change. It wasn't just a question of three decades of ageing, there was simply nothing left of the young woman whose world had come to an end in 1963. Except perhaps for the eyes. They were regarding him now with the same empty blankness, like windows in a derelict house, that he recalled as he'd burst to the surface with the lifeless body of Westropp's daughter in his arms. There'd been water running down her face then and there was water running there now, dripping from her cheeks and chin on to the expensive carpet. 'Get yourself dried,' he said harshly. 'I can't abide a wet woman.' 'It's a matter of taste,' she said enigmatically. But she headed for the bathroom. He heard the door being locked, then the shower started up. This suited him nicely. He did a quick turn round the living-room and found nothing of interest. He pushed open a door. A bedroom. In the wardrobe male clothes only. So she and Waggs weren't kissing cousins. In fact, from the way she'd clutched her Bible at the press conference, he guessed she'd sublimated all that stuff, and any notion of guilt along with it most likely. Waggs travelled light or was a very careful man.

  He passed on to the other bedroom. It looked even barer with little that was feminine in sight, bu
t the Bible on the counterpane told him it was Kohler's. Searching was easy because there was next to nothing to search. He heard the bathroom door open but he didn't move. He had no objection to her finding him in here. In fact it was probably a good thing to establish their relationship from the start. Cop and criminal. Not all the religion in the world was going to change that.

  There were footsteps behind him. He didn't turn, waited for her indignant protest, readied himself for his crushing response. Then it occurred to him that he could still hear the distant shower. No louder, still running. It hadn't been the bathroom door. The thought dead-heated with the blow, which was either very expert or very lucky as it caught him at precisely the right point on the stem of his neck to switch off all the juice running between his mind and his muscles.

  He fell heavily across the bed, still conscious in the way that a man who has drunk a couple of bottles of Scotch might be still conscious.

  His senses struggled to maintain a limited service. Touch had gone completely; he could feel nothing. Smell, taste and sight were occupied by the counterpane up against which his nose and mouth were pressed, giving his eyes about an inch of focus which wasn't enough.