Dalziel 09 Child's Play

by Reginald Hill

  'Listen, you little bastard,' he said with measured savagery. 'I know all about you and your nasty little mind. You're a thief and a liar and you probably fancy your hand at blackmail too. And don't look all falsely accused and innocent, I'm used to that kind of ham acting, remember? Did you imagine I wouldn't check up on you? I know what you got up to in London, sonny. And all that crap about hitch-hiking and just happening to get dropped here! You bought a bus ticket, son. This was your destination, and I was your mark.'

  'That's what you think, is it?' cried Sharman. 'That's what you think?'

  'No. That's what I know,' said Wield wearily.

  'Then fuck you, Sergeant. Fuck you!'

  He turned and rushed out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

  Wield listened for a while. Then he put out the light and pulled the sheet up over his chin. But it was a long time before he could get to sleep.

  Neville Watmough lay awake beside his wife who was also awake because her husband's wakefulness was never a restful thing. On the other hand, to ask him why he was awake would merely be to invite the answer that he wasn't till she had woken him with her wittering.

  It is not an easy thing to be married to an ambitious man. His mind is a turbulent sea of plans and projects, of policy and strategy, of deep thought and high aspiration. So Mrs Watmough told herself, trying as usual to bury her chronic irritation in her chronic humility and get back to sleep.

  Meanwhile Watmough's ferret-like mind pursued the bobtail thoughts which had been scuttling around his head ever since his lunch with Ogilby.

  Who was the poofter in CID?

  He had headed back to his office and dug out the files. Like many another middle-aged, provincial, professional man who had picked up enough modern jargon to get by pretty well in the here-and-now, his intellectual and moral roots were firmly anchored in that stratum of history where eighteenth-century evangelism had fossilized into Victorian respectability. Some truths seemed immutable. One was that a homosexual would most likely be a young bachelor of artistic temperament who frequented unisex hair salons and wore very pungent aftershave. Unable to find many on the CID strength who fitted this profile, he sought further guidance in the big bookcase behind his desk which contained, besides the conventional official tomes, the literary relicts of several of his predecessors, preserved because he felt that the crowded bookshelves added a certain ton to the ambience of his office.

  As half remembered, there was a volume there on Sexual Deviancy. He opened it and began to read. To his horror, instead of narrowing things down, it opened up new and dreadful vistas. Oscar Wilde, he discovered with amazement, had been a respectable married man with two children.

  This meant the bastard he was looking for was as likely to be married as not!

  Nor, it appeared, was it something you grew out of. So it could be a man of some seniority, with a wife. This widened the field considerably. Of course, no woman would knowingly put up with such a husband. Mrs Wilde had sought a divorce when the truth emerged. So it could be a senior CID officer whose wife had divorced him with some acrimony . . .

  Dalziel!

  Oh, please God, if I must be given this burden to bear, let it be Dalziel!

  Alas for Watmough, he was not a man blessed with a high, creative imagination. He could manage to conjure up various future triumphs in his career such as turning down the Commissionership because he had been offered a safe Parliamentary seat, or accepting an invitation to be the SDP Home Secretary in a coalition government, but his fancy balked at dressing Dalziel in a frilly blouse with a green carnation behind his ear.

  But Pascoe now. That was quite different. Married with a child, yes, but that was, according to his recent reading, a matter almost of confirmatory evidence. He dressed smartly but often in that casual linen-safari-jacketed kind of way which Watmough had always found irritating and now found suspicious. Interested in books, plays, music; university educated and, through his wife, preserving links with the academic world; and wasn't there sometimes just the discreetest whiff of lily-of-the-valley or some such stuff wafting off him as he passed by?

  It all fitted perfectly; or rather, he could see no evidence to the contrary. It did not occur to him to wonder what evidence to the contrary might look like, though, in fairness, having had much to do with anonymous phone calls during his career, it did occur that it would probably all turn out to be nothing in the end.

  So long as it didn't turn out to be something in the next few days!

  Meanwhile he'd keep a close eye on Detective-Inspector Pascoe. There was something about the way he laughed. And didn't he walk funny . . .?

  So Deputy Chief Constable Watmough let his restless mind worry him into wakefulness. And other players in this as yet uncertain drama woke and watched who would rather have slept and forgotten. Peter Pascoe nursed his restless daughter and told her the story of his life. Ruby Huby turned in bed and did not find her husband, but never doubted that he sat below in the darkened bar, soothing his chronic anxieties with a rich-fumed pipe. Sarah Brodsworth strained her eyes in the darkness and saw again the inquisitive, doubting face of Henry Vollans and heard his probing questions and knew he was an obstacle to be overcome, or removed. Rod Lomas too watched and waited and felt himself grow angrier with each minute of waiting and watching. Miss Keech heard noises, Andrew Goodenough heard an outrageous proposal, Eileen Chung heard an obscene phone call, Stephanie Windibanks heard heavy breathing, Lexie Huby heard a motor-car, and Superintendent Dalziel heard the late, late film.

  It was, as most nights are, a night more full of fear than hope, of doubt than certainty, of pain than comfort. Mothers and fathers worried about their children; husbands and wives worried about each other; and sons and daughters worried about themselves. But not all and not equally, for children are unfathomable, unforecastable, in their treatment of parents. It is not always hatred that makes a daughter long to leave her family.

  And it is not always love that brings a son back home.

  Chapter 13

  Dennis Seymour had mixed feelings about Operation Shoplift. It was (a) very boring and (b) very unsuccessful, which was to say that while he was yawning in one place, the thieves always seemed to be thieving in another.

  But it did give him a legitimate excuse to spend part of the day in the city centre's largest store, Starbuck's, where he took his refreshment in the restaurant at one of the tables serviced by Bernadette McCrystal.

  'You're never here again!' she said. 'The old dragon follows me around with a calculator. She's sure I'm slipping you freebies.'

  'What? And me saving the store thousands with me dangerous undercover work,' said Seymour, parodying her Irish lilt.

  She laughed as she walked away, an infectious trill which made her other regular customers smile. Seymour felt a little jealous of them but not much. He and Bernadette had been seeing each other regularly since they met the previous year and though so far she had resisted all his attempts to get her into his bed, he was almost certain she felt as strongly about him as he did about her. She loved dancing - real dancing, as she called it, none of your heathen shaking - and he had discovered something almost sexual in that formal and public coordination of two bodies, which, plus a great deal of heavy petting, not to mention a lot of hot squash and cold showers, had kept his frustration within tolerable bounds to date.

  She returned a few minutes later with a plateful of lamb chops, roast potatoes and steamed cabbage.

  'I don't like cabbage,' he protested. 'I wanted peas.'

  'There's another chop under it,' she whispered. 'You can't hide a chop under peas now, can you?'

  Seymour shook his mop of carrot-bright hair which promised a good account of itself when his genes finally mixed with those producing the subtler, richer redness of the girl's.

  'You're a natural criminal,' he said. 'I'm glad Sergeant Wield's calling this farce off after today.'

  'Today, is it? So I'll have to find someone else to steal for
?'

  'You'd better not,' he said, incidentally, the old girl's really glowering. Shouldn't you be off to fetch me that glass of beer I ordered and you've forgotten.'

  But Bernadette seemed to have lost interest in their exchange of badinage and found it in something over his head and behind him. Starbuck's restaurant occupied nearly half of the second floor and was divided off from the shopping area by a glass wall which permitted the passage of light but not of cooking smells. This wall was hung with a variety of ornamental plants, mostly of the trailing variety, producing an effect which Seymour had likened to an unkempt fish-tank. In the best police tradition he always chose to sit with his back to this wall and his face to the main body of the restaurant.

  'What's up?' he said. 'Have you spotted Tarzan swinging about one of those creepers?'

  'No,' she said. 'This is your last day, is it? Will you get a bonus for catching somebody at it?'

  'Sergeant Wield might smile, but I probably wouldn't notice,' he said. 'Why?'

  'There's a young fellow through there, stuffing things into his bag like there's no tomorrow,' said Bernadette.

  Startled, Seymour turned and peered through the greenery. Immediately behind him was the section of the store devoted to leather goods - wallets, purses, ornamental knick-knacks, that sort of thing - and there, sure enough, was a young man in a blue and yellow check shirt, jeans and trainers, examining items in a critical way, returning some of them to the shelf, and thrusting those which passed his scrutiny into a large plastic carrier bag over his left arm.

  'Perhaps he's got a lot of birthdays this month,' said Bernadette.

  'Mebbe.'

  As they watched, the man set off at a brisk pace across the floor, passing two cash-and-wrap points without a glance and making towards the lifts.

  'Sorry about the chop, love,' said Seymour. 'I'll pick you up tonight, usual time. 'Bye.'

  Bernadette watched him go. He moved well for a big man. His dancing had improved a hundredfold since she took him under her wing. Not that he'd ever be Fred Astaire, but he would do very well for her if it wasn't that her heart sank lower than a peat bog every time she thought of telling them back home that she was wanting to marry a Protestant English policeman.

  She sighed, picked up the chops and returned to the kitchen. The old dragon blocked her way.

  'Well?' she said.

  'He's run off without paying,' said Bernadette. 'Shall I go and call a policeman?'

  Peter Pascoe was leaving his office at what he thought of as a mental tiptoe. This meant that to the casual gaze his body gave the impression of a detective-inspector whose week's work had finished at one o'clock on Saturday and who was on his way home to spend the rest of the weekend relaxing in the bosom of his family. But his soul, or whatever that part of being is which contains our individual essence, was not striding out confidently. It was sneaking out furtively with many a backward glance, hearing a voice in every wind, and the voice was Dalziel's.

  The fat man's timing was usually deadly. There would be a matter of unpostponable import to discuss; the Black Bull would be the place to discuss it; and the weekend which should have started with a light lunch with Ellie and Rose about one-thirty would instead kick off with a beery row about three.

  Pascoe had just made it to the bottom of the stairs. The door to the car park and freedom was in view. Then the voice spoke.

  'Any chance of a quick word?'

  He turned his head reluctantly, summoning up his nerve this time for the great refusal. Then relief washed over him like rain in a heat wave. It was only Wield.

  'Yes, sure, if you can walk and talk,' he said, resuming his progress into the car park.

  Wield followed. His craggy features showed as little of his inner turmoil as Pascoe's had shown of his inner stealth. He had woken up that morning to find that Cliff had already breakfasted and gone out. As the day wore on, he had found himself beset by a need repressed for years, the need to talk about himself, not necessarily in a soul-searching, dial-Samaritans kind of way, but with an openness which a lifetime of disguise made difficult. But to whom? And the election had fallen on Pascoe, colleague, superior, and if not precisely a friend, at least the nearest thing to one he had in the 'normal' world.

  'I thought, mebbe a quick half . . . not the Black Bull ... if you've got the time . . . it's personal . . .'

  Oh shit! thought Pascoe. One half of his mind was doubting if Ellie would be much impressed by the fact that it was Wield not Dalziel and some pub other than the Black Bull which made him late for his lunch. And the other half was trying to cope with the horrid suspicion that the rock-like Wield was about to turn to shifting sand. Wield with personal problems? It was a contradiction in terms! Jesus wept, the man had no right to be anything but a Victorian Gothic tower of strength!

  Surprised and ashamed at the depth of his instinctive resentment, Pascoe said, 'I can't manage too long . . .'

  But he was saved from further ungraciousness by another voice calling his name.

  Once again it wasn't Dalziel but Sergeant Broomfield, maker of illicit books and one of the central pivots of uniformed life in the Station.

  'Sorry to butt in, but I just wondered, that car in the corner, is it something to do with your lads?'

  Pascoe looked. The car in question was a battered green Escort, parked tight against the wall in the most unpopular corner of the yard where a branch of the large chestnut tree on the neighbouring premises shed its stickiness, and gave the birds a good perch from which to shed theirs, on whatever stood below.

  'Not that I know of. Why?'

  'Just wondered. It was there first thing, that's all.'

  The two men stood and regarded the vehicle, thoughts of terrorist car bombs unspoken in their minds.

  'Let's take a look,' said Pascoe.

  Glancing apologetically at Wield, he headed for the Escort with Broomfield reluctantly in pursuit.

  He didn't touch the car but peered in from a couple of feet. The windows were so begrimed as to make it very difficult to see much more than the steering-wheel.

  A car swung into the yard and its horn blasted, making Pascoe and Broomfield jump nervously. Pascoe looked round and glimpsed Seymour's grinning face.

  'Silly bastard,' he muttered and returned his attention to the Escort.

  'What do you think, sir?' said Broomfield.

  What Pascoe thought was if he didn't do something now, he'd have to hang around while somebody was fetched who would do something and that might take hours.

  He took a deep breath, reached forward to the handle of the passenger door and tried to open it. It seemed to be jammed rather than locked. He gave a sudden violent tug and it flew open.

  'Oh Jesus!' said Broomfield. 'They've started a delivery service.'

  It was a comment to treasure later, but not then.

  Pascoe was too busy being amazed as he looked down at the body which slowly slid out of the car door.

  It was a man and he was certainly dead; no living eyes could stare so sightlessly or living limbs be locked in so cramped a pose.

  He peered closer. There was blood on the man's shirt, though from what kind of wound he could not see.

  'Don't touch anything,' he said to Broomfield with what he hoped was unnecessary pedantry. 'Sergeant Wield.'

  To his surprise, the discovery of the body seemed to have startled Wield even more than the two closer men. His rugged features had gone quite pale and there was a smear of perspiration on his lips.

  What's up with the bloody man? wondered Pascoe.

  'Come on, Wieldy,' he urged. 'Bang goes Saturday, eh?'

  But the sergeant did not answer. His eyes were still fixed on the entrance to the Station through which he had just seen Detective-Constable Seymour, after giving him a triumphant thumbs-up sign, escort Cliff Sharman.

  Third Act

  Voices from the Gallery

  Whatever in those climes he found Irregular in sight or sound

  Did to h
is mind impart

  A kindred impulse, seem'd allied

  To his own powers, and justified

  The workings of his heart.

  Wordsworth: Ruth

  Chapter 1

  'Bear hence this body, and attend our will;

  Mercy but murders, pardoning those that Kill.'

  The applause was on the polite side of enthusiastic. Ellie Pascoe kept her clapping going a couple of beats after most people and several bars after her husband.

  In the interval she said, 'You're not enjoying it?'

  'Well,' he said, 'it's OK for Shakespeare, but West Side Story it's not!'

  'Peter, stop being flip. You're just determined not to be impressed by anything Chung does, aren't you?'

  'On the contrary, I quite approve the slant Big Eileen's giving the text. I feared something much more fearsomely feminist! But two kids being mucked about by the oldies is more or less what Shakespeare was on about, wasn't it? Though probably he didn't envisage Capulet and his wife looking quite so like Maggie and Dennis or the Prince so like Ronnie Reagan! But the production's a bit ponderous, isn't it? Perhaps it'll get better now that Mercutio's out of it. The only bit of life in him was when he died and I reckon that that was because it came so natural.'

  'Peter,' said Ellie warningly. 'I hope you're not going to be the life and soul of the party afterwards.'

  'What? And risk Big Eileen's karate chop? You must be joking!'

  The second half was in Pascoe's judgement a great improvement, though the tragic momentum was momentarily checked in the scene in which Romeo purchases poison from the apothecary.

  The latter, bent and quavering to start with, seemed to lose his way after his opening line, 'Who calls so loud?' Prompted, he spoke the next couple of lines in a much stronger voice and was immediately detectable as the actor who had played Mercutio. In the uppermost tier where the school parties were concentrated a piercing young voice said, 'Please, sir, I thought he were dead!"