'What's up with you?' he said to Seymour as Jane retreated, looking rather piqued. 'Gone off busty blondes, have we?'
Seymour replied by taking a sandwich and biting it viciously.
'You were a long time gone,' said Pascoe. 'Find anything interesting?'
'Nothing helpful. I went all over and couldn't spot anything to do with the case.'
There was more to come, Pascoe guessed.
'But . . .?' he probed.
Suddenly it came out.
'I got upstairs in her bedroom,' said the redhead with all the indignant pain of disenchanted idolatry. 'Didn't expect to find anything there, but I like to be thorough. I was poking around some bookshelves and there they were!'
'What, for God's sake?'
'A blonde wig and a bloody great pair of falsies! You can't trust anything these days!'
Pascoe tried to look sympathetic but a grin tugged at his mouth and finally he laughed so heartily he almost choked on his sandwich.
John Huby in close conference with Henry Vollans was distracted by the sound.
Glaring balefully in Pascoe's direction he said, 'Listen to that! You'd think that people came in here to bloody well enjoy themselves!'
Chapter 4
Mrs Miriam Hornsby was sixty-ish, stout, and wore enough make-up to keep the Kemble going for a fortnight. She moved in an aureole of roseate fragrance through which on every breath came a waft of what Dalziel's specialized nose identified as barley wine.
'Have you eaten, love?' he asked solicitously.
'Yes, thank you. There was a buffet on the train,' she replied in what to his ear was merely a London accent with a slight overlay of refinement to match the solemnity of the occasion.
None of these observations of voice, scent or appetite was a put-down in Dalziel's mind. Where there was leisure for refreshment there could still be time for grief; indeed, the barley wine smell tended to predispose him in her favour; he had once enjoyed a robustly meaningless relationship with a well-made lady who favoured strong ales.
'Well, let's get it over with,' he said, intuitively adopting the hearty no-nonsense approach he sensed best suited her emotional make-up.
At the mortuary she clung tightly to his arm in preference to the proffered support of WPC Aster who was chaperoning them, and as she looked down at the still, dark features of the young man whom death seemed to have shrunk back to childhood, he felt the full weight of her distress.
'Is this your grandson, Cliff Sharman?' asked Dalziel formally.
She nodded. 'You have to say it, love,' he instructed her.
'Yes, that's him, that's Cliff,' she whispered. Tears came with the words and ran glistening spoors across her powdery cheeks.
As they came out of the chilly steel box of the actual mortuary into the plastic anonymity of the vestibule, Dalziel was surprised to see Sergeant Wield standing there.
'Hello,' he said. 'You better?'
'I'd like a word,' said Wield.
'Aye. Let's get Mrs Hornsby here a cup of tea, shall we? No, better still, let's get out of here!'
He led the way out. Two hundred yards away was a pub, the Green Tree, not named after any visible vegetation. It was just past closing time and the landlord was ushering the last customers into the afternoon air prior to locking up.
'Hello, Steve,' said Dalziel, who knew half the town publicans by name and the rest by reputation. 'We'll just sit quiet a few moments in your snug. You might fetch us a couple of barley wines in one glass and I'll have a Scotch, and you'd better have one too, Sergeant, you don't look too clever to me. Oh, and an orange juice for the young lady here. Uniformed officers shouldn't be seen drinking on duty!'
The landlord sighed but did not demur. Mrs Hornsby, who had been weeping steadily all the way from the mortuary, glimpsed herself in the bar mirror and headed for the Ladies followed by WPC Aster.
'What're you doing at the mortuary, Sergeant?' inquired Dalziel.
Wield said, 'I'd been to see the body.'
'Sharman's? Oh aye. Didn't know that Mr Pascoe had put you on this case. In fact, I'm sure he said you'd gone off sick.'
'I knew him,' said Wield dully. 'I came in this morning and Seymour started telling me about this body they'd found. I wasn't paying much attention till he said it were the same lad he'd arrested for shoplifting last week.'
He fell silent. Dalziel said, 'Is that what you mean when you say you knew him.'
'No. I knew him before that. He was ... a friend. I couldn't believe what Seymour told me at first. But I looked in the book and there it was. Cliff Sharman. I had to get out of the Station. I've just been walking around all day. I didn't have much idea where I was, what I was doing. Then I found myself here. I had to see him. Mebbe it was mistaken identity. Mebbe it was . .'
His voice faltered. Dalziel asked unnecessarily, 'Was it him, your mate?'
'Oh yes,' said Wield. 'Oh yes. I came out and I saw your car drawing up. So I waited.'
'You were going to come and see me anyway, likely?' suggested Dalziel, half helpful, half sarcastic.
'I don't know,' said Wield indifferently. 'I came out. There you were.'
Before Dalziel could say anything further, the door opened and Mrs Hornsby appeared, repaired.
'Sit quiet and say nowt,' said Dalziel. 'We'll talk later. Here, luv, sup this. It'll make you feel better.'
Gratefully the woman downed half her drink.
'I knew it'd end badly,' she said suddenly, the layer of refinement washed out of her voice. 'But never in my wildest dreams did I think that it'd end like this.'
'What do you mean, end badly?' asked Dalziel.
She drank again and said, 'Cliff was always wild. Like Dick, his father. I never liked him from the day Joanie took up with him, but there's no telling children, is there? It wasn't just his colour, though that didn't help. I've got nothing against 'em personally, you understand, but it makes things that bit harder, bound to, isn't it?'
'Colour? Your son-in-law was . . .?'
'Black, wasn't he? Not jet black, but dark brown, a lot darker than Cliff. That was one blessing when Cliff came along, he was just sort of heavy tanned, you know, could pass for an Eyetie or one of them Maltesers, well, you've seen him for yourself. But Dick, he was black outside and he could be black inside too . . .'
She paused as if uneasy at the histrionic hyperbole of her assertion, then nodded as if to confirm that she meant it.
'Black . . .' prompted Dalziel.
'Not all the time, I mean, he could be a bundle of laughs and he knew how to spend and enjoy himself, Joanie would never have fancied him else, stands to reason, don't it? But he was always on the lookout for people putting him down, bit of a chip on his shoulder, know what I mean?'
'About his colour?'
'Well, that, yes. But other things too. He was brought up in a home, Nottingham or somewhere like that. When he was beered up and the black mood was on him he'd talk about it sometimes. He reckoned his mam was white, or mebbe it was his dad that was white, and he'd been dumped there because he was black, something like that. Well, anyway, they seemed to get along all right, him and Joanie, and Cliff came along, accident that was, I reckon Joanie would've had an abortion but Dick wouldn't wear it. So they muddled on. He was away from home a lot, and that probably helped things. He worked up West, in hotels and places, porter, doorman, barman sometimes, so he often lived in, it was handier. Joanie went her own way, but discreetly, like. Then one night, it's about ten years back now but I remember it like yesterday, this friend she was out with had one too many and there was an accident on the bypass and . . .'
The tears were ready to fall again, but this time with the aid of a pocket mirror and a paper handkerchief she managed to stem them at source.
'Well, it shook Dick, I'll say that for him. Really broke him up for a bit. He stayed on at their flat a while with Cliff - the boy was about nine at the time. Then one day he came to see me and said, could I help? The Council was giving him a ba
d time about the boy, saying Dick couldn't look after him properly. Well, it was hard, especially with Dick's kind of job. But he was adamant, he'd not have the lad taken into care. He'd been dumped in a home himself, and it wasn't going to happen to his son. You had to admire him for that, didn't you? And the boy was my grandson. So what could I do? I was working full-time at the dry-cleaners just then, but Dick said full-time was no good, would I go part-time and he'd make up the money. I had my doubts, but I said, all right, and give Dick his due, the money wasn't regular, but it nearly always turned up eventually, and a bit over too when he was flush. Plus he paid for all the boy's clothes and so on. I'd no complaints.'
'And did Dick actually live with you?' asked Dalziel, recognizing that there were no short cuts on a marathon.
'Some of the time. But like I said, he worked away a lot. He was restless, didn't like getting into a rut. Also I reckon he often got into a bit of bother and had to move on. But it was nearly always in London and he'd nearly always ring once a week, or send a postcard. And it was rare for more than three or four weeks to pass without him putting in an appearance. He'd spoil the boy rotten then, though I noticed if he was back for more than a couple of days, it wasn't long before he was putting Cliff in his place.'
'You got on well with the boy yourself?' Dalziel asked.
'Well enough,' she said after a hesitation. 'Till he started at the secondary, anyway. I'll make no bones, by the time he reached his teens, he was too much for me to handle. He was in with a bad set, but I expect their mums said that about their lads too. There was bother with the Old Bill too, nothing serious, but enough to make me worry. I soon made up my mind. When he was sixteen and out of school, that was it. He could sling his hook and live permanent with his dad. I liked him well enough, you understand, but it was all getting too much for me. I wasn't as young as I had been, and I wanted a bit of peace and quiet.'
'Nonsense,' said Dalziel gallantly. 'I bet there's life in them old bones yet.'
'You got something in mind?' she said, looking at him assessingly.
Dalziel grinned and said, 'We'll see. What happened to Dick?'
'Three years ago he went off again. He was working up West and we were expecting him at the weekend, but he rang up to say he wouldn't be coming as he was going away for a bit. I said, is it a job? and he laughed, not a real laugh but sort of meaningful, and said, no, it was family business. And that was that. To cut a long story short, we never saw him again. Cliff got a postcard a couple of days later and after that, nothing. Cliff got really upset as more and more time went by, but what was there to do? I rang your lot and all they said was sorry, there was no law against a man going away and not coming back. So I had to make do with that.'
'And Cliff?'
He stopped talking about it, eventually, but I don't think he stopped thinking about it. Not that we ever discussed it. He left school and he didn't get any work, well, I know it's hard to get these days, but he didn't even look, did he? He just started going up West and only coming back when he felt like it. I don't know what he was doing up there, and I don't want to know, but he was never short of money so far as I could see. In the end we had a row and he walked out with all his things and I never saw him again.'
'When was that, Mrs Hornsby?'
'Two years ago. At least. I told him I never wanted to set eyes on him again and I wish I hadn't, leastways not like this.'
She began to cry again, beyond the staunching of tissue, and Dalziel pulled a huge khaki handkerchief out of his pocket and passed it across to her.
'That'll do for now, luv,' he said. 'We've got you booked into a nice hotel. Why don't you go along there now with the lass here and have a nice lie-down. We'll mebbe chat again later, and have a couple of beers too, eh?'
The prospect seemed to please. The woman began to gather herself and her accoutrements together.
'This postcard Cliff got. Where was it from, do you remember?'
It was Wield who spoke.
'I'm not sure,' Mrs Hornsby said. 'North. It could've been Yorkshire. Yes, I think the picture said Yorkshire.'
She smiled at Wield as though pleased that he had broken his silence, but he had resumed his previous distancing, withdrawn expression.
The landlord unlocked the door to let the women out, then paused and looked hopefully towards the men.
Dalziel pointed at his glass and raised two fingers in a gesture mathematical rather than derisory.
'And now, sunshine,' he said to Wield. 'Let's you and me have a little talk.'
Wield did not speak till the whiskies arrived and even then he delayed till the landlord had retreated out of earshot.
Then he put the glass to his lips and knocked the smooth spirit back in one swallow. Dalziel's face across the table looked about as sympathetic as a prison wall. But it was not sympathy he wanted, Wield reminded himself. It was the right to be himself. He thought of the effect saying this was likely to produce on Dalziel and felt his courage ebb. He had to admit it - the man terrified him! Here before him in awful visible form, was embodied all the mockery, scorn and scatological abuse which he had always feared from the police hierarchy. At least, to start with Dalziel was to start with the worst.
He drew a deep breath and said, 'I want to tell you. I'm a homosexual.'
'Oh aye,' said Dalziel. 'You've not just found out, have you?'
'No,' said Wield, taken aback. 'I've always known.'
'That's all right, then,' said Dalziel equably, 'I'd have been worried else that I'd not mentioned it to you.'
I'm not hearing him right, thought Wield, now utterly bewildered. Or mebbe he didn't hear me right!
'I'm gay,' he said desperately. 'I'm a queer.'
'You can be a bloody freemason for all I care,' said Dalziel, 'but it's not going to help with your promotion, if that's what you're after!'
It took Wield a full thirty seconds to begin to assimilate this. 'You knew?' he said disbelievingly. 'How? How long? Who else?'
'Ah well, you see, they're not all clever cunts like me,' said Dalziel modestly. 'Listen, Wieldy, what are you telling me? You're a queer? Well, I've known that almost as long as you've been in CID. But it's not interfered with your work, no more anyway than Mr Pascoe having a row with his missus, or Seymour not getting it away with that Irish bint. Only time I was worried was when you went all dewy-eyed when young Constable Singh got himself hurt, so I saw to it he got posted out of harm's way!'
'You bastard!' said Wield, slowly beginning to grow angry. 'Who the hell do you think you are? What am I supposed to be? Grateful?'
'You can be whatever you fucking well like, Sergeant,' said Dalziel. 'Except mebbe insubordinate. Listen, lad, I'll spell it out. What you are is your business except when it touches your job and then it's mine. All I want to hear from you now is if, and how, your relationship with this boy, Sharman, has touched your job. So talk!'
There didn't seem to be anything else to do.
Wield went through the whole thing from the very start omitting nothing, adding nothing.
Dalziel nodded admiringly when he finished.
'By God, Sergeant, you're the best maker of reports I've ever come across. What's that fancy word Mr Pascoe used about them? Pellucid! That's what they are, pellucid. Just so we know where we are, why don't you tell me what you've done that's illegal in all this?'
Wield said after a little thought, 'I've withheld information. I've broken police regulations. And I've acted in a manner unbecoming and unprofessional.'
'That's about the strength of it,' agreed Dalziel. 'We'll sort that out just now. Let's concentrate on the boy first of all. You were fond of him?'
'I was growing fond of him,' said Wield in a low voice. 'I found him very attractive. He was young, vital, and, I don't know, brave in a kind of way. At least he had the courage to be what he was. He thought I was pretty contemptible, I think. I knew he was all kinds of other less attractive things too. I wasn't blind. When he walked out I thought: That's it.
There's pain here, yes, but I'm well out of it. Pain I can bear. It'll fade. I'll survive. Then I found out he was dead . . .'
His voice, growing steadily lower, faded into inaudibility.
'Easy, lad,' said Dalziel. 'Listen, it might help to know that on the basis of what you've said and something that the DCC told me earlier today, I reckon young Master Cliff went straight from your flat to telephone the Challenger and make an appointment to blow the gaff on you this morning.'
Slowly Wield shook his head.
'No,' he said bitterly. 'That doesn't help at all.'
'Sorry I spoke, then,' said Dalziel. 'All right, sunshine, you sit here and feel sorry for yourself while I make a couple of phone calls.'
He went through the bar to the telephone and got through to the station. First he asked for Watmough. The DCC did not seem happy to hear his voice nor did what Dalziel had to say much increase his store of felicity.
'This murdered man is possibly the same person who has been ringing the Challenger, you think?'
'Seems likely.'
'Has anything emerged about the precise details of his allegations?' asked Watmough cautiously.
'As far as I can make out, he said nowt and he's left nowt in writing,' said Dalziel disingenuously. 'What I wanted to find out is who was the reporter he was supposed to be meeting, but didn't? I'll need to talk to him.'
'Vollans. Henry Vollans.' said Watmough. Dalziel could almost hear his mind clicking like an abacus as he calculated possible advantages and disadvantages. 'Yes, you must talk to him, I see that. But discreetly, Andy. I'll have a word with Ike Ogilby too. There must be no rushing to judgment on this one, you understand?'
'Aye,' said Dalziel. 'Can you put me back to the exchange?'
Here he asked for Pascoe's extension and found that the Inspector had just got in. Through the open door of the snug he could see that Wield had risen to his feet.
He said urgently, 'Listen, Peter, there's a reporter on the Challenger I want a word with, name of Vollans. Can you get hold of him somehow.'
Dalziel 09 Child's Play Page 21
