Dalziel 14 Pictures of Perfection

by Reginald Hill

  Wield drank some more and said, 'You talk like this place were special, I mean, really special. Almost, like, perfect.'

  'Good Lord, no! Enscombe is very much fuctatus rather than perfectus, I'm glad to say. Perfection is unnatural, Sergeant, because it implies the absence of either development or decline. Haven't you noticed it's the political parties and the religions with the clearest notions of the perfect society that cause the most harm? Once admit the notion of human perfectibility, and the end can be made to justify any amount of pain and suffering along the way. Besides, it would put us both out of work. No crime in the perfect society, and no desire to read about the imperfect past either! So here's to imperfection!'

  They both drank deep.

  'So to get back to your question, Sergeant, I am certainly not retired. I suspect my argent locks as well as my profession have misled you. Blossom can be white as well as snow. How old do you take me for?'

  'Nay, you're not catching me like that,' said Wield.

  ‘I think a man would have to rise early to catch you, Sergeant. Fifty-seven. You are blessed with a face that gives little away, but I bet you had me closer to sixty-seven?'

  Wield, who'd never heard his face called a blessing, nodded confession.

  'Don't let it bother you. I wish I could tell some winter's tale to explain that my hair turned white in a single night, but it was a gradual process, starting surprisingly early. No coffins came through the wall to accelerate matters. Talking of which, it doesn't bother you staying alone in a place like this?'

  'No. Not even afore I started supping this stuff,' said Wield, in fact I've felt right at home from the start. Some spots have a nice feel to them.'

  'I know what you mean. I feel the same.'

  'Well, that's one thing we've got in common,' said Wield.

  'Two,' said the bookseller, holding up the bottle and topping up their glasses. 'Do I get an impression that you find it surprising we have any common ground at all?'

  'Common ground's easy enough to find, sir, except that when you find it, like this Green of yours, it's often just summat else to quarrel about.'

  Digweed frowned and said, ‘If we're going to quarrel, I'd prefer you stopped calling me sir. It gives you such an advantage.'

  'Never fret,' said Wield, ‘In the Force it's usually the only term of abuse a poor cop can aim at his superiors.'

  'Do I come across as so superior, then? I don't intend to.'

  'That makes it worse.'

  'I suppose it does. I'm sorry. If it helps, the Digweeds too have been looked down upon in their time.'

  'By the Guillemards, you mean? Your granddad, was it?'

  'Good Lord! Are you clairvoyant?'

  'Just a detective,' said Wield, not unsmugly. 'The way he talked about the birthday treats at the start of his journal. Very acid. Reminded me a bit of you.'

  'I'll take that as a compliment,' said Digweed. 'But do go on. Strut your stuff, as they say.'

  Thus challenged, Wield delayed a moment by sipping his drink, his mind racing. He found himself handling the Naturalist's Year as though, like a medium, he might pick up some helpful vibration from it. Then his eyes fastened on the jacket illustration.

  'R.D.?' he said. 'Same initials on that picture of the Squire's Aunt Edwina, right? Your granddad painted it. When he were a lot younger .. . And he fancied Edwina. But he got choked off . .. Not by Edwina. By the family. Thought he weren't good enough . .. That's why he's so sarky about the way they value their womenfolk . . . Eventually he married someone else, late on in life, he must have been in his late forties when your dad were born ... But he never forgot, and that's why he called your dad Edwin, after his old love!'

  He could see from the bookseller's expression that this soaring flight of fancy, lark-like, had never diverted from its factual base. Bloody hell, he thought, emptying his glass. If I'd discovered this stuff sooner, I could have been Chief Constable by now!

  'Truly remarkable!' exclaimed Digweed. 'You're sure it wasn't you who burgled my shop in order to read my grandfather's earlier journals?'

  ‘I'm right, then?' said Wield.

  'With the very slight addition that Edwina fancied him with an equal passion. It was she who got them thrown together by discovering in herself this longing to have her portrait painted to match one she already had of some ancestor. But though a gentleman, Ralph was held to be below the salt as (a) being poor, (b) being an artist, and (c) being a close friend of the younger Halavant, Jeremy, the one who built Scarletts. Once the family realized what was going on, that was that. Poor Ralph.'

  'Poor Edwina, more like it. At least he still had choices he could make,' said Wield.

  'Yes, poor Edwina too. But don't feel too sorry for her, she wouldn't have thanked you. A pliant child she may have been, but she grew into a feisty old lady. And she got her revenges. Though she did not quite live to see it, she it was by all accounts who instilled in her great-niece, Frances, that sense of self-worth and independent spirit which gave her the strength to walk out on the family and marry Stanley Harding.'

  'Good for her!' proclaimed Wield. 'Here's to both on 'em!'

  They clinked their glasses together with most melodious chime and drank a deep toast.

  'So there we are,' said Digweed. 'Something else in common. Go on like this and we could find we're twin brothers, separated at birth!'

  He laughed at the absurdity of his own fancy and Wield, with a sudden revival of all his old feelings, thought: Patronizing prat! He thinks he's doing me favours!

  He said, 'Wouldn't go as far as that, sir.'

  Digweed regarded him quizzically and said, 'Oh dear, it's that sir again! You are clearly determined to quarrel. Tell you what, if we are going to fall out, let it be over things we dislike, rather than spoil the things we like with arguing about them. In fact, it supports my anti-perfection principle that when a politician wants to really unite the electorate, he looks for a common hatred rather than a common enthusiasm. So what is it turns you off ?'

  Wield thought, then said with a slow emphasis, 'Snobs. I don't like snobs. How's that for starters?'

  'Excellent. No quarrel there. My turn. Little Hitlers. People who turn a molehill of authority into a mountain of obstructionism.'

  'Fair enough. Politicians.'

  'Spot on. Undertakers.'

  'They're only doing a job,' said Wield defensively.

  'Of course. But do you like them?'

  'No,' admitted Wield. 'Beer that's too cold.'

  'Beer that's too warm.'

  'People that don't care about beer.'

  'People that go on too much about beer.'

  'Motorway service stations.'

  'Airport lounges.'

  'Game shows.'

  'Soaps.'

  Wield sipped his bourbon thoughtfully, and queried, 'No exceptions?'

  'Well, I used to be quite taken with EastEnders. And of course, being of everyday country folk, I adore The Archers,' admitted Digweed anxiously.

  'That's fine, then,' grinned Wield, who suddenly found he was enjoying himself immensely. 'People who, when you're out walking, know the names of all the hills and insist on telling you.'

  'People who send family newsletters at Christmas.'

  'Drivers who open doors in front of motorcyclists.'

  'Drivers who park where they shouldn't,' said Digweed, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

  'Banks.'

  'People who turn down book pages.'

  'People who think they're right all the time.'

  'Vivisectionists.'

  'Exclusive clubs.'

  'People who persecute minorities.'

  'Hypocrites!'

  'Fascists!'

  They realized that the exchange had gathered pace and volume, regarded each other in faintly flushed embarrassment, then relaxed and started to laugh.

  'People who leave heel-taps,' said Digweed, leaning over to fill up Wield's glass.

  'Hey, leave some for yourself,' protes
ted the Sergeant, looking at the almost empty bottle.

  'You forget. I have to rise and make my way home. As a respected parish councillor, I try not to fall on my face in the High Street more than once a month.'

  'And you've had your ration for this month?'

  ‘If only I could remember,' said Digweed solemnly. He rose and extended his hand. 'Good night, Sergeant Wield. A duty that turns into a pleasure is a pleasure indeed.'

  Wield took the offered hand and tried to stand up, but Digweed urged him gently back on to the sofa.

  'I can see myself out. Sleep well. And I hope your wandering boy returns. I hope all lost and wandering boys everywhere find their way home. Good night.'

  He went out, his back straight, his gait steady. Wield heard the door bang shut and let himself sink back into the cushions.

  'Am I on duty?' he asked himself. "Cos, if I am, having downed a good half-bottle of bourbon, I am definitely drunk on duty, which is or used to be a hanging offence.'

  He looked into his glass. It was empty again. On the floor before him Digweed had placed the bottle with about half an inch in the bottom.

  'Thank you, Mr Digweed,' said Wield, reaching down for it. 'But you're still not getting my Hider Raggards.'

  And he fell back in a paroxysm of giggles which eventually moderated to a grunting chuckle, and finally to a steady snore.

  CHAPTER VII

  'The Wylmots being robbed must be an amusing thing to their acquaintance, & I hope it is as much their pleasure as it seems their avocation to be subjects of general Entertainment.'

  Wield woke to the sound of bells.

  He listened for the voice of God in them till they diminished to the trill of a telephone, whereupon he rolled off the sofa and went crawling in search of the instrument, certain that it would be the voice of God on it, full of wrath at being kept waiting.

  He was right about the wrath, but it was Dudley Wylmot's, not Dalziel's.

  'About time,' he said petulantly. 'Can you get down here right away! We've been broken into again.'

  Wield looked at his watch. It was ten to six. He thought of telling Wylmot to sod 'awf, dismissed the idea, thought of advising him to ring Filmer at the Section Office, or to ring HQ in town, or to . .. 'Hello? Hello? You still there?' demanded Wylmot. 'Sod awf,' said Wield.

  Even as he said it he couldn't believe he was saying it. He, Wield, the master of control, the man who let it all hang in.

  ‘I'm sorry? I missed that? My wife was speaking. What did you say?'

  Wield drew in a huge lungful of air to service a long sigh of relief.

  He said, 'I'll get down there soon as I can, sir.'

  He rang off, then dialled the Section number.

  A yawning constable answered. Wield identified himself, explained the situation, then went on: 'Ask Sergeant Filmer to get over here soon as he can, will you? I'll take a look, but I don't want to be away too long.'

  He went into the bathroom and immersed his head in a basinful of cold water, rubbed some toothpaste on his teeth with his finger-end and rinsed it out.

  It wasn't till he was walking out of the bathroom that it registered: there was toothpaste but no toothbrush.

  Outside he drank in the cool air of a fine spring morning. The sun was up, but nobbut just, and the final coda of the dawn chorus still filled the air, plus the dull roar of a distant tractor reminding him that Enscombe was a working village and a farmer's day still ran with the sun.

  Walking was a little shaky at first, but by the time he reached the High Street he was beginning to feel more like a pulse in nature and less like a spanner in the works.

  He met a couple of farmworkers who greeted him as casually as if they'd been doing it for fifty years. Perhaps his stubbled chin and rumpled clothes made him merge with the background.

  At the Post Office he found Wylmot in a state of hangover which made his own condition positively healthy. He recalled remarking the speed with which the man had been sinking the gin and tonics. Foolish fellow. Now if he'd stuck to pure old bourbon ...

  Complacently he said, 'Show me.'

  Entry had been through a kitchen window, using the same technique as at the Tell-Tale Bookshop the day before. The difference was that here there was an alarm system.

  Wield checked it. The main switch was off.

  'What happened, sir? Forget to switch it on?'

  'I must have done,' said Wylmot. 'I was rather ... tired last night. Usually it's something I do automatically. Oh shit. I hope the insurance won't make a fuss. We had it fitted after the last time and there was a discount on the premium.'

  'These things happen, sir,' said Wield. 'What time did you discover the break-in?'

  'About half an hour ago. It wasn't me. It was my wife.'

  'Have you any idea what's missing?'

  'From the shop, yes. They don't seem to have touched anything in here.'

  Here was the sitting-room cum dining-room through which they went on their way to the shop. Wield paused at the connecting door and said, 'Would this have been locked?'

  'That? No. I mean if they got that far, they'd be in, wouldn't they? So what's the point of giving them something else to damage?'

  To Wield the natural end of this logic was to pack all your valuables into a suitcase and leave them on the kitchen table.

  He went into the Post Office.

  The place was in a bit of a mess, but it was mainly papers which had been scattered around, nothing which would have made a lot of noise.

  He said, 'Where's your bedroom, sir?'

  'Right above,' said Wylmot.

  From the look of him it would have taken the massed bands of the Household Guards playing reveille to waken Wylmot, but perhaps his wife had heard something.

  Wylmot went on, it's mainly mail they took, so far as I can see. The old safe we had you could get into with a hairpin, but this new one, you'd need gelignite. And I'm very careful to lock everything of value away. The tills were empty, of course. So I reckon they went for a lucky dip in the mailbag. It was rather fuller than usual as there was no collection yesterday.'

  'Oh yes, the postman's accident. Any chance you can remember what was actually in the bag? Can't have been too much, not from a small place like Enscombe.'

  'We do a surprising amount of business,' retorted Wylmot. ‘If we didn't they'd soon close us down, believe me. Oh, there you are, dear.'

  Daphne Wylmot had appeared in the doorway. She wore a green and gold silk dressing-gown which ran liquescently over the curves of her body. Her shoulder-length hair had been brushed till it shone like the gown and she had applied just enough make-up to give life and colour to her morning face. Her feet were bare and her magenta-nailed toes flexed prehensilely on the cool tiled floor.

  Wield viewed her with the dispassionate approval of an art lover, and her green eyes returned his gaze with the puzzled speculation of a beautiful woman not getting the response she expects, even at this time in the morning.

  'Hello, Mrs Wylmot,' said Wield. 'Detective-Sergeant Wield. We met yesterday. I believe you discovered the break-in?'

  'That's right, Sergeant. I felt the draught as soon as I opened the kitchen door.'

  'You were up early,' said Wield. 'Did something disturb you?'

  'I don't think so. Should it have?'

  'No, I meant, sleeping directly above the shop ...'

  She smiled and said, 'I wasn't, not last night. Dudley was a little .. . indisposed when we got home so I thought it best to let him have our double bed to toss and turn in. I went into the spare room, which isn't above the shop. No, I simply woke up, felt like a cup of tea and came down. It wasn't all that early, not for us. Someone has to be around to receive the newspapers about six forty-five, and I didn't anticipate Dudley being well enough.'

  'I see,' said Wield. He looked at her husband, who was staring into a mailbag like a nervous air passenger about to be very sick. 'Perhaps you could help Mr Wylmot work out what's missing. But try to touch as lit
tle as you can.'

  He went back into the living-room and let his eye run slowly over the route the burglar must have taken from the kitchen, then broadened the field of search. He was acting more out of habit than hope. Clues detectable by the human eye were rarer in life than in literature. But there was something. Under a table, a piece of grey-brown clay almost invisible on the heather-mix carpet. It bore the imprint of the deep tread of a shoe or boot and was set hard.

  Carefully he carried it through into the kitchen, helped himself to a freezer bag off a roll on the wall, and slipped it in. Then he opened the kitchen door. It led into a small porch which housed a washing machine and was also the dumping ground for a couple of pairs of Wellingtons and a pair of men's walking boots. He checked their treads. None was deep enough to match the piece of clay.

  He went through the outside door into a small yard, prettified by a couple of tubs bright with the flowers that bloom in the spring. The walls were about six feet, no obstacle to an active man, and in any case warpage had shifted the position of the solitary bolt on the yard door so that it touched but could not enter the hole drilled in the post to receive it, and the door swung open when he pulled at it.

  He returned to examining the walls just in case his man had come over the top, but found no sign. The only odd thing his sagacious eye did observe was that in one of the flower tubs, a group of Poeticus Narcissi was a flower short. The stem had been snapped in half quite recently and there was no sign of the white-petalled flower with red and yellow cup either in the tub or on the ground.