'Hold on,' said Pascoe, reluctant to interrupt this unprecedented flow but in need of clarification. 'His mate? What do you mean?'
'I mean his mate. T'other bobby in the car.'
'You mean there were two of them?'
'No wonder you lose track, mister, when you don't know how many you've got in the first place!' she said in exasperation.
'This other policeman, did you know him?'
'No. Not that I saw much on him, but the only other bobby I've ever seen with young Bendish is yon Sergeant Filmer and it weren't him.'
'How do you know?'
'Not big enough. Sat there with his hat on and there were still plenty of space above, not like yon awkward length Filmer.'
Pascoe recalled Dalziel's words. Gaps big enough for a horse to crap through. And shuddered at the thought of the Fat Man's reaction to this extraordinary new information. But that was for the future. Here and now he'd better devote all his energies to making sure he didn't leave a crack a mite could crawl through.
'What happened then?'
'We went round the house, him picking things up and fiddling with things when all he had to do was ask me if owt had been interfered with and I'd have soon told him. He opened the curtains and checked the windows .. .'
'Did you see anything of this other policeman, the one who was supposed to be checking outside?'
'Aye, I got a glimpse, but it's no use asking if I recognized him. It were dark out there and I'd switched the security lights off with the rest of the system. Is this going to take much longer? I've got the lunch to be getting on with.'
Pascoe, who did not relish the thought of a transfer to the kitchen where Fop was demolishing bones, said hastily, 'Not long. Just tell me what else happened.'
'Happened? Nowt. No, I tell a lie. We got to the drawing-room . . .'
'That's the long room, the one with most pictures?'
'Aye, that's the one. And while we were in there the phone rang, and I went out into the hall to answer it.'
'What was the Constable doing then?'
'Same as other places, fiddling with the window, I think.'
'Who was it on the phone?' asked Pascoe.
'I don't see that's any of your business,' she said.
'Well, if it's a secret. ..'
'No secret,' she said, ‘It were some lass from the television wanting to talk to Mr Halavant about his next programme. She said he'd gone through it with his producer but he'd managed to mislay his notes or summat and there were some things he needed to check.'
'Did she keep you talking long?' asked Pascoe.
'Long enough and all for nowt. I told her he weren't home, but she insisted I took down all the bits they needed to know about running order and inserts and that stuff.'
Beneath her scorn was a certain pride at being au fait with such matters. Even the Mrs Bayles of this world were not impervious to the seductive charms of the telly.
'But in the end it were all for nowt,' she concluded, all scorn now. 'She suddenly announces the producer is signalling he's found his notes after all, so thank you and good night!'
'So you didn't need to bother Mr Halavant with this?'
'No, but I told him just the same.'
'Why was that?'
'Because, like you, he asked. Just after you'd been yesterday. Just the same, question after question. I told him I went back to the Constable and I showed him out and I watched him get in the car . ..'
'His colleague was still in the passenger seat?'
'Aye. And I saw them go down the drive and out of the gate. And I made sure they shut it behind them. Then I went back inside and checked round for myself. And then I thought I heard a noise . ..'
'Like a bird, I think you said?'
'Aye, but not like any bird I know,' she replied. 'Truth is, I don't hear high sounds so well any more. Doesn't bother me, got a special bell fitted to the phone so I don't miss none of his calls. So this noise, it was more like I knew it was there than really heard it.'
She glared at him, defying him to comment on this admission of weakness.
'So you let Fop out? Did he find anything, do you think?'
'Came back in licking his chops, which is usually a sign but it could've just been a rabbit. Now I reckon if you've any more questions, you'd best ask the Master! He's in the long sitting-room.'
The Master was discovered on a chaise-longue, wearing a dressing-gown which looked as if it had been bought in a Noel Coward memorabilia sale and staring moodily into space across a demitasse of bitterly aromatic coffee.
He frowned at Pascoe and said, 'You'll take a cup?'
'No, thanks,' said Pascoe, hearing the door close behind him with an emphasis which said: He'll fetch his own cup if he does!
‘In that case, state your business,' said Halavant.
Unflustered by this brusqueness, Pascoe studied the walls.
There was a gap where the pretty lady with the hint of a wink had been.
He said, 'What happened to your ancestor, sir?'
Halavant said, 'Oh, I took it down. For cleaning.'
'Really? Not because it turned out to be a forgery?'
'What the devil do you mean?' demanded Halavant, pale, though not, it seemed to Pascoe, with indignation.
There was the distant clangour of a very loud telephone. A few moments later Mrs Bayle appeared at the door.
‘It's that Mr Wallop,' she said unceremoniously. 'What shall I tell him?'
'Tell him? Tell him? You may tell him ... to go to hell! Mr Pascoe, you haven't answered my question.'
'Nor you mine,' said Pascoe, sitting himself on the edge of a high wing-chair. 'Now which of us shall go first, do you think?'
CHAPTER III
‘I have been listening to dreadful Insanity.'
'No,' said Girlie Guillemard. 'I've no idea where Guy has gone, like I've no idea where Franny's gone. All I know is I'm up to my eyes in work, and everyone I might expect to help me goes bunking off as soon as I turn my back!'
She was clearly on the edge of her nerves, yet Wield sensed it was more than a mere organizational crisis which had brought her here. He got the impression she could have supervised the building of a pyramid without breaking sweat.
He said, 'I see your statue's back. The faun.'
'Oh, is he? Good,' she said indifferently.
'Its head's broken off, but,' he added. That got her.
'What? Shit!' she exclaimed angrily. 'Useless wanker! George, there you are. Come to help with the furniture, have you?'
Wield turned to see George Creed approaching.
'What? Oh aye, that's right,' said the farmer. "Morning, Sergeant.'
This was a very obliging farmer indeed, thought Wield, ready to drop everything in the middle of lambing to come up here to do some furniture removal.
He must also be a very strong farmer, added Wield when it became apparent that the furniture in question was the long oak refectory table in the main hallway.
'Sergeant, I wonder, could you . .. ?'
It was beyond the strength of even two of them and Girlie had to press a couple of Wallop's reluctant workmen before they could manoeuvre it through the doorway and out on to the lawn. At this point a lorry turned up laden with trestles and folding chairs from the village hall which a quartet of muscular youths started to unload and arrange over the grass. It would have made more sense, thought Wield, to have waited for this lot to appear before attempting to move the big table. He gave a hand for a while till he noticed that Creed seemed to be excused duties after his initial efforts, and Girlie too had abandoned her supervisory position to go into a close confabulation with the farmer round the side of the house. After a while, Creed nodded and turned away and headed towards the woods. Girlie returned to harangue the workmen for an alleged slackening of effort and Wield took the opportunity to slip away.
The farmer was out of sight so Wield pressed on along the gravel track he'd taken through the neglected formal garden, which merge
d without boundary into a mixed orchard whose buds the warm spring sunshine was exploding into pink and white blossom. Soon the path greened from gravel to moss and the fruit trees were replaced by beech and oak and ash in which birds piped and chattered their warning of intrusion. Then, with a suddenness that surprised him, this too was drowned in the sound of rushing water and he found himself at the edge of a steep gorge looking down at the turbulent Een.
'Can't see him,' said a voice. 'Must be down at Scarletts Pool.'
He turned to see the Squire with a pair of field glasses in his hand, resting against and blending in with a silver birch.
'What must?' asked Wield.
'Kingfisher, of course. Unbroken record since the Middle Ages. That surprises you, eh? Got him in my ballad. Like to hear?'
Wield nodded, thinking of the bright limp body in Jason Toke's hand. The Squire cleared his throat, raised his head and began to recite.
'Kingfisher wears the heavenly blue
Of Mary, Heaven's Queen,
And bears a heavenly message too
Along the banks of Een.
Though Popes may pine and kings decline Though thrones and fiefdoms fall,
While I still rule o'er rock and pool,
A Guillemard holds the Hall.'
He finished and regarded Wield complacently.
'That were grand,' said Wield.
'Fellow thinks it was grand,' said the Squire with mild surprise, looking towards second slip. Then the bright eyes returned to Wield.
'Tradition, you see. Got to go with it, even if it don't seem to make sense. You must find this in your line of business. Apply the rules even when they strike you personally as a load of bollocks, right?'
'Aye, more or less,' agreed Wield.
There you are, then. Fuctata non Perfecta. Know what it means, Sergeant? I'll tell you. Life can be a bastard. Loose translation, but very apt. Oh yes, apt indeed. Excuse me. Chap I've got to see.'
He moved away and Wield saw that it was no euphemistic excuse. George Creed had appeared some distance away and, as he watched, the Squire went to join him. The two men stood regarding each other for a moment, then they moved out of sight into the trees.
Wield was about to start back towards the house when a movement downstream caught his eye. Someone was crouching on the river bank, staring down into the water. He walked along till he was directly above and could see that it was Jason Toke. Wield started to climb down the steep bank, clinging on to bushes and rocks to stop his descent from turning into a fall. He made a lot of noise but the sound of the water must have covered it. Or else the youth, Narcissus-like, was too rapt to admit distraction.
"Morning, Jason,' said Wield.
The youth shot upright and spun round, poised for flight. Curiously, when he saw who it was, he visibly relaxed.
'What are you doing?' asked Wield. 'Looking for another kingfisher to kill?'
'Didn't kill him,' said Toke with a lack of passion which was curiously more convincing than indignation.
'No. So what are you doing?'
'Watching.'
'What?'
'Water.'
It came out as simple fact rather than studied insolence. 'Not got your gun?'
'No. Didn't want it today. Sometimes it's better without it.'
'Why's that, Jason?' asked Wield gently.
He raised those disconcerting eyes and said, 'Sometimes it's better. If you don't want to use it.'
'I see,' said Wield, hoping he didn't. 'So it's at home, is it? I'd like to take a look at where you keep it, Jason. Shall we go now?'
‘If you like,' said the boy indifferently.
Wield prepared to scramble back up the side of the gorge but when Toke set off along the bank downstream, he bowed to local knowledge and followed. Eventually they came out of the gorge and after a quarter-mile or so, the youth led him across a field into a lane which brought them behind the Morris and alongside Intake Cottage. Neither spoke till they were on the narrow path through the ravaged garden.
'Why'd you cut everything down, Jason?' asked Wield.
'Cordon sanitaire,' said Toke, pronouncing it right. 'Don't want cover right up to house.'
'Cover for what?'
'Them, when they come.'
'When who comes?'
'Makes no matter who,' said Toke, rapping a rapid five-beat pattern on the door.
Mrs Toke opened it almost immediately, acknowledged Wield's attempt at explanation with her usual myopic stare, and retired to the living-room. Toke led the way upstairs, ran his fingers lightly over the code panel on his bedroom door and pushed it open.
Wield, half expecting some kind of hi-tech armoury, was rather taken aback to find himself in what looked like any teenager's bedroom.
It was untidy, with magazines strewn over the floor and posters Blu-tacked to the walls. The most hi-tech thing in sight was a cassette deck and a pair of low-grade speakers.
A closer look was slightly more disconcerting. The magazines were all Combat and Survival journals. And the posters featured portraits of people like Mao and Che and Castro and Guzman. A student trying for radical credibility might have collected such a gallery, but Wield couldn't see Toke wanting to impress anybody.
He said, 'Heroes of yours, are they, Jason?'
'Heroes?' the boy echoed as if the word meant nothing.
'Yes. I mean, you admire what they stand for?'
'Don't know what they stand for. Just know they could all take care of themselves, live off the land, survive.'
'Survive? But not for ever, eh?'
'No one survives forever.'
This was getting philosophical.
Wield said, 'Do you think there's someone out there after you?'
'Don't you?' said Toke.
'Well, yes. Sometimes,' admitted Wield. 'But not so that I need protection.'
'Don't need what you got. You're a cop. People shout at you, you don't go away.'
'Whereas you do?'
'Farmer shouts at a fox, old bushy goes away. But he's got to come back. Got to feed, hasn't he?'
'Even if the farmer's waiting with his gun?'
Toke nodded vigorously as if pleased he'd at last got through.
'And sometimes farmer don't wait. He comes after old bushy with his horses and his dogs.'
'But that's a fox we're talking about, Jason,' said Wield gently. 'Not a human being.'
'Humans too,' said Toke with the certainty of faith. 'You watch that old telly, you see it every night. All that shooting and chasing. All them folk sitting around starving 'cos there's no one looking out for them and they don't know how to look out for themselves.'
'But this is England, Jason,' insisted Wield. 'Surely you don't need to put up all these defences here in Enscombe.'
'Yeah, Enscombe's all right, mostly. But there's people come in from outside. There's always people coming. You've got to watch out or they'll have you afore you know it.'
'Like the police, you mean? Was Constable Bendish one of the ones you had to watch out for?' asked Wield.
For a few moments the youth's face had been animated by what for him was probably a rare desire to communicate. But now the old blankness was back.
'Don't know nowt about that one,' he said.
'But he came up here to check where you keep your gun, didn't he?'
'Yeah. Said it were all right.'
'I'm sure he did. Now I'd like to see.'
Toke opened the ancient mahogany wardrobe which almost filled one wall. There weren't many clothes hanging there, which was just as well for a large part of the interior was filled with a steel gun cabinet. Toke produced a set of keys from inside his shirt and opened it. There were two shotguns inside. One was a traditional side by side 12-gauge. The other had a shorter single barrel and a slide action. Wield regarded them both with distaste. The old truism that it wasn't the guns that caused trouble but the people who used them cut little ice. Guns were like cars. There was no telling how a man would reac
t to having control of one. He felt the seductive pull of the longer, more elegant double-barrelled weapon now, though he knew the crook out for trouble would opt for the uglier slide-action gun with its superior fire power.
'Of course you've got all the necessary certification?' he said.
Toke pulled out a wallet that looked as if he'd recently shot it and extracted some creased and stained papers. They all looked in order.
Wield returned them. As Toke relocked the gun cabinet, the Sergeant stooped to take a closer look at magazines on the floor and noticed the corner of a leather-bound book protruding from under the bed. He pulled it out and examined it.
It was The Warrior: An Illustrated History. A piece of newspaper acted as a marker. He opened the book and read, At one end of the scale stands the professional soldier, prepared through conditioning and training to cope with almost any combat situation. He works in a team, accepts his superiors' orders unquestioningly, and expects the orders he gives to his subordinates to be accepted in the same manner. At the other end stands the berserker, or baresark, the individual warrior par excellence, who, finding himself pushed to the last extremity either by external forces or internal pressures, throws caution to the winds and runs amok among his enemies, heedless alike of the wounds he receives and the terrible dole he deals. It has often been the case when circumstances shift the soldier from his professional calm to the berserker state, that Victoria Crosses are won.
'That's private,' said Toke, turning from the cabinet and seeing what Wield was doing. 'Give it here.'
'Hold your horses, son,' said Wield, ‘Interesting book, this. Had it long?'
'Long enough,' he said defiantly.
'And this one?' said Wield, pulling Thorburn's Birds from under the bed. 'You had this one long enough too? Where's the other? Can't see it here.'
'What other?'
'Book of paintings, Mr Digweed said.'
Now the youth looked alarmed.
'That one's a present,' he protested with an almost touching illogicality. 'Thought she might take heed of me if I gave her that.'
Dalziel 14 Pictures of Perfection Page 20
