Authors: Reginald Hill
Wield pushed himself upright.
'What are you trying to say, lad.
See anything you fancy, big boy?
is that it?'
'Well, don't you? I'm young, I've got needs too. You've let me stay here, we seem to get on pretty well. You can't blame me if I wonder where it's all leading.'
Wield ran his fingers through his thick crinkly hair.
'Me too,' he said wearily.
He should have given him his marching orders as soon as he'd talked to Maurice. He should have put the fear of God into him, then slipped him some spending money and his ticket back to London. It wasn't a permanent solution but at least it would have bought time. Time to make decisions in his own way, under his own control, with no external pressure. It was a matter of dignity.
And then he thought:
Dignity? Crap!
It was just another excuse to do nothing, to continue in this dull limbo which he had chosen to inhabit for God knows how many years. He recalled again that first moment when he had heard Cliff's voice on the telephone, the sense of shock and of threat; had there not also been a tremor of delight at what was perhaps the first intimation of liberation?
He looked at the young body and yearned for it.
See anything you fancy?
He had parodied the gay come-on savagely but the answer was
yes, oh yes!
And why not? What would be changed if he pushed back the sheets and held out his arms.
'What's your hang-up anyway, Mac? Scared of AIDS, is it? Or are you saving yourself for the Chief Constable?'
The lad had blown it. Like an inexperienced interrogator, he had pressed hard when all that was required was silence. Wield let the detumescent anger sweep over him.
'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.