Authors: Reginald Hill
He woke early, not because of nervousness but because his whole body felt electric with energy. As he shaved he checked over the reasons for his confidence and found nothing wanting. He was the right man with the right record in the right place at the right time. The gods were with him. They had even made Dalziel, that normally unjust impediment, an instrument of their plan. The solving of both of CID's current murder cases at the weekend couldn't have fallen better. There had been a moment of doubt as to how Ike Ogilby would take the news of the arrest of one of his own reporters, but he needn't have worried. This had been a scoop beyond an editor's dreams, to have the killer on your own staff safe beyond reach of the inducements and insider-stories of your rivals! There had been another bad moment when Vollans had seemed set to recant his confession, claiming it had been extracted under duress, something about Sergeant Wield and a bayonet. But the cafe proprietor had identified him, Forensic had discovered spots of blood of the right group both in his car and on the tyres, and Vollans, after talking with his solicitor,
had shifted his ground and was now angling for a manslaughter deal.
His story was that he had picked up Cliff Sharman as arranged and gone for a drive with him. Sharman had tried to sell him various stories about police corruption and drug-trafficking in Yorkshire, but close questioning hadn't revealed any firm evidence, so Vollans had said there was no deal. At this point Sharman, who was clearly high on something, had grown abusive. He had demanded money, Vollans had tried to eject him from the car, they had struggled.
'I knocked him down, got in the car and started to drive away. But suddenly he was there again, trying to scramble on the bonnet. Next thing he slipped and was under the wheel. When I saw he was dead, I panicked and hid him in the ditch. In case it ever came out he was the one who'd been ringing the
Challenger
, I pretended we'd made an appointment for the following morning and he'd not turned up. It was all a pure accident, provoked by his violent and abusive behaviour.'
The version Pascoe believed in was that Sharman had had time to cool down before he met Vollans. His unwillingness to be specific plus his colour had eventually irritated Vollans to the point where he became abusive.
These nigger perverts are animals, they've no right to be treated like humans
was a phrase in his withdrawn confession. Whether he'd deliberately run over him or not was the only point at dispute. Wield was certain he had, Pascoe tended to go along with this, but Watmough was happy to settle for Vollans's version as this had at its centre the idea that Sharman had invented all his allegations about the police with a view to extracting money.
In the end, the lawyers would decide all that. Meanwhile, Vollans was safely locked up, Miss Keech was safely horizontal in a hospital bed, and though the full details of that case had not yet been released to the Press, Watmough was looking forward to taking the Committee into his confidence during the forthcoming interview. Purely by chance he had found himself the previous night sitting next to the Committee's Chairman, Councillor Mottram, at the dinner to inaugurate Eden Thackeray's Presidency of the Gents. He had not missed the chance to prime Mottram so that he could ask the right questions this morning. Yes, fate was certainly shaking the golden fruit into his lap at the moment. Mottram had told him that they'd just had word of the withdrawal of Stan Dodd from Durham, adjudged by the makers of books and by Watmough himself, to be his archrival. A heart attack. Poor Dodd. He must remember to send him a get-well card.
All he had to do now was wait. The Committee was meeting at County Hall. Interviews of the four surviving candidates would take place at hourly intervals from nine o'clock. At one, the Committee would debate its reactions over lunch. And as soon as may be thereafter they would announce their choice. Watmough's interview was the final one, at midday, the prime position. The gods had even given him the best initial.
With such complacent thoughts he drove slowly to Police Headquarters which he now viewed fondly as his own. Entering, he returned the greetings of those he encountered with a friendly (but not too friendly) wave, imagining their surprise to see him turning up for work on this most important of days, and their admiration, even envy, of his
sangfroid
and sense of duty.
But his attendance was not simply a gesture. He wanted to be right up to date with all aspects of the Force's work when he turned up at County Hall, particularly of course with the fine detail of the two murder cases. And there at the centre of his desk was a large buff envelope with his name printed on it in a hand which was unmistakably Dalziel's.
Why did the name Belshazzar suddenly flit into his mind?
He opened the envelope and withdrew its contents slowly.
First was an internal memo. He began to read it.
To: DCC
F
ROM
: Head of CID
S
UBJECT
: Sexual deviancy in Mid-Yorkshire CID.
He paused here to brush his fingers across his eyes as though to remove an impediment to his vision. Then he read on.
As per your instructions (copy of relevant memorandum attached) I have consulted with Dr Pottle of the Central Hospital Psychiatric Unit concerning possible m.o. for detecting sexual deviancy in CID officers. Enclosed is draft questionnaire for your approval.
He let the memorandum flutter from his fingers and turned to the questionnaire. It consisted of four sheets of A4 size, alternating blue and pink in colour.
The first was headed CONFIDENTIAL, addressed to ALL CID PERSONNEL and gave as its issuing authority DCC. There was a blurb.
This is a multi-choice questionnaire aimed at rounding out file information for use in assessing promotion, location and designation of personnel. Tick only one box in each section.
He let his eyes move trance-like on the pages, focusing on questions at random.
(3) As a baby were you (a) bottle fed?
(b)
breast-suckled?
(c)
don't know?
(9) Were you ever interfered with by a relative?
(a) yes
(b) no
(15) Did you ever masturbate (a) alone?
(b)
in company?
(c)
both?
(29) Which do you prefer next to the skin (a) silk?
(b)
cotton?
(c)
leather?
(d)
blue serge?
He read no further but sat for a while gazing at his Yorkshire Beauty Spots Wall Calendar. Today's date was ringed in red. This month's picture was a view of Fylingdales Moor with the Early Warning System prominent.
There was something else on the memorandum. His censorial eye had skipped it first time round, but his ill-divining soul had taken it in.
D
ISTRIBUTION
: CC ACC (1) ACC (2) Chairman and members of Police Committee (as per DCC's directive CK/NW/743 on Consultation and Information)
With an effort of will which might well have won him the job if the Committee could have seen it, he carefully replaced the questionnaire in its envelope and locked it in his desk. He found in himself a very great need for a drink and the bottle of thin sherry he kept for hospitality purposes had little appeal.
There was only one place he could get a proper drink at this time of day in safe and soothing surroundings. He left the Station with the same measured tread as he had entered it, only this time he acknowledged no greeting. It was not a long walk. Ten minutes later he was entering the door of the Gents.
'Morning, George,' he said to the steward in the vestibule. 'I'll have a large Scotch, in the smoking-room.'
'Yes, sir. Quiet day for crime, is it?' said the friendly steward.
Not quite understanding the remark, Watmough went through into the smoking-room, a haven of peace and repose, empty at this hour except for a single figure behind an outspread copy of
The Times.
Even under stress, Watmough did not ignore the courtesies expected between gentlemen members.
'Good morning,' he said.
Slowly the paper was lowered.
"Morning, Neville,' said Andy Dalziel, beaming. 'Now isn't it grand to have a place like this to escape to when things get rough down at the factory?'
Only two mourners attended Cliff Sharman's funeral, his grandmother, Miriam Hornsby, and Wield. It was a busy afternoon at the municipal cemetery - autumn was a good dying season as though ailing souls balked at the prospect of another winter - and a long back-up of corteges blackened the curving driveway to the little chapel. The officiating vicar consigned the coffin to the grave as speedily as possible and spoke his parting condolences over his shoulder.
The silent mourners hardly noticed his departure. Here there were no residual resentments to be heaped on the coffin like handfuls of earth; here would come no dramatic interruptor to mar the time's solemnity; here was only grief and the futile self-reproach of those who did not know how they might have done other.
'Nineteen years,' said Mrs Hornsby. 'It's not much.'
'No,' said Wield.
'No time to do anything. And a lot of what he did do wasn't what you'd call good, was it?'
'I suppose not.'
'I did right to let him be buried up here, didn't I, Sergeant Wield?' She sought reassurance.
'Oh yes,' said Wield.
'And they'll put his dad alongside him?'
'I'll make sure they do.'
'Yes. Well, Mr Dalziel says he'll see to it too. He's a nice man, Mr Dalziel, isn't he?'
The idea was startling enough to penetrate the carapace of self-absorbed melancholy Wield had grown around him in the past few days.
'What? Oh yes.'
'And clever with it. He worked it all out, you know. He was telling me all about it, Dicky working at that same hotel and all.'
It had indeed been a small triumph of ratiocination which Dalziel had only mentioned to all those who had the ears to hear without the legs or the rank to run away.
With Commander Sanderson's help he had pursued Miss Keech through Army Records, Richard Sharman through tax returns and Mrs Huby through London hotel registers.
Miss Keech, now in hospital, had said nothing since the night she almost shot Lexie, so all scenarios were circumstantial. But the facts were that she had been an ATS corporal in 1944 posted to Maidstone, that there'd been an American negro unit stationed close by, that she'd married Sergeant Sharman and given birth to her black baby only six months later.
'She must've worked fast when she realized she was pregnant,' theorized Dalziel. 'Caught the poor sod desperate for a bit of romance before he went overseas. Did he really believe his divorce was final? Who knows? In them days, who cared!'
So had begun the course of events which was to start gathering its final momentum three years before when Richard Sharman, arriving one morning for his job as a relief barman at the Remington Palace Hotel, had glimpsed Miss Keech getting into a taxi with Mrs Huby after breaking their journey in London on their return from Italy. He thought he recognized his mother. Checking with the hotel register would have given him the women's names plus their Troy House address.
A man of action and impulse, he had caught a train north later that same day. By the time he found out where Troy House was, it was late evening. In any case, the women would have gone to bed early after their travels. Getting into the house would pose little difficulty as the animals had to be permitted almost total freedom of movement.
And so poor Sharman had wandered into someone else's receiving fantasy, just as Pontelli three years later was to be the victim of a situation he had neither created nor comprehended. It was a sad irony that he had almost certainly gone to Troy House in search of Rod Lomas, whose presence there had been revealed to him that same afternoon by John Huby, and who was at that moment keeping a vain vigil outside the Highmore Hotel.