REGINALD HILL
CHILD’S PLAY
A Dalziel and Pascoe novel

Copyright

Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1987

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Reginald Hill 1987

Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780586072578

EPub Edition © July 2015 ISBN: 9780007386222

Version: 2015-06-18

For Rose and Peter

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

SECOND ACT: Voices from the Grave

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

THIRD ACT: Voices from the Gallery

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

FIRST ACT: Voices from a Far Country

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

spoken by a member of the company

A simple child, dear brother Jim,

That lightly draws its breath,

And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

Wordsworth: We are seven

Chapter 1

Death? Not much. Not then, not now. What is it? You here, I there: you stopping, I going on? Unimaginable! But I can imagine dying and the fear of it. The love of it too. I can imagine a corvette in heavy seas - a bathtub vessel in harbour, but let a gale come howling up the Tyrrhenian, then in the twinkling of a dog-star, its steel sides are changed to perilous cliffs and the dinghy far below bounces on the wild waters like a baby’s teething-ring.

I can hear what the wind sings! At home, a father’s anger and a mother’s tears; at school, nipping draughts and stumbling repetitions, dreadful doubts and tiny triumphs … the sum of the squares … Lars Porsena of Clusium … a spot on the nose … a place in the Eleven … how to mash a girl … arma virumque cano!

Now I seize the rope and feel its fibres burn my frozen palms. With what strange utterance the wind resounds against this metal cliff; arms and the man, it sings … you ‘orrible sprog! … move to the right in threes! … hands off cocks and on to socks! … squeeze it like a tit! … a pip on the shoulder … a place on a course … how to kill a man …

Italiam non sponte sequor!

And now at last the gaping O receives me and suddenly it is once more a dinghy and the wind is just a wind. Master of myself finally, and of these men who kneel around me, I give commands. Eyes gleam white as fish in sea-dark faces, paddles plunge deep, and my buoyant craft drives over the grasping waves towards the sounding but unseen, the undesired but never to be evaded Ausonian shore.

Fanciful, you say? Romantic even? Oh, but I have still darker imaginings. Time blows like mist in a wind, parting and joining, revealing and concealing, and now the wind is a wind of autumn bearing with it not the salt spume of foreign seas but the bright decay of fallen leaves and the peppery scent of heather and the dust of limestone tors.

There is noise in it too, animal noise, a breathing, a coughing, an uneasy shuffling of feet as I pass over the dew-damp grass towards the darkling house. A window stands carelessly open … reckless I enter and the wind enters with me … slowly I move across the rooms … along corridors … up stairs … uncertain, hesitant, yet driven on by a gale in the blood stronger than any fear.

I push open a bedroom door … a nightlight shines like a corpse-light … but this dimly apprehended shape is no corpse.

Who’s there? Is there someone there? What do you want?

It is time to speak into this light which shows so little.

Mother?

Who’s there? Closer! Closer! Let me see!

And now the wind is a burning wind of the desert in my veins, and it sobs and it shrieks, and the house bristles with light, and I reach for the saving darkness as the helpless, hopeless sailor embraces the drowning sea …

SECOND ACT Voices from the Grave

Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet

The unexpected death of some old lady.

Byron: Don Juan

Chapter 1

No one who attended Gwendoline Huby’s funeral would soon forget it.

Her eighty-year-old frame was lighter by far than the ornate casket that enclosed it, but the telekinetic weight of resentment from the chief mourners was enough to make the bearers stagger on their slow path to the grave.

She was buried, of course, in the Lomas plot at St Wilfrid’s in Greendale, an interesting specimen of late Norman church with some Early English additions and a pre-Norman crypt which the vicar’s wife (in a pamphlet on sale in the porch) theorized might have been the work of Wilfrid himself. Such archaeological speculation was far from the minds of the bereaved as they processed from the dark interior to the brilliant autumn sunlight which traced out the names on the tombstones of all but the most eroded and deepest lichened dead.

The surviving relatives were few. To the left of the open grave stood the two London Lomases; to the right huddled the four Old Mill Inn Hubys. Miss Keech, successively nurse, housekeeper, companion, and finally nurse once more at Troy House, essayed a crossbench neutrality at the foot of the grave, but her self-effacing tact was vitiated by the presence at her shoulder of the man generally regarded as the chief author of their woes, Mr Eden Thackeray, senior partner of Messrs Thackeray, Amberson, Mellor and Thackeray (usually known as Messrs Thackeray etcetera), Solicitors.

‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery,’ intoned the vicar.

Eden Thackeray, who had thoroughly enjoyed the greater part of his fifty-odd years, composed his face to a public sympathy with the words. Certainly if several of those present had their way, there’d be an extra dollop of misery on his plate shortly. Not that he minded. Misery to lawyers is like the bramble-bush to Brer Rabbit - a natural habitat. As the old lady’s solicitor and executor, he was confident that any attempt to challenge the will would only serve to put money in the ever-receptive coffers of Messrs Thackeray etcetera.

Nevertheless, unpleasantness at a funeral was not, how should he put it? was not pleasant. He hadn’t relished being greeted by Mr John Huby, nephew to the deceased, landlord of the Old Mill Inn and archetypal uncouth Yorkshireman, with a look of sneering accusation and the words, ‘Lawyers? I’ve shit ’em!’

It was his own fault, of course. There had been no need to reveal the terms of the will until after probate, but it had seemed a kindness to pre-empt any anticipatory extravagance on the part of John Huby by summoning little Lexie from her typewriter and explaining to her the limits of her family’s expectations. Lexie had taken it well. She had even smiled faintly when told of Gruff-of-Greendale. But all smiles had clearly stopped together when she bore the news back to the Old Mill Inn.

No! Eden Thackeray assured himself firmly. This was the last time he let a kindly impulse move him off the well-worn rails of legal procedure, not even if he saw one of his own family chained to the line ahead!

‘Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts …’

Aye, Lord, mebbe thou dost, and if so, nivver hesitate to pass them on to that silly old bat if she happens to drift in thy direction! thought John Huby savagely.

All those years of dancing attendance! All those cups of watery tea, supped with his little finger crooked and his head nodding agreement with her half-baked ideas on Lord’s Day Observance and preserving the Empire! All those Sunday afternoons spent crammed - no matter what the weather - into his blue serge suit, the arse of which always required a good hour’s brushing to remove the thick layer of cat and dog hair it picked up from every seat at Troy House! All that wasted effort!

And worse. All those debts run up in the expectation of plenty. All those foundations already dug and equipment already ordered for the restaurant and function room extensions. His heart fell flat as a slop-tray at the thought of it. Years of confident hope, months of tremulous anticipation, and barely twenty-four hours of joyous attainment before Lexie came home from that bloodsucking bastard’s office and broke the incredible news.

Oh yes, Lord! If like the vicar says, thou knowst what’s going on in my heart, then pass it on to the silly old bat pretty damn quick, and tell her if she hangs around a bit, she’ll likely catch Gruff-of-sodding-Greendale coming up the chimney at the Old Mill after her!

‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed …’

The pleasure, dear God, is entirely yours, thought Stephanie Windibanks, née Lomas, first cousin once removed of the dear departed, as she grasped a handful of earth and wondered which of those around the grave would make the best target.

That low publican, Huby? Rod’s suggestion that she should console herself with the thought that she had been dealt with no worse than that creature had only fanned her resentment. To be put on a par with such an uncouth lout! Oh Arthur, Arthur! she apostrophized her dead husband, see what a pass you’ve brought me to, you stupid bastard! At least, dear God, do not let them find out about the villa!

But what was the use of appealing to God? Why should He reward faith when He was so reluctant to reward works? For it had been hard work cultivating the Yorkshire connection all these years. Of course, it might be pointed out that she had long been aware - who better? - of Cousin Gwen’s central dottiness. Indeed, she had to admit that on occasion she had even actively encouraged it. But who would have guessed that when it pleased Almighty and entirely Unreliable God of His great mercy to take Gwen’s soul unto himself, it would also amuse him to leave her dottiness wandering loose and dangerous on the terrestrial plane?

God then her target, rather than Huby? But how to strike the intangible? She wanted a satisfyingly meaty mark. What about God’s accomplice in this, that smug bastard Thackeray? It would be nice, but long experience of the world of affairs had taught her that lawyers loomed large in the ranks of the pricks it was fruitless to kick against.

Keech, then? That downmarket Mrs Danvers, peering with myopic piety at a point a little above the vicar’s head as if hoping to see there and applaud the ascension of her benefactress’s soul …

No. Keech had done well, it was true, but only in relation to her needs. And think of the price. A lifetime of those creatures and that smell …! It required the soul of an ostler to envy Miss Keech!

This then was the worst moment of all, the moment when you realized there was no one to vent your rage on, a nothingness as insubstantial as the spirit of that silly old woman doubtless smiling smugly in her satin blancmange mould six feet below!

She hurled the earth with such force against the coffin lid that a pebble rebounded straight up the vicar’s cassock, producing a little squeal of shock and pain which translated the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection into the sure and certain hype of the Resurrection. No one was surprised. Was not this, after all, the age of the New English Prayer Book?

‘I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write …’

Dear Auntie Gwen, thought Stephanie Windibanks' son, Rod Lomas, Mummy and I have come up to Yorkshire for your funeral which has been rather Low Church for my taste and rather low company for Mummy’s. You were quite right to keep these Hubys in their place, as dear Keechie puts it. They are the product of very unimaginative casting. Father John looks too like a bad-tempered Yorkshire publican to be true, and Goodwife Ruby (Ruby Huby! no scriptwriter would dare invent that!) is the big, blonde barmaid to the last brassy gleam. Younger daughter Jane is cast in the same jelly-mould and where this superfluity of flesh comes from is easy to see when you look at the elder girl, Lexie. In shape no bigger than an agate stone on the forefinger of an alderman, I swear she could enter an ill-fitting door by the joint. With those great round glasses and that solemn little face, she looks like a barn owl perched on a pogostick!

But all this you know, dear Auntie, and much else besides. What can I, who am here, tell you, who are there? Still, I must not shirk my familial obligations, unlike some I can think of. The weather here is fine, corn-yellow sun in a cornflower sky, just right for early September. Mummy is as well as can be expected in the tragic circumstances. As for me, suffice it to say that after my brilliant but brief run as Mercutio in the Salisbury Spring Festival, I am once more resting, and I will not conceal from you that a generous helping of the chinks would not have gone astray. Well, we must live in hope, mustn’t we? Except for you, Auntie, who, if you do still exist, must now exist in certainty. Don’t be too disappointed in our disappointment, will you? And do have the grace to blush when you find what a silly ass you’ve been making of yourself all these years.

Must sign off now. Almost time for the cold ham. Take care. Sorry you’re not here. Love to Alexander. Your loving cousin a bit removed,

Rod.

‘Come ye blessed children of my Father, receive the kingdom prepared for you …’

I hope the preparation’s a bit better than yours was, Dad, thought Lexie Huby, sensitive, as she had learned to be from infancy, to the rumbles of volcanic rage emanating from her father’s rigid frame. She had giggled when Mr Thackeray had told her about Gruff-of-Greendale but she had not giggled when she broke the news to her father that night.

‘Two hundred pounds!’ he’d exploded. ‘Two hundred pounds and a stuffed dog!’

‘You did used to make a fuss of it, Dad,’ Jane had piped up. ‘Said it were one of the wonders of nature, it were so lifelike.’

‘Lifelike! I hated that bloody tyke when it were alive, and I hated it even more when it were dead. At least, living, it’d squeal when you kicked it! Gruff-of-sodding-Greendale! You’re not laking with me are you, Lexie?’

‘I’d not do that, Dad,’ she said calmly.

‘Why’d old Thackeray tell you all this and not me direct?’ he demanded suspiciously. ‘Why’d he tell a mere girl when he could’ve picked up the phone and spoken straight to me? Scared, was he?’

‘He were trying to be kind, Dad,’ said Lexie. ‘Besides, I were as entitled to hear it as you. I’m a beneficiary too.’

‘You?’ Huby’s eyes had lit with new hope. ‘What did you get, Lexie?’

‘I got fifty pounds and all her opera records,’ said Lexie. ‘Mam got a hundred pounds and her carriage clock, the brass one in the parlour, not the gold one in her bedroom. And Jane got fifty and the green damask tablecloth.’

‘The old cow! The rotten old cow! Who got it, then? Not that cousin of hers, not old Windypants and her useless son?’

‘No, Dad. She gets two hundred like you, and the silver teapot.’

‘That’s worth a damn sight more than Gruff-of-sodding-Greendale! She always were a crook, that one, like that dead husband of hers. They should’ve both been locked up! But who does get it then? Is it Keech? That scheming old hag?’

‘Miss Keech gets an allowance on condition she stays on at Troy House and looks after the animals,’ said Lexie.

‘That’s a meal ticket for life, isn’t it?’ said John Huby. ‘But hold on. If she stays on, who gets the house? I mean, it has to belong to some bugger, doesn’t it? Lexie, who’s she left it all to? Not to some bloody charity, is it? I couldn’t bear to be passed over for a bloody dogs’ home.’

‘In a sense,’ said Lexie, taking a deep breath. ‘But not directly. In the first place she’s left everything to …’

‘To who?’ thundered John Huby as she hesitated.

And Lexie recalled Eden Thackeray’s quiet, dry voice … ‘the rest residue and remainder of my estate whatsoever whether real or personal I give unto my only son Second Lieutenant Alexander Lomas Huby present address unknown …

‘She’s done what? Nay! I’ll not credit it! She’s done what? It’ll not stand up! It’s that slimy bloody lawyer that’s behind it, I’ll warrant! I’ll not sit down under this! I’ll not!’

It had been an irony unappreciated by John Huby that in the old church of St Wilfrid, what he had sat down under was a brass wall plaque reading In Loving Memory of Second Lieutenant Alexander Lomas Huby, missing in action in Italy, May 1944.

It was Sam Huby, the boy’s father, who had caused the plaque to be erected in 1947. For two years he had tolerated his wife’s refusal to believe her son was dead, but there had to be an end. For him the installation of the plaque marked it. But not for Gwendoline Huby. Her conviction of Alexander’s survival had gone underground for a decade and then re-emerged, bright-eyed and vigorous as ever, on her husband’s death. She made no secret of her belief, and over the years in the eyes of most of her family and close acquaintances, this dottiness had become as unremarkable as, say, a wart on the chin, or a stutter.

To find at last that it was this disregarded eccentricity which had robbed him of his merited inheritance was almost more than John Huby could bear.

Lexie had continued, ‘If he doesn’t claim it by April 4th in the year 2015, which would be his ninetieth birthday, that’s when it goes to charity. There’s three of them, by the way …’

But John Huby was not in the mood for charity.

‘2015?’ he groaned. ‘I’ll be ninety then too, if I’m spared, which doesn’t seem likely. I’ll fight the will! She must’ve been crazy, that’s plain as the nose on your face. All that money … How much is it, Lexie? Did Mr sodding Thackeray tell you that?’

Lexie said, ‘It’s hard to be exact, Dad, what with share prices going up and down and all that …’

‘Don’t try to blind me with science, girl. Just because I let you go and work in that bugger’s office instead of stopping at home and helping your mam in the pub doesn’t make you cleverer than the rest of us, you’d do well to remember that! So none of your airs, you don’t understand all that stuff anyway! Just give us a figure.’

‘All right, Dad,’ said Lexie Huby meekly. ‘Mr Thackeray reckons that all told it should come to the best part of a million and a half pounds.’

And for the first and perhaps the last time in her life, she had the satisfaction of reducing her father to silence.

‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ …’

Ella Keech’s gaze was not in fact focused on some beatific vision of an ascending soul, as Mrs Windibanks had theorized. Myopic she was, it was true, but her long sight was perfectly sound and she was staring over the clerical shoulder into the green shades of the churchyard beyond. Money and descendants being alike in short supply, most of the old graves were sadly neglected, though in the eyes of many, long grass and wild flowers became the lichened headstones rather more than razed turf and cellophaned wreaths could hope to. But it was no such elegiac meditation which occupied Miss Keech’s mind.

She was looking to where a pair of elderly yews met over the old lychgate forming a tunnel of almost utter blackness in the bright sun. For several minutes past she had been aware of a vague lightness in that black tunnel. And now it was moving; now it was taking shape; now it was stepping out like an actor into the glare of the footlights.

It was a man. He advanced hesitantly, awkwardly, between the gravestones. He wore a crumpled, sky-blue, lightweight suit and he carried a straw hat before him in both hands, twisting it nervously. Around his left sleeve ran a crepe mourning band.

Miss Keech found that he became less clear the closer he got. He had thick grey hair, she could see that, and its lightness formed a striking contrast with his suntanned face. He was about the same age as John Huby, she guessed.

And now it occurred to her that the resemblance did not end there.

And it also occurred to her that perhaps she was the only one present who could see this approaching man…

‘… the fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with us all evermore. Amen.’

As the respondent amens were returned (with the London Lomas party favouring a as in ‘play’ and the Old Mill Huby set preferring ah as in ‘father’) it became clear that the fellowship of the newcomer was not so ghostly as to be visible only to Miss Keech. Others were looking at him with expressions ranging from open curiosity in the face of Eden Thackeray to vacuous benevolence on the face of the vicar.

But it took John Huby to voice the general puzzlement.

‘Wha’s yon bugger?’ he asked no one in particular.

The newcomer responded instantly and amazingly.

Sinking on his knees, he seized two handfuls of earth and, hurling them dramatically into the grave, threw back his head and cried, ‘Mama!’

There were several cries of astonishment and indignation; Mrs Windibanks looked at the newcomer as if he’d whispered a vile suggestion in her ear, Miss Keech fainted slowly into the reluctant arms of Eden Thackeray, and John Huby, perhaps viewing this as a Judas kiss, cried, ‘Nah then! Nah then! What’s all this? What’s all this? Is this another one of thy fancy tricks, lawyer? Is that what it is, eh? By God, it’s time someone gave thee a lesson in how decent folks behave at a funeral!’

So saying, and full of selfless eagerness to administer this lesson, he began to advance on Eden Thackeray. The lawyer, finding himself in the Court of Last Resources, attempted to ward him off with the person of Miss Keech. Sidestepping to get at his proper prey, John Huby’s foot found space where it looked for terra firma. For a second he teetered on one leg; then with a cry in which fear was now indistinguishable from rage, he plunged headlong into the open grave.

Everyone froze, then everyone moved. Some pressed forward to offer assistance, some pressed back to summon it. Ruby Huby leapt into the grave to succour her husband and landed with both knees in his kidneys. Eden Thackeray, no longer needing Miss Keech for aegis, released her and was then constrained to grab her again as she too started the easy descent into the pit. The vicar stopped smiling comfortingly and Rod Lomas looked across the grave, caught Lexie Huby’s eye, and laughed aloud.

Gradually order was restored and the unquiet grave emptied of all but its proper inmate. It was only now that most of those present realized that at some point in the confusion the catalystic stranger had vanished. Once it was ascertained that the only permanent damage was to John Huby’s blue serge, Miss Keech, still leaning heavily on the arm of Eden Thackeray, signalled that the obsequies were back on course by announcing that a cold collation awaited those who cared to return with her to Troy House.

Walking away from the graveside, Rod Lomas found himself alongside Lexie Huby. Stooping to her ear, he murmured, ‘Nothing in Aunt Gwen’s life, or her fortune for that matter, became her like the leaving of it, wouldn’t you say?’

She looked at him in alarmed bewilderment. He smiled. She frowned and hurried on to join her sister who glanced back, caught the young man’s eye, and blushed beneath her blusher at his merry respondent wink.

Chapter 2

The façade of the Kemble was a mess. To rescue the old theatre from bingo in these hard times; to renovate, refurbish and restore it; to divert public money and extort private sponsorship to finance it; these had been acts of faith or of lunacy depending on where you stood, and the division in the local council had not been on straight party lines.

But the will had been great and the work had been done. Creamy grey stone had emerged from beneath a century of grime and Shakespeare’s numbers had triumphed over the bingo-caller’s.

But now the huge eye catching posters which advertised the Grand Opening Production of Romeo and Juliet had been ripped down, and what caught the eye now were aerosoled letters in primary colours taking stone, glass and woodwork in their obscene stride.

GO HOME NIGGER! CHUNG = DUNG! WHITE

HEAT BURNS BLACK BASTARDS!

Sergeant Wield took a last look as he left the theatre. Council workers were already at their priest-like task of ablution, but it was going to be a long job.

When he got back to the station, he went to see if his immediate superior, Detective-Inspector Peter Pascoe, was back from the hospital. Long before he reached the inspector’s door, a dull vibration of the air like thunder in the next valley suggested that Pascoe was indeed back and was being lectured, doubtless on some essential constabulary matter, by Superintendent Andrew Dalziel Head of Mid-Yorkshire CID.

‘The very man,’ said Dalziel as the sergeant entered. ‘What odds is Broomfield giving against Dan Trimble from Cornwall?’

‘Three to one. Theoretical, of course, sir,’ said Wield.

‘Of course. Here’s five theoretical quid to put on his nose, right?’

Wield accepted the money without comment. Dalziel was referring to the strictly illegal book Sergeant Broomfield had opened on the forthcoming appointment of a new Chief Constable. The shortlist had been announced and interviews would take place in a fortnight’s time.

Pascoe, slightly disapproving of this frivolity when there was serious police business toward, said, ‘How was the Kemble, Wieldy?’

‘It’ll wash off,’ said the sergeant. ‘What about the lad in hospital?’

Pascoe said, ‘That’ll take a bit longer to wash off. They fractured his skull.’

‘The two things are connected, you reckon?’ said Dalziel.

‘Well, he is black and he is a member of the Kemble Company.’

The attack in question had taken place as the young actor had made his way to his digs after an evening out drinking with some friends. He’d been found badly beaten in an alleyway at six o’clock that morning. He could remember nothing after leaving the pub.

The trouble at the Kemble had started with the controversial appointment of Eileen Chung as artistic director. Chung, a six-foot-three-inch-tall Eurasian with a talent for publicity, had gone instantly on local television to announce that under her regime, the Kemble would be an outpost of radical theatre. Alarmed, the interviewer had asked if this meant a diet of modern political plays.

‘Radical’s content, not form, honey,’ Chung said sweetly. ‘We’re going to open with Romeo and Juliet, is that old-fashioned enough for you?’

Asked, why Romeo and Juliet? she had replied, ‘It’s about the abuse of authority, the psycho-battering of children, the degradation of womanhood. Also it’s on this year’s O-level syllabus. We’ll pack the kids in, honey. They’re tomorrow’s audience and they’ll melt away unless you get a hold of them today.’

Such talk had made many of the city fathers uneasy, but it had delighted a lot of people including Ellie Pascoe who, as local membership secretary of WRAG, the Women’s Rights Action Group, had quickly got in touch with Chung. Since their first meeting, she had talked about the newcomer with such adulation that Pascoe had found himself referring to her in a reaction, which privately at least he recognized as jealous, as Big Eileen.

It was after her television appearance that trouble had started in the form of obscene phone calls and threatening letters. But the previous night’s attack and vandalization had been the first direct interpretation of these threats.

‘What did Big Eileen have to say?’ inquired Pascoe.

‘Miss Chung, you mean?’ said Wield, correctly. ‘Well, she was angry about the paint and the beating-up, naturally. But to tell the truth, what seemed to be bothering her most was getting someone to replace the lad in hospital. He had an important part, it seems, and they’re due to open next Monday, I think it is.’

‘Yes, I know. I’ve got tickets,’ said Pascoe without enthusiasm. It was Ellie who’d got the tickets and also an invitation to the backstage party to follow the opening. His objection that there was a showing of Siegel’s The Killers on the telly that night had not been sympathetically received.

‘Do we count it as one case or as two, sir?’ inquired Wield, who was a stickler for orderliness.

Pascoe frowned but Dalziel said, ‘Two. You stick with the assault, Peter, and let Wield here handle the vandals. If they tie in together, well and good, but at the moment, what’ve we got? Someone gives a lad a kicking after closing time. Happens all the time. Someone else goes daft with a spray can. Show me a wall where they haven’t! It’s like Belshazaar’s Feast down in the underpass.’

Pascoe didn’t altogether agree but knew better than to argue. In any case, Dalziel didn’t leave a space for argument. Having disposed of this policy decision, he was keen to get back to the main business of the day.

‘Who’s Broomfield making favourite, Wieldy?’ he asked.

‘Well, there’s Mr Dodd from Durham. Two to one on. Joint.’

‘Joint? Who with.’

‘Mr Watmough,’ said Wield, his craggily ugly face even more impressive than usual. It was well known that Dalziel rated Watmough, the present Deputy Chief Constable, as a life form only slightly above amoeba.

‘What? He wants his head looked at! Find out what he’ll give me against our DCC finding his way out of the interview room without a guide dog, Wieldy!’

Wield smiled, though it hardly showed. He was smiling at Dalziel’s abrasive humour, at Pascoe’s faintly pained reaction, and also just for the sheer pleasure of being part of this. Even Dalziel would only speak so abusively of a superior before subordinates he liked and trusted. With a slight shock of surprise, Wield found he was happy. It was not a state he was much used to in recent years, not in fact since he had broken up with Maurice. But here it was at last, the dangerous infection breaking through, a slight but definite case of happiness!

The phone rang. Pascoe picked it up.

‘Hello? Yes. Hang on.’

He held out the phone to the sergeant.

‘For you, they say. Someone asking for Sergeant Mac Wield?’

The note of interrogation came on the Mac. This was not a name he’d ever heard anyone call Wield by.

The sergeant showed no emotion on his rugged face but his hand gripped the receiver so tightly that the tension bunched his forearm muscles against the sleeve of his jacket.

‘Wield,’ he said.

‘Mac Wield? Hi. I’m a friend of Maurice’s. He said if ever I was in this neck of the woods and needed a helping hand, I should look you up.’

Wield said, ‘Where are you?’

‘There’s a caff by the booking office at the bus station. You can’t miss me. I’m the suntanned one.’

‘Wait there,’ said Wield and put down the receiver.

The other two were regarding him queryingly.

‘I’ve got to go out,’ said Wield.

‘Anything we should know about?’ said Dalziel.

Mebbe the end of life as I know it, thought Wield, but all he said was, ‘Could be owt or nowt,’ before turning away abruptly and leaving.

‘Mac,’ said Pascoe. ‘I never knew Wield had Scottish connections.’

‘I don’t suppose they know either. He gives nowt much away, does he?’

‘It was probably a snout and we all like to keep our snouts under wraps,’ said Pascoe defensively.

‘If I looked like Wield, I’d put my snouts on display and keep my face under wraps,’ growled Dalziel.

Thank you, Rupert Brooke, thought Pascoe, regarding the superintendent’s huge balding head which his wife had once likened to a dropsical turnip.

But he was careful to sneeze the thought into his handkerchief, being much less sure than Sergeant Wield of his ability to shut his mind against Dalziel’s gaze, which could root up insubordination like a pig snuffling out truffles.

Wield’s capacity for concealment was far greater than anything Pascoe ever suspected.

Mac, the voice had said. Perhaps it had served him right for relaxing his guard and letting happiness steal in like that, but such instant retribution left the courts for dead! That a voice would one day call to change his life as he had chosen to live it had always been possible, indeed likely. That it should sound so young and speak so simply he had not anticipated.

I’m a friend of Maurice’s. That had been unnecessary. Only Maurice Eaton had ever called him Mac, their private name, short for Macumazahn, the native name of Allan Quatermain, the stocky, ill-favoured hero of the Rider Haggard novels Wield loved. It meant he-who-sleeps-with-one-eye-open and Wield could remember the occasion of his christening as clearly as if … He snapped his mind hard on the nostalgia. What had existed between him and Maurice was dead, should be forgotten. This voice from the grave brought no hope of resurrection, but trouble as sure as a War Office telegram.

When he reached the café, he had no problem in picking out the caller. Blue-streaked hair, leg-hugging green velvet slacks and a tight blue T-shirt with a pair of fluorescent lips pouting across the chest, were in this day and age not out of the ordinary even in Yorkshire. But he’d called himself the suntanned one, and though his smooth olive skin came from mixed blood rather than a Mediterranean beach, the youth would have been impossible to miss even if he hadn’t clearly recognized Wield and smiled at him welcomingly.

Wield ignored him and went to the self-service bar.

‘Keeping you busy, Charley?’ he said.

The man behind the counter answered, ‘It’s the quality of the tea, Mr Wield. They come here in buses to try it. Fancy a cup?’

‘No, thanks. I want a word with that lad in the corner. Can I use the office?’

‘Him that looks like a delphinium? Be my guest. Here’s the key. I’ll send him through.’

Charley, a cheerful chubby fifty-year-old, had performed this service many times for both Wield and Pascoe when the café had been too full for a satisfactory tête-à-tête with an informant. Wield went through a door marked TOILETS, ignored the forked radish logo to his left and the twin-stemmed Christmas tree to his right, and unlocked the door marked Private straight ahead. It was also possible to get into this room from behind the bar, but that would draw too much attention.

Wield sat down on a kitchen chair behind a narrow desk whose age could be read in the tea-rings on its surface. The only window was narrow, high and barred, admitting scarcely more light than limned the edges of things, but he ignored the desk lamp.

A few moments later the door opened to reveal the youth standing uncertainly on the threshold.

‘Come in and shut it,’ said Wield. ‘Then lock it. The key’s in the hole.’

‘Hey, what is this?’

‘Up here we call it a room,’ said Wield. ‘Get a move on!’

The youth obeyed and then advanced towards the desk.

Wield said, ‘Right. Quick as you like, son. I’ve not got all day.’

‘Quick as I like? What do you mean? You don’t mean …? No, I can see you don’t mean …’

His accent was what Wield thought of as Cockney with aitches. His age was anything between sixteen and twenty-two. Wield said, ‘It was you who rang?’

‘Yes, that’s right …’

‘Then you’ve got something to tell me.’

‘No. Not exactly …’

‘No? Listen, son, people who ring me at the station, and don’t give names, and arrange to meet me in dumps like this, they’d better have something to tell me, and it had better be good! So let’s be having it!’

Wield hadn’t planned to play it this way, but it had all seemed to develop naturally from the site and the situation. And after years of a carefully disciplined and structured life, he sensed that what lay ahead was a new era of playing things by ear. Unless, of course, this boy could simply be frightened away.

‘Look, you’ve got it all wrong, or maybe you’re pretending to get it wrong … Like I said, I’m a friend of Maurice’s …’

‘Maurice who? I don’t know any Maurices.’

‘Maurice Eaton!’

‘Eaton? Like the school? Who’s he when he’s at home?’

And now the youth was stung to anger.

Leaning with both hands on the desk, he yelled, ‘Maurice Eaton, that’s who he is! You used to fuck each other, so don’t give me this crap! I’ve seen the photos, I’ve seen the letters. Are you listening to me, Macumazahn? I’m a friend of Maurice Eaton’s and like any friend of a friend might, I thought I’d look you up. But if it’s shit-on-auld-acquaintance time, I’ll just grab my bag and move on out. All right?’

Wield sat quite still. Beneath the unreadable roughness of his face, a conflict of impulses raged.

Self-interest told him the best thing might be to spell out what a misery the boy’s life was likely to be if he hung around in mid-Yorkshire, and then escort him gently to the next long-distance coach in any direction and see him off. Against this tugged guilt and self-disgust. Here he was, this youth, a friend of the only man that Wield had ever thought of as his own friend, in the fullest, most open as well as the deepest, most personal sense of the word, and how was he treating him? With suspicion, and hate, using his professional authority to support a personal - and squalid - impulse.

And also, somewhere down there was another feeling, concerned with both pride and survival - an apprehension that sending this boy away was no real solution to his long-term dilemma, and in any case, if the youth meant trouble, he could as easily stir it up from the next phone box on the A1 as from here.

‘What’s your name, lad?’ said Wield.

‘Cliff,’ said the young man sullenly, ‘Cliff Sharman.’

Wield switched on the table lamp and the corners of the room sprang into view. None was a pretty sight, but in one of them stood an old folding chair.

‘All right, Cliff,’ said Wield. ‘Why don’t you pull up that chair and let’s sit down together for a few minutes and have a bit of a chat, shall we?’

Chapter 3

As soon as Pascoe walked through the door, his daughter began to cry.

‘You’re late,’ said Ellie.

‘Yes, I know. I’m a detective. They teach us to spot things like that.’

‘And that’s Rosie crying.’

‘Is it? I thought maybe we’d bought a wolf.’

He took off his jacket, draped it over the banisters and ran lightly up the stairs.

The little girl stopped crying as soon as he entered her room. This was a game she’d started playing only recently. That it was a game was beyond doubt; Ellie had observed her deep in sleep till her father’s key turned in the lock, and then immediately she let out her summoning wail and would not be silent till he came and spoke to her. What he said didn’t matter.

Tonight he said, ‘Hi, kid. Remember last week I was telling you I should be hearing about my promotion soon? Well, the bad news is, I still haven’t, so if you’ve been building up any hopes of getting a new pushchair or going to Acapulco this Christmas, forget it. Want some advice, kid? If you feel like whizzing, don’t start unless you can keep it up. Nobody loves a whizzkid that’s stopped whizzing! Did I hear you ask me why I’ve stopped? Well, I’ve narrowed it down to three possibilities. One: they all think I’m Fat Andy’s boy and everyone hates Fat Andy. Two: your mum keeps chaining herself to nuclear missile sites and also she’s Membership Secretary of WRAG. So what? you say. WRAG is non-aligned politically, you’ve read the hand-outs. But what does Fat Andy say? He says WRAG’s middle-of-the-road like an Italian motorist. All left-hand drive and bloody dangerous! Three? No, I’ve not forgotten three. Three is, maybe I’m just not good enough, what about that? Maybe inspector’s my limit. What’s that you said? Bollocks? You mean it? Gee, thanks, kid. I always feel better after talking to you!’

Gently he laid the once more sleeping child back on her bed and pulled the blanket up over her tiny body.

Downstairs he went first into the kitchen and poured two large Scotch-on-the-rocks. Then he went through into the living-room.

In his brief absence his wife had lost her clothes and gained a newspaper.

‘Have you seen this?’ she demanded.

‘Often,’ said Pascoe gravely. ‘But I have no objection to seeing it again.’

‘This,’ she said, brandishing the Mid-Yorks Evening Post.

‘I’ve certainly seen one very like it,’ he said. ‘It was in my jacket pocket, but it can hardly be the same one, can it? I mean your well known views on the invasion of privacy would hardly permit you to go through your husband’s pockets, would they?’

‘It was sticking out.’

‘That’s all right, then. You’re equally well known for your support of a wife’s right to grab anything that’s sticking out. What am I looking at? This Kemble business. Well, the chap who got kicked is going to be all right, but he can’t remember a thing. And Wield’s looking into the graffiti. Now why don’t you put the paper down …’

‘No, it wasn’t the Kemble story I wanted you to look at. It was this.’

Her finger stabbed an item headed Unusual Will.

Published today, the will of the late Mrs Gwendoline Huby of Troy House, Greendale, makes interesting reading. The bulk of her estate whose estimated value is in excess of one million pounds is left to her only son, Alexander Lomas Huby, who was reported missing on active service in Italy in 1944. Lieutenant Huby’s death was assumed though his body was never found. In the event that he does not appear to claim his inheritance by his ninetieth birthday in the year 2015, the estate will be divided equally between the People’s Animal Welfare Society, the Combined Operations Dependants’ Relief Organization, both registered charities in which Mrs Huby had a long interest, and Women For Empire, a social-political group which she had supported for many years.

‘Very interesting,’ said Pascoe. ‘Sad too. Poor old woman.’

‘Stupid old woman!’ exclaimed Ellie.

‘That’s a bit hard. OK, she must have been a bit dotty, but …’

‘But nothing! Don’t you see? A third of her estate to Women For Empire! More than a third of a million pounds!’

‘Who,’ wondered Pascoe, sipping one of the Scotches, ‘are Women For Empire?’

‘My God. No wonder they’re dragging their feet about promoting you to Chief Inspector! Fascists! Red, white and blue, and cheap black labour!’

‘I see,’ said Pascoe feeling the crack about his promotion was a little under the belt. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever heard of them.’

‘So what? You’d never heard of Bangkok massage till you married me.’

‘That’s true. But I’d still like to know which of my worldwide sources of intelligence I can blame for my ignorance. Where did you hear about them?’

Ellie blushed gently. It was a phenomenon observed by few people as the change of colour was not so much in her face as in the hollow of her throat, the rosy flush seeping down towards the deep cleft of her breasts. Pascoe claimed that here was the quintessence of female guilt, i.e. evidence of guilt masquerading as a mark of modesty.

‘Where?’ he pressed.

‘On the list,’ she muttered.

‘List?’

‘Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘There’s a list of ultra-right-wing groups we ought to keep an eye open for. We got a copy at WRAG.’

‘A list!’ said Pascoe taking another drink. ‘You mean, like the RC’s Index? Forbidden reading for the faithful? Or is it more like the Coal Board’s famous hit list? These organizations are the pits and ought to be closed down?’

‘Peter, if you don’t stop trying to be funny, I’ll get dressed again. And incidentally, why are you drinking from both those glasses?’

‘Sorry,’ said Pascoe handing over the fuller of the two. ‘Incidentally in return, how come at nine-thirty in the evening you’re wearing nothing but the Evening Post anyway?’

‘Every night for what seems weeks now you’ve been staggering in late. Rosie instantly sets up that awful howl and you stagger upstairs to talk to her. I dread to think what long term effect these little monologues are having on the child!’

‘She doesn’t complain.’

‘No. It’s the only way she can get your attention for a little while. That’s what all this is about. The next stage is for you to stagger back downstairs, have a couple of drinks, eat your supper and then fall asleep beyond recall by anything less penetrative than Fat Andy’s voice. Well, tonight I’m getting in my howl first!’

Pascoe looked at her thoughtfully, finished his drink and leaned back on the sofa.

‘Howl away,’ he invited.

The Unusual Will item had caught other eyes that day too.

The Mid-Yorks Evening Post was one of several northern local papers in the Challenger group. The Challenger itself was a Sunday tabloid, published in Leeds with a mainly northern circulation though in recent years under the dynamic editorship of Ike Ogilby it had made some inroads into the Midlands. Nor did Ogilby’s ambitions end at Birmingham. In the next five years he aimed either to expand the Challenger into a full-blown national or use it as his personal springboard to an established editorial chair in Fleet Street, he didn’t much care which.

The other editors within the group were requested to bring to Ogilby’s notice any local item which might interest the Challenger. In addition Ogilby, who trusted his fellow journalists to share a story like the chimpanzee trusts its fellow chimps to share a banana, encouraged his own staff to scan the evening columns.

Henry Vollans, a young man who had recently joined the staff from a West Country weekly, spotted the piece about the Huby will at half past five. Boldly he took it straight to Ogilby who was preparing to go home. The older man, who admired cheek and recognized ambition to match his own, said dubiously, ‘Might be worth a go. What were you thinking of? Sob piece? Poor old mam, lost child, that sort of thing?’

‘Maybe,’ said Vollans who was slim, blond and tried not unsuccessfully to look like Robert Redford in All the President’s Men. ‘But this lot, Women For Empire, that rang a bell. There was a letter in the correspondence column a couple of weeks back when I was sorting them out. From a Mrs Laetitia Falkingham. I checked back and it had the heading. She lives at Ilkley and calls herself the founder and perpetual president of Women For Empire. The letter was about that bother in Bradford schools. She seemed to think it could be solved by sending all the white kids to Eton and educating the blacks under the trees in the public parks. I checked through the files. Seems she’s been writing to the paper off and on for years. We’ve published quite a few.’

‘Yes, of course. Rings a bell now,’ said Ogilby. ‘Sounds nicely batty, doesn’t she? OK. Check it out to see if there’s anything there for us. But I suspect the doting mum/lost kid angle will be the best. This racial vandal stuff at the Kemble theatre looks more interesting.’

‘Could be if there’s some bother on the opening night,’ said Vollans. ‘Shall I go? I could do a review anyway.’

‘Theatre correspondent too,’ mocked Ogilby, admiring the young man’s pushiness. ‘Why not? But talk to me again before you do anything on Mrs Falkingham. We’re treading very warily about Bradford.’

Bradford’s large and growing Asian community had highlighted by reversal the problems of mixed race schooling. It was the usual question of how best to cater for the classroom needs of a minority, only in this case the minority was frequently white. The Challenger’s natural bent was conservative, but Ogilby wasn’t about to alienate thousands of potential readers right on his doorstep.

‘OK, Henry,’ said Ogilby dismissively. ‘Well spotted.’

Vollans left, so pleased with himself that he forgot his Robert Redford walk for several paces.

Nor did interest in the will end there.

A few hours later the telephone was answered in a flat in north Leeds, quite close to the University. The conversation was short and guarded.

‘Yes?’

‘Something in the Mid-Yorks Evening Post that might interest. Women For Empire, that daft Falkingham woman’s little tea-circle out at Ilkley, could be in for a windfall.’

‘I know.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes. You’re way behind, as usual. All that’s long taken care of.’

‘Oh. Sorry I spoke.’

‘No, you were right. You’re in a call-box?’

‘Natch!’

‘Good. But don’t make a habit of calling. ’Bye.’

‘And up yours too,’ said the caller disgruntledly into the dead phone. ‘Condescending cunt!’

Not far away in the living-room of his small suburban flat, Sergeant Wield too reclined on a sofa but he was wide awake, the Evening Post with its news of wills and vandals lay unopened on the hall floor, and the ice cubes in his untouched Scotch had long since diluted the rich amber to a pale straw.

He was thinking about Maurice Eaton. And he was marvelling that he had managed to think so little about him for so long. Lovers beneath the singing sky of May, they had even wandered once close to the decision, momentous in that time and at that place and in those circumstances, of openly setting up house together. Then Maurice, a Post Office executive, had been transferred north to Newcastle.

It had seemed a God-sent compromise solution at the time - close enough for regular meetings but far enough to reduce the decision on setting up house to a problem of geography.

But even small distances work large disenchantments. Wield had once been proud of his fierce fidelity but now he saw it as a form of naïve self-centredness. He recalled with amazement and shame his near-hysterical outburst of jealous rage when Maurice had finally admitted he was seeing somebody else. For thirty minutes he had been the creature of the emotions he had controlled for as many years. And he had never seen Maurice again since that day.

The only person who ever got a hint of what he had gone through was Mary, his sister. They had never spoken openly of Wield’s sexuality, but a bond of loving understanding existed between them. Two years after the break with Maurice, she had left Yorkshire too when her husband was made redundant and decided that Canada held more hope for his family than this British wasteland.

So now Wield was alone. And had remained alone, despite all temptation, treating the core of his physical and emotional being as if it were some physiological disability, like alcoholism, requiring total abstinence for control.

There had been small crises. But from the first second he had heard Sharman’s voice on the phone, he had felt certain that this was the start of the last battle.

He went over their conversation again, as he might have gone over an interrogation transcript in the station.

‘Where’d you meet Maurice?’ he’d asked.

‘In London.’

‘London?’

‘Yeah. He moved down from the North a couple of years back, didn’t you know that?’

It was a redundant question, the boy knew the answer. Wield said, ‘New job? Is he still with the Post Office?’

‘British Telecom now. Onward and upward, that’s Mo.’

‘And he’s … well?’

Perhaps he shouldn’t have let the personal query, however muted, slip out. The boy had smiled as he replied, ‘He’s fine. Better than ever before, that’s what he says. It’s different down there, see. Up North, it may be the ’eighties in the calendar, but there’s still a ghetto mentality, know what I mean? I’m just quoting Mo, of course. Me, this is the first time I’ve got further north than Wembley!’

‘Oh aye? Why’s that?’

‘Why’s what?’

‘Why’ve you decided to explore, lad? Looking for Solomon’s mines, is it?’

‘Sorry? Coal mines, you mean?’

‘Forget it,’ said Wield. ‘Just tell us why you’ve come.’

The boy hesitated. Wield read this as a decision-making pause, choosing perhaps between soft-sell and hard-sell, between freeloading and blackmail.

‘Just fancied a change of scene,’ said Sharman at last. ‘Mo and me decided to have a bit of a hol from each other …’

‘You were living together?’

‘Yeah, natch.’ The youth grinned knowingly. ‘You two never managed that, did you? Always scared of the neighbours, Mo said. That’s why he likes it down there. No one gives a fuck who’s giving a fuck!’

‘So you decided to take a trip to Yorkshire and see me?’ said Wield.

‘No! I just set off hitching and today I got dumped here and the name of the place rang a bell and I said, hello, why not get in touch with Mo’s old mate and say hello? That’s all.’

He didn’t sound very convincing, but even if he had, Wield was not in a convincible mood. Hitchhikers didn’t get dropped at bus stations.

He said, ‘So Maurice told you all about me?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Sharman confidently. ‘He was showing me some old photos in bed one night and I said, Who’s that? and he told me all about you and the thing you had together and having to keep it quiet because you were a cop and all that!’

The real pain came at that moment, the pain of betrayal, sharp and burning still as on that first occasion, an old wound ripping wide.

‘It’s always nice to hear from old friends,’ said Wield softly. ‘How long are you planning on staying, Cliff?’

‘Don’t know,’ said the boy, clearly puzzled by this gentle response. ‘Might as well take a look round now I’m here, see the natives sort of thing. I’ll need to find somewhere to kip, not too pricey though. Any suggestions?’

The first squeeze? Well, he had to sleep somewhere and it made sense to keep a close eye on him till the situation got clearer. Wield examined this conclusion for self-deceiving edges, but quickly gave up. You didn’t devote your life to deceiving others without becoming expert at deceiving yourself.

‘You can sleep on my couch tonight,’ he had said.

‘Can I? Thanks a million,’ said the boy with a smile which hovered between gratitude and triumph. ‘I promise I’ll curl up so small that you’ll hardly know I’m there at all.’

But he was there, in the bathroom, splashing and singing like a careless child. Wield was acutely aware of his presence. His existence had been monastic for a long time. There had been another dark-skinned boy, a police cadet, who had ambushed his affections against his will, but nothing had come of it, and the cadet had been posted away. Sharman reminded him of that boy and he knew that, if anything, the danger was even greater now than then. But the danger to what? His way of life? What kind of life was it that a simple surge of desire put at risk?

The youth’s bag was lying on the floor. More to distract himself than anything else, Wield leaned forward, unzipped it and began to examine the contents. There wasn’t much. Some clothes, shoes, a couple of paperbacks and a wallet.

He opened the wallet. It contained about sixty or seventy pounds in fivers. In the other pocket were two pieces of paper. One had some names and telephone numbers scribbled on it. One name leapt out of the page. Mo. He made a note of the number and turned his attention to the other piece of paper. This was a timetable for coaches from London to the North. A departure time was underlined and the arrival time in Yorkshire. The latter was about ten minutes before Sharman’s call to the Station. The little bastard hadn’t hung about. So much for his talk of arriving here by chance!

He heard the water running from the bath. Quickly he returned everything to the bag. He had no doubt that Sharman would emerge all provocatively naked and he rehearsed his own coldly scornful response as he demanded explanations.

The door opened. The boy came into the room, his hair spiky from washing, his slim brown body enveloped in Wield’s old towelling robe.

‘God, I enjoyed that,’ he said. ‘Any chance of some cocoa and a choc biscuit?’

He sat on the sofa, curling his feet up beneath him. He looked little more than fourteen and as relaxed and uncalculating as a tired puppy.

Wield tried not to admit to himself he was postponing a confrontation but he knew that it was already postponed. By his old standards this was a mistake. But he had felt all the old parameters of duty and action begin to thaw and resolve the moment Pascoe had said there was a call for Mac Wield.

One word, one phone call. How could something so simple be allowed to change a whole life?

He stood and went to put the kettle on.

Chapter 4

‘Lexie! Lexie Huby! Hi. It’s your cousin, Rod. Remember me?’

‘Oh. Hello,’ said Lexie.

She wished that Messrs Thackeray etcetera would invest in some lightweight phones. These cumbersome old bakelite things were not made for small hands, nor for heads whose ears and mouth were not a foot apart.

‘Hello to you too,’ said the voice.

‘What do you want?’

‘Well, I’m up here again, didn’t expect to be so soon after the funeral, but sometimes things work out that way, don’t they? I’ll tell you all about it when we meet.’

‘Meet?’

‘Yes. We didn’t have much chance to talk after the funeral and I thought, wouldn’t it be nice to have lunch and a tête-à-tête with my little cousin Lexie.’

‘What do you want to talk about?’

‘Well, old times, the sort of thing cousins do talk about,’ said Lomas, sounding a little hurt.

What old times? wondered Lexie. Their blood relationship was so tenuous as to make the title cousin an unwanted courtesy. As for old times, they’d only met on those rare occasions when Mrs Windibanks’s hopeful forays north coincided with the Old Mill Inn Hubys’ monthly tea visit. Mrs Windibanks had always treated them like the lady of the manor acknowledging the peasants, and Rod ignored the two girls altogether. Prior to the funeral, the last time they’d met had been at Aunt Gwen’s sick bed some three years earlier. The old lady had suffered her first stroke shortly after returning from a trip abroad. Arthur Windibanks had died in a car accident only a fortnight later leaving his widow in dire financial straits, according to rumour.

‘Old Windypants was hoping to mend her fortunes with the old girl’s death!’ John Huby had chortled. ‘You should’ve seen her face when the doctor said she were on the mend!’

Rod Lomas, fresh out of drama school, had been as offhand as ever towards his young ‘cousins’, but some allowance had to be made for his black tie. Three years later he seemed ready to make amends and Jane, very susceptible to masculine charm, now reckoned he was lovely.

Lexie was not so easily won over, however.

‘Hello. You still there?’ inquired the voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Look. Do come and have lunch with me. To be honest, I don’t really know another soul in town and you’d be doing me a real favour.’

Three years in a solicitor’s office had taught Lexie to distrust openness above all things. But she was curious now and also she could hear her employer’s footsteps on the creaky stairs.

‘I only get an hour,’ she said.

‘Monstrous! They give them longer on the Gulag! So, a bar snack then, rather than a trifling foolish banquet. There’s a pub on the corner of Dextergate, the Black Bull, can’t be very far from you. Half an hour’s time, twelve-thirty?’

‘All right,’ she said and replaced the receiver as the door opened and Eden Thackeray appeared.

‘I don’t know why we have courts, Lexie,’ he said. ‘I could write out the verdicts if you just gave me a list of the magistrates. Have you been kept busy?’

Lexie followed him into his office. It was just what Hollywood required an English solicitor’s chambers to be, all oak-dark panelling and wine-dark upholstery, while behind tall cabinets of lozenged glass marched rank upon leathered rank of the army of unalterable law.

‘A few phone calls, Mr Eden,’ she said. ‘I’ve made a note. One was from a Mr Goodenough who said he was the General Secretary of the People’s Animal Welfare Society. He wanted to see you about Aunt Gwen’s will. He’s travelling up from London tomorrow afternoon, so I made an appointment for him to see you on Friday morning. I hope that’s all right.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And there was another one to do with Aunt Gwen’s will. A Miss Brodsworth. She said she was something to do with Women For Empire and wondered if there’d been any developments.’

‘My God. Some people! Vultures. But Lexie, what must you think? I hope this hasn’t upset you. I’d quite forgotten you might find yourself dealing with dear Mrs Huby’s affairs when I asked you to step in for Miss Dickinson.’

Miss Dickinson, Thackeray’s regular secretary, had been rushed off to hospital with appendicitis and to the surprise of most and the chagrin of a few, Lexie had been elevated from copy-typing in the Inquiries office to this most prestigious of jobs in the firm of Messrs Thackeray etcetera.

‘No, it didn’t upset me,’ Lexie said in her small voice. ‘Only I couldn’t really help Miss Brodsworth as I didn’t know what was happening.’

‘No. Of course. Most remiss of me. Sit down and let me fill you in.’

The girl perched herself on the secretarial chair, built for and hollowed by much heavier hocks than hers.

‘Yes, the thing is, and you must have realized it, that though the world at large, and her family in particular, has lost your dear aunt, or great-aunt I ought to say, as far as the firm of Messrs Thackeray etcetera is concerned, she is still very much in existence. In law, a client is defined by his or her affairs and our duty now is to the estate which is likely to be almost as demanding as Mrs Huby in propria persona, so to speak.’

Thackeray enjoyed playing the stage solicitor. It was some compensation for having to put up with this gloomy mausoleum when privately he longed for strip-lights and computer terminals. But he could think of half a dozen very rich clients (Mrs Huby had been among them) who would probably flee indignantly in the face of such desecration.

‘So, let me see. Where’s the file? Ah, here it is. Naturally I wrote and informed the putative legatees of the terms of Mrs Huby’s will. You might care to examine their replies for yourself. First, the People’s Animal Welfare Society.’

He handed the girl a sheet of good quality white paper headed by a logo of the initials PAWS formed into an animal footprint and an address in Mabledon Place, London WC1. The letter was word-processed.

Dear Mr Thackeray,

I am writing to acknowledge receipt of your letter in reference to the estate of the late Mrs Gwendoline Huby. I shall be in touch again after consulting the Society’s legal advisers.

Yours sincerely

Andrew Goodenough (General Secretary)

‘Next CODRO, which is to say the Combined Operations Dependants’ Relief Organization.’

This was rather amateurly typed on pale blue paper heavily embossed with an address in Bournemouth.

My dear Mr Thackeray,

Thank you for the news of Mrs Huby’s most generous bequest. I gather from what you say that it is most unlikely that Mrs Huby’s son will be able to claim his inheritance but, alas, this will not help us all that much, as, by the very nature of things, the number of those who can claim relief from our Organization will have dwindled almost to non-existence by the year 2015. If, however, it were possible to effect an advance at the present time, however small, it could be put to very good use indeed.

I await your reply hopefully,

Yours sincerely,

(Lady) Paula Webb (Hon. Treasurer)

‘Finally Women For Empire,’ said Thackeray.

This was handwritten in spindly writing, strong at first but failing towards the end, on pink writing paper with the address in Gothic script, Maldive Cottage, Ilkley, Yorkshire. Across the head of the sheet a rubber stamp had printed in purple ink Women For Empire.

Dear Sir,

I was much distressed to hear of Mrs Huby’s death. She was an old and valued member of Women For Empire and I was touched that she should have remembered us in her will. I myself am not in the best of health. Happily I am fortunate enough to have a young and vigorous assistant in the onerous task of running the affairs of Women For Empire. She is Miss Sarah Brodsworth, who has been vested with full authority in this and all other WFE matters. I will pass your letter on to her and doubtless she will get in direct contact with you.

God save the Queen.

Sincerely yours,

Laetitia Falkingham (Founder and Perpetual President WFE)

‘Well, Lexie,’ said Thackeray when she finished the last letter. ‘What do you think? You have the advantage of having spoken to two of the people concerned. What did you make of them, by the way?’

‘Mr Goodenough was Scottish and sounded, well, sort of down-to-earth, businesslike.’

‘And Miss Sarah Brodsworth?’

She hesitated, then said, ‘Well, she was businesslike too. Youngish but hard, sort of aggressive, but it was just a voice and some people on the telephone …’

‘No. I fear you may have heard all too accurately, Lexie,’ said Thackeray. ‘Silly old women and their unpleasant little organizations can attract some very dubious people when there’s money involved. Well, that’s the way the world wags, I’m afraid. Question is, what do you think will happen next?’

Lexie said, ‘I don’t rightly know, Mr Eden.’

‘Come now! I have a better opinion of your intelligence. Why do you think I asked you to take Miss Dickinson’s place?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she said ingenuously. ‘To tell the truth, when you sent for me, I half thought, what with Great Aunt Gwen dying …’

She let the sentence fade and Thackeray burst out indignantly, ‘My God, you didn’t imagine I was going to sack you, did you?’

‘Well, I thought, maybe, as I only got the job because of Aunt Gwen in the first place …’

A phenomenon often observed by Thackeray in his clients was the greater the guilt, the greater the indignation. It was a reaction he understood now, for there was no denying that without her great-aunt’s influence, Lexie Huby would never have done for Messrs Thackeray etcetera. Not that she lacked qualifications, but she was awkward of manner, careless of appearance, spoke what few words she managed to get out with a strong Yorkshire accent, and looked like a twelve-year-old. But when old ladies of great wealth pronounce, old lawyers of good sense take heed, and Lexie had been taken on and hidden away in the nethermost reaches among the storage cabinets and deed boxes so that she would not besmirch the Messrs Thackeray etcetera image.

That had been three years ago. Only a month after she joined the firm, old Mrs Huby had had her first stroke. Had it proved fatal, there was little doubt in Thackeray’s mind that after a decent interval, little Lexie might well have been urged to seek a job more suited to her taste and talents.

But the three years that passed had seen a change, not so much in the girl herself who seemed almost indistinguishable from the odd little creature who had first arrived, but in Thackeray’s conception of her. Observation and report had slowly convinced him there was genuine intelligence here. Checking back, he had seen that her school references all said she could have stayed on after O-levels, but family pressure had been brought to bear. That awful man Huby! Thackeray shuddered every time he thought of him. It was partly as an anti-Huby gesture, partly because he liked to toss the occasional cat among the complacent office pigeons, but mainly on the basis of true desert that he had elevated this little sparrow to Miss Dickinson’s perch.

‘Lexie, I won’t deny your aunt’s influence helped you get the job, but it’s your own abilities that will keep you in it,’ he said rather tartly. ‘Now, what do you think of these letters?’

‘Well, they’d all like the money sooner rather than later, but from the sound of the letter and from him coming all this way to see you, this Mr Goodenough at PAWS is the one who’ll do something about it.’

‘Excellent. Yes, even before he telephoned, I guessed that Mr Andrew Goodenough was going to be the focus of action.’

‘You don’t seem bothered, Mr Eden,’ said Lexie in a puzzled voice.

‘Bothered! I’m delighted, Lexie. Merely administering the estate until 2015 would be very dull. Not unprofitable, of course, but dull. But if we have to act on behalf of the estate against an attempt to overturn the will, that could be both lively and extremely profitable. Instant money too, always welcome. So, bring on the lawsuits I say!’

He sat back, pleased at being able to show this naïve young thing what a sharp and worldly fellow he really was.

The naïve young thing, far from looking impressed, was glancing at her watch.

‘Am I keeping you from something, Lexie?’ he said sharply.

‘Oh no. I mean, I’m sorry, Mr Eden, it’s just that I’ve got an appointment in my lunch hour and it’s nearly half past twelve …’

She looked so distressed, his sternness dissolved instantly.

‘Then you must run along,’ he said.

She left, darting from the room with the swiftness of a wren. An appointment? Hairdresser perhaps, though that close crop of indeterminately brown straight hair didn’t look as if it owed much to the coiffeur’s art. Dentist, then. Or boyfriend? Alas, least likely of all, he suspected. Poor little Lexie. He could see her growing old in the service of Messrs Thackeray etcetera. He must do what he could for her. Getting her out of the Old Mill Inn and away from the influence of that awful father of hers would be the first step. But how to manage it?

He sat quietly, applying his mind to the task. It was a good mind and it enjoyed the business of manipulating other people’s destinies.

He heard the building emptying. His nephew and junior partner, Dunstan Thackeray, stuck his head round the door.

‘Coming to the Gents, Uncle Eden?’ he asked.

This was not the odd inquiry it sounded. The Gents was the familiar abbreviation of The Borough Club For Professional Gentlemen, the prestigious Victorian institution which had had a Thackeray on its founding committee and of which Eden was the president-elect. As a liberal modernist, he deplored and detested it. As a senior partner in Messrs Thackeray etcetera he had to keep his mouth shut. But he was not in the mood for the usual Gents diet, conversational as well as culinary, of traditional stodge.

‘Later. I may be in later,’ he said.

He heard his nephew’s feet descend the stairs. Then all was silence. He fell into a reverie which a casual observer might have mistaken for a doze.

When he opened his eyes, it took him a few seconds to realize there actually was a casual observer to make the error.

Seated before him where Lexie had perched a little earlier was a man. There was something familiar about him, and not very pleasantly familiar either.

Suddenly it came to him. This was the same sunburnt intruder who had disturbed Gwendoline Huby’s funeral.

He jumped up, alarmed.

‘Who are you? How did you get in? What the devil do you want?’

The man stared at him as if looking for something in his face.

‘You are Eden Thackeray?’ he said.

He spoke with a certain hesitancy, like a man reassembling old ideas, old words.

‘Yes, I am. And who are you?’ repeated Thackeray.

‘Who am I?’ said the man. ‘In my passport and in my life for the past forty years, it says that I am Alessandro Pontelli of Florence. But the truth is that I am Alexander Lomas Huby and I have come to claim my inheritance!’

Chapter 5

‘What’s up with Wield?’ said Dalziel.

‘I don’t know. Why?’

‘He’s been sort of distant these last few days, like he’s got something on his mind. Perhaps he’s decided on plastic surgery and can’t decide whether to go for the blow-lamp or the road-drill.’

‘I can’t say I’ve noticed,’ said Pascoe.

‘Insensitivity, that’s always been your trouble,’ said Dalziel. He belched, then raised his voice and cried, ‘Hey, Wieldy, bring us another of them pies, will you? And ask Jolly Jack if it’s my turn to have the one with the meat in this month.’

No one paid any heed. Dalziel and his CID squad were lunchtime regulars in the Black Bull and familiarity had bred discretion. A minute later Wield returned from the bar with two pints of beer.

‘You’ve not forgot my pie?’

The sergeant put the glasses down and reached into his jacket pocket.

‘Christ,’ said Dalziel. ‘I’m glad I didn’t ask for the lasagna. Cheers.’

Pascoe sipped his pint with a sigh. It was his second and he’d been promising both himself and Ellie to cut back on the calories for a few days. At least he’d only had one pie.

‘What’s up with you then, Sergeant? Not having another?’

Dalziel had just noticed Wield had not bought himself a drink.

‘No, I’ll just finish this, then I’ve got to be off.’

‘Off? It’s your lunch hour!’ expostulated Dalziel with the same note of exasperation he sounded if any of his flock showed the slightest sign of demur when told they were working till midnight or had to get up at four A.M.

‘I’ve some catching up to do,’ said Wield vaguely. ‘This shoplifting. And that Kemble business.’

‘Anything new there, Wieldy?’ asked Pascoe.

‘Not much. I’ve been researching back through the old information sheets. There’s this National Front spin-off group, works a lot through university students, bit different from the usual Front lot in that they keep their heads down, infiltrate Conservative student groups, that sort of thing. Not like your usual Front bully-boy who wants the world to admire his jackboots.’

Wield was sounding quite heated for him.

‘What makes you think there could be a link here?’ asked Pascoe.

‘They call themselves White Heat,’ said Wield.

‘White Heat. That rings a bell,’ said Dalziel.

‘James Cagney. Top of the world, ma!’ said Pascoe.

The other two looked at him blankly, clearly not sharing his passion for old Warner Brothers movies.

‘One of the things sprayed on the Kemble was White Heat Burns Blacks,’ said Wield, glancing at his watch.

He finished his beer, stood up and said, ‘Best be off. Cheerio.’

Pascoe watched his departure with a feeling of faint concern. He hadn’t been lying when he told Dalziel he had noticed nothing odd in the sergeant’s behaviour recently, but now his mind had been steered in the right direction, he realized that there were a number of minor variations from the norm which, crushed together, might make a small oddity. It was annoying that Dalziel should have proved more percipient in this than himself. He wouldn’t call Wield a friend, but a bond of respect and also of affection had developed between the men, a closeness signalled perhaps by his growing irritation at Dalziel’s ‘ugly’ jokes.

His mind was diverted from the problem, if problem there was, by the landlord’s voice from the bar.

‘Sorry, love, but you don’t look eighteen to me, and it’s more than me licence is worth to sell you alcohol. You can have a fruit juice, but.’

It was, of course, a stage-loudness for their benefit, thought Pascoe. Though indeed Jolly Jack Mahoney, the licensee, might well have objected even without a police presence to serving this customer, a small bespectacled girl who didn’t look much above thirteen.

Mahoney leaned over the bar and said in a quieter voice, ‘If it’s grub you’re after, love, go through that door, there’s a bit of a dining-room, the girl’ll slip you a glass of wine with your meal, no bother. Them gents over there are the police, so you see my trouble.’

The girl did not move, except to turn her head so that the owl-eye spectacles ringed Dalziel and Pascoe.

Her voice when she spoke was nervous but determined.

‘I thought you boasted at the Licensed Victuallers Association that the police never bothered you as long as the CID could get drinks at all hours, Mr Mahoney.’

The publican’s jaw dropped through shock into dismay.

‘Hold on, hold on,’ he said, glancing anxiously towards Dalziel who was viewing him malevolently. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that, lass. Do I know you?’

‘You know my father, John Huby, I think.’

‘Up at the Old Mill Inn? By God, is it little Lexie? Why didn’t you say, lass! You must be near on twenty now. I know her, she’s near on twenty!’

These last affirmations were directed towards Dalziel who finished his pint, placed the glass on the table and pointed menacingly into it, like Jahweh setting up a widow’s cruse.

A young man had come into the bar, of medium height, elegantly coiffured and dressed in a black and yellow striped blazer, cheesecloth shirt and cream-coloured slacks. His regularly handsome features broke into a gleaming smile as he spotted the girl and bore down on her, arms outstretched.

‘Dear Lexie,’ he cried. ‘I am late. Forgive me. Purge me with a kiss.’

Pascoe was amused to see that the girl ducked at the last second from his questing lips and got him in the eye with her big spectacles. Then the newcomer obtained two glasses of white wine and a plateful of sandwiches from Mahoney and he and the small girl sat down at the far side of the room, still within sight but now out of earshot.

He returned his attention to Dalziel who was saying, ‘That Mahoney, I’ll need to have a quiet word about going around slandering the police.’

‘Now?’ said Pascoe.

‘Don’t be daft! When he’s shut and we can get down to some serious drinking.’

And he bellowed with laughter at the sight of the pained expression on Pascoe’s face.

At their distant table, Lexie and Rod Lomas heard the laugh, but only Lexie registered the source.

‘I really am sorry I’m late,’ Lomas was saying. ‘But I’m afraid I still tend to think of all urban distances as minute outside of London. To compensate, I tend to treat all country distances as vast. Had we been meeting at your father’s pub, say, I dare say I’d have been there an hour ago.’

Lexie did not reply but bit into a sandwich.

Lomas said with a smile, ‘You don’t say a great deal, do you, dear coz?’

‘I were waiting for you to finish putting me at ease,’ said Lexie.

‘Oh dear,’ said Lomas. ‘I see I shall have to watch you, little Lexie.’

‘I’m not your cousin, and I’m five feet two inches barefoot,’ said Lexie.

‘Oh dear,’ repeated Lomas. ‘Are there any other sensitive areas we ought to check out straightaway?’

‘Why do you call yourself Lomas?’ said Lexie. ‘Your name is Windibanks, isn’t it?’

He grinned and said, ‘There you’re wrong. It was changed quite legally by deed poll. Rod Lomas is in fact and law my name.’

‘Why’d you change it?’

‘As I launched myself on what I hoped would be a meteoric theatrical career, but what now looks like being a long steady haul to the top, it occurred to me that Rodney Windibanks was not a name to fit easily into lights. Rod Lomas on the other hand is short, punchy, memorable. Satisfied?’

She continued to chew without replying. Her silence somehow declared its source as disbelief rather than good manners.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘It’s a fair cop! Why Lomas? It was Mummy’s idea. Butter up Auntie Gwen - yes, I know she wasn’t my auntie but that’s how I thought of her. Mummy made a big deal of it, of course, writing and asking permission to resurrect the family name, promising that I would never bring anything but fame and good report on it. Auntie Gwen replied that I must call myself what I wished. Left to myself, I might have chosen something a little more evocative, like Garrick or Irving, but Mummy is very strong-willed in the pursuit of fortune. Do I shock you?’

She swallowed, opened the half-eaten sandwich, said disgustedly, ‘Brisket. And more gristle than brisket.’

Lomas looked nonplussed for a moment, then he said with an edge of malice, ‘Not that it should shock you, of course. You are a fellow-initiate in the great sucking-up-to-auntie club, aren’t you? Indeed, almost a founder member, since you joined shortly after birth. Correct me if I’m wrong, but surely Lexie is short for Alexandra, and I doubt if that was a simple coincidence!’

Lexie said abruptly, ‘What do you want? What are you doing here?’

Lomas looked at her as if considering taking up the challenge. Then he grinned boyishly and said, ‘Believe it or not, dear coz, I came back north in response to a cry for help. When I was up for the funeral, I popped into the Kemble to see some old chums. I’m sure a cultured young person like yourself will be aware that the Kemble has as its artistic director Ms Eileen Chung. Chung and I are long acquainted and I know all her ways, which include a rather distorting tendency to socialize or, worse still, feminize all material that she turns her big doe eyes on. She is not strong enough to resist the demands of the English set-book, however, and next week as you must know her very first production is Romeo and Juliet. At Salisbury we did it for art, in Yorkshire they do it for O-level! But disaster struck. Night before last, Chung’s Mercutio got beaten up and is hors de combat. Desperate for a top-class replacement well-schooled in the part, her thoughts naturally turned to me. By chance I was free. Or rather I was just on the point of signing a big Hollywood contract, but who can resist a friend’s cry for help? I dropped everything and came up last night. The show is saved!’

Lexie said, ‘I read in the Post the chap who got beaten up was black.’

‘Indeed yes. A little surprise for the good burghers, a black Mercutio. But Chung says it was not of the essence. She thinks his obvious homosexual passion for Romeo will be quite enough for the city council to bear. But enough of me, fascinating though I am. What of you? How goes the Law?’

‘All right,’ said Lexie, discarding another sandwich.

‘Any news on the will front?’ he asked casually.

‘How should I know?’ she said, alert.

‘Well, you are acting as old Thackeray’s secretary, aren’t you?’

‘Who told you that?’

‘I don’t know. Keechie, I suppose.’

He laughed at her surprise.

‘Didn’t I say? I’m staying out at Troy House. Well, I needed digs. I can only afford the Howard Arms Hotel when Mummy’s with me, picking up the tab. Dear Mummy. It doesn’t matter how strapped she is for cash, she never settles for less than the best.’

‘She’s hard up, is she? Your dad didn’t leave her anything, then?’

Lomas stiffened.

‘Not much,’ he said, charm subsumed by some genuine emotion. ‘Why do you mention my father?’

‘No reason,’ said the girl.

He glowered at her, then burst out, ‘People said he was a crook, but if he was, he’d have left us stinking rich, wouldn’t he?’

She said, ‘You were telling me about staying at Troy House.’

Lomas visibly pulled the charm back over him like a bright-patterned slipover.

‘So I was,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t afford decent digs let alone the Howard Arms so I thought: What about old Keechie? We’d always got on well, so I gave her a ring. She was delighted. It must be lonely for her with nothing but those animals for company. What a nuisance they are. After the funeral feast, Mummy trod in something quite disgusting in the drive! Keechie, I’m glad to say, runs a rather tighter ship than old Gwen and apart from the odd moggie on my pillow, I’ve been unmolested. But it is, of course, early days. I only got here yesterday.’

He regarded her speculatively.

‘One thing I have realized already is how far it is out of town if you haven’t a car. The buses seem to be as rare as virtuous women and go all around the houses, if that’s not a contradiction. Keechie tells me you run a car.’

‘You’ve done a bit of talking about me, haven’t you?’ said Lexie. ‘Yes. I’ve got an old Mini. The Old Mill’s out of the way too.’

‘Precisely. And rather out of the same way, isn’t it? What I mean is, you must pass within a few yards, barely two miles anyway, of Greendale village. Perhaps I could persuade you to make a diversion some morning?’

She said, ‘I thought actors slept mornings.’

‘Art never sleeps. Are you game?’

‘I’ll not wait around.’

‘I shall be ready and waiting before the bawdy hand of the clock has reached the prick of eight. It’s all right. That’s not rude, it’s Shakespeare. You shall hear for yourself. As reward for your kindness, you shall have a complimentary ticket for our first night next Monday, and an invitation to the party afterwards. Then you can run me home too! Talking of which, how about running me home tonight? I work office hours till we open.’

‘I’m not a taxi-service,’ said Lexie, standing up. ‘Besides, I’ve got an evening class so I’ll not be going straight back. Thanks for the wine. I’d not pay for them sandwiches if I were you. I’d best get back.’

‘It’s been a pleasure,’ said Lomas. ‘You won’t forget to call?’

‘I said so,’ replied Lexie. ‘Cheerio.’

She left, passing quite close to Pascoe and Dalziel, who was on his fourth pint and third pie. Neither man paid her much attention. She wasn’t the kind of woman to catch a man’s eye. Indeed, with her close-cropped hair, big spectacles, un-made-up face and big leather handbag slung over her shoulder like a satchel, she looked for all the world like a schoolgirl returning to the classroom.

But Rod Lomas watched her out of sight.

Chapter 6

‘Maurice? It’s Mac. Mac Wield.’

‘Good Lord! Mac? Is that really you?’

‘Yes, it’s me.’

‘Well, how’ve you been? How are you?’ With a sudden injection of sharpness. ‘Where are you?’

‘It’s all right, Maurice. I’m safely up here in Yorkshire.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean … My dear chap, you’d be more than welcome to come and visit …’

‘Except you’ve got someone staying and you haven’t forgotten last time, in Newcastle.’

‘Don’t be silly. You were upset. Naturally. How do you know I’ve got someone staying?’

‘I rang your flat last night. He answered. I rang off. I didn’t want to risk causing embarrassment. Also I wanted a private chat.’

‘So you ring me at the office? Not very good police work that, Mac.’

‘It’s lunchtime. You’re by yourself, else you’d not be talking like this,’ said Wield confidently.

‘True. You just caught me. I was on my way - and I must get back on it pretty soon. Mac, can I ring you this evening? Is it the same number?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Wield.

‘Oh. Same reason?’

‘In a way. I’m ringing from work too,’ said Wield.

‘My, we are getting bold,’ said Maurice Eaton.

Wield heard the savagely scornful irony with sadness, but it stiffened his resolve.

‘Mebbe we are,’ he said. ‘I’ll not keep you. There were just a couple of questions I wanted to ask.’

‘Really? Don’t tell me I’m helping with inquiries at last!’

The voice had changed a lot. It was lighter and slipped more easily into an archness of delivery which Eaton had once been at great pains to avoid.

‘You’re getting bold too, Maurice,’ said Wield.

‘Sorry? Don’t get you.’

‘You used to be so scared of anyone spotting you were gay, you’d even say your prayers in a basso profundo,’ said Wield, savage in his turn.

‘Have you rung me to quarrel, Mac?’ asked Eaton softly.

‘No. Not at all. I’m sorry,’ said Wield, fearful the connection would be broken before he got answers.

‘Very well. Then what do you want?’

‘Do you know a lad, name of Sharman? Cliff Sharman?’

There was a silence which was in itself an answer, and more than just a simple affirmative.

‘What about him?’ said Eaton finally.

‘He’s here.’

‘You mean up there, in Yorkshire?’

‘That’s what here means up here.’

‘Then my advice to you, Mac, is, get shot of him quick as you can. He’s a poisonous little asp. Put him on his bike and send him on his way.’

‘You do know him, then.’

‘Yes, of course I do. Or I did. Mac, he’s trouble. Believe me, get rid of him.’

‘What’s he done to you, Maurice? How well did you know him?’

‘What? Oh, hardly at all as a matter of fact.’

‘He said he lived with you.’

‘I took him in as a favour to a friend. Just a few nights. He repaid me by spreading foul gossip about me at my club and then decamping with twenty quid out of my wallet and several knick-knacks I was rather fond of. I almost called the police.’

‘He did, Maurice. He did.’

Again there was silence.

‘Oh shit, Mac. Has he been bothering you? How the hell …? Oh, I get it! I’ve got some old stuff tucked away, photos and things, sentimental corner, I call it. The young sod must’ve come across it when he was ferreting around looking for something to steal.’

Wield let this go for the time being. He could feel a rage deep down inside him but it was like the glow of a forest fire in the next valley, ignorable till the wind changed.

He said, ‘What’s his background, Maurice?’

‘I only know what he’s told me and God knows how much credence one should give that. He comes from Dulwich, the seedy end I should imagine. His mother still lives there, I gather, but his father took French leave about three years ago when Cliff was fifteen and he’s been out of control ever since, bumming around the West End in every sense. This town’s full of them.’

‘Must break your heart. Work?’

‘You’re joking! The odd odd job, but nothing more. No, State Benefits and fools’ wallets, that’s what kept little Cliffy going. Mac, is he causing you real trouble? I mean, not to put too fine a point on it, blackmail? I’m assuming you’ve still not come out.’

‘No, I’ve not,’ said Wield.

‘Listen, I’m sure I can get enough on the little shit for you to be able to threaten him back with a good stretch behind bars if he doesn’t shut up and go.’

It was a genuine offer of help and it seemed to spring from a real concern. Wield felt himself touched.

‘No,’ he said, ‘that won’t be necessary. But thanks anyway.’

Eaton laughed.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Here’s me teaching me grandmother to suck eggs! You’ve probably done courses in fitting people up!’

The momentary softening was past. The wind was blowing hard from that neighbouring valley and suddenly the flames came leaping from treetop to treetop over the crest of the hills.

‘Yes,’ said Wield harshly. ‘I’ve done courses on memory and deduction as well. And I remember I never had a picture taken of me in any kind of uniform or with any kind of inscription that would show I was a copper. Someone told Sharman that, and told him my rank, and where to find me. And told him what you used to call me. That’s what I remember, Maurice. And what I deduce from that is that you had a little giggle one night, lying in your pit with this young lad you took in to oblige a friend. You showed him some old photos and you said, “Can you imagine I once used to fancy that! And you’ll never guess what he does for a living. He’s a copper! Yes, really, he is.” Am I right, Maurice? Is that how it was?’

‘For God’s sake, Mac, take it easy! Look. I can’t talk now ...'

‘What’s up, Maurice? Has someone come in? No, you mean to say there’s people in this brave new fucking world of yours that you’re still lying to?’

‘At least there’s more than half my life, and that’s the most important half, that isn’t a lie. Think about that, Mac. Just you bloody well think about it.’

‘Maurice …’

But the phone was dead.

Wield replaced his receiver and sat with his head in his hands. He’d handled it badly from any point of view, professional or personal. One of Dalziel’s dicta for police and public alike was, if you can’t be honest you’d better be fucking clever. Well, he hadn’t been clever, and he’d certainly not been honest. He’d not let on that Cliff was staying with him and he’d given the impression that the youth had turned up just yesterday instead of several days ago.

Several days! There he went again. It was a good week since Cliff had moved in. There had been no sexual contact offered or invited, no threats or demands from Cliff, no aggressive cross-questioning from Wield. It was truce, a limbo, the eye of the storm; whatever it was, Wield had discovered in himself a growing fear of disturbing it, and it had taken a conscious act of will for him to ring Maurice. His relief the previous evening when the stranger’s voice had given him an excuse to ring off had been great, but it was his awareness of that relief which had sent him impulsively out of the Black Bull today. Had Maurice already left for lunch, he doubted if he would have found the will to try to contact him again.

Well, now he’d done it, and how much further forward was he?

He didn’t know. He glanced at his watch. It was surprising how little time had elapsed. He could if he wished get back to the Black Bull in plenty of time for another pint and something to eat. But he didn’t wish. Pascoe’s merry quips and Dalziel’s badinage was the last thing he wanted. Whatever the future held, there was work to be done here and now.

He turned to the files on his desk, a thick one entitled Shoplifting, a thin one labelled Vandalism (Kemble Theatre). Their size was relevant to incidence, not to progress. The best he could say was that nothing needful was omitted, nothing superfluous included. He was the best keeper of records, the best drafter of reports in the CID. It occurred to him that if he came out now, either voluntarily or through pressure from Sharman, the best he could hope for would be a sideways shuffle into the dusty solitude of Records. He had no illusion about the degree of liberalism informing the upper reaches of the Mid-Yorkshire Force.

Well, perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. Perhaps he only imagined he enjoyed the hustle and bustle, the long hours and continuous pressures of CID work, because they filled a yawning emptiness in his life.

It seemed a reasonable hypothesis and he was a great believer in the rule of reason. But not all the reason in the world could stop him looking at the phone and wishing that it would ring and he would pick it up and hear a voice say, ‘Hello, Mac. Cliff here. How’re you doing?’

Cliff Sharman dialled. The phone rang eight times before it was answered by a female voice slightly muffled by a half-masticated sandwich.

‘Mid-Yorks Evening Post, good morning, sorry, afternoon!’

‘I’d like to talk to one of your reporters,’ said Sharman.

‘Anyone in particular, love? Thing is, they’re mostly out at lunch.’

‘Someone in your investigation department,’ said the youth tentatively.

The voice giggled.

‘Are you sure it’s not the Washington Post you’re after? Hang on, love. Here’s Mr Ruddlesdin.’

He heard her voice call, ‘Sammy!’ and a man’s voice reply distantly, ‘Oh hell, Mavis, I’m on me way out!’

A moment later, the same voice said, ‘Sam Ruddlesdin here. Can I help you, sir?’

Cliff’s resolution was ebbing by the second. He’d thought of trying one of the big nationals, but they all seemed a long way away from Yorkshire and also their numbers weren’t in the book. He reminded himself that all he was dealing with here was some provincial hayseed.

He said boldly, ‘Mebbe I can help you.’

‘How so?’

‘What’s a story about a bent copper worth?’

‘Bent? You mean gay! Or crooked?’

‘Both,’ he extemporized. ‘His bosses don’t know he’s gay, so he’s got to be crooked to keep it quiet, know what I mean?’

‘Who are his bosses?’

‘Well, he’s a detective, isn’t he?’

‘Local?’

‘Yeah, that’s why I’m ringing you and not one of the big papers, see? So what’s it worth?’

‘It depends, sir,’ said Ruddlesdin. ‘What’s his rank?’

‘Higher than constable and that’s all I’m telling you for nothing. Come on, let’s talk money!’

‘It’s a bit hard over the phone, sir. Why don’t we meet and chat it over? I didn’t quite catch your name …’

‘You chat it over with yourself! I’ll be in touch again later. Maybe!’

Sharman slammed the receiver down. He was surprised to find he was trembling slightly. He wasn’t sure yet how far he intended going with this, but it was Wield’s own fault, that was for sure. He obviously didn’t trust him. He’d been there over a week now, and the ugly bastard hadn’t laid a hand on him. He was obviously scared of compromising himself. Stupid sod, as if there wasn’t enough on him already to rattle him round the cop shop like a ping-pong ball. He’d thought of suggesting as much to his face, but then he’d lost his nerve. Direct blackmail wasn’t something he’d care to attempt, not with a man like Wield. In any case, he told himself pathetically, all he wanted was a bit of trust, a bit of support, a bit of affection even. He’d not come up here looking for trouble, but if Wield couldn’t take him on trust, he’d fucking well have to take him the other way.

He went out of the phonebox and started wandering round the streets as he had done every day since his arrival, scanning the faces that he met in search of the one face that would bring his searching to an end.

Sammy Ruddlesdin drank his lunch in solitude and thought long and hard about the phone call. He had a good nose for news and could sniff out the iron pyrites from the true gold with ninety per cent accuracy.

When the pub closed at 2.30, he went back to the office, arriving simultaneously with the editor.

The editor too respected Sammy’s nose, but when he had digested the story he shook his head and said, ‘Not our cup of tea, Sammy. I’m not going to risk getting up yon mad bugger Dalziel’s hairy nostrils for anything less than a full-scale scandal. He doesn’t just look like an elephant, he’s got a memory like one, and we’ve got to live in this town.’

‘What if it is a full-scale scandal?’

‘Then it’s too big for us. That’s Challenger material. I’ll give Ike Ogilby a bell. Anything more comes through, we’ll follow it up in conjunction with one of his whizzkids.’

Ruddlesdin looked disgruntled and the editor laughed.

‘Don’t look so unhappy, Sammy,’ he said. ‘It’ll probably come to nothing. But if it does, is it worth losing that nice friendly relationship you and that Inspector Pascoe have got just for what sounds like a rather squalid splash?’

Sammy scratched his long nose.

‘I suppose not,’ he said.

The editor smiled with the complacency of papal infallibility, picked up the phone and said, ‘Get me Mr Ogilby in Leeds, love.’

Ruddlesdin went about his business. It was true he did feel rather disgruntled, but he was if nothing else a positive thinker. The editor was right. Why fall out with the fuzz over something like this? In fact the clever thing to do might be to plant it firmly in the lap of those chancers on the Challenger and get himself in credit for a bit of a favour at the same time.

He went out of the building to a pay-phone and dialled a number.

‘Inspector Pascoe, please … Sammy Ruddlesdin, Evening Post. Hello, Peter. Listen, it’s probably nowt but you’ve done me a few favours in the past, so I thought I’d just let you know. Got this odd phone call …’

Chapter 7

Yorkshire is the only English cricket club which still requires its players to be born in county limits. Foreigners, however long domiciled, can never be trusted not to revert to playing the game for pleasure.

A similar high seriousness of approach is required of Yorkshire publicans and John Huby was well qualified to open the batting for any county side of licensed victuallers.

‘John, love, it’s turned six,’ said Ruby Huby.

‘Oh aye.’

‘Shall I open up? There’s a car in the car park.’

‘So what? Let the bugger wait!’ said Huby, continuing to stack bottles of light ale on his bar shelves.

Ruby Huby looked anxiously out of the window. Happily the newcomer did not seem impatient. He was standing by his car examining with speculative interest the foundations of the restaurant and function room extension which, begun in anticipation of Aunt Gwen’s will, looked like being its first casualty.

‘Right,’ said Huby looking round to make sure everything was as serious and sombre as it should be. ‘Let him in. But he’d best not want owt fancy. I’m not in the mood.’

As ‘fancy’ when John Huby was not in the mood could include any mixture from a gin and tonic to a shandy, the odds on a clash seemed high.

Fortunately the man who entered, in his thirties with a dark beard, a mop of strong crinkly hair and a broad-shouldered athletic-looking torso, had driven far enough to develop a simple thirst.

‘What’s your pleasure?’ asked Huby challengingly.

‘Pint of best, please,’ said the man in a soft Scottish accent.

Mollified, Huby drew a pint. First of the night, it was rather cloudy. He looked speculatively at the stranger, who looked speculatively back, sighed, drew another, got a clear one at the third time of asking and handed it over.

‘Cheers,’ said the man.

He drank and looked round the bar. The landlord’s ambition for development had clearly not begun here. The furniture and fittings would probably have pleased Betjeman. Even the inevitable fruit machine belonged to a pre-electronic age. There was a deep recessed fireplace which contained real coal piled on real sticks for lighting, if and when the landlord decided his customers deserved it. On the brick hearth lay a sleeping Yorkshire terrier. A stout woman of mid to late forties was bustling around the room, laying out ashtrays and a girl in her late teens with a mass of springy blonde curls and an even greater mass of even springier bosom was polishing glasses behind the bar. She caught his eye and smiled invitingly. Pleased at this first sign of welcome, the stranger smiled back.

Huby, intercepting the exchange, snapped, ‘Jane, if you’ve nowt better to do than stand about grinning, bring us some fresh martini up. We’ll mebbe be getting a rush of the gentry tonight.’

The stranger put his glass down on the bar.

‘Mr John Huby, is it?’ he asked.

‘That’s what it says over the door.’

‘My name is Goodenough, Mr Huby. Andrew Goodenough. I am the general secretary of the People’s Animal Welfare Society. You may recall that the Society was mentioned in your late aunt’s will.’

‘Oh aye, I recall that well enough,’ said Huby grimly.

‘Yes. I fear it must have been something of a disappointment to you.’

‘Disappointment, Mr Goodenough? No, I’d not say that,’ said Huby lifting up the bar flap and coming to the public side of the bar. ‘I’d not say that. It was her brass, to do with as she liked. And she didn’t forget me; no, she didn’t forget me. And I’ll not forget her, you can be sure of that!’

He had walked across to the fireplace, and as he spoke these last words with great vehemence, to Goodenough’s horror he raised his right leg and delivered a vicious and powerful kick at the sleeping dog. The force of it drove the animal against the brickwork with a sickening thud.

‘For Christ’s sake, man!’ cried the animal protectionist, then his protest faded as he realized the dog, though now on its back, still retained its sleeping posture.

‘Can I introduce you to Gruff-of-sodding-Greendale?’ snarled Huby. ‘I were going to stick it on the fire at first, but then I thought: No, I’ll keep the thing. It’ll lie there as a lesson to me not to waste time being friendly to those who don’t know the meaning of gratitude or family loyalty. Now, what can I do for you, Mr Goodenough? It’s not the welfare of Gruff here that’s brought you all this way, is it?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Goodenough. ‘Could we talk in private?’

‘Instead of in this crowded bar, you mean? Ruby, you look after things in here when the rush starts, will you? Come through, Mr Goodenough.’

The living quarters behind the bar proved to be distinctly more comfortable than the public area, though the same air of antiquity reigned.

‘Been in the family a long time, has it?’ said Goodenough.

‘Long enough. It were me grandad’s to start with.’

‘Yes. I was talking to Mrs Windibanks in London and she gave me something of the family history.’

This was enough to shatter any barrier of reticence.

‘Old Windypants? What’s she know about owt? Nose stuck in the air when it weren’t stuck up the old girl’s bum! Well, she got as little for her pains as me, so that’s some consolation. But you don’t want to pay any heed to owt she says about the Hubys. Listen. I’ll tell you how it really was.’

He settled down in his chair and Goodenough followed suit, like the unlucky wedding guest. Though, in fact he was not incurious to hear Huby’s version of the background to this old business.

The landlord began to speak.

‘This place were the cottage belonging to the mill that stood behind it, alongside the river. Well, it’s long gone now and it were pretty much a ruin even when my grandad got the cottage. He were just a farm lad, but he had his head screwed on, and he set up an ale house here with his sister to keep house for him. Lomas’s were a small brewery then, just starting, and their eldest lad come round to try to get Grandad to sell his beer. Well, Lomas had no luck selling the beer, but Grandad’s sister, Dot, took his fancy and off he went with her instead! Grandad weren’t best pleased by all accounts, but there was nowt the poor devil could do except get himself married so he’d have someone to help around the place. And this is what he did, and him and Grandma had twin sons, John, my dad, and Sam.’

He paused not in anticipation of any challenge to this interesting view of marriage, but to fill and light an ancient and malodorous pipe.

‘Come 1914 and they both upped and offed to the war,’ he resumed. ‘What’s more, they both came back unscathed, which was more than most families could claim. Grandma had died early on, and Grandad went too in 1919. The pub was left between ’em, but Uncle Sam had been left all restless by the war, so he took his share in cash and left Dad with the pub. Sam disappeared for a year doing God knows what. Then one day he came back, stony broke. He turned up here, asking my dad for a sub till he got on his feet again. Now Dad were a fair man, but he weren’t soft. He’d got married by then and he was just about making ends meet, but only just. So he told his brother he were welcome to his supper and a bed for the night, but after that he’d have to make his own way. That sounds fair enough to me, wouldn’t you say? Sam had made his bed and now he had to lie on it.’

Goodenough nodded agreement. The consequences of dispute were not to be lightly provoked. Besides, he had some real sympathy for the viewpoint.

‘And what was Sam’s response?’

‘Well, he were a hard man too,’ said Huby, not without admiration. ‘He told Dad to shove his supper and wedge the bed in after it, and went right back to town the same night. Next thing Dad heard, Sam had sweet-talked Auntie Dot into making Lomas give him a job as a salesman for the brewery. That did it. Grandad would’ve turned in his grave. He never made it up with Dot. Always felt she gave herself airs. Well, that’s what mixing with them bloody Lomases does to you, I’ve seen it for myself. Still, Grandad would probably have had a laugh at what happened next.’

‘And what was that?’ inquired Goodenough, recognizing the straight-man’s cue.

‘Well, Sam did well at his job, he had the gift of the gab, it seems. And not just for selling ale either. Lomas had a daughter, Gwen. Big plans for her, evidently. He’d made a pile of brass, bought Troy House in Greendale, and was in a fair way to setting himself up as a gentleman though he were no better than my grandad to start with. Gwen was going to marry a real gentleman, that was the idea. Then it happened. Her poor cousin Sam put her in the club!’

Huby chortled at the family memory.

‘And that’s how Sam came to marry into the Lomases?’ said Goodenough.

‘Aye, that was it. Lucky for them he did, too! Everyone says Lomas’s would’ve gone under in the depression if it hadn’t been for Sam. He kept ’em going and when things got better, he was the boss of the whole shooting match. By the end of the Second War they were booming and they amalgamated with one of the really big firms and went national, though they kept the name. That’s what sticks in my throat! All that so-called Lomas money, it’s Huby money really. They’d have been in the sodding workhouse if it hadn’t been for Sam.’

‘Didn’t he try to put any of it his brother’s way, when he was doing so well?’

‘Oh aye. He came round once when he were coining it. Offered to make things up. Fancy clothes, fancy car, fancy wife, he had the lot, and Dad was still just keeping things together here. Never had the money, you see. That’s what this place needs. Capital. Brass breeds brass, that’s the way of it.’

He stared gloomily towards the window where the beginning of the extension stood silent in the evening sunshine.

‘And your father’s response?’

‘What do you think?’ snarled Huby. ‘He told him to sod off again. What else could he say? Well, that did it!’

‘I suppose it would,’ said Goodenough. ‘Now, about your uncle’s son, your cousin, the missing heir …’

‘Missing?’ exclaimed Huby. ‘Bugger’s as dead as Gruff-of-sodding-Greendale, and everyone knows it. She knew it too, I reckon, only her conscience wouldn’t let her believe it.’

‘Conscience?’ said Goodenough, puzzled.

‘Oh aye. Between her and Sam, the poor devil had a hell of a life. Her wanting him to be a proper gentleman, him wanting him to be a proper he-man!’

‘And what did Alexander want?’

‘Just to be a lad, I reckon. I didn’t know him well though we were born within a month of each other. He went off to some fancy school, of course, while I just went local, and only when they caught me! But we’d bump into each other in the holidays sometimes and I’d say how do? and he’d say hello, all very polite, like. Being of an age, we got called up at the same time in 1944. We went off on the same train and did our basic at the same depot, so it were natural we should chum up a bit, being cousins. He asked what I wanted to do. Stay alive, I said. I were good with engines and so on, so I was looking for a berth in the REME and I got it too, ended up a Lance-jack at a depot down near Tunbridge. He sounded dead envious when I told him this. What about you? I said. He was going for an officer, he said. His mother would like that, the uniform and people sirring him and all. And then he thought he might volunteer for training as one of them Commandos. I looked at him as if he were daft. Anyone less like a commando I couldn’t imagine. But he did it, the poor sod. I heard later his dad were chuffed to buggery. My son, the officer, Gwen would say in that hoity voice of hers. My lad, the Commando, Sam would say. Well, between ’em, they did for the poor sod. Me, I never left these shores. Him, he’s picked clean on the bed of the Med by now. Sam finally accepted it. She never did. Couldn’t. She knew whose fault it was he ended up like he did.’

With this interesting bit of deep analysis, Huby seemed well satisfied. His pipe had gone out and now he relit it.

‘But you were reconciled with your uncle’s family to some extent,’ prompted Goodenough.

Huby laughed and said, ‘I thought so. Our dad died in 1958. Uncle Sam came to the funeral. I talked to him, man to man. Well, it weren’t my quarrel. Me and Ruby got invited to tea a short while after. That were a frosty affair, I tell you. But I said to myself, I can thole frost if it’s going to bring brass. I even started selling Lomas ales in the pub. Me dad must’ve turned in his grave! Then just as I felt I were getting on champion with uncle Sam, what does he do but keel over and die, not a six-month after our dad! Well, her ladyship got the lot, not a penny for any bugger else. But fair do’s, I said. It were hers by right. And didn’t she get hold of me after the funeral and say it’d been her Sam’s particular wish that this new friendliness between our families should continue and she’d like me and Ruby to come to tea? But she’d not changed, not her!’

‘What do you mean?’ said Goodenough.

‘Guilt! That’s all it was. Like she knew she’d buggered her lad up, now she must’ve wondered if she’d helped push Sam into the grave. All right, it sounds daft. But why’d she do it, else? More than five-and-twenty years of having us to tea once a month. For what? I’ll tell you for what, from my point of view. Gruff-of-sodding-Greendale, that’s what!’

He banged his pipe against the wall so hard he left a mark in the plaster.

Goodenough said, ‘I sympathize with you, believe me.’

‘Do you now? Well, that’s good on you. But you’ve not come all this way to sympathize, have you? What are you, any road? Some kind of lawyer?’

‘To some extent,’ smiled Goodenough who, under parental misdirection, had in fact studied law instead of the veterinary science he would have preferred. When the chance had come of a poorly paid organizational job with PAWS, he had leapt at it, and in a dozen years he had helped build it up from a rather ramshackle semi-amateur body to one of the top animal charities. Large legacies like Mrs Huby’s were rare, and it was his frustration at the thought of waiting all those years as much as advice from the Society’s official legal advisers that had made him choose this course of action.

‘Let me explain,’ he said. ‘We at PAWS are naturally eager to get our share of the estate sooner rather than later. To do this, we’ll need to challenge the will in court and get Alexander Huby’s unlikely claim put aside. You follow me?’

‘You want the brass now,’ said Huby. ‘I can see that. What’s it to do wi’ me?’

‘To maximize our chances of success we need to keep things simple as possible. One thing is that all three beneficiary organizations must act in concert. I’ve got CODRO’s consent to go ahead in their name and while I’m up here, I intend sounding out these Women For Empire people.

‘The second and more important is for the judge to be presented with a clear line of vision. He must be able to see that the only possible hindrance to our collecting the money in 2015 is the return of Alexander Huby, which we will then persuade him is so unlikely as to be negligible.’

Huby had been listening closely.

‘What other hindrance could there be?’ he asked.

‘You!’ said Goodenough. ‘And Mrs Windibanks. You’re the two closest relatives. In fact, I believe you occupy precisely the same relationship with the deceased …’

‘What? She told you that, did she? Bloody liar!’ cried Huby indignantly. ‘The old lass were my auntie. Windypants is nowt but a sort of cousin, well removed!’

‘In matters of this kind, it’s blood relationships that count,’ said Goodenough crisply. ‘Mrs Huby was your aunt only by marriage. Mrs Windibanks’s father was her cousin on the Lomas side, just as your father was on the Huby side. That’s the relationship that matters. What I would like from you, Mr Huby, is a waiver, acknowledging that you will not be making any claim on Mrs Huby’s estate, now or ever.’

The pipe hit the wall with such force, the bowl cracked wide. But Huby didn’t seem to notice.

‘Well, bugger me,’ he said. ‘Is that all? Bugger me!’

‘Yes, it isn’t really much to ask, is it?’ said Goodenough, deliberately misunderstanding. ‘I mean, I assume you’ve already consulted your own solicitor and been advised on the feasibility of contesting the will on your own behalf.’

‘That’s my business,’ growled Huby.

‘Of course it is. I do not wish to pry. But if his advice was that it would be such a chancy business that it was hardly worth risking the necessarily large legal costs, and if you have decided to accept this advice, then what do you have to lose by signing the waiver?’

‘What do I have to gain, that’s more to the point,’ said Huby cunningly.

‘There would possibly be a small compensatory payment for your time and trouble,’ said Goodenough.

He was disappointed but not too surprised when instead of asking How much? Huby said, ‘You say you’ve spoken to old Windypants?’

‘To Mrs Windibanks, yes.’

‘What’s she say?’

‘She’s mulling it over, but I’ve no doubt she will make the wise decision.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you what,’ said Huby. ‘I learnt early not to jump when lawyers crack the whip. So I think I’ll do a bit of mulling too. You’ve got other business up here, you say? Well, call back in a day or so, and I’ll mebbe be better placed to make a decision.’

Goodenough sighed. He’d been hoping that need and greed might have made the man grab at a cash offer, but he judged that to make one now would merely be to weaken his position.

‘Very well,’ he said, rising. ‘Thank you for your hospitality.’

‘What? I’ve given you nowt, have I?’ For some reason this seemed to touch his conscience and he added magnanimously, ‘Listen, have a glass of beer on your way out, tell Ruby I say it’s on the house.’

‘Thank you, but the one was enough. I noticed, incidentally, you no longer serve Lomas’s?’

‘No! I had the bloody stuff taken out right after the funeral,’ snarled Huby. ‘Can you find your own way? Good night, then.’

After the door closed behind Goodenough, Huby sat in silence for several minutes staring sightlessly into the fireplace. He was roused by his wife saying, ‘Phone, John!’

He went through the bar to the pay-phone in the entrance passage. It was a continuous complaint of Jane’s that they didn’t have a phone of their own, but the more she complained, the more Huby was confirmed in his economic policy.

‘Old Mill,’ he grunted into the receiver. ‘Huby speaking.’

He listened for a while and a slow grin spread across his face.

‘I were just thinking about you, Mrs Windibanks,’ he said finally. ‘Fancy that, eh? You’re at the Howard Arms, you say. Well, it’s a bit hard for me to get away from the pub tonight … you’ll come out? Grand, that’ll be grand. Always glad to have a chat with a relative, that’s me.’

He put the phone down and laughed out loud. But his amusement died as he tried to refill his pipe and discovered the cracked bowl.

‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed. ‘What rotten bugger’s done that?’

Chapter 8

‘Good morning, Lexie.’

‘Good morning, Miss Keech.’

Pascoe, as the nearest thing in mid-Yorkshire to a sociological detective, might have read much into this exchange. Miss Keech’s connection with the Hubys had started as a fourteen-year-old in 1930 when she had been taken on at Troy House as a nurserymaid. By the time young Alexander left for boarding-school some eight years later, she was fully in charge of not only the nursery but most of the household management. Came the war, and young, fit unmarried women were called upon to do more for their country than look after the houses of the rich and, despite Mrs Huby’s indignant protests, Miss Keech was sucked into the outside world. Contact was lost, though it was known through her local connections that she had risen to the dizzy heights of being a WRAC driver with two stripes. Then in 1946 she returned to Troy House to convey her sorrow at the sad news of Alexander’s loss and there she had stayed ever since, first as housekeeper, gradually as companion, eventually as nurse.

Mrs Gwendoline Huby called her Keech. Alexander Huby had called her Keechie. John Huby generally called her nothing to her face and ‘that cold calculating cow’ to her back. It irked him greatly to hear old Windypants using her surname as to the manner born, and even more to hear her poncy son drawling out Keechie as if he’d got a silver spoon stuck in his gob!

To the Old Mill girls, she was always Miss Keech, which was right and proper, for children should be polite to adults, however undeserving; but Huby did nothing to discourage their private conviction, fostered by the more imaginative and better-read Lexie, that this dark-clad figure was really the Wicked Witch of the West.

‘Notice the Beurre Hardy, Lexie. In all the years I have been at Troy House, I do not believe I have seen a more bountiful crop.’

Lexie duly noted the pear tree. She did not resent Miss Keech’s gubernatorial manner, nor was she offended (as her father claimed to be) by such a pedantic style and affected accent in one of such humble origins. But she hadn’t liked Miss Keech from her earliest memories of her, and had been consistent in this dislike as in most things.

The feeling, she suspected, was mutual. Only once had it come near to open declaration. On visiting Sundays, the two girls were normally allowed to escape after tea and play in the garden with Hob, the donkey, and the two goats. On wet days, they would descend into the capacious cellar which was used for storage of old furniture and other junk. Well lit and relatively dry, it provided a marvellous playroom for the children. At one end of it was a small oaken door with a Norman arch which looked as if it should have been in a fairytale castle, and Lexie invented various enthralling tales of what lay beyond for her wide-eyed sister. Then one day as she finished one of her stories, she became aware of Miss Keech standing at the head of the cellar stairs.

‘Is Lexie right, Miss Keech?’ piped up Jane. ‘Is there really a magic garden through that door?’

‘Oh no, Jane,’ said Keech in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘That’s where we keep the old bodies of everyone who’s died here.’

The effect had been devastating. Jane had fled from the cellar and refused ever to go down there again. On wet Sundays thereafter they had found themselves constrained to sit in the dull drab drawing-room looking at dull drab books. Miss Keech had told Jane not to be silly, but Lexie had detected the edge of malicious satisfaction there and knew it was directed at her. She had boldly demanded the key to the oaken door from Miss Keech, ready to explode her own fairytales in the cause of revealing Miss Keech’s lie. The woman had produced it without hesitation, saying, ‘Of course you may look inside, Lexie. But you must go by yourself. I have no time for such childishness.’

Again the malice. She had known full well that a small girl of eight, no matter how self-possessed, was not impervious to such imaginative fears.

But Lexie had descended alone. Terror had weakened her skinny legs, but something stronger than terror had urged her on. There was no way she could articulate it, but it had something to do with a sense of what was right.

The door had swung open without even a creak to reveal a small inner cellar lined with wine racks, empty since Sam Huby’s death. His widow admitted a little sweet sherry in the drawing-room but had no need of wine. As for Lomas’s beers on which her fortune rested, she had tasted a light ale once at the age of twenty, and never repeated the disagreeable experience.

Lexie had gone to fetch Jane to show her the truth of the matter, but the words of an adult are stronger than the word of a sister, and Jane had only collapsed in tearful refusal while Miss Keech looked on in silent triumph, knowing she had ruined the cellar for them for ever.

All that had been ages ago, but it had stamped a seal on their relationship. Only once had Lexie had cause to waver in her judgement and that was three years ago when Great Aunt Gwen had had her first stroke. The degree of Miss Keech’s distress had amazed everyone. ‘Must know she’s been left out of the will!’ John Huby had posited mockingly. But the woman’s concern and agitation and unsparing attendance on her sick employer had impressed most observers deeply, causing even Lexie to admit a slight modification of her judgement.

‘Is Mr Lomas, Rod, ready?’ she now asked.

‘Just completing his breakfast. Have you time for a cup of coffee? Do step inside in any case.’

It was Lexie’s first visit to Troy House since the funeral meats. Externally, the square, grey Victorian building was little changed. The well-kept garden with its gloomy shrubberies still had the goats on long tethers at the foot of the lawn while Hob the donkey grazed nearby, indifferent and free.

Inside, however, there were signs of change, subtle but significant. Several of the doors off the large but gloomy entrance hall were closed for a start. In Great Aunt Gwen’s time, no door and few windows were ever closed as this interfered with her animals’ right of total access to every part of the house. Also the hall itself was surely not quite so gloomy as before. The heavy velvet drapes which, even when drawn open, still inhibited ninety per cent of the light entering via the stained-glass windows on either side of the door, had disappeared, and on the dark green silk wallpaper two lighter rectangles showed where half-length portraits of King Edward and Queen Alexandra had glowered out of gilded frames these past seventy-odd years.

The kitchen had changed too, but not subtly. There were bright new chintzy curtains at the windows, a new sink unit in stainless steel had replaced the ancient deep-crazed pot one, yellow and white vinyl tiles covered the old stone floor and there was a new drop-leaf formica table in bright blue in place of the old solid-state wooden one which had impeded passage for all but the very slimmest.

At this table sat Rod Lomas, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette.

‘Lexie,’ he said, ‘you must be early.’

‘You’ve got two minutes,’ she said.

‘Time for another coffee, then,’ he replied.

She didn’t answer but stared at him with that expression of nervous determination he was beginning to recognize.

‘All right,’ he said, rising. ‘I’ll get my jacket.’

He left the room. Miss Keech poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Lexie. The Old Mill Inn girls had always thought of her as old, but today, aged about seventy, she looked somehow younger than Lexie could ever recall. It was perhaps the touch of colour which varied the hitherto unbroken blackness of her clothing; a red silk scarf at her neck, a diamanté brooch at her bosom.

‘You’ve got the kitchen nice,’ said Lexie.

‘Thank you. It’s never too late for change, is it?’

Lexie sipped her coffee and did not reply.

Miss Keech laughed, and this was as surprising as the vinyl tiles and the red scarf.

‘You must come again, Lexie, and talk over old times.’

This time Lexie was saved from having to answer by Lomas calling, ‘Ready!’ from the entrance hall.

‘Thank you for the coffee,’ was all she said as she left, but Miss Keech only responded to this evasion with that surprising laugh once more.

Outside, Lomas, though not particularly tall, made a great business of folding himself into the Mini.

‘This is a most selfish kind of car for you to drive,’ he complained. ‘Can’t you afford something larger?’

‘I can’t afford this,’ said Lexie, accelerating to the forty m.p.h. which both her own caution and the car’s limitations dictated was the optimum maximum speed.

‘But your mad social life demands that you have wheels,’ mocked Lomas.

Lexie replied seriously, ‘The buses don’t run very late from town. And I like to get across to Leeds quite a lot.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.