Death's Jest-Book (7 page)

'So it was theirs, no question?
Why didn't they sell it straight away if they were so hard up?' asked
the presenter.

'Because good things like bad
often come in bundles, and at just about the same time the heir
apparent to the baronetcy caught himself a rich American heiress, so
they stowed the Hoard in the bank vault against a rainy day

'Which has now arrived’
interrupted the presenter, seeing his producer making
for-God's-sake-hurry-this-along signals from the control room.

Dalziel clearly felt much the
same. He'd returned with drinks and was sitting next to Cap on the
sofa, glowering at the screen with an intensity of hatred which he
usually only saved for winning Welsh rugby teams.

'So Lord Elsecar has put the
Hoard on the market’ continued the presenter at a gallop. 'The
best offer to date has been from America, the British Museum has been
given the chance to match it, but so far, even with lottery money and
a public appeal, they're still well short of the mark. So as a last
gasp, and following a suggestion made, one might even say a pressure
exerted, by the Yorkshire Archaeological Society led by yourself, the
Elsecars have agreed for the Hoard to go on tour, with all profits
from admission charges to go to the Save Our Hoard Fund. Will they do
it?'

Belchamber made hopeful noises.
Cap Marvell laughed derisively.

'Not a hope,' she said. 'They're
so far short they'd need everyone in Yorkshire to go five times to
get anywhere near! First time I've seen a lawyer who can't add up!'

That's great,' said the
presenter. 'So there you are, all you culture vultures, take the
family along to see the money your ancestors spent and what they
spent it on back in the Dark Ages. The Hoard will be on exhibition in
Bradford till the New Year, then in Sheffield till Friday, January
twenty-fifth, after which it moves to Mid-Yorkshire. Don't miss it!
And now the Christmas Party. How many kids are you hoping to get this
year, Marcus?'

Dalziel stood up and said, 'Like
another drink?'

I've hardly touched this one,'
said Cap as she picked up the remote control and zapped the sound
off. 'But I can take a hint. Is there some all-in wrestling on
another channel you want to watch?'

'No. It's just I hear quite
enough of yon turd, Belcher, without letting him into my own parlour’
said Dalziel.

'I take it this means he
represents criminals and does a rather good job of it?'

'He does better than a good job,'
said Dalziel grimly. 'He bends the law till it nigh on breaks. Every
top villain in the county's on his books. I'm late tonight 'cos there
was a scare with our one witness in the Linford case, and guess who's
representing Linford.'

'You're not suggesting that
Marcus Belchamber, solicitor, gentleman, scholar and philanthropist,
goes around intimidating witnesses?'

'Of course not. But I don't doubt
it's him as told Linford's dad, Wally, that the case was hopeless
unless they got shut of our witness. Any road, it turned out a false
alarm and I left Wieldy soothing the lad.'

'Oh yes. Is the sergeant a good
soother?'

'Oh aye. He tells 'em if they
don't calm down, he'll have to stay the night. That usually does the
trick.'

Cap, who sometimes had a problem
working out when Dalziel's political incorrectness was post-modern
ironical and when it was prehistoric offensive, turned the sound back
on.

'You look awfully smart, Marcus,'
the presenter was saying. 'Off clubbing tonight?'

Belchamber gave the weary little
smile with which in court he frequently underlined some prosecution
witness's inconsistency or inanity, and said, 'I'm driving to Leeds
for the Northern Law Society's dinner.'

'Well, don't drink too much or
you could end up defending yourself.'

'In which case I would have a
fool for a client,' said Belchamber. 'But rest easy. I shall be
spending the night there.'

'Only joking! Have a good night.
It's been a privilege having you on the show. Ladies and gentlemen,
Marcus Belchamber!'

Belchamber rose easily from the
depths of his chair, the presenter struggled to get upright, the two
men shook hands, and the lawyer walked off to enthusiastic applause.

'He's a fine-looking man’
said Cap provocatively.

'He'd look better strapped on the
end of a ducking stool’ said Dalziel.

'And did you notice that DJ?
Lovely cut. Conceals the embonpoint perfectly with no suggestion of
tightness. Next time you see him, you really must ask who his tailor
is.'

This was a provocation too far.

'Right, lass, if you just came
round here to be rude, you can bugger off back to that fancy flat of
thine. What did you come round for anyway?'

She grinned at him and ran her
tongue round the rim of her glass.

'Actually I just thought I'd pop
round to see what you wanted for Christmas’ she said
languorously.

‘I’ll need at least
thirty seconds to have a think’ said Dalziel. 'But it's not a
tangerine in a sock, I can tell you that for starters.'

Delective
Sergeant Edgar Wield was in a good mood as he mounted his ancient but
beautifully maintained Triumph Thunderbird and said farewell to
Mid-Yorkshire's Central Police Station with a quite unnecessary
crescendo of revs. A couple of uniformed constables coming into the
yard stood aside respectfully as he rode past them. He was still a
man of mystery to most of his junior colleagues, but whether you
thought of him as an ageing rocker who ate live chickens as he did
the ton along the central reservation of the Ml or believed the
rumours that he was matron -in-chief of a transvestite community
living in darkest Eendale, you didn't let any trace of speculation
and or amusement show. Dalziel was more obviously terrifying, Pascoe
had a finger of iron inside his velvet glove, but Wield's was the
face to haunt your dreams.

It had been a long day but in the
end quite productive. With time running out, a suspect had finally
cracked under the pressure of Wield's relentless questioning and
unreadable features. Then, just as he was leaving, Dalziel had tossed
into his lap the job of reassuring Oz Carnwath, the Linford case
witness, that the burly man on his doorstep talking about death
really had been an undertaker who'd mixed up addresses. He'd left the
young man happy and arranged for a patrol car to stop by from time to
time during the night. Then he'd returned to the station to put on
his leathers and pick up his bike, and finally he was on his way home
with all the pleasures of a crime-free Sunday in the company of Edwin
Digweed, his beloved partner, stretching ahead. Nothing special, he
doubted if they'd get further than the Morris, their local, or
perhaps take a stroll along the Een whose valley had the bone
structure to remain lovely even in midwinter, or go up to Enscombe
Old Hall to check haw Monte, the tiny marmoset he'd 'rescued' from a
pharmaceutical research laboratory, was coping with the cold weather.

Things must be
beautiful which, daily seen, please daily, or something like that.
One of Pascoe's little gags which usually drifted across his hearing
with small trace of their passage, but that one had stuck. As he
recalled it now, he tried superstitiously not to let the thought ‘
am a very lucky man
join it in his head.

He came to a halt at traffic
lights. Straight ahead the road which tracked the western boundary of
Charter Park stretched out temptingly. Parks are the lungs of the
city, and the fact that Mid-Yorkshire possessed an abundance of
beautiful countryside, easy of access and to suit all tastes, did not
mean the founding fathers had stinted when it came to pulmonary
provision in the towns. Over the years many unsentimental eyes had
looked greedily at these priceless green sites, but that lust for
'brass' which is proper to a Yorkshireman comes a poor second in his
defining characteristics to the determination that 'what's mine's me
own, and no bugger's going to take it from me'. Try as they might,
not an acre of ground, not a spadeful of earth, not a blade of grass,
had the developers ever managed to wrest from the grip of Charter
Park's owners in perpetuity - the taxable citizenry. So the road
alongside the park stretched straight and wide for a mile or more and
a man on a powerful machine might hit the ton, though it's doubtful
if he'd have much time to digest a live chicken.

Wield let himself be tempted. It
was a safe indulgence. Over the years he had grown sufficiently
strong in resisting temptation to be able to drink the heady potion
more deeply than most men.

The lights turned green, the
engine roared, but it was the roar of an old lion saying he could run
down that wildebeest if he wanted but on the whole he thought he'd
probably stretch under a bush and have a nap.

The sergeant moved forward
sedately and legally.

It was his slowness that
permitted him to see the attempted abduction taking place in the car
park which ran much of the length of the park.

Separated from the main road by a
long colonnade of lime trees, it was in fact more like a parallel
thoroughfare. During the day, visitors to the park left the cars
there in a single line. On a summer night it might be quite crowded,
but in the middle of winter, apart from the odd vehicle whose
steamed-up windows advertised the presence of young love or old lust,
there was rarely much activity. But as he went by, Wield saw a man
trying to drag a young boy into his slow-moving car.

He braked sharply, went into a
speedway racer's skid, straightened up to negotiate the gap between
two lime trees, found it was already occupied by a bench, realigned
his machine at the next gap, went through, lost a bit of traction on
the loose shaley surface as he straightened up, and lost some time
wrestling the Thunderbird back under control. All the while he was
blasting out warnings of his approach on the horn.

Prevention was better than cure
and the last thing he wanted was a high-speed chase through city
streets in pursuit of a car carrying a kidnapped child.

It worked. Ahead he saw the boy
sprawling on the ground with the abductor's vehicle roaring off in a
cloud of dust which, aided by the fact that the car's lights weren't
switched on, made it impossible to get the number plate.

He pulled up alongside the boy,
who had pushed himself into a sitting position. He looked about ten,
maybe a bit older, twelve, say. He had big dark eyes, curly black
hair and a thin pale face. He had grazed his hand on falling and he
was holding it to his mouth to wash it and ease the pain. He looked
angry rather than terrified.

'You OK, son?' said Wield,
dismounting.

'Yeah, I think so.'

His accent was local urban. He
began to rise and Wield said, 'Hold on. Got any pain anywhere?'

'Nah. Just this fucking hand.'

'You sure? OK. Easy does it.'

Wield took his arm and helped him
up.

He winced as he rose then moved
all his limbs in turn as if to show they worked.

'Great,' said Wield. He reached
inside his leathers and pulled out his mobile.

'What you doing?' demanded the
boy.

'Just getting someone to look out
for that guy who grabbed you. Did you notice the make of car? Looked
like a Montego to me.'

'No. I mean, I didn't notice.
Look, why bother? Forget it. He's gone.'

A very self-possessed youngster.

'You might forget it, son. But
that doesn't mean he's not going to try again.'

Try what?'

'Abducting someone.'

'Yeah . . . well

The boy thrust his hands deep
into the pockets of his thin windcheater, hunched his shoulders and
began to move away. He looked waif and forlorn.

'Hey, where are you going?' said
Wield.

'What's it to you?'

'I'm worried, that's all’
said Wield. 'Look, you've had a shock. You shouldn't be wandering
round here at this time of night. Hop up behind me and I'll give you
a lift.'

The boy regarded him
speculatively.

'Lift where?' he said.

Wield considered. Offering to
take the boy home might not be a good move. Maybe it was what awaited
him at home that sent him wandering the streets so late. Best way to
find out could be a low-key, friendly chat, unencumbered by the
revelation that he was a cop. He put the phone away. The car would be
long gone by now and what did he have anyway? A dark blue Montego,
maybe.

'Fancy a coffee or a Coke or
something?' he said.

'OK’ said the boy. 'Why
not? You know Turk's?'

'Know of it’ said Wield.
'Hop on. You got a name?'

'Lee’ said the boy as he
swung his leg over the pillion. 'You?'

'You can call me Mac. Hold on.'

The boy ignored the advice and
sat there loosely as if not anticipating any need for anchorage.
Wield said nothing but accelerated along the car park till the lime
trees began to blur, then braked to swing between them and rejoin the
main road. He smiled as he felt the boy's arms swing round his
midriff and lock on tight.

Turk's caff was situated in the
lee of the Central Station. It was basic just this side of squalid,
but had the advantage of staying open late, the theory being it would
catch hungry travellers after the station snackbars pulled down their
shutters early in the evening. In fact the regular - indeed one might
say the permanent - clientele seemed to consist of solitary men in
shabby parkas hunched over empty coffee mugs, who gave few signs that
they ever contemplated travelling anywhere. The only person who
showed any sign of life, and that only enough to offer a customer
slow and resentful service, was the morose and taciturn owner, the
eponymous Turk, whose coffee was reason enough to keep a country out
of the EU, never mind Human Rights, thought Wield, as he watched the
boy drink Coke and tuck into a chunk of glutinous cheesecake.