On Beulah Height (32 page)

"They'll need to talk to me first," said Billie Saltair with an anticipatory smile. "No one tells me what to do at the Wark."

"Not even your boss?"

"My boss?" said Saltair sounding surprised.

"The owner. The consultant who made you the offer you couldn't refuse."

"Oh, you mean my husband?" She laughed at Novello's expression. "I should have said. That was the offer I couldn't refuse. He's retired now." She grinned rather wickedly. "I've told him there's a bed waiting for him here the first sign he gives of senility, like trying to interfere with the way I run things. I think he half believes me."

And so do I, thought Novello as she headed out into the savage brightness of that moorland sun.

And so do I!

Wield yawned.

Sergeant Clark, not normally an imaginative man, somehow found himself thinking of a visit to Wookey Hole he'd made on holiday years back.

"You were saying, Nobby?"

Wield's face had resumed its normal blank cragginess.

"Oh, aye. She said you rather than the super, if that was possible."

So WOULDC Novello finds me more user friendly than Fat Andy, thought Wield. Should I be flattered?

He yawned again. It wasn't just his even earlier-than-usual reveille that was making him tired. It was the emotional energy he'd used in making the visit to the hospital, plus the hours he'd spent since in that claustrophobic interview room going round and round in ever-decreasing circles with Ringmaster Hoddle cracking the whip.

Well, it was over now. Dalziel had taken Clark's interruption as the signal to abandon hope even though there were still ten minutes to go on the clock.

He picked up the phone and said, "Wield."

He listened carefully to what she told him, making notes in his notebook.

When she finished he said, "So what do you do now?"

Surprised, she said, "That's why I was ringing, Sarge. To get instructions."

"You're the one hot on the scent," said Wield. "How do you see the next move?"

She hesitated then said, "I know it's a lousy time and all that, but I wonder if someone shouldn't run this by the DCI. I mean, it was his call, and he may have thought it through a lot further than the rest of us. ... I mean, that's the way he does things, isn't it? Coming at them sort of cockeyed. ... I don't mean--"

"I know what you mean," said Wield gently. "You're dead right. Someone ought to run this past him."

"That's the way I see it," said Novello relieved. "So what shall I do till I hear from you?"

"From me?" echoed Wield.

"Or from the super, whoever does it."

"Into job delegation, are you?" said Wield. "No, this one's up to you. Got a pen? I'll give you Mr. Pascoe's mobile number."

"Sarge, I couldn't ... it's not right ... someone who's a friend, maybe. ..."

"That what you're going to say next time you're told to question some woman who's just seen her husband kicked to death, is it? Any road, if you don't think Mr. Pascoe's your friend, then I can't imagine who you think is. So write this down. And keep me posted."

As he replaced the receiver after dictating the number, it rang again.

"Mr. Dalziel, please," said a female voice.

"Mr. Dalziel's"--busy he'd been going to say, but as the Fat Man walked into the office at that moment, mopping his brow with a khaki handkerchief like the side of a military marquee, he emended it to "--here."

"Hello?" growled Dalziel.

"If I were you, I'd take a closer look at Walter Wulfstan."

The line went dead.

"Anything?" said Wield as Dalziel banged the phone down.

"Some nut telling me to take a close look at Wulfstan."

"And will you?"

"At the moment all I want to take a close look at is a yard of ale. Let's sneak out the back while Turnbull and Hoddle are attracting the press flies out front."

The Coach and Horses was only a few yards down the street, and seated in its cool dark bar, the Fat Man downed his first pint in a single draft and was well into his second as Wield filled him in on Novello's report.

"And you've told her to ring Pete? That's a bit hard, isn't it?"

"Who for, sir?"

"Both on 'em! Her for having to do it and him for having to answer it."

This was a new situation, Dalziel playing Mr. Nice to Wield's Mr. Nasty.

He said carefully, "When I saw Pete this morning, it seemed to me that what he needs least is being left to himself. I'd say he's not been really right since that business about his great-granddad, and this thing with his lass is--could be--a last straw. Even if all Novello gets is a blasting, at least it'll have been a diversion."

"So that's Pete taken care of. What about the lass?"

"Part of the learning curve, isn't that what they say, sir?"

"Is that what it is? Well, women have different curves from men, or mebbe you haven't noticed. Seems to me she's making summat from nothing out of this assignment and she ought to be encouraged."

"My reading of her is that's exactly what this is. Encouragement."

"Oh, aye? What do you do for reward out there at Enscombe? Kick each other in the teeth?"

Dalziel finished his second pint and signaled for a third. A memory of the one he'd left standing in The Book and Candle flashed across his mind.

"So what do you think, sir," said Wield, moving the subject on, "--the old lady's visitor, could it be Benny?"

"Who ran off to Oz to join his mum and has now come back on a trip, had a chat with his gran, then decided to come up here and start where he left off, killing little lasses? Make a great book, Wieldy. I'll wait for the movie."

"But the facts, sir--"

"Facts? What a teenage nurse thought she heard a half-blind, half-doolally old woman say?"

"But alongside Mrs. Hardcastle's sighting--"

"That's a fact now, too, is it?" said Dalziel. "Only fact about that is that it set her plonker of a lad running riot with a spray gun. ..."

He paused, and supped another gill of ale.

"He'd have had to notice it, wouldn't he, Wieldy?" he said. "If any man on God's earth is going to notice a sign saying BENNY'S BACK!, it's Walter Wulfstan. But he never mentioned it. And now we're getting funny phone calls."

He drained his pot and stood up.

"Where are we going, sir?" said Wield, taking a farewell sip of his shandy.

Dalziel hesitated then said, "Nay, lad, you get back to St. Mike's and make sure George Headingley's not using them computers to work out his pension fund."

"And you, sir. Where will you be in case we need you?"

"I think I'll pop round and have another chat to Wulfstan."

"At the Science Park?"

"Mebbe closer than that." He raised his voice and addressed the man behind the bar. "Landlord, I feel a religious fit coming on. How do I find my way to the Beulah Chapel?"

In fact if guilt is the starting point of religion, Andy Dalziel's jocularity had a grain of truth in it, for he felt slightly guilty as he parted from Wield and went in search of the chapel.

It was true, he had good reason to believe Wulfstan could be there this afternoon, but he also had a feeling, or a hope, or something, that Cap Marvell might also be around. Wield knew the woman, knew of their past relationship, and while Dalziel was far too pachydermatous an animal to worry about his colleagues' speculating about a relationship, he didn't care to think of them reaching a conclusion before he did.

So giving the sergeant his conge, plus a curiously puritanical self-doubt as to whether in a case like this, at a time like this, he had any right for such private and personal concerns, left the Fat Man uneasy.

He shook his head to dislodge the feeling like a bear dislodging a bee, and considered his location. Left under an arch, down an alleyway and the chapel's in yard at bottom, the landlord had said.

There was the arch. He turned under it. By contrast with the bright street the alleyway was a railway tunnel, so when the voice spoke, he had a problem spotting its source.

"I see he's back, then."

"Eh?" said Dalziel, poised on the balls of his feet with his fists lightly clenched, ready for either punching or grappling. Strange voices in dark places didn't always presage trouble, but it was worth an across-the-board bet.

"Yon mad bugger, Lightfoot. He's back. I'd have thought you'd have known."

The voice was lightly matter-of-fact, and had the reediness of age or perhaps adolescence. Dalziel relaxed a little and blinked rapidly till his sight adjusted to the new light level.

He saw a shape first, small enough to be a boy. Then his brain filled in a face and he leapt rapidly to the other end of the scale. It was a hollow, sunken face with deep clefts in the skin to mark the cheekbones and split the brow, over which hung a few wisps of thin, graying hair.

It also had something familiar about it.

"Telford?" said Dalziel doubtfully. "Joe Telford? Is that you?"

"It was," said the man. "Long time no see, Mr. Dalziel."

It was indeed. But not as long as that evidenced by this man's appearance. He must still be in his forties! thought Dalziel. And while he'd never been a large man, surely he'd been taller than this?

He took a few steps toward the sunlight at the end of the alleyway and the man moved back before him, like flotsam pushed up the beach by the tide. Now the reason for the height loss became evident. Telford walked with a stoop, leaning heavily on a thick ashen stick. The dark brown suit he wore, making no concessions to the heat, may once have fitted, but now it hung on his slight frame like a tea towel on a beer pump.

The alleyway ended in an open cobbled yard, across which Dalziel saw the Beulah Chapel. It was an imposing building, constructed of dark red brick and looking rather out of place, certainly out of proportion, in this location. A faint buzz came out of it as from a huge hive of bees. The yard itself was littered with a carpenter's bench, several trestles bearing lengths of wood, and plastic carriers stuffed with tools.

Telford had halted, still in the alleyway's shade. He was tidy enough despite the ill-fitting suit, clean shaven, and smelled of soap and sawdust rather than neglect. This was slightly but not totally reassuring. Dalziel had met too many folk in whom cleanliness was next to dottiness, and his inner sensors were telling him Joe Telford was dotty as a dartboard.

"So how're you doing, Mr. Telford?" said the Fat Man.

"I get by. It's been a worry, but."

"Aye, I daresay it has," said Dalziel.

"Still, wi' a bit of luck, you'll catch bugger this time and that'll be an end on it."

It was the unremittingly matter-of-fact tone of voice which was perhaps the most unnerving thing about the man. In fact, the premature aging apart, it was the only unnerving thing about him. So why was he getting that care-in-the-community tingle? Dalziel decided to apply a subtle psychological test.

"Sorry to hear about your missus," he said. "Must've been a shock."

Telford looked at him and scratched his chin reflectively.

"Not so much of a shock as it'll be to our George when he sees what she does to a tube of toothpaste," he said.

Dalziel smiled approvingly. Flying colors. That was how you expected a down-to-earth Yorkie to react to domestic strife.

"So you're letting the singers use the chapel," he said.

"Aye. Why not? To tell truth, Mr. Dalziel, I don't spend a lot of time down here. And Mr. Wulfstan were always a good customer in the old days. Owt needed done at Heck, he always went local, didn't bring in some fancy Dan from town like a lot of them off-comers. He'll be glad of it too."

"Glad of having somewhere for his concert, you mean? I expect he will."

"No. Glad you're close to getting things sorted. He'll be wanting to see his little lass as much as me."

"See his lass?" echoed Dalziel. "Aye, I daresay, I daresay."

He was thinking remains. He didn't need any bereavement counselor to tell him how important it was for a parent's peace of mind to have a proper funeral, a proper leave-taking, after no matter how many years.

But Telford's next words sent him reeling back to his initial diagnosis.

"This sun's a bloody nuisance, but. You'll have to take care of that when you find them. Could burn their eyes out after all them years in the dark. Best wait for night afore you fetch them out."

"Fetch them out? Out of where, Mr. Telford?"

"Out of yon hole in the Neb he's been keeping them in all these years. Aye, night 'ud be best. Then let them get used to the light gradual like."

Oh, fuck, thought Dalziel. The poor bastard wasn't talking remains, he was talking recovery, he was talking resurrection. He thought his lost lass was going to come up blinking out of some dark cave in the hillside where Benny had kept her all these years. Did he think she'd be older or that some magical suspension of time would have kept her the same age as when she got taken? Dalziel didn't want to know. It was that rare thing, a problem beyond his competence. He remembered Telford's wife. A small, strong woman who had balled up her apron and stuffed it into her mouth when she heard the news. He guessed she'd have kept her suffering to as far as she could, would finally have come to some sort of terms with it. But what was beyond her strength, what she couldn't come to terms with after all these years, was the matter-of-fact craziness of her husband, his gentle insistence that little Madge was alive under the Neb somewhere, just waiting to be rescued. So she'd run. Not far, just to George, who bore a strong physical resemblance to his brother. He bet they lived close. He bet they kept a close eye on Joe. And the Danbyians would accept it. In matters of extramarital lust Yorkshire rustics could be as unforgiving as a government chief whip, but in terms of domestic practicality, they were often more laid back than Latins.

He said gently, "We'll do what's right, Mr. Telford. Is Mr. Wulfstan here now?"

"Aye, him and some others. I'm just waiting for the truck to come. Mr. Wulfstan's arranged to have my bits and pieces taken round to store at his place in the Science Park. I told him not to bother, they'd not come to harm in this weather. But he insisted. He's a good man."