On Beulah Height (39 page)

"Like sex, only till the next time," said Inger.

Edgar Wield wouldn't have minded a lie-in that morning.

His own sense of guilt had got him up early the previous morning, and the Fat Man's sense of guilt had kept him up late the previous night. But he'd missed his morning visit to Monte in order to get to the hospital, and to miss it again would just add guilt to guilt, so he slipped out of bed at his usual ungodly (edwin's epithet) hour.

Not perhaps all that ungodly, however. For as he strolled through the churchyard, the church door opened and Larry Lillingstone, the vicar, came out. A handsome young man, his present unclerical garb of jersey and shorts made him look more Apolline acolyte than Anglican divine.

Wield ran his gaze appreciatively over the suntanned limbs and said, "Morning, Larry. This what they call muscular Christianity?"

"Just off for my jog," said Lillingstone, smiling. "This truly is the best time of day. You can't believe there's much wrong with the world on mornings like this, can you?"

Wield thought of the Dacres waking from whatever chemical sleep they'd managed, of the Pascoes keeping their desperate vigil by Rosie's bed. But joy was as rare and refreshing as rain these past few days, so he returned the smile and said, "Dead right. Specially if you've been lucky enough to get yourself a bonny lass like Kee Scudamore. I gather congratulations are in order."

"How on earth ... we only decided yesterday and I've not told anyone. ..." Then Lillingstone laughed and went on. "What am I saying? This is Enscombe! Yes, Kee's going to marry me, and I'm the happiest ... Bloody hell!"

This impious ejaculation was caused by the sudden descent from the branches of the old yew under which they stood of a small furry figure onto Wield's head, where it clung, gibbering.

"How do, Monte," said Wield, gently drawing the little monkey down into his arms. "What's up, Vicar? Think the devil had come for a visit?"

"It's strange how medieval the mind can be in moments of stress," admitted Lillingstone.

"Never fear. I missed my visit yesterday morning and he's obviously made his mind up it's not going to happen twice, so he's come looking for me, right, Monte?"

"Well, certainly if you ever became Enscombe's second missing policeman, there'd be no need to mount a search party, would there?" said Lillingstone, referring to the event which had first brought Wield to Enscombe.

"No," said Wield thoughtfully. "No. Likely there wouldn't. Excuse me, Vicar, but I think I'd best be getting to work. Enjoy your run. And you, you little bugger, enjoy your nuts."

Putting the muslin bag of peanuts into Monte's paws, he launched the tiny animal up into the yew and watched as he commenced his aerial route back to his tree house in the grounds of Old Hall. Then, with a wave of his hand which comprehended both man and monkey, he set off back the way he'd come.

The first person he saw as he got off his motorbike in Danby was Sergeant Clark, who had the faintly self-important look of a man who knows more than you do.

"Super around?" asked Wield.

"Been and gone," said Clark.

Wield waited, not asking more. "No wonder the bugger's such a good interviewer," Dalziel had once observed. "Face like that's worth a thousand clever questions."

"He's gone to Bixford," said Clark. "Word came this morning, Geordie Turnbull's been attacked."

If he'd been looking for oohs and ahs, he was disappointed.

"Tell us," said Wield impassively.

"Local patrol car were driving by his place early on. Seems the super had said to keep a close eye on Turnbull. Well, the big gate were open. It's always kept shut, save when he's got machinery coming in and out, that is. They went in to check and found Turnbull looking like he'd gone three rounds with Tyson."

Wield, who abhorred imprecision above all things, said impatiently, "Just how bad is he?"

"Looked worse than it was," admitted Clark almost reluctantly. "Few cuts and a squashed nose, they say. Turnbull were trying to patch himself up, and he didn't want to make it official. But the lads called it in anyway."

"Very wise," said Wield.

"So what do you think? There's a lot of folk round here said when we let him go that best thing would have been to kick the truth out of him."

"I hope you got their names, then, 'cos likely Mr. Dalziel will want to talk to them," said Wield heavily. "One thing's for sure, if that was the aim of the exercise, he's off the hook."

"How's that?" asked Clark, puzzled.

"If he'd admitted owt, they wouldn't have left him nursing his wounds, would they?" said Wield. "Something you can do for me, Nobby. That vet I read about, Douglas is it? Where's he hang out?"

Clark told him. Wield put his crash helmet back on and flung his leg over the bike.

"You not going inside?" demanded Clark. "What shall I say if anyone asks after you?"

Wield grinned, like a fissure in a rock.

"Tell them I've gone to see a man about a dog," he said.

Andy Dalziel was meanwhile standing over Geordie Turnbull, looking minded to start where the intruder had stopped.

"You're not helping anyone, Geordie, least of all yourself. He could be back. So why not tell me who it was, what he were after, and I'll sort it?"

"I've told you, Mr. Dalziel. I never saw his face. He jumped me, knocked hell out of me, then took off."

"You're a bloody liar," said Dalziel. "You'd have been straight on the phone to us, in that case. But you're so keen to keep it quiet, you don't even bother with getting treatment in case someone reports it. That eye needs a couple of stitches, I'd say. And your nose could do with being lined up with your gob again."

"Maybe so, but at least I keep it out of other buggers' business," retorted Turnbull spiritedly.

"I think this is my business, Geordie," said Dalziel. "I think this is about them missing lasses."

"Do you think if I knew anything about that, I'd not tell you?" demanded Turnbull. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take your advice and go down to the clinic. As everyone in the place'll know what's happened by now, I might as well save them the trouble of thinking up excuses to come and gawk."

"I'll find out in the end, tha knows that, Geordie," promised Dalziel.

"I don't doubt it, Mr. Dalziel," said Turnbull. "But as it could take you another fifteen years, I won't hold my breath."

It was a parting shot that not even the adamantine defenses of the great Andy Dalziel could parry.

He went out to his car, glaring up at the already ferocious sun as though thinking about tearing it out of the sky. But the eye of God beamed benevolently back, knowing that this fiery fury was nothing but the inflamed swelling round a deep wound of despair.

The eye of God, which makes no distinctions of persons, was beaming with equal benevolence on Police Constable Hector as he left Mid-Yorkshire Police Headquarters and began his slow perambulation through the center of town. His gait was not exactly majestic; in fact he moved as if under the control of a trainee puppeteer who'd got his strings tangled. This was also an apt metaphor for how his superiors felt. Finding a niche for a man of his talents had been difficult. For a time the conventional wisdom was that the public weal would be best served by keeping Hector hid in the bowels of the building, "helping" with records. But the increase in computerization had put an end to that. Though specifically forbidden to touch anything that had switches, buttons, lights, or made a humming noise, Hector's mere presence seemed somehow perilous to the proper function of electronic equipment. "He's a human virus," declared the sergeant in charge. "Get him out of here else he'll be into the Pentagon War Room in a fortnight!" A spell on the desk had brought complaints from the public that they got better service from Mid-Yorks Water. Finally, when the Evening Post supported a local campaign to get bobbies back on the beat with a piece of research from the Applied Psychology Department of MYU showing that life-sized cardboard cutouts of policemen in supermarkets reduced the incidence of shoplifting by half, the ACC said, "Well, we can manage that, at any rate," and Hector was returned into the community.

But not without some necessary fail-safes. He had to radio in every thirty minutes, else a car was sent out to look for him. If his assistance was required in any matter more serious than a request for the time, he had to contact Control for instructions. And in particular, he was strictly forbidden to make any attempt to direct traffic, as his last venture in that area had resulted in a gridlock which made the chief constable miss a train.

But when the copies of Wield's modified photo of Benny Lightfoot had been handed out that morning, Hector had taken his with the rest and registered that they were being instructed to ask people if they had seen this man. The instruction was, in fact, aimed at patrol-car officers, who were advised particularly to check garages in the district in case the camper van had been filled up with gasoline. Door-to-door inquiries were being concentrated on the Danby area. But Hector, delighted to have a task he comprehended, thrust the photo in front of any pedestrians he encountered, demanding, "Have you seen this man?" but rarely staying for an answer as his eager eye spotted yet another target who might pass him by unless he hurried.

It was with some irritation that he felt himself tapped on the shoulder as he blocked the way of a young man on a skateboard. He turned to find himself looking at the woman he'd just questioned.

"What?" he demanded.

"I said yes," she said.

"Eh?"

"You asked me if I'd seen that man and I said yes."

"Oh."

He scowled partly in puzzlement, partly because he'd just noticed the skateboarder had taken the chance to glide away.

"Right," he said. "So you've seen him then?"

"I said so, didn't I?"

This was undeniable.

He said, "Hang on, will you?" and looked at his personal radio. One of the buttons had been painted fluorescent orange by a kindly sergeant who had then written in Hector's notebook, "Press the bright orange button when you want to talk."

Hector actually remembered this, but checked in his book just to be quite sure.

"Hello?" he said. "This is Hector talking. Over."

He had an official call sign, but no one was foolish enough to insist on it.

"Hector, you're ahead of yourself, aren't you? You're not due to check in for another ten minutes."

"I know. It's yon photo you gave me. I showed it to this woman and she says she's seen the man. What do you want me to do?"

"The pho--his Hector, where are you?"

"Hang on."

He turned his head slowly looking for something to locate himself by.

The woman said, "You're in Bra.gate. Can you hurry this up? I'll be late for work."

"She says we're in Bra.gate, Sarge," said Hector.

"She's still with you, is she? Thank God for that. Stay there, Hector. And whatever you do don't let her leave, right?"

"Right," said Hector. "How shall I stop her?"

"You're a policeman, for God's sake!" yelled the sergeant. "Just keep her there!"

"Right," said Hector again.

He switched off his radio and replaced it with great care. Then he turned to the woman.

"So what's going off?" she asked.

He said, "You are under arrest. You do not have to say anything, but I have to warn you that anything you do say will be taken down--"

"This is crazy," she said angrily. "I'm off."

She turned to walk away. Hector with some difficulty pulled out his new style long baton, and set out after her.

Fortunately his first swing missed entirely and the patrol car had turned up before he could get into position to try a second.

The car officers got the woman into the backseat and calmed her down, then listened to what she had to tell them.

She finished with "And I've got to get to work now. With the cutbacks we're short staffed as it is, and if I'm not there to get things started, there'll be real trouble."

"Someone from CID will need to talk to you," said the driver. "But from the sound of it, it's best they do that at work anyway. So let's be on our way."

Through the window open against the morning heat, Hector said, "What shall I do?"

The woman told him.

"Couldn't have put it better myself, luv," said the driver, grinning broadly as he drove away.

That morning of early rising, Shirley Novello slept late.

Sparing only enough time to make herself look as if she hadn't just fallen out of bed, she drove to headquarters with a disregard for speed limits and road courtesy which she would have found deplorable in a civilian.

By the time she'd parked her car, she was awake enough to find it deplorable in herself. Two minutes she might have saved, if that. And for what? Dalziel and Wield and all important people would be clocking on at Danby. It was only the supernumeraries like herself who were kept on the perimeter of the inquiry, tidying up. She herself was faced with the possibility of another tedious trip down to Sheffield if old Mrs. Lightfoot had revived sufficiently to be interviewed.

Still, even if the big guns were away, no need to give the little pistols ammunition.

She opened the door of the CID room and strolled in, trying to look as if she'd been researching down in Records for the past half hour.

Dennis Seymour looked up from his desk and said in a loud voice, "Morning, Shirley. You're looking gorgeous today. But then why shouldn't you be, with all that beauty sleep you're having?"

She glowered at him, angry that someone she thought of as a mate should be pointing the finger like this. Then it dawned on her that Seymour was the only person in the room.

"Where's everybody?" she asked.

"Busy," he said. "Things don't stop just because you're asleep. All our suspects have been in the action. Geordie Turnbull's been attacked and there's been a definite sighting of Benny Lightfoot in Dendale. We even have a good likeness, thanks to our own Toulouse-Lautrec."

He tossed Novello a copy of Wield's updated picture.