Child's Play

Chapter 13

Dennis Seymour had mixed feelings about Operation Shoplift. It was (a) very boring and (b) very unsuccessful, which was to say that while he was yawning in one place, the thieves always seemed to be thieving in another.

But it did give him a legitimate excuse to spend part of the day in the city centre’s largest store, Starbuck’s, where he took his refreshment in the restaurant at one of the tables serviced by Bernadette McCrystal.

‘You’re never here again!’ she said. ‘The old dragon follows me around with a calculator. She’s sure I’m slipping you freebies.’

‘What? And me saving the store thousands with me dangerous undercover work,’ said Seymour, parodying her Irish lilt.

She laughed as she walked away, an infectious trill which made her other regular customers smile. Seymour felt a little jealous of them but not much. He and Bernadette had been seeing each other regularly since they met the previous year and though so far she had resisted all his attempts to get her into his bed, he was almost certain she felt as strongly about him as he did about her. She loved dancing — real dancing, as she called it, none of your heathen shaking — and he had discovered something almost sexual in that formal and public coordination of two bodies, which, plus a great deal of heavy petting, not to mention a lot of hot squash and cold showers, had kept his frustration within tolerable bounds to date.

She returned a few minutes later with a plateful of lamb chops, roast potatoes and steamed cabbage.

‘I don’t like cabbage,’ he protested. ‘I wanted peas.’

‘There’s another chop under it,’ she whispered. ‘You can’t hide a chop under peas now, can you?’

Seymour shook his mop of carrot-bright hair which promised a good account of itself when his genes finally mixed with those producing the subtler, richer redness of the girl’s.

‘You’re a natural criminal,’ he said. ‘I’m glad Sergeant Wield’s calling this farce off after today.’

‘Today, is it? So I’ll have to find someone else to steal for?’

‘You’d better not,’ he said. ‘Incidentally, the old girl’s really glowering. Shouldn’t you be off to fetch me that glass of beer I ordered and you’ve forgotten.’

But Bernadette seemed to have lost interest in their exchange of badinage and found it in something over his head and behind him. Starbuck’s restaurant occupied nearly half of the second floor and was divided off from the shopping area by a glass wall which permitted the passage of light but not of cooking smells. This wall was hung with a variety of ornamental plants, mostly of the trailing variety, producing an effect which Seymour had likened to an unkempt fish tank. In the best police tradition he always chose to sit with his back to this wall and his face to the main body of the restaurant.

‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘Have you spotted Tarzan swinging about one of those creepers?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘This is your last day, is it? Will you get a bonus for catching somebody at it?’

‘Sergeant Wield might smile, but I probably wouldn’t notice,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘There’s a young fellow through there, stuffing things into his bag like there’s no tomorrow,’ said Bernadette.

Startled, Seymour turned and peered through the greenery. Immediately behind him was the section of the store devoted to leather goods — wallets, purses, ornamental knick-knacks, that sort of thing — and there, sure enough, was a young man in a blue and yellow check shirt, jeans and trainers, examining items in a critical way, returning some of them to the shelf, and thrusting those which passed his scrutiny into a large plastic carrier bag over his left arm.

‘Perhaps he’s got a lot of birthdays this month,’ said Bernadette.

‘Mebbe.’

As they watched, the man set off at a brisk pace across the floor, passing two cash-and-wrap points without a glance and making towards the lifts.

‘Sorry about the chop, love,’ said Seymour. ‘I’ll pick you up tonight, usual time. ’Bye.’

Bernadette watched him go. He moved well for a big man. His dancing had improved a hundredfold since she took him under her wing. Not that he’d ever be Fred Astaire, but he would do very well for her if it wasn’t that her heart sank lower than a peat bog every time she thought of telling them back home that she was wanting to marry a Protestant English policeman.

She sighed, picked up the chops and returned to the kitchen. The old dragon blocked her way.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘He’s run off without paying,’ said Bernadette. ‘Shall I go and call a policeman?’

Peter Pascoe was leaving his office at what he thought of as a mental tiptoe. This meant that to the casual gaze his body gave the impression of a detective-inspector whose week’s work had finished at one o’clock on Saturday and who was on his way home to spend the rest of the weekend relaxing in the bosom of his family. But his soul, or whatever that part of being is which contains our individual essence, was not striding out confidently. It was sneaking out furtively with many a backward glance, hearing a voice in every wind, and the voice was Dalziel’s.

The fat man’s timing was usually deadly. There would be a matter of unpostponable import to discuss; the Black Bull would be the place to discuss it; and the weekend which should have started with a light lunch with Ellie and Rose about one-thirty would instead kick off with a beery row about three.

Pascoe had just made it to the bottom of the stairs. The door to the car park and freedom was in view. Then the voice spoke.

‘Any chance of a quick word?’

He turned his head reluctantly, summoning up his nerve this time for the great refusal. Then relief washed over him like rain in a heat wave. It was only Wield.

‘Yes, sure, if you can walk and talk,’ he said, resuming his progress into the car park.

Wield followed. His craggy features showed as little of his inner turmoil as Pascoe’s had shown of his inner stealth. He had woken up that morning to find that Cliff had already breakfasted and gone out. As the day wore on, he had found himself beset by a need repressed for years, the need to talk about himself, not necessarily in a soul-searching, dial-Samaritans kind of way, but with an openness which a lifetime of disguise made difficult. But to whom? And the election had fallen on Pascoe, colleague, superior, and if not precisely a friend, at least the nearest thing to one he had in the ‘normal’ world.

‘I thought, mebbe a quick half … not the Black Bull … if you’ve got the time … it’s personal …’

Oh shit! thought Pascoe. One half of his mind was doubting if Ellie would be much impressed by the fact that it was Wield not Dalziel and some pub other than the Black Bull which made him late for his lunch. And the other half was trying to cope with the horrid suspicion that the rock-like Wield was about to turn to shifting sand. Wield with personal problems? It was a contradiction in terms! Jesus wept, the man had no right to be anything but a Victorian Gothic tower of strength!

Surprised and ashamed at the depth of his instinctive resentment, Pascoe said, ‘I can’t manage too long …’

But he was saved from further ungraciousness by another voice calling his name.

Once again it wasn’t Dalziel but Sergeant Broomfield, maker of illicit books and one of the central pivots of uniformed life in the Station.

‘Sorry to butt in, but I just wondered, that car in the corner, is it something to do with your lads?’

Pascoe looked. The car in question was a battered green Escort, parked tight against the wall in the most unpopular corner of the yard where a branch of the large chestnut tree on the neighbouring premises shed its stickiness, and gave the birds a good perch from which to shed theirs, on whatever stood below.

‘Not that I know of. Why?’

‘Just wondered. It was there first thing, that’s all.’

The two men stood and regarded the vehicle, thoughts of terrorist car bombs unspoken in their minds.

‘Let’s take a look,’ said Pascoe.

Glancing apologetically at Wield, he headed for the Escort with Broomfield reluctantly in pursuit.

He didn’t touch the car but peered in from a couple of feet. The windows were so begrimed as to make it very difficult to see much more than the steering wheel.

A car swung into the yard and its horn blasted, making Pascoe and Broomfield jump nervously. Pascoe looked round and glimpsed Seymour’s grinning face.

‘Silly bastard,’ he muttered and returned his attention to the Escort.

‘What do you think, sir?’ said Broomfield.

What Pascoe thought was if he didn’t do something now, he’d have to hang around while somebody was fetched who would do something and that might take hours.

He took a deep breath, reached forward to the handle of the passenger door and tried to open it. It seemed to be jammed rather than locked. He gave a sudden violent tug and it flew open.

‘Oh Jesus!’ said Broomfield. ‘They’ve started a delivery service.’

It was a comment to treasure later, but not then.

Pascoe was too busy being amazed as he looked down at the body which slowly slid out of the car door.

It was a man and he was certainly dead; no living eyes could stare so sightlessly or living limbs be locked in so cramped a pose.

He peered closer. There was blood on the man’s shirt, though from what kind of wound he could not see.

‘Don’t touch anything,’ he said to Broomfield with what he hoped was unnecessary pedantry. ‘Sergeant Wield.’

To his surprise, the discovery of the body seemed to have startled Wield even more than the two closer men. His rugged features had gone quite pale and there was a smear of perspiration on his lips.

What’s up with the bloody man? wondered Pascoe.

‘Come on, Wieldy,’ he urged. ‘Bang goes Saturday, eh?’

But the sergeant did not answer. His eyes were still fixed on the entrance to the Station through which he had just seen Detective-Constable Seymour, after giving him a triumphant thumbs-up sign, escort Cliff Sharman.