Child's Play

Chapter 5

Henry Vollans had left the Old Mill Inn with a sense of great relief. Not even the attentions of the attractively upholstered daughter of the house, offered (though he did not know it) on the rebound from the suddenly disenchanted Seymour, could compensate for the aggressive tedium of John Huby’s conversation. Vollans was happy to put the man out of his mind and turn his thoughts once more to the enigmatic Sarah Brodsworth. Pascoe clearly thought she was a plant from some organization, after the Huby money. But if so, which? He suspected Pascoe knew more about her than he was saying whereas he himself knew rather less.

But he had a few not inconsiderable advantages over Pascoe. For one thing, he was young and looked like Robert Redford. Should Sarah Brodsworth herself remain resistant to his charms, then he would have to turn them even more strongly on the old girl. It might mean several more hours of colonial reminiscence but somewhere in there he would learn everything about Brodsworth that the ancient biddy could tell him.

So immersed was he in his plans that he hardly noticed the police car till he almost hit it.

Oh shit! he said to himself, thinking of all the reasons why they might be stopping him, which included though it did not end at his recent consumption of three pints of the Old Mill Inn’s excellent bitter.

‘Mr Vollans, is it?’ said the uniformed officer stooping to the open window.

‘Yes.’

‘Superintendent Dalziel would like a word with you in town, if you don’t mind, sir.’

It didn’t feel like an arrest, but you never knew with the police. Nor was his mind set at rest when he met Pascoe at the station.

‘What’s it all about?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Pascoe honestly. ‘Depends what you’ve been up to.’

He was given a cup of truly terrible coffee, and it had grown cold and he was growing hot by the time Dalziel’s imminence was felt.

Pascoe met the Superintendent at the door.

‘Later,’ said the fat man. ‘I’d like a word alone with our friend here.’

Friend came out like a threat. Vollans postponed his indignation like a man on the Titanic postponing his letter to the manufacturers. Slamming the door behind his inspector, Dalziel said without preamble, ‘Someone rang you last night to arrange a meeting to sell you a story about a queer cop, right? What time did he ring?’

‘I’m not sure exactly. Some time after seven. Our exchange will know.’

‘He asked for you personally?’

‘Yes. We’d spoken before.’

‘About the same matter?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Did he give you a name?’

‘No. No names.’

‘But it was the same voice.’

‘Oh yes. Definitely.’

‘What did he say?’

Vollans thought, then replied, ‘He said he wanted to meet to talk money. He was ready to spill everything he knew, but he wanted cash in hand. I said, all right, let’s meet. You name the time and place.’

‘And did he?’

‘Yes. He said eight-thirty this morning in the railway station buffet.’

‘And you were there?’

‘Yes. And an early rising I had of it too. All for nothing. He didn’t show.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Sorry?’

‘If you’d not met him before, how do you know he wasn’t there?’

‘Well, put like that, I don’t. He was supposed to approach me. I told him what I looked like and what I’d be wearing and that I’d carry a copy of the Challenger. That’d be the clincher. I mean, there aren’t many people carrying Sunday papers in the middle of the week!’

‘No? There’s a lot of mean buggers in this town,’ said Dalziel.

Though delivered with the utmost seriousness, this observation somehow rang an end-of-round bell and for the first time since Dalziel’s entry, Vollans did not feel immediately threatened.

He said, ‘What’s this all about?’

Before Dalziel could reply, there was a peremptory knock and Neville Watmough entered.

‘Mr Vollans,’ he said. ‘Hello again.’

‘You two know each other?’ said Dalziel. ‘That’s cosy.’

‘Hello, sir,’ said Vollans.

‘It’s good of you to help like this,’ pursued Watmough. ‘Routine inquiries, simple elimination. I’ve just been talking to Mr Ogilby and I mentioned how helpful you were being and assured him he could expect a reciprocal degree of cooperation from us. You might like to give him a ring when Mr Dalziel’s finished with you.’

‘I’m finished,’ said Dalziel, scratching his right buttock and producing a sound which made chalk on a blackboard sound like Menuhin on a Strad.

Vollans found himself being ushered out of the door. Watmough remained on the inside.

‘What’s he say?’

‘Not much,’ said Dalziel, varying the note by dragging his nails diagonally across the weave of his tight blue serge. ‘Our would-be tipster arranged a meet and didn’t show. No more than that.’

‘So there’s no evidence to show that the murdered man and the tipster were definitely the same?’

‘Nothing I’d like to see in print, sir,’ Dalziel said ambiguously. ‘No names, no pack drill, if you follow me.’

Watmough regarded him distrustfully but this was nothing new.

He said, ‘I insist on …’ then changed his mind.

He tried again. ‘Andy, you’re a very experienced officer …’

‘And you can rest assured I’ll use my experience in the best interests of all of us, sir,’ said Dalziel fulsomely.

Watmough decided that no words were good words and opened the door to reveal Pascoe standing there, a look of puzzlement on his thin, nearly handsome face. He stood aside to let Watmough pass but Dalziel spoke again before the move was completed.

‘So it’s my understanding, sir, that in the Sharman case, you want nothing said or published which might reflect on the good name of the Force without your personal authority.’

Watmough took a deep breath, said ‘Yes,’ looked as if he instantly regretted it, but before he could add anything further Dalziel had drawn Pascoe into the room and closed the door firmly on the DCC.

‘Please,’ said Pascoe plaintively. ‘Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?’

‘Take a chair,’ said Dalziel. ‘Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’

After he had finished, there was silence in the room. Even Dalziel’s scratchy serenade was allowed to fade away as he observed the younger man’s reaction with interest.

At last he spoke.

‘Wield’s queer?’ he said incredulously. ‘Bugger me.’

‘Best be careful what you say,’ said Dalziel and roared with laughter.

Pascoe looked at him with undisguised distaste and Dalziel stopped laughing and said with a sigh, ‘All right. What’s up?’

‘Nothing. I just don’t think it’s a laughing matter, that’s all.’

‘What do you think it is, then? A hanging matter?’

Pascoe flushed and said angrily, ‘That’s not what I meant at all and you know it. I reckon I’m a damn sight more …’

His voice tailed away as he saw the fat man’s sly amusement.

‘Liberal, is that the word? Some of your best mates are gay? Well, here’s another to join the merry throng!’

Pascoe took a deep breath and said, ‘All right. Sorry. Let’s start again, sir. You go easy on the jokes and I’ll go easy on the righteousness.’

‘Sounds fair,’ said Dalziel. ‘So what’s the problem?’

‘Well, Wieldy himself, for a start. And Watmough. You’ve seen his reaction to the thought of a homosexual copper.’

‘He’s not happy,’ admitted Dalziel. ‘He wishes I’d just kept quiet about all this.’

‘Yes. Well, why didn’t you, sir?’ asked Pascoe flatly. ‘I assume that Sergeant Wield isn’t connected with the murder, so why risk dragging him into it at all?’

Dalziel shook his head in only mock-amazement.

‘This matriculation you need to get into university,’ he said, ‘does it involve drilling holes in your skull or something? What makes you assume Wield’s not connected with the murder?’

‘I know him!’ exploded Pascoe, then, his voice modulating into a minor key, ‘I thought I knew him.’

‘Right,’ said Dalziel. ‘You thought. Well, as it happens I don’t think he topped our boy either. But Wield’s connected all right and that’s a fact.’

‘I see. And you don’t want to risk your career by being connected with a cover-up?’ said Pascoe scornfully.

‘Fuck me pink!’ exclaimed Dalziel. ‘Cover-up? What’s so scary about a cover-up? I’ve done enough covering up in my time to fill in Wharfedale! But why should I do the dirty work when there’s others as’ll do it for me?’

‘Meaning?’

‘You’ve forgotten what Tick-Tock, the Talking Clock, said just now already? Christ almighty, Peter, I’d best write it down and get you to sign it! Listen, lad, Watmough doesn’t want to know about Wield, doesn’t want to know about anything, not till the Selection Committee meets.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘Too late. He’ll be personally in charge of the cover-up by then. Last thing he’ll want the new Chief Constable to know is how he’s been bending the rules.’

‘What if he is the new Chief?’ objected Pascoe.

Dalziel began to laugh. Pascoe didn’t join in.

‘And Wield? What about him?’ he said.

‘Sick again,’ said Dalziel. ‘Till I tell him he’s better. He’s ploughed himself a deep furrow. Much more and he’ll be buried.’

‘But you said he wasn’t mixed up in this!’

‘Not in the murder, not directly. But he’s mixed up all right, in every other sense. The boy told him he’d come up here to look for his dad who went missing three years back. They had a row. Wield told him he didn’t believe him and that he reckoned he was just a nasty little crook who’d stopped off in Yorkshire to put the black on him.’

‘Well, all the other evidence confirms that.’

‘Mebbe. But his dad did go missing three years back. His grandma confirms it and says the boy was very upset.’

‘But is there any link with Yorkshire?’

‘The grandmother knew none. Said she thought he was brought up in a kids’ home in Nottingham. I’d like you to check that out, Peter, see if there’s anything for us there.’

‘Why? Do you believe this story about looking for his dad too?’

‘Mebbe. Sharman told Wield he came to Yorkshire because his last contact with his father was a postcard from up here. He also said he’d mislaid the card, so there wasn’t any hard evidence to stop Wield blowing his top. The boy’s gear, what little there is, got left at Wield’s flat. I’ve had a look through it. Nothing of interest except this. I found it tucked away in the middle of a thick paperback.’

He handed over a postcard. It was addressed to Cliff Sharman in Dulwich. The postmark was illegible except for the year which said 1982.

The message read: Dear Cliff, sorry about the weekend but I’ll be back soon as I’ve got my business sorted. Take care. Dad.

Pascoe turned the card over. The photograph was a view of a large Victorian building with a tall central clock-tower.

He didn’t need to read the inscription. By stepping to the window, he could glimpse a distant side-view of the same clock-tower on the old town hall.

‘So the lad was telling the truth, at least in part,’ he said. ‘Wield’s seen this?’

‘Yes,’ said Dalziel.

‘And you left him alone!’

‘He wanted to be alone,’ said Dalziel. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll not harm himself.’

‘How can you be sure?’ demanded Pascoe.

‘Because I know the man! Oh aye, so did you; and better, you thought? Well, lad, there’s one difference. I’ve known for years he were bent, so perhaps I’m better qualified to comment now. He’ll not harm himself. I gave him fair warning.’

‘Warning? What’s that mean?’

‘I told him if he killed himself, I’d have him drummed out of the Force,’ said Dalziel seriously.

Pascoe shook his head in incredulous bewilderment.

‘And what did he say to that?’ he asked.

‘Oh, he perked up a lot,’ said Dalziel carefully. ‘He asked me why I didn’t go off and fuck myself. What’s that you’re thinking, lad? Seconded? Well, I never mind a vote of confidence. But one thing — don’t go running round to Wield’s place tonight to say you’re sorry for not sussing out his guilty secret. Last thing he needs is a lachrymose liberal. That’s a good word, eh? I got it off Top of the Form on the wireless! So, keep your nose out till tomorrow at least.’

The fat man grinned maliciously.

‘Any road, I reckon I’ve got enough work lined up for you, Peter, to keep you busy till nigh on midnight!’