Child's Play

Chapter 13

It was the day of Neville Watmough’s interview, the day of Cliff Sharman’s funeral.

Watmough woke with that sense of divine inevitability which comes to most men but rarely, and then usually in little unimportant things. But today it was not just a matter of knowing the putt was going in the hole or the dart in the treble twenty. Today his life’s work was truly to begin, and he was ready for it.

He woke early, not because of nervousness but because his whole body felt electric with energy. As he shaved he checked over the reasons for his confidence and found nothing wanting. He was the right man with the right record in the right place at the right time. The gods were with him. They had even made Dalziel, that normally unjust impediment, an instrument of their plan. The solving of both of CID’s current murder cases at the weekend couldn’t have fallen better. There had been a moment of doubt as to how Ike Ogilby would take the news of the arrest of one of his own reporters, but he needn’t have worried. This had been a scoop beyond an editor’s dreams, to have the killer on your own staff safe beyond reach of the inducements and insider-stories of your rivals! There had been another bad moment when Vollans had seemed set to recant his confession, claiming it had been extracted under duress, something about Sergeant Wield and a bayonet. But the café proprietor had identified him, Forensic had discovered spots of blood of the right group both in his car and on the tyres, and Vollans, after talking with his solicitor, had shifted his ground and was now angling for a manslaughter deal.

His story was that he had picked up Cliff Sharman as arranged and gone for a drive with him. Sharman had tried to sell him various stories about police corruption and drug-trafficking in Yorkshire, but close questioning hadn’t revealed any firm evidence, so Vollans had said there was no deal. At this point Sharman, who was clearly high on something, had grown abusive. He had demanded money, Vollans had tried to eject him from the car, they had struggled.

‘I knocked him down, got in the car and started to drive away. But suddenly he was there again, trying to scramble on the bonnet. Next thing he slipped and was under the wheel. When I saw he was dead, I panicked and hid him in the ditch. In case it ever came out he was the one who’d been ringing the Challenger, I pretended we’d made an appointment for the following morning and he’d not turned up. It was all a pure accident, provoked by his violent and abusive behaviour.’

The version Pascoe believed in was that Sharman had had time to cool down before he met Vollans. His unwillingness to be specific plus his colour had eventually irritated Vollans to the point where he became abusive. These nigger perverts are animals, they’ve no right to be treated like humans was a phrase in his withdrawn confession. Whether he’d deliberately run over him or not was the only point at dispute. Wield was certain he had, Pascoe tended to go along with this, but Watmough was happy to settle for Vollans’s version as this had at its centre the idea that Sharman had invented all his allegations about the police with a view to extracting money.

In the end, the lawyers would decide all that. Meanwhile, Vollans was safely locked up, Miss Keech was safely horizontal in a hospital bed, and though the full details of that case had not yet been released to the Press, Watmough was looking forward to taking the Committee into his confidence during the forthcoming interview. Purely by chance he had found himself the previous night sitting next to the Committee’s Chairman, Councillor Mottram, at the dinner to inaugurate Eden Thackeray’s Presidency of the Gents. He had not missed the chance to prime Mottram so that he could ask the right questions this morning. Yes, fate was certainly shaking the golden fruit into his lap at the moment. Mottram had told him that they’d just had word of the withdrawal of Stan Dodd from Durham, adjudged by the makers of books and by Watmough himself, to be his arch rival. A heart attack. Poor Dodd. He must remember to send him a get well card.

All he had to do now was wait. The Committee was meeting at County Hall. Interviews of the four surviving candidates would take place at hourly intervals from nine o’clock. At one, the Committee would debate its reactions over lunch. And as soon as may be thereafter they would announce their choice. Watmough’s interview was the final one, at midday, the prime position. The gods had even given him the best initial.

With such complacent thoughts he drove slowly to Police Headquarters which he now viewed fondly as his own. Entering, he returned the greetings of those he encountered with a friendly (but not too friendly) wave, imagining their surprise to see him turning up for work on this most important of days, and their admiration, even envy, of his sang froid and sense of duty.

But his attendance was not simply a gesture. He wanted to be right up to date with all aspects of the Force’s work when he turned up at County Hall, particularly of course with the fine detail of the two murder cases.

And there at the centre of his desk was a large buff envelope with his name printed on it in a hand which was unmistakably Dalziel’s.

Why did the name Belshazzar suddenly flit into his mind?

He opened the envelope and withdrew its contents slowly.

First was an internal memo. He began to read it.

TO: DCC

FROM: Head of CID

SUBJECT: Sexual deviancy in Mid-Yorkshire CID.

He paused here to brush his fingers across his eyes as though to remove an impediment to his vision. Then he read on.

As per your instructions (copy of relevant memorandum attached) I have consulted with Dr Pottle of the Central Hospital Psychiatric Unit concerning possible m.o. for detecting sexual deviancy in CID officers. Enclosed is draft questionnaire for your approval.

He let the memorandum flutter from his fingers and turned to the questionnaire. It consisted of four sheets of A4 size, alternating blue and pink in colour.

The first was headed CONFIDENTIAL, addressed to ALL CID PERSONNEL and gave as its issuing authority DCC.

There was a blurb.

This is a multi-choice questionnaire aimed at rounding out file information for use in assessing promotion, location and designation of personnel.

Tick only one box in each section.

He let his eyes move trance-like on the pages, focusing on questions at random.

(3) As a baby were you

(a) bottle fed?

(b) breast-suckled?

(c) don’t know?

(9) Were you ever interfered with by a relative?

(a) yes

(b) no

(15) Did you ever masturbate

(a) alone?

(b) in company?

(c) both?

(29) Which do you prefer next to the skin

(a) silk?

(b) cotton?

(c) leather?

(d) blue serge?

He read no further but sat for a while gazing at his Yorkshire Beauty Spots Wall Calendar. Today’s date was ringed in red. This month’s picture was a view of Fylingdales Moor with the Early Warning System prominent.

There was something else on the memorandum. His censorial eye had skipped it first time round, but his ill-divining soul had taken it in.

DISTRIBUTION: CC

ACC (1)

ACC (2)

Chairman and members of Police Committee

(as per DCC’s directive CK/NW/743 on Consultation and Information)

With an effort of will which might well have won him the job if the Committee could have seen it, he carefully replaced the questionnaire in its envelope and locked it in his desk. He found in himself a very great need for a drink and the bottle of thin sherry he kept for hospitality purposes had little appeal.

There was only one place he could get a proper drink at this time of day in safe and soothing surroundings. He left the station with the same measured tread as he had entered it, only this time he acknowledged no greeting. It was not a long walk. Ten minutes later he was entering the door of the Gents.

‘’Morning, George,’ he said to the steward in the vestibule. ‘I’ll have a large Scotch, in the smoking-room.’

‘Yes, sir. Quiet day for crime, is it?’ said the friendly steward.

Not quite understanding the remark, Watmough went through into the smoking-room, a haven of peace and repose, empty at this hour except for a single figure behind an outspread copy of The Times.

Even under stress, Watmough did not ignore the courtesies expected between gentlemen members.

‘Good morning,’ he said.

Slowly the paper was lowered.

‘’Morning, Neville,’ said Andy Dalziel, beaming. ‘Now isn’t it grand to have a place like this to escape to when things get rough down at the factory?’

Only two mourners attended Cliff Sharman’s funeral, his grandmother, Miriam Hornsby, and Wield. It was a busy afternoon at the municipal cemetery — autumn was a good dying season as though ailing souls balked at the prospect of another winter — and a long back-up of cortèges blackened the curving driveway to the little chapel. The officiating vicar consigned the coffin to the grave as speedily as possible and spoke his parting condolences over his shoulder.

The silent mourners hardly noticed his departure. Here there were no residual resentments to be heaped on the coffin like handfuls of earth; here would come no dramatic interruptor to mar the time’s solemnity; here was only grief and the futile self-reproach of those who did not know how they might have done other.

‘Nineteen years,’ said Mrs Hornsby. ‘It’s not much.’

‘No,’ said Wield.

‘No time to do anything. And a lot of what he did do wasn’t what you’d call good, was it?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘I did right to let him be buried up here, didn’t I, Sergeant Wield?’ She sought reassurance.

‘Oh yes,’ said Wield.

‘And they’ll put his dad alongside him?’

‘I’ll make sure they do.’

‘Yes. Well, Mr Dalziel says he’ll see to it too. He’s a nice man, Mr Dalziel, isn’t he?’

The idea was startling enough to penetrate the carapace of self-absorbed melancholy Wield had grown around him in the past few days.

‘What? Oh yes.’

‘And clever with it. He worked it all out, you know. He was telling me all about it, Dicky working at that same hotel and all.’

It had indeed been a small triumph of ratiocination which Dalziel had only mentioned to all those who had the ears to hear without the legs or the rank to run away.

With Commander Sanderson’s help he had pursued Miss Keech through Army Records, Richard Sharman through tax returns and Mrs Huby through London hotel registers.

Miss Keech, now in hospital, had said nothing since the night she almost shot Lexie, so all scenarios were circumstantial. But the facts were that she had been an ATS corporal in 1944 posted to Maidstone, that there’d been an American negro unit stationed close by, that she’d married Sergeant Sharman and given birth to her black baby only six months later.

‘She must’ve worked fast when she realized she was pregnant,’ theorized Dalziel. ‘Caught the poor sod desperate for a bit of romance before he went overseas. Did he really believe his divorce was final? Who knows? In them days, who cared!’

So had begun the course of events which was to start gathering its final momentum three years before when Richard Sharman, arriving one morning for his job as a relief barman at the Remington Palace Hotel, had glimpsed Miss Keech getting into a taxi with Mrs Huby after breaking their journey in London on their return from Italy. He thought he recognized his mother. Checking with the hotel register would have given him the women’s names plus their Troy House address.

A man of action and impulse, he had caught a train north later that same day. By the time he found out where Troy House was, it was late evening. In any case, the women would have gone to bed early after their travels. Getting into the house would pose little difficulty as the animals had to be permitted almost total freedom of movement.

And so poor Sharman had wandered into someone else’s receiving fantasy, just as Pontelli three years later was to be the victim of a situation he had neither created nor comprehended. It was a sad irony that he had almost certainly gone to Troy House in search of Rod Lomas, whose presence there had been revealed to him that same afternoon by John Huby, and who was at that moment keeping a vain vigil outside the Highmore Hotel.

Now Wield gently turned Mrs Hornsby away from the grave and together they walked back towards the chapel where the single funeral car waited. As they approached another car drew up behind it and Dalziel got out.

‘Hello there. Everything go all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes, thank you, Andy,’ said the woman. ‘It was nice of you to send them flowers.’

‘Think nothing of it. Will you excuse me and the sergeant here a mo?’

He took Wield a few steps into the chapel porch.

‘You all right?’ he said.

‘Yes, sir. Look, I want to talk …’

‘Not here, lad! Show some respect. You won’t mind going back by yourself in that thing, will you?’

‘No. But what about …’

‘I’ll look after Mrs Hornsby,’ said Dalziel firmly. ‘I thought I’d take her out, cheer her up a bit. Spend my winnings.’

‘Winnings?’

‘Oh aye. Haven’t you heard. I collected from Broomfield. Dan Trimble from Cornwall got the job like I said he would.’

‘And Mr Watmough?’

‘Well, he didn’t get the job,’ explained Dalziel patiently. ‘Seeing as there’s only one Chief Constable at a time, I should’ve thought even a detective-sergeant could’ve worked that out.’

‘Yes, sir. I meant, what happened…?’

‘I think the Committee got the notion he had some funny hang-ups about gays,’ said Dalziel.

Wield considered this, then said angrily, ‘You’re not saying that he didn’t get it because they thought he was gay, are you?’

Dalziel regarded him curiously.

‘That’d bother you, would it, lad?’

‘From now on, that kind of crap’ll bother me a lot,’ said Wield grimly.

‘Easy,’ said Dalziel. ‘Two things for you to remember, sunshine. Coming out the way you did doesn’t qualify you to be a hero. What are you going to do? Wear red feathers and a tu-tu and demonstrate outside County Hall? Not your style, Wieldy. Second, it wasn’t because someone thought Watmough was a cryptoqueer he didn’t get the job. Oh no. He sticks out a mile as a cryptoqueer-basher, doesn’t he? But he didn’t know his committee! All these directives on cooperation and information, and he knew bugger all about Councillor Mottram, the chairman!’

‘You mean Mottram …?’ Wield looked at him in disbelief. ‘But he’s got a wife and two kids!’

Dalziel shook his head in sorrow.

‘So had Oscar Wilde,’ he said. ‘Don’t be so square, lad. And keep your mouth shut about Mottram. Just because you’ve come up on deck, don’t rock the boat for them as prefer to remain down in the hold. You didn’t exactly make it with one mighty leap yourself, did you? Now I’d better not keep poor Mrs Hornsby waiting. There’s a lot of comforting needs done there.’

He moved away, then paused and turned.

‘By the by, your sick leave’s over, as of today. I’ll expect you at your desk tomorrow morning. Don’t be late!’

He glanced towards Mrs Hornsby and grinned ferociously.

‘On the other hand, don’t start ringing the hospital if I am!’

Pascoe nursed Rosie in his arms.

‘It’s all over, kid,’ he said. ‘All done. All sorted out. With precious little help from me, I might add. I mean, what did I do? Like the Fat Man said, I got absorbed with peripherals, with intellectual speculation, moral problems and the romantic past. Only he didn’t put it like that, did he? What he said was … No, I won’t tell you, kid, even though you’ve got your eyes shut and you’re snoring. You never know about subliminal hearing and I reckon between us, me and your mum will do enough to mess you up without feeding you the gospel according to Andy Dalziel at such a tender age. Not that I think he was totally right. Once or twice I got close to things, once or twice I got close to being the wise, witty and wonderful dad you’re going to imagine I am till one day it hits you that really I’m as much of a child as you are, and then suddenly the child is truly father to the man and you’ll rather sadly leave me to my silly play and sally forth yourself to save the universe.’

His perambulations with the sleeping baby had brought him before a dressing-table mirror, up-tilted so he could look down at his reflection.

He regarded himself seriously, then said, ‘Excuse me, Inspector, there are still a couple of things I don’t understand …’