On Beulah Height

15

Edgar Wield was feeling quite pleased with himself. He'd got the search under way at Bixford and transported Geordie Turnbull to Danby without so far attracting the attention of any of the flock of carrion crows who called themselves reporters. Downside was that Turnbull's solicitor was also here, closeted in the station's one small interview room with his client.

Then Nobby Clark arrived and told him about Pascoe.

No details. Just that Rosie was in hospital. Wield felt sick. The Pascoes were special to him, the nearest thing to family left for him in this country since his sister emigrated. Edwin… Edwin was different. Closer, yes. But more important? No; just differently so. He looked at the phone. He could ring up and find out what had happened. But he hesitated. He tried to work out why. Fear at what he might hear? That certainly. But something more… He probed, and was bewildered to find something that looked like guilt. For what? Was he mean spirited enough to resent this intrusion on his newfound personal happiness? That would be cause enough to make him feel guilty. He hoped to God it wasn't. But if not that, what? He probed deeper, saw more clearly, still didn't believe it. Then had to. He felt responsible. It was an extension of his feelings about this lost-child case. Some cynical, self-despising element at the center of his psyche did not believe he was meant for happiness and was therefore sure that whatever he got of it could only be procured by subtraction from someone else's store. It was an absurdity, an egotism in its way as disgusting as selfish vanity. But he still hesitated to pick up the phone. It was as if by doing so he would acknowledge creating whatever monstrous news awaited his inquiry.

"Super's just driven into the yard," said Clark coming into the office and anxiously checking out his appearance in the glass-fronted photo of the queen.

Fear of Dalziel was a healthy condition, but belief that he was appeasable by gleaming brass, polished boots, or any other kind of bullshit meant that you had more than average cause to be afraid, thought Wield, glad of the diversion.

He went out to the yard and saw the Fat Man sitting in his car as if reluctant to get out. The Sergeant approached and opened the door like a commissionaire.

"How do, sir," he said. "Got some bad news. Clark says the