On Beulah Height

WOULDC.

A few moments later he came back down, clutching a book.

"Here we are. I knew we had a copy. The Drowning of Dendale. Let's see if we can find what so interested Lightfoot."

"It was the maps, sir. We know that," she said patiently, like an infant teacher.

He caught the intonation, smiled at her, and said, "Thank you, nurse, but that was the first time. He had photocopies of them. So what brought him back to take another look?"

He went into the living room, sat down, and began to flip through the book. Novello stood behind him, looking over his shoulder.

He supposed he must have glanced through the volume sometime in the past, but apart from the first panoramic view of the dale which Mrs. Shimmings had shown him, he could remember nothing of it. In any case, what would any previous examination have meant to him? But now he had looked down at the dale as it had become, and he had seen several of its old inhabitants as they had become, and these pictures brought the past to life in a way that, unaided, his imagination could never have managed.

Here were all the buildings he knew only as heaps of rubble scarcely distinguishable from the stony fellside on which they lay.

Here was Heck, a solid, rather stern house even in the bright sunlight which filled all the photos. No one in sight, but a child's swing on an oak tree in the garden had a twist to its ropes as if some small form had just stepped off and slipped quietly away.

Here was Hobholme, one of those old farms which had grown in linear progression, with barn tagged on to house, cattle shed to barn, lambing shed to shippen, and so on as each need arose. A woman was caught walking purposefully along the line of buildings with a pail in either hand. In the delicate young profile Pascoe had no difficulty in identifying the features of Molly Hardcastle. Here she was going about her business with the dutiful stoicism of a hill farmer's wife, not happy exactly, her mind perhaps preoccupied with contrasting the hard expectations of her husband with the softer approaches of Constable Clark. were these just the idle dreams of a hardworked wife? Was her love for her three young children and perhaps the memory that Hardcastle, too, had once been tender, enough to have kept her anchored here at Hobholme? Or was she seriously contemplating braving her husband's anger and her neighbors' gossip and making a break for happiness? Idle dreams or positive planning, how she must have felt she had paid for either so soon after, when little Jenny walked away alone from the bathing pool…

A few pages on was The Stang, with the carpenter's shed bigger than the whitewashed cottage, smoke pouring out of its chimney to remind the onlooker that fire was a necessary workmate even when the sun was hot enough to bake apples on the tree. Outside the shed stood two men, stripped to the waist, with runnels of sweat down their forearms and pectorals, one clutching a saw and the other a plank, both smiling at the camera, clearly relieved at this excuse to pause and take a well-earned breather. There was a strong family resemblance. One was doubtless Joe Telford, the other his brother George, but an unfamiliar eye couldn't tell the difference between them. Doubtless anybody could now.

The church was here, too, St. Luke's, with a newlywed couple emerging, all smiles and happiness; the Holly Bush Inn with folk sitting outside, enjoying a drink in the evening sun, looking as used to these al fresco pleasures as any Provencal peasant; Low Beulah, where the Allgoods lived, with a slim, dark-haired man emerging, his leathery face creased into a Heathcliffian frown as though about to give the photographer a piece of his mind.

And here was the village school.

Pascoe's heart contracted, and he felt Shirley Novello stiffen beside him. All the valley's children were here, about two dozen of them, posed in three rows, front sitting on the ground, middle kneeling, back standing with their teachers, Mrs. Winter and Miss Lavery, at either side. His eyes ran along the rows. There had been photos of the missing girls in the file, and he picked out their little blond heads and smiling faces one by one. The dark, solemn features of Betsy Allgood were easily spottable too. And another face which looked familiar among the bigger girls on the back row… now he made the connection… this must be Elsie Coe, age ten or eleven, unmistakable to anyone who'd studied the police handout photo of her daughter, Lorraine Dacre.

The school photo had the caption Smiling on a bright future, but not in Dendale!

No. Not in Dendale.

There were other landscape pictures-of the mere with someone swimming in it; of Beulah Height with the old sheepfold built from stones of the even older hill-fort; of White Mare's Tail in full spate, which meant it was probably taken earlier than the others, before the drought took hold. Then he reached the second section, "The Drowning," with the epigraph:

Oh, unexpected stroke, worse than of

Death! Must I thus leave thee, Paradise?

Now followed photos of the building of the dam and the clearing of the valley. Here were people loading possessions into vans or onto trailers pulled by tractors. Here were sheep being brought down the fellside by the Heathcliffian character, who was probably Mr. Allgood; here was the churchyard with graves gaping wide and an anxious-looking vicar watching the disinterment of a coffin. Here was the Holly Bush with the landlord removing the sign. Here was the schoolroom, empty of children and desks, with only a few remnants of artwork stuck to the windows to show what this place had once been. And here was the village hall, a man coming out, his arms weighed down with box files, back-heeling the door shut behind him.

The face was unmistakable. Sergeant Wield. The police, too, had had to pack up, though the text made no reference to the other tragedy being played out in Dendale that long, hot summer. Probably right for this kind of book. Those involved in the investigation would need no souvenir.

Pascoe flicked on, wondering what the hell, maps apart, Benny Lightfoot-if it were he-could have been interested in?

In the first section there had been only one glimpse of Neb Cottage seen distantly but here there was another, much closer. Yet not the kind of shot the returning native would want to pore over. It showed the cottage at the very moment of its destruction. It was a dramatic picture, with evening sunlight setting everything in bold definition. A bulldozer with the name TIPLAKE clearly legible down the arm of its shovel was climbing up the side of the building like a rapacious dinosaur, the walls were collapsing like a shot beast, and the chimney stack had cracked above the gable and was leaning back like a mouth gaping to let out an agonized death cry.

He went on to the end. The second last picture showed the release of the Black Moss waters from Highcross Moor over the col between the Neb and Beulah Height. It was a dark and dismal picture, with the skies heavy with cloud and the air dense with the downpour which had broken the drought.

And the last picture of all showed the new dale, in sunshine again, with the reservoir brimful, a scene as quiet and as peaceful and as lifeless as a crematorium Garden of Remembrance.

He looked up at Novello. She met his gaze hopefully, but not, he was glad to gauge, expectantly.

He said, "He goes to see his gran, he visits the Central Library and studies old newspapers and this book, he takes photocopies of the maps and camps out in Dendale till yesterday morning, when he packs up and comes back to town and the library. This we know. What more do you want to know?"

Her expression changed from vague hope to bafflement.

"Well, I want to know what he's up to, I want to know why he-"

"Yes," he interrupted. "But why do you want to know why?"

"Because… because…" Then suddenly she was with him.

"Because knowing might help us catch him soon as possible so we can question him about his possible involvement in the killing of Lorraine Dacre," she said.

"That's right. Might help us catch him. Frankly, it's much more likely we'll pick him up through the camping van, or because he calls in again at Wark House. You've got that covered, I take it?"

"Yes, sir."

"So don't beat your brains out on this clever detective stuff," he said wearily. "Curiosity's fine, but there comes a time when you've got to rejoin the team, even if it means pouring the tea, okay?"

"I just thought-"

"No harm in thinking. Here. Take a look yourself before you go. Just slam the door behind you. But not too loud, eh?"

He rose and left the room. She heard him going up the stairs again.

She sat down, opened the book at random, and found herself looking at the picture of the bulldozer destroying Neb Cottage.

Significant or not, this is one picture Benny Lightfoot would spend time over, she was sure. She tried to imagine herself looking at a similar photo of the destruction of the suburban semi where she'd been brought up. Even though it had none of the individuality of Neb Cottage, it would rend her heart to see the rooms where she had felt uniquely secure ripped open to the sky.

But Pascoe was right, she thought, closing the book. You shouldn't confuse idle curiosity with good CID work. Time to head out to Danby, see what new assignments were being dished out following the discovery of the body, play in the team even if you ended up pouring the tea.

…

"Fuck that," she said aloud. Opened the book again. Looked again. Went to the foot of the stairs and called, "Sir? You still awake?"

There was a pause, then Pascoe's voice said, "What?"

She went up the stairs, previous doubts forgotten, and stood at the open bedroom door. Pascoe was sitting at a dressing table onto whose surface he had spilled what looked like the contents of a jewel box. He glanced up at her and said again irritably, "What?"

"Have you got a magnifying glass?" she asked.

She half expected some sarcasm about Sherlock Holmes, but all he said impatiently was "Bureau. Left-hand drawer," and resumed his sorting out of the shining baubles.

She went downstairs, found the bureau, found the glass, and returned to the book.

"Bingo," she said.

"Still here? Good." Pascoe was in the hallway.

"Sir, take a look-"

"Yes, yes, tell me all about it in the car. I need a lift back to town."

"But I thought-Mrs. Pascoe said-"

"Just take me back."

"Yes, sir. To the hospital, sir?"

"No," he said. "You can take me to the offices of Mid-Yorkshire Water PLC."

The police doctor's preliminary on-site report was brief.

The child's skull was fractured, which was probably the cause of death. She was fully clothed and there was no immediate sign of sexual interference.

"Anything more, you'll need to wait till they've had her on the slab," he concluded.

Dalziel recognized this brutal brevity as a familiar way of dealing with a child's death. No way of keeping it out of those areas of sensibility which surface in the dark hours of the night, but here and now there was no time for mournful meditation.

"Right. Let's get her down there," he said.

Once the body had been removed from the rocky chamber, it became clear that this must have been the "secret place" Lorraine's friends had talked about. A candle, some comics, a tin containing biscuits and bearing the inscription Emerjensy ratoins, a rubber bone pocked with Tig's teeth marks, these told the tale. There was some evidence that she must have contrived her own screen door of grass and brushwood, but the bung of rock and earth which Wield had removed had almost certainly been put there by the killer.

"Then he dragged the sheep's body up from the ghyll bottom," said Wield. "That was enough to confuse the dogs and the thermal imaging cameras alike. Tig knew where to come, but. He weren't following a scent. He just knew."

The dog had had to be removed from the chamber by a dog handler wearing protective gauntlets, but once out and in Wield's care, he had allowed himself to be put on his lead and tied up without protest. He stood up when the corpse was removed and watched the body box being carried down the fellside to the nearest spot the vehicle could reach. Then he subsided as if knowing that this part of his life was over.

"We'll need formal identification," said Dalziel.

Meaning, the Dacres had to be told. Whatever small ember of hope they still kept glowing in their hearts had to be put out beyond all doubt.

"I'll sort that," said Wield.

They both knew it was Dalziel's responsibility. But something in the way he spoke had been the nearest to a plea for help the Fat Man was ever likely to utter.

"My job," he said, reluctant to confirm weakness.

"Your job's catching the bastard responsible," said Wield. "You can tell 'em when you've done that."

He didn't wait for an answer but untied Tig and set off down the path with the little dog at his heels. He glanced back once before he turned out of sight and saw Dalziel still standing there, watching him go. One huge hand rose slowly to shoulder height in a gesture which might have passed for benediction but which Wield knew was the only thank-you he was likely to get.

Back at his bike, he found the dog reluctant to get into the carrying basket, but when Wield straddled the saddle and patted the gas tank before him, Tig leapt up as if he'd been using this form of travel since birth.

He didn't hurry. What was to hurry for? He tried to blank out all thought and just let himself relax into the rush of cooling air on his face, the feel of the land's twists and contours rippling up his thighs. Down to Ligg Common, the ground leveling off. Past the mobile police van, DI Burroughs standing there, waiting for him to stop and fill her in. He went past her without a glance.

And finally he drew to a halt in front of No. 7, Liggside.

Even before he could switch the engine off, Tig had jumped from his perch and rushed in through the open doorway, barking.

Oh, shit! thought Wield. Shit shit shit!

He hurried after the animal, but it was already too late. Tony and Elsie Dacre were on their feet, staring toward the doorway, their eyes bright with desperate hope in reaction to Tig's noisy arrival, which must so often have presaged Lorraine's return home.

"I'm sorry," said Wield helplessly. "I'm sorry."

He was apologizing for letting the dog run in, but his words did the harder task too. The woman cried, "Oh, no. Oh, no!" And collapsed weeping into her husband's arms.

"Where…? How…?" choked the man.

"Up the valley, along the beck where it runs through that deep gill," said Wield. "Tig found her."

"What happened? were she…"

"Can't say how for certain till they get the chance to… But the doctor says she was fully clothed. No signs of interference."

All this was more than he ought to be saying before the postmortem, but he couldn't sit and see this pain without doing the little in his power to ease it.

"We'll need to ask someone to do an identification," he went on.

Elsie's head snapped up. Hope was a black beetle. Stamp on it hard as you liked, it still scuttled on.

"It's not sure, then?" she pleaded.

"Yes, it's sure," he said gently. "The clothes she was wearing. And we had the photo. I'm so sorry. Look, I'll come back later, talk about arrangements. You'll need some time…"

He turned and left, feeling shame at his sense of relief to get out of that room where something had finally died.

A woman was coming through the front door. It was Polly Coe, Elsie Dacre's mother.

She said, "I saw you go in. Has summat happened?"

Wield nodded.

"We found her."

"Oh, Christ."

She pushed past him into the living room. Wield went outside. The sunlight had never seemed so cruel. He felt many eyes upon him. Ignoring them all, he mounted his bike. Tony Dacre came out of the house with Tig in his arms.

"Can you take him with you?" he said. "It's going to be too much having him around. Every time he barks, it'll be like… any road, he seems to have taken a fancy to you… I don't mean have owt done to him, you understand-just see he's taken care of while… look, were you telling truth back there? He'd not done anything to her?"

"As far as they could tell without a full examination," said Wield.

"Well, that's something," said Tony Dacre. Then he looked up at the rich blue sky and shook his head wonderingly.

"Nowt so funny as folk, eh? Here's me just heard my daughter's dead and I'm trying to feel comforted she weren't raped. For God's sake, what kind of creatures are we, Sergeant? What's the use of us, any of us?"

"I don't know," said Wield. "I just don't know."

He set the dog before him and rode away thinking, Oh you bastard, you bastard, whoever you are, it's all of us you kill because you kill our faith in each other, in ourselves. We don't just recoil in horror from what you do, we recoil in horror from ourselves for being part of the same humanity that produced whatever it is that you are.

A rasping noise rose from between his legs. Tig had fallen asleep with his head on Wield's thigh and was snoring.

And what the hell is Edwin going to say when he sees you? Wield asked himself.

And then, as he felt the ease with which he'd made the leap from cosmic despair to domestic problem, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

The half of the woman visible above the reception desk of the Mid-Yorkshire Water Company was welcoming and fair, but her implacability toward those seeking entrance to the world behind her hinted the presence of a cry of hell hounds below.

Pascoe looked easy meat. During the past couple of years, as complaints about drought, pollution, and directors' perks had multiplied, she had become adept at repelling much heavier onslaughts than promised by this slim, pale, disheveled figure.

"I'm afraid Mr. Purlingstone is unavailable today. If you leave your name I'll see he's told you called."

"Just tell him I'm here now. Pascoe's the name. Pascoe. Just tell him."

He saw her right hand move and guessed it was on its way to a security button. With a sigh, he produced his warrant card.

"Chief Inspector Pascoe. Tell him."

She picked up the phone and moments later Pascoe was floating to the top floor in a scented musical lift.

Purlingstone was waiting for him when the door slid open.

"What?" he demanded. "What's happened? Why've you come?"

"It's okay," said Pascoe. "Nothing to do with Zandra. Really. It's okay."

He felt a huge pang of guilt. He wasn't thinking straight, coming round here like this. Just because the man was dealing with his trauma by fleeing from its center to the place where he still had power and control didn't mean he wasn't in pain. And what else would he think on hearing of Pascoe's arrival but the worst?

The two men hadn't spoken since their quarrel, and this, thought Pascoe, is no way to build bridges.

"Derek," he said. "I'm sorry. I should have rung. Everything's fine at the hospital. They'd be in touch direct if anything was wrong, wouldn't they?"

This appeal to logic seemed to work, as worry was replaced by suspicion.

"Okay, so what the hell are you doing here?" demanded Purlingstone.

"I'm sorry," repeated Pascoe. "There are just a couple of questions I'd like to ask."

"You sound just like a policeman," sneered Purlingstone.

It was true, thought Pascoe. His phraseology was straight out of a TV cop show. But so what? We are what we are.

He said, "Where did you stop on Sunday?"

"What?"

"Rosie said you stopped for a breakfast picnic on your way to the coast. I just wondered which way you went and where…"

He faltered to a halt, not because the other man was looking angry, but because his annoyance was visibly fading and being replaced by a sort of wary pity.

He thinks I've cracked, thought Pascoe. He thinks I've lost it entirely.

It might have been clever to use this wrong impression as a basis for winning both sympathy and information, but he wasn't able to go along with that. What he felt about his sick daughter was his business, not communicable to anyone save Ellie, and certainly not usable in this kind of situation to gain an advantage.

He said sharply, "Come on. It's a simple question. Where did you stop to picnic?"

"On the moor road out of Danby," replied Purlingstone. "I prefer to go that way to the coast. It's a bit farther but it misses a hell of a lot of the traffic. Look, what's all this about? I can't believe it's police business… but it is, isn't it? Jesus Christ, how insensitive can you get, Pascoe?"

No pity now, just anger.

"No, not really, well, in a way but…" Pascoe was stuttering in his effort to offer an explanation and avoid another open quarrel. He saw from Purlingstone's face that he wasn't making much headway either way.

"It's just that Rosie lost this cross she wore -well it wasn't really a cross, one of Ellie's earrings shaped like a dagger, actually, and one of my DC'S found one like it in a trash bin, and I wondered how… it is it, you see… I checked… I mean, it's probably just coincidence but…"

A phone had been ringing in a room behind Purlingstone. It stopped and a young woman came out.

"Derek," she said urgently.

"What?"

"Sorry, but it's the hospital. They said, can you get back there straightaway?"

"Oh, Christ."

The two men looked desperately at each other, each hoping for a reassurance the other couldn't give. Pascoe was thinking, they could be ringing home, and I'm not there, and I've had my mobile switched off…

He said, "Can you give me a lift? Please."

"Come on."

Ignoring the elevator, together the two men ran down the stairs.

They could have rung from the car, but they didn't. The pain of ignorance can end. The pain of knowledge is forever. They knew it was very bad as soon as they entered the waiting room. The two women were clinging close, but on sight of her husband Jill Purlingstone broke loose and rushed to his arms.

"What's happened?" demanded Pascoe, going to Ellie.

"Exactly what, I don't know, but it doesn't sound good," said Ellie in a low voice.

"Oh, Christ, and she was doing so well. I should never have left.

…"

"It isn't Rosie," hissed Ellie in his ear. "She's doing fine. It's Zandra."

For a moment his relief was so strong, he could have laughed out loud. Then his gaze went to the other couple, locked in an embrace which looked like an attempt to crush out all feeling, and shame at his joy came rushing in.

"Should I go and try to find out something?" he asked Ellie, his voice as low as hers.

"No. They said they'd let Jill know as soon as there was anything more to tell."

The door opened. Mrs. Curtis, the pediatric consultant, came in. Ignoring the Pascoes she went toward the Purlingstones, who broke apart like guilty lovers surprised. Only their hands remained in fingertip contact.

"Please," said the consultant. "Shall we sit down?"

"Oh, God," breathed Ellie, for the woman's voice had the ring of death as sure as any passing bell.

Pascoe took her arm and drew her unresisting body out of the room.

In the corridor she looked up at him pleadingly, as if in hope of finding contradiction in his face. He had none to offer. There was a hush about the wards and a set look on the faces of two nurses who went quietly by which confirmed what they already felt.

Ellie turned back toward the door, but Pascoe tightened his grip on her.

"Jill will need me," she said fiercely.

"No," he said. "We're the last people on earth those two will want to see at the moment."

From inside the waiting room a voice-it could have been either male or female-screamed, "Why?"

It was the universal cry of loss; but it contained in it the particular question, Why my child? Why not someone else's?

Ellie heard it at all its levels and ceased her efforts to pull away.

"Let's go in and see Rosie," said Pascoe.

They found the attending nurse full of excitement.

"She opened her eyes just now. I think she's beginning to wake up," she said. "I've been talking to her, but it's your voices she'll be wanting to hear."

They stood on either side of the bed, leaning over the small, still figure of their daughter. Ellie tried to speak, but there were too many conflicting emotions squeezing at her throat.

Pascoe said, "Rosie, darling. Come on, now. This is Daddy. Time to wake up. It's time to wake up."

In the gloomy cave, the nix has made his move. No pursuit round the pool this time; instead he comes running straight across it, splashing through the black waters so that they part on either side like the water in the tank at the fairground when the roller coaster comes hurtling down.

Taken by surprise, Rosie and her companion break apart and take flight, one to the left, one to the right. The air is filled with noise, the animal roar of the nix, the high, spiraling squeaks of the bat, the screams of the two little girls-and something else, a voice, her father's voice, calling Rosie's name.

Her flight has brought her round the pool to the mouth of the exit tunnel. Here the voice is clearer. She looks up into the brighter light, then looks round to see where the nix is.

He is on the far side of the pool once more. He is standing over the other girl, who has stumbled to the ground.

Her hair has fallen over her face so that all Rosie can see are her eyes, which might be Nina's, or Zandra's, or some other child's altogether, peering at her so fearfully, so pleadingly, she hesitates for a moment.

Then her father's voice again. Come on, Rosie, time to wake up!

And she turns her back on the cave and the pool and the dark world of the nix, and goes running up the tunnel into the light.