Pictures of Perfection

CHAPTER FIVE

Dusk descended too on Enscombe’s newest inhabitant, but brought with it nothing heavier than the realization that he hadn’t eaten for ten hours and was bloody hungry!

Wield went into the kitchen at Corpse Cottage, opened the fridge and stepped back with a shudder. He’d seen more inviting scenes-of-crime. Kids today were a primitive tribe, eating stuff which would put most western tourists on their back for a fortnight.

Nothing for it but the Morris. Both his superiors had recommended it, so it was almost a dereliction of duty not to sample its wares.

He stepped out of the front door. It was a surprisingly remote situation despite its village setting. Up against the churchyard wall with the High Street just out of sight downhill and the vicarage just visible uphill, Corpse Cottage was well placed to be haunted. Yet he felt nothing but an almost proprietorial pleasure as he stood on the step.

Whistling ‘When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls’ he set off to the pub.

Two things surprised him as he pushed open the bar-room door. The first was how full the place was so early in the evening. The second was that his arrival didn’t provoke that moment of speculative silence any newcomer might expect in a country pub. In fact he got a few welcoming nods from one or two of the faces he recognized.

At the bar a man he presumed was the landlord said, ‘Pint of the best, Sergeant?’, already drawing the ale as he spoke.

‘Thanks,’ said Wield, reaching into his pocket.

‘First’s on the house. I’ll make my profit out of you later,’ said Wapshare. ‘Any news of the happy wanderer?’

‘Not yet,’ admitted Wield.

‘Not to worry. Happen he’ll turn up. And you’re spending the night at Corpse Cottage to welcome him? That’s friendly!’

The man knows everything, Pascoe had warned. But was he telling everything he knew? Wield tasted the beer and, like Pascoe before him, decided that allowances could be made.

‘You do a good trade for early on a midweek night,’ he commented.

‘Nay, it’s not always like this,’ said Wapshare. ‘They’re just getting primed for the meeting.’

He nodded at the Save Our School pyramid of coins against which rested a notice advertising a progress report meeting in the village hall at eight p.m.

‘I hope there’s good news,’ said Wield. ‘Any chance of a bite to eat?’

‘Aye. Slice of game pie do you for starters? Sit yourself down and I’ll bring it over.’

He took his pint to a small table by the window. Wapshare soon followed with a tray laden with pickles, chutney, tomatoes, bread, and a hunk of pie like a lumberjack’s wedge.

‘Give us a shout when you’re done and I’ll fry you up a slice or two of my black pudding,’ said the landlord. ‘Oh Lord, here comes the cabaret.’

The door had opened on a wave of noise to admit Guy Guillemard and his friends. They made for the bar where the Heir sat on a stool and viewed the other customers with a droit-de-seigneurish air. Most got on with their drinking. Only Dudley Wylmot from the Post Office, sitting with the remains of several large gin and tonics before him, showed any eagerness to catch the seignorial eye. His sycophancy was counterbalanced by the look of glacial indifference his wife gave the new arrivals before concentrating on her spritzer.

Guy nodded condescendingly at Wylmot, then his eye fell on Wield and a smile like a toothpaste ad spread across his face. He came across to his table and sat down.

‘’Evening, Sergeant. Left you to guard us overnight, have they?’

‘Something like that, sir,’ said Wield.

‘That chap on the drive with you, the one who seemed to think I was trying to zap him. He’s your superior, right? Yet he looks rather younger than you. Now why is that, I ask myself.’

‘Mebbe because he were born a few years after me,’ said Wield.

‘What? Ah, a joke. Which confirms what I suspect. You’re one of the good old breed of British bobby — conscientious, clever even, but not wanting the hassle of promotion, content to stay a sergeant so you can devote more time to your wife and family — three kids, little house in a leafy suburb, couple of cats and a cross-breed terrier — likes a jar with the lads, goes to the match on Saturday, but is always glad to get home to the little woman and the animals. Am I right or am I right?’

Wield nodded, not in agreement but at a connection he had never made before between prat and prattle. If this was the best that an expensive education could do for a lad, then why did folk like Ellie Pascoe get agitated if rich fools demanded the right to subject their progeny to it?

‘I knew it,’ said Guillemard with a patronizing smugness which made Wield long for the Dalzielesque chutzpah to say, ‘Nay, lad, I’m as queer as a clockwork orange, so why don’t you shut your big fat mouth and give your tight little arse a chance?’

‘You’re the one who knows what’s what, not that jumped-up squirt pretending to be a gentleman, and certainly not that grotesque who showed up later. So, tell me, Sergeant, you who know your place and have so determinedly kept it, wouldn’t this be advice you’d give to all young bobbies?’

He leaned across the table to give Wield the full benefit of his wisdom and smile. Early though the hour was, he’d already wined and dined well on something garlicky washed down with cognac, if the pungent waft from his mouth was a true messenger. His friends too sounded a lot livelier than could be put down to a single draught of even Mr Wapshare’s good ale. How indiscreet might the drink make him? wondered Wield.

He shifted slightly to avoid the reek and said, ‘You wouldn’t have anyone in particular in mind, sir?’

‘For instance?’ said Guy, helping himself to a pickled onion.

‘Constable Bendish, for instance,’ said Wield, for whom a little obliquery went a long, long way. ‘He was seen having a dust-up with someone fitting your description.’

‘Really,’ said Guy, unbothered by this exaggeration. ‘Put it in a report, did he?’

‘No, sir. Still a serious matter, but.’

‘Not what I call serious, Sergeant. I’ve met more resistance in a Bangkok brothel.’

‘So you admit to assaulting a police officer?’ said Wield.

‘No, I bloody don’t. I admit to the justifiable chastisement of an erk who’d stepped out of line. He knew he had it coming, otherwise he’d have fitted me up on an attempted murder charge, wouldn’t he?’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ asked Wield.

‘To save public expense and police effort. I told the erk next time I came to Enscombe, I’d finish the job properly. I came back yesterday. So my advice to you is work out how far a frightened rabbit can run in twenty-four hours, and start looking there! What the hell’s Wapshare getting his knickers in a twist about?’

There had been a huge crash from the bar followed by an explosion of laughter and voices, loud among them the landlord’s crying, ‘Right, that’s it. Out, you lot. You’re barred!’

Guillemard made for the bar, his arms spread in what he probably thought was a placatory gesture. Wield could see that the initial crash had been caused by the toppling of the Save Our School ziggurat.

‘Wappy, what’s the problem?’ said Guy in his best talking to the toddlers voice.

‘No problem, and the name’s Wapshare, Mr Guillemard,’ said the landlord. ‘I’m just exercising my legal right to refuse service and order this lot off my premises.’

‘Of course you are, and it’s understandable, but let’s not over-react, shall we? It’s just an excess of high spirits for which they’re truly sorry, isn’t that right, boys and girls? You’re truly sorry.’

‘Yes, Guy, we’re truly sorry,’ they echoed in mock contrition.

‘There you are. Any damage, we’ll pay. And they’ll build your pyramid again, only a lot higher this time. Won’t you, children?’

‘Yes, Guy, a lot higher this time,’ chorused his friends, enjoying this new game.

‘So what do you say, Mr Wapshare? Forgive and forget?’

Wapshare spoke very slowly.

‘I say, I don’t want their money and I don’t want their company. I want them out of here, and I don’t want to see them back.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Guillemard. ‘If they go, then I’ll have to go, you do understand that?’

‘Understand it? I bloody insist on it!’ roared Wapshare.

Wield felt like cheering.

Guy the Heir looked round the room, his face still smiling but the smile now thinly stretched over fury.

‘If that’s the way you feel, Wappy. Your loss, not ours. I mean, it’s not what you’d call lively, is it? My ancestors needn’t have bothered about trying to close you down, the place died naturally a long time back and it’s just that no one’s bothered to bury it. Come on, boys. Let’s leave this mausoleum before the dust chokes us.’

He made for the door. The others trooped after him.

Wapshare’s face relaxed to its customary benevolence.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Who’s good at picking up money?’

There was a general laugh, almost immediately echoed and drowned by a cheer from outside and a crash as though something had been hurled against the pub wall.

Wield half rose, looking inquiringly at Wapshare who shook his head.

‘Don’t interrupt your meal, Sergeant. They’ll just be taking it out on the sign. Guillemards have been doing that for a hundred years, and we’re none the worse for it yet!’

Outside an engine roared into life and Wield looked out of the window to see the GUNG-HO! Land Rover heading up the High Street, presumably to continue the merrymaking at the Hall. Most of the customers were bending to pick up the fallen coins. Wylmot, eager to demonstrate how much he belonged, was foremost among them, but the gins had taken their toll and when he stooped he would have gone right over if his wife hadn’t grabbed his arm.

‘Come on, Dud,’ said Wapshare, emerging from behind the bar and taking the other arm. ‘We’ll find you a nice comfortable seat at the back. Sergeant, I’ll be closing for a while till the meeting’s over, but don’t rush your grub. Help yourself to owt you need, and if you leave afore I’m back, just pull the door shut behind you.’

Five minutes later Wield found himself completely alone. Dalziel’s dream of heaven, he thought, just as Pascoe’s was probably to be left alone in the Tell-Tale Bookshop for a couple of hours.

And his own dream of heaven? He tried to fantasize but found he couldn’t. So, a man without a dream. He ought to be unhappy, but, rather to his surprise, he found he wasn’t.

He finished his food, went behind the bar and drew himself another half of bitter, as much for the pleasure of doing it as need of a drink. The place looked different from this side of the counter. He knew a lot of cops who’d taken their pensions and gone in for a pub. He didn’t fancy it himself. What did he fancy? A packet of pork scratchings! He helped himself, checked the price list for food and drink, was pleasantly surprised, left his money neatly on top of the till, dropped another couple of pound coins on the reconstituted Save Our School pile, now more Pyrenees than pyramid, and went out into the night.

It would have been pitch black if the uncurtained window of the village hall hadn’t laid a causeway of light across the road. He walked along it till he was close enough to hear as well as see the meeting within.

The Vicar was on his feet. He had a good pulpit voice but he didn’t seem to be bringing tidings of great joy.

‘The Appeal has done well,’ he was saying. ‘But as we always knew, there is little chance of getting close to the very large sum we need to guarantee the school’s future …’

‘Then we have to sell the Green,’ yelled someone. ‘Isn’t Phil Wallop interested? We could do with some new houses for the young ones …’

‘Don’t kid yourself our young ’uns ’ud be able to afford owt that Wallop built,’ interjected someone else. ‘And don’t imagine he’d hire local workmen either, if that’s what you’re thinking …’

‘Please!’ cried the Vicar above the resultant hubbub. ‘Look, what I suggest is we postpone any decision … yes, I know I said it had to be tonight, but … look, I don’t want to raise hopes but there’s a faint chance that a sum of money, a reasonably large sum might … I can’t say more. I’ll be able to tell you definitely tomorrow … at the Reckoning …’

A man offering a ray of hope ought to try to look happy, thought Wield. But the Vicar’s expression was more like what you don’t want to see on your doctor’s face as he examines the X-rays.

Wield turned away. This was a private meeting, a family affair, and he wasn’t a member of the family. It was a rather melancholy thought. Perhaps he should have stayed a bit longer in the Morris and got merry or really miserable. He looked across the road to the pub. In the light from the window behind him he could see the sign above the front door. Pascoe had told him its history. But maybe history was the wrong word.

People don’t change, thought Wield. They just do the same things differently.

From the burnt, battered and blasted bosom of William Morris there now protruded a short, dully gleaming rod of steel.