Recalled to Life

FOUR

'He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was therefore travelling under an assumed name.' Getting out of London was like getting out of long johns. It took forever. Dalziel, who liked to be able to step quickly away from both his cities and his underwear, said, 'You're not a spare-time taxi-driver, are you?'

'What?' 'Nowt. Just that you seem to be going all round the houses, which doesn't make sense unless you've got a meter running.' 'You know a better route, you take it,' retorted Stamper. 'Don't get your knickers in a twist,' said Dalziel, ‘it's these bloody streets. And all these cars. Wasn't like this when I were a lad.' 'No?' Stamper laughed. 'All ponies and traps then, I suppose.' 'You still saw horses pulling carts,' agreed Dalziel. 'Better for the roses, and better for the rest of us too, I reckon.' 'You say so? I'd not have put you down for the nostalgic type,' said Stamper. 'You're a fine one to talk,' said Dalziel. 'That radio thing you did, it were fuller of nostalgia than an Old Boys' dinner.' 'That was what the producer wanted, I suppose,' said Stamper. 'Sounded like you meant it to me.' 'Perhaps. I was looking back to a time when I was only eight, before I found out what a pain life really is. That must have coloured things.' 'Your dad's oddities didn't bother you then?' 'I don't suppose he'd given up on me then.' Dalziel nodded his understanding, then said, 'Funny how things get to look different. Your dad must've been the same kind of jumped-up twat then as you reckon he is now. Me, I didn't notice. You were all just a load of silly sods pissing about in yon bloody great house like you were living inside a film. But the other guests must've known what he was. And if they knew, then I ask myself, how come Mickledore and his mates got so friendly with a prat like your dad?'

He watched Stamper keenly in search of a defensive reaction, but the man simply considered the question seriously. 'Money's the answer, of course,' he said. 'Making it was his single great talent. Mickledore needed a non-stop supply by the sound of it. And Tory Party funds too.

But there was another attraction for Partridge, I'd guess. My father had invested in TV when the franchises came up for grabs and I think it was about then he got his first local paper, so Partridge would see him as a potential manipulator of the masses.' 'First local paper?' said Dalziel. 'He's got a lot then?' Stamper grimaced and said, 'A lot of everything. Inkerstamm, that's his conglomerate, have got their grubby fingers in all kinds of pies.' ‘Inkerstamm? Their head office is near Sheffield, isn't it? At least he's stuck close to his roots.'

'Oh, sure. But just so that every time he looks out of the window, he'll be reminded how far he's travelled!' This sounded a bit metaphysical to Dalziel. He said, 'How about Westropp? What was he after, money or manipulation?' Stamper said, 'I think he was probably just Mickledore's guest, too well bred to check his host's guest list.' He sounded oddly defensive, especially about a man whose profession probably trained him to check bathwater for sharks. Dalziel said, 'And of course there was your mam.' 'What the hell does that mean?' demanded Stamper. 'She struck me as a very nice lady, that's all, the kind of lass anyone would be pleased to have to stay.' 'I'm sorry,' said Stamper. 'Yes, you're quite right. She's something else.

Everyone loved her. I took it for granted as a kid. It was only later I got to realize how much rarer a talent that is than mere capacity for getting rich.' 'Everyone loved her? But she chose your father.'

'Why not? When you don't have to work at being loved, perhaps you don't need to develop powers of judgement.' Dalziel yawned and said, 'So, to put it short, your mam and dad got asked out because he had the chinks and she had the charm. But she saw through him in the end.'

'Oh yes. She may not be judgemental, but she is neither insensitive nor stupid. Unfortunately, by the time she realized her mistake, she'd had me and Wendy.' 'Now that were real bad luck,' said Dalziel drily.

'I mean, she was trapped.' ‘Why? Women usually get custody. Any road, she were a Yank. Once she'd got you over there, he'd not have got you back in a hurry.' ‘My mother's mind didn't work like that. Also, my father kept such a tight rein on her and on us that it would have taken an SAS operation to break us free.'

'Probably've got you shot too. What's young Wendy doing now?'

'She's in PR,' said Stamper shortly.

Something in his tone alerted that inner ear which stops good cops from buying time-shares.

'She doesn't work for Inkerstamm, does she?'

'So what if she does?' demanded Stamper.

'Nowt, except I thought you and her would be on the same wavelength.'

Stamper shrugged in an effort at unconcern and said, 'In the end, daughters get from their fathers whatever they want. It's sons who have to make do with what their fathers want.'

They were moving much faster now and Dalziel realized that they had got on to a motorway. It must be the M1l. He reached into his inside pocket and took out the large-scale OS sheet he had bought on his way to Stamper's flat. As far as he could make out, the cottage where he hoped to find Kohler was close up against the boundary wall of something called the Ongar Estate, and well off the beaten track.

When Stamper turned off the motorway on to the main road leading to the town of Ongar, he said, 'Slow down, it gets a bit complicated soon.'

He gave directions in clear unambiguous terms with plenty of time for Stamper to adjust. After a series of twists and turns on to progressively narrower roads, Dalziel said, 'All right, pull over.'

Stamper obeyed, bringing the car to a halt on a grass verge. He got out and looked over the hedge across empty fields.

'Lost, are we?" he said.

'No. We passed it a quarter mile back.'

'So what the hell are we doing here?' 'There's a lane down to this cottage. I could see the roof of a car half way down.' 'So she's got a car.' 'Mebbe. But it looked a funny place to park a car to me. More likely they've got a minder.' Stamper said disbelievingly, 'But you're a police superintendent.' 'That's no reason to throw my weight around,' said Dalziel rebukingly. 'Besides, the walk'll do us good. I reckon if we stroll across this field and through yon wood, we'll hit the wall of the Ongar estate that Kohler's cottage is up against. Then we'll just have to follow the wall round till we get there.' As a broad outline, it proved correct. What it omitted was all reference to brambles and briar, bog and barbed wire. Both men bore the marks of their presence by the time they reached the high boundary wall, though surprisingly Dalziel's technique of ploughing straight ahead regardless of obstacles had resulted in rather less damage than Stamper's attempts at circumnavigation. Finally Dalziel said, 'There we are, sunshine. What did I tell you?' The wall curved inwards in a deep U, at the centre of which stood a small cottage. Dalziel didn't make for it straightaway but instead seemed more interested in a pair of holly trees growing against the wall to form a rough archway. In the darkness beneath it was a narrow gate set in the wall. Its flaky rusty bars didn't look as if they had been opened in years but his nose had caught the heavy smell of oil amid the sweet perfume of hawthorn and wild rose. He stooped beneath the hollies and touched the gate. It swung open without a sound. ‘Interesting,' he said, turning back to the cottage. 'Let's see if there's anyone at home.' He walked across the neglected patch of garden to the rear door and tried it. It was locked. Then he walked round the building peering through windows.

'Why don't we just knock?' demanded Stamper. 'There's someone in. I can hear a radio.' 'Aye, you're right,' said Dalziel with heavy sarcasm. 'Must be someone in if there's a radio on. That's the first thing they teach burglars.' 'Are you saying they've gone? I mean really gone? Couldn't they just be out for a walk somewhere?' 'You reckon? Not very inventive for a writer, are you?' 'All right! Just stand where you are!' The words came from behind them. Dalziel turned.

A large young man in baggy slacks and a crumpled linen jacket was staring at them aggressively. "Morning,' said Dalziel. 'If you want the folk in the cottage, they seem to be out.' 'Out?' echoed the man in puzzlement. Then reverting to aggression he demanded, 'Who the hell are you?' Dalziel flushed indignantly and said, 'I'm Lord Ongar's estate manager and this is his lordship, and he doesn't care to hear language like that. Who are you, anyway? Don't you know this is private property?' The man began to look uncertain and said, 'I'm sorry, but I've got to ask…' 'Oh, you're official, are you?' said Dalziel. 'Mr Sempernel said there'd be someone here taking care of things. We'd better just have a glimpse of your authority to be on the safe side.' The man pulled a wallet from his inner pocket and showed the fat man an identity card. 'Right,' said Dalziel. 'Fair enough.

Perhaps we should have given notice, but we were just out inspecting the estate and his lordship took a fancy to step through the wall and take a look at our famous neighbour.' 'Through the wall…?' 'Aye.

Through the gate,' said Dalziel pointing. The gate clearly came as a shock to the young man. He tried it as Dalziel had done, then went to the back door of the house and, as Dalziel hadn't done, started to beat on it. 'No use,' said Dalziel. 'They're out. But they can't have gone far. They left the wireless on.' 'Oh shit,' said the young man.

Then, remembering Dalziel's reproof, he flashed an apologetic smile at Stamper, said, 'Excuse me,' and hurried away up the lane. 'What's all this Lord Ongar crap?' asked Stamper. 'Was he a cop? Where's he gone?

And where are Kohler and Waggs?' 'Sort of cop but not the sort you ask the time of,' said Dalziel, shepherding Stamper rapidly back the way they'd come. 'He's gone to radio in. I dare say when he mentions us, he'll get told to move his arse back to the house and finger our collars.' 'What for?' 'Personation for a start. You could be in big trouble.' 'Me? I did nothing.' 'You personated a lord, I only pretended to be an estate manager. Not to worry. He'll go chasing after us through yon little gate. We'll be long gone by the time he realizes he's wrong.' 'And Cissy Kohler? Where's she gone?' Dalziel shook his head at the man's obtuseness. 'Where'd you want to go if you'd been banged up for all them years? Unless we've set the dogs on her trail too soon, I'd say that Cissy Kohler's well on her way home.'