Recalled to Life

TEN

'One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Hush!'

Dalziel liked trains, especially he liked trains when the alternative was driving on the wrong side of a road more crowded with maniacs than the corridors of Bedlam. The girl on the travel desk had tried to persuade him that New York was unique and if he let her rent him a car at very reasonable rates, he'd find things much different on the thruway. But Dalziel cocked an ear to Seventh Avenue in full throat outside and said, 'I'd rather sup lager and lime.'

She booked him a seat on something called the Colonial and a room at a hotel called the Plantation, all of which sounded too folksy for comfort. Nor was he much impressed by her assurance that the hotel was on the edge of this 'historic area' she was so reverential about. But he comforted himself with the thought that over here 'historic' probably meant something built before the Korean war.

He left a note for Linda at the desk, explaining where he'd gone.

He reckoned she'd come round breathing fire when he stood her up at lunch-time, and a bit of cheque-book journalism would soon loosen the travel girl's tongue, so he might as well tell the truth and keep himself qualified (he hoped) both for her favours and his expenses.

Once he'd made up his mind to head south, professional courtesy took him along to the police in case they needed him in connection with the man he'd caught in his hotel room.

It was like walking into a TV series. He found himself sitting in a room as crowded as the Black Bull on a Saturday night with a detective who managed to look harassed and laid back at the same time.

After checking through some papers the man said, 'That's OK. You won't be needed.'

'Now? Or ever?' wondered Dalziel.

'Or ever,' said the man laconically.

'You don't bother with witnesses at your trials, then?' said Dalziel, with real interest in this highly desirable state of affairs.

'Shit, the trial's done. He went into night court, a year suspended. He's long gone.'

'Attempted robbery? A year suspended? Good job he had a gun else you'd likely have had to pay him pocket money,' said Dalziel incredulously.

'His lawyer did a deal. He said he walked into your room by accident and panicked. He had a licence for the gun and no record.

Listen, Mr Dalziel, with the lawyer this guy's got, think yourself lucky he's not suing you for felonious assault!'

'This brief, I mean lawyer. Did the court have to appoint him?'

'No. He came running. Rich family probably. We're deep into democracy over here. Can't tell a punk by his clothes any more.'

Dalziel left, deeply dissatisfied. If he'd known the bugger were going to walk free, he'd have hit him harder. Perhaps things would be more normal once he got out of New York.

At Penn Station, though pleased by the absence of horses, he was rather disappointed to find that the Colonial belied its name and looked nothing like the huge locomotives he recalled from childhood Westerns. But Hollywood reasserted itself when a portly black conductor appeared in the doorway above him and said with the easy freemasonry of girth, 'Now let me help you there, Mr Mostel. Am I glad to see you! They told me you were dead.' Dalziel, confused by the assonance, was slow to catch on. 'What's your problem, sunshine?' he asked. 'Well, pardon me, you mean you ain't Zero Mostel?' said the man, with affected embarrassment. 'I'm so sorry. Let me show you to your seat, sir. Better still, let me show you to two seats.' 'You cheeky bugger,' said Dalziel. 'Move over before we get wedged.' He'd just got himself comfortable when there was a tapping at the window.

He looked up to see Dave Thatcher gesturing him urgently towards the door. Sighing, he rose and returned to the platform. 'How do, Dave?' he said coldly. 'Didn't think I'd see you again.' 'I couldn't talk on the phone,' said Thatcher. 'I called your hotel this morning and they said you were catching the Colonial. Listen, you said something about a woman called Linda. Tell me about her.' Dalziel, who'd been speculating that Thatcher might be here in the role of jealous boyfriend having got a whiff of the previous afternoon's bonking, was taken by surprise. 'Linda Steele. Black lass, journalist. Says you put her on to me.' 'Why should I do that?' 'Pay a favour. Get yourself on her short list. She's a fancy lass.' 'You mean you fancy her?'

Thatcher smiled. 'You want to watch yourself, Andy. I've never heard of her. And I don't sick journalists on cops I owe favours to.' 'She gave me Waggs's address in New York. Kohler was with him." 'She did?'

Thatcher took some sheets of paper out of his inside pocket and studied them. 'That clinches it. I thought she might just be some freelance on the make, but if she's got info like that, she's on the inside track.' 'Dave,' said Dalziel patiently. 'I've got a train to catch. How about telling me what's going off here?' 'OK. Listen. After you left the airport, I made a couple of calls I felt I owed you, so I chucked the names Waggs and Kohler at a few people. I've got good contacts. Couple of hours later this guy strolls into my office. I know him vaguely but not half as well as he seems to know me, not a quarter so well as he wants to know you.' 'Me? He wasn't one of your contacts, then?' 'No, he wasn't. I couldn't see any way your little problem could involve national security'. 'Ah,' said Dalziel. 'I've got you. A funny bugger.' 'I'm sorry?' 'We've got 'em too. Funny buggers, I call the lot on em. So what's his sport?' 'These guys don't advertise job descriptions. But ultimately, and this may just be a coincidence, his boss could be Scott Rampling.' 'Stuff me,' said Dalziel. 'So what'd he want to know about me?' 'Everything I could tell him. Which, before you ask, is exactly what I told him. I could see no reason not to.' 'Oh aye? So what's this? A follow-up visit?'

'Yeah. Real subtle, ain't I? In fact, he suggested if you got in touch again, I should be nice to you and see if I could get a line on what you were doing. Which, as well as being surrounded by ears I wasn't sure of, was another reason I choked you off when you rang.' 'So what are you doing here, Dave?' wondered Dalziel. 'Putting the record straight. I don't like being jerked about by these – what-did-you-call-'em? – funny buggers. Especially I don't like the idea of people latching on to you under pretence of being friends of mine. This woman, apart from giving you Waggs's address, what else has she done for you?' Dalziel scratched his groin reminiscently. 'Oh, odd things,' he said. 'She had a good poke around my room, that's for sure.' 'That seems to be the in-game. Wasn't there something in the papers about you catching a hotel thief?' said Thatcher. 'Aye. So what … Hell's bells, you don't reckon he was one of 'em too? Mebbe that would explain…' 'What?' 'They slapped his wrist, told him to be a good boy in future, and let him go.' Behind him doors were slamming.

The conductor leaned out and said, 'You coming or not, Mr Mostel?'

Dalziel climbed aboard. It would have been good to spend more time talking to Thatcher but he had the feeling that the important place to be was Williamsburg. 'Mr Mostel?' said Thatcher. 'A joke. This country of yours is full of jokers.' 'Maybe. But jokes can turn nasty. You take care, Andy. Men like Rampling have got long arms and sharp teeth.' 'I'd best buy some bananas, then,' said Dalziel. The train was moving. Thatcher walked alongside it. 'You might as well have this,' he said, passing his sheets of paper through the window, it's all on Waggs. Kohler's a blank, completely off the record.' 'Thanks,' said Dalziel. 'You've not asked what I'm doing on this train.' 'What I don't know, I can't be accused of withholding,' Thatcher said, smiling. 'Ring me if you need an interpreter Bye!' As the train picked up speed, Dalziel returned thoughtfully to his seat. He had an unfamiliar sense of things getting out of control. He'd laughed off Thatcher's warning, but now, as he slipped ever deeper into this strange, huge country, it felt less like a laughing matter. Back home in Yorkshire, bearding lions in their dens was run-of-the-mill work for an old white hunter. But here, though he might be worth a headline as Crocodile Dalziel, basically he was nowt more than a fat old tourist with a million quids' worth of medical insurance which a good kicking would probably absorb in a long weekend. 'Ticket, sir,' boomed a voice in his ear. 'What? Sorry, I were miles away.' 'That's what you're paying for,' said the conductor as he examined the ticket.

'You'll need to keep your strength up. Buffet's three cars down.' 'I hope the grub's better than the jokes,' said Dalziel, rising. It was.

He got himself a couple of monumental sandwiches and a matching bourbon. It wasn't the Caledonian cream, of course, but it certainly made your teeth tingle. Then, the inner man refreshed, he turned his attention to the papers Thatcher had given him. A quick examination revealed that what he had here was the life and hard times of Jay Waggs as told to a computer. Or rather, a whole family of computers.

Some chum of Thatcher's must have accessed all the data storage systems by which the modern pilgrim's progress is charted. Tax, health, education, credit rating, the law, God knows what else. At a glance the picture seemed complete, but a second glance revealed what Thatcher must have spotted on the platform, that none of these mighty memory banks had recorded Waggs's last known address. It had taken Miss Linda Steele to put him on that trail, presumably at the instigation of Scott Rampling. He shelved speculation as to Rampling's motives and concentrated on Waggs's life. First thing that caught his attention was that the man used two names, but not necessarily for criminal purposes. Born 1957, christened John, the only son of Mr and Mrs Paul Petersen of New York City, he had been orphaned when six and brought up thereafter by his aunt, Mrs Tess Heffernan. Mrs Heffernan got divorced two years later (cause and effect? wondered Dalziel) and in 1966 married John Waggs of Ann Arbor, Michigan. The couple formally adopted the boy, changing his surname to Waggs, and it was presumably now that he also became Jay to differentiate him from his adoptive father. His recorded life now ran smoothly till he got to college age.

He enrolled in a business studies course under his former name of Petersen, switched after a short time to a film-making course, stayed with that rather longer, then completed his formal education with a spell at drama school. Armed with this variety of experience but without any formal qualifications, he now launched himself on the entertainment industry, ready to be anything in the expectation of being rich, wheeling and dealing and picking up flotsam and jetsam along the foreshore of illegality, and only occasionally getting his feet wet. All this Dalziel was able to decode, not because he knew much about the media world, but because he was long acquainted with the life-patterns of those who exist on the shadowy edges of things. A good pointer was the degree to which Waggs clearly found it useful to have some legal entitlement to two names. He moved between them with great facility, though generally favouring Petersen till about three years earlier. His bank balance was low, though his credit rating was OK. He'd had an appendectomy, some expensive dental work (what was it with these people and their teeth?), wasn't HIV positive, was a registered Democrat, had one conviction for attempted fraud (selling an option he didn't own – fine and suspended sentence), several outstanding traffic violations, and a security rating which seemed incredibly low for a man who hadn't actually tried to booby-trap the President's private bog. He was unmarried. So what did it all add up to? Not a lot, thought Dalziel gloomily. Sodding useless things computers! The only vague glimmer of light was that security rating, and not all glimmers were equally welcome, as the condemned man said just before dawn. He shoved the paper in his pocket and took out instead Kohler's Bible. He'd looked at it the previous night but it was slow tedious work following this trail of minute dots, especially when all you got out of it was the introspective ramblings of a woman at the edge of reason. If she had tucked any amazing confessions away in here, it was going to need a steady analytical mind to mine them out. Someone like Wield. He had the patience. Or mebbe the boy Pascoe.

He could probably get a computer to do it. But as for himself… He groaned as he checked the size of the task ahead. 'Lordy, lordy, you are full of surprises!' It was the conductor again. That's a good book you've got there. A really good book.' Oh aye? I suppose you've read it from cover to cover?' growled Dalziel. 'On my mammie's knee. But don't you worry. I won't spoil it for you by telling how it comes out.' 'Thanks,' said Dalziel. 'Hold on, sunshine, before you run off, you know so much about the Bible, what's your favourite bit?' 'Now there's a question. Now let me see. Psalms, I love the psalms.

One-three-seven, that's my favourite. By the waters of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept when we remembered Zion.' 'Thanks,' said Dalziel, riffling through the pages till he reached the psalms. The dots were crowding thick here as Kohler refined her system and it was easy to get lost, but he persevered and after a while a smile spread across his face. When systems fail, ride your luck. When women stop weeping, they start giving you their life-story. 'Thanks a lot,' said Dalziel. Shaking his head at these Anglo-Saxon oddities, the conductor went on his way, leaving the smiling man to his task. But the smile did not last long. Midnight I heard the youngest Partridge child cry.

I looked in, then went to tell Marsh. She wasn't in her room. I thought I heard a noise from the next door where Tommy was sleeping.

Like a cry or gasp of pain. Opened door quietly and looked in. Saw but at first could not believe. Boy naked on bed, kneeling astride him naked woman, his cock in her mouth. She saw me, got off, came to me, spoke. Didn't recognize her till then. It was Marsh. Smiling, her mouth wet. I hit her. Blood from her nose spurted over my hand. Ran from room back to my room, washed hands. 'Jesus wept,' murmured Dalziel. Tommy Partridge, now the Right Honourable Thomas Partridge, MP, Minister of State in the Home Office, then the twelve-year-old son and heir of Thomas Partridge Senior, MP, Minister of State in the War Office. Had Kohler told her story then to anyone? Certainly not to Tallantire. Wally was a bastard when it came to harming kids. Little Emily Westropp's death had removed any sympathy he might have had for Kohler. But if she'd told him about Marsh, he'd have jumped on the Scots nanny from such a height, she'd have made a new tartan. He read haltingly on. I sat on my bed in a daze, I don't know how long. It was the stable clock starting to strike midnight that roused me. Had to talk to someone. Ran down side stairs to guest floor. Don't know why but it seemed important I got there while chimes still sounding.

Turned corner by gunroom as last stroke rang out. The door opened and Mick appeared. Looked terrible, clothes disarrayed, face shocked till he saw it was me. Thank God it's you, he said, something awful's happened. I tried to push by and he held me, but I could see her.

Pam, covered with blood. Someone took the seat next to him. He looked up in surprise and irritation. There was plenty of room in the carriage without squeezing alongside the broadest bum in transit. But his irritation turned to surprise and suspicion when he recognized the man next to him. Well-groomed now and smartly dressed in a grey business suit, he was still unmistakably the young hotel mugger who'd slipped so easily out of police custody. Before he could speak, a hand tapped his shoulder and a familiar voice said, 'Hi, Andy. Running out on me, huh?' He twisted round to see Linda Steele leaning over the seat behind him. At the same time he felt the Bible pulled from beneath his fingers and the young mugger was on his feet and moving swiftly away down the aisle. As Dalziel rose to give chase, Linda Steele slipped into the vacated seat and barred his passage with her lissom body. 'Why bother?' she asked. 'It's not worth it, believe me.'

He watched the grey suit vanish into the next coach, shrugged and subsided. It was, in any case, picky work, translating those dots, and he didn't much like what he'd been reading either. 'Next time I get yon bugger within reach, I'll break bones first and ask questions after,' he said, subsiding. 'So you're a funny bugger too. Never slept with one of them before, not as I know of. If you were taking pictures, will you send me a set of prints?' She laughed joyously, then became serious and said, 'Andy, I don't sleep around with anyone.

It's not in my job description. I really took a shine to you.' 'Don't worry about bruising my ego, luv,' he said. 'Nowt wrong with mixing business and pleasure. I doubt if there's been a fuck since the world began that hasn't been paid for eventually, one way or another.' She studied his face so closely he felt her warm breath. 'I have hurt you, haven't I?' 'I can thole a lot of that kind of pain,' he said, if anything, I'm relieved I can't be accused of bedding a reporter.

That'd really knacker my reputation back home.' 'I'm sorry to disappoint you, Andy, but I really am a journalist. I just happen to be working for the government too.' 'Oh, it's the government, is it?

They're the buggers who're sending people to rob me? Threaten me?

Search my luggage? I thought that was why folk came to America, so's they could get away from places where officials robbed and threatened them?' ‘I don't follow. Who's threatened you?' 'Your young mate back there, he was the guy who came into my room with a gun, or didn't you know that?' 'No. Truly. He's just a guy I was told to work with.' She looked genuinely perturbed but Dalziel reminded himself that they probably wouldn't be talking like this if she hadn't spotted him with Dave Thatcher on the platform and guessed her cover was blown. 'So what are you doing, luv? Just following orders?' he said. 'That's right. But don't worry, Andy. If anyone starts telling me to push people into a gas chamber, I'll tell them to take a hike.' 'Glad to hear it. And next time you're in England and someone robs you in broad daylight on a train, you be sure to give me a ring. Better still, call round in person and we'll continue this full, frank and fearless discussion over a hot mattress mebbe.' She said very seriously, 'I'll remember that, Andy. Believe me, I'm new to this kind of work and there are a lot of things about it I question.' 'Glad to hear it,' he said again. 'And here's another question you might like to bend your mind to. Where exactly do I send my expenses claim to?' For a second she looked blank, then she laughed again, joyously, toothily. 'I really do love you, Andy. You take care of yourself, hear?' Still laughing, she flowed away down the aisle. Dalziel watched her go.

Funny thing about these Yanks, he thought. They took you serious when you were joking and they fell about laughing when you were dead serious. Sighing at the problems of foreign travel, he made his way to the buffet. The rest of the journey passed swiftly, punctuated by large sandwiches and long drinks. They passed through Washington and he thought he glimpsed the mugger on the platform. He also thought he glimpsed the Capitol but it might just have been someone's summerhouse. From time to time he thought about the passage he'd translated from Kohler's memoirs. He tried to make sense of it but didn't like some of the sense he was making. Marsh ending up being kept in comfort by the man whose son she had abused… Well, he could fit that into the scheme of things easy enough. But Kohler running into Mickledore by accident after the killing. Kohler guilty of nothing more than helping him cover up the crime… Perhaps the real question was how much reliance he could place on the ciphered ramblings of an incarcerated woman desperately trying to reassemble the scattered jigsaw of her life? He liked that. Scattered jigsaw.

Sort of thing the boy Pascoe might say. Where the fuck had he been last night? He felt the need stronger than ever to speak to someone whose mind he knew, who knew his own mind, who'd laugh at his jokes or at least recognize when he was joking. He fell asleep and was awoken by a hand squeezing his shoulder and the conductor's voice saying, 'Time to pretty up, sir. Next stop, Williamsburg.' Still yawning on the platform, Dalziel reached up and shook the man's hand. 'Bye-bye, Blackbird,' he said. 'Now I got you!' exclaimed the conductor, ‘It's been an honour to have you aboard, Mr Greenstreet. You keep chasing that falcon, you hear?' Laughing, Dalziel turned away. The temperature was a pleasant change after the damp chilliness of New York. It was like a balmy English summer evening. And the pleasant surprises continued with his taxi-driver. Taciturn but courteous, he drove with a painstaking attention to legality and safety that won Dalziel's heart and a large tip which he examined doubtfully.

‘It's all right, friend,' said Dalziel. 'I've been saving it up.'

At the hotel he was processed with friendly efficiency. Quickly unpacked, he consulted his corporeal needs and decided what he'd like best after the long journey was to stretch his legs and inhale some fresh air. Always suspicious of any urge to exercise for its own sake, he thought he might combine it with a recce and asked the desk clerk for directions to Golden Grove.

The man was impressed. 'Nice address,' he said.

'Yes, I know, it's in the historic area,' said Dalziel impatiently. 'Can I walk there?'

'Reckon you'll have to,' said the man, glancing at his watch.

The force of this remark didn't strike Dalziel till, after crossing a busy main road, he realized that ahead of him the buzz of traffic and the glare of street lights had vanished. Even more disturbing was the absence of tarmac from the road. There was lighting of a kind, but it was very dim. He began to wonder if he'd gone wrong.

He knew from the movies what an American high-class neighbourhood looked like – a sort of cross between Ilkley and Babylon – and this didn't begin to fit the bill. He drew some reassurance from the sight of other people strolling around and he accelerated to overtake a couple.

'Excuse me,' he said.

They turned and he ceased to be reassured. The woman was wearing a long muslin dress and a mob cap, while the bearded man was dressed in knee-britches and a leather tunic. They smiled at him with the instant effulgence of doorstep evangelists, and the man said, 'How can we help you, stranger? I'm Caleb Fellowes and this is my wife, Mistress Edwina.'

Dalziel took a step back. America, he knew from his reading of the British tabloids, was full of way-out religions and he was not about to be kidnapped by the loonies or moonies or whatever they called themselves. 'Nay, it's all right, I can find me own way,' he said.

'Are you come late from England, sir?' inquired the woman. 'What news of the tea tax? How fares King George?' 'Dead,' said Dalziel. 'But his missus is still going strong.' They looked at him blankly, then burst into laughter, which was a lot more reassuring than their welcoming smiles. Fellowes said, 'What is it you're looking for, friend?' 'Place called Golden Grove,' said Dalziel, still uncertain. 'The Bellmain house? We're going that way. Why not walk along with us?' He sounded so normal that Dalziel began to seek explanations other than religious nuttiness for the fancy dress. 'You going to a party?' he wondered.

'Or is it a film, mebbe?' 'You really don't know? No wonder you looked like you'd seen a ghost. You're in Colonial Williamsburg, friend, where everything's like it was two hundred years ago, round the time of the Declaration of Independence.' 'Does that mean I can get drunk for sixpence?' asked Dalziel. 'Hell no, more's the pity,' said Fellowes, drawing an indignant snort from his wife. 'And you actually live here?' 'My family's lived here almost as long as there's been a here,' said Fellowes proudly. 'How about the Bellmains?' 'The same, only they made more money. They had a big plantation down by the James River. Golden Grove it was called, which is how the house got its name. Golden Grove tobacco used to be one of the very best.' He spoke with the nostalgia of a recent apostate. 'Plantation? Like with slaves and all that?' 'Surely. 'Bout the same time as back in England they were still shoving five-year-old boys up chimneys to clean them.'

'Still do where I come from,' said Dalziel. 'A lot of these Bellmains, are there?' 'Nope. There's only Marilou left. And her kids, of course, but they're English and I guess they've got their father's name.' 'But there's a Mr Bellmain, isn't there?' 'Her second husband. From the sound of it, he ain't going to be around much longer.' 'Call' said his wife reprovingly. 'Local custom, is it? Man taking the wife's name?' asked Dalziel. 'No. Could be she felt she didn't have much luck first time she changed it, so this time round she felt she'd keep a hold of it.' 'Mebbe,' said Dalziel. 'Does she have to wear fancy dress too?'

'No,' said the man, smiling. 'She doesn't work for the Foundation, but naturally the house has got to fit in. That's Golden Grove there.' It was larger and set further back than most of the others, constructed of warm red brick and framed by trees. A solitary upstairs light shone behind a curtained window. 'You planning to call now?' asked Fellowes.

'No,' said Dalziel. Til leave it till morning. It's a bit late. Good night. And thanks for your help.' He walked away. It was a lie, of course. In his game, it didn't matter whether you called early or late as long as you were unexpected. The truth was that for the first time, or mebbe the second, he didn't fancy the truth. What he did fancy was street lights and traffic, even New York style. He'd had his fill of the past. These eighteenth-century streets with their absence of any noise but a burst of frenetic fiddle- playing from a wooden tavern were far more disturbing than the darkest alleys of home. Ahead the lights of cars passing along the boundary road signalled the return of the twentieth century. Behind… He glanced back and shuddered. It was like looking down the throat of Old Time. It was a dangerous business disturbing the past. That dark shape moving sideways at his glance to merge into the shadows, illusion? ghost? or a living presence watching in the night? There was a time when he would have gone to find out. Not tonight. Tomorrow would do. Tomorrow was another day. Who'd said that? Some tart in a movie. He remembered thinking it were a pretty daft thing to say and if some sod got paid cash for writing it, he should give up bobbying and sell his notebook to Metro Goldwyn Mayer. Now it made sense. He began to walk even faster towards his hotel. Towards tomorrow.