The Price of Butcher's Meat

1

It was late afternoon when Andy Dalziel got back to the Avalon.

It had been a peculiarly unsatisfactory day. He had set out for the Grand Opening determined to resolve some of the questions still niggling away in his mind. But instead of answers, all he was coming back with was more questions. A lot of them centered on Franny Roote, but there’d been no chance to put them. The deliriously happy young man had been taken over by Lester Feldenhammer who, aided by Pet Sheldon, had probed and prodded at his legs, watched as he took a few still unsteady but increasingly confident steps, then invited him to attend at the Avalon for a comprehensive examination. After that he had sat down again in his wheelchair-talking to the crowds of people who came to congratulate or simply gawk-occasionally standing up as if to reassure himself he could still do it- amp; all the while smiling so broadly it would have taken a harder man than Andy Dalziel to try and wipe it off his face.

Maybe it was for the best, thought Dalziel. Maybe for once in my life I should let sleeping dogs lie.

But an old lion on the prowl doesn’t give a toss about dogs, waking or sleeping. It’s his nature to carry on hunting till he sinks his teeth in his natural prey!

His temper had not been improved when he decided to call in at the Hope and Anchor on his way back to the Avalon. A perfect pint and a quiet chat with Alan Hollis, for whom he also had a few questions, seemed a good way to end his sojourn in Sandytown. But a notice in the window said the pub would not open on Saturday until six P.M., presumably to allow Hollis and his staff to go to the festival opening, though he could not recall seeing the landlord there.

So it was in a mood of some disgruntlement that Dalziel pushed open the door of his room.

Despite the fact that it was bright daylight still, the curtains were drawn.

He switched on the light.

The beams from the central bulb bounced back off the silver surface of Mildred, resting demurely on his pillow.

His mind threw up a possibility-some more than usually conscientious cleaner had looked in the lavatory cistern, spotted this intrusive object, removed it, and left it on the bed for its owner to claim.

His mind threw this up and in the same mental gesture threw it away.

He went slowly forward and picked the recorder up.

He knew at once this wasn’t his. The same make, the same model, meaning it was probably exactly the same in weight and shape. Yet one touch told him this wasn’t Mildred. Man doesn’t get to survive as long as he had without instantly being able to identify the woman he’s touching.

He went quickly into the bathroom to confirm what he’d guessed, that Mildred was no longer there.

Then he sat down on the counterpane with the false Mildred and looked at it for a long moment.

Finally he let his thumb stray to the Play button.

And pressed.