The Wood Beyond

ii

Peter Pascoe awoke.

It was black dark and the darkness pressed on him like a wall of dank earth which a very little undermining would bring sliding down on top of him. His nostrils flared and his mouth drew in desperate draughts of air, and he turned on his side and reached out his hand in search of he knew not what possible comfort. His fingers found flesh, still, cold, naked. He cried out in shock and tried to withdraw his hand, but before he could, it was seized in a grip irresistibly strong and out of the darkness a voice said, 'You've kicked the sodding duvet off again. God, I'm frozen solid!'

Then Ellie drew him close and held him across her shivering body.

'Purely thermal,' she murmured warningly. 'Don't get any ideas.'

He didn't answer and after a while she became aware that his shivering wasn't all down to temperature.

'Hey, are you OK?' she said.

'Yes. Just a bad dream.'

'Don't tell me. This court-martial thing still?'

'Sort of… in a way. . not about it though.. about me … I feel like I'm there … in the Salient..'

'For Christ's sake, Peter,' she exclaimed sitting up. 'I know I said I thought you should go on with this, but if this is what it's doing to you, don't you think you should give it up?'

'Don't think it would make any difference. Thing is, this salient feeling, it's not new.. I've been there before. . feeling out at the limit, exposed, utterly vulnerable.'

'You're talking about after Burrthorpe, aren't you? And Chung?' Ellie's belief in open government started at home.

'I suppose so. But other times too. In some ways all of my life. I've always looked for.. strength. Maybe that's why I joined the Force. Married you even.'

Attempt at lightness? Or truth in jest?

'You mean, me and Fat Andy are on a par? Thanks a bundle! Peter, I know there've been rough times, but we talked … at least I thought we talked, I thought we'd got things sorted.'

'No, please, understand me, this has nothing to do with you. . without what we've got, God knows where I'd be.'

'But you've never told me, not fully. I thought we'd agreed to share everything.. '

'We do. But that doesn't mean just unloading all the time. You've had bad times too without unloading all your stuff on me.'

She was silent for a while then said, 'Sounds to me maybe I was. Pete, I know you've talked to Pottle in the past and it helped. Have you thought of trying him again?'

'I called to see him last night, on my way back from Kirkton.'

He could feel her hurt at what must come over as another exclusion but all she said was, 'So what happened?'

'He listened, then said, "It seems to me that what we've got here is stress related directly to an investigation, a not uncommon syndrome in your profession. The successful conclusion of the investigation usually solves the problem of the stress also. Let us hope it does so here.'"

He caught exactly the precise tone of the psychiatrist's pronouncement, emerging from the usual cloud of cigarette smoke which he justified by saying, 'If I gave up this one disgusting habit, who knows what others would rush in to fill the gap?'

Normally Ellie might have been amused by the closeness of his mimicry. Now all she said was, 'But what is it you're investigating, Pete? Do you really know?'

'That, I suspect, is Pottle's point. Look, I was going to tell you all this last night, when we got to talking about it. Then you came up with your alternative therapy..'

After seeing Pottle he hadn't bothered to go in to the station, justifying himself with the argument that if there was anything more important waiting for him there than the usual pile of paperwork on his desk, the radio would have been foaming with his call sign all afternoon.

At home there hadn't been a chance to talk with Ellie about his day till Rosie was safely stowed in bed. She'd demanded a further episode of a bloodthirsty serial Pascoe had been inventing intermittently for longer than either could remember. Rosie sometimes went weeks without wanting a further episode but when she did, she had total recall of every detail of plot and personnel, and any variation was instantly and savagely corrected. With her editorial help he'd steered the latest instalment to its usual cliffhanging conclusion and she'd smiled up at him blissfully, murmured, 'Fucking great, Dad,' and fallen asleep.

'Ellie, we need to do something about this swearing thing,' he'd said when he got downstairs.

'I'm seeing Ms Martindale tomorrow,' said Ellie.

This was Rosie's head teacher, a charming smiling young woman, who came across as cooperative and conciliatory till you collided with her will of steel.

'Best of luck,' said Pascoe.

'So how was your day?' she asked.

'I'll tell you over dinner,' he said.

He'd started light-heartedly, making her laugh as he recounted his meeting with Polly Pollinger. But when he tried to carry on the mood into his account of his visit to Kirkton, he failed miserably.

'Let me get this straight,’ said Ellie. 'Your great-grandfather, Peter, was married to Alice Clark, both of Kirkton,’

'Yes.'

'Also living in Kirkton was his cousin, Stephen Pascoe, who was married to Mary Quiggins.'

'Yes.'

'And this Stephen was making it with Alice and when Peter was executed for cowardice on the Western Front, Stephen left his wife and child and ran off with Alice.'

'So the old Quiggins woman claims. The other one is too young to have any personal knowledge, but she confirms that was the family tradition.'

'Did Ada ever say anything about having a new dad? Or an uncle called Stephen?'

'Not that I heard.'

'And why did she grow up with the name Clark, her mother's maiden name? If Alice was shacking up with a man who had the same name as her husband's, wouldn't it have been easier just to carry on as Mrs Pascoe?'

'I'd thought about that before all this came up. I was theorizing that she'd gone off and changed her name out of shock and shame. From what I've seen of Kirkton, it can't have been much fun living round there once it got out that your man had been executed by his own side for cowardice. But if she ran off with Stephen, she might have a double reason for changing her name. Shame, and the police.'

'Why the police?' asked Ellie puzzled.

'Because la Quiggins called Stephen a deserter. I know from what Studholme said that he was wounded during the Ypres campaign in 1917. Presumably if he had recovered enough to be having an affair with Alice by late autumn, he'd recovered enough to be returned to duty. Perhaps he didn't fancy it.'

'Hold on,' said Ellie. 'Before you start tarring all the Pascoes with the same brush, Studholme didn't say anything about this Stephen being a deserter, did he?'

'No.'

'Don't you think he'd have mentioned that? Perhaps he ran off with Alice, had a couple of days with her, then when it was time to report back, he went off like a good little soldier back to the Front and got killed.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Because clearly he didn't go back to his wife and family, and equally clearly if Ada's silence means anything, he didn't go back to Alice. So, unless he was a real shit and treated his fancy woman like he treated his wife, it seems likely he didn't make it.'

'Yeah, maybe.'

Pascoe passed his hand over his face as if trying to rub something off, a gesture of weary despondency Ellie recognized and deplored. It meant that, quite unnecessarily in her view, he was letting this ancient history get to him in a big way. Damn Ada, she thought. What right did she have to let her life's obsession spill over into her grandson's?

This was the point at which Pascoe had felt ready to bring up his visit to Pottle but before he could start Ellie excused herself and went into the kitchen returning a moment later with an open bottle of his precious Nuit St Georges which she set alongside the already half-finished Hungarian Chardonnay.

Pascoe raised an eyebrow and said, 'Thirsty?'

'You could say. You know how a big red oils my wheels.'

'I can't say I'd noticed them creaking.'

'That's because you're not close enough to listen yet,' she said sultrily. She was very good at sultry when the mood was on her.

They finished the bottle in bed. Of all the teetering tightropes alcohol sets a man to tread, that between desire and performance is perhaps the most perilous, but it seemed to Peter Pascoe that for once he'd got the balance perfectly right, moving forward steady as Blondin, till the air exploded in a blast of nuclear light, sending him plunging joyfully over the edge into what had been a welcome and welcoming darkness.

Then had come that other darkness, and the waking dream which was not all a dream.. but at least it had sparked off this talk … he felt better now. . Ellie had turned away from him, snuggling into the reclaimed duvet. He put his arms round her and cupped her breasts … twin salients these but full of comfort and promise … I too am Homo Saliens, he thought, Salient Man posted here for the duration. .

'Hey, I said no ideas,' Ellie murmured drowsily. 'Far too early. . your hands are cold … let us sleep now.. '

Next time he awoke it was to the sound of the postman whose way with a doorbell marked him as a frustrated fireman. He sat up quickly, wished he hadn't, looked at the alarm clock, wished he hadn't done that either, and rolled out of bed, dragging the duvet with him.

'For God's sake,' said Ellie. 'You're doing it again.'

'We've slept in,' he said. 'I'm late for work, Rosie's late for school, and you're late for.. something.'

'Life,' she groaned. 'Jesus, what do those fucking Frogs put in their booze?'

Catch her unawares and she could be deliciously politically incorrect. But no time now to enjoy the sound, not to mention the sight, of her, sprawled across the bed in a state of naked abandon which even in his present haste brought the familiar lustful tightness to his throat.

The doorbell had long stopped ringing. He dragged on his dressing gown and staggered onto the landing, shouting, 'Rosie, love, get up, will you? You're late.'

'No I'm not,' said his daughter from the foot of the stairs. 'I've had my breakfast and I've been making yours.'

She was all dressed ready for school, neat and tidy as could be, and in the kitchen the percolator was bubbling, the toaster toasting, and two bowls of muesli sat on the table.

By his there was a bulky package.

'I had to sign for it,' said Rosie proudly. 'The postman said really you or Mummy should sign but I said you were busy.'

That at least was something, thought Pascoe. On recent evidence, he'd not have been surprised if she'd told the man her parents were pissed out of their minds and probably bonking their eyeballs out.

He said, 'You've done really well, darling. But you should have waited. You know you oughtn't to be playing around with electrical things in the kitchen.'

She regarded him with the scorn of one who'd been born knowing how to programme a VCR, and said, 'Skimmed milk or Gold Top?'

Pascoe examined the package. The label told him it was from Barbara Lomax, Ada's solicitor. He'd phoned her office to say that he'd carried out Ada's instructions with regard to disposing of her ashes, and would be interested to know what other duties his role as executor required of him. He'd expected there might be a few papers to sign, but this package looked like serious work.

Well, it would have to wait. Legal duties were important, but he had a greater master than the Law to serve.

He shovelled in his muesli, slurped down his coffee, refused (much to Rosie's distress) his toast, and on his way up to the bathroom passed Ellie on her way down.

'Bloody red wine,' she hissed at him. 'You know it doesn't agree with me.'

'It wasn't my idea,' he called but she was already out of earshot.

He went out of the door at a run but she caught him as he backed the car out of the garage.

'But it was worth it,' she murmured bending to kiss him through the window. Then rather spoilt it by adding doubtfully, 'At least I think it was.. never mind, it'll probably all come back later.'

As he drove too fast along the road into town, he found himself like a tardy schoolboy rehearsing excuses. Maybe I should have asked Rosie to write me a note! he mocked himself. Just tell the fat old sod the truth. Which was? That I slept in. Why? Because I slept too well. Also because I slept too badly. Which? Both. How come? I slept well because we wined and dined and. . exhausted ourselves. And I slept badly because I've got this maggot in my mind like one of those maggots which grew fat on all those thousands of bodies out there in the Salient, corners now of foreign fields, compost and bone meal, long ploughed under, to set the green shoots reaching for the sun, for beasts to graze on and finally create those mountains of excess for which the EU is the jest and riddle of the known world.

No! Better Rosie's note than this rambling truth. Dear Mr Dalziel, my daddy is late because he and Mummy got pissed last night. I will try to make sure it doesn't happen again.

His radio crackled. Control, which in this case meant Dalziel, wanted to know his location. He was approaching a roundabout. Straight on would take him to his desk in about fifteen minutes. Exit right and the ring road would bring him within striking distance of Wanwood House in about the same time.

A bit of advice from his younger detective days sprang into his mind. Never be late, always be somewhere else. Could even have been the Fat Man himself.

He kept going round the roundabout.

Into his radio mike he said, 'Location Wanwood House following up yesterday's enquiries at ALBA HQ.'

What he was going to do when he got there he had no idea. This was an absurd schoolboyish way for a mature DCI to be behaving. But when you thought about all those young boys who back in 1914 had lied themselves to death, perhaps there was a balance to be redressed, and every act of mature childishness was a tiny chipping at that greatest mountain of European waste, the Everest of unused youth.

Perhaps. Or perhaps he was just following a well-worn track into the male midlife crisis.

Whatever, he'd better start thinking of a reason for visiting Wanwood or he might find crisis coming a little early this year.