Under World

Chapter 14

Wield’s job that morning had been to backtrack Colin Farr. The crashed motorbike had been recovered and the sergeant used its location as his starting-point. He was riding his own machine, a lovely old BSA Rocket. In the past, without making a state secret out of it, he’d tended to keep his bike and his job in separate compartments, but recently he had started to use it not only to get to work but, when the occasion demanded, on the job. He wondered if this was some kind of symbolic gesture to reinforce his rather muted coming-out, but having long since acknowledged the fruitlessness of self-analysis, he didn’t wonder much. Today, tracing the route of a man on a motorcycle, it was the obvious choice of transport.

But first he walked, taking the shortest way along the network of narrow roads from the scene of the accident to the telephone kiosk where Farr had waited for Ellie Pascoe. There was something here not right. He liked Mrs Pascoe but his judgement was that her heart ruled her head and that whenever she felt a pressure from society or self-interest to act in a certain way, her tendency would be to rush off in the opposite direction.

Wield smiled, without visible evidence. Self-analysis might be a waste of time and spirit, but chopping up other people’s minds was fun.

He returned his own mind to the job in hand.

It had taken him twenty minutes to walk from the scene of the accident to the kiosk. That was the time of a fit man in daylight knowing where he was going. He noted it down with the qualification that Farr might have taken as much as twice as long. And there was no knowing how long he may have lain stunned after the crash.

In other words it was probably all a waste of time, but Wield had long since learned to leave inspired short-cuts and quantum leaps to them with the rank to cushion their shortfall.

He returned to his bike, his eyes still searching for signs of Farr’s passage, but there was a marked absence of bloodstains and footprints, and it needed woodlore more skilled than his to read anything into bent grass on the verge or broken twigs in the hedgerow.

Back at his bike he studied his map, made a decision and mounted. Here his judgement proved excellent. The first pub he called at was full of traces of Farr’s passage which the landlord pointed to with a kind of melancholy pride.

‘He came in, asked for a pint and it went down without touching the sides. It were only then I started realizing how cut he were. He banged the glass down, said, “Another,” and I said, “Is that a good idea?” and he leaned across the bar, and, you see that jar full of ten p’s? Well, that were a column for the Cancer Research till his elbow caught it. I said, “Out!” and fair dos, he didn’t answer back, but he knocked that stool over as he turned and it caught that table and spilled someone’s drink. He didn’t seem to notice. It were like he weren’t really in the same world as the rest of us. He just set off through the door. I heard a bike start up and I thought: Good riddance if he runs into a wall and breaks his bloody neck!’

Wield said, ‘You didn’t think of ringing the police?’

‘What for? They’d just come in here, all buttons and gob, frighten off me regulars, sup a couple of free pints, then bugger off home with nowt done that’s any benefit to me!’

Wield acknowledged defeat, noted all relevant details and pursued his errant task. He missed out on the next two pubs but at the third, the Pendragon Arms, a large roadhouse about ten miles out of Burrthorpe, he struck lucky again. Colin Farr’s arrival had been too quiet for anyone to be precise about the time. The landlord’s wife had been the first to notice just how much liquor he seemed bent on putting away.

‘It was non-stop. Every second person I served was him, at least that’s how it felt. But he were quiet enough, a good-looking lad too, he looked a bit down in the mouth, I thought. I bet he’s been stood up, I said to myself. I said to him, “Cheer up. It may never happen.” And he said, “It has bloody happened. But you’re right about one thing. Up’s the direction. I’ll not go down again. There’s more dead than living down there. How much would they need to pay you to work with dead men, love?” I said, “I do it for nothing, have you seen my Charlie!” And we had a laugh.’

She laughed again in memory or illustration, and Wield thrust a question into the gap.

‘How long did he stay?’

‘Half an hour, mebbe. Just went like that. I glimpsed him in the passage using the phone …’

‘He made a telephone call from here?’ Wield asked sharply, not waiting for a gap this time.

‘That’s what I’m saying. But he didn’t come back in. Can’t say I was sorry. I quite liked him, as a woman I mean, but as a landlady I could see he were bad news after a while. Pity. He looked such a proper lad. That’s the trouble nowadays, there’s no knowing who’s what just by looking, is there? I mean, I’d never have spotted you for a copper, not in a month of Sundays …’

Wield emerged half dazed from this assault on his ear, but with a clear picture of Farr’s progress that night. He timed himself to the gates of Burrthorpe Main. Farr’s progress, he noted this time, would probably have been rather quicker. From the sound of him, he wasn’t the type to drive sedately. Nor was Wield when on the open road, but risk-taking on these narrow winding lanes was daft.

Work had obviously resumed at the pit after the necessary hiatus of the night before. But there were also a couple of uniformed policemen wandering around in the desultory fashion of men set to look for something which three times over the same ground has persuaded them they will not find.

Leaning his bike against the high boundary fence, Wield walked through the gate. Another policeman emerged from the gatehouse and addressed him.

‘Excuse me, sir. Would you mind answering a couple of questions?’

His tone was courteous and conciliatory. Perhaps this was his normal voice for addressing members of the public, but Wield guessed he’d been told to be especially careful to create no turbulence in the uneasy atmosphere of Burrthorpe.

He showed his warrant card. The man examined it closely, clearly as doubtful as the pub landlady that anyone in riding leathers could be a policeman.

‘Sorry, Sergeant,’ he said finally. ‘But I thought you were one of the locals and I’ve been told to get the name and address of everyone who comes into this place today.’

‘What are those jokers doing?’ asked Wield.

‘They’re looking for Farr’s pit-black. It weren’t in his locker and they reckon he must have taken it out with him and dumped it.’

‘In the yard? Why not outside?’

The man shrugged. ‘There’s a lot of outside,’ he said. ‘Any road, the gateman saw him ride off and says he definitely weren’t carrying anything bulky enough to be his pit clothing and boots.’

‘Oh aye? Same gateman on now?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You been here long? Did duty on the Strike?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘Then you should know how shortsighted some of these miners can get when they’re seeing their mates getting into bother.’

‘Oh aye. Right gang of crooks, most on ’em,’ said the policeman a touch ingratiatingly.

‘No,’ said Wield. ‘Just loyal to their mates. Like if your Mr Wishart asked you if them zombies out there had done a morning’s work, you’d likely say yes. Whereas me … well, they’re not my mates.’

He left and went back to his bike which was parked by the fence outside. He bent down and plucked at the dandelions and docks which were growing from the stony earth under the fence. When he had got a substantial bouquet he thrust it down the front of his jerkin so that the yellow blooms showed clearly beneath his throat.

‘For I’m to be Queen of the May, mother. I’m to be Queen of the May,’ he murmured to himself with a flash of that self-mocking humour which all men need who are to walk near dark edges without tumbling off.

Mounting his machine, he opened the throttle, swept through the pit gate, did a circuit of the yard and went out again. Pushing the flowers out of sight beneath his jerkin, he returned to the gatehouse.

The constable looked at him uneasily.

‘See me then, did you?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘And you, sir. Did you see me?’

‘Aye,’ said the gateman who had appeared behind the policeman. ‘I’m not bloody blind.’

‘Describe me,’ said Wield.

‘Describe you?’ said the gateman. ‘Nay, mister, if I looked like you, I’d not go around asking people to describe me!’

‘Stick to the clothes and the bike.’

The constable suddenly caught on and his face contracted with concentration as the gateman said, ‘Don’t be daft. It were just a moment since. You were just like you are now.’

‘What about you, lad?’

‘I’m sorry, Sarge, but I can’t see any difference,’ admitted the man.

Wield reached into his jerkin and pulled out the battered bouquet with a conjuror’s flourish and handed it to the bemused youngster.

‘These were sticking out of my jerkin,’ he said. ‘You see, lad, you don’t even have to be loyal to be blind.’

He felt quite pleased with himself as he rode away. An hour later, having searched both sides of the hedgerows and fences bounding Farr’s likely route to the first pub, he felt a little less complacent. One remote channel of his mind had been running a video in which he quietly placed Farr’s pit-black on a table in the Burrthorpe incident room. But a detective’s life was more disappointment than triumph and in any case he knew quite well that even if he’d found the clothes, he’d have left them in situ till Forensic had taken a first look.

At the station he asked for Dalziel but was told he wasn’t in and taken along to see Chief Inspector Wishart. They hadn’t met before and Wield noted the cold blankness of response to his uncompromisingly ugly features with which the courteous usually concealed their shock. But when Wishart examined the sergeant’s notes on his morning’s researches, he nodded appreciatively.

‘I’d heard you were a treasure, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Now I see what they meant.’

‘Thanks, sir,’ said Wield, who’d never been able fully to comprehend his seniors’ enthusiasm for the clarity and rationality of his notes and reports. What other way was there to do them? But dumping Farr’s bloodstained pit-boots on the table in front of the man, now that would really have been something!

‘You’ve mapped out possible alternative routes to the Pendragon, I see. But you haven’t been over them?’

‘I thought I’d better report, sir. I did notice, though, there was a couple of lads in the pit-yard who looked as if they might fancy a walk in the country.’

‘Oh? Why’d you not send them?’

‘They were your men, sir. South Yorks, I mean. And even though they’d be doing most of their looking on our patch …’

The door opened and Pascoe came in.

‘Hallo, Wieldy,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Alex, if you’re busy …’

‘No, come in, Peter. I was just admiring the sergeant here. Not only a meticulous worker but a diplomat too. There can’t be many of them in Mid-Yorks!’

‘Oh dear,’ said Pascoe. ‘What’s he been doing?’

Wishart glanced questioningly at Wield and Pascoe grinned and said, ‘There’s nothing you can tell the sergeant here about Mr Dalziel that he can’t cap from personal experience.’

‘Well, after suggesting to the Indian consultant treating Farr that he might hurry things along by a bit of ju-ju, he then contrived to provoke a near-riot in the middle of the village which he only managed to quell by declaring the Welfare Club bar open an hour early!’

Pascoe and Wield exchanged glances.

‘Yes, Alex,’ said Pascoe innocently. ‘But what’s he done that strikes you as being over the top?’

‘I see. You’re all the bloody same!’ said Wishart. ‘Meantime, as the only way to get in touch with your — sorry, our — boss is to walk into the Welfare uninvited, which I am certainly not going to do and I don’t want anyone else doing, you’d better tell me what you’ve been up to, Peter.’

Pascoe outlined his conversation with Watmough. It didn’t take long.

‘That’s it?’ said Wishart.

‘He’s promised to get back to me,’ said Pascoe defensively. ‘I think he needed a bit of space to get himself sorted.’

‘You’ll need a bit of space when your boss hears that report,’ forecast Wishart. ‘They say there’s a lot of it in Australia.’

‘Sounds to me that Monty Boyle’s the chap we really ought to be talking to,’ said Wield. ‘Any luck there?’

‘None,’ said Pascoe. ‘He’s like the Scarlet Pimpernel. First time I contacted his office I think they were just giving me the runaround. But this morning I got the impression they genuinely didn’t know where he was. Even asked me to give him a message if I stumbled across him!’

‘Sounds to me you two have lost track that it’s yesterday’s murder we’re investigating,’ said Wishart. ‘Historical research may go down big in the groves of Academe you lot work in, but down here life is real, life is earnest. Farr should be released from hospital tomorrow. That’s when we’ll start making progress, I think.’

‘Meanwhile he’s just helping with inquiries. When’s visiting? From what I heard last night, his friends and family aren’t going to take quietly to leaving him unsuccoured on his bed of pain.’

‘Don’t I know it. The Union brief’s been threatening me with the Court of Human Rights all morning. Not that that bothers me, but I don’t want another Burrthorpe riot, so I’ve agreed he can have a visit from his mother and other applications will be treated on their merits. Meaning if we think there’s a chance of our resident bobby overhearing anything interesting, we might let someone else in.’

‘You’re a cunning old Celt,’ laughed Pascoe. ‘Me, I’m just a simple soul who’s starving. Time for lunch, I think.’

He and Wield headed for the door, but Wishart said, ‘A word in private, Peter,’ and Wield went ahead by himself.

‘It’s about your good lady …’

‘No problem,’ interrupted Pascoe. ‘She’s in the clear on the drinks charge. So all she is now is a witness who’s made a statement.’

‘I wish it were as simple as that, Peter,’ sighed the Scot. ‘Did you know she was at the hospital earlier this morning? No, I see you didn’t. She didn’t get to see Farr, of course, and she won’t be on my permitted visiting list either. But she did dig up some tame feminist lawyer, Ms Pritchard, you may know her? We had the pleasure of meeting her in court during the Strike. A strange choice of brief for macho Colin, I’d have thought. He seemed to think so too and told her to sod off. Which she did. Ellie unfortunately didn’t. According to my information she’s still in Burrthorpe. In fact she’s been in Farr’s mother’s house for most of the morning.’

‘She’s a free agent,’ said Pascoe.

‘That’s what Adam said about Eve,’ said Wishart caustically. ‘Look, Pete, once the Press get on to this, and the Powers That Promote get round to reading the Press, you could be in real bother. OK, I know that Big Andy loves you, but not even Mid-Yorks is a hereditary monarchy … no, don’t say anything you might regret. Just push off and get some lunch. Take your time. You look like a wet weekend in Largs.’

Pascoe left, closing the door very gently behind him. Wield was waiting for him outside.

‘Everything OK?’ said the sergeant.

‘Yes, fine.’

It was an instinctive response, defensive, distancing. He’d always hidden doubts and sometimes pain beneath a cloak of confident control. As a graduate entrant to the police, he’d wrapped the cloak even tighter as a defence against sneers from above and mockery from alongside. And now it was a response that felt as if it had been printed in his genes.

Wield said, ‘I don’t fancy owt round here. Why don’t we find a pub out of sight of a pit and pretend we’re commercial travellers?’

‘All right,’ said Pascoe. ‘Why not? My car’s round the back.’

‘My bike’s out front if you’re not fussy who you’re seen with your arms round.’

It dawned on Pascoe that Wield was offering more than a lift.

He was offering himself as a friend, a confidant.

There had been a moment not long ago when Wield himself had needed an ear to pour his doubts into, a secure, compassionate and unjudgemental confessional, and Pascoe had proved sadly inadequate. To ignore his offer now, as he had ignored his need then, would be to fix their relationship for ever. Perhaps that was what he wanted. Perhaps that was what he had always wanted, relationships which were fixed, certain, and unchanging. Perhaps that was why he had joined the Force in the first place. To feel himself supported by a hierarchy which left little doubt where you were, and to devote himself to a job whose basic function was to preserve the sum of things by law.

These thoughts came not singly but in a bubbling torrent, confused but not uncontrollable. Control would always be an option for Pascoe, until one day perhaps he controlled himself out of this life.

That thought swam up through the maelstrom, sole and terrifying. Where the hell had it come from? No, don’t answer that, he thought.

‘Wieldy, I’ll be proud to be seen hanging on to you,’ he said. ‘Only I’m not going to eat any live chickens as we ride!’