Reginald Hill - Under World

What do I think?

Find out next week. Only in the Challenger !

Bastard! thought Pascoe.

As he drove home he wondered if he should draw Ellie’s attention to the fact that it was her protégé’s father who was being blackguarded here. Not that she’d said much about young Farr or her class since their row the previous Sunday. She wasn’t usually a sulker and he’d expected a detailed account of her trip to Burrthorpe Main, but there’d been only the most basic of responses to his truce-offering inquiry.

He found her reading a colour supplement.

‘I got a Challenger ,’ he said. ‘Thought I should keep up to date.’

‘Why bother? Crap’s crap no matter when,’ she said, not looking up.

‘I thought you might be interested to see if Adi had been able to do anything about Watmough’s article.’

‘Has she?’

‘If she has. I wouldn’t have cared to see the original version. This one’s grisly enough for my money. There’s a bit about Burrthorpe in it.’

She turned a page of her supplement indifferently.

‘It sounds like he’s got something nasty up his sleeve. For us, I mean.’

‘Us?’

‘Us, the fuzz,’ he joked. She didn’t smile, but said, ‘What’s it to do with you?’

‘There was only ever circumstantial evidence linking Pickford to the Pedley girl’s disappearance. He worked for a press tool manufacturer near Huddersfield. That afternoon he had an appointment over here at Tanyard-Lees, the fork-lift truck works on the Avro Estate. It’s forty-five miles as the crow flies. He left his office at three-thirty. Burrthorpe’s well south of his route but if he had diverted there he could have made it easily by four. Tracey was last seen alive by a local man just after four.’

He paused, saw no response, went on. ‘If Pickford kept his four-thirty appointment on the Avro Estate, he just couldn’t have picked up Tracey. That’s where we came in. As it was on our patch, we did the checking at Tanyard-Lees, and we confirmed that Pickford didn’t make it.’

‘And now Watmough’s saying you made a mistake? It’s possible, isn’t it? Anyone can.’

‘Sure. But I can’t see it.’

For the first time she looked up.

‘What? So it’s infallibility now? Who was the Pope on this occasion? You or Fatso?’

‘Neither. It was Wieldy. And he’s the nearest thing to infallible we’ve got, especially on something as simple as this.’

‘Perhaps it was too simple,’ said Ellie. ‘You’re not saying Watmough’s been holding back on something all this time?’

‘No, of course not. He’s a lot of things but dishonest isn’t one of them.’

‘So, if some new information came up, he’d bring it out, even if it marred his triumph slightly?’

‘Yes,’ said Pascoe. ‘I suppose so. But what new information could there be about something as straightforward as this? No, I reckon it’s just a bit of Challenger titillation.’

‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?’ said Ellie returning to her article, which appeared to be on interesting things to do in the kitchen with squid.

Was this yet another threat to his well-being? wondered Pascoe.

He folded up the Challenger , left it neatly on the coffee table and went to phone a friendly warning through to Wield.

At nine o’clock on Monday morning, Sergeant Wield turned off the main road through the Avro Industrial Estate into the service road running alongside the Stalag security fence which wrapped itself round the premises of Tanyard-Lees.

Most of his colleagues must have seen yesterday’s Challenger . The prospect of seeing the worm turn yet again to nip Andy Dalziel on the ankle was almost irresistible. Wield had resisted because he knew what rags like the Challenger would do to someone like himself if they got the chance. Once they had got close and Dalziel had been the most substantial bulwark fending them off. So he owed something to Andy Dalziel.

He also owed something to Peter Pascoe. Of all his colleagues who must have worked out what the article was getting at, only Pascoe had picked up the phone to make sure he didn’t come in the next day unprepared.

Well, he was going to be better than prepared. He was going to be justified. He’d gone over it all last night a thousand times. He’d come here as instructed, checked every way possible whether Pickford had kept his appointment, and returned with confirmation of the answer everyone logically expected. No, he hadn’t.

The only doubt that snagged in his mind lay in that phrase ‘that everyone logically expected’. He knew how easy it was to see what you expected to see. It was a principle he’d lived behind most of his life.

But he still couldn’t believe he’d fouled up.

What he could believe was that the Challenger had ‘persuaded’ someone to ‘recall’ that perhaps Pickford had shown up that September day after all.

He halted his car at the entrance barrier, got out and went into the gatehouse.

The gateman looked up from his newspaper and said, ‘Yes, sir?’ He was a man of about sixty, grey-haired, ruddy-complexioned, with the kind of face that knows things about central heating and carburettors.

‘I’d like to see Mr Wattis, please. Is he in yet?’

‘Who?’

Wield consulted his notes. He’d called in early at the station that morning to check out the file.

‘Mr Lewis Wattis. He’s assistant controller, Purchasing. Or was.’

‘ Was it is, sir,’ said the gateman. ‘Mr Wattis retired two years ago, mebbe more.’

‘Oh. Do you have an address?’

‘Forwarding, you mean? Who knows?’ The gateman looked slowly upwards then let his gaze slip slowly down.

‘Dead?’ said Wield.

‘Same year he retired,’ said the gateman. ‘It’s often the way, though I’d not have expected it of Mr Wattis. He wanted to be retired, you see. He wasn’t going to be pining away for this place!’

Wield stood at the counter, his face showing none of the bafflement he was feeling. It was Wattis that Pickford’s four-thirty appointment had been with. It was Wattis who had assured him that Pickford had not turned up. Naturally Wield had double-checked at the gatehouse. No one could enter the works without passing through here and signing the book. Donald Pickford’s name did not appear.

‘Was it business, sir, or private? If it was business, I can give Purchasing a ring and see if anyone can help you,’ offered the gateman.

If not Wattis, who then had the Challenger dug up to say that Pickford did keep his appointment? His eyes, inward-looking, refocused outward and the gateman’s friendly knowing face swam into definition.

Wield said, ‘How long have you been here, Mr …?’

‘Moffat. Twenty years, more,’ said the man.

‘So you’d be working here when the Pickford killings took place?’

The man’s face registered consternation.

‘Here, look, so that’s it. Sorry, mate. I can’t say anything about that. You’d better buzz off. I’ve got work to do.’

‘Who says you can’t say anything? Your friends at the Challenger ?’ said Wield aggressively.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Moffat. ‘Mr Boyle warned me some of you lot would likely be along and he said to tell you I’d sold what I know to the Challenger and if you want to find out about it, you can buy a copy next Sunday!’

Wield said incredulously. ‘Boyle told you to say that to the police?’

‘Police? You’re police?’ replied the man with equal incredulity.

Wield produced his warrant and Moffat said, ‘Yes. I see. Sorry, but you didn’t look like … No, Mr Boyle said if the police came round, then naturally I should tell them all I know.’