Reginald Hill - Under World

He banged the receiver down and glared at the sergeant as if daring an objection. But Wield’s mouth stayed shut and his face remained as unreadable as the weathered inscription on a tombstone.

Pascoe entered without knocking.

Dalziel said, ‘You look worse than he does and he’s got a head start. I get landed with someone else’s case on someone else’s patch, and I’m supposed to be helped by the living dead! Questions, Peter. Your missus, what’s Farr to her?’

‘A student.’

‘And her to him?’

‘A lecturer.’

‘Oh aye? Me, I was never at college, so you tell me, Peter. Did you ring up a lot of your lecturers when you got pissed and fell off your bike?’

‘No. But this is different. A different kind of course, a different relationship. These are mature students, the course is developmental rather than academic.’

‘Not much mature about this lad, Farr, from the sound of him,’ growled Dalziel. ‘How’d you feel when Ellie shot off to pick him up?’

Pascoe rubbed his thin features with his hand, like a man who has just walked through a cobweb.

‘Why are you asking these questions?’ he asked.

‘Just so I’ll know whether I can use you on this case or not,’ said Dalziel. ‘Can I?’

Pascoe said softly, ‘The reason I was late this morning was I took Ellie’s own blood sample to the hospital to be tested. I’m happy to say it came out well below the limit. That, as far as I’m aware, disposes of the only possible objection to me assisting on the case.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ said Dalziel genially. ‘Why’d you and the sergeant not say that to start with and save us all this idle chatter? Right, Peter, I want you to get hold of Boyle and Watmough. I recall asking you to have a word with Boyle earlier in the week, but I suppose you’ve done bugger-all, as usual.’

‘He’s never in. But why do you want me to see Mr Watmough?’

‘Because he claims in the Challenger that there are people in Burrthorpe who know exactly what happened to Tracey Pedley and to her killer. One of them’s quoted as saying, “We never trusted the law much here in Burrthorpe, not even before the Strike. What’s a child killer get these days? A few years inside with good grub and colour telly, then he promises to behave and they turn him loose till next time! No, it’s best if you take care of your own, the good and the bad. We learned that a long time since.” I want to know who, if anyone, said anything remotely like that. I want to know who’s been hinting all this time that Colin Farr’s father did that poor lassie in, and I want to know in particular if the name of Harold Satterthwaite comes up in connection with this or any other rumour. Oh, and you might ask Mr Watmough politely if he could let us have sight of any personal notes he may have made relating to the disappearance.’

Pascoe knew he should never be surprised by Dalziel, but he constantly was. Of course, he might already have had a long chat with Wishart and been thoroughly briefed on Farr’s background. But it was more likely, he told himself bitterly, that the fat bastard had tapes of all his phone conversations with Wishart.

But even that didn’t explain the full extent of Dalziel’s apparent knowledge.

He said, ‘I don’t recall reading anything like that in Mr Watmough’s article last Sunday, sir. He hinted he was going to prove it probably couldn’t have been Pickford who abducted Tracey Pedley. And he mentioned a rumour in Burrthorpe that the killer was local and had himself committed suicide. But all this stuff about local vigilantes, where does that come from?’

‘Next Sunday’s piece, lad,’ said Dalziel softly.

‘ Next Sunday …?’

‘You didn’t think I was going to sit on my arse while that long streak of owl-shit smeared my name and do nowt, did you?’ said Dalziel, his face set in a mask of malevolence that made Wield look like a matinee idol. ‘Forewarned is forearmed. But I didn’t reckon on the Good Lord dropping him quite so plumb into my lap.’

‘You think the Good Lord killed Harold Satterthwaite then, sir?’

Dalziel regarded Pascoe for a moment, then decided to accept this as a joke rather than a reproach and let out a snort of laughter.

‘Mysterious ways, right enough!’ he said. ‘Mysterious bloody ways. Me and God both!’

Pascoe didn’t push any further. In fact, there was nowhere to push. Whatever Dalziel’s personal motives, interviewing Watmough was a necessary step.

He said, ‘One thing, it may be a bit hard not to let on that I’ve got advance knowledge of next Sunday’s article.’

‘No, it won’t,’ said Dalziel. ‘Because you haven’t! You don’t think Ogilby’s lawyers are going to let him print a word of this once they hear what went off last night? No, before he’s through, he’ll be down to reminiscing about his exciting days in traffic. Where they’re always looking for lively ex-CID men. So let’s start acting like real detectives, eh?’

Pascoe smiled wanly and left. Behind him Dalziel and Wield exchanged glances which to the casual eye might have looked like a freeze-frame from Frankenstein Meets Godzilla but in which they registered their mutual concern.

‘He’ll be all right,’ said Dalziel. ‘Wieldy, I want Farr’s movements after he left the pit. Best to backtrack him from that phone box. Check where they found his bike, then get your legs across that phallic symbol of yours and track him back to Burrthorpe.’

‘Yes, sir. But won’t Mr Wishart …’

‘Mr Wishart reckons Farr’s going to tell him all. Me, I reckon he’s over-optimistic. Farr talks body-language to cops, I gather. He throws them through plate-glass windows. I want to sort this one out proper, for all our sakes. Especially for … Just get to it, Wieldy!’

And back in his own office Pascoe was trying to ring Ellie as he had done from the hospital lab, as soon as he got the news about her blood sample. Now as then the phone rang and rang.

He went to see ex-DCC Watmough.

Colin Farr woke from a dream-haunted sleep in which he ran in terror down the tailgate pursued by a runaway tram loaded with a tangle of naked limbs. Half awake, for a moment the image of those twisted arms and legs became erotic instead of necrotic and he deliberately pushed himself away from terror towards a fantasy in which he shared his bed with Stella Mycroft and Ellie Pascoe.

Ellie. Last night came back, not suddenly because in fact it had never been far from his consciousness either waking or sleeping, but with the sad insistence of dawn to a still weary traveller.

He was in trouble. Cautiously he moved to check whether he was also in pain. There was certainly the echo of pain in various parts of his body, but the only pang positive enough to be worth wincing over was at the back of his head. He raised his hand to rub it.

‘Awake, are you? You must be the only bugger in this place that’s not been awake for hours save them as snuffed it during night.’

The speaker was a police constable slouched in an armchair by the hospital bed. He yawned widely, showing well-filled teeth.

‘Me, I’d just nodded off when they started beating bedpans in my ear. Hungry? You’ve missed breakfast but as it’s near on nine o’clock, they’ll likely have got lunch on the go.’

‘Cup of tea’d be nice,’ said Farr. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Guarding you,’ said the constable, rising and heading for the door.

‘What from?’

The man laughed. He was middle-aged, well-built, but with muscles running to flab. He had the red face of a jolly monk.

‘What from! That’s good. What from!’ He opened the door and called, ‘Sister, he’s awake. Tell Doctor, will you? And is there any chance of a cup of tea? Better still, two cups. Thanks, love.’