Reginald Hill - Under World

As they descended the hill from the new estate their progress was remarked from behind curtains or by oblique glances from passers-by. But when they levelled out into the older central part of the village, where the pebble-dashed semis gave way to brick terraces, the curiosity was blatant to the point of aggressiveness. Mycroft responded by increasing his pace and watching the pavement with a blank stare. Dalziel on the contrary tossed smiles and nods at the onlookers with the all-inclusive beneficence of a pope and appeared unperturbed by the scowls and glowers which bounced back. There were mutterings too, but nothing audible till a round young man with a red face and a beer belly fell into step slightly behind them and said, ‘Found your job at last, Gav? Guide dog to the filth!’

Mycroft slowed and would have turned but Dalziel’s huge arm urged him irresistibly onward.

‘Makes a change from the pickets, us escorting a bobby through the streets, eh, lads?’

This conceit clearly pleased the hearers and several other men fell into step.

‘I’ll tell you what, Mr Policeman, why are you only talking to bloody deputies?’ pursued the stout youth, encouraged by the reinforcements. ‘What’s up wi’ the rest on us?’

Dalziel shot him a smile radiant with enough love to convert a cannibal and muttered to Mycroft, ‘Who’s this comedian?’

‘Tommy Dickinson, big mate of Farr’s. He’s a nothing. All mouth.’

Something of the tone if not the actual wording of this must have reached Dickinson, who said, ‘What’s that you’re muttering, Gav? No use muttering when you’re a big important deputy. You’ve got to shout right loud, so that they can hear you on pit-top, so that your own missus can hear you back in village, even if she’s got her knees over her ears!’

Again Mycroft would have stopped. Again Dalziel’s arm was stronger than the deputy’s anger. By now, attracted by the prospect of a bit of bother, there was a crowd of approaching fifty men in close formation behind the leading trio. Their jeering remarks were still just on the right side of good-natured to a man with a deaf ear and a forgiving temperament. But Tommy Dickinson, feeling the leadership of this small insurrection was at stake, turned up the heat of his personal contribution.

‘You’ll get nowt but a load of lies from that bugger, Mr Policeman,’ he yelled. ‘He’s got no cause to love Col, except mebbe second-hand cause. What’ve you got on Col anyway? Nowt! And you can bring in your bloodhounds and your foreskin scientists and you’ll still not find owt. And something else, Mr Fat Bloody Policeman: if you’re going to say Col didn’t get on with Satterthwaite, then you’d better lock up every bugger in this town ’cause none of ’em did, excepting a few arse-lickers like that guide dog of yours. Wuff! wuff! fucking wuff!’

They swept into the small forecourt of the Miners’ Social and Welfare Club. A flight of three shallow steps led to the front door which was firmly closed. Dalziel with Mycroft at his side went up the steps while the crowd halted at their foot. Dalziel tried the door, confirmed it was locked, and hammered his clenched fist against the woodwork with sufficient force to impress most of the watchers.

‘Fat bugger must be desperate for a drink,’ proclaimed Dickinson. ‘He’ll be out of luck, I reckon. Coppers never pay for their own and Gav there’s forgotten where his pocket is. So unless Pedro’s feeling generous, you’ll have to do without a wet note this shift, Mr Policeman, sir.’

Dalziel turned. His size and elevation permitted him to look over the crowd. He could see his car across the street. His driver had his radio mike at his mouth. Their eyes met. Slowly Dalziel shook his head. His judgement was that this gang were still here for the entertainment, but he knew it wouldn’t take much to stir up all the residual distrust and dislike of the police into a riot. The sound of fast-approaching sirens might be enough.

‘What are you shaking tha head at, mister?’ demanded Dickinson. ‘Are you calling me a liar like you called my marra a liar?’

‘Nay,’ said Dalziel. ‘I don’t know about your marra, lad, but as for you, aye, certainly I’m calling you a liar.’

A great silence fell, broken only by the sounds of the Club door being unbolted and unlocked whose beginnings Dalziel had caught a few moments earlier. The men were looking at Tommy Dickinson. It was his show. He’d been given a cue which in normal circumstances could only be answered by violence or at least its threat. If he took a swing at Dalziel now, the whole village would probably explode. Dickinson hesitated, not through any weighing and assessing of action and consequence, but simply because he suddenly became aware that for the first time in his working life, he was Number One, the team leader, the man everyone was looking to for a lead. He felt the onset of stage-fright. At this point Neil Wardle, who had just joined the onlookers, called from the back, ‘Don’t be daft, Tommy. It’s not worth it,’ and began forcing his way forward.

Wardle’s words did what cries of encouragement might have failed to do. To back away now was probably to back out of the limelight for ever. Putting his foot on the lower step, he clenched his fists and twisting his amiable features into as ferocious an expression as possible he said, ‘You’d best take that back, you fat bastard.’

‘Nay,’ said Dalziel, all injured. ‘I’ll call any man a liar who says I can’t get a drink anywhere in Yorkshire.’

Behind him the door opened and Pedro Pedley said, ‘What the hell’s going on here? Who the hell are you?’

‘Detective-Superintendent Andrew Dalziel, and I want a drink.’

‘Well, you can’t have one,’ growled Pedley. ‘First we’re not open, that’s the Law; and second you’re not a member, that’s the Rules.’

‘Now hang on,’ said Dalziel. ‘We’ll soon put that right. First you are open ’cause I am the Law, and second I’m here as a guest of a member, and them’s the Rules.’

‘Whose guest? Yours, Gav?’

‘What? Drink with a deputy?’ cried Dalziel indignantly. ‘What are you saying, lad? No, I’m the personal guest of my friend Mr Dickinson here. Come on, Tommy. Get me signed in before I die of thirst.’

And stooping, he swung the sixteen stone of the amazed miner up on to the top step beside him and, with a fraternal arm round his shoulder, urged him through the door.

‘Here, Pedro, are you really open?’ called a voice.

Pedro shrugged and said, ‘Looks like it.’

‘Well, fuck me. Just goes to show, nowt’s completely useless, not even a cop!’

There was a roar of appreciative laughter and the men poured over the threshold, jostling and joking.

Soon only Neil Wardle remained.

‘Not coming in, Neil?’ asked Pedley. ‘We’ll not get into bother, not with that fat bugger in there.’

‘I reckon he may be more bother than this town’s ever known,’ said Wardle slowly. ‘Pedro, how’s Maggie?’

‘She’s gone off to stay with her mam in Barnsley. It’ll probably kill the old lass. She thought the sun shone out of Harold’s arsehole. She never had as much time for Maggie and reckoned she got what she deserved when she got me. I think she blamed us both for what happened when … you know, our Tracey. Mebbe they can comfort each other this time.’

‘I didn’t know it was like that,’ said Wardle. ‘I’m sorry. Pedro, you realize they’ll probably start talking about Tracey again, the cops, and everyone.’

‘That’s another good reason for having Maggie out of the way,’ said Pedley. ‘Me, I can take it. If I snap I’ll just thump some bugger. Maggie could go right over the edge if she had to go through that again.’