Reginald Hill - Under World

‘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.’