Reginald Hill - Under World

‘I don’t care if he’s got a letter from the Queen, get him out of here!’

Mycroft had advanced and caught her words. He said, ‘It’s all right, Mrs Farr. No trouble, I promise you. I’ve just come to see how he is. Col says he’d like to see me.’ She looked at him doubtfully. He looked pale and strained but returned her gaze unflinchingly.

‘No trouble,’ he repeated.

‘Hey, is that Gav Mycroft out there?’

It was Colin’s voice through the half-open door.

‘Aye, it’s me,’ said Mycroft, raising his voice.

‘Well, send the bugger in. If I can’t have a telly, I might as well try a bit of live entertainment.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Mycroft, edging past May Farr and into the room. He closed the door firmly behind him. May stood irresolutely looking at it for a while, till Vessey said slyly, ‘Like to take a peek through the keyhole, missus? Be my guest.’

‘Sorry. I can’t get low enough for your kind of work,’ she said.

The constable watched her walk away. Once she was out of sight, he resumed his seat, pulling the chair forward so that his ear came close to the jamb of the door. Not that he could hear anything more than a murmur of voices. It was all right for bloody Wishart telling him to listen, but in these days of electronic bugging, why was he expected to manage without as much as an ear-trumpet? Also it was embarrassing to be spotted by passing nurses in this farcical position.

He jerked upright now as one approached, a little Scottish girl with a satirical tongue.

‘Busy again, I see,’ she said. ‘Too busy for a cup of tea, I dare say.’

‘I could murder one,’ he answered. ‘And I’d make it a mass murder for a quick drag.’

‘Light up here and there’ll likely be a mass murder,’ said the girl. ‘But if you have your cuppa in Sister’s cubbyhole, you’ll be all right with the window open. She’s not around just now.’

Vessey was tempted. Sister’s room was just round the corner and there was no way out from this blank end of the corridor without passing it. With the door open, he could keep as good a watch there as here. As for listening … he applied his ear to the jamb once more. Only the indistinguishable murmur of voices. He looked up into the nurse’s face. The child was choking back her giggles! It was too much.

‘Right,’ he said rising. ‘I reckon I’ve earned a fag. Lead on!’

When Dalziel finally left the Welfare the first thing he saw across the road was Tommy Dickinson, sitting on the lowest step of the village War Memorial, his head resting on a bronze boot. Beside him sat Wardle.

‘Not waiting for me?’ asked Dalziel genially.

‘You must be joking,’ said Wardle. ‘Waiting for him . I’m not doing my back lifting him.’

‘Very wise.’ Dalziel signalled to his car. As it approached his gaze drifted down the list of names on the Memorial.

‘I thought mining were a reserved occupation,’ he said.

‘There were always plenty who thought the Germans gave you a better chance than the bosses,’ said Wardle.

‘Aye, it helps to know your enemies. Let’s get him in, then.’

‘What? No, it’s all right. Thanks, but I’ll manage him.’

‘Oh aye? Next copper who comes along will likely arrest him for causing an obstruction. Come on, sunshine.’

He reached down and seized Dickinson’s shirt at the neck, giving him the option of rising or being strangled.

‘You coming too?’ he said to Wardle after Tommy had opted for life and allowed himself to be bundled into the back seat.

‘I best had. He lives with his mam and she might be upset.’

‘To see Tommy pissed?’ said Dalziel increduously.

‘To see the company he got pissed in,’ said Wardle.

‘You’re a puzzle to me, Mr Wardle,’ said Dalziel. ‘I mean, you try to be like the rest of ’em, knee-jerk reaction to the sodding pigs, that sort of thing. But that’s not you really, is it?’

‘You’d better not start thinking I love you buggers, mister,’ said Wardle.

‘No. But you love order, I’d say. I bet you ran around during the Strike kicking people into line, making sure things were done according to the book.’

‘You lot could have done with some of that.’

‘I dare say. They brought a lot of cockneys up from the Stink, but, Bloody Cossacks, them lot. All they know is pillage and rape. Well, they’re back in the compound now and it’s sweetness and light time again.’

‘You’re a fucking optimist,’ said Wardle.

‘Not me, friend. But I’d say that you were, Neil, lad. Which makes your attitude … disappointing.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll try to be nicer. Here we are. Next to the street lamp. Thanks a lot. We’ll be OK now.’

‘No. No. We’ll see him safe inside. Hello, lass. Here’s your wandering boy come home.’

He helped the semi-conscious miner past the diminutive woman who’d appeared on the front step, and laid him on a sofa in the tiny living-room.

‘My advice is leave him here with a bucket by his head. Once he’s spewed, kick him up to bed. Lovely place you’ve got here, lass. And you keep it real nice. I’ll just get myself a glass of water from the kitchen then I’ll be on my way.’

He went through to the kitchen. Behind him he heard the woman say, ‘Who’s that daft bugger?’ but Wardle was too keen to come after him to reply.

He found Dalziel standing looking out on to the long narrow back garden. A stretch of lawn petered out into a rectangle of vegetables. At the juncture of grass and earth stood the grey remains of a small bonfire.

‘Good for your greens, a bit of ash,’ said Dalziel.

‘I’d not know, I’m not a gardener,’ said Wardle.

‘No? People’s more your line, eh? Planting them, feeding them, helping them to grow. But you ought to know, Neil, you can’t make a carnation out of a carrot.’

‘What the hell are you on about?’

‘I’m on about doing the important things yourself. Or was there a committee meeting more important than covering up for a friend? Or was it mebbe less of a cover-up and more of a finger-pointing?’

‘You slab-faced bastard!’

‘Thank Christ for a heartfelt insult from you at last,’ said Dalziel. ‘Now let’s go and scatter the ashes, shall we?’

As Wield’s motorbike coasted down into Burrthorpe, Peter Pascoe looked at his watch and groaned.

They’d gone far afield in search of a pub out of sight of a pit-head, and drunk too much of the landlord’s excellent beer, then had to spoil the taste with pints of his awful coffee. For a while the return journey, with the rain-spotted wind cold on their beer-flushed cheeks, had been exhilarating. He and Wield had opened their hearts to each other in the pub, or at least as much of their hearts as men in their kind of situation, in that kind of place, in those sort of circumstances, are able to open; but by the time the winding gear of Burrthorpe Main came into sight, Pascoe was already beginning to regret the immediate past and fear the immediate future.

For a while after they re-entered Burrthorpe police station they felt themselves lucky. Dalziel had not yet returned. That was the good news. But Chief Inspector Wishart wanted to see them urgently.

‘Where the hell have you two been?’ he demanded angrily. ‘Three-hour lunches might be OK in never-never land, I bet you have picnics and hay-rides up there. Down here life is getting to be so fucking real we don’t even have time to be earnest.’

‘Sorry, Alex,’ said Pascoe. ‘Trouble with the bike. Sorry. Any developments?’

‘No. The mastermind of Mid-Yorks isn’t back from his lunch either, so I don’t suppose I can blame you two skivers too much. To tell the truth, we don’t seem to be getting anywhere. I’ve got all the men I can spare taking statements from every bugger they can lay hands on. And them as can’t do that are combing the ditches between here and the Pendragon Arms in search of Farr’s pit-black. No sign so far, no weapon, nothing. It’s going to be all down to hard graft, this one, and that’s what I want from you two. None of your pastoral fancies, just some honest to goodness police work.’