Reginald Hill - Under World

‘At your service,’ said Pascoe. ‘Have you had another go at Farr?’

‘Not yet. Thought I’d let him relax a bit. I want him somewhere where there’s no bloody doctor rushing in every two minutes to say I’m being too rough. His mother’s up at the hospital seeing him. And here’s an interesting thing, Mycroft’s turned up too.’

‘What can he want? I thought they didn’t get on?’

‘So did I. But I told Vessey to let him in if Farr didn’t object, then press his ear to the keyhole.’

‘You’re letting him have visitors without supervision?’ said Pascoe doubtfully.

‘That’s right,’ said Wishart defensively. ‘Wakefield insisted Mrs Farr was entitled to some privacy. As for Mycroft, I know these miners. They’ll give nothing away if they don’t want to. Much more chance of Vessey picking something up if he keeps his ear pressed to the door.’

‘Otitis, most likely,’ murmured Pascoe.

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing.’

‘No? Listen, you two had better bear in mind that down here, you’re on my patch and we’ll do things my way. Out there somewhere there’s a nice big clue which can tie this thing up. It’s Farr’s pit-black. I want it found if it means raking every ditch and emptying every dustbin in South Yorkshire.’

Through the air a plastic carrier bag came sailing. It landed heavily on the table, and a fine grey dust rose from it and settled on Wishart’s papers.

‘No need for these gents to dirty their lily-whites, Chief Inspector,’ boomed Dalziel from the doorway. ‘There’s Farr’s pit-black or what’s left of it.’

Wield looked sadly at the bag and recalled his own fantasy of doing just that. Not for him, it seemed, the extravagant gesture; professionally or personally.

‘There’s not a lot left except the soles of his boots,’ said Dalziel advancing. ‘Still, it’ll give the mad scientists something to play with.’

Wishart said, ‘Where’d you find it, sir?’

‘Tommy Dickinson’s back garden,’ said Dalziel. ‘He went back to the lockers and fetched it out after they found Satterthwaite’s body. Covering up for his mate.’

‘Some cover-up,’ said Pascoe. ‘Taking this stuff pointed straight at Farr. Unless …’

‘That sounds like the labour pangs of an idea,’ said Dalziel. ‘Glad to see lunch-time boozing hasn’t fuddled your brain, lad. But it’s not on. No way would Dickinson be trying to shift interest on to his mate. He’s about as devious as a backward tortoise, our Tommy. It wasn’t even his idea. Neil Wardle, branch secretary and bright enough to be a CID man, he cottoned on that Farr was likely to be Number One suspect. And before you ask, he wasn’t trying to point the finger either. If that had been his game he’d have lifted it himself as he came off shift. No, it was later when the word got round about the body that his mind got to working. He couldn’t get back himself so he asked Tommy to go. What he really wanted Tommy to do was check to see if there were owt incriminating in Col’s locker but Tommy watches a lot of Yankee crime stuff on the telly and he knows they can prove owt they like with their tests. So to be on the safe side, he took the lot home and burnt it.’

‘And did you get him to say if there were any bloodstains on the gear?’ asked Wishart.

‘Got him to say nowt,’ said Dalziel. ‘Wardle told me all this. Tommy’s flat out on his mam’s sofa and liable to stay that way till tomorrow. Weak heads, these miners have. Any road, he’s not going to incriminate his mate, so it’s down to Forensic. Not that I can see young Farr leaving the stuff if it were covered with blood. He struck me as a clever cunt, that one. So none of this seems to leave us much further on.’

‘Sir,’ said Wield, thinking that even if high drama seemed out of his reach, he might as well get credit for his bit part, ‘there is one thing. It seems likely Farr made another phone call last night, before the one he made to … Mrs Pascoe.’

‘And we’ve not had much help from that quarter, have we?’ said Dalziel genially. ‘So, Sergeant Wield, you think it might be helpful for us to talk to this person who got Farr’s first call?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, get to it, lad.’

‘But we don’t know …’

‘Mycroft, Stella Mycroft’s the name. Used to be Farr’s fiancée, but got wed to that deputy Farr talked to on the way out of the pit. Gavin Mycroft. We went down to the Welfare together today, but I noticed he didn’t stay long. Overcome by an irresistible urge to visit the sick, I gather. Unsupervised, I also gather. I hope that lad you’ve got on duty up there’s got ears like Dumbo, Chief Inspector!’

The bastard’s got us bugged, thought Pascoe. And just look at that five-acre face beaming smugly as he pulls his smart little rabbits out of his great sodding hat. Oh for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye!

Sergeant Swift appeared at the door. He didn’t look happy. Wishart rose immediately and went out into the corridor with him. Dalziel moved round the desk and sank gratefully into Wishart’s chair.

‘Thought he’d never offer,’ he said. ‘Right. Here’s what we do. You two, seeing as you’re such good friends, you can stick together and get yourselves round to this fellow Mycroft’s house. Pick yourself a pretty little WPC as chaperone on your way out. I want the Mycrofts and I want them simultaneously but separately. You deal with her, Wieldy. You should be a bit less susceptible to female eye-flutter than this lecherous sod. I want to know why Mycroft went visiting at the hospital today. And just in case there’s any dispute, I’ll head back to the Infirmary and ask that young bugger, Farr, the same questions. All right?’

‘Hold it.’

It was Alex Wishart’s turn to interrupt from the doorway, but Pascoe could see that he wasn’t motivated by anything like Dalziel’s unbearably condescending oneupmanship. If any emotion showed on the Scot’s still face, it was an untypical trepidation.

‘Yes, lad. What’s up? Another body, is it?’

‘On the contrary, sir,’ said Wishart with an immediately quenched flicker of humour.

‘Eh?’

‘It’s Farr, sir. We’ve just heard from the Infirmary. He’s done a bunk. Taken off. Disappeared. Sir.’

Now all was furious activity as the terrified souls trapped in Burrthorpe police station scurried hither and thither, fearful that a pause might bring them to the painful attention of Detective-Superintendent Andrew Dalziel who sat, massive and baleful and still, at the centre of all this movement.

To Wishart’s protests that he’d thought all for the best, he simply replied, ‘I bet your lot backed Bonnie Prince Charlie.’

Constable Vessey was advised to change his name, have plastic surgery, flee the country. He’d returned from his cuppa and drag (no more than three minutes, God help me!) to find Gavin Mycroft in his underclothes, tied by a bloodstained bandage to his chair.

‘He threatened me with a knife,’ said Mycroft. ‘What could I do? Bugger’s mad, that’s my opinion.’

Mycroft was now at the station, making a statement. Dalziel had dispatched Wield to fetch in Stella Mycroft for questioning about Farr’s phone call.

‘And don’t mention he’s escaped. And don’t let her see her husband when she gets here,’ he bellowed after the departing sergeant.

‘What about me?’ said Pascoe.