Reginald Hill - Under World

As she raved Dalziel reached across the table and to Wield’s amazement put his huge hand over the woman’s delicate hand and peered deep into her eyes. It would have been beyond the will of Boadicea to keep on shouting in such circumstances and rapidly the indignant flow sputtered to a halt.

‘It’s over, love,’ said Dalziel softly.

She tried to pull her hand away but he held it fast.

‘You wha’?’ she said.

‘It’s over. Gav’s told us everything. The lad had no choice once Col started cooperating. But not to worry. I reckon it could come down to manslaughter, accidental killing, couple of years, suspended, on probation even, what do you think, Sergeant?’

‘I’m not sure of the precise circumstances, sir,’ said Wield, taking his cue.

‘Farr lost his temper with Gav, told him that Stella here was having an affair with Harold Satterthwaite. Now I don’t know if that’s true or not, and it’s none of our business anyway. But Gav went to talk it over with Harold. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Things got heated, it was dark, bang! Who can say exactly what happened?’

‘Col’s said … I don’t believe you!’ burst out Stella.

‘He felt sorry about letting the cat out of the bag,’ said Dalziel. ‘That’s why he rang you, of course, to warn you. But it’s one thing feeling sorry, it’s another carrying the can. I’m sorry too, love. All I can say from old experience is that these things seem terrible at the time, but it’ll pass, you’ll be amazed how quick it passes.’

She looked at him distrustfully, but when she spoke her voice was subdued.

‘Can I see Gav?’ she said.

‘Of course,’ said Dalziel genially. ‘Just give your statement to the young lady here, then we’ll ferry you along to have a nice chat with your husband. OK?’

One last bone-cracking squeeze of her hand and he rose and left the room. Wield followed. This time Dalziel made sure the door was firmly closed.

‘Has he coughed?’ asked Wield.

‘I’m not sure, but he will the minute he sees her statement,’ said Dalziel.

‘Did you really get this from Farr?’ asked Wield.

‘No way. That mad bugger’s still missing as far as I know. No, it were a combination of things, a few hints that Pedley let drop when I talked to him earlier, and then a bit of help from my old chum, Nev Watmough, a few years late, true, but we’ve all got to move at our own speed. I’d been wondering why Mycroft went to see Farr in hospital and why he helped him escape. It were obviously a put-up job, weren’t it?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Wield. ‘Obviously. But why didn’t Farr just speak out when he woke up this morning and realized what we were after him for?’

‘Because he’s bloody mad, because he wants to be on the run, because … I don’t know, Sergeant, and I doubt if he does, either.’

‘But we can call off the hunt for him?’ said Wield. ‘I mean, what do we want him for?’

‘Impeding a police inquiry,’ said Dalziel. ‘All right, it’s not much and it’s certainly not worth the dogs and helicopters and appeals on the telly. But I’ll tell you something, Wieldy. My piles are aching again and I’ll not rest comfortable while yon mad bugger’s running round free!’

He headed back up the stairs to check on Wishart’s progress. A uniformed constable intercepted him.

‘Sir, Mr Pascoe’s been on the radio, says he needs to talk to you.’

‘Has he found Farr?’

‘Don’t think so, sir.’

‘Then what’s he playing at? Whistle him up again and tell him to meet me at Mrs Farr’s house in half an hour. And straighten yourself up, lad! Haven’t they found a cure yet for rickets down here?’

Pascoe got Dalziel’s message as he came out of the Welfare Club. Pedley had been very cooperative, which made Pascoe guess his search was a waste of time. So it had proved. Next he and Sergeant Swift went to Neil Wardle’s house, but could get no reply. Tommy Dickinson lived just a couple of streets away. Swift told him, not without pride, that even for Burrthorpe, this was a rough area. When he started reeling off a list of folk-heroes who’d drawn their first blood here, Pascoe cut him off brusquely. Alex Wishart’s ironies were one thing, but he didn’t have to take ancient sergeants implying that life in Mid-Yorks was a pastoral idyll.

The door was opened by a wirily muscular man with greying hair and watchful eyes.

‘Hello, Neil,’ said Swift. ‘We’ve just come from your house.’

‘I hope you left it like you found it,’ said the man.

‘Mr Wardle?’ said Pascoe.

‘Aye. You must be Pascoe. You’re with yon other bugger, right? The one who could cut coal with his teeth.’

A man would need the skill of a Scarlet Pimpernel to lead a private life here, thought Pascoe.

‘We’re inquiring about your friend, Colin Farr?’

‘I’ve nowt to say about Col,’ said Wardle.

‘Or to him?’

Wardle thought a moment then said, ‘He’s buggered off, then?’

‘Very sharp,’ said Pascoe. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know where?’

Wardle didn’t even bother to reply.

‘It’ll do him no good,’ said Pascoe, irritated. ‘Running away never does.’

‘You reckon? Ever been a thousand feet under and heard the timbers cracking over your head?’

Pascoe was further irritated by this easy assumption of a risk-given moral superiority. The sods really believed their own myths!

‘Is Mr Dickinson in?’ he asked.

Wardle stood aside and beckoned him in with mock courtesy. On an inadequate sofa, a stout young man sprawled and snored. A plastic bucket rested close to his hand.

‘If you care to hang on a bit he’ll likely make a statement,’ said Wardle.

‘What are you doing here, Mr Wardle?’

‘Tommy’s mam had to go out so I said I’d sit here with the lad and make sure he came to no harm.’

‘How long will Mrs Dickinson be? We’d like to look round just in case Mr Farr has got in, without anyone’s knowledge, of course.’

‘I’d not wait till his mam comes back, then. Sergeant Swift here’ll tell you she sucks coppers’ blood.’

Upon this hint, Pascoe and Swift went quickly through the house.

Unless he’d wriggled under the floorboards, Farr wasn’t here. They returned to the parlour.

‘Just in time,’ said Wardle. ‘His mam’s coming down the street.’

On the sofa, Dickinson stirred, opened his eyes, smiled up at Pascoe.

‘Mr Dickinson,’ Pascoe began. ‘I’m a policeman …’

The stout youth turned his head away and was comprehensively sick into the bucket.

‘There,’ said Wardle. ‘I told you he’d make a statement.’

As he drove back to May Farr’s house, Pascoe saw Arthur Downey on an old bike making his way down the High Street. It was almost dusk and there was no sign of any light on the machine. Well, that was the locals’ responsibility. Pascoe guessed it would be a brave cop round here who pulled up a miner for not having lights on his bike.

As he turned into Clay Street, to his surprise he saw Ellie’s Mini. Instead of wondering why she’d returned, he found himself thinking the car was parked dangerously close to the corner. I’m beginning to think like a traffic cop, he told himself.

He parked his car with exaggerated care. As he approached the front door, he could hear two voices more familiar as solos now upraised in discordant duet. He opened the door without knocking and went in.

‘Hello, hello, what seems to be the trouble?’ he inquired.

Ellie and Dalziel turned to face him.

‘I just came round here to tell Mrs Farr her lad’s off the hook and your missus flew at me like a mad ostrich!’ said Dalziel, all hurt innocence.