Reginald Hill - On Beulah Height

Reluctantly, Pascoe pulled clear and went into the house. As he passed through the hallway, he grabbed a light cagoule. It hadn’t rained for weeks, but Andy Dalziel brought out the boy scout in him.

He opened the door and said, ‘Jesus.’

Detective Superintendent Andrew Dalziel, ever full of surprises, was wearing a Hawaiian shirt bright enough to make an eagle blink.

‘Always the cock-eyed optimist,’ he said, looking at the cagoule. ‘Hello, what’s yon? I know that tune.’

This beat even the shirt. Like a child catching the strains of the Pied Piper, the Fat Man pushed past Pascoe and headed through the house to the patio where the radio was playing.

‘You must not dam up that dark infernal,’ sang the strong young mezzo voice. ‘But drown it deep in light eternal!’

‘Andy,’ said Ellie, looking up in surprise. ‘Thought you were in a hurry. Time for a drink? Or a slice of quiche?’ She reached for the radio switch.

‘Nay, leave it. Mahler, isn’t it?’

With difficulty, Ellie prevented her gaze meeting her husband’s.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘You’re a fan?’

‘Wouldn’t say that. Usually in Kraut, but?’

‘True. This is the first time I’ve heard it in English.’

‘So deep in my heart a small flame died. Hail to the joyous morningtide!’

The voice faded. The music wound plangently for another half-minute then it died too.

‘Elizabeth Wulfstan singing the first of Mahler’s Kindertotenlieder , the songs for dead children,’ said the announcer. ‘A new voice to me, Charmian. Lots of promise, but what an odd choice for a first disc. And in her own translation too, I believe.’

‘That’s right. And I agree, not many twenty-two-year-olds would want to tackle something like this, but perhaps not many twenty-two-year-olds have a voice with this kind of maturity.’

‘Maybe so, but I still think it was a poor choice. There’s a straining after effect as if she doesn’t trust the music and the words to do their share of the work. More after the break. This is Coming Out , your weekend review of the new releases.’

Ellie switched off.

‘Andy, you OK?’

The Fat Man was standing rapt, no longer Hamelin child lured away by the piper, but Scottish thane after a chat with the witches.

‘Nay, I’m fine. Just feel like someone had walked over my grave, that’s all.’

This time the Pascoes’ gazes did meet and shared the message, it’d be a bloody long walk!

He went on, ‘Yon lass, he said her name was Wulfstan?’

‘That’s right. She’s going to be singing in the Dales Festival. I saw the disc advertised in The Gramophone , special mail-order price, so I’ve got it coming, but I might not have bothered if I’d heard that review first. What do you think, Andy, being an expert? And are you sure you won’t have a drink?’

The gentle irony, or the repeated offer, brought Dalziel out of his reverie and for the first time his gaze acknowledged that Ellie was wearing a bikini whose cloth wouldn’t have made a collar for his shirt.

‘Nay, lass. I know nowt about music. And there’s no time for a drink. Sorry to be dragging him off on a Sunday, but.’

He made dragging off sound like a physical act.

Ellie was puzzled. Three things which passeth understanding: Dalziel recognizing Mahler; Dalziel refusing a drink; Dalziel not clocking her tits straight off.

‘It sounds urgent,’ she said.

‘Aye, kiddie goes missing, it’s always urgent,’ he said. ‘Where’s young Rosie?’

The juxtaposition of ideas was abrupt enough to be disturbing.

Pascoe said quickly, ‘She’s spending the weekend with a schoolfriend. Zandra with a Zed, would you believe? Zandra Purlingstone?’

There was a teasing interrogative in his tone which Dalziel was on to in a flash.

‘Purlingstone? Not Dry-dock Purlingstone’s daughter?’ he exclaimed.

Derek Purlingstone, General Manager of Mid-Yorks Water plc, the privatized version of the old Water Board, had played down the threat of shortages when this year’s drought started by gently mocking the English preoccupation with bathing, adding, ‘After all, when you want to clean a boat, you don’t put it in a bath, do you? You put it in a dry dock!’

He had learned the hard way that only the sufferers are allowed to make jokes about their pain. Dalziel’s surprise rose from the fact that Dry-dock’s position and politics made him the kind of man whose company Ellie would normally have avoided like head-lice.

‘The same,’ said Pascoe. ‘Zandra’s in Rosie’s class at Edengrove and they’ve elected each other best friend.’

‘Oh aye? With all his brass, I’d have thought he’d have gone private. Still, it’s reckoned a good school and I suppose it’s nice and handy, being right on his doorstep.’

Dalziel spoke without malice, but Pascoe could see that Ellie was feeling provoked. Edengrove Primary, with its excellent reputation and its famous head, Miss Martindale, might lie right on Purlingstone’s doorstep, but it was a good four miles north of the Pascoes’, while Bullgate Primary was less than a mile south. Ellie had made enquiries. ‘Bullgate has many original and unique features,’ a friend in the inspectorate told her. ‘For instance, during break, they play tiggie with hammers.’ After that, she made representations, with the upshot that Rosie went to Edengrove. Even with the shining example of New Labour leadership before her, Ellie felt a little exposed, and as always was ready to counterpunch before the seconds had left the ring.

‘If Derek is democratic enough to send his girl to a state school, I don’t see why we should try to prove him wrong by refusing to let Rosie make friends with Zandra, do you?’ she said challengingly.

Normally, Dalziel would have enjoyed nothing more than winding Ellie Pascoe up. But this morning standing here on this pleasant patio in the warm sunshine, he felt such a longing to subside into a lounger, accept a cold beer and while away the remains of the day in the company of these people he cared for more than he’d ever acknowledge, that he found he had no stomach for even a mock fight.

‘Nay, you’re right, lass,’ he said. ‘Being friendly with your little lass would do anyone the power of good. But I thought her best mate was called Nina or something, not Zandra. T’other night when I rang and Rosie answered, I asked her what she were doing, and she said she were playing at hospitals with her best friend Nina. They fallen out, or what?’

Pascoe laughed and said, ‘Nina has many attractions, but she doesn’t have a pony and a swimming pool. At least, not a real pony and a real swimming pool. Nina’s Rosie’s imaginary best friend. Ever since Wieldy gave her this last Christmas, they’ve been inseparable.’

He went into the living room and emerged with a slim shiny volume which he handed to the Fat Man.

The cover had the title Nina amp; the Nix above a picture of a pool of water in a high-vaulted cave with a scaly humanoid figure, sharp-toothed and with a fringe of beard, reaching over the pool to a small girl with her hands pressed against her ears, and her mouth and eyes rounded in terror. At the bottom it said ‘Printed at the Eendale Press’.

‘Hey,’ said Dalziel. ‘Isn’t that the outfit run by yon sarky sod our Wieldy took up with?’

‘Edwin Digweed. Indeed,’ said Pascoe.

‘Ten guineas, it says here. I hope the bugger got trade discount! You sure this is meant for kiddies? Picture like that could give the little lass bad dreams.’

He sounds like a disapproving granddad, thought Pascoe.

He said, ‘It’s Caddy Scudamore who did the illustrations. You remember her?’