Reginald Hill - Death

Wield's face didn't show much, but his words made it clear he was starting to feel annoyed.

'You're admitting that you discovered a crime and, instead of ringing it in and getting a proper investigation under way, you wasted time poking around, disturbing the ground and probably making sure anything you did find will get tagged as inadmissible in court?'

'No, Sarge. Well, yes, in a way. But not really.'

'We'll be into not-as-such land just now,' said Dalziel. 'I'm a fair man, young Bowler, and I'll not see someone hanged without giving him a chance for an explanation, so why don't you have a stab at one while I tie this knot?'

'The thing is, there isn't a crime, sir. I mean, there's a crime, but there isn't a complaint. Rye, Miss Pomona, says she doesn't want to pursue it.'

Now all was clear to Wield. The love-sick lad's investigation had to be unofficial because officially there was nothing to investigate. He'd come to the Bull in search of a sympathetic ear, and while the sergeant felt faintly flattered that he'd been the sympathetic ear that Hat had come in search of, he wondered what it was the boy had expected him to do. Nothing, possibly. Maybe the sympathy would have been enough.

Dalziel said, 'Well, God's jocks, now I've heard it all. Wasting police time on a load of nowt

I'm still on sick leave, sir, so it's my own time I'm wasting,' snapped Hat unwisely.

'I'm not talking about your sodding time, which I agree isn't worth much,' grated Dalziel. 'I'm talking about my time, which is worth millions, and the sergeant's time, which is worth quite a lot. Tell me this, lad. You're quick enough to spout accusations against Penn. You find something bad about your girl, you going to be as quick letting us know?'

Hat did not answer.

'Right. Then sod off out of here and next time I see you, bedtime 'ull be over and I'll not make allowances.'

Hat, blank faced, only a certain rigidity around the shoulders indicating any feeling, left, not closing the door behind him because he didn't trust himself not to slam it.

The Fat Man glowered after him then redirected the glower at Shirley Novello.

'Let that be a lesson to you, lass.'

'Yes, sir. What about, sir?'

'About the price of tea, what d'you think? And while you're at it, what do you think?'

'I think being in love doesn't necessarily make a man stupid, sir.'

'Aye, but it helps mebbe. You not got any work to do, lass?'

'Yes. What about you?' was the answer that orbited Novello's mind without getting anywhere near escape velocity. She was also wondering, being the kind of cop who could think of several things at the same time, whether she should mention the broken vase containing the ashes of Pomona's twin brother. Hat had mentioned this as he poured out the story to her, and maybe her raised eyebrow reaction had kept it out of the version he gave both Wield and Dalziel. Probably wise. She shuddered to think what the Fat Man would have made of it. As for herself, the questions to answer were, was it relevant? And was there any professional advantage in revealing it?

Answer to both at the moment was, not so far as she could see.

'Just going, sir,' she said. And went.

'So, Wieldy, what do you make of it?'

The sergeant shrugged, 'Owt or nowt, sir.'

'Aye. Owt or nowt’ said Dalziel thoughtfully. ‘I’ll have a word with Penn. You watch Bowler, OK? I think the bugger's given me indigestion. I'd best have another pint.'

Wield took the hint and stood up. When he returned, the Fat Man was eating his pie.

'Glad to see that lunch with the Chief hasn't spoilt your appetite, sir,' he said.

'Watch it! Sarcasm I'll take from buggers with letters after their name, they can't help it. But sergeants ought to talk as plain as they look.'

This looked like a cue, so Wield told him about the Praesidium heist tip.

'Bit vague. No names? Times? Details?'

'No, sir.'

'Source reliable?'

'Can't say, sir. This is a first.'

'Aye, but in your judgment?'

Wield considered then said, 'Don't think they'd deliberately jerk me around, but that doesn't mean they're not just trying to impress.'

'And how much did this excuse for a tip-off cost us?' said Dalziel.

'Nothing. Down to civic duty.'

'Oh, aye? Don't see much of that these days. Not getting yourself a fan club, are you, Wieldy?' said Dalziel, shooting him that keen glance which was one of the few missiles Wield did not feel his inscrutable features a complete defence against.

'Just came up in casual conversation,' he said.

'Bit too bloody casual for me. Not till Friday, but? That gives you time to see if you can get a bit of flesh on your new chum's bones then. By God, this pie's good. Jack must've changed his barber. You not eating, Wieldy?'

'No, sir. Things to do. See you back at the station.' He rose, intending to make a dash for the door, when it opened and Pascoe came in.

'My God,' said Dalziel. 'What's up wi' thee? You look like a hen that got shagged by an ostrich and feels an egg coming on. And why aren't you in court?'

'Postponed till Wednesday. Belchamber says his client's too ill to attend. Reckons he's got this Kung Flu.' 'Kung arseholes! And the beak bought it?' 'Belchamber produced a doctor's certificate. But give the beak his due, he said, "All right, same time Wednesday, but take notice, Mr Belchamber. If your client is still too ill to attend, we shall proceed in his absence." Which got an unctuous reassurance and a little apologetic glance in my direction. There's something about that bastard… I need a drink.'

'I'll have one with you. Man shouldn't drink alone.' The Fat Man watched Pascoe go to the bar, then said, 'Don't often see Pete letting someone rattle his cage, not unless he's called Roote. What do you think, Wieldy? Yon greaseball Belchamber up to summat?'

'Wouldn't know, sir.'

'Why not? He's one of yours, isn't he?'

'Meaning gay?' said Wield unfazed. 'Wouldn't surprise me, but it doesn't mean we meet in the Turkish baths and exchange confidences. How about you in the Gents, sir?'

This was a good riposte, but not a counter accusation. 'The Gents' was short for the Mid-Yorkshire Gentlemen's Club, of which Dalziel was a member mainly because so many people had wanted to blackball him.

'Most on 'em think the sun shines out of his arse’ said Dalziel. 'Wankers. Couldn't separate steak from kidney in a pudding.'

Wield looked sadly at the few crumbs of his pie remaining on the plate, then took his leave once more and made for the door. Pascoe returned from the bar with two pints. Normally he Wasn't much of a beer drinker at lunchtime, but the Belcher left a nasty taste.

As he sat down he said, 'Sir. I've been thinking…'

'Sod thinking. Try drinking. All things come to him who sups.'

Pascoe raised his glass.

'For once, sir,' he said, 'you may be right. Kill all the lawyers!'

'I'll drink to that,' said Dalziel.

Dusk comes early even on the brightest December day and when the clouds sag low like dusty drapes over an abandoned bier, there's never much more light than you'll catch in the gloaming of a dead man's eyes.

So though it was not yet four o'clock, the streetlamps of Peg Lane were already kindling as Rye Pomona slipped out of Church View.

Under her arm she carried a Hoover bag.

At first she had tried with brush and pan to retrieve the fine ash which, if the undertaker were to be believed, comprised the selfsame molecules that had once danced around each other to form the limbs and organs of her beloved twin, Sergius.

But, do what she might, shards of china, household dust, carpet fluff, and all the cosmetic debris of her bedroom had been inseparably commingled in the pan while traces of ash remained beyond the reach of bristle in cracks and crannies from which it could only be summoned by Gabriel's trumpet on Judgment Day.