Reginald Hill - Death

Then he saw Wield and his face lit up. He came straight to the table and apologies began to tumble out of him at such a rate the detail was lost in the torrent.

'Shut up and sit down afore you do yourself an injury’ said Wield.

'Yeah… sure… sorry…'

He sat down and stopped talking but his face still glowed with pleasure at finding Wield waiting. Time to switch off the light.

'Passed on that so-called tip of yours to my boss’ growled Wield. 'He wasn't much impressed. Like I said to you, we don't have the men or the time to follow every bleeding Praesidium van for a whole day. You got any more details?'

The youth shook his head.

'Sorry, nowt about that, but I got something else’

'Oh yes? What's it this time? A sub-post-office job somewhere in the North of England? Or is it not as definite as that?'

Lee's light was now definitely flickering.

'Not very definite, no’ he said defensively. 'But I can only tell you what I heard. You don't want me making things up, do you?'

There was something touchingly ingenuous about this, but Wield did not let his reaction show.

'Too bloody true’ he said. 'All right, let's have it’

'It's that Liam Linford case. They're fixing it so the wanker gets off’

Now it was his intense interest that Wield was concealing.

'Fixing it? Who is? How?'

'His dad, Wally, who fucking else?' said Lee with a show of aggression reminding Wield that under the facade of innocent kid lurked a streetwise rent boy. 'And all I know is they're fixing for that Carnwath to change his evidence so it never gets to Crown Court, and it's no use going on at me for more 'cos that's all I fucking know’

'Yeah yeah, keep your voice down’ said Wield. The music was loud and no one was paying any attention, but too much animation in a place like Turk's was like laughter at a funeral. 'What you do know is where this info comes from’

A sullen, stubborn expression settled like a pall across the boy's pale features.

A client, guessed Wield. He's not going to risk giving up a regular source of income. And maybe it's someone he's a bit scared of.

What he should be trying to do was sign Lee up as an official snout to compensate for any possible loss of earnings, but he didn't think it was worth the effort. Or, maybe he simply didn't want to. Once on the books, his identity would be known at least to Dalziel and Pascoe, neither of whom would hesitate to use him any which way they could, and he would only remain useful as long as he remained a rent boy.

'OK, forget that. How about an educated guess at what they're going to try to do to Carnwath? Anything at all, Lee. You're right, I don't want you to make things up, but I don't want you not to say anything either just 'cos you think it doesn't sound important’

His softer tone had an immediate effect. The sullen-ness vanished to be replaced by a childish concentration.

'Nothing… except he did say something about someone arriving Wednesday… no use asking who or where or when… I don't know.. . just they're due in Wednesday

Wield didn't press. If there was anything else to come, which he doubted, pressure wasn't going to induce it. He said, That's good, Lee. Thanks a lot.'

And his heart ached again at the pleasure his praise clearly caused the boy.

He took some coins out of his pocket and said, 'Here, get yourself a Coke.'

'Nah, that's all right, my treat. 'Nother coffee?'"

Without waiting for an answer, Lee went to the counter where the inscrutable Turk offered no response to his chirpy greeting but supplied the requested drinks with the indifference of an Athenian executioner pouring hemlock.

'So, Lee,' said Wield. 'Tell me a bit more about yourself. You got a trade at all?'

'Trade? Oh, I get plenty of trade,' he replied with a knowing laugh.

'Not what I meant,' said Wield. 'I meant a trade to get a proper living at. What you're talking about will likely kill you in the end, you know that.'

'So what if it does? Anyway, if men've got to pay 'cos that's the only way they can get what they want, where's the harm? Thought you'd have understood that.'

The bold stare reminded Wield that he'd been sussed.

He didn't look away.

'I don't pay for sex, Lee,' he said. 'Anything not available because someone doesn't want to give it to me, I do without.'

'Yeah, well, you're one of the lucky ones then,' said the boy, dropping his gaze. 'How about lasses, you ever try it with a girl?'

The question came out of nowhere and Wield let his surprise show.

'Sorry, I didn't mean… I were just wondering…'

'It's OK,' said Wield. 'Yes, I tried it with girls. When I were your age… younger… Before you understand the truth about yourself, wanting to be like everyone else makes you think there's something wrong, doesn't it?'

As he spoke, he realized he was making a stupid assumption. Being a rent boy didn't mean you had to be gay. But Lee's response confirmed what he'd assumed.

'Yeah, know what you mean’ he said moodily. 'It's like everyone's going to the match and you just want to be heading the other way.'

He took a pull at his Coke, then said, 'You're not drinking your coffee. It's OK, is it?'

Wield put the cup to his lips and let a tide of turgid muddy foam break over his teeth.

'Yeah,' he said. 'It's fine.'

Meanwhile back in latte land, Hal's cafe-bar, popular at any time of year, by eleven o'clock on a December morning well into the pre-Christmas shopping season was crowded with bag-laden Yorkshire maids and matrons, eager to rest their weary feet and refresh themselves with a sophisticated coffee or a traditional strong tea.

All the tables were taken and nearly every chair occupied. The only hint of vacancy was at a table for four at which a lone man sat, but the scatter of books and papers which covered the surface of table and chairs suggested that he was not eager for company. Mid-Yorkshire women in search of rest and recuperation are not so easily put off, however, and from time to time a party would boldly advance to essay an assault on this pathetic creature. Alas for their hopes! Alerted to their approach, the man would let them get within a couple of paces, then turn on them a scowl of such ferocity, in which misanthropy vied with lycanthropy for control of his hollow-cheeked, sunken-eyed, raggedy-bearded features, that even the Red Cross Knight might have quaked in his armour. Most fled in search of easier prey, but one, a youngish not unfetchingly dumpy woman with a round amiable face advanced as if she simply didn't recognize antagonism and seemed about to take a seat when suddenly a still more fearful shape loomed behind the monster and bellowed in its ear, 'What's up, lad? Pubs not open?'

The woman retreated, visibly shocked, and Charley Penn, for it was he, jumped about three inches out of his seat before twisting round and responding weakly, 'I could ask you the same, you fat bastard.'

'Nay’ said Andy Dalziel. ‘I’m a common working man, got to go where the job takes me. You're a scholar and an artist. It's mostly going on in your noddle. You can take your work anywhere, long as you don't lose your head. You've not lost your head recently, have you, Charley?'

The Fat Man brushed the papers off one of the chairs and sank heavily on to it, splaying its spindly metal legs across the tiled floor with a protesting squeal.

'Best get another for the other half of your arse, Andy,' said Penn, recovering.

'Nay, it'll hold, and if it don't, I can sue them. You've not answered my question.'

'Remind me.'

'Short-term memory going? They say that's a bad sign.'

'What of?'

'I've forgotten.' Penn laughed. It didn't make him look less wolfish.

'Have I lost my head recently? Figuratively, I assume you mean? Rather than physically? Or perhaps metaphysically? Or even metempsychotically?'