Reginald Hill - Death

'Stuff for the baby, maybe. He's very good. Wish I could say the same for mine.'

'You've got children, Sergeant? How many?'

'Two. For God's sake, be careful, Mick.'

The leather-jacketed man had opened the boot and begun to lift out the cases. As he swung them over the boot's lip, one of them burst open, spilling its contents to the ground. His leering smile vanished to be replaced with the uneasy perplexity of a cabinet minister faced by an ethical policy.

On the ground lay three telephone directories, a Tesco bag full of stones, and a grey blanket clearly marked as the property of Mid-Yorkshire Constabulary.

The woman undipped her papoose basket, and tossed it to Young, saying, 'Look after baby, will you?'

He wasn't ready for it. It bounced off his hands and turned upside down and only a desperate panic-driven lunge got it into his grasp a few inches from the ground. From inside came a piercing wail of 'Mummy!'

Young looked up in shock to discover the woman was paying no attention to him.

From her pocket she'd taken a small aerosol tube. She was pointing it at leather jacket and giving him a quick squirt. He fell back, cursing and clawing at his face. Young began to rise. The spray turned in his direction. He raised the papoose basket in an effort to protect himself but it was too late. The fine jet hit him right in the eyes. As he twisted away crying out in pain, a plastic doll fell out of the basket, squeaking, 'Mummy!'

The woman picked up the doll and spoke to it.

'Novello here,' she said. 'Think you can come and clear up now.'

Peter Pascoe watched with interest as Oz Carnwath gave his evidence that afternoon, but it wasn't the witness's face he watched, nor that of the accused, though it might have been entertaining to see his cocky anticipation turn to shocked incredulity as instead of the expected hesitations and uncertainties, he heard firm and confident affirmations that he, Liam Linford, had driven his Lamborghini out of the car park on the night in question.

It was Linford Senior, sitting in the body of the court, that Pascoe watched. His expression of barely contained fury did more for Pascoe's festive feelings than any number of Christmas cards. Marcus Belchamber did all his considerable best to dent Carnwath's certainties, but hardly left a smudge let alone a scratch on them. It came as no surprise to anyone when the presiding magistrate committed Linford Junior for trial in the Crown Court in February. But the journalists present pricked up their ears when, after Belchamber's application for bail had been heard, the prosecuting lawyer stood up to oppose it on the grounds that there had been a serious attempt to interfere with a witness. The magistrate required a full report as soon as possible and ordered Liam Linford to be remanded in custody till she got it. Wally Linford proved harder to lay a finger on. Taken in for questioning as he left the court, he had Belchamber by his side from the start, and simply denied any knowledge of the plan to kidnap Meg Carnwath. The two false policemen and the other two men who had intercepted Oz on his way to Manchester Airport also denied any connection with Wally, but claimed they were old acquaintances of Liam who had been overcome by indignation at what looked like a potential injustice. They had certainly been well schooled as nothing on the recording from the wire Oz had worn, or from Shirley Novello's, actually constituted a direct threat. Belchamber, after studying the account of what had happened to Novello, offered as his opinion that if he were advising the false police officers – which of course he had no reason even to contemplate doing -he would probably suggest an action against the WDC for assault. In the meantime, if they had nothing more to ask his client, he thought it best to bring the interview to a close.

Pascoe switched off the recording machine and said, 'Something you should understand, Wally. You've tried to fix Oz Carnwath and failed. His evidence is on record. Your attempt is on record. Anything else that happens to that lad, threats, accidents, even dirty looks, will be noted and reported and investigated. And I'll make sure every bugger connected with this case from the judge to the jury knows about it and believes it's down to Liam direct. And I reckon that will mean years on his sentence. Ask Mr Belchamber here if you don't believe me.'

Belchamber pursed his lips and said, 'This is a conversation I shall of course need to report to your superiors and the GPS, Chief Inspector.'

'What conversation, Mr Belchamber? I heard no conversation. You hear any conversation, Constable Novello? Sergeant Wield?'

His colleagues shook their heads.

'There you are. Three to two. In a democracy, we must be right. So watch it, Wally. After all your big-time stunts, it would be a shame to go down for a domestic, wouldn't it?'

After the lawyer and his client had left, Novello said admiringly, 'Nice one, sir. That made the bastards squirm. Real hairy-chested stuff.'

It was a genuine compliment. Novello liked her men muscular and hairy. The willowy Pascoe-type did nothing for her.

'Not the point,' said Pascoe wearily. I just wanted to warn them off Oz and his family. And talking of hairy chests, that trick of yours with the CS-spray, I've written it up as reaction to direct and sudden threat, which is the only way to justify it when you hadn't told them you were a police officer and issued a warning. The only true words Belchamber spoke were when he said they could be entitled to bring an action against you. What were you thinking of? You didn't even try to sound threatened on the tape!'

'Well, I felt it. And it wasn't my fault the case burst open,' protested Novello.

'Fault doesn't come into it. Cop on the spot gets the glory and the crap. All we've got is a couple of guys impersonating police officers. No threats, no holding against your will, no direct link with either Linford. I'm very doubtful we'll have enough to persuade the beak to turn down Belchamber when he requests a review of the remand in custody order. So we'll have Liam out and about, all down to you, Novello. Take heed. You've been backed up once. Don't expect it again.'

With the blank expression which conceals high dudgeon, Novello left.

'Was I too hard, Wieldy?'

'On Linford and Belchamber? Not enough. On Novello? Just about right.'

‘Thanks. So, this informant of yours came up trumps. Looks like you've got yourself a winner there. Better sign him up official, quick as you can.'

'Not interested,' said Wield.

'Who? Him or you?'

'Him, of course,' said Wield, meeting Pascoe's eyes straight on.

'Fine. But be careful.'

It was conventional CID wisdom that there was no such thing as a free tip-off.

'Yeah. So we'll be taking this Praesidium thing a bit more seriously now?'

'I expect so. Let's go and see the Mighty Kong.'

'OK. But, Pete’

'Yes?'

'I'd like to keep in the background on this one. I mean, sitting in on the interview with Linford's one thing, but I don't think I should be in the front line if we set up an op on the Praesidium tip.'

'You think it might help someone make a connection between your informant and us if it looks like you're calling the shots here?'

'It's possible.'

'OK. No problem. You'll miss out on the glory though. Could tell against you when you're on the short-list for Commissioner.'

'It's a risk I'll just have to take,' said Wield.

In the criminal's Advent calendar, each window opens on a new opportunity.

Huge truckloads of consumer desirables I crowd the road en route for city centres. Shop shelves groan with goodies. The malls are packed with shoppers whose purses are packed with cash. The tills ring merrily all day and much of the night and large sums of money have to be transferred with forecastable regularity to the banks. The average house soon has several hundred pounds' worth of easily portable presents 'hidden' in the garage or the cupboard under the stairs. In the non-average house, their value might run into thousands. The party season starts, at home and in the workplace. The provident smuggler is ready to supply the huge appetite for cheap booze and fags, while the happy toper is morally susceptible to a whole range of no-questions-asked deals and physically susceptible to anyone who fancies his wallet. To an ambitious policeman, keen to pack his CV with collars felt and cases solved, Advent windows also open upon golden opportunity. Here is the devil's plenty. Here is the year's late harvest. The art is to recognize what's ripe for reaping and what's going to prove indigestible, and with resources stretched to the limit, there is little time for careful consideration. So Pascoe found he had all the encouragement in the world to pursue his resolve to put Franny Roote out of his mind and get on with the job of making sure the better part of Mid-Yorkshire had a happy and crime-free Christmas.