It had been a long day but in the end quite productive. With time running out, a suspect had finally cracked under the pressure of Wield's relentless questioning and unreadable features. Then, just as he was leaving, Dalziel had tossed into his lap the job of reassuring Oz Carnwath, the Linford case witness, that the burly man on his doorstep talking about death really had been an undertaker who'd mixed up addresses. He'd left the young man happy and arranged for a patrol car to stop by from time to time during the night. Then he'd returned to the station to put on his leathers and pick up his bike, and finally he was on his way home with all the pleasures of a crime-free Sunday in the company of Edwin Digweed, his beloved partner, stretching ahead. Nothing special, he doubted if they'd get further than the Morris, their local, or perhaps take a stroll along the Een whose valley had the bone structure to remain lovely even in midwinter, or go up to Enscombe Old Hall to check haw Monte, the tiny marmoset he'd 'rescued' from a pharmaceutical research laboratory, was coping with the cold weather.
Things must be beautiful which, daily seen, please daily, or something like that. One of Pascoe's little gags which usually drifted across his hearing with small trace of their passage, but that one had stuck. As he recalled it now, he tried superstitiously not to let the thought ‘ am a very lucky man join it in his head.
He came to a halt at traffic lights. Straight ahead the road which tracked the western boundary of Charter Park stretched out temptingly. Parks are the lungs of the city, and the fact that Mid-Yorkshire possessed an abundance of beautiful countryside, easy of access and to suit all tastes, did not mean the founding fathers had stinted when it came to pulmonary provision in the towns. Over the years many unsentimental eyes had looked greedily at these priceless green sites, but that lust for 'brass' which is proper to a Yorkshireman comes a poor second in his defining characteristics to the determination that 'what's mine's me own, and no bugger's going to take it from me'. Try as they might, not an acre of ground, not a spadeful of earth, not a blade of grass, had the developers ever managed to wrest from the grip of Charter Park's owners in perpetuity – the taxable citizenry. So the road alongside the park stretched straight and wide for a mile or more and a man on a powerful machine might hit the ton, though it's doubtful if he'd have much time to digest a live chicken.
Wield let himself be tempted. It was a safe indulgence. Over the years he had grown sufficiently strong in resisting temptation to be able to drink the heady potion more deeply than most men.
The lights turned green, the engine roared, but it was the roar of an old lion saying he could run down that wildebeest if he wanted but on the whole he thought he'd probably stretch under a bush and have a nap.
The sergeant moved forward sedately and legally.
It was his slowness that permitted him to see the attempted abduction taking place in the car park which ran much of the length of the park.
Separated from the main road by a long colonnade of lime trees, it was in fact more like a parallel thoroughfare. During the day, visitors to the park left the cars there in a single line. On a summer night it might be quite crowded, but in the middle of winter, apart from the odd vehicle whose steamed-up windows advertised the presence of young love or old lust, there was rarely much activity. But as he went by, Wield saw a man trying to drag a young boy into his slow-moving car.
He braked sharply, went into a speedway racer's skid, straightened up to negotiate the gap between two lime trees, found it was already occupied by a bench, realigned his machine at the next gap, went through, lost a bit of traction on the loose shaley surface as he straightened up, and lost some time wrestling the Thunderbird back under control. All the while he was blasting out warnings of his approach on the horn.
Prevention was better than cure and the last thing he wanted was a high-speed chase through city streets in pursuit of a car carrying a kidnapped child.
It worked. Ahead he saw the boy sprawling on the ground with the abductor's vehicle roaring off in a cloud of dust which, aided by the fact that the car's lights weren't switched on, made it impossible to get the number plate.
He pulled up alongside the boy, who had pushed himself into a sitting position. He looked about ten, maybe a bit older, twelve, say. He had big dark eyes, curly black hair and a thin pale face. He had grazed his hand on falling and he was holding it to his mouth to wash it and ease the pain. He looked angry rather than terrified.
'You OK, son?' said Wield, dismounting.
'Yeah, I think so.'
His accent was local urban. He began to rise and Wield said, 'Hold on. Got any pain anywhere?'
'Nah. Just this fucking hand.'
'You sure? OK. Easy does it.'
Wield took his arm and helped him up.
He winced as he rose then moved all his limbs in turn as if to show they worked.
'Great,' said Wield. He reached inside his leathers and pulled out his mobile.
'What you doing?' demanded the boy.
'Just getting someone to look out for that guy who grabbed you. Did you notice the make of car? Looked like a Montego to me.'
'No. I mean, I didn't notice. Look, why bother? Forget it. He's gone.'
A very self-possessed youngster.
'You might forget it, son. But that doesn't mean he's not going to try again.'
Try what?'
'Abducting someone.'
'Yeah… well
The boy thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his thin windcheater, hunched his shoulders and began to move away. He looked waif and forlorn.
'Hey, where are you going?' said Wield.
'What's it to you?'
'I'm worried, that's all’ said Wield. 'Look, you've had a shock. You shouldn't be wandering round here at this time of night. Hop up behind me and I'll give you a lift.'
The boy regarded him speculatively.
'Lift where?' he said.
Wield considered. Offering to take the boy home might not be a good move. Maybe it was what awaited him at home that sent him wandering the streets so late. Best way to find out could be a low-key, friendly chat, unencumbered by the revelation that he was a cop. He put the phone away. The car would be long gone by now and what did he have anyway? A dark blue Montego, maybe.
'Fancy a coffee or a Coke or something?' he said.
'OK’ said the boy. 'Why not? You know Turk's?'
'Know of it’ said Wield. 'Hop on. You got a name?'
'Lee’ said the boy as he swung his leg over the pillion. 'You?'
'You can call me Mac. Hold on.'
The boy ignored the advice and sat there loosely as if not anticipating any need for anchorage. Wield said nothing but accelerated along the car park till the lime trees began to blur, then braked to swing between them and rejoin the main road. He smiled as he felt the boy's arms swing round his midriff and lock on tight.
Turk's caff was situated in the lee of the Central Station. It was basic just this side of squalid, but had the advantage of staying open late, the theory being it would catch hungry travellers after the station snackbars pulled down their shutters early in the evening. In fact the regular – indeed one might say the permanent – clientele seemed to consist of solitary men in shabby parkas hunched over empty coffee mugs, who gave few signs that they ever contemplated travelling anywhere. The only person who showed any sign of life, and that only enough to offer a customer slow and resentful service, was the morose and taciturn owner, the eponymous Turk, whose coffee was reason enough to keep a country out of the EU, never mind Human Rights, thought Wield, as he watched the boy drink Coke and tuck into a chunk of glutinous cheesecake.
'So, Lee,' he said. 'What happened back there?'
The boy looked at him. He'd shown either natural courtesy or natural indifference when Wield had removed his helmet to reveal the full ugliness of his face, but now his gaze was sharp.
'Nowt. Just a bit of hassle, that's all.'
'Did you know the guy in the car?'
'What differen
ce does it make?'
'Could make the difference between some nutter driving around trying to kidnap kids and a domestic.'
The boy shrugged, chewed another mouthful of cake, washed it down with Coke, then said, 'What're you after?'
'What do you mean?'
'Getting mixed up with this.'
'You mean I should've ridden on by?'
'Mebbe. Most would.'
'I didn't.'
'OK, but the chat and this -' he waved the last forkful of cheesecake in the air then devoured it – 'what's all that for? You some sort of do-gooder?'
'Sure,' said Wield. 'Let me buy you another piece then I'll save your soul.'
This amused the boy. When he laughed, his age dropped back to the original low estimate. On the other hand, being smart put as many years on him.
'OK’ he said. ‘`Nother Coke too.'
Wield went up to the counter. The cheesecake looked like it contravened every dietary regulation ever written, but the boy needed fattening up. Watch it, Edgar, he told himself mockingly. You're thinking like your mother! Which thought provoked him into buying a ham sandwich. Edwin was going to be miffed that he was even later than forecast, and it wouldn't help things if Wield disturbed the even tenor of their pristine kitchen with his 'disgusting canteen habits'.
As he resumed his seat, the boy pulled a face at the sandwich and said, 'You gonna eat that? He makes them out of illegals who didn't survive the trip.'
‘I’ll take my chances,' said Wield. 'OK. Now, about your soul.'
'Sold up and gone, long since. What's your line?'
'Sorry?'
'What you do for dosh? Let's have a look…'
He took Wield's left hand and ran his index finger gently over the palm.
'Not a navvy then, Mac,' he said. 'Not a brain surgeon neither.'
Wield pulled his hand away more abruptly than he intended and the boy grinned.
He's sussed me out, thought Wield. A couple of minutes and he's got to the heart of me. How come someone this age is so sharp? And what the hell signals am I sending out? I told him to call me Mac! Why?
Because Wield sounds odd? Because only Edwin calls me Edgar? Good reasons. Except nobody's called me Mac since…
It was short for Macumazahn, the native name for Allan Quartermain, the hero of some of Wield's beloved H. Rider Haggard novels. It meant he-who-sleeps-with-his-eyes-open and had been given to him by a long-lost lover. No one else had ever used it until a few years ago a young man had briefly entered his life…
He put the memory of the tragic end of that relationship out of his mind. This wasn't a young man, this was a kid, and, thank God, he'd never fancied kids. It was time to wrap things up here and get himself back to the domestic peace and safety of Enscombe.
He finished his drink, pushed his chair back and said, 'OK, let's forget saving your soul and get your body delivered safely home.'
'Home? Nah. It's early doors yet.'
'Not for kids who're roaming the streets getting into fights with strange men.'
'Aye, you're right, it's been my night for strange men, hasn't it? Anyway, not sure if I want to get back on that ancient time machine of yours. No telling where you'd take me.'
Again the knowing grin. It was time to stop messing around.
Wield took out his wallet and produced his police ID.
'I can either take you home or down the nick till we find out where home is,' he said.
The boy studied the ID without looking too bothered.
He said, 'You arresting me, or wha'?'
'Of course I'm not arresting you. I just want to make sure you get home safe. And as a minor if you don't co-operate by giving me your address, then it's my job to find it out.'
'As a minor?'
The boy reached into his back pocket, pulled out a billfold thick with banknotes and from it took a ragged piece of paper. He handed it over. It was a photocopy of a birth certificate which told Wield he was in the company of Lee Lubanski, native of this city in which he'd been born nineteen years ago.
'You're nineteen?' said Wield, feeling foolish. He should have spotted it from his demeanour straight off… but kids nowadays all acted grown up… or maybe he hadn't been looking at the youth like a copper should…
'Yeah. Always getting hassled in pubs is why I carry that around. So no need to see me home, Mac. Or should I call you sergeant now? I should have sussed when you went on about domestics. But you seemed. .. OK, know what I mean?'
He smiled insinuatingly.
Wield now saw things very clearly. He said, 'That car… he wasn't trying to pull you in, he was pushing you out.'
Lee said, That's right. Don't do the park any more, upmarket, that's me. But I were at a loose end, went for a stroll and this guy. .. well, he seemed all right, said the money was fine but he only gave me half upfront and, when we'd done the business, he tossed the rest out the window. Didn't surprise me, lot of 'em are like that, gagging for it till they've had it then they can't get away quick enough. But when I picked it up I saw it were twenty light. I got the door open as he tried to drive away and… well, you saw the rest.'
'Yes, I saw the rest. Why are you telling me this, Lee?'
'Just wanted to save you the bother of putting out a call on that Montego. Unless you fancy getting my money back? But you wouldn't want your mates to know how wrong you got things, would you? Can't imagine what you were thinking of’ he said, grinning.
'Me neither,' said Wield. 'Thought you were in trouble. Well, you are in trouble, Lee. But I reckon you know that. OK, no use talking to you now, but one day maybe you'll need someone to talk to…'
He handed the youth a card bearing his name and official phone number.
'Yeah, thanks,' said Lee. He looked surprised, as if this wasn't the reaction he was expecting. 'Bit of a do-gooder after all, are you, Mac?'
'Sergeant.'
'Sorry. Sergeant Mac. Look, don't rush off, my treat now. Have a bit of cheesecake, it's not bad. Could be an antidote to that immigrant ham.'
'No thanks, Lee. Got a home to go to.'
'Lucky old you.'
He said it so wistfully that for a second Wield was tempted to sit down again. Then he caught the gleam of watchful eyes beneath those long, lowered lashes.
'See you, Lee,' he said. 'Take care.'
'Yeah.'
Outside, Wield mounted the Thunderbird with a sense of relief, of danger avoided.
Through the grubby window of Turk's he could see the boy still sitting at the table. No audience to impress now, but somehow he looked more waif and forlorn than ever.
Making as little noise as possible, Wield rode away into the night.
3
The Knight
Letter Received Mon 17 ^ th PP
St Godric’s College
Cambridge
Sat Dec 15th The Quaestor's Lodging
My dear Mr Pascoe,
Honestly, I really didn't mean to bother you again, but things have been happening that I need to share and, I don't know why, you seemed the obvious person.
Let me tell you about it.
I got down to the Welcome Reception in the Senior Common Room, which I found to be already packed with conference delegates, sipping sherry. Supplies of free booze are, I gather, finite at these events and the old hands make sure they're first at the fountain.
The delegates fall roughly into two groups. One consists of more senior figures, scholars like Dwight who have already established their reputations and are in attendance mainly to protect their turf while attempting to knock others off their hobby-horses.
The second group comprises youngsters on the make, each desperate to clock up the credits you get for attendance at such do's, some with papers to present, others hoping to make their mark by engaging in post-paper polemic.
I suppose that to the casual eye I fitted into this latter group, with one large difference – they all had their feet on the academic ladder, even if the rung was a low one
.
Of course I didn't take all this in at a glance as you might have done. No, but I related what I saw and heard to what Sam Johnson had told me in the past and also to the more recent and even more satirical picture painted by dear old Charley Penn when he learned I was about to attend what he called my first 'junket'.
'Remember this’ he said. 'However domesticated your academic may look, he is by instinct and training anthropophagous. Whatever else is on the menu, you certainly are!'
Anthropophagous. Charley loves such words. We still play Paronomania, you know, despite the painful memories it must bring him. But where was I?
Oh yes, with such forewarning – and with the experience behind me of having been thrown with even less preparation into Chapel Syke – I felt quite able to survive in these new waters. But in fact I didn't even have to work at it. Unlike at the Syke where I had to seek King Rat out and make myself useful to him, here at God's he came looking for me.
As I stood uncertainly just within the doorway, the only person I could see in that crowded room that I knew was Dwight Duerden. He was talking to a long skinny Plantagenet-featured man with a mane of blond hair so bouncy he could have made a fortune doing shampoo ads. Duerden spotted me, said something to the man, who immediately broke off his conversation, turned, smiled like a time-share salesman spotting an almost hooked client, and swept towards me with the American in close pursuit.
'Mr Roote!' he said. 'Be welcome, be welcome. So delighted you could join us. We are honoured, honoured.'
Now the temptation is to class anyone who talks like this, especially if his accent makes the Queen sound Cockney and his manner is by Irving out of Kemble and he's wearing a waistcoat by Rennie Mackintosh with matching bow tie, as a prancing plonker. But Charley's warning still sounded in my mind so I didn't fall about laughing, which was just as well as Duerden said, 'Franny, meet our conference host, Sir Justinian Albacore.'
Death dap-20 Page 6