Charley, a cheerful chubby fifty-year-old, had performed this service many times for both Wield and Pascoe when the café had been too full for a satisfactory tête-à-tête with an informant. Wield went through a door marked TOILETS, ignored the forked radish logo to his left and the twin-stemmed Christmas tree to his right, and unlocked the door marked Private straight ahead. It was also possible to get into this room from behind the bar, but that would draw too much attention.
Wield sat down on a kitchen chair behind a narrow desk whose age could be read in the tea-rings on its surface. The only window was narrow, high and barred, admitting scarcely more light than limned the edges of things, but he ignored the desk lamp.
A few moments later the door opened to reveal the youth standing uncertainly on the threshold.
‘Come in and shut it,’ said Wield. ‘Then lock it. The key’s in the hole.’
‘Hey, what is this?’
‘Up here we call it a room,’ said Wield. ‘Get a move on!’
The youth obeyed and then advanced towards the desk.
Wield said, ‘Right. Quick as you like, son. I’ve not got all day.’
‘Quick as I like? What do you mean? You don’t mean …? No, I can see you don’t mean …’
His accent was what Wield thought of as Cockney with aitches. His age was anything between sixteen and twenty-two. Wield said, ‘It was you who rang?’
‘Yes, that’s right …’
‘Then you’ve got something to tell me.’
‘No. Not exactly …’
‘No? Listen, son, people who ring me at the station, and don’t give names, and arrange to meet me in dumps like this, they’d better have something to tell me, and it had better be good! So let’s be having it!’
Wield hadn’t planned to play it this way, but it had all seemed to develop naturally from the site and the situation. And after years of a carefully disciplined and structured life, he sensed that what lay ahead was a new era of playing things by ear. Unless, of course, this boy could simply be frightened away.
‘Look, you’ve got it all wrong, or maybe you’re pretending to get it wrong … Like I said, I’m a friend of Maurice’s …’
‘Maurice who? I don’t know any Maurices.’
‘Maurice Eaton!’
‘Eaton? Like the school? Who’s he when he’s at home?’
And now the youth was stung to anger.
Leaning with both hands on the desk, he yelled, ‘Maurice Eaton, that’s who he is! You used to fuck each other, so don’t give me this crap! I’ve seen the photos, I’ve seen the letters. Are you listening to me, Macumazahn? I’m a friend of Maurice Eaton’s and like any friend of a friend might, I thought I’d look you up. But if it’s shit-on-auld-acquaintance time, I’ll just grab my bag and move on out. All right?’
Wield sat quite still. Beneath the unreadable roughness of his face, a conflict of impulses raged.
Self-interest told him the best thing might be to spell out what a misery the boy’s life was likely to be if he hung around in mid-Yorkshire, and then escort him gently to the next long-distance coach in any direction and see him off. Against this tugged guilt and self-disgust. Here he was, this youth, a friend of the only man that Wield had ever thought of as his own friend, in the fullest, most open as well as the deepest, most personal sense of the word, and how was he treating him? With suspicion, and hate, using his professional authority to support a personal - and squalid - impulse.
And also, somewhere down there was another feeling, concerned with both pride and survival - an apprehension that sending this boy away was no real solution to his long-term dilemma, and in any case, if the youth meant trouble, he could as easily stir it up from the next phone box on the A1 as from here.
‘What’s your name, lad?’ said Wield.
‘Cliff,’ said the young man sullenly, ‘Cliff Sharman.’
Wield switched on the table lamp and the corners of the room sprang into view. None was a pretty sight, but in one of them stood an old folding chair.
‘All right, Cliff,’ said Wield. ‘Why don’t you pull up that chair and let’s sit down together for a few minutes and have a bit of a chat, shall we?’
Chapter 3
As soon as Pascoe walked through the door, his daughter began to cry.
‘You’re late,’ said Ellie.
‘Yes, I know. I’m a detective. They teach us to spot things like that.’
‘And that’s Rosie crying.’
‘Is it? I thought maybe we’d bought a wolf.’
He took off his jacket, draped it over the banisters and ran lightly up the stairs.
The little girl stopped crying as soon as he entered her room. This was a game she’d started playing only recently. That it was a game was beyond doubt; Ellie had observed her deep in sleep till her father’s key turned in the lock, and then immediately she let out her summoning wail and would not be silent till he came and spoke to her. What he said didn’t matter.
Tonight he said, ‘Hi, kid. Remember last week I was telling you I should be hearing about my promotion soon? Well, the bad news is, I still haven’t, so if you’ve been building up any hopes of getting a new pushchair or going to Acapulco this Christmas, forget it. Want some advice, kid? If you feel like whizzing, don’t start unless you can keep it up. Nobody loves a whizzkid that’s stopped whizzing! Did I hear you ask me why I’ve stopped? Well, I’ve narrowed it down to three possibilities. One: they all think I’m Fat Andy’s boy and everyone hates Fat Andy. Two: your mum keeps chaining herself to nuclear missile sites and also she’s Membership Secretary of WRAG. So what? you say. WRAG is non-aligned politically, you’ve read the hand-outs. But what does Fat Andy say? He says WRAG’s middle-of-the-road like an Italian motorist. All left-hand drive and bloody dangerous! Three? No, I’ve not forgotten three. Three is, maybe I’m just not good enough, what about that? Maybe inspector’s my limit. What’s that you said? Bollocks? You mean it? Gee, thanks, kid. I always feel better after talking to you!’
Gently he laid the once more sleeping child back on her bed and pulled the blanket up over her tiny body.
Downstairs he went first into the kitchen and poured two large Scotch-on-the-rocks. Then he went through into the living-room.
In his brief absence his wife had lost her clothes and gained a newspaper.
‘Have you seen this?’ she demanded.
‘Often,’ said Pascoe gravely. ‘But I have no objection to seeing it again.’
‘This,’ she said, brandishing the Mid-Yorks Evening Post.
‘I’ve certainly seen one very like it,’ he said. ‘It was in my jacket pocket, but it can hardly be the same one, can it? I mean your well known views on the invasion of privacy would hardly permit you to go through your husband’s pockets, would they?’
‘It was sticking out.’
‘That’s all right, then. You’re equally well known for your support of a wife’s right to grab anything that’s sticking out. What am I looking at? This Kemble business. Well, the chap who got kicked is going to be all right, but he can’t remember a thing. And Wield’s looking into the graffiti. Now why don’t you put the paper down …’
‘No, it wasn’t the Kemble story I wanted you to look at. It was this.’
Her finger stabbed an item headed Unusual Will.
Published today, the will of the late Mrs Gwendoline Huby of Troy House, Greendale, makes interesting reading. The bulk of her estate whose estimated value is in excess of one million pounds is left to her only son, Alexander Lomas Huby, who was reported missing on active service in Italy in 1944. Lieutenant Huby’s death was assumed though his body was never found. In the event that he does not appear to claim his inheritance by his ninetieth birthday in the year 2015, the estate will be divided equally between the People’s Animal Welfare Society, the Combined Operations Dependants’ Relief Organization, both registered charities in which Mrs Huby had a long interest, and Women For Empire, a social-political group which she had suppo
rted for many years.
‘Very interesting,’ said Pascoe. ‘Sad too. Poor old woman.’
‘Stupid old woman!’ exclaimed Ellie.
‘That’s a bit hard. OK, she must have been a bit dotty, but …’
‘But nothing! Don’t you see? A third of her estate to Women For Empire! More than a third of a million pounds!’
‘Who,’ wondered Pascoe, sipping one of the Scotches, ‘are Women For Empire?’
‘My God. No wonder they’re dragging their feet about promoting you to Chief Inspector! Fascists! Red, white and blue, and cheap black labour!’
‘I see,’ said Pascoe feeling the crack about his promotion was a little under the belt. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever heard of them.’
‘So what? You’d never heard of Bangkok massage till you married me.’
‘That’s true. But I’d still like to know which of my worldwide sources of intelligence I can blame for my ignorance. Where did you hear about them?’
Ellie blushed gently. It was a phenomenon observed by few people as the change of colour was not so much in her face as in the hollow of her throat, the rosy flush seeping down towards the deep cleft of her breasts. Pascoe claimed that here was the quintessence of female guilt, i.e. evidence of guilt masquerading as a mark of modesty.
‘Where?’ he pressed.
‘On the list,’ she muttered.
‘List?’
‘Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘There’s a list of ultra-right-wing groups we ought to keep an eye open for. We got a copy at WRAG.’
‘A list!’ said Pascoe taking another drink. ‘You mean, like the RC’s Index? Forbidden reading for the faithful? Or is it more like the Coal Board’s famous hit list? These organizations are the pits and ought to be closed down?’
‘Peter, if you don’t stop trying to be funny, I’ll get dressed again. And incidentally, why are you drinking from both those glasses?’
‘Sorry,’ said Pascoe handing over the fuller of the two. ‘Incidentally in return, how come at nine-thirty in the evening you’re wearing nothing but the Evening Post anyway?’
‘Every night for what seems weeks now you’ve been staggering in late. Rosie instantly sets up that awful howl and you stagger upstairs to talk to her. I dread to think what long term effect these little monologues are having on the child!’
‘She doesn’t complain.’
‘No. It’s the only way she can get your attention for a little while. That’s what all this is about. The next stage is for you to stagger back downstairs, have a couple of drinks, eat your supper and then fall asleep beyond recall by anything less penetrative than Fat Andy’s voice. Well, tonight I’m getting in my howl first!’
Pascoe looked at her thoughtfully, finished his drink and leaned back on the sofa.
‘Howl away,’ he invited.
The Unusual Will item had caught other eyes that day too.
The Mid-Yorks Evening Post was one of several northern local papers in the Challenger group. The Challenger itself was a Sunday tabloid, published in Leeds with a mainly northern circulation though in recent years under the dynamic editorship of Ike Ogilby it had made some inroads into the Midlands. Nor did Ogilby’s ambitions end at Birmingham. In the next five years he aimed either to expand the Challenger into a full-blown national or use it as his personal springboard to an established editorial chair in Fleet Street, he didn’t much care which.
The other editors within the group were requested to bring to Ogilby’s notice any local item which might interest the Challenger. In addition Ogilby, who trusted his fellow journalists to share a story like the chimpanzee trusts its fellow chimps to share a banana, encouraged his own staff to scan the evening columns.
Henry Vollans, a young man who had recently joined the staff from a West Country weekly, spotted the piece about the Huby will at half past five. Boldly he took it straight to Ogilby who was preparing to go home. The older man, who admired cheek and recognized ambition to match his own, said dubiously, ‘Might be worth a go. What were you thinking of? Sob piece? Poor old mam, lost child, that sort of thing?’
‘Maybe,’ said Vollans who was slim, blond and tried not unsuccessfully to look like Robert Redford in All the President’s Men. ‘But this lot, Women For Empire, that rang a bell. There was a letter in the correspondence column a couple of weeks back when I was sorting them out. From a Mrs Laetitia Falkingham. I checked back and it had the heading. She lives at Ilkley and calls herself the founder and perpetual president of Women For Empire. The letter was about that bother in Bradford schools. She seemed to think it could be solved by sending all the white kids to Eton and educating the blacks under the trees in the public parks. I checked through the files. Seems she’s been writing to the paper off and on for years. We’ve published quite a few.’
‘Yes, of course. Rings a bell now,’ said Ogilby. ‘Sounds nicely batty, doesn’t she? OK. Check it out to see if there’s anything there for us. But I suspect the doting mum/lost kid angle will be the best. This racial vandal stuff at the Kemble theatre looks more interesting.’
‘Could be if there’s some bother on the opening night,’ said Vollans. ‘Shall I go? I could do a review anyway.’
‘Theatre correspondent too,’ mocked Ogilby, admiring the young man’s pushiness. ‘Why not? But talk to me again before you do anything on Mrs Falkingham. We’re treading very warily about Bradford.’
Bradford’s large and growing Asian community had highlighted by reversal the problems of mixed race schooling. It was the usual question of how best to cater for the classroom needs of a minority, only in this case the minority was frequently white. The Challenger’s natural bent was conservative, but Ogilby wasn’t about to alienate thousands of potential readers right on his doorstep.
‘OK, Henry,’ said Ogilby dismissively. ‘Well spotted.’
Vollans left, so pleased with himself that he forgot his Robert Redford walk for several paces.
Nor did interest in the will end there.
A few hours later the telephone was answered in a flat in north Leeds, quite close to the University. The conversation was short and guarded.
‘Yes?’
‘Something in the Mid-Yorks Evening Post that might interest. Women For Empire, that daft Falkingham woman’s little tea-circle out at Ilkley, could be in for a windfall.’
‘I know.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes. You’re way behind, as usual. All that’s long taken care of.’
‘Oh. Sorry I spoke.’
‘No, you were right. You’re in a call-box?’
‘Natch!’
‘Good. But don’t make a habit of calling. ’Bye.’
‘And up yours too,’ said the caller disgruntledly into the dead phone. ‘Condescending cunt!’
Not far away in the living-room of his small suburban flat, Sergeant Wield too reclined on a sofa but he was wide awake, the Evening Post with its news of wills and vandals lay unopened on the hall floor, and the ice cubes in his untouched Scotch had long since diluted the rich amber to a pale straw.
He was thinking about Maurice Eaton. And he was marvelling that he had managed to think so little about him for so long. Lovers beneath the singing sky of May, they had even wandered once close to the decision, momentous in that time and at that place and in those circumstances, of openly setting up house together. Then Maurice, a Post Office executive, had been transferred north to Newcastle.
It had seemed a God-sent compromise solution at the time - close enough for regular meetings but far enough to reduce the decision on setting up house to a problem of geography.
But even small distances work large disenchantments. Wield had once been proud of his fierce fidelity but now he saw it as a form of naïve self-centredness. He recalled with amazement and shame his near-hysterical outburst of jealous rage when Maurice had finally admitted he was seeing somebody else. For thirty minutes he had been the creature of the emotions he had controlled for as many years. And he had never see
n Maurice again since that day.
The only person who ever got a hint of what he had gone through was Mary, his sister. They had never spoken openly of Wield’s sexuality, but a bond of loving understanding existed between them. Two years after the break with Maurice, she had left Yorkshire too when her husband was made redundant and decided that Canada held more hope for his family than this British wasteland.
So now Wield was alone. And had remained alone, despite all temptation, treating the core of his physical and emotional being as if it were some physiological disability, like alcoholism, requiring total abstinence for control.
There had been small crises. But from the first second he had heard Sharman’s voice on the phone, he had felt certain that this was the start of the last battle.
He went over their conversation again, as he might have gone over an interrogation transcript in the station.
‘Where’d you meet Maurice?’ he’d asked.
‘In London.’
‘London?’
‘Yeah. He moved down from the North a couple of years back, didn’t you know that?’
It was a redundant question, the boy knew the answer. Wield said, ‘New job? Is he still with the Post Office?’
‘British Telecom now. Onward and upward, that’s Mo.’
‘And he’s … well?’
Perhaps he shouldn’t have let the personal query, however muted, slip out. The boy had smiled as he replied, ‘He’s fine. Better than ever before, that’s what he says. It’s different down there, see. Up North, it may be the ’eighties in the calendar, but there’s still a ghetto mentality, know what I mean? I’m just quoting Mo, of course. Me, this is the first time I’ve got further north than Wembley!’
‘Oh aye? Why’s that?’
‘Why’s what?’
‘Why’ve you decided to explore, lad? Looking for Solomon’s mines, is it?’
‘Sorry? Coal mines, you mean?’
‘Forget it,’ said Wield. ‘Just tell us why you’ve come.’
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