He smiled after her, then returned to his papers.
Forty minutes later he read through his notes.
And there it was. Not much; in fact almost totally insignificant. Except that when it was all you had, it had to signify.
He glanced at his watch. Too late to disturb anyone. Except a wife. Wives were not anyone.
She opened one eye as he entered the room, then closed it again. He squeezed her shoulder gently till she reopened it.
'Do I have to guess which one it is?' she asked sleepily.
'Neither. It's a benighted male in search of female illumination. Wake up, my sweet, and tell me all about our little friends, the bats.'
The following morning he was up early. By eight o'clock he was passing through a creaking doorway beneath a vandalized legend which read JOE SWINDLES - CRAP MERCHANT. In a miasmic office a stout white-haired man was smoking a small cheroot, eating a fried egg sandwich and reading the Sun. He looked up with the ill-tempered expression of one who does not care to have his matutinal pleasures interrupted, then smiled yolkily as he recognized his visitor.
'Mr Pascoe. This is a nice surprise. Haven't seen you in ages. I've been feeling right neglected. What can it mean, I ask myself? Have I given offence? Or has he simply left me for another?'
'I expect it means, Joe, that either you've got honester or I've got slower,' said Pascoe.
'Well, you might have got slower, Mr Pascoe. Happens to the best of us. But if I got any honester, they'd have had to pick me for God in these Mysteries instead of that lovely Mr Dalziel. How is the dear old chap, by the way? Must be getting close to retirement now?'
Pascoe smiled. It was Joe Swindles's alcoholic ambition to get Dalziel into his crusher before he died to repay him for what he considered to be various injustices perpetrated over the years.
'I'll pass on your regards,' he said. 'Now, Joe, I want a favour.'
Swindles listened as Pascoe explained, then he scratched his venerable pate and said, 'In February, you say? Now that's asking a lot, Mr Pascoe. That could take a lot of looking for, and then it'd most likely have gone in the crusher.'
Pascoe was not impressed. One thing he had learned about Joe Swindles was that he had an almost supernaturally accurate knowledge of the contents of his scrap yard. All he was doing now was negotiating.
'I know your time's valuable, Joe,' said Pascoe. 'So I'll give you a fiver a minute. That's a fiver for every minute less than five it takes to find them.'
It cost him twenty pounds. He looked at the rusting heap of agricultural machinery and tools removed from the barn at Moscow Farm and wondered if he was doing a wise thing.
'Why'd you hang on to them, Joe?' he asked.
'Agricultural archaeology,' Swindles replied promptly. 'There's money in it already. This stuff's not old enough yet, but a few more years and one of these country museums'll be paying a pretty penny for this junk.’
‘Is that what you call a spike harrow?' said Pascoe pointing.
'Either that, or a hell of a hairbrush,' said Swindles.
Pascoe examined the implement in silence for a few minutes. Then he said, 'I'll need to borrow it, Joe.'
'Just the harrow?'
'No. Best take the lot. You'll get it back.'
'Bloody right I will!' Swindles thought for a moment then said, 'You'll need someone to lift it wherever you want it taken.'
'Are you volunteering?'
'I'd have to charge my usual rates. Discount for cash.'
Pascoe laughed.
'Joe, he said, 'if Mrs Thatcher knew about you, she'd make you a lord.'
He was still chuckling as Swindles unloaded the scrap on to the paved area in front of the police laboratories.
Gentry, the Head of the Forensic Examination Unit, did not share his amusement. He extended a skeletal finger towards the heap of rusting rubbish and said harshly, 'What is that?'
Pascoe, knowing from experience that there was no way to charm him into cooperation, replied crisply, 'Evidence in the case of Anthony Appleyard. Here's a copy of the path, report. You'll see it says he died as a result of his windpipe being pierced by a metal spike. Here's a copy of the relevant section of a witness statement which claims the metal spike was one of those on that harrow. Would you check it out?'
'But this was three months ago and this thing has obviously been standing out in the open.'
'Yes. You've already done an examination of Appleyard's clothing. Also of the clothing of Gail Swain. I'd like some further work done on both of these.'
'Are you saying there are inaccuracies?' demanded Gentry.
'I'm inviting you to be more precise than your first brief required,' said Pascoe. 'Particularly in the area of staining on the outer garments.'
'You have authorization for this?' interrupted Gentry harshly.
'I can get Mr Trimble's signature in the hour if that's what it takes to make you do your job,' said Pascoe.
'I don't think that is called for!'
Unsure whether the man was referring to the signature or the slur, Pascoe said, 'Then I'll expect to hear from you,' and left. Such brusqueness did not come naturally to him, but it was the only way to deal with Dr Death.
Not that there weren't other sharper stings to be wary of.
'Where the hell have you been?' demanded Dalziel as he entered his office. 'Mooning around after yon dotty tart, I'll be bound.'
'If you mean the disturbed woman who has made the mistake of looking to you for help, no, I haven't,' snapped Pascoe.
'Bloody hell,' said Dalziel. 'What's up with you? Time of the month, is it, lad? Try to leave your hang-ups at home, eh? It's not fair on them you work with.'
These reasoned reproaches coming from a man who since his last talk with Trimble had been ready to boil babies was almost too much.
'Looking for something, are you, sir?' said Pascoe banging shut the drawers and cupboards which the fat man had clearly been going through.
'Bit of a tension headache. Thought you might have an aspirin. But it doesn't matter,' said Dalziel long-sufferingly. 'It's all this acting business on top of running this madhouse. I must have been doolally to get involved.'
'How's it going with your new Lucifer?' asked Pascoe, deciding that conciliation was the better part of valour.
'He's all right. You know something? I miss Swain in the part! It made it all realler somehow. Now it's nowt but pantomime. Desperate Dan was right. I should never have got involved.'
'Not to worry, sir. It'll all be over soon.'
'Christ, lad, you sound like a nun in a hospice,' said Dalziel. 'I need cheering up. I'll let you buy me a pint later to make up for being so rude to me.'
'I thought you had a headache,' objected Pascoe.
'That's what I tell all the girls,' said Dalziel.
Alone, Pascoe realized that he really did have a headache. In fact, on and off, he'd had one for some time now. It sometimes felt as if there was too much in there trying to get out. Or too much outside trying to get in.
Some time he was going to have to sit down quietly and spread his life out over a table as he'd spread the Swain case last night. But not yet. He couldn't approach his own actions in two roles and find only one inconsistency. No, the roles were as myriad as minutes in a day, and the inconsistencies . . . well, how many pins could you stick in the bum of an angel?
He tried to smile at his own joke, failed, stood up, winced as his bad leg had a relapse, closed his eyes, saw the dark mine in which he'd suffered his injury, felt the rotten ceiling sagging low towards him, saw it was crawling with millions of squeaking slithering bats..’
'Are you all right?'
It was Wield, his craggy face anxious.
'Yes. Fine. Really, I'm fine. Could do with a bit more sleep, that's all. I was burrow ing away at the Swain case last night.'
'Oh aye? Any amazing revelations?'
'You never know, Wieldy,' said Pascoe, managing a smile. 'Let me tell you about it.'
The
sergeant listened in silence and when Pascoe was done all he said was, 'Well, best of luck. But I wouldn't draw my savings from the building society to invest in it!'
'Thanks a lot,' said Pascoe, disappointed. 'Let's just wait and see, shall we?'
Twenty-four hours later he was still waiting. He was resolved not to ring Gentry and give him the chance to be acid about CID's notorious impatience. Also, whatever else he felt about the man, he trusted his professionalism implicitly.
Finally a message came. Would he care to step round to the laboratories? He went. He looked. He listened.
When Gentry had finished, Pascoe said with sincere feeling, 'I can't thank you enough. You've done wonders.'
'We've done our job,' said Gentry. 'We can only work on what we're given, what we're told.'
But there was something which might have been a flush of pleasure beneath the parchment skin.
Dalziel was out rehearsing and Pascoe had to wait till that afternoon before he could see him. He was sitting behind the Superintendent's desk when the fat man walked into his room. He stopped short in the doorway when he saw his Chief Inspector smiling at him from his own chair with a broken-shafted pitchfork in his hand.
'Bloody hell, you've finally flipped,' said Dalziel. 'Think you're Britannia, do you?'
'No, sir. I've just come to wish you happy birthday.'
'It's not my birthday.'
'You'll think it is by the time I'm finished,’ said Pascoe.
He talked. Dalziel listened. There was no doubt about the intensity of his listening, but no other emotion showed on his face.
'And what started you on this tack?' Dalziel asked sombrely when the story was finished.
'Like I said, Swain's either a right bastard or a loyal friend. A right bastard wouldn't have helped Stringer in the first place unless circumstances forced him. And if he was a right bastard when he helped Arnie, that meant it wasn't Arnie he was covering up for when he had the barn cleared out. Simple, really, when you think about it.'
'If it's that simple, I won't be grateful,' growled Dalziel. 'But what I meant was, what decided you to turn your massive intellect to proving me right when for months you've been going around behind my back telling any bugger that would listen that I was wrong?'
Blow, blow, thou winter wind! thought Pascoe.
He said, 'Because I wanted you to be right. Who needs a fallible God?'
Dalziel advanced; a great threatening hand thrust forward. Pascoe half rose in trepidation, then his own hand was enclosed and shaken till it lost all sensible contact with his wrist, and Dalziel intoned, 'This day's work is done ilka deal, And all this work likes me right well, And bainly I give it my blessing.'
'Sorry?' said Pascoe.
'Sorry? Being God means never having to say you're sorry! All that I ever said should be, Is now fulfilled through prophecy, Therefore now is it time to me To make an ending of man's folly! Play it through for me again, lad. Play it again!'
part eight
Devil: For it is written, as well is kenned, How God shall angels to thee send, And they shall keep thee in their hend Whereso thou goes, That thou shall on no stones descend To hurt thy toes.
And since thou may without wothe Fall and do thyself no scathe, Tumble down to ease us both Here to my feet;And but thou do I will be wroth, That I thee hete.
The York Cycle:
'The Temptation'
May 29th
Dear Andy,
I've thought of you as Andy for a long time, only I was brought up to respect authority and it seemed better to keep this particular correspondence on a formal footing. But this is the last, so I think I can safely drop all that formal respect stuff, don't you?
So tomorrow's your big day, the day you finally get to play God. It's been in all the papers and I'm looking forward to reading all about you in the Post's souvenir edition tomorrow morning. Through the town you'll go, riding high, looking down on the ordinary folk and seeing everything. I've never doubted that God does see everything, but that just makes it worse, doesn't it? For seeing's not the same as caring, and priests and terrorists both favour black.
I'm sorry. I mustn't ramble. It's just that I'm rather nervous. You see, I've decided tomorrow's my big day too. Don't worry. I'll hang around long enough to look out as you ride by in triumph. I wouldn't miss that, not for all the world, tower and town, forest and field! Then I'll slip quietly away and leave you in peace.
I'm not sure if you'll be reading this before or after the event. No post today, or tomorrow either, being a holiday, so I'll drop it in by hand. Are you the conscientious kind, I wonder, who'll look in to check things over, even on a Bank Holiday when you're on leave? I doubt it somehow! Not that it makes any difference as I'm not about to sign myself. That's for you to guess, though by this time tomorrow, you should have a clue even you can't miss!
I gather you did manage to clear up that other little puzzle. Did my pathetic suggestions help at all? Probably not. Probably, as usual, you did it all by yourself, you and your sidekicks, the pretty inspector and the ugly sergeant. The Holy Trinity! Three in One, and that One's you! And this is your day, isn't it? Trinity Sunday. Well, praise where it’s due. But what about that other trinity, the ones you dug out of the concrete in your carpark? Shouldn't we remember them today also? In fact, when we set your little triumph alongside the pain, the grief the emptiness, the loss, that their discovery has caused, shouldn't we forget your triumph altogether and think of nothing else? What kind of world is it where things like this. . . but I'm sorry, we both know what kind of world it is, only you feel it's controllable, and I know it's out of control, and that's why I'm going to leave it while you ride by in triumphal majesty.
Goodbye, Andy Dalziel. Will you remember me? I doubt it. But try to remember in your triumph that you're not really a god.
Thanks for everything you've done.
Which is to say, thanks for doing nothing.
Except making it easy.
CHAPTER ONE
Andrew Dalziel got out of his car, stretched, yawned, scratched, and critically examined the blue sky, the golden sun, the russet-bricked walls edged with a neatly tended border of green grass broken at regular intervals by quincunxes of orange marigolds. And he saw that it was good.
There was something about an old prison, even when declined into a mere remand centre, that brought comfort to the weariest soul, a sense of tried and tested purpose, a feeling of solidarity in a shifting world. Hither men had come to pay for their crimes, and paid, and hence returned to the society that had judged them, and thence more often than not returned again to this same spot in a cycle of crime and punishment, wrong and retribution, as endless and unremitting as all those other cycles of day and night, birth and death, Left and Right, Romantic and Classical, promotion and relegation, marriage and divorce, ingestion and defecation, permissiveness and puritanism, itching and scratching, whose centrifugal forces hold the timeless, limitless, meaningless universe together.
Some there were, of course, who had come to this place and never left it, but that was in other harsher days, though these too might yet return. Dalziel was no opponent of capital punishment, but he had little faith in those who administered justice. There was nowt wrong with hanging, he'd say, so long as judges too got hanged fur their mistakes. But in case this should be regarded as a sort of crypto-liberalism, he also advocated that those responsible for putting crooks back on the streets should personally indemnify society against all their future depredations.
Tucked away at the back of the prison grounds was an area, entered through a wicket gate, which might have been mistaken for an old walled garden, except that the walls were too high to admit any procreant sunlight and the earth too sour to nourish any but the hardiest weeds. Deep down here, dissolved in lime lest their rotting flesh should spread a moral corruption, the bodies of those executed in the good old days had been hidden away. Dalziel had been known to stroll at length within these walls, like a laird walking
his policies, so deeply rapt that those glimpsing him got an impression that he was listening to some sage and serious conversation. And the truth was that he knew the names and histories of nearly every soul who rested here, and knew also that in his judgement a good proportion of them were almost certainly innocent of the crimes laid on them, hence his cynicism about the efficacy of the courts.
But this was not his destination this fine Monday morning. Nor was it his concern with the condemnation of innocence that brought him here
Whatever his reasons, the prison authorities at all levels clearly felt it odd that a man couldn't find something better to do on a fine Bank Holiday Monday.
'Thought you were in this procession, Mr Dalziel,' said the officer who conducted him to the interview room. 'Mysteries or something, isn't it?'
'Aye, lad, you're right,' said Dalziel amiably. 'But we don't kick off till midday, so I thought I'd just pay a few calls first.'
'If you like it so much here, you can do my shift and I'll take your part,' laughed the officer.
'You're better off here, son,' advised Dalziel. 'Kick him up, will you?'
'Only if he wants,' said the officer primly. 'He doesn't have to come.'
'Don't worry. When you mention my name, he'll not be able to stay away.'
A few minutes later the door opened and Philip Swain came into the room. His short time in custody had already faded the healthy glow he had brought back with him from California, but it hadn't yet touched his old easy manner.
'Hello, Superintendent,' he said. 'What's up? Stage fright?'
'Hello, Mr Swain. How are they treating you?'
'All right. But I won't hide that I'll be glad to be out and back at Moscow.'
Dalziel smiled. Mockery, bravado, or genuine confidence, it was all one to him.
'Looking for bail, are you?' he said.
'Once you've completed your inquiries, you'll hardly oppose it again, surely?'
'Why not? Don't want you doing a bunk, do we?'
Swain smiled and said, 'Come on! If I wouldn't go to live abroad on a handsome salary, I'm scarcely going to slum it as a penniless fugitive.'
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