Arms and the Women

by Reginald Hill

  ‘I shouldn’t think he’ll be troubling his wife for a few nights, but I doubt if he’d go for treatment.’

  ‘Wife? You reckon he was married?’ said Dalziel casually.

  ‘Well, he wore a big gold ring on his wedding finger… Andy, that was clever. I’d forgotten that. I mean, I didn’t think I’d noticed that.’

  ‘Not all rubber-truncheon work down the nick. Anything else come to mind, apart from what you scribbled down?’

  He looked at the piece of paper Ellie had scribbled her notes on.

  ‘Man was six feet,’ he read. ‘About thirty – slim build – light-brown hair – bushy – needed a cut – left-hand parting – brown eyes, I think – not blue – squarish face – open honest expression – God the bastards were good!…’

  He looked enquiringly at Ellie.

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that.’

  ‘Nay, it’s useful what you felt. By good, you mean…?’

  ‘Saying they were with the Education Welfare Service. That’s the council department that helps deal with problems like absenteeism, truancy, bullying, parental complaint, anything that a school finds it can’t cope with internally. But what I mean is, at first they came over perfect for it. Nice, caring, positive people…’

  ‘Bumbling do-gooders, you mean? Sorry. Just trying to put it in terms my lads would understand. Clothing – suit – Prince of Wales check – light-blue shirt – blue and yellow diagonal striped tie – could have been Old Boys or a club – on his feet dark-brown sandals…’

  ‘Did I put that? No, he was wearing a sort of soft leather moccasin, no laces, dark-tan, casual but elegant, in fact, they looked rather expensive, come to think of it. Which is what you’ve made me do, you cunning sod. I never mentioned sandals!’

  Dalziel grinned.

  ‘No. You put nowt. But shoes are important. Change everything else, but you want your feet to stay comfy.’

  ‘So if he changes into something else because he’s worried that I can describe him, he might keep the same shoes on?’

  ‘Aye, but don’t get excited. Not the kind of info we pass on to Interpol. Voice – light-baritone range – Irish accent…’

  ‘No, that one’s not going to work, Andy,’ said Ellie firmly. ‘I said no distinguishable accent, and that’s what I mean.’

  ‘So not a Yorkshireman.’

  ‘Not like you, no.’

  ‘Not deep and musical then. But there’s all sorts of Yorkshire voices. There’s that high squeaky one, like yon journalist fellow who used to shovel shit for Maggie Thatcher. And there’s that one like a circular saw –’

  ‘No, not northern at all,’ interrupted Ellie.

  ‘So, not northern and not Irish. We’re getting somewhere. Scottish? Welsh? Cockney? The Queen? Michael Caine? Maurice Chevalier?’

  ‘You’re getting silly. No, he didn’t have any accent at all, really. Like an announcer on Radio Four.’

  ‘You think Radio Four announcers don’t have accents?’ said Dalziel. ‘No, hang about, I think I’m with you. It’s you you think doesn’t have an accent! What you mean is this guy spoke the same way you do? Middle-class posh, but not so much it gets up your nose.’

  Ellie, faced as so often with a choice between laughing at Andy Dalziel or thumping him, decided she’d been involved in enough violence for the day and laughed.

  ‘Yes, I suppose that is what I do mean,’ she said.

  ‘Grand. Now the woman. How’s she for injury, by the way?’

  ‘She might have a black eye, and a few scratches,’ said Ellie, thinking affectionately of the Pompon de Paris. ‘Hey, and there could be a few threads from her dress hooked on the rose bush by the front door.’

  ‘We’ll check. So. Age thirties – five-eight or -nine – dark eyes – long face – not bad-looking – expensive make-up –what’s the difference between expensive and not so expensive?’

  ‘The more you pay, the less you see.’

  ‘Like sending your kids to public school. Hair black – natural – short – classy stylist – I won’t ask – build slim – good figure – there’s that good again. Know what I mean by good, but what’s it signify to you?’

  Ellie threw an exasperated glance at Shirley Novello who returned it blankly.

  ‘Well, I’m sure that to you, Andy, a good figure suggests something like two footballs in a gunny bag, but what I mean is something you can see’s there but all in proportion, back, front, and middle, OK?’

  ‘Like you, you mean?’ said Dalziel, looking at her appreciatively. ‘In fact, sounds a lot like you, except mebbe for the expensive make-up. Joke. Now, clothing – olive-green cotton dress – sleeveless – leather shoulder bag – no stockings – pale-green sling-back shoes. Was she married?’

  Ellie thought then said, ‘Yes, she was wearing a wedding ring. And she had a ring on her right-hand middle finger too. Green stone. Plus a wristwatch. Expanding bracelet, gold, I think. Sorry, I should have put that down.’

  ‘You’re doing fine. The watch on the same hand as the ring?’

  ‘Yes. The right. Hey, that means…’

  ‘She could be left-handed. That’s summat. Voice husky – accent Midlandish. Birmingham? Wolverhampton? Black Country?’

  ‘Any. It was just a patina, so to speak, not a full-blown accent.’

  ‘Might have made it to Radio Four, eh? Hello, here comes Smiler again.’

  Wield had re-entered the room.

  He said, ‘We’ve got Peter,’ and handed Ellie the mobile phone, then looked at Dalziel and jerked his head doorwards, suggesting they leave.

  The Fat Man yawned, scratched his nose and poured himself another Scotch.

  ‘Peter! Yes, yes, I’m fine, really… And you two… that’s great, I knew you would be, but I just wanted to hear it from your own lips… Wieldy’s told you all about it, I’m sure… honestly, no harm done… Well, you’ll guess I was a bit shook up at first, but once I realized it was just a stupid jape… what else could it be?… No, no, don’t do that. I don’t want Rosie worried. Just carry on, enjoy the rest of the day… I’m fine, really… no, I won’t be on my own, and you’re not due back late… give my love to Rose… and you too… yes, I will, I do… yes, he’s here. ’Bye, darling.’

  She handed the phone to Dalziel, then bowed her head and let out a deep breath as she relaxed from the effort of keeping her feelings in check. The temptation to let it all flood out as soon as she heard Peter’s voice had been very strong, which was probably why the fat bastard had stayed in the room. She looked up to find Wield watching her, and jerked her head at him in a mirror image of his own gesture, then led him outside.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ she said in the hall.

  Novello had followed them out. Dalziel must have dismissed her. All right for her to hear me spilling my guts, but not to eavesdrop on his conversation with Peter, thought Ellie.

  ‘You’re looking a lot better,’ said Wield.

  ‘Yes? Well, I suppose a lot of that’s down to Andy, though I hate to say it. He’s…’

  ‘Good?’ offered Wield.

  ‘Let’s not go overboard. He’s subtler than I imagined. In a very unsubtle way, of course. So what happens now, Wieldy? You all go away and start to wonder if maybe it wasn’t just an over-reaction by a hysterical woman after all?’

  ‘No. We go away and don’t rest till we find out what’s been going on here.’

  ‘Any ideas in the pipeline?’

  She saw Novello’s brow crinkle as if she might have something to say, but before she could speak, if that were her intention, Wield said very firmly, ‘No.’

  Ellie looked into that violently contoured face in which nothing was readable except the affection in his eyes and wondered if the No was a lie or the truth.

  And which of them would she find more comfort in?

  iv

  spelt from Sibyl’s leaves

  Edgar Wield…

  Edgar Wield…

  biking through the glen…<
br />
  Poof.

  Perve.

  Shirtlifter.

  Arse bandit.

  All these and more figured in Gaw Sempernel’s brief remarks when he dropped by in person to tell me to add Sergeant Wield to his current operational folder which, with what he probably sees as subtle wit, he has christened Sibyl’s Leaves.

  It’s not often Gaw and I meet face to face these days.

  Well, not face to face exactly, he towering, I at wheelchair level, his eyes never meeting mine direct, mine looking straight at his immaculately tailored crotch.

  If I reached out and touched him, how would he react?

  Not, I suspect, as once I could make him react just by smiling and moistening my lips at him across a crowded committee room.

  ‘Reasons for inclusion?’ I asked him.

  Because I say so, hovered in the air between us.

  Then the famous Sempernel diplomacy clicked in and he said, ‘Close associate of Dalziel and Pascoe, very friendly with Eleanor Pascoe, lives with Edwin Digweed, former solicitor, struck off shortly after qualifying when he was convicted of committing an act of gross indecency with a gentleman whose voice is now listened to with great attention when he speaks from, appropriately enough, the cross-benches in the Upper Chamber. It was theorized at the time by our masters that, had not the case become public, it might have been a prelude to long-term political blackmail.’

  ‘Grounds?’ I asked, fingers poised.

  ‘Irrelevant now,’ he said dismissively. ‘Point is, here we have a policeman whose private life makes him vulnerable. The only way he’s been able to survive is with the protection of his superiors, and we would be wise, I’m sure you’ll agree, to ask ourselves why that has been given.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting that Superintendent Dalziel and DCI Pascoe are gay?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘If they were, that would make things simple,’ he said pompously. ‘It is the fact that they probably are not that I find sinister.’

  You find friendship sinister, I thought. Oh, Gaw!

  ‘In any case, the sergeant’s sexual orientation is no longer a matter of law,’ I said.

  ‘Sexual orientation?’ he mocked. ‘You have been too long immersed in the obliquities of Sibylline utterance. Let us call a spade a spade.’

  And then came out the long list of mocking insults.

  Oh Gaw, I thought. What indignities did you suffer at that school of yours to make you so vehement? Or perhaps the question should be, what ecstasies did you experience which make you feel so guilty?

  But nothing I said.

  Mine is not to reason why, or at least not to be seen reasoning why.

  Mine is merely to obey orders and collect here all those whom Gaw Sempernel sees fit to designate as leaves on his tree.

  Edgar Wield…

  Edgar Wield…

  Most inscrutable of men…

  Working-class background. Can’t have been easy growing up feeling as you did in a Yorkshire mining village, son of a lurcher-loving, pigeon-fancying father, with the pit gaping at your feet and the only traditional ways out university for the very bright or professional Rugby League for the very brawny.

  You were neither, Edgar, but you found a third way which, though it attracted the contumely of your peers, diverted their suspicion from the truth of you.

  The police.

  Were you perhaps still trying to convince yourself that it was, as they used to say, only a phase? That given the right environment you’d wake up one day and say to yourself, what I really fancy is finding a willing lass and giving her a right good shagging?

  Or were you looking for a job where most people see only the uniform, never the man?

  You were good at the job.

  Not ivory tower university bright perhaps, but sharply focused with a phenomenal memory and a huge capacity for marshalling intricate detail, you took all the police exams in your stride, you won commendations for bravery, your annual reviews were undiluted paeans, you looked set to rise high. But once you became sergeant in the CID, you remained fixed.

  Not for you the exposure of high rank.

  You enjoy what you are doing. You are good at it. And your association with those other two who have also come fluttering down into Sempernel’s leaves, Dalziel and Pascoe, has given you confidence enough to live your life more freely, not to flaunt who you are but not to hide it either.

  And still Gaw Sempernel suspects you.

  Or at least feels he might at some point be able to use you.

  From what I know of you, lying here in my little casket, Sergeant, this may not be the least of his errors.

  loved by his friends…

  refusing to yield…

  Edgar Wield…

  Edgar Wield…

  v

  revenge and retribution

  Every age has its own defining philosophical speculations, often best expressed in terms which may at a glance appear over-personalized and tainted with self-interest.

  It was, for example, in relation to her prospects of professional advancement that Shirley Novello first asked herself the question, was being treated like a man a form of sexual discrimination?

  Things had seemed pretty straightforward the first time she had attended a CID gathering in the Black Bull with the Holy Trinity and found she was expected to go to the bar and collect the drinks no matter who was actually buying the round. She was disappointed without being surprised, as this chimed perfectly with the expectation at all levels in the Force that if tea or coffee were to be fetched, any woman present would be the fetcher. Novello had worked out various non-confrontational strategems to avoid doing this, but she had not been afraid to fall back on confrontation.

  Confrontation with Andy Dalziel, however, felt as futile as confrontation with Uranus. (Or any planet, but Uranus somehow seemed most fitting.) Hit it hard as you could, you weren’t going to jolt it out of its orbit.

  The other two, however, gave the impression that they might in their better moments be susceptible to the nudge of right reason.

  But before she could nerve herself to put this to the test, she had discovered by distant observation that if the group consisted of the Trinity alone, it was usually Wield who did the fetching and carrying, while if the three became a pair, it was Pascoe.

  So now right reason asked, if a male sergeant and a male chief inspector could accept this as the natural order of things, was it reasonable for a female constable to cry discrimination?

  Or, to put it another way, what should a woman do who fought for equal treatment and then found that the equal treatment she fought for was in fact unequal?

  These were the speculations thronging her mind as she returned from the bar at eleven o’clock on the morning after the attempted kidnapping of Ellie Pascoe, bearing a tray loaded with a pint of best, a half of the same, a fizzy mineral water and a Coke.

  Pascoe’s request for the mineral water had emboldened her to buy the Coke.

  They were in the Black Bull to discuss possible ramifications of yesterday’s events. The chief inspector had arrived late at the station, having spent the morning ensuring that his house and Edengrove School were being watched over to his satisfaction. He looked worn out, and it was this wanness which the Fat Man had used as an excuse to retire instantly to the pub where, he averred, he had his best thoughts, and they would be free from interruption. Novello’s inclusion had had all the appearance of a throwaway afterthought, coming as Dalziel led the trio out of the CID room. But Novello had long since concluded that most of the Fat Man’s apparent afterthoughts were carefully planned. The wise thing was to be neither flattered by his attention nor offended by the lack of it.

  She placed the tray on the table, noting with some satisfaction that she’d managed to slop a little beer over Dalziel’s change (the seriousness of the occasion was marked by the fact that Dalziel had actually bought a round), and then put all personal and philosophical considerations out of her mind to focus on the d
ebate in progress.

  The on-the-table theory was that the attempted abduction had something to do with Pascoe’s work.

  ‘Wieldy, you were trawling that mind of thine for folk Pete’s put away who were nutty enough to take it personally.’

  Dalziel’s natural Luddism was expressed in his boast, ‘Who needs great ugly lumps of hi-tech equipment cluttering the place when we’ve got Wieldy who’s twice as efficient and three times as ugly?’ but Novello had noticed that the sergeant’s computer skills were state of the art.

  Whatever its source, the list of perps who’d gone down threatening the DCI with personal injury was impressively long. For a nice quiet guy, Pascoe seemed to have got up a lot of criminal noses.

  But Wield’s conclusion was that in most cases the threats had just been empty, if over-heated, air.

  ‘You need a special kind of twist to nurse a grievance and plan revenge,’ said Wield.

  ‘Is that right, Sigmund?’ said Dalziel. ‘So what you’re saying is, you’ve dug deep and ended up with nowt but an empty hole?’

  ‘No,’ said Wield. ‘In fact, I struck a root. Franny Roote.’

  Dalziel looked blank for a moment, then let his jaw drop in the mock-amazement he had taken to affecting if Wield essayed a joke.

  ‘You mean that weird student at yon college? My memory serves me right, we couldn’t do him for owt but being an accessory.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Wield. ‘But after listening to what had gone on there, the judge ordered a psycho-evaluation before sentencing. And after getting an earful of that, he decided best place for Roote was a secure hospital. To start with the lad refused all treatment, and during this period he seems to have fixed on the DCI, or sergeant as he was then, as the man responsible for putting him there. He seemed to think you had something personal against him.’

  ‘I know it’s silly, but I do tend to feel strongly about people who try to kill me,’ said Pascoe. ‘I recall I got a weird letter from him while he was waiting trial. I passed it on to the court, so in a way he was right about me helping to get him certified. But there’s been nothing since. I haven’t thought about him for years.’