On Beulah Height dap-17

by Reginald Hill

  Even her note lacked the true CID masculine assertiveness, she thought. But what-the-hell? Some of her male colleagues would still be questioning Winifred Fleck!

  The reply came back ten minutes later.

  "Great!" she said, reading it as it crept out of the machine. "Spitting image of the man who came to see old Agnes."

  "Another triumph," mocked Seymour. "They'll be letting you lie in bed all day if you go on like this."

  "Oh, shit," said Novello, the complete fax in her hand.

  "Sorry. Didn't realize you were quite so sensitive."

  "Not you. It's Agnes Lightfoot. She died in the night. I knew I should have talked to her yesterday!"

  "Hey, what could she have told you that you don't know?" asked Seymour.

  "I'll never know, will I?" said Novello savagely, grabbing the phone and dialing the Wark House number.

  "Saltair," said the matron's husky voice. "That Detective Novello? Thought you'd be ringing."

  "What happened?"

  "Nature happened," said Billie Saltair. "It was her time. I think she'd just been waiting for a signal, and her visitor last week seems to have been it."

  "Did she say anything before she died?" asked Novello without much hope.

  "She did, as a matter of fact," said the matron. "She took my hand, looked up at me bright and hard. And said, "I knew he'd come. I knew. Benny's back." Then she died. That's it. Anything else I can help with?"

  Novello thought hard.

  "Yes," she said. "If anyone rings up asking about Agnes, don't say she's dead, okay? Just say she's pretty ill, too ill to talk on the phone. Can you do that?"

  There was a pause, then Saltair said, "Yes, in this case, I think I can stretch to that. But only because no one's rung up asking about Agnes for so many years, I think the chances of causing distress are minimal. Anything else?"

  "Yes. I think it would be a good idea if we had one of our people at the home, just in case Benny turns up in person to have another chat to his gran."

  "Fine. But have you got anyone old enough to fit in?"

  "We'll send a master of disguises. Thanks a lot. And I'm really sorry about Mrs. Lightfoot."

  "Me too. Happens all the time, but you never get used to it. Bye."

  Novello replaced the phone.

  "So," said Seymour. "And who's this master of disguises?"

  "There's only two of us here, and what is it you macho men are always saying, that putting the cuffs on a young, fit, and dangerous criminal's no job for a woman?"

  "I've never said that in my life," said Seymour indignantly. "Bernadette would have my guts for garters if she thought I said things like that."

  "Okay. Sorry. But someone's got to go. I'm sure if we could track the Fat Man down, he'd give the go-ahead. Lots of Brownie points for initiative on offer here, Dennis."

  "I'm sure. So why aren't you rushing to collect them?"

  "Because I think I need to talk to the DCI," said Novello unhappily.

  "Mr. Pascoe? But he's-"

  "Yes, I know. But this is. his line of inquiry. I spoke to him yesterday and he was very helpful. I need to bring him up to date and check whether there's anything I'm missing. This time I think I'd better go round and see him in person."

  "To the hospital, you mean?" Seymour whistled and rose to his feet. "You're right, I reckon, Shirley. I've got the easy job. In these nursing homes, it's only the old who die."

  "Wieldy, what the hell have you got there?" said Maggie Burroughs.

  She was standing on the shady side of the mobile police van on Ligg Common, drinking a cup of tea.

  As if in answer to her question, from the basket strapped to the sergeant's passenger saddle came a sharp yap.

  "This is Tig, ma'am," he said. "Lorraine's dog. Vet says he's fit enough to go home."

  "You think the Dacres'll want it?" said Burroughs doubtfully. "Every time they look at it…"

  "Yeah," said Wield. "No telling how it'll take people."

  "There's always the RSPCA," said Burroughs with the indifference of a non-animal lover. "So why've you brought it here?"

  "Just thought it might be worthwhile taking him up the valley."

  She looked at him doubtfully and said, "Might have been a good idea two days ago, but I can't see what you can hope for when men, dogs, and thermal imaging cameras haven't come up with anything more interesting than a dead sheep. You know the search has been scaled down? Super's got a frog team diving in the reservoir. Worth a look, I suppose. But this side, we're done. The van will stay for a couple of days just to show willing, maybe jog someone's memory. But that's it."

  Does she think I'm asking permission? wondered Wield. Technically she was in charge of the search, that was true. But now there wasn't any search for her to be in charge of.

  "So you reckon I shouldn't bother?" he said.

  It was the old put-up-or-shut-up technique. But Maggie Burroughs was up to it.

  She took a long sip of tea, then smiled at him.

  "Not up to me to tell CID how to pass their time," she said. "No, Sergeant, you take your walk. But do me a favor. Write it up for me. It'll round the search report off. Show we tried everything."

  Show you tried everything, thought Wield, who had no doubts about, or problems with, the extent of Maggie Burroughs's ambition.

  He said, "Thank you, ma'am," revved up, and sent the bike bumping up the dusty path running alongside the creeping beck.

  Burroughs watched him go. In her eyes a middle-aged queer on a vintage motorbike was not the image of modern policing she wanted to project. But he was close to Dalziel, and she didn't reckon that falling out with the Fat Man's favorites was any way for an ambitious officer to get on in the Mid-Yorkshire force.

  Wield took the bike as far as he could before the path became too steep and rocky for comfort. He was almost at the spot where Tony Dacre had found Tig that Sunday morning, and assuming the frightened and injured animal had headed for home, the attack must have taken place upstream from here.

  "Right, lad. Walkies," said Wield.

  At first he put the little animal on a lead, frightened it might simply run away. But when it showed no inclination to do anything but trot up the familiar path with occasional stops to cock its leg or bark at a bird or butterfly, Wield took the risk of letting it run free.

  They were now high up the valley, where it narrowed considerably. Westward rose the steep side of the Neb, while to the east the ground sloped a little more easily to the Danby-Highcross Moor road. Here Ligg Beck ran through a steep sided ghyll, no Grand Canyon, but deep enough for a bone-breaking fall. In spate, there must have been fine cascades here, but this summer all that remained of the water which over a thousand years had etched this crack in the bare rock was a trickle of damp in the depths, where ferns drooped and mosses clung.

  Wield took a breather. He'd brought a bottle of water, and after taking a swig himself, he poured some into the palm of his hand and let the dog have a drink.

  Likely Burroughs was right, he thought. This was a waste of time. Except that in his methodical mind, even negatives needed to be tested before you put them to one side.

  He'd also brought a pair of field glasses. He put them to his eyes and slowly scanned the valley. Not a sign of life, except for the odd sheep. If he stood up, he could get a good view of the rooftops of Danby. The Highcross Moor road was visible in glimpses lower down, but immediately above him, the folds of ground kept it out of sight, though he could see the back of a square plaque on a metal post which he worked out must be the NO LITTER sign at the viewpoint young Novello had had such high hopes of.

  Mebbe her theory wasn't so daft after all. If he could see the sign so clearly, anyone up there with glasses would easily be able to pick out a small girl walking her dog along this path.

  There'd been no glasses in Turnbull's car but there had been a powerful pair in his bungalow.

  He lowered the binoculars and let his naked eye take in the proper scale of the th
ing. The slope was steep but not too steep, and mainly grassy. Man in a hurry could come down here in four or five minutes, he reckoned.

  Going back up, carrying a child, that was something else. Twenty minutes… probably thirty, depending how fit you were. Turnbull looked strong enough in the shoulders to carry the girl, but how much exercise did those legs get?

  In any case it was a hell of a risk to take.

  But, seeing the girl down here, alone and vulnerable, what would such a sick mind as this man must have reck of risk?

  Wield was brought out of his reverie by the sound of Tig barking.

  It seemed to be coming from the bowels of the earth, and his first thought was that the daft animal had gone down a rabbit hole. Then he realized the noise was coming from the ghyll.

  Tig was down there somewhere, and he sounded as if he'd found something.

  Getting down the ghyll proved fairly easy. A narrow sheep trod angled down the slope, offering little problem to a man who kept himself in trim. He soon found himself in shade but any hope that this would be better than the heat of the sun soon vanished. It was like descending into a sludge of warm air, and what was worse the atmosphere was foul with the stink of corruption.

  Dogs, men, thermal image cameras-they couldn't possibly have missed this, thought Wield.

  And now he saw that of course they hadn't. The trod ran across the bottom of the ghyll and up the other face till it was blocked by a slab of rock resting at an angle of about thirty degrees, where it turned back on itself and zigzagged up the remaining slope.

  Across the path by the slab lay the remains of a sheep. The scavengers had been here and there were bones lying apart from the main carcass. But decay had been rapid enough in this heat to quickly rot the flesh to a state not even a hungry fox found appetizing, and the body had been left to the depredations of flies, which rose like wind-tugged pall each time Tig barked.

  "Come away, boy!" called Wield.

  The dog turned, took an uncertain step toward him, then turned back.

  "For Christ's sake, didn't that vet feed you?" demanded the sergeant. "You've got to be desperate to want to stick your gob into that lot!"

  He took a deep breath and held it as he crossed the streambed and started up the other side, planning to grab Tig and keep going to the top.

  The dog struggled as it felt Wield's hands seize it and whimpered piteously as he lifted it up to his chest.

  Got to be desperate… His own words echoed in his head.

  He stopped and had to take a breath. But now he ignored the stench. He was looking at the spot where the carcass lay. Directly above it, the side of the ghyll was almost sheer. It was easy to see how the sheep, grazing too near the edge and stretching down in search of the not-so-sun-scorched vegetation growing between the rocks, could have lost its footing and plunged to the bottom, breaking its back.

  But surely it would have been to the bottom of the ghyll, not this angle of the trod, which was barely more than a six-inch ledge on the steep slope?

  The dog lay dormant in his arms now, as if sensing that he was no longer the object of reprimand.

  Wield went back down to the streambed. There was a rock there with some wool on it and a brown stain which might be blood. He looked up toward the carcass. The grass on the bank of the almost dried-up stream was slightly flattened and some of the ferns were snapped. As if something had been dragged. And there were more traces of wool up the rocky slope to the trod.

  He put the dog down and climbed back up to the carcass. The ground was too rocky to bury anything here. But that rock slab, the way it lay, there could be a space beneath in the angle it made with the ghyll wall.

  He would need to move the sheep to see.

  Not even the heat of the chase could make him contemplate taking his hands to that task. He found a large flat piece of stone which he used as a shovel, and gagging from the foulness directly beneath his nose, he began to lever the rotting corpse away from the slab. It came to pieces as he pushed, and fell in stinking gobbets to the streambed below. Flies rose in a fetid, humming spiral around his head, which he shook like an irritated bullock. Tig, dodging the descending bones, was now by his feet as the gap beneath the slab was revealed. Only, there wasn't a gap. It was choked with stones and turf and wads of heather. But that hadn't got there naturally, that hadn't grown there. Using his hands now that it was just good, honest rock and vegetation he had to deal with, he began to unplug the hole. Suddenly his hand was through into space. He withdrew it. The hole was big enough to admit a rabbit. Or a small dog. Before Wield could grab him, Tig was through, barking fiercely for a moment; then, perhaps the most terrible noise Wield had ever heard, the bark died to an almost inaudible whimper.

  Wield tried to proceed systematically but despite himself he found he was tearing at the remaining debris with a ferocity which brought sweat streaming down his face and blood from his fingernails.

  Finally he stopped. He hadn't got a flashlight. Mistake. Man should never go anywhere without a length of string, a cutting blade, and a flashlight.

  He knelt on the trod, heedless that his knees were resting on ground stained by the juices of the decomposing sheep.

  He kept his head a little way back from the hole to permit as much light as possible to enter. And he waited.

  At first he could see nothing but the vaguest of shapes. Then gradually, as his eyes adjusted, he saw the light gently run over the outlines of things. As he'd guessed, there was a triangular space in here, almost tentlike, about two and a half feet wide, three feet high, and six feet deep. In the middle of it, a hump, difficult to make out, perhaps because his mind didn't want to make it out. The first thing he really identified was the gleam of Tig's eyes, and then his teeth as his lips drew back in a soundless snarl.

  The dog was lying up against something. Wield knelt there straining his eyes, till slowly, inexorably, he was forced to see what he had known for some minutes he was going to see.

  He rose unsteadily to his feet and reached into his pocket. Flashlight he might not have, but he hadn't forgotten his mobile.

  "Stay, Tig," he said unnecessarily.

  Then, telling himself it was to improve reception, but knowing that he wanted above all things to be out of this dark and noisome canyon and back into the bright light and fresh air, he climbed up from the ghyll, pressed the necessary buttons, and began to speak.

  The woman's name was Jackie Tilney. She was overweight, overworked, over thirty, and so pissed off with having told her story to three different sets of cops that she was ready to tell the fourth to take a jump.

  Only, the fourth wasn't a set, though possessed of enough flesh to make two or three ordinary bobbies, and if he'd taken her putative advice and jumped, she feared for the foundations of the public library, where she worked.

  So she told her story again.

  She had definitely seen the man in the photograph. And she had spoken with him. And he had an Australian accent.

  "The first time was-"

  "Hang about. First time?" said Dalziel. "How many times were there?"

  "Two," she retorted. "Don't your menials tell you anything?"

  Dalziel regarded her thoughtfully. He liked a well-made feisty woman. Then he recalled that in Cap Marvell, he'd got the cruiser weight Queen of Feist, smiled fondly, and said, "Nay, lass, I don't waste time with tipsters when I can go straight to the horse's mouth. Go on."

  Deciding there had to be a compliment in there somewhere, Jackie Tilney went on.

  "The first time was last Friday. He came to the reference desk and asked if we had anything about the building of the Dendale Reservoir. I told him that he could look at the local papers for the period on our microfiche system. Also this book."

  She showed him the volume. It was called The Drowning of Dendale, a square volume, not all that thick. He remembered it vaguely. It had been written by one of the Post journalists and contained more photographs than text, basically a before-and-after record.<
br />
  "He asked me to do a couple of photocopies," Tilney went on. "These maps."

  She showed him. One was of Dendale before the flooding, the other after.

  "Did you chat to him at all?"

  "A bit. He had a nice easy manner. Just about the weather and such, how it was a lot cooler back home this time of year and how he'd packed three raincoats for his trip to England because everyone told him it rained all the time."

  "Was he trying to chat you up, do you think? Good-looking lass like yourself, it 'ud not be surprising."

  "Am I meant to be flattered?" she said. "No, as a matter of fact, he didn't come on at me at all. It made a nice change. World's full of fellows who think, just because you're on the other side of a counter, you're sales goods. I got the impression he had other things on his mind anyway."

  "Such as?"

  "Look, mister, I'm too busy trying to keep an underfunded understaffed library system going in this town to have time to develop my psychic powers. I wouldn't be spending this amount of time with you if it didn't have something to do with that missing girl."

  "Now, what makes you think that, luv?"

  "I read the Post, don't I?"

  She produced the paper and spread it before him, open at an article about the investigation with photos of Lorraine Dacre and her parents, of the Hardcastles and Joe Telford, of Geordie Turnbull and his solicitor, and one of Dalziel himself, caught at what looked like a moment of religious contemplation.

  With that subtlety and taste for which British journalists are universally famed, the editor had opted to print on the page opposite a feature about the Mid-Yorkshire Music Festival, highlighting the facts that the opening concert was in Danby, featuring Songs for Dead Children sung by Elizabeth Wulfstan, who as a child in Dendale fifteen years back had been the last and only surviving victim of the uncaught abductor of three local girls.

  There was a full-figure picture of Elizabeth looking inscrutable, a close-up of Walter Wulfstan looking irritated, and a midshot of Sandel on a piano stool looking bored with the Turnip by the piano looking charming.