…"
"Yes, I know," said Pascoe. "This book -The Drowning of Dendale. I'm sure Ellie's got a copy lying around somewhere. She's into this local history stuff. But why would Benny want to see it? And what would he need photocopies of the maps for? By all accounts he knew the valley like the back of his hand."
"That was fifteen years ago, before the valley was flooded," said Novello.
"With the drought it's pretty well back to what it was," objected Pascoe.
"Except that all the buildings have been bulldozed," said Novello, starting up the car and pulling away from the curb.
"I suppose so," said Pascoe. "Tell me, these evidence bags…"
She had noticed the bags in his lap and anticipated his reprimand.
"It's okay, sir," she said. "They're for dumping, not storing. It's stuff I got out of the litter bin at the viewpoint on the Highcross Moor road when I was thinking abduction. The lab found nothing, not surprising now the girl's been found in the valley. I'll stick them back in a trash bin next time I have a clear-out."
"Fine," he said.
He sat in silence for the rest of the journey. Not the best idea she'd ever had, thought Novello. But what had she expected? He'd been useful last time, probably because his mind had already taken a couple of hypothetical steps ahead before his personal crisis intervened. But since then, as he said himself, the Dacre case had been relegated to a very low place in his mental priorities.
When they reached his house, he got out, still clutching the plastic bags.
"Sir," she said, pointing.
"What? Oh, yes. I'll stick them in our bin, shall I? Look, come inside for a moment."
She followed him inside. He headed straight upstairs, leaving her wondering whether she was meant to follow. Not that she cared what was meant. Down here by the open door was the place to be. Pascoe was neither a verbal nor a physical groper, but men under stress could behave strangely, and being assaulted by a popular senior officer with a kid on the danger list was not a good career move for an ambitious
WOULDC.
A few moments later he came back down, clutching a book.
"Here we are. I knew we had a copy. The Drowning of Dendale. Let's see if we can find what so interested Lightfoot."
"It was the maps, sir. We know that," she said patiently, like an infant teacher.
He caught the intonation, smiled at her, and said, "Thank you, nurse, but that was the first time. He had photocopies of them. So what brought him back to take another look?"
He went into the living room, sat down, and began to flip through the book. Novello stood behind him, looking over his shoulder.
He supposed he must have glanced through the volume sometime in the past, but apart from the first panoramic view of the dale which Mrs. Shimmings had shown him, he could remember nothing of it. In any case, what would any previous examination have meant to him? But now he had looked down at the dale as it had become, and he had seen several of its old inhabitants as they had become, and these pictures brought the past to life in a way that, unaided, his imagination could never have managed.
Here were all the buildings he knew only as heaps of rubble scarcely distinguishable from the stony fellside on which they lay.
Here was Heck, a solid, rather stern house even in the bright sunlight which filled all the photos. No one in sight, but a child's swing on an oak tree in the garden had a twist to its ropes as if some small form had just stepped off and slipped quietly away.
Here was Hobholme, one of those old farms which had grown in linear progression, with barn tagged on to house, cattle shed to barn, lambing shed to shippen, and so on as each need arose. A woman was caught walking purposefully along the line of buildings with a pail in either hand. In the delicate young profile Pascoe had no difficulty in identifying the features of Molly Hardcastle. Here she was going about her business with the dutiful stoicism of a hill farmer's wife, not happy exactly, her mind perhaps preoccupied with contrasting the hard expectations of her husband with the softer approaches of Constable Clark. were these just the idle dreams of a hardworked wife? Was her love for her three young children and perhaps the memory that Hardcastle, too, had once been tender, enough to have kept her anchored here at Hobholme? Or was she seriously contemplating braving her husband's anger and her neighbors' gossip and making a break for happiness? Idle dreams or positive planning, how she must have felt she had paid for either so soon after, when little Jenny walked away alone from the bathing pool…
A few pages on was The Stang, with the carpenter's shed bigger than the whitewashed cottage, smoke pouring out of its chimney to remind the onlooker that fire was a necessary workmate even when the sun was hot enough to bake apples on the tree. Outside the shed stood two men, stripped to the waist, with runnels of sweat down their forearms and pectorals, one clutching a saw and the other a plank, both smiling at the camera, clearly relieved at this excuse to pause and take a well-earned breather. There was a strong family resemblance. One was doubtless Joe Telford, the other his brother George, but an unfamiliar eye couldn't tell the difference between them. Doubtless anybody could now.
The church was here, too, St. Luke's, with a newlywed couple emerging, all smiles and happiness; the Holly Bush Inn with folk sitting outside, enjoying a drink in the evening sun, looking as used to these al fresco pleasures as any Provencal peasant; Low Beulah, where the Allgoods lived, with a slim, dark-haired man emerging, his leathery face creased into a Heathcliffian frown as though about to give the photographer a piece of his mind.
And here was the village school.
Pascoe's heart contracted, and he felt Shirley Novello stiffen beside him. All the valley's children were here, about two dozen of them, posed in three rows, front sitting on the ground, middle kneeling, back standing with their teachers, Mrs. Winter and Miss Lavery, at either side. His eyes ran along the rows. There had been photos of the missing girls in the file, and he picked out their little blond heads and smiling faces one by one. The dark, solemn features of Betsy Allgood were easily spottable too. And another face which looked familiar among the bigger girls on the back row… now he made the connection… this must be Elsie Coe, age ten or eleven, unmistakable to anyone who'd studied the police handout photo of her daughter, Lorraine Dacre.
The school photo had the caption Smiling on a bright future, but not in Dendale!
No. Not in Dendale.
There were other landscape pictures-of the mere with someone swimming in it; of Beulah Height with the old sheepfold built from stones of the even older hill-fort; of White Mare's Tail in full spate, which meant it was probably taken earlier than the others, before the drought took hold. Then he reached the second section, "The Drowning," with the epigraph:
Oh, unexpected stroke, worse than of
Death! Must I thus leave thee, Paradise?
Now followed photos of the building of the dam and the clearing of the valley. Here were people loading possessions into vans or onto trailers pulled by tractors. Here were sheep being brought down the fellside by the Heathcliffian character, who was probably Mr. Allgood; here was the churchyard with graves gaping wide and an anxious-looking vicar watching the disinterment of a coffin. Here was the Holly Bush with the landlord removing the sign. Here was the schoolroom, empty of children and desks, with only a few remnants of artwork stuck to the windows to show what this place had once been. And here was the village hall, a man coming out, his arms weighed down with box files, back-heeling the door shut behind him.
The face was unmistakable. Sergeant Wield. The police, too, had had to pack up, though the text made no reference to the other tragedy being played out in Dendale that long, hot summer. Probably right for this kind of book. Those involved in the investigation would need no souvenir.
Pascoe flicked on, wondering what the hell, maps apart, Benny Lightfoot-if it were he-could have been interested in?
In the first section there had been only one glimpse of Neb Cottage seen distantly but her
e there was another, much closer. Yet not the kind of shot the returning native would want to pore over. It showed the cottage at the very moment of its destruction. It was a dramatic picture, with evening sunlight setting everything in bold definition. A bulldozer with the name TIPLAKE clearly legible down the arm of its shovel was climbing up the side of the building like a rapacious dinosaur, the walls were collapsing like a shot beast, and the chimney stack had cracked above the gable and was leaning back like a mouth gaping to let out an agonized death cry.
He went on to the end. The second last picture showed the release of the Black Moss waters from Highcross Moor over the col between the Neb and Beulah Height. It was a dark and dismal picture, with the skies heavy with cloud and the air dense with the downpour which had broken the drought.
And the last picture of all showed the new dale, in sunshine again, with the reservoir brimful, a scene as quiet and as peaceful and as lifeless as a crematorium Garden of Remembrance.
He looked up at Novello. She met his gaze hopefully, but not, he was glad to gauge, expectantly.
He said, "He goes to see his gran, he visits the Central Library and studies old newspapers and this book, he takes photocopies of the maps and camps out in Dendale till yesterday morning, when he packs up and comes back to town and the library. This we know. What more do you want to know?"
Her expression changed from vague hope to bafflement.
"Well, I want to know what he's up to, I want to know why he-"
"Yes," he interrupted. "But why do you want to know why?"
"Because… because…" Then suddenly she was with him.
"Because knowing might help us catch him soon as possible so we can question him about his possible involvement in the killing of Lorraine Dacre," she said.
"That's right. Might help us catch him. Frankly, it's much more likely we'll pick him up through the camping van, or because he calls in again at Wark House. You've got that covered, I take it?"
"Yes, sir."
"So don't beat your brains out on this clever detective stuff," he said wearily. "Curiosity's fine, but there comes a time when you've got to rejoin the team, even if it means pouring the tea, okay?"
"I just thought-"
"No harm in thinking. Here. Take a look yourself before you go. Just slam the door behind you. But not too loud, eh?"
He rose and left the room. She heard him going up the stairs again.
She sat down, opened the book at random, and found herself looking at the picture of the bulldozer destroying Neb Cottage.
Significant or not, this is one picture Benny Lightfoot would spend time over, she was sure. She tried to imagine herself looking at a similar photo of the destruction of the suburban semi where she'd been brought up. Even though it had none of the individuality of Neb Cottage, it would rend her heart to see the rooms where she had felt uniquely secure ripped open to the sky.
But Pascoe was right, she thought, closing the book. You shouldn't confuse idle curiosity with good CID work. Time to head out to Danby, see what new assignments were being dished out following the discovery of the body, play in the team even if you ended up pouring the tea.
…
"Fuck that," she said aloud. Opened the book again. Looked again. Went to the foot of the stairs and called, "Sir? You still awake?"
There was a pause, then Pascoe's voice said, "What?"
She went up the stairs, previous doubts forgotten, and stood at the open bedroom door. Pascoe was sitting at a dressing table onto whose surface he had spilled what looked like the contents of a jewel box. He glanced up at her and said again irritably, "What?"
"Have you got a magnifying glass?" she asked.
She half expected some sarcasm about Sherlock Holmes, but all he said impatiently was "Bureau. Left-hand drawer," and resumed his sorting out of the shining baubles.
She went downstairs, found the bureau, found the glass, and returned to the book.
"Bingo," she said.
"Still here? Good." Pascoe was in the hallway.
"Sir, take a look-"
"Yes, yes, tell me all about it in the car. I need a lift back to town."
"But I thought-Mrs. Pascoe said-"
"Just take me back."
"Yes, sir. To the hospital, sir?"
"No," he said. "You can take me to the offices of Mid-Yorkshire Water PLC."
The police doctor's preliminary on-site report was brief.
The child's skull was fractured, which was probably the cause of death. She was fully clothed and there was no immediate sign of sexual interference.
"Anything more, you'll need to wait till they've had her on the slab," he concluded.
Dalziel recognized this brutal brevity as a familiar way of dealing with a child's death. No way of keeping it out of those areas of sensibility which surface in the dark hours of the night, but here and now there was no time for mournful meditation.
"Right. Let's get her down there," he said.
Once the body had been removed from the rocky chamber, it became clear that this must have been the "secret place" Lorraine's friends had talked about. A candle, some comics, a tin containing biscuits and bearing the inscription Emerjensy ratoins, a rubber bone pocked with Tig's teeth marks, these told the tale. There was some evidence that she must have contrived her own screen door of grass and brushwood, but the bung of rock and earth which Wield had removed had almost certainly been put there by the killer.
"Then he dragged the sheep's body up from the ghyll bottom," said Wield. "That was enough to confuse the dogs and the thermal imaging cameras alike. Tig knew where to come, but. He weren't following a scent. He just knew."
The dog had had to be removed from the chamber by a dog handler wearing protective gauntlets, but once out and in Wield's care, he had allowed himself to be put on his lead and tied up without protest. He stood up when the corpse was removed and watched the body box being carried down the fellside to the nearest spot the vehicle could reach. Then he subsided as if knowing that this part of his life was over.
"We'll need formal identification," said Dalziel.
Meaning, the Dacres had to be told. Whatever small ember of hope they still kept glowing in their hearts had to be put out beyond all doubt.
"I'll sort that," said Wield.
They both knew it was Dalziel's responsibility. But something in the way he spoke had been the nearest to a plea for help the Fat Man was ever likely to utter.
"My job," he said, reluctant to confirm weakness.
"Your job's catching the bastard responsible," said Wield. "You can tell 'em when you've done that."
He didn't wait for an answer but untied Tig and set off down the path with the little dog at his heels. He glanced back once before he turned out of sight and saw Dalziel still standing there, watching him go. One huge hand rose slowly to shoulder height in a gesture which might have passed for benediction but which Wield knew was the only thank-you he was likely to get.
Back at his bike, he found the dog reluctant to get into the carrying basket, but when Wield straddled the saddle and patted the gas tank before him, Tig leapt up as if he'd been using this form of travel since birth.
He didn't hurry. What was to hurry for? He tried to blank out all thought and just let himself relax into the rush of cooling air on his face, the feel of the land's twists and contours rippling up his thighs. Down to Ligg Common, the ground leveling off. Past the mobile police van, DI Burroughs standing there, waiting for him to stop and fill her in. He went past her without a glance.
And finally he drew to a halt in front of No. 7, Liggside.
Even before he could switch the engine off, Tig had jumped from his perch and rushed in through the open doorway, barking.
Oh, shit! thought Wield. Shit shit shit!
He hurried after the animal, but it was already too late. Tony and Elsie Dacre were on their feet, staring toward the doorway, their eyes bright with desperate hope in reaction to Tig's noisy arrival, which must so oft
en have presaged Lorraine's return home.
"I'm sorry," said Wield helplessly. "I'm sorry."
He was apologizing for letting the dog run in, but his words did the harder task too. The woman cried, "Oh, no. Oh, no!" And collapsed weeping into her husband's arms.
"Where…? How…?" choked the man.
"Up the valley, along the beck where it runs through that deep gill," said Wield. "Tig found her."
"What happened? were she…"
"Can't say how for certain till they get the chance to… But the doctor says she was fully clothed. No signs of interference."
All this was more than he ought to be saying before the postmortem, but he couldn't sit and see this pain without doing the little in his power to ease it.
"We'll need to ask someone to do an identification," he went on.
Elsie's head snapped up. Hope was a black beetle. Stamp on it hard as you liked, it still scuttled on.
"It's not sure, then?" she pleaded.
"Yes, it's sure," he said gently. "The clothes she was wearing. And we had the photo. I'm so sorry. Look, I'll come back later, talk about arrangements. You'll need some time…"
He turned and left, feeling shame at his sense of relief to get out of that room where something had finally died.
A woman was coming through the front door. It was Polly Coe, Elsie Dacre's mother.
She said, "I saw you go in. Has summat happened?"
Wield nodded.
"We found her."
"Oh, Christ."
She pushed past him into the living room. Wield went outside. The sunlight had never seemed so cruel. He felt many eyes upon him. Ignoring them all, he mounted his bike. Tony Dacre came out of the house with Tig in his arms.
"Can you take him with you?" he said. "It's going to be too much having him around. Every time he barks, it'll be like… any road, he seems to have taken a fancy to you… I don't mean have owt done to him, you understand-just see he's taken care of while… look, were you telling truth back there? He'd not done anything to her?"
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