D&P20 - Death's Jest-Book

by Reginald Hill

  They listened. The driver watched them for a moment then climbed into his cab.

  'There. You hear it?'

  'Yeah’

  The cop moved swiftly along the truck and hoisted himself on to the cab step.

  The driver had picked up his mobile. He flashed an unconvincing smile and said, 'Just thought I'd better ring my boss, tell him I'd had a little hitch’

  The policeman reached forward and took the phone and looked at the number displayed. Then he switched the phone off.

  'Tell you what’ he said. 'Let's not bother him till we see just how little your hitch is.'

  Fifty miles away and an hour later, Wield was sitting in Turk's.

  When Lee had rung him and asked for a meet, the sergeant had suggested the multi-storey again but the youth had said, 'No fucking way. Froze my bollocks off last time and the weather's even colder today. Turk's.'

  He's calling the shots, thought Wield uneasily. Which was bad whatever their relationship was. What did he mean, whatever? Lubanski was an informant, period. Cops who started acting like social workers were asking for trouble. And whatever he looked like, he wasn't a child at risk but an adult in need of protection only if he asked for it.

  But now, sitting opposite him and feeling himself drawn willy-nilly into the undisguised pleasure the boy took in his company, Wield saw the scene as it might look to a passer-by whose sharp gaze penetrated the steamed-up window. Uncle and nephew off on a day-trip together. Father and son even. This was the first time they'd met since the karaoke. Dalziel happily had seemed preoccupied with something else and Wield had found it easy to find excuses not to make the effort.

  Lee was looking straight at him and, despite his certainty that his face gave nothing away, Wield hid his expression behind the mug of foul coffee which the freezing day had driven him to.

  'So what you got?' he asked brusquely.

  'You're in a hurry. Got a date or something?' said Lee. But not aggressively, not even provocatively. Just a relaxed joke between friends.

  'I've got work to do, yes,' said Wield.

  'Get a coffee break, don't you? Anyway, I expect you put this down as work.'

  He wants some kind of denial, however qualified.

  That's right,' said Wield brusquely. 'And I hope it's productive. What have you got?'

  The hurt in the boy's eyes brought the protective mug up again.

  'That guy rang last night,' he said sullenly. •

  'Which guy?'

  'The one he calls Mate.'

  'What did he say?'

  Lee produced a scrap of paper and began to read.

  'He said it were all fixed his end for next week but where was the money? And Belchy said not to worry, it would be there. Then he rang the other guy . . .'

  'LB? Thought you said he didn't ring him direct?'

  'Usually he don't. But it sounded like he'd been hard to get hold of on the net.'

  Understandable. Grief was a great antaphrodisiac. And a great enemy of rational thought. Possibly Linford was blaming Belchamber for getting Liam out on bail now.

  'And he made contact?'

  'Yeah. And I'll tell you something else. I know who LB is now. He's Wally Linford, dad of that wanker Liam who got himself killed last weekend.'

  This was said with such triumph Wield hadn't the heart to reveal he knew it already.

  'How do you know?'

  'Said "Linford" when he answered the phone. And Belchy called him Linford from then on. They had a right row. Linford was yelling. Belchy never yells, but I could tell he were getting really uptight. His dick went soft.'

  Wield felt Lee watching him closely as he said this.

  He's sussed how it bothers me when he refers to what he actually does to Belchamber, he thought. And me being bothered implies a relationship. Not good. But he kept his tone level and neutral as he asked, 'What were they quarrelling about?'

  'Money. Belchy was worried about some payment he had to make and Linford was yelling he couldn't be bothered with all this crap just now and Belchy said mebbe he should be bothered 'cos his mate were going to be very bothered if he didn't get the next lot of upfronts and Linford said it had nothing the fuck to do with him what this mate felt, he was just an investor and kept a good safe distance away from his fucking clientele, like a fucking lawyer, things went pear-shaped he walked away from the shit, no skin off his nose, so stick that in your crown and wear it, your fucking majesty!'

  This sounded like it was verbatim. Wield's mind was racing. Linford, still hugely disturbed at his son's death, was taking it out on Belchamber for the want of anyone else. And it wasn't just a case of a client sacking his lawyer. Their suspicions that for some reason Belchamber had crossed the line were obviously right. He was involved here, not as a lawyer hovering in the background ready to step forward only if things went awry, not even as a reluctant bagman, but as a principal, an initiator. But of what? And why the hell should he be taking that dangerous step across when staying on the legal side must be second nature to him?

  ‘And what was all that 'your majesty' business?

  ‘Just a joke? One queen to another maybe? Or ...

  'That any good then?' said Lee.

  'What? Sorry. Yes, it's very helpful. Any more?'

  'No, that's it for now. Don't worry, I get owt else, I'll be right on to you.'

  Wield said, 'Lee, I think maybe it's time you stopped dealing with Belchamber.'

  'Yeah? Why's that then? You trying to save my soul again, Mac?'

  He spoke with a knowing cockiness that grated. Wield said, 'Not your soul. Your body maybe. If he got wind that you're passing stuff on to me . . .'

  'No chance! All I do is listen. Not breaking into safes and such. Anyway, I can take care of Belchy. He's soft as pigshit.'

  'Maybe. But there's people he's mixed up with who aren't, and they're twice as nasty.'

  'You reckon? Well, I meet lots of nasty people, Sergeant Mac. No need to worry about me.'

  'But I do worry, Lee.'

  'Really?'

  'Really.'

  'Yeah, well, you'll be the first.' He spoke with an attempt at throw-away bravado.

  'I shouldn't think so,' said Wield. 'Your mam must have worried.'

  'Mebbe. And my dad too. He'd probably have worried if he'd known.'

  He's still hanging on to the idea that it was ignorance rather than indifference which made his father dump his pregnant mother, thought Wield. He said gently, 'I'm sure he would have, Lee.'

  'Yeah. I wish I'd got a picture of him or something. Mam didn't have anything. Not that he were owt much to look at, she said. In fact most folk reckoned, he were a right ugly bugger. But she said looks aren't everything, he were right sexy and she knew he were the one for her first time she saw him. They were just kids, younger than me, I think, so he'd just be in his thirties now. Wherever he is.'

  Oh Christ, thought Wield aghast, suddenly recalling the young man's interest in his possible hetero experience. Edwin had warned him that Lee might be seeing him as a father substitute, but for once those sharp old eyes hadn't looked deep enough.

  It's not a substitute the poor little sod's after; he's looking to cast me as his actual sodding father!

  Lee had brought his wandering gaze to bear full on Wield's ravaged features. His expression was defiant but not despairing. Hope is a persistent virus. Vaccinate yourself against it all you like, it still clings on. Wield said, 'Look, Lee’

  Then the door burst open and several uniformed policemen rushed into the cafe.

  One stayed by the door, two went behind the counter and grabbed hold of Turk with rather more force than his unresisting demeanour merited, two more vanished into the rear of the premises while another addressed the half-dozen customers.

  'Stay in your seats, gents. We'll need your names and addresses, just as witnesses, you understand, then you can go.'

  Lee was now glaring accusingly at Wield, who said, 'It's nowt to do with me, lad.' Obviously unconvince
d, the boy began to rise when a hand clapped on his shoulder and a voice said ponderously, as if the words were being prised out of mud, 'Keep sat down.'

  Oh shit, thought Wield, recognizing the voice before he took in the face. It belonged to PC Hector, the albatross round Mid-Yorkshire Constabulary's neck, the mote in its eye, the pile on its rectum. He was, Dalziel opined, the most reliable officer in the Force - he always got it wrong. If he survived long enough he might outdistance the Fat Man himself as a source of amazing anecdote.

  Now his gaze, which had focused with grave suspicion on Wield's black leathers, moved up to take in the sergeant's features. There was a moment of mental perturbation, then recognition came up like thunder out of China 'cross the Bay, and he said in stentorian tones, 'Hello. It's you, .Sarge! What you doing here? Undercover, is it?'

  Behind him, Wield saw Turk register the words, saw his gaze flicker to Lee.

  He rose and put his face close to Hector's and said in a low voice, ‘I'm having a cup of coffee, which is just as well, 'cos if I were on a job, you'd have just blown it.'

  Hector looked so crestfallen it was almost possible to feel sorry for him then, and said in the kind of whisper which echoes round the gods, 'Sorry, Sarge, I never thought.'

  ‘There'll be a first time, maybe.' Then turning to the officer who'd .addressed the cafe clientele, none of whom showed the slightest interest in what was happening, he said, 'Johnstone, what's going off?'

  Truck broke down on the motorway coming from Hull. Two of our lot stopped to give assistance and heard noises. Turned out it was full of illegals. The driver tried to make a call but got stopped before he got through. This was the number he was ringing.'

  ‘I see. Got a search warrant?'

  'One's on its way, but we thought we'd best make sure of getting Sonny Jim here.'

  'Yeah. Well, I'd get yon pair out of the back till it arrives, so that if you do find anything, it will be admissible.'

  'Yeah, right, Sarge.'

  Wield turned back to Lee, who was on his feet and looking anxious to be elsewhere. It came-back to him now that on their first encounter the youth had made some crack about Turk's sandwiches containing the remains of illegals that hadn't made it.

  'You know anything about Turk being in the people-smuggling business?' he asked.

  'I'd heard a buzz, that was all.'

  'And you didn't think it was worth mentioning?'

  'No. It's not like real crime, is it? Just a lot of poor sods wanting in. Christ, think what it must be like where they come from if they think it's going to be better here!'

  This was matter for an interesting discussion on comparative sociology which would have to wait till some other time.

  He led Lee to the door and said to the guardian constable, 'This one can go. I've got his details.'

  The man stood aside and Lee headed through the door like a canary out of a cage.

  ‘I'll be in touch,' Wield called after him.

  ‘Scuse us, Sarge,' said a voice behind him.

  He turned, then stepped aside to let Turk and his pair of close escorts pass.

  His gaze and that of the cafe proprietor met. All he saw there was the same blank indifference with which the man dispensed his unspeakable coffee.

  No harm done, Wield reassured himself as he watched the police car pull away. So now Turk knew that he was a cop. Presumably he already knew that Lee was a rent boy. God knows what he might speculate about their relationship, but so what? Anyway, he was going to have other more serious matters on his mind.

  But still Wield felt uneasiness working like dyspepsia in his gut.

  He stayed a little longer to make sure that everything was by the book then left. Part of his mind had never stopped working at the new info Lee had given him and now he gave it his full attention. There was something there that meant something to him. That stuff about crown and majesty . . .

  Unlike most minds in search of something only dimly remembered, Wield's didn't work by turning to something completely different in the hope of stumbling across the desired item by chance, as it were. His relied more on the computer principle. You fed the information into a program, pressed search, and waited for results.

  The answer came two minutes later as he sat with idling engine waiting for the traffic lights to change.

  He was in the right-hand lane. As the lights showed red and amber, he accelerated left across the bows of a stately old Morris containing three old ladies in fur hats on their way to lunch with the bishop, who with a synchronicity worthy of the Beverley Sisters gave him the finger and screamed, 'Asshole!'

  It was forty minutes later that Wield pulled into the police station car park.

  Proximity to the seat of law being no guarantee of security, he squatted to wrap a length of chain around the rear wheel and pillion, and as he did so he noticed a big black Lexus in one of the public bays.

  Its number plate read JUS 10. There was a man in the driver's seat talking into a phone, difficult to identify through the tinted glass. But as Wield snapped his lock shut, the man got out and headed into the building and there was no mistaking that Roman head, those sculpted locks. It was Marcus Belchamber.

  Straightening up, Wield once again felt that acid uneasiness in his gut.

  Belchamber had disappeared by the time he reached the front desk. Des Bowman, the duty sergeant, looked up and said, 'How do, Wieldy. What fettle?'

  'Grand, Des. Weren't that Belchamber I saw just come in? What's he doing?'

  'He's acting for Yasher Asif, you know him? Runs that caff called Turk's by the station. They brought him in for questioning about some illegals-smuggling racket.'

  'Thanks, Des. Let me through, eh?'

  The sergeant released the security lock and Wield went through the door and hurried up the stairs to CID. He glimpsed Pascoe through the open door of his office and went in.

  The DCI was studying a letter whose handwriting Wield identified at a glance. Franny Roote's. Shit, he thought, is the silly sod still letting himself be distracted?

  Before he could speak Pascoe looked up and said, 'Wieldy, what do you know about the Elsecar Hoard?'

  It was like having his mind read.

  'A lot more now than I did an hour ago,' said Wield. 'Why do you ask?'

  'No reason . . . just an idea ... oh shit, what am I tiptoeing around for? It's something Roote says in this letter.'

  'Giving you tips now, is he? I thought it were all hidden confessions.'

  'I think I may have got another of those too,' said Pascoe grimly. 'But that's between me and him. Anyway, he mentioned the Hoard apropos a conversation he had with what sounds very like a high-class fence. And I got to thinking. It's in Sheffield at the moment and it's coming here soon

  The twenty-sixth, week tomorrow,' said Wield.

  'You're well informed.'

  'Some of us get places by honest police work that other idle sods reach by imaginative leaps,' said Wield. 'If you're talking about this job Mate Polchard's planning, that is.'

  Now it was Pascoe's turn to feel mind-read.

  'What else? Tell me about this honest police work. You interest me strangely.'

  Quickly Wield filled him in on his conversation with Lubanski.

  'It was this bit about the crown that got me thinking. That and wondering why the hell Belchamber should have got so personally involved in this job. Then I remembered seeing a poster at the Centre about the Hoard being on exhibition in January. And I recalled there was some article fulminating over the sale that Belchamber had written in the Gazette. Didn't read it myself, but Edwin gets hot and bothered about such things and he kept quoting bits at me over the dinner table till I told him that the moral indignation of a dipstick like the Belch weren't good for my digestion. Anyway, I went down to the reference library to look it up in the back numbers. Took a closer look at them posters too. They've got Belchamber giving a lecture on the Hoard on the exhibition opening day. Odd that.'

  'Why? He's really
involved. I saw him on the telly the other week. He might be a shitbag, but he knows his Medes from his Persians.'

  'It's odd because of the way he's blown hot and cold. I'll show you what I mean. Yon lass of Bowler's was very helpful. Hadn't seen her-since that scare at New Year.'

  'How'd she look?'

  'Bit pale maybe, but full of the joys of spring otherwise.'

  In fact, Rye had greeted him rather frostily till it was established that his motive in appearing there had nothing to do with her. Then she had thawed and to his enquiry after her health, she'd replied, 'Never better. Just some virus that's going around, but I'm over it now. How about you, Mr Wield?'

  'I'm fine. At least nothing that a bit of spring sunshine won't cure. Roll on, eh?'

  'Yes,' she said. 'I can't wait.' Which for some reason she seemed to think of as funny and her laughter was so infectious, he found himself joining in.

  ‘This article . ..' prompted Pascoe.

  'Articles. There were two of them. It was Rye put me on to the other which appeared way back when Belch were on better terms with the Elsecars. I've got copies. This is the earlier one.'

  He handed it over. Pascoe scanned it quickly then read it again at a more leisurely pace.

  This described a visit Belchamber and other officers of the Mid-Yorkshire Archaeological Society had been permitted to make to view the Hoard. It was fulsome with expressions of gratitude to the Elsecars for their kind condescension in allowing the visit. The style when he described the content of the Hoard was scholarly and objective, but later it became personal and familiar as he started theorizing, or perhaps romancing was a better word, about the provenance of various items and the background of their owner and the circumstances of their loss.

  Readers of some previous pieces of mine on Roman Yorkshire may recall that on one occasion I traced my own ancestry back, reasonably legitimately, to the fifteenth century and then, rather more fancifully, to Marcus Bellisarius, an official of the Provincial Governor's commissariat, briefly mentioned by Tacitus. Now when I was permitted to hold the serpent coronet (or Cartimandua 's Crown as the Victorians mistakenly dubbed it) I must confess to feeling a thrill at my contact with the smooth twists and folds of gold that seemed more than just the natural pleasure of an amateur of ancient history. The thought popped into my mind: suppose the collector of these wonderful things was in fact my putative ancestor Marcus Bellisarius?