As far as Mid-Yorks went, there was the expected side-swipe at their inefficiency in dealing with what turned out to be the first Pickford killing, that of Annie Tweddle. But this was nothing compared with what was hinted at in the trailer for the following week.
What of the body that got away? Little Tracey Pedley was never found. Did Pickford abduct her and subject her to the same terrible fate as the others? At the time the evidence seemed to point that way. But upon examination how flimsy that evidence seems. Before Pickford’s suicide it amounted to little more than the alleged sighting of the by now notorious ‘blue car’ off the road near the place where her pail was found. And after Pickford’s death the best the police could do was establish that he had no alibi for the time of Tracey’s disappearance.
But what if the police got it wrong for once? What if Pickford did have an alibi?
There were always those in Burrthorpe who were never satisfied with the official explanation and their doubts may have been rekindled three months later when the last witness to admit seeing Tracey alive himself died in strange circumstances. Coincidence? Like the coincidence that it was his best friend who gave the most positive sighting of the blue car?
‘A tragic accident,’ said the coroner. But there were those who whispered of remorse, or even retribution.
But suppose they too are wrong as the police may prove to have been wrong? Suppose the killer of Tracey Pedley is still alive and perhaps even having his evening pint drawn by the father he so cruelly bereaved …
What do I think?
Find out next week. Only in the Challenger!
Bastard! thought Pascoe.
As he drove home he wondered if he should draw Ellie’s attention to the fact that it was her protégé’s father who was being blackguarded here. Not that she’d said much about young Farr or her class since their row the previous Sunday. She wasn’t usually a sulker and he’d expected a detailed account of her trip to Burrthorpe Main, but there’d been only the most basic of responses to his truce-offering inquiry.
He found her reading a colour supplement.
‘I got a Challenger,’ he said. ‘Thought I should keep up to date.’
‘Why bother? Crap’s crap no matter when,’ she said, not looking up.
‘I thought you might be interested to see if Adi had been able to do anything about Watmough’s article.’
‘Has she?’
‘If she has. I wouldn’t have cared to see the original version. This one’s grisly enough for my money. There’s a bit about Burrthorpe in it.’
She turned a page of her supplement indifferently.
‘It sounds like he’s got something nasty up his sleeve. For us, I mean.’
‘Us?’
‘Us, the fuzz,’ he joked. She didn’t smile, but said, ‘What’s it to do with you?’
‘There was only ever circumstantial evidence linking Pickford to the Pedley girl’s disappearance. He worked for a press tool manufacturer near Huddersfield. That afternoon he had an appointment over here at Tanyard-Lees, the fork-lift truck works on the Avro Estate. It’s forty-five miles as the crow flies. He left his office at three-thirty. Burrthorpe’s well south of his route but if he had diverted there he could have made it easily by four. Tracey was last seen alive by a local man just after four.’
He paused, saw no response, went on. ‘If Pickford kept his four-thirty appointment on the Avro Estate, he just couldn’t have picked up Tracey. That’s where we came in. As it was on our patch, we did the checking at Tanyard-Lees, and we confirmed that Pickford didn’t make it.’
‘And now Watmough’s saying you made a mistake? It’s possible, isn’t it? Anyone can.’
‘Sure. But I can’t see it.’
For the first time she looked up.
‘What? So it’s infallibility now? Who was the Pope on this occasion? You or Fatso?’
‘Neither. It was Wieldy. And he’s the nearest thing to infallible we’ve got, especially on something as simple as this.’
‘Perhaps it was too simple,’ said Ellie. ‘You’re not saying Watmough’s been holding back on something all this time?’
‘No, of course not. He’s a lot of things but dishonest isn’t one of them.’
‘So, if some new information came up, he’d bring it out, even if it marred his triumph slightly?’
‘Yes,’ said Pascoe. ‘I suppose so. But what new information could there be about something as straightforward as this? No, I reckon it’s just a bit of Challenger titillation.’
‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?’ said Ellie returning to her article, which appeared to be on interesting things to do in the kitchen with squid.
Was this yet another threat to his well-being? wondered Pascoe.
He folded up the Challenger, left it neatly on the coffee table and went to phone a friendly warning through to Wield.
At nine o’clock on Monday morning, Sergeant Wield turned off the main road through the Avro Industrial Estate into the service road running alongside the Stalag security fence which wrapped itself round the premises of Tanyard-Lees.
Most of his colleagues must have seen yesterday’s Challenger. The prospect of seeing the worm turn yet again to nip Andy Dalziel on the ankle was almost irresistible. Wield had resisted because he knew what rags like the Challenger would do to someone like himself if they got the chance. Once they had got close and Dalziel had been the most substantial bulwark fending them off. So he owed something to Andy Dalziel.
He also owed something to Peter Pascoe. Of all his colleagues who must have worked out what the article was getting at, only Pascoe had picked up the phone to make sure he didn’t come in the next day unprepared.
Well, he was going to be better than prepared. He was going to be justified. He’d gone over it all last night a thousand times. He’d come here as instructed, checked every way possible whether Pickford had kept his appointment, and returned with confirmation of the answer everyone logically expected. No, he hadn’t.
The only doubt that snagged in his mind lay in that phrase ‘that everyone logically expected’. He knew how easy it was to see what you expected to see. It was a principle he’d lived behind most of his life.
But he still couldn’t believe he’d fouled up.
What he could believe was that the Challenger had ‘persuaded’ someone to ‘recall’ that perhaps Pickford had shown up that September day after all.
He halted his car at the entrance barrier, got out and went into the gatehouse.
The gateman looked up from his newspaper and said, ‘Yes, sir?’ He was a man of about sixty, grey-haired, ruddy-complexioned, with the kind of face that knows things about central heating and carburettors.
‘I’d like to see Mr Wattis, please. Is he in yet?’
‘Who?’
Wield consulted his notes. He’d called in early at the station that morning to check out the file.
‘Mr Lewis Wattis. He’s assistant controller, Purchasing. Or was.’
‘Was it is, sir,’ said the gateman. ‘Mr Wattis retired two years ago, mebbe more.’
‘Oh. Do you have an address?’
‘Forwarding, you mean? Who knows?’ The gateman looked slowly upwards then let his gaze slip slowly down.
‘Dead?’ said Wield.
‘Same year he retired,’ said the gateman. ‘It’s often the way, though I’d not have expected it of Mr Wattis. He wanted to be retired, you see. He wasn’t going to be pining away for this place!’
Wield stood at the counter, his face showing none of the bafflement he was feeling. It was Wattis that Pickford’s four-thirty appointment had been with. It was Wattis who had assured him that Pickford had not turned up. Naturally Wield had double-checked at the gatehouse. No one could enter the works without passing through here and signing the book. Donald Pickford’s name did not appear.
‘Was it business, sir, or private? If it was business, I can give Purchasing a ring and see if anyone can help you,’
offered the gateman.
If not Wattis, who then had the Challenger dug up to say that Pickford did keep his appointment? His eyes, inward-looking, refocused outward and the gateman’s friendly knowing face swam into definition.
Wield said, ‘How long have you been here, Mr …?’
‘Moffat. Twenty years, more,’ said the man.
‘So you’d be working here when the Pickford killings took place?’
The man’s face registered consternation.
‘Here, look, so that’s it. Sorry, mate. I can’t say anything about that. You’d better buzz off. I’ve got work to do.’
‘Who says you can’t say anything? Your friends at the Challenger?’ said Wield aggressively.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Moffat. ‘Mr Boyle warned me some of you lot would likely be along and he said to tell you I’d sold what I know to the Challenger and if you want to find out about it, you can buy a copy next Sunday!’
Wield said incredulously. ‘Boyle told you to say that to the police?’
‘Police? You’re police?’ replied the man with equal incredulity.
Wield produced his warrant and Moffat said, ‘Yes. I see. Sorry, but you didn’t look like … No, Mr Boyle said if the police came round, then naturally I should tell them all I know.’
‘And also why you didn’t tell all you knew a couple of years ago,’ said Wield grimly.
‘That’s easy, mate. I was never asked!’
Wield, who’d been sure that either someone had lied in the past or was lying now, listened to Moffat’s story with a growing sense of his own culpability.
Moffat had been on holiday when the Pickford suicide made headlines.
‘I read about it on the beach at Rimini,’ he said. ‘When I read he were a salesman for that tool company, I remember thinking, I wonder if he were that fellow who came to see Mr Wattis?’
‘But he didn’t come to see Mr Wattis,’ said Wield. ‘Mr Wattis was sure he hadn’t kept his appointment. And his name wasn’t in the book.’
‘No,’ said Moffat. ‘The thing was, he was late. Just ten minutes, but that was enough for old Wattis. He was a bit of a joke really. Just treading water till his time was up. And off to the golf course like a flash if he got half a chance. Pickford must have been the last thing he had on his plate that day. He’d give him five minutes, then off. He went out just as Pickford came in. That’s how I recall the time. I glanced at the clock when Pickford said he had a four-thirty appointment. It was just gone four-forty. I told him it were too late. I said I’d ring through and see if they could fix up another day, but I tipped him the wink that it’d likely be a waste of time. You see, with Mr Wattis being so demob happy, no one treated him serious any more. You could be pretty certain any salesman they steered towards him wasn’t someone they intended doing business with! Pickford didn’t seem bothered, just said thanks and went off. So his name didn’t get in the book and the only person he saw at Tanyard-Lees was me, and no one ever asked me!’
‘He came back off holiday three weeks later,’ Wield told Pascoe on his return to the station. ‘His stand-in, that’s the fellow I saw when I looked at the gate book, went off to his usual duties and never mentioned my visit. Why should he? I just looked in the book, and there was never any mention of Pickford’s appointment at the Plant in the papers. Wattis retired a month later, went down to Cornwall and died, and Moffat never thought any more about his possible encounter with Pickford till Monty Boyle came round with a handful of fivers.’
‘You’re sure he’s telling the truth?’ said Pascoe.
‘Certain. More important, perhaps, Boyle’s obviously certain too, certain enough to go public with it. Even ten minutes late wouldn’t give him enough time to divert to Burrthorpe and kill that little girl. Christ, what a cock-up!’
‘Come on, Wieldy, you can’t blame yourself. You were asked to check what looked a ninety per cent certainty according to the way South, that is, Mr Watmough presented it to us. You checked it the best way you could. No one can blame you.’
‘Tell that to the Challenger on Sunday,’ said Wield. ‘Tell it to Mr Dalziel now.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Pascoe.
‘To hold my hand? No need. He’ll likely just send me to bed with no supper.’
‘I’ll come anyway. And talking of supper, I’ve been meaning to ask you round for a bite one night.’
In fact the notion had just popped into his head, but even as he said it, he recognized he was merely confirming a stage in their friendship.
‘Great,’ said Wield. ‘When?’
‘Make it tomorrow, if that’s OK. Eightish?’
‘Eightish it is. If I survive.’
The condition seemed less of a joke when Dalziel flung open his door as they approached and glowered at them like a jealous Italian catching his wife and brother in flagrante delicto.
‘Well?’ he snarled. ‘Is it true?’
Wield nodded unhappily.
‘I’d not have thought it possible of you,’ cried Dalziel, more than ever like a man betrayed. ‘How’d it happen? Mental breakdown, was it?’
Stoically Wield gave his explanation. It was clear, concise, and void of excuse or special pleading.
‘So,’ said Dalziel. ‘Clever cunt, this Monty Boyle. I think we’d better have a word with him. See to it, Peter. Poor old Nev!’
Pascoe looked at the fat man in surprise. Sympathy for Watmough? And from a man whose usual position on the Christian forgiveness ethic was that no enemy ever fell so low that a kick in the teeth couldn’t drive him lower.
‘I mean,’ said Dalziel, ‘this makes us look Charlies, right? But it takes a bit of the bloom off Lobby Lud’s success, doesn’t it? And with a bit of luck Boyle may have dug something else up that drops old Nev right in it without splattering us in the process! No wonder Ike Ogilby wanted to sign him up.’
‘I don’t see why Boyle couldn’t just have done an article about this himself,’ said Pascoe.
‘Don’t be dim, lad. Which would you rather read – confessions of a randy vicar or accusations from a ranting bishop? J’accuse wins Pulitzers but mea culpa bangs up circulation figures.’
Even Wield’s face registered astonishment and Dalziel’s lips slid back from his great brown teeth like the curtain rising on a Wieland Wagner set at Bayreuth as he grinned in delight.
‘Now let’s sit down and see if we can do some real police work, shall we?’
Chapter 3
In depression as in toothache, rational analysis is no palliative. Ellie knew that a gloom had settled upon her since her visit to Burrthorpe but knew no way to disperse it. A recent ritual clearing out of the family medicine chest, aimed principally at Peter who had the mild hypochondriac’s reluctance to dump old pills, had washed away her own little store of uppers and downers, putting that particular temptation out of reach. Drink made things worse, and long walks in the very fresh air didn’t make them any better. She could see that Peter was puzzled by her dullness, and in particular by the absence of the full action replay which her descent into the pit would normally have produced. It wasn’t that images of the visit did not fill her mind. Closing her eyes in sleep brought a darkness which was rapidly filled by the bobbing lights of helmet-lamps. Tunnels curved away with gates branching off in all directions, and as she moved along on the ever accelerating paddy, she had the retrospective fancy that she was in the bloodstream of some monstrous creature, being sucked along a main artery by the audible pumping of its huge heart. And at that heart stood a solitary figure, Colin Farr, his naked body caked with glittering coal dust like a fell of dark pricked with a myriad stars. Then she was in the car with his hand between her legs and in the back seat his mother talked sadly of her pit-maimed husband lying dead in the darkness at the foot of the old shaft.
She was able to toy with these dreams in a variety of ways, but no amount of no matter how eclectic a self-analysis could lighten her depression. She told herself that the terrifying
otherness of that underground world which in itself would probably just have provided good copy for a radical dinner-party had somehow, indeed almost literally, been rammed home into her subconscious by the brutal indifference of Col Farr’s assault. Had he simply made a pass at her, that would have been different. In the Ivory Tower’s paternoster she had experienced his physical proximity like an electrical current. But this had been something else. It might just as well have been his ‘ringer’ which he had thrust beneath her skirt. There had been something intensely impersonal as well as whatever was intensely personal in that gesture. It meant separation, dismissal, perhaps even contempt. She made up her mind to ring Adam and call off the rest of her classes.
But on Monday afternoon she was there as they came drifting in, and with them, neither ostentatiously last nor challengingly first, Colin Farr. She caught his eye without meaning to, and he rubbed the back of his hand across his nose and gave a little grin, sheepish almost, like a small boy acknowledging his fault but sure of his forgiveness. Instantly the dullness lifted from her mind like a morning mist and she had to take deliberate control to keep the returning lightness from catching at her voice.
That class was one of the best she had taken. There had been a big CND rally in London the previous Saturday which Ellie had been severely reprimanded by Thelma Lacewing for not attending. She had, however, partly retrieved her position by pointing out that as part of her group’s study of media distortion, she had asked them to read the account of the rally in whatever Sunday paper they normally took, and to come along on Monday ready to discuss it.
‘Forget personal belief or knowledge,’ she said. ‘Let’s just discuss the rally and the issues in the light of what you’ve gleaned from the paper you normally read.’
It took a while to divert the class from their fascinated curiosity into her reaction to visiting a pit, but once discussion of the papers got under way, the miners were soon competing to make their points.
At the end of the session which had overrun by nearly half an hour, Colin Farr took his time in packing his insubstantial gear together and soon only he and Ellie remained in the room.
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