‘Goodbye, Mrs Pascoe,’ he said. ‘You’ve come off lucky. Not many do as have much to do with me.’
Then he turned again and began to run up the track, as lithe and fluid and lovely as a cat. She watched him out of sight. And still she watched and seemed to see him still. Finally a cloud caught the slanting sun and dulled the golden glow in Gratterley Wood.
She started the car and backed out on to the road and turned once more to Burrthorpe.
Chapter 5
After Watmough had finished, Dalziel rose and went to the door.
‘If I see any blind lame lepers, I’ll send ’em in,’ he said as he passed through it, leaving Watmough to sip his coffee uncertain if he’d been complimented or not.
Dalziel ran up the stairs, very light on his feet for such a big man. He opened a door and peered in. Alex Wishart was sitting at the far side of a desk facing Gavin Mycroft.
‘Alex, a word,’ said Dalziel.
The Scot got up and came towards the door. The deputy turned and said, ‘Look, can I go home now? I’ve been here for hours and it’s bloody nippy for one thing.’
He was still wearing the white overall they’d provided at the hospital.
‘We’ll have some of your clothes fetched in,’ said Dalziel.
Wishart came into the corridor. He made to pull the door shut behind him but Dalziel’s large foot got in the way. He looked in surprise at the fat man and was taken aback to see his pumpkin face wrinkle into a wink.
‘She’s coughed,’ said Dalziel in a whisper Henry Irving would have been proud of. ‘I told her we’d definitely be charging Farr and that did it. What he told her when he rang up last night was that on his way out of the pit, he’d blown the gaff on her and Satterthwaite to Gav. Poor sod. He must have flipped it. Straight off he went and thumped Harold. Overdid it. He’ll likely get off with manslaughter if he plays his cards right. Don’t be too rough on him. He’s had a lot to put up with.’
Another wink for the upper balcony and Dalziel went noisily down the stairs.
Now he re-entered the room where Stella Mycroft was sitting puffing angrily at a cigarette. A WPC stood by the door while opposite her sat Sergeant Wield. He stood up as Dalziel entered and flickered his eyes negatively.
As Dalziel took the vacated chair, Stella began to rave, ‘How long’s this going on, for God’s sake? Does Gav know I’m here? Does any bugger know I’m here? I’ve told you all I know which is bugger-all, so why’m I being kept stuck in here with you pair of ugly sods popping in and out like rats from a compost heap?’
As she raved Dalziel reached across the table and to Wield’s amazement put his huge hand over the woman’s delicate hand and peered deep into her eyes. It would have been beyond the will of Boadicea to keep on shouting in such circumstances and rapidly the indignant flow sputtered to a halt.
‘It’s over, love,’ said Dalziel softly.
She tried to pull her hand away but he held it fast.
‘You wha’?’ she said.
‘It’s over. Gav’s told us everything. The lad had no choice once Col started cooperating. But not to worry. I reckon it could come down to manslaughter, accidental killing, couple of years, suspended, on probation even, what do you think, Sergeant?’
‘I’m not sure of the precise circumstances, sir,’ said Wield, taking his cue.
‘Farr lost his temper with Gav, told him that Stella here was having an affair with Harold Satterthwaite. Now I don’t know if that’s true or not, and it’s none of our business anyway. But Gav went to talk it over with Harold. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Things got heated, it was dark, bang! Who can say exactly what happened?’
‘Col’s said … I don’t believe you!’ burst out Stella.
‘He felt sorry about letting the cat out of the bag,’ said Dalziel. ‘That’s why he rang you, of course, to warn you. But it’s one thing feeling sorry, it’s another carrying the can. I’m sorry too, love. All I can say from old experience is that these things seem terrible at the time, but it’ll pass, you’ll be amazed how quick it passes.’
She looked at him distrustfully, but when she spoke her voice was subdued.
‘Can I see Gav?’ she said.
‘Of course,’ said Dalziel genially. ‘Just give your statement to the young lady here, then we’ll ferry you along to have a nice chat with your husband. OK?’
One last bone-cracking squeeze of her hand and he rose and left the room. Wield followed. This time Dalziel made sure the door was firmly closed.
‘Has he coughed?’ asked Wield.
‘I’m not sure, but he will the minute he sees her statement,’ said Dalziel.
‘Did you really get this from Farr?’ asked Wield.
‘No way. That mad bugger’s still missing as far as I know. No, it were a combination of things, a few hints that Pedley let drop when I talked to him earlier, and then a bit of help from my old chum, Nev Watmough, a few years late, true, but we’ve all got to move at our own speed. I’d been wondering why Mycroft went to see Farr in hospital and why he helped him escape. It were obviously a put-up job, weren’t it?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Wield. ‘Obviously. But why didn’t Farr just speak out when he woke up this morning and realized what we were after him for?’
‘Because he’s bloody mad, because he wants to be on the run, because … I don’t know, Sergeant, and I doubt if he does, either.’
‘But we can call off the hunt for him?’ said Wield. ‘I mean, what do we want him for?’
‘Impeding a police inquiry,’ said Dalziel. ‘All right, it’s not much and it’s certainly not worth the dogs and helicopters and appeals on the telly. But I’ll tell you something, Wieldy. My piles are aching again and I’ll not rest comfortable while yon mad bugger’s running round free!’
He headed back up the stairs to check on Wishart’s progress. A uniformed constable intercepted him.
‘Sir, Mr Pascoe’s been on the radio, says he needs to talk to you.’
‘Has he found Farr?’
‘Don’t think so, sir.’
‘Then what’s he playing at? Whistle him up again and tell him to meet me at Mrs Farr’s house in half an hour. And straighten yourself up, lad! Haven’t they found a cure yet for rickets down here?’
Pascoe got Dalziel’s message as he came out of the Welfare Club. Pedley had been very cooperative, which made Pascoe guess his search was a waste of time. So it had proved. Next he and Sergeant Swift went to Neil Wardle’s house, but could get no reply. Tommy Dickinson lived just a couple of streets away. Swift told him, not without pride, that even for Burrthorpe, this was a rough area. When he started reeling off a list of folk-heroes who’d drawn their first blood here, Pascoe cut him off brusquely. Alex Wishart’s ironies were one thing, but he didn’t have to take ancient sergeants implying that life in Mid-Yorks was a pastoral idyll.
The door was opened by a wirily muscular man with greying hair and watchful eyes.
‘Hello, Neil,’ said Swift. ‘We’ve just come from your house.’
‘I hope you left it like you found it,’ said the man.
‘Mr Wardle?’ said Pascoe.
‘Aye. You must be Pascoe. You’re with yon other bugger, right? The one who could cut coal with his teeth.’
A man would need the skill of a Scarlet Pimpernel to lead a private life here, thought Pascoe.
‘We’re inquiring about your friend, Colin Farr?’
‘I’ve nowt to say about Col,’ said Wardle.
‘Or to him?’
Wardle thought a moment then said, ‘He’s buggered off, then?’
‘Very sharp,’ said Pascoe. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know where?’
Wardle didn’t even bother to reply.
‘It’ll do him no good,’ said Pascoe, irritated. ‘Running away never does.’
‘You reckon? Ever been a thousand feet under and heard the timbers cracking over your head?’
Pascoe was further irritated by this easy assumption of a ri
sk-given moral superiority. The sods really believed their own myths!
‘Is Mr Dickinson in?’ he asked.
Wardle stood aside and beckoned him in with mock courtesy. On an inadequate sofa, a stout young man sprawled and snored. A plastic bucket rested close to his hand.
‘If you care to hang on a bit he’ll likely make a statement,’ said Wardle.
‘What are you doing here, Mr Wardle?’
‘Tommy’s mam had to go out so I said I’d sit here with the lad and make sure he came to no harm.’
‘How long will Mrs Dickinson be? We’d like to look round just in case Mr Farr has got in, without anyone’s knowledge, of course.’
‘I’d not wait till his mam comes back, then. Sergeant Swift here’ll tell you she sucks coppers’ blood.’
Upon this hint, Pascoe and Swift went quickly through the house.
Unless he’d wriggled under the floorboards, Farr wasn’t here. They returned to the parlour.
‘Just in time,’ said Wardle. ‘His mam’s coming down the street.’
On the sofa, Dickinson stirred, opened his eyes, smiled up at Pascoe.
‘Mr Dickinson,’ Pascoe began. ‘I’m a policeman …’
The stout youth turned his head away and was comprehensively sick into the bucket.
‘There,’ said Wardle. ‘I told you he’d make a statement.’
Chapter 6
As he drove back to May Farr’s house, Pascoe saw Arthur Downey on an old bike making his way down the High Street. It was almost dusk and there was no sign of any light on the machine. Well, that was the locals’ responsibility. Pascoe guessed it would be a brave cop round here who pulled up a miner for not having lights on his bike.
As he turned into Clay Street, to his surprise he saw Ellie’s Mini. Instead of wondering why she’d returned, he found himself thinking the car was parked dangerously close to the corner. I’m beginning to think like a traffic cop, he told himself.
He parked his car with exaggerated care. As he approached the front door, he could hear two voices more familiar as solos now upraised in discordant duet. He opened the door without knocking and went in.
‘Hello, hello, what seems to be the trouble?’ he inquired.
Ellie and Dalziel turned to face him.
‘I just came round here to tell Mrs Farr her lad’s off the hook and your missus flew at me like a mad ostrich!’ said Dalziel, all hurt innocence.
‘All I did was tell May not to trust the fat sod!’
Pascoe moved so that he could see Mrs Farr, who was sitting down, partly screened by Dalziel’s bulk. She was pale and clearly distraught.
‘For God’s sake you two, why don’t you have your squabbles somewhere else?’ he said angrily. He pulled up a chair and sat down in front of the woman and took her hands in his. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Farr,’ he said.
‘Is he telling the truth, this one?’ she asked, looking him straight in the eyes. ‘Ellie says not to trust him, he’s likely just lying to find out where Colin’s hiding.’
Pascoe glanced towards Dalziel, who said bluntly, ‘He’s off the hook.’
‘He’s telling the truth,’ said Pascoe to Mrs Farr. ‘He’d not lie about something like that, not to me anyway.’
Dalziel looked ready to dispute this assertion, then pulled on a conciliatory expression like a nylon stocking over a bandit’s face.
‘But Ellie’s not altogether wrong,’ he said. ‘I do still want to find the lad. Before he comes to any harm.’
Pascoe followed his gaze to Ellie. Her cheeks were still flushed from argument and her eyes were bright. Usually he felt proud and turned on when he saw her in full Valkyrie flight, but this time he felt separated from her by Colin Farr who had occupied her mind so exclusively that she had been able to ignore May Farr’s distress.
‘Why did you come back, Ellie?’ he asked quietly.
Still she looked defiant, then May Farr said, ‘For God’s sake tell him, woman. Do you not trust your own man?’
The reproof seemed to bewilder Ellie, then the tension ebbed from her body and she said, ‘Oh shit. He asked me to tell May he was all right. Peter, he was hiding in my car. I dropped him off along the road that runs up to the pit. He went up into the woods on the left-hand side.’
‘Gratterley Wood,’ said Mrs Farr dully. ‘He’ll be up by the White Rock, isn’t that what you said, lass?’
Ellie said, ‘He asked me to get Mr Downey to bring some food up to him.’
‘And have you seen this Downey fellow yet?’ demanded Dalziel.
‘Yes. I went to see him first, before your spies got on to me,’ flashed Ellie.
‘Damn.’
‘It’s all right. I just saw Downey cycling down the main street,’ said Pascoe.
‘Good. Mebbe we can catch him.’
‘You don’t think Colin’s going to hang around once he sees you lot, do you?’ demanded May Farr.
‘There’ll just be the three of us,’ said Dalziel. ‘I don’t want to scare him off, just get close enough to let him know the heat’s off. Sergeant Swift, you know where this White Rock is, I dare say?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right. Let’s go.’ He headed for the door, closely followed by Swift.
Pascoe looked at Ellie.
‘It’ll be all right, won’t it?’ she said.
He didn’t dare to ask what she was talking about but said, ‘Yes.’
Outside, Dalziel said, ‘We’ll take your car, Peter, in case there’s any rough driving.’
They got in, Swift in the back.
He said, ‘Head for the main street.’
As he drove, Pascoe’s mind was filled with a nagging unease.
‘Why are we still chasing around after an innocent man, sir?’ he asked.
‘Why’s an innocent man not bother to tell us he’s innocent?’ said Dalziel. ‘That farce with Mycroft. He hates the guy. Why not just point the finger at him instead of blackmailing him into helping him escape?’
‘Perhaps he felt partly responsible for Satterthwaite’s death.’
‘So what? He hated him too. In fact, come to think of it, there aren’t a lot of people young Mr Farr likes.’
‘So what’s your theory, sir?’
‘No theory, lad. But a man who doesn’t give a toss about being chief suspect for a murder he didn’t do isn’t someone I want running round loose.’
They had passed down the High Street. Now at Swift’s instruction, they swung left up the lane alongside the Welfare Club.
‘It gets a bit rough,’ said Swift, ‘but if you can get round this bend we’ll be out of sight of nosey eyes.’
Pascoe managed it with some slight protest from his silencer box as it grated against a stone, but it wasn’t concern for his undercarriage that made him stop. Up ahead was another car blocking the way.
They got out and approached it. From the damp bloom on its paintwork and the yellow leaves clinging to the roof and bonnet, it had been there a little while, overnight at least.
‘It’s that reporter’s,’ said Swift. ‘Boyle. I saw him in it the night Farr chucked him through the window.’
Dalziel swept his hand through the screening dampness on the front window and peered inside.
‘Nowt,’ he said. ‘Except a cauliflower on the back seat.’
‘The boot?’ suggested Pascoe.
Dalziel came round the back, sniffed, shrugged.
‘Best be sure.’
And raising his foot he drove his heel with great force against the lock.
The boot flew open. There was nothing there that didn’t belong in a boot.
‘I hope he’s got good expenses,’ said Pascoe.
‘He’ll need ’em if the bugger’s up there, queering my pitch,’ said Dalziel.
They all looked up the track to where along the looming ridge desperate fingers of light were still scrabbling for purchase. Even here, by the car, with the Welfare’s chimneys still visible, industrial South Yorkshire se
emed a long way away and Pascoe thought coldly that this was a wilderness long before man had made it so and these had been hills under which a lost traveller could dream and never waken.
‘You coming or not?’ demanded Dalziel, who was already ten yards ahead in close pursuit of Swift.
Reluctantly Pascoe set out after them.
A few yards further on, Swift said, ‘Look, sir. That’ll be Downey’s bike.’
Dalziel put his hand on it.
‘Seat still warm,’ he said in his best Sherlockian manner. ‘We can’t be far behind.’
Now the track became a path. Pascoe glanced back. No sign of the cars nor even of the bike, surely they couldn’t have come so far so soon? He hurried on, suddenly fearful of being left behind in this frightful dark wood in which mist was beginning to drift like the fetid exhalations of some lurking troll. What was he doing here, for God’s sake? It occurred to him that he had never laid eyes on Colin Farr! What a great qualification for a searcher! If someone dropped down out of a tree in front of him at this very moment, he wouldn’t know if it were Farr or some passing primate.
His acceleration had brought him up against the other two. For the simple sake of hearing a voice, he said, ‘Sir, I don’t even know …’
‘Shh! We’re almost there,’ hissed Dalziel. He was peering ahead and upwards to where the mist seemed to have concentrated at the far end of a narrow glade. Pascoe strained his eyes and became aware that in fact the area of whiteness was not all mist but a patchy overhanging outcrop of striated limestone. Presumably this was the famous White Rock, not much to write home about, not perhaps unless you spent your days digging black rock out of the earth.
A choking cry cut through his thoughts, there was a flurry of movement at the foot of the overhang, and Dalziel lumbered forward a few steps, shouting. If it was meant to be reassuring, Pascoe couldn’t blame anyone for missing the point. A writhing shadow separated, became two men, one upright, one prone. The upright figure took a couple of steps towards them. One of the last drowning fingers of light caressed his face. It was so young, so defiant, so despairing. So beautiful. Here he was at last, the Marvellous Boy. The phrase no longer a mockery. I was fooling myself when I said I’d never recognize him. I’d have picked him out in a riot.
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