Pictures of Perfection

by Reginald Hill

  Dalziel and Pascoe had reacted according to their respective humours.

  The Fat Man went hurtling forward with the speed which in his rugby days had amazed many a twinkletoed stand-off. But fast as he was, youth and vengeful fury made Harry Bendish even faster. His injured leg forgotten, he leapt on to the table and launched himself in a bone-crunching tackle which caught the berserker in the midriff and swept him the full length of the polished surface till they shot off the end and crashed together on to the unyielding lawn.

  Pascoe meanwhile put his arm around Wield and cried, ‘Oh God, Wieldy, are you all right?’

  It was not perhaps the question a man of education in such a circumstance would wish to have asked, but cliché comes in through the french window when deep emotion writes the script.

  Wield, more practised in control and more wedded to precision, examined and analysed his feelings, and said with a mild surprise, ‘I’m a lot better than expected.’

  ‘But all this blood …’

  ‘I don’t know whose it is,’ said Wield. ‘But I’m pretty sure it’s not mine.’

  And Dalziel, noting with admiration that Bendish not only tackled like a full back but punched like a front-row forward, flourished the berserker’s discarded weapon like a trophy and said, ‘It’s one of them war-game guns that fires paintballs. Still, not to worry. It’s the thought that counts. Tell you what, young Bendish. Pull that balaclava thing off and you’ll get a lot better target to aim at!’

  Harry paused in mid-punch, nodded his acknowledgement of the superior wisdom of age and experience, and ripped aside the balaclava to reveal the slack, pallid face of Guy Guillemard.

  The young redhead got in one more telling blow before Franny seized his arm and cried, ‘Enough!’

  Bendish looked ready to disagree, but young love is a disciplinarian stronger even than old authority, and reluctantly he rose to his feet, then less reluctantly put his arms round the girl’s yielding body and pulled her close for comfort.

  Now the victims of the berserker’s assault on his way through the village began to appear to express their outrage. Thomas Wapshare brought explanation as well as indignation.

  ‘The bugger broke into the Morris,’ he said. ‘Drank a bottle of cognac, and he must have found a bucket of pig’s blood, you know, what I use for the black puddings, and reckoned it’d be a lark to fill his ammo with that instead of paint. You should see the bloody mess he’s made!’

  Edwin Digweed too appeared. He and Wield took in each other’s gory appearance and exchanged smiles.

  ‘I thought I was dead,’ admitted Digweed.

  ‘Me too,’ said Wield.

  The bookseller touched his bloody front with his forefinger and held it up before his eyes.

  ‘What I suggested before,’ he said, ‘it occurs to me, a sensible chap like you might feel a very natural caution about letting yourself be picked up by a strange man. I assure you I too have been extraordinarily cautious since this new Black Death came among us. I have the certification to prove it.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Wield. ‘Don’t worry. I was going to ask.’

  ‘You were? Does that mean you’ve decided yes?’

  ‘From about five minutes ago,’ said Wield, looking ruefully at his bloody front. ‘Life’s too long for silk ties, isn’t it?’

  Three of Guy’s victims didn’t return to the Hall.

  Caddy Scudamore had looked over her shoulder at the blood trickling down her smock, then headed straight into her studio where Justin Halavant found her a few moments later, stripped to the waist, experimenting with this new material on a variety of surfaces. Smiling, he pushed a stool into a corner and sat down to watch her.

  And Elsie Toke hardly paused in her stride as she headed past the pub and turned towards her cottage.

  Here at her front gate she stopped and sighed with relief.

  Her son was in the garden. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt and he was digging the ground under one of the windows.

  ‘Hello, Ma,’ he said. ‘Thought we’d have some stock and petunias here. And some spuds and cabbage round the side. What’s been happening to you?’

  ‘Yon mad bugger, Guy Guillemard. Not to worry. It’s the last time he’ll be larking around here for a while. Fancy a cup of tea? I fetched you some cakes from the Hall.’

  ‘In a minute,’ he said. ‘Good Reckoning, was it?’

  ‘Aye. Interesting. That Justin Halavant’s going to wed young Caddy Scudamore, did you know?’

  She watched him keenly.

  ‘Aye, I knew,’ he said. ‘I thought mebbe some sweet peas over there. Warren were always fond of sweet peas.’

  ‘That’d be nice,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and get out of these mucky things, then I’ll make that tea.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘There is very little story, and what there is told in a strange, unconnected way.’

  Evening was settling over the valley as the three detectives drove out of Enscombe.

  ‘And what the fuck am I going to tell Desperate Dan?’ asked Dalziel.

  It was a rare, indeed almost a unique dilemma. In the past, Dalziel had experienced very little difficulty in telling the Chief Constable anything, from unpleasant truths such as that his flies were open, to downright lies such as that his wish was Dalziel’s command.

  ‘How about, all’s well that ends well?’ said Pascoe brightly.

  ‘Oh aye? How about much ado about fucking nothing!’ retorted the Fat Man. ‘Two whole days, and what have we got? Bodies in the morgue, none. Bodies in the cells, none. Policemen resigned, one. Crimes committed, any number. Citizens willing to bring charges, not a single one!’

  ‘There is a positive side,’ said Pascoe. ‘Schools saved, one. Marriages arranged, two, maybe three. Peace of mind and ways of life preserved, a couple of hundred. And we can still do Guy the ex-Heir for assault.’

  ‘What? When not a soul in the place except us is willing to give evidence? Even Thomas bloody Wapshare says he’s not bothered by the breaking and entering. No, I may not know much, lad, but I know better than to stand up in court and complain about being showered with pig’s blood. We’d be a laughing-stock!’

  ‘The Post Office break-in’s still an open case, though,’ said Pascoe. ‘We might still get someone for that?’

  He sensed rather than saw Wield stiffen. There was something there … in fact there was a lot going on with the Sergeant that he didn’t quite understand. Ellie would fathom it, he comforted himself.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Dalziel disconsolately. ‘It’ll probably turn out to be the Little People, or summat. Aye, that’s it, it’s bloody fairy land back there. I mean, look at yon spot, for God’s sake!’

  They were passing Scarletts, its exuberant shapes and colours gift-wrapped in the glow of the setting sun.

  ‘What the hell’s that got to do with Yorkshire?’ demanded Dalziel. ‘It’s like a tit-show in a monastery!’

  ‘Even monks need a night off,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Nay, lad, being an off-corner yourself, you’d not know what I mean. Wieldy, now, you understand. A tyke’s a tyke even if it primps itself like a poodle. Wieldy, this Enscombe place, how’d it strike you?’

  ‘Oh, I agree with you, sir,’ said Wield. ‘Definitely fairy land.’

  He glanced at Pascoe and winked, causing him almost to drive into the ditch as his mind clouded once more with vain speculation.

  Dalziel didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘There you are,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘I’m glad at least one of you keeps his feet on the ground. A fairy tale, that’s what I’ll tell Dan! I’ll begin Once upon a time, then lay out the facts. He can decide for himself how it works out, earn his overbloated salary for once. How does that sound to you, Wieldy?’

  ‘Money for old rope,’ said Wield. ‘’Cos if you start Once upon a time, there’s no bother at all deciding how it works out, is there?’

  ‘Meaning what, clever clogs?’
<
br />   ‘And they all lived happy ever after,’ said Wield. ‘The end.’

  If you enjoyed Pictures of Perfection, read the next book in the Dalziel & Pascoe series

  Click here to order The Wood Beyond

  Read on for the first chapter now.

  PROLOGUE

  Monday morning, start of a new week, air bright as ice in a crystal glass, brandy-gold sun pouring from delft-blue sky, the old bracken glowing on the rolling moors, the trees still pied with their unblasted leaves, the pastures still green with their unmuddied grass, as October runs into November and thinks it’s September still.

  Edgar Wield drove slowly out of Enscombe, slowly because on mornings like this what you were driving through was far more important than where you were driving to, and also because during the short time he’d been living in the village he’d learned that only a fool assumed that the narrow roads ran clear further than the next bend.

  His caution was rewarded when he eased round a corner and found George Creed shepherding the stragglers of a flock of sheep through a gate into a field set up with holding pens. The sight made him smile at the echo of his first sighting of Creed doing much the same task on this very road. Since then they’d become both neighbours and friends.

  ‘’Morning, George, fine-looking beasts,’ he called through his open window.

  Domicile entitled him to this pretension of expertise, though he wasn’t altogether sure whether the term beasts could legitimately be applied to sheep as well as cattle.

  ‘’Morning, Edgar,’ said Creed. ‘Happen they’ll do. Sounds daft, but I’ll be sorry to see them go.’

  ‘They’re off then?’ said Wield now taking in the significance of the pens.

  ‘Aye, folk have got to eat, that’s what farming’s all about. But the older I get, the more it bothers me, selling off what I’ve bred up. Don’t be saying owt of this down in the Morris else they’ll be thinking I’m going soft in the head!’

  ‘Which market are you taking them to?’

  ‘No market. I’ve always dealt man and boy with Haig’s of Wharfedale. They give me top price ’cos they know my stock, and I sell them my stock ’cos I know they’ll see them right. So watch out for their wagon on your way into town. Take up most of the road them things.’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ said Wield. ‘No hurry on a morning like this. I’d as lief be staying here to give you a hand if you’d have me.’

  ‘I’m always willing to set on a likely lad,’ laughed Creed. ‘But I think you’d be wanting your cards afore the end of the day.’

  He glanced upwards as he spoke and Wield followed his gaze into the unflawed bowl of blue sky.

  ‘You’re never saying it’s on the turn, are you?’ he asked sceptically. ‘Looks set for another month to me.’

  ‘Nay, it’ll spoil itself by tea time, and make a right job of it too.’

  ‘You reckon? Well, even if it does, you’re better off here than where I’m going. Wet, dry, hail or shine, there’s no place like Enscombe. See you, George.’

  He engaged the clutch and continued his leisurely progress down the valley road which aped the twists and turns of the River Een as though it were of the same ancient natural birth. A couple of miles further on he saw the juggernaut of the livestock transporter coming towards him and pulled off the road into a small piece of woodland to let it past. The driver blew his horn in appreciation and Wield waved as the huge truck with its legend D. HAIG & CO Livestock Wholesalers rumbled by.

  When it was past and out of sight, he continued to sit for a while, enjoying the cool breeze through the open window and the way the amber sunlight scintilla’d through the trembling branches. He had the feeling that if he got out of his car and strolled off into the wood, he could keep going forever with nothing changing, no ageing, no hunger, no cold, no crime, no war …

  And certainly no rain!

  Yes, that was one thing he was certain of. He was a great respecter of the rustic eye, but towns had weather too and Detective Sergeant Wield of Mid-Yorkshire CID wasn’t often caught without his umbrella. No, this time George had got it wrong. This Indian summer had a lot of wear in it yet. He couldn’t see any end to it himself. And what you couldn’t see the end of, surely that must be forever?

  part one

  SANCTUARY

  The wanton Troopers riding by

  Have shot my Faun and it will dye.

  i

  Dear Mrs Pascoe

  I do not know if Peter ever mentioned to you that I was his superior officer for some time. Indeed one of my last acts before I was invalided out was to confirm his promotion to sergeant. You may therefore understand with what dismay I received the tragic news of his death, and I wanted to write to you at once to say that in my opinion he was one of the finest men I had the privilege to command, and in no way does the manner of his death divert me from that judgment.

  I realize that at a time like this you will scarcely feel able to look ahead, but with a young daughter to bring up, the future and its problems will all too soon demand attention. Recognizing that you may have needs which are pressing and immediate, I beg you to accept the accompanying small initial contribution and my assurance that as soon as the opportunity arises I shall take steps to ensure you and your child are cared for as Peter would have wished.

  Meanwhile I remain yours in deepest sympathy,

  Herbert Antony Grindal

  ii

  Is this thing working? Right. Here we go. Here we go, here we go … sorry. Just testing. OK, from the start. Getting into the wood were easy. Out of the ditch, over the top, and there we were. Mind you, it were like jumping into a raging sea. Wind howling, everything shaking and creaking and groaning like the whole bloody issue was alive, and so much stuff flying around you were in danger of getting your head took off. But we pressed on regardless, taking our direction from the glow up ahead. Even when you can’t see your hand before your face, there’s always that glow.

  Then at the edge of the trees we hit wire, and we paused here to get our breath and count heads.

  We were all present and correct, the whole eight of us, and Cap started in on the wire. You’ll have met the Captain? Useless with the cutters but won’t let anyone else have them. Sort of badge of office. Eventually there was a hole of sorts and we started through. Jacksie – that’s Jacklin, the well-made one – got snagged and swore. Cap said, ‘Keep it down,’ like someone might hear in all that din, and Jacksie said, ‘If I could keep it down, I wouldn’t have got it stuck,’ and a couple of us got the giggles. It’s easy done when you’re shit scared. Not that it mattered or Jacksie swearing either. Like I said, it were pissing with rain and blowing a gale, and you would have needed a lot more than a giggle to get noticed.

  Then we were all through and the laughing stopped.

  There’s nowt to laugh at out there. It’s a wasteland. Used to be trees but after the big raid last summer, they blew them all to hell, roots and all, and when it rains for a week, like it’s been doing, the holes all fill with water and the ground gets so clarty, you can feel it sucking you down. Smells too. Don’t know why it should. It were once good mixed woodland like what’s still there. But now it stinks like a ploughed-up boneyard.

  Someone – don’t know who – said, ‘This is bloody stupid. We should head back.’ Seconded, I thought. But I kept my trap shut ’cos if there’s one thing guaranteed to make Cap head east, it’s hearing me speak up for west. I should’ve known better than to try diplomacy. It never works. Might as well start scrapping right off and get it over with. Cap just glowered at me as if it had been me mouthing off, and said, ‘Follow me. Keep close.’ And we were off, no pretence of a discussion. Whatever happened to universal suffrage?

  God, it were hard going. Two steps forward, one back, and as for keeping close, with that rain coming down and the mist coming up, it was all you could do to see where your next step were going to land, let alone keep an eye on anybody else. So it came as no surprise when somewhere
over to the left I heard a splash and yell and a voice crying ‘Oh shit!’ all spluttery. Someone had gone into a crater. My money was on Jacksie, but I didn’t waste time speculating. Even someone a lot better coordinated could drown in one of them holes as easy as the middle of the Atlantic. So I headed for the noise like everybody else. Only I must’ve been a bit more headstrong than the rest ’cos when I got there, I didn’t stop but slid right over the edge, and next thing, I were down the bleeding hole too!

  For a while I thought I were going to drown, but once I got the right way up and persuaded Jacksie – I’d been right about that – to stop grabbing my hair, I realized there were only two or three feet of water down there, which was fine so long as you didn’t lose your footing. The real problem was how to get out, ’cos the walls started sloshing and crumbling every time you tried to get a hold on them.

  Cap and the others had arrived by now and were reaching down to grab us. They got Jacksie first and I pushed like mad and got nowt but a faceful of boot for my pains. But eventually the useless bugger got hauled out and it were my turn. I reached up and felt someone get a hold of my right hand, I couldn’t see who, my eyes were so full of mud and water, and I thrashed around with my left till finally I found another hand to get hold of. Then, kicking my toes into the side, I started to haul myself out.

  I soon caught on I were getting a lot of help with my right hand – turned out to be Cap who were doing the pulling – but nowt at all with my left. But before I could start wondering why, my feet slipped out of the hole I’d kicked in the side of the crater and my hand slipped out of Cap’s, and I started to slide back in, putting all my weight on whoever had got a hold of my left hand.

  And it just came away, the hand I was holding on to I mean. And I slid right back down into that filthy water with my fingers still grasped tight around that thing, or like it seemed then, with that thing’s fingers still grasped tight round mine, and I started to scream, and some on the others started to scream too, and eventually even them buggers in the green uniforms started taking notice, and next thing there was a whole platoon of them all around us shouting and shoving and that’s how we ended up getting captured. Me ciggies are all sodden. You’ve not got a dry one, have you?