Dalziel 17 On Beulah Height

by Reginald Hill

  'Oh, I've seen minds that have gone a sight deeper than that,' said Dalziel. 'Thanks for being so frank. And I'm sorry to have troubled you.'

  'No trouble. And perfect timing. There, I believe, is the fire inspector. Excuse me.'

  He headed towards a man who'd just stepped through the door and was looking around with that sceptical have-we-got-trouble-here expression which is the first thing safety inspectors learn at college.

  'How about us, Superintendent? You got any excepts for us?'

  Elizabeth Wulfstan's accent still bothered him even though he'd absolved her of taking the piss.

  He said, 'None I can think of, miss. Except, them Kraut songs about dead kids, you still planning to sing them tomorrow?'

  'I am. After a complimentary ticket, are you? Well, we might manage one, but I reckon someone as glorrfat as you 'ud need two and I don't know if we can spare that many.'

  This was piss-taking in any language.

  He said, 'Just thought you might have changed your mind, all things considered.'

  The Turnip gave him a nod of approval, but the woman just shrugged indifferently.

  She said, 'Kids die, all the time. Show me somewhere I could sing them that no kids have died.'

  'We're not talking general, we're talking specific here,' he said.

  'I thought the Liggside lass were only missing,' she said. 'Like the others. They're only missing, right? You never found any bodies, did you?'

  She spoke mildly, as if they were discussing some minor point of etiquette.

  Dalziel said, 'Fifteen years is a long time missing. I don't think anyone . . .'

  He paused. He'd been going to say he didn't think anyone was expecting them to come walking back through the door, but his encounter with Joe Telford popped up in his mind. And what did he really know about what Wulfstan and his wife were thinking? Or the Hardcastles. From what Clark had told him it sounded like all that family had gone doolally to some degree or another.

  Perhaps he was the only man in Mid-Yorkshire who was certain beyond doubt all the children were dead . . . No, not the only one . . . there was another. . .

  He said, 'Any road, it's none of my business. You can sing what you like, luv, long as it doesn't offend public decency.'

  'Thank you,' she said seriously. 'But I'll not be singing at all if this place doesn't suit. You done yet, Inger?'

  Inger Sandel hadn't once glanced Dalziel's way during the whole of his conversation with the Wulfstans, concentrating on what sounded to his untutored ear like an unnecessary fine tuning of the piano. But he had the feeling that she hadn't missed a thing. Now she sat back and started to play a scale, tentative at first, then expanding till she was sweeping up and down the whole length of the keyboard. The notes filled the chapel. Finally she stopped and listened to their dying echoes with the same rapt attention as she'd paid to the originals. Then she turned to the other woman and gave a barely perceptible nod.

  'Let's give it a bash, then,' said Elizabeth Wulfstan.

  Dalziel moved towards the door, Ame Krog fell into step beside him.

  'I think you are right, Mr Dalziel,' he said. 'Elizabeth should not sing the Kindertotenlieder. For the sake of this place. And for her own sake.'

  'Her own sake?'

  Krog shrugged.

  'Elizabeth is strong, like a steel door. You cannot see what is behind it. But as you know, the way the child is shaped forms the adult. Perhaps that's where we should look.'

  Before Dalziel could reply, Inger Sandel started playing the piano; an abrupt, rapid, disturbing torrent of notes before the singer came in, with words to match.

  In such foul weather, in such a gale,

  I'd never have sent them to play up the dale!

  They were dragged by force or fear.

  Nought I said could keep them here.

  She spat out the words with such power they turned the Beulah Chapel into a self-contained storm in the midst of the bright sunny day outside. As she sang, her eyes were once more fixed on Wulfstan, who at first tried to keep his conversation with the fire inspector going but soon turned his head to watch the singer.

  In such foul weather, in sleet and hail,

  I'd never have let them play out in the dale,

  I was feart they'd take badly;

  Now such fears I'd suffer gladly.

  She stopped abruptly and the pianist stopped too.

  'Bit echoey,' said Elizabeth. 'But that'll likely improve once the place is filled with punters. Arne, you know everything, what do you reckon?'

  Her voice was not loud but its projection was imperative. Practising to be a prima donna, or does she just not like the idea of me and the Turnip having a cosy chat? wondered Dalziel.

  He looked at Krog and waited for his response. A look of irritation passed across the man's face, then he smiled apologetically and said, 'Excuse me. We will talk again perhaps.'

  He hurried away to the two women by the piano.

  Dalziel, who had noticed that Wulfstan, despite his close confabulation with the fire inspector, hadn't missed a nuance of this exchange, murmured to himself, 'No perhaps about it, lad.' Then he went out into the sunshine.

  SIX

  It was, decided Pascoe, like being on a stakeout.

  You did your stag, sat and watched, nothing happened, you got relieved, went off and had a wash and a sandwich, got your head down if you could, went back on stag, and the longer it all went on, the more you began to fear it was all no bloody use, all just a waste of time, your info was wrong, your snout had been sussed, and nothing was going to happen, not now, not in a few minutes, not ever . .. never never never never nev . . .

  'Everything OK?' said Ellie.

  'What? Yeah, sure, fine, I mean, no change . . .'

  'You look worse than she does,' said Ellie, looking from the slight form of her daughter to her husband's drawn face. 'Why don't you go and try to get some sleep?'

  He shook his head and said, 'Been there, tried that; it's worse than being awake.'

  'OK. At least get out of this place, try some fresh air and sunshine.'

  'I'm sick of sunshine, couldn't I try some rain?' he said, managing a smile.

  She kissed him gently on the lips and he went out of the ward.

  The hospital grounds were extensive and had once been a centre of horticultural excellence. But the public purse strings had been drawn much tighter in recent years, and this plus the drought and its attendant hose-pipe ban had turned the gardens into near desert. He walked around for a while, then sat down on a bench and watched the stream of people moving between the car park and the main entrance. Coming, their gait was halting and slow; going, they moved with ease and vigour. Or was his keen detective gaze distorted by fatigue and that rumbling rage which like a storm in a neighbour valley never left him?

  Eventually he must have fallen asleep, for he woke suddenly, slumped against the bench, not knowing where he was, then panicking when he worked it out.

  But a glance at his watch told him he'd only been away for half an hour. He stood up, stretched, walked briskly back inside, and found a washroom where he splashed cold water over his face.

  He got himself a coffee from a machine and went back upstairs. It was, he decided, too early to go back into the ward. Ellie would just get exasperated with him and give him the let's-be-sensible- about-this lecture. Not that he minded the lecture. Like the Mr Nice and Mr Nasty interrogation technique, they took turns at being the tower of strength and the weaker vessel. The lecture was part of Ellie's tower mode.

  The waiting-room door was slightly ajar and as he made to enter to finish his coffee inside, he heard Derek Purlingstone's voice. He hadn't seen the man so far today. Maybe Mid-Yorkshire Water needed all their staff out in the sticks, digging for wells. Or maybe he needed to keep busy to stop going mad.

  Mad was what he sounded now, more angry than mental.

  'You know where I lay the blame, don't you?'

  Jill said, 'Please, Derek ..
.'

  'That bloody school! If only you'd agreed to send her to a decent school, this would never have happened. No! Don't come near me. You smell like an old ashtray. God, did you have to start smoking again?'

  Before Pascoe could retreat, the door was pulled wide open and Jill Purlingstone, her eyes full of tears, pushed past him and ran down the corridor.

  Pascoe stepped inside. His instinct was to pretend he'd heard nothing, but when he broke the awkward silence, he found himself saying, 'You don't really think the school's got anything to do with it, do you?'

  'They had to catch it somewhere,' snapped Purlingstone.

  'And you really think there'd have been less chance at what you call a "decent school"?'

  Pascoe's intention was still conversational rather than combative. During their few social encounters, usually apropos of the children, he'd found Purlingstone pleasant enough company, with sufficient common ground between them to make it easy to pass a couple of hours without trespass into disputed areas on either side. And when they had touched upon forbidden topics, like the responsibilities of a modern police force or the efficiency and record of Mid-Yorkshire Water, they had both been able to settle for a light, piss-taking touch. Perhaps that was what Purlingstone was straining for now as he said, 'Don't you? You get what you pay for in this life, Peter. OK, I know you and Ellie are card-carrying Trots, but I always got the impression you reckoned what was best for Rosie was worth going after, no holds barred.'

  'The best in the system, by all means,' said Pascoe. 'But not buying yourself out of the system.'

  'You mean it's OK for you to call in a few favours to get your kid where you want her, but not for me to pay a few quid to do the same?'

  'What the hell are you saying? It's a good school and I'm pleased to have Rosie going there.'

  'Of course you are, especially as Bullgate Primary's three miles closer to you in the opposite direction. How many parking tickets did you have to cancel to get her on the roll at Edengrove, I wonder?'

  The sneer came out so glibly that Pascoe guessed it had been used many times before. So what? he told himself. He wasn't always exactly complimentary about Purlingstone behind his back. Time to back away from this irritable spat between two men who should be united by worry instead of set at each other's throats by it.

  That was what his mind was saying, but his voice wasn't taking any notice.

  'Oh yes, you're right, a hell of a lot of parking tickets. But that's because I'm not a fat cat with his nose in the trough, so I can't afford the really big bribes.'

  Jesus! Where's your self-control? he asked himself. Back off. Back off. He could see the other man too was close to snapping. Here it comes. Whatever he says, ignore it, walk away.

  But his feet remained rooted as Purlingstone's strained breathless voice said, 'I don't have to take that from a jumped-up plod. I work bloody hard for my money, mate. I live in the real world and I've got to earn every penny I get.'

  'You're joking!' said Pascoe incredulously. 'You're doing the same job you used to do before privatization. And if what they paid you then was peanuts, what's that make you now but a monkey with a bloated bank balance? And you know where that money's coming from? It's coming from us poor sods who can't get decent water pumped into our houses. Christ, if anyone's responsible for our kids being sick, it's likely to be you with your polluted beaches and stinking tap water!'

  Purlingstone, his face working, took a step towards him. Pascoe balled his fist. Then he felt himself seized from behind and dragged through the door which was slammed shut behind him.

  'Peter, what the hell are you playing at?' demanded Ellie, her voice low but trembling with fury.

  'I don't know ... he said . . . and I just felt it was time ... Oh shit, it was just stupid. Things came pouring out. Him too. He said ...'

  'I'm not interested in what he said. All I'm interested in is our daughter, and you getting into a fight in the hospital waiting room isn't going to help her, is it? Look, if you can't hack it here, why don't you go out, go home, have a sleep?'

  He took a deep breath, reached down inside himself for control, found it.

  'No, I'm all right now,' he said. 'I'm sorry. It's just I'm so frustrated I had to lash out. Could have been worse. Could have been you on the receiving end. What are you doing out of the ward, anyway? Nothing's happened, has it?'

  'You think I'd be wasting time on this crap? No, no change. I just need the loo, that's all. And I need it even more after this delay.'

  'Take your time,' said Pascoe. 'I'll go into the ward, see if I can find a nurse to beat up.'

  His weak joke seemed to reassure her and she hurried off. Pascoe looked at the waiting-room door, wondered if he should go in and try to make his peace, decided he wasn't quite ready for that yet and went down the corridor to the room where Rosie lay.

  A nurse was checking the monitors. She gave him a nice smile before she left, so perhaps he didn't look like Mr Hyde, after all. He sat down and took his daughter's hand.

  'Hi, Rosie,' he said. 'It's me. I've just been having a fight with Zandra's dad. You didn't think fathers had fights, did you? Well, it's just like the school playground out there. One moment you're minding your own business, next, someone says something and you say something back, then you're rolling on the ground trying to bite someone's ear off. That's boys I'm talking about. You girls are different. Got more sense, your mum would say. Maybe she's right. Or maybe it's just that women don't get physical, they get even. Sure, they're all for peace, but I sometimes think that for them peace is just a continuation of war by other means. That's a grown-up joke which you'll understand some day when you're a woman. Won't be too long, darling. You'll be bringing some revolting young man home and hoping your aged p's won't disgrace you by drooling into their teacups or taking their teeth out to remove the raspberry jam seeds. Rosie, be kind to us. That's all the world needs really to keep it going round, kids being kind to their parents, parents being kind to their kids, that's the only family value that's worth a toss, that's the only bit of wisdom I've got to give you. I hope you can hear it. Can you hear it, darling? Are you listening to me deep down there somewhere?'

  He leaned over the little girl and stared intently into her face. There was no movement, no flicker of the eyelids. No sign of life at all.

  Panic-stricken, he turned to the monitor. There it was, a steady pulse. He looked from the machine to the face, still not trusting. A muscle moved in her cheek like the softest sigh of breeze on a summer pool. He let out the long relieved breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

  He started to talk again, but now his monologue sounded self- conscious and forced so he picked up Nina and the Nix and started reading where he'd left off before.

  'Outside, sun were so bright, a little bit of light filtered down the entrance tunnel. By its dim glow she saw she were in a cave. The ground were strewn with rocks and stuff. In the middle of the cave was a small, foul-smelling pool, and on its edge sat this thing.

  'Its body was long and scaly, its fingers and toes were webbed with long curved nails, its face was gaunt and hollow, its nose hooked, its chin pointed and fringed with sharp spikes of beard, its eyes deep-set and...'

  Suddenly there was a mechanical beeping sound which had him staring in terror at the monitor for the split second it took him to realize it was his mobile. Angrily he clicked it on and snarled, 'Yes?'

  There was a pause, as if his vehemence had frightened the speaker. Then a woman's voice said, 'Hello. This is Shirley Novello. I was just ringing ... I was wondering, how is she, your little girl?'

  'No change,' said Pascoe.

  'Well, that's ... I mean, I'm glad ... I hope everything turns out OK, sir. Sorry to bother you . . .'

  'That's OK,' said Pascoe, relenting his brusqueness. 'It was good of you to ring. Look, I shouldn't be using this thing in here. They say it can affect things...’

  As he spoke he looked anxiously at the monitor. Everything seemed to be as befo
re.

  Novello was saying, 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . . look, this wasn't such a good idea, sorry, sir. I hope everything turns out OK.'

  Not such a good idea? It dawned on him that maybe this wasn't just a sympathy call.

  For a second he felt furious. Then he thought, to hell with it! What do you want? The world to stop out there just because it was grinding to a halt in here? And the girl wasn't to know he was actually sitting at Rosie's bedside, watching a machine for reassurance she was still breathing.

  He said, 'Give me your number.'

  Surprised, she obeyed. He rang off without saying anything further, went out into the corridor and wheeled in a telephone trolley he'd noticed before, plugged it in and dialled.

  'Right,' he said. 'You've done the sympathy bit. Now you've got two minutes for the rest.'

  It came out fast and slick. This she'd rehearsed, reckoning that if she did get the chance to speak, the faster the better.

  He said, 'You got the name of Mrs Lightfoot's bank?'

  'Mid-Yorks Savings.'

  'That's Willie Noolan. Old rugby club chum of the super's. He'll co-operate if you mention Mr Dalziel's name and smile knowingly. Tell him you'd like to know when the large sum of money paid into Mrs Lightfoot's account fifteen years ago went out and in what form.'

  'Yes, sir. Please, what large sum?'

  'The compensation money for Neb Cottage. I found out the other day ... yesterday...’

  He paused. Novello guessed he was having difficulty matching real and relative time.