Arms and the Women (20 page)

For she knew Tig's background, knew that every time they saw him, she and Peter would think of little Lorraine Dacre walking off along Ligg Beck that sunny Sunday morning, and her parents' growing anxiety, and the fear of uncertainty slowly changing to the horror of knowledge . . . Could she bear to think of this every time she saw Rosie and Tig together?

But she was seeing something else too, something she hadn't seen since that day they gently revealed to their recovering daughter that her friend, Zandra, stricken with the same meningitis bug, had not recovered. It was a loving brightness in Rosie's eyes as she hugged the little dog. A barrier which had come down as she took in the news of her friend's death, a barrier which had made her turn away from Ellie's or anyone's offers of unstinted love, had been raised a little, and that had to be worth almost anything.

She said, 'Let's see how you two get on together, shall we? There's more to having a dog than just playing with it, you know. Dogs are like children, no use to anyone unless they do what they're told.'

In her mind she heard Daphne ironically applauding this fine old traditionalist viewpoint.
Daphne.
She must get round to see her.

Rosie stood up, said firmly, 'Tig. Stay!' and took the can of Coke which Wield had fetched from the fridge. Then she moved over to the kitchen table, sat down, and started drinking. The dog remained where it was, but its eyes never left her.

'Knows how to make a telling point, that child,' said Digweed. 'She ought to think of becoming a lawyer.'

'She is inclined in the other direction, I think,' said Ellie. 'Wieldy, can I have a word?'

She went back into the living room.

Wield, anticipating rebuke, started apologizing as soon as he came through the door.

'Ellie, I'm sorry. Don't know what Edwin was thinking of. I mean, yes, I do, and I'll be giving him a good talking-to afore the day's out . .’

'It's OK, Wieldy,' she said smiling. 'All he was doing was taking the tide. Rosie was three-quarters gone already.'

Wield considered this then said neutrally, 'So you think there's a chance maybe . . .'

'A chance maybe, very maybe,' said Ellie firmly. 'I'd need to talk to Peter, who will take some persuading, I imagine, as word around the factory seems to be that Tig's turned into a ravening monster.'

'Well, he did have a go at the super...’

'Is that right? Now that's a very good selling point. Seriously, if there's any chance of the animal turning nasty..’

Wield said, 'He's just a bit nervous round strange men. Not surprising after what happened. Doesn't seem to mind me too much, but Edwin and him can't get on. You saw how he was with Rosie, but. Another little girl, what he's used to. I can see how that might be a problem, for you, I mean.'

One of the many things Ellie liked about Wield was that, like Andy Dalziel, he didn't mince words, though, unlike his great master, he usually peppered them with kindness.

'My problems are in the grain, Rosie's can still be smoothed away, and if Tig's what it takes . . . sorry, Wieldy, not your problem, though your concern's much appreciated. Listen, what I wanted to ask is, do you mind if I bunk off? I want to go and see Daphne. After what happened, well, I feel responsible. Rosie won't mind. Black Bitch apart, I seem pretty dispensable these days. So if it wouldn't be too much bother . . .'

'Not for me. It'll bother Pete, though, if he finds out you're traipsing about without an escort.'

'I warned him and I think he had a word with DC Bowler.'

'Fine. I'll just have another word to make sure he's quite clear.'

He went outside. The detective constable had parked opposite the cottage and was leaning back against the bonnet of his MG, studying through binoculars the famous leaning tower of St Hilda and St Margaret, just visible over the high stone wall against which Corpse Cottage was built.

'Hi, Sarge,' he said, lowering the glasses. 'Anyone told you your church is falling down?'

His eyes ran up and down Wield's form as he spoke. Not, the sergeant guessed, in admiration of my magnificent body, but because he wants to check out the rumours that I wear a tutu and nipple rings when I'm at home off duty.

Wield had been 'out' for some little while now, but had never thought that explaining yourself to the prurient or even making things easy for the embarrassed was an essential ingredient of 'outness'. He knew there was a wide range of rumours about his rural retreat. Some his own extremely sharp ears had caught floating round the station, others had been retailed to him by Peter Pascoe who for a while had been one of the embarrassed but only because, despite being as close to Wield as anyone in the Force, he hadn't taken in what had been clear to both Ellie and Dalziel from the outset. Since then he compensated, perhaps over-compensated, by keeping his friend abreast of in-house speculation, ranging from those who dismissed talk of the sergeant's gayness with confident assertion that Digweed was merely his landlord, or (they liked this one) that he had gone sexually undercover to help break up a vice ring, to those who claimed that his true residence in Enscombe was in fact a house called Scarletts, a Morris design in pink brick and turquoise slates with hipped gables and battered chimney breasts, in which he and his partner organized S and M weekends for many of the great and good of Mid-Yorkshire.

Bowler, the most recent addition to Mid-Yorks CID on transfer from the Midlands, would be naturally curious to check out the rumours of northern naughtiness.

Wield said, 'See anything you fancy?'

That dropped his jaw a good three inches.

'Sorry, Sarge?'

'Birds. You're a twitcher, aren't you?'

Jerk him around a bit, then let him see that while he might still be speculating about you, you already knew all about him.

'Yeah, that's right, but I never said

Never said anything to anybody at the station. A new member of a CID team was under close examination till you saw how he shaped up, and some things you kept quiet about, like that your hobby was bird-watching, which while not as nerdish as train-spotting, was certainly a very large peg for the would-be wags to hang their wit on.

'Aye, and I wouldn't. So, did you see owt interesting?'

'No birds, but I thought there was something moving up there . . . and there was this funny little gargoyle, but then I lost it . . .'

Wield smiled inwardly, though if he'd smiled outwardly, Bowler probably wouldn't have noticed. Funny little gargoyles on St H. and M.'s tower tended to be Monte the marmoset, one of whose favourite perches this was.

'That's something else to keep quiet about, losing gargoyles,' he said.

'Yeah. So is Mrs Pascoe staying here or am I still playing escort.'

'Playing?' said Wield reflectively. 'If you mean, is Mrs Pascoe going off to see her friend, Mrs Aldermann, and are you going with her to ensure her safety, the answer is yes. I'm sorry if you feel baby-sitting the DCI's family's a bit beneath you. Mebbe you'll feel different when you've followed far enough in Mr Pascoe's footsteps to have made some enemies of your own.'

Bowler, like Peter Pascoe, was a graduate-entry recruit, with good prospects for rapid promotion if he shaped up right. One of the reasons for his transfer north had been to widen his experience.

He was physically not unlike Pascoe, slim, tallish, with a long narrow face and deep watchful eyes. Sensitive, too, like Pascoe. Wield's reproof had made him flush. Ellie's type, clearly. Hadn't she called him a dish? Strawberry ice, perhaps, with that interesting flush suffusing his rather pale cheeks.

'No, I didn't mean . . . except maybe it's more a job for uniformed . . .'

'No way,' said Wield. 'When it's hard getting trained CID men who should know better to take the job seriously, just imagine how easy it 'ud be for some plod whingeing about special treatment for CID brass to take his eye off the ball. If an attempted abduction and an assault isn't enough to catch your interest, maybe you should specialize in traffic.'

It was heavy talk, but if Bowler was going to survive the kind of remedial education Andy Dalziel liked to offer what he called the educationally disadvantaged, he was going to need strong shoulders and a very thick skin.

'Yes, Sarge. I see that. Sorry. Don't worry. I'll stick closer to Mrs Pascoe than...’

He hesitated. Was going to say
shit to a blanket,
thought Wield, but suddenly it didn't seem appropriate.

'Closer than that,' said Wield. 'She can be a very elusive lady if she takes the fancy.'

The elusive lady came out of the cottage and walked towards them.

She said, 'I'd get back in there quick, Wieldy. Edwin seems to be expiating some strange guilt feelings by force-feeding Rosie all kinds of exotic goodies from his larder.'

Very sharp lady too, thought Wield.

'Leave you in good hands then,' he said.

'I hope so,' said Ellie, smiling at the young DC. 'What do I call you, by the way?'

'Bowler, ma'am,' he said.

'Yes, I know that, but what do you get called? I presume you've got a first name?'

'Yeah, well, my friends all call me Hat. You know. Bowler . . .'

'Yes, got it, I think,' laughed Ellie. 'So, Hat it is.'

'You don't get Bert then?' enquired Wield gravely.

It wasn't a cruelty, just another degree in the don't- mess-with-me learning curve, to let the youngster know that Wield's omniscience included the fact that Bowler's parents, under the influence of history and/or alcohol, had christened him Ethelbert.

Life in CID for a bird-watching graduate called Ethelbert could ,very easily be hell.

'No, Sarge. Just Hat.'

'In that case, Hat, you use them bins of yours for watching Mrs Pascoe here, nowt else. OK?'

'OK, Sarge.'

He stepped gracefully into his open sports car.

'This car, bit showy, isn't it? For the job, I mean,' said Wield.

'Well, I wouldn't use it for a stake-out on a wet winter's night on a run-down council estate,' said Bowler pertly. 'But I don't anticipate Mrs Pascoe going down many mean streets.'

'I may surprise you,' said Ellie. 'Wieldy, thanks a lot. I'll ring. Or you ring if there's any problem. I've left my mobile number with Rosie. See you later. Come on, Hat. Wagons roll!'

She gave Wield a kiss on the lips, climbed into her car, started up and set off down the slope to the High Street with a smiling Bowler in hot pursuit.

Wield watched them go. Young Bowler seemed OK, he thought. Though you couldn't really tell, not till a man was tested. But he hoped the test wouldn't come while he was baby-sitting Ellie Pascoe. All the Pascoes were special to Wield. But Ellie was special special. The kind of woman who made an old queen wish sometimes that he was a lesbian.

Smiling to himself at the old joke, Wield went back into the cottage.

The phone was ringing.

Pascoe, he guessed as he picked it up, ringing to check that his womenfolk had turned up safe.

He was wrong about the caller, but right about the call.

It was Fat Andy Dalziel, pretending to be checking whether Bowler was going to be needed all day.

'Yes, sir. They got here safe and sound . . . Ellie's just

headed off to see her friend . . . yes Bowler's gone with her ... I think he'll be fine, sir . . . and I'll take good care of the little lass ... no need to worry, sir cheers . . .'

He put the phone down.

No need to worry, he'd said.

Except if Andy Dalziel was worried enough to call, mebbe there was more need to worry than anyone was letting on.

The Fat Man claimed to be able to sense trouble in his piles and Wield for one believed him.

Or maybe he was just going soft in his old age.

Andy Dalziel going soft?

Aye, when Gibraltar turned into a mound of pink blancmange!

Grinning at the notion, he went through into the kitchen to rescue Rosie from Edwin's compensatory force-feeding.

xv

spelt from Sibyl's leaves

0l' man Dalziel

that ol man Dalziel

he has to know something ...

Indeed he does, else he wouldn't be sleeping here in his little casket waiting for the trumpet to sound his reveille.

Let it blow! Let these electronic bones reassemble and put on flesh. Let's take a look at him in glorious technicolour.

Good Lord!

Is this the face that. . . ? Here's a big genie to keep in such a little bottle. Once out, in bulk as large as whom the fables name of monstrous size, Titanian . . .

But why has the archpriest commanded that this monster should be poured out of his bottle into the
Leaves
folder?

Let's have a look and see why the Great Gaw took an interest in him in the first place.

Not apparently for the excesses of his mad youth, whose indiscretions seem to have been of quite another kind . . . no, here it is. . . sweet mystery of life at last I've found thee . . . now it all comes back. He got his clod-hoppers tangled in the weedy depths of the Mickledore affair. . . twice . . . once at its beginning and again when it was recalled to life all those years later . . . This was Gawain Sempernel's finest hour. With the scandals of the Profumo affair waiting to be resurrected . . . the royal connection . . . the American link ... he was a man walking through a minefield while juggling flasks of nitro.