Child's Play (12 page)

Meanwhile at the other table, after some preliminary indecision as to whether he should sit with his face towards Dalziel and be continually reminded of his presence, or with his back towards him and risk being stolen upon unawares, Watmough had compromised with a sideways seat and had soon lulled himself into forgetfulness with that most soothing of music, his own harmonic future.

Ogilby contented himself with reassurance and optimistic agreement throughout the brown
Windsor and well into the steak and kidney pudding. He felt he'd gone quite far enough when Watmough said, 'Mid-Yorks
is a good force and a clean force, and people in the know will give credit where it's due, Ike. I've carried this lot, you know that. Old Tommy Winter's been demob-happy for two years at least.'

'Everyone knows you're a great administrator, Nev,' said Ogilby.

'Not just an administrator,' retorted Watmough. 'Round here they've not forgotten the Pickford case.'

I bet they bloody haven't! thought Ogilby with an inward groan. The Pickford case had been Watmough's finest hour. It had happened a few years earlier when Watmough was Assistant Chief Constable in South Yorkshire. A seven-year-old Wakefield girl, Mary Brook, had gone missing. A friend thought she'd seen her getting into a car which might have been a blue Cortina. Four weeks later her body was found in a shallow grave on the moors. Then another girl, this time from Barnsley, went missing in similar circumstances, and at almost the same time, a third child vanished from the small mining town of Burrthorpe only ten miles away. Watmough took charge of the investigation, holding frequent press conferences in which he talked confidently of the modern age of detection and assured his listeners that the answer was already in the new police computer. It was just a matter of waiting for it to come out.

Not long after, a blue Cortina was discovered in a

lonely country lane near Doncaster. In it was Donald Pickford, a sales representative from Huddersfield, asphyxiated by exhaust fumes. He had left a rambling incoherent letter expressing horror at what he had been compelled to do. A search of the area revealed the body of the Barnsley girl a quarter of a mile away. No reference was made to Tracy Pedley, the missing Burrthorpe girl, but there was a clear reference to Mary Brook and to another unsolved child-murder in Mid-Yorkshire some two years before.

Watmough at his final press conference made no bones about claiming to have solved just about every childmolesting case in the county over the past decade. Dalziel was heard to opine that likely Pickford was Jack the Ripper and had murdered the Princes in the Tower too, but his many enemies regarded this as sour grapes. Watmough was meanwhile flourishing a piece of computer printout at reporters and declaring, 'Look, here is the man's name. He knew we were pressing close and took the only way out. This is a triumph for modern detective methods!'

Privately, like many others, Ogilby reckoned that it wasn't difficult after the event to get any bloody name on a printout. But he already had a vested interest in Watmough, and the media as a whole had had their full quota of bungling half-wits for the week, but were a bit short on heroes. So Watmough got the vote and a month later returned triumphantly to Mid-Yorkshire as Deputy Chief Constable.

'You've not got another spectacular murder solution up your sleeve, have you, Nev?' inquired Ogilby, a touch satirically.

'No,' said Watmough, slightly miffed. 'Prevention's better than cure. A good modern force is the best deterrent, and that's what I've created.'

'Indeed yes,' said Ogilby placatingly. 'I know you've been most eloquent in your arguments for policing that reflects the changes in modern society. Talking of which, how do you feel about homosexuals?'

'Generally? Well, what I feel is, a man's entitled to his own beliefs and tastes, as long as they don't involve breaking the law, of course,' said Watmough. 'Personally, I don't much care for poofters, but I would never let that personal distaste prejudice my judgement on a legal matter, of course.'

'Of course not,' said Ogilby.

He paused, quietly savouring the moment, then resumed, 'But what I really meant, Nev, was - how do you feel about homosexual policemen? I only ask because the
Evening Post
got rung up the other day inquiring if they'd care to buy a story, about a gay copper in Mid-Yorkshire CID.'

Watmough's bout of coughing as he choked on his wine drew Dalziel's attention.

'He were weaned too early,' he said in explanation. 'Now, let me get this straight. You want me to help you check out this man's credentials? That's not police work, you know that. Hire a private eye. The estate can bear it.'

'Despite the television, as you well know, the competent and reliable private eye is a rare bird, hard to find outside Southern California, and more likely to be caged or shot at than assisted by the
carabinieri.
I need to check Signor Alessandro Pontelli's background in Florence. I need to know when he left Italy, when he came to this country, where he's staying, who he's seen. I need to compare his physical characteristics with any records that exist of Alexander Lomas. All these things can be done swiftly and easily by the police, whereas a poor solicitor . . .'

He smiled sadly and topped up Dalziel's
Fleurie.

'It's the Co-ordinator for Interpol you should've asked for lunch, not me,' said Dalziel. 'My job's investigating crime, not running a where-are-they-now agency.'

'In a sense, this could be classed as a criminal investigation, surely,' murmured Thackeray.

'What sense is that?'

'If this man's making a fraudulent claim, surely that's a crime? Personation, forgery, fraud - all of these must be involved?'

'Mebbe,' said Dalziel. 'I'd need better grounds than you're giving me, though.'

'Yes. I realize that I shouldn't have asked. Still I thought, at a personal level perhaps . . . but never mind. I hope you've enjoyed your lunch.'

'It were grand. I always like it here,' said Dalziel.

'Time for a game of snooker after coffee, perhaps? Yes, we really need more members of your calibre, Andy.'

'Oh aye? There's at least one bugger doesn't think that!'

He glowered suspiciously towards Watmough.

'What? Oh yes. I assure you, the vast majority of the membership thought that blackballing business was a scandal. But what to do? Rules are rules, even when they're based on a silly and outmoded tradition. Have you ever thought of letting yourself be re-nominated?'

'I've a hard head,' said Dalziel grimly. 'And it doesn't bother me much if someone uses it once as a coconut-shy. But after that, I've sense enough to keep it down.'

'I appreciate that. But it seems such a shame. Incidentally, we've another rather silly tradition here which allows the President to have in his gift, as it were, a couple of memberships, virtually by invitation. Did you know that?'

'No.'

'Yes, it's so. I'm President-elect, by the way. My term of office starts next month. Andy, I'd be delighted if you'd give serious consideration to accepting my presidential nomination. The way it works is, the new President nominates, the new President-elect seconds, and after that it's a formality, read straight into the minutes. Indeed, it's such a formality the President-elect usually signs the forms at the start of his term with no idea who the President may nominate.'

'You know how to make a man feel wanted,' grunted Dalziel. 'Thanks, but I'll pass.'

'I'm sorry,' said Thackeray, alarmed. 'Good Lord, that did sound gratuitously offensive, didn't it? Unintentional, believe me. No, the point I was about to make is that my President-elect will be your friend Mr Watmough.'

His bland gaze met Dalziel's shrewd stare. After a while both men began to chuckle, then to laugh.

Dalziel raised his glass and through his chortles said, 'Cheers! And here's to Interpol!'

Watmough could see nothing to laugh at and felt his CID Chief's distant amusement as a personal affront.

'Of course,' Ogilby had said, 'It's not the kind of thing a local evening paper would run, but if there's a story there, the
Challenger
couldn't ignore it. I thought it only right to warn you, Nev, in view of our special relationship.'

He watched with hidden amusement as Watmough sipped his wine in an effort to lubricate his urbane chuckle. He's counting how many Sundays he's got to get through between now and the Board! he told himself.

Two, thought Watmough. Two peaceful Sabbaths, ten tranquil bloody days, that was all he asked. It was one thing to point out the smooth perfections of a well-disciplined Force and say modestly,
These are down to me;
quite another to appear as the self-advertised controller of a force split by hints of corruption and rumours of scandal.

He managed his urbane chuckle.

'There are no regulations forbidding the employment of gays as policemen,' he said. 'On the contrary, any attempt to prevent such employment could itself be a contravention of the law under the Sexual Discrimination Act.'

'Of course,' said Ogilby. 'But the implication is that there'd be a story to sell. Gays are open to blackmail, undue influence, that sort of thing. That's why the KGB are so keen to suss 'em out in the British Embassy over there. You can be caught in bed with a girl and laugh it off, but a boy's still something different. Despite Mrs Whitehouse, this is still a Puritan country.'

'You think so, do you?' said Watmough. 'What would you like, mum's trifle or Spotted Dick?'

'I think I'll skip the pudding,' said Ogilby. 'Off the record, I'll keep you posted if anything else comes up, Nev. On the record, I take it you've no idea if there is any truth in this?'

'I'm sure there's none whatsoever,' said Watmough firmly.

But I'll bloody well soon find out, he assured himself. And God help the nasty little pervert if there is!

At the far end of the room, Dalziel was still laughing.

Chapter 10

Neville Watmough was not the only one to be served shocks with his luncheon.

When Rod Lomas arrived at the Howard Arms to eat with his mother, he was amazed to find her on a bar stool in company with John Huby.

'Hello, darling,' said Stephanie Windibanks, offering her cheek. 'You know John, of course.'

'Of course. Hello, er, John.'

'How do,' growled Huby. 'You'll want a drink, I expect?'

'That would be kind of you,' said Lomas.

'Half a bitter,' interposed Huby rapidly. 'By God, if I had the nerve to charge these prices, I'd not have been bothered about the old girl's brass!'

As Huby paid for the beer, Lomas glanced interrogatively at his mother, who said brightly, 'Fetch that through into the dining-room with you, dear. John, I must give this child his lunch as I know he only gets the teeniest of breaks. You'll wait here and keep your eyes skinned? Let me know the moment he arrives. 'Bye for now.'

As they made their way to the dining-room, Lomas said, 'Strange bedfellows you're finding these days, Mummy.'

'Don't be vulgar. That approach I reserve for last resorts and large resources. Incidentally, I hope you haven't been having your wicked way with that anorexic child of his?'

'No fear,' grinned Lomas. 'I'm not into paedophilia.

She's a strange creature, though. Not half so dumb as you might imagine.'

'That means you're getting nowhere with her and nothing out of her, I suppose. Well, keep at her. I think we're probably in the clear, but it would be useful to have an early warning system in Thackeray's office. Meanwhile, as I anticipated, the charity people are moving. I had a visit yesterday morning from a man called Goodenough who works for the animal welfare lot. He's one of those shrewd Scots terriers who will worry their way through solid rock once they get the smell of money in their nostrils. He's planning to organize a concerted action to overthrow the will as far as the time element goes. But he needs me, and the incredible hulk there, to sign affidavits renouncing any interest in the estate. The point is we're the nearest relatives, and any action, or even threat of action, on our behalf would take precedence over the action he is proposing to bring. He wants to buy us off. The service here is not what it should be, considering its bloated prices.'

She looked around the crowded dining-room and said, 'God, you can smell the expense accounts, can't you?'

'Not on me you can't, darling,' murmured Lomas. 'Does the expectation of plenty entitle me to order the smoked salmon?'

'Plenty it won't be,' said his mother sharply. 'You'll have the prawn cocktail and be grateful.'

'How much will you screw him for, then?'

'I suggested ten per cent, but he just laughed and offered five hundred in cash. I was greatly offended. I said I was contemplating a legal action on my own behalf. He said perhaps I would like to talk to my legal adviser again. I said I certainly would. We parted.'

'And what did your legal adviser say?'

'Oh, I knew what
he
would say. I'd had Billy Fordham round to dinner a couple of nights earlier.'

'Aha. Free consultation time!'