Child's Play (8 page)

But the phone was dead.

Wield replaced his receiver and sat with his head in his hands. He'd handled it badly from any point of view, professional or personal. One of Dalziel's dicta for police and public alike was, if you can't be honest you'd better be fucking clever. Well, he hadn't been clever, and he'd certainly not been honest. He'd not let on that Cliff was staying with him and he'd given the impression that the youth had turned up just yesterday instead of several days ago.

Several days! There he went again. It was a good week since Cliff had moved in. There had been no sexual contact offered or invited, no threats or demands from Cliff, no aggressive cross-questioning from Wield. It was truce, a limbo, the eye of the storm; whatever it was, Wield had discovered in himself a growing fear of disturbing it, and it had taken a conscious act of will for him to ring Maurice. His relief the previous evening when the stranger's voice had given him an excuse to ring off had been great, but it was his awareness of that relief which had sent him impulsively out of the Black Bull today. Had Maurice already left for lunch, he doubted if he would have found the will to try to contact him again.

Well, now he'd done it, and how much further forward was he?

He didn't know. He glanced at his watch. It was surprising how little time had elapsed. He could if he wished get back to the Black Bull in plenty of time for another pint and something to eat. But he didn't wish. Pascoe's merry quips and Dalziel's badinage was the last thing he wanted. Whatever the future held, there was work to be done here and now.

He turned to the files on his desk, a thick one entitled
Shoplifting,
a thin one labelled
Vandalism (Kemble Theatre).
Their size was relevant to incidence, not to progress. The best he could say was that nothing needful was omitted, nothing superfluous included. He was the best keeper of records, the best drafter of reports in the CID.

It occurred to him that if he came out now, either voluntarily or through pressure from Sharman, the best he could hope for would be a sideways shuffle into the dusty solitude of
Records.
He had no illusion about the degree of liberalism informing the upper reaches of the Mid-Yorkshire Force.

Well, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. Perhaps he only imagined he enjoyed the hustle and bustle, the long hours and continuous pressures of CID work, because they filled a yawning emptiness in his life.

It seemed a reasonable hypothesis and he was a great believer in the rule of reason. But not all the reason in the world could stop him looking at the phone and wishing that it would ring and he would pick it up and hear a voice say, 'Hello, Mac. Cliff here. How're you doing?'

Cliff Sharman dialled. The phone rang eight times before it was answered by a female voice slightly muffled by a half-masticated sandwich.

'Mid-Yorks Evening Post,
good morning, sorry, afternoon!'

'I'd like to talk to one of your reporters,' said Sharman.

'Anyone in particular, love? Thing is, they're mostly out at lunch.'

'Someone in your investigation department,' said the youth tentatively.

The voice giggled.

'Are you sure it's not the
Washington Post
you're after? Hang on, love. Here's Mr Ruddlesdin.'

He heard her voice call, 'Sammy!' and a man's voice reply distantly, 'Oh hell, Mavis, I'm on me way out!'

A moment later, the same voice said, 'Sam Ruddlesdin here. Can I help you, sir?'

Cliff's resolution was ebbing by the second. He'd thought of trying one of the big nationals, but they all

seemed a long way away from Yorkshire and also their numbers weren't in the book. He reminded himself that all he was dealing with here was some provincial hayseed.

He said boldly, 'Mebbe I can help you.'

'How so?'

'What's a story about a bent copper worth?'

'Bent? You mean gay! Or crooked?'

'Both,' he extemporized. 'His bosses don't know he'sgay, so he's got to be crooked to keep it quiet, know what I mean?"

'Who are his bosses?'

'Well, he's a detective, isn't he?'

'Local?'

'Yeah, that's why I'm ringing you and not one of the big papers, see? So what's it worth?'

'It depends, sir,' said Ruddlesdin. 'What's his rank?'

'Higher than constable and that's all I'm telling you for nothing. Come on, let's talk money!'

'It's a bit hard over the phone, sir. Why don't we meet and chat it over? I didn't quite catch your name . . .'

'You chat it over with yourself! I'll be in touch again later. Maybe!'

Sharman slammed the receiver down. He was surprised to find he was trembling slightly. He wasn't sure yet how far he intended going with this, but it was Wield's own fault, that was for sure. He obviously didn't trust him. He'd been there over a week now, and the ugly bastard hadn't laid a hand on him. He was obviously scared of compromising himself. Stupid sod, as if there wasn't enough on him already to rattle him round the cop-shop like a ping-pong ball. He'd thought of suggesting as much to his face, but then he'd lost his nerve. Direct blackmail wasn't something he'd care to attempt, not with a man like Wield. In any case, he told himself pathetically, all he wanted was a bit of trust, a bit of support, a bit of affection even. He'd not come up here looking for trouble, but if Wield couldn't take him on trust, he'd fucking well have to take him the other way.

He went out of the phone-box and started wandering round the streets as he had done every day since his arrival, scanning the faces that he met in search of the one face that would bring his searching to an end.

Sammy Ruddlesdin drank his lunch in solitude and thought long and hard about the phone call. He had a good nose for news and could sniff out the iron pyrites from the true gold with ninety per cent accuracy.

When the pub closed at 2.30, he went back to the office, arriving simultaneously with the editor.

The editor too respected Sammy's nose, but when he had digested the story he shook his head and said, 'Not our cup of tea, Sammy. I'm not going to risk getting up yon mad bugger Dalziel's hairy nostrils for anything less than a full-scale scandal. He doesn't just look like an elephant, he's got a memory like one, and we've got to live in this town.'

'What if it is a full-scale scandal?'

'Then it's too big for us. That's
Challenger
material. I'll give Ike Ogilby a bell. Anything more comes through, we'll follow it up in conjunction with one of his whizzkids.'

Ruddlesdin looked disgruntled and the editor laughed.

'Don't look so unhappy, Sammy,' he said, 'It'll probably come to nothing. But if it does, is it worth losing that nice friendly relationship you and that Inspector Pascoe have got just for what sounds like a rather squalid splash?'

Sammy scratched his long nose.

'I suppose not,' he said.

The editor smiled with the complacency of papal infallibility, picked up the phone and said, 'Get me Mr Ogilby in Leeds, love.'

Ruddlesdin went about his business. It was true he did feel rather disgruntled, but he was if nothing else a positive thinker. The editor was right. Why fall out with the fuzz over something like this? In fact the clever thing to do might be to plant it firmly in the lap of those chancers on the
Challenger
and get himself in credit for a bit of a favour at the same time.

He went out of the building to a pay-phone and dialled a number.

'Inspector Pascoe, please . . . Sammy Ruddlesdin,
Evening Post.
Hello, Peter. Listen, it's probably nowt but you've done me a few favours in the past, so I thought I'd just let you know. Got this odd phone call . . .'

Chapter 7

Yorkshire is the only English cricket club which still requires its players to be born in county limits. Foreigners, however long domiciled, can never be trusted not to revert to playing the game for pleasure.

A similar high seriousness of approach is required of Yorkshire publicans and John Huby was well qualified to open the batting for any county side of licensed victuallers.

'John, love, it's turned six,' said Ruby Huby.

'Oh aye.'

'Shall I open up? There's a car in the car park.'

'So what? Let the bugger wait!' said Huby, continuing to stack bottles of light ale on his bar shelves.

Ruby Huby looked anxiously out of the window. Happily the newcomer did not seem impatient. He was standing by his car examining with speculative interest the foundations of the restaurant and function room extension which, begun in anticipation of Aunt Gwen's will, looked like being its first casualty.

'Right,' said Huby looking round to make sure everything was as serious and sombre as it should be. 'Let him in. But he'd best not want owt fancy. I'm not in the mood.'

As 'fancy' when John Huby was not in the mood could include any mixture from a gin and tonic to a shandy, the odds on a clash seemed high.

Fortunately the man who entered, in his thirties with a dark beard, a mop of strong crinkly hair and a broad-shouldered athletic-looking torso, had driven far enough to develop a simple thirst.

'What's your pleasure?' asked Huby challengingly.

'Pint of best, please,' said the man in a soft Scottish accent.

Mollified, Huby drew a pint. First of the night, it was rather cloudy. He looked speculatively at the stranger, who looked speculatively back, sighed, drew another, got a clear one at the third time of asking and handed it over.

'Cheers,' said the man.

He drank and looked round the bar. The landlord's ambition for development had clearly not begun here. The furniture and fittings would probably have pleased Betjeman. Even the inevitable fruit machine belonged to a pre-electronic age. There was a deep recessed fireplace which contained real coal piled on real sticks for lighting, if and when the landlord decided his customers deserved it. On the brick hearth lay a sleeping Yorkshire terrier. A stout woman of mid to late forties was bustling around the room, laying out ashtrays and a girl in her late teens with a mass of springy blonde curls and an even greater mass of even springier bosom was polishing glasses behind the bar. She caught his eye and smiled invitingly. Pleased at this first sign of welcome, the stranger smiled back.

Huby, intercepting the exchange, snapped, 'Jane, if you've nowt better to do than stand about grinning, bring us some fresh martini up. We'll mebbe be getting a rush of the gentry tonight.'

The stranger put his glass down on the bar.

'Mr John Huby, is it?' he asked.

'That's what it says over the door.'

'My name is Goodenough, Mr Huby. Andrew Goodenough. I am the general secretary of the People's Animal Welfare Society. You may recall that the Society was mentioned in your late aunt's will.'

'Oh aye, I recall that well enough,' said Huby grimly.

'Yes. I fear it must have been something of a disappointment to you.'

'Disappointment, Mr Goodenough? No, I'd not say that,' said Huby lifting up the bar flap and coming to the public side of the bar. 'I'd not say that. It was her brass, to do with as she liked. And she didn't forget me; no, she didn't forget me. And I'll not forget her, you can be sure of that!'

He had walked across to the fireplace, and as he spoke these last words with great vehemence, to Goodenough's horror he raised his right leg and delivered a vicious and powerful kick at the sleeping dog. The force of it drove the animal against the brickwork with a sickening thud.

'For Christ's sake, man!' cried the animal protectionist, then his protest faded as he realized the dog, though now on its back, still retained its sleeping posture.

‘Can I introduce you to Gruff-of-sodding Greendale?' snarled Huby. 'I were going to stick it on the fire at first, but then I thought: No, I'll keep the thing. It'll lie there as a lesson to me not to waste time being friendly to those who don't know the meaning of gratitude or family loyalty. Now, what can I do for you, Mr Goodenough? It's not the welfare of Gruff here that's brought you all this way, is it?'

'Not exactly,' said Goodenough. 'Could we talk in private?'

'Instead of in this crowded bar, you mean? Ruby, you look after things in here when the rush starts, will you? Come through, Mr Goodenough.'

The living quarters behind the bar proved to be distinctly more comfortable than the public area, though the same air of antiquity reigned.

'Been in the family a long time, has it?' said Goodenough.

'Long enough. It were me grandad's to start with.'

'Yes. I was talking to Mrs Windibanks in London and she gave me something of the family history.'

This was enough to shatter any barrier of reticence.

'Old Windypants? What's she know about owt? Nose stuck in the air when it weren't stuck up the old girl's bum! Well, she got as little for her pains as me, so that's some consolation. But you don't want to pay any heed to owt she says about the Hubys. Listen. I'll tell you how it really was.'

He settled down in his chair and Goodenough followed suit, like the unlucky wedding guest. Though, in fact he was not incurious to hear Huby's version of the background to this old business.

The landlord began to speak.

'This place were the cottage belonging to the mill that stood behind it, alongside the river. Well, it's long gone now and it were pretty much a ruin even when my grandad got the cottage. He were just a farm lad, but he had his head screwed on, and he set up an ale house here with his sister to keep house for him. Lomas's were a small brewery then, just starting, and their eldest lad come round to try to get Grandad to sell his beer. Well, Lomas had no luck selling the beer, but Grandad's sister, Dot, took his fancy and off he went with her instead! Grandad weren't best pleased by all accounts, but there was nowt the poor devil could do except get himself married so he'd have someone to help around the place. And this is what he did, and him and Grandma had twin sons, John, my dad, and Sam.'