'Then you must be either drunk or unconscious,' said Wield. 'Mebbe they'll come, mebbe they'll not. Just think yourself lucky it's the middle of summer.'
'Why's that?'
'You could be freezing your bollocks off and sitting around here till six or seven in the morning. As it is, it'll start getting light around four. You might even get an hour's sleep before you go back on duty. So count your blessings.'
There was a long silence from the patch of blacker black which was Singh.
'Sarge,' he said finally, emboldened by the lack of visibility and the feeling of intimacy such conditions can engender between even the most antagonistic of couples. 'Do you think I'm doing the right thing, training to be a cop, and all?'
'What do you mean?' asked Wield. 'Why do you ask?'
'It's just that, well, you've never been very encouraging. I've talked to some of the others, you know, some of the DCs and the uniformed lads I've got to know, and, well, they all say you're fair, and very sharp too. There's a lot on 'em reckon you ought to have got on a lot further by now . . .'
'Are you building up to a retirement presentation, or what?' wondered Wield.
'No, well, all I was wondering was, if you're as fair and sharp as everyone says, and you don't rate me . . .'
The boy's voice faded from a whisper to an uneasy, embarrassed silence and the wind's endless moaning took control again.
'What makes you think I don't rate you?' asked Wield.
'You' ve always been a bit, like, sharp,' said Singh. 'I'm sorry, look, I'm not complaining, but I just wondered . . .'
'What'd you do if you didn't become a copper?' asked Wield.
'I'd help in my father's shop, I expect,' said Singh.
'You don't want to do that? Don't you get on with your dad?'
'Oh yes, we get on fine . . . only . . . well, if I worked in the business, I'd have to sort of do things his way. I mean, his way's the right way, I think, because he's done very well, and I don't mean he's strict about religion and that; he wants the family to belong here, he says, not to just be passing by; but if I stayed at home, I think I'd always be, well, like, a lad, a boy, I know I
'Until he died,' said Wield softly.
'Yes, I think so. And I don't want to ever be wishing that my father would die.'
The darkness between them was now vibrant with the electricity of confession, binding them in a circuit of intimacy Wield had not wished for but now could not deny.
'My dad died,' he said softly. 'I was thirteen. He was very strict, very stern. He kept pigeons. I had to keep the loft clean. And when there got to be too many and some had to have their necks pulled, he made me help him. I think I wanted most of all in the world to be like my dad, to be big and strong and certain and able to pull pigeon's necks and not care. I never could, though. Perhaps, if he'd lived, I might have come to it, but I doubt it. They're such soft birds, trusting . . .'
He yearned to reach out and touch the boy's shoulder. A simple, uncomplicated, encouraging gesture.
But he reminded himself bitterly that just as in his professional world there were no free lunches, in his private world there were no simple gestures.
'You carry on and be a cop, lad,' he said harshly. 'As long as you can pull the pigeons' necks and not start enjoying it, you'll be all right.'
They both fell silent and remained silent while outside the wind at last blew itself out and dawn's green light began to move across the badly ruffled gardens.
When it was full light, Pascoe came yawning into the bedroom.
'All right,' he said. 'That'll do.'
Singh regarded him miserably, expecting reproach, but Pascoe just grinned and, ruffling the boy's hair in the gesture Wield had not dared, said, 'What're you doing tonight, Shady? Hope you haven't got anything heavy planned.'
'Are we coming back, sir?'
'Why not? Mr and Mrs Aldermann won't be home till tomorrow.' He yawned again and added, 'Seymour's switched off the alarm. I've told him to go back with the lads in the Panda and send a car out for us. Meanwhile I'm sure Mrs Aldermann wouldn't grudge us a cup of coffee.'
They went downstairs, Wield and the boy turned towards the kitchen, Pascoe said, 'I'll get a breath of air, I think,' and made for the front door.
But as he passed the door of Aldermann's study, he saw it was ajar and heard a noise inside.
Carefully he pushed it open till he could see one end of the handsome hard oak partner's desk which he guessed had belonged to Eddie Aldermann. There was a figure stooping over an opened drawer. He pushed the door open a little further.
'Come in, Peter, come on in. Had a good night, have you?'
It was Dalziel, looking wide-awake and healthy, except where a nicked undulation of flesh over his left jaw, repaired with pink toilet paper, showed the dangers of early morning shaving.
