Reproved, the watchers resumed their watching and Dalziel his position on the bed.
'He's gone,' said Wield at last.
'Right. Shouldn't be long now,' said Dalziel, eyes still closed.
'Where should we be watching, sir, back or front?' asked Wield.
'No matter. You'll not really see much. They'll fix the alarm bell first. That'll likely be a job for young Jonty. Jam it, or muffle it, or even cut it, depends on the type. Arthur will have sussed it out. Next, the nipper will be sent up aloft again, this time to cut the telephone wire. Normally of course this'd set the alarm ringing, but as they've fixed that already, all it means is that the alarm dialling system is knackered too. Then one of them will come in, through a window mebbe, or a door if Arthur's managed to get a key. The others will carry on with their business so that any passing peasant wouldn't notice anything out of the ordinary. Only from time to time as one of 'em passes by the house with a barrow, he'll pick up an old sack and later chuck it into the van.
'I'm just guessing, of course,' concluded Dalziel. 'But that's the way I'd do it.'
He's right, of course, thought Pascoe, full of bitter self-reproach. For the past few months he'd begun to wonder arrogantly if Dalziel might not be past it. A creature from another age, that's how he thought of him, a dinosaur about ready for extinction. Well, what came after the dinosaurs? The apes. Almost unconsciously he dropped his jaw and did a little simian shuffle. Dalziel's eyes, which had appeared firmly shut, opened wide.
'You all right?' he asked.
'Yes, sir. Touch of cramp.'
It was another ten minutes before they heard a noise downstairs.
'Sir!' said Wield urgently.
Dalziel slowly rose, yawning.
'Give 'em a moment to start loading up,' he said.
He looked at his watch like a commander about to send his troops over the top.
'Right,' he said. 'Off we go. No, not you, young Abdul. You stay up here, son. Sorry, but I made promises about you. Don't worry, you'll get mentioned in dispatches, I'll see to that. You've done all right.'
Singh looked disappointed, but clearly Dalziel's praise was some consolation.
Dalziel led the way with no apparent attempt at concealment, but moving down the stairs with incredible lightness for a man of his bulk.
As they reached the hallway, a man clutching a sack appeared at the study door. It was Arthur Marsh. He stared at them in complete amazement for a moment, then dropped the sack with a hoarse cry of alarm and turned and fled. The policemen followed in order of seniority, though this was accidental rather than hierarchical. At the study door Wield glimpsed Arthur trying to get out of the window with Dalziel clinging on to his left foot with all the proprietary strength of a hungry bear. A noise behind him attracted Wield's attention. He turned and saw that in one thing Dalziel had been wrong. There was not just one man in the house. Coming out of the dining-room with a silver candlestick in his hand was Jonty Marsh.
'All right, lad,' growled the sergeant, advancing.
Jonty feinted to retreat, then suddenly sprinted forward, ducking under Wield's outstretched arms and nearly falling. Wield grabbed and the boy swung the heavy candlestick against his kneecap.
'Jesus Christ!' cried Wield as Jonty recovered his balance and went dashing up the stairs. On the landing he paused uncertainly. In some little pain, Wield was hobbling after him. The fleeing boy turned once more and rushed into the master bedroom.
Wield heard a babble of voices, then one voice - Jonty's - screamed, 'You fucking black wanker!' Then there was a crash and a cry and a thud, then silence.
Pain forgotten, Wield ran up the last flight of stairs and flung himself into the bedroom.
The window was open. On the floor beneath it lay the crumpled body of Police Cadet Singh. By his head was the silver candlestick and from his head coiled a line of blood like an undone ribbon.
There was a cry from the window. Wield peered out. Distantly he saw the green van careening down the drive, doors still open and banging against the sides like some discordant cymbals. But it was going nowhere. A police car was gently nosing forward between the avenue of holly bushes, blocking the way.
The cry was closer at hand. Jonty Marsh had swung himself over the sill and was trying to reach a drainpipe some five feet to his left. He clearly wasn't able to make it. The one hand by which he still clung to the sill was white with the strain, but not as white as the terrified face that looked up towards Wield.
The sergeant instinctively grabbed the boy's wrist just as the fingers began to slide off the smooth stone. Despite his slight build, he was heavy enough to make Wield gasp as he felt the full weight pulling at his arm. He was leaning too far out for his strong back and leg muscles to contribute much to the effort, but the greatest weakness was in his will. His mind was full of the boy at his feet with his eyes closed and his head bleeding, rather than the boy at the end of his arm with his eyes wide with terror and his mouth piping piteous bird-like cries. The sweat of effort and the sweat of fear lubricated their gripping hands and he could feel Jonty Marsh slipping away and he was not sure that he cared.
Then Pascoe was by his side, leaning out to grab the boy by the arm, saying 'Come up, you young bastard!' and suddenly he was a feather weight and came plunging back through the window like a hooked trout.
Pascoe dumped the boy on the floor with a force which knocked the remaining breath out of him and said, 'Lie still, sonny, or I'll chuck you back.'
Now he turned to help Wield with the injured cadet. To his surprise the sergeant was kneeling by the boy's head, his hands fluttering nervously over but not touching him, his craggy face, in whose rocks and hollows emotion usually lay deeply hid, cracked wide in an earthquake of violent grief.
'Sergeant!' said Pascoe.
The stricken eyes turned up to meet his.
