render her an object of pity and ridicule.
And, he also admitted because he was a basically honest man, that some of the muffled laughter would be directed at himself.
His worst fears had seemed to be realized when he saw the kilt.
But in the event, the man had proved able to carry it, and he’d fielded all the attempted jokes at his expense with good humour and enough sharp wit to make the would-be mockers wary, and above all, far from looking ludicrous on the dance floor, he had moved with such grace and lightness that he was rapidly the partner of choice amongst the women who preferred real dancing to the close-quarters foreplay favoured by the increasingly tipsy soldiery.
That was another thing. Eschewing champagne, the man had consumed what must have been a whole bottle of malt without showing the slightest diminution of speech or motor control.
So perhaps, unless it turned out he’d got the stately home ringed by bobbies with their Breathalyzers at the ready, it was going to be all right after all.
The dance finished and Dalziel led Cap off the floor to where her son was standing.
“Refill, luv?” he said.
“No thanks, I’m fine,” she said.
“Summat to eat, then?”
“No, really.”
“Think I’ll have another nibble,” he said. “Need to keep my strength up if I’m going to be searched later.”
With a wink at Piers, he moved away.
“Searched?” said Piers, alarmed, recalling his fantasy about a ring of cops watching the house. “What’s he mean?”
His mother looked at him fondly.
“Darling, you don’t want to know,” she said.
In the buffet room, Dalziel looked around till he saw what he was looking for, a white-haired woman with a strong-jawed, rather severe face who was keeping a close eye on a flock of young helpers.
“How do, luv,” said Dalziel, approaching. “Any more of that lovely Sahnetorte?”
She looked at him with interest and said, “Sie sprechen Deutsch, mein Herr?”
“Just enough to ask for what I like,” he said. “And I like that cream cake. Best I’ve had since last time I were in Berlin. Where do you get it round here? It ’ud be worth a long trip.”
“We do not get it,” she said scornfully in heavily accented but perfectly clear English. “I make it.”
“Nay! Well, blow me. You make it yourself! Now, hang on, I bet you’re Frau Penck, the treasure old Budgie was telling me about.”
“His Lordship is very kind.”
“Didn’t he say you were Charley Penn’s mam?” Dalziel went on. “By God, making cake like that and being Charley’s mam, you’ve a lot to be proud of. Always talking about the lovely cakes his old mutti makes, is our Charley.”
“You know my son?” she asked.
“Aye, do I. Often have a drink with him on a Sunday lunchtime, but he usually has to cut it short, to go and see his old mam, he always says. Well, I can see why he rushes off now. It must do you good to know that someone as important as Charley puts you top of his list when it comes to choosing what to do. He’s a big man, tha knows. He can pick and choose his company. It’s incredible the way he’s succeeded. More British than the Brits! You’d never know he weren’t a bred-in-the-bone Yorkshireman. You must be right proud to think you can get a man like this to come running just by snapping your fingers.”
She did not reply to this but gave him what Dalziel thought of as the universal female significant look which implied that her lips were sealed but if they weren’t, then she might have something to say which would bowl him over.
He pressed on.
“Last Sunday, I recall, it were my birthday and I was pushing the boat out a bit, and I tried to persuade Charley to hang on a bit longer to have a spot of lunch in the pub. They do a lovely sticky toffee pudding there, but when I tried to tempt Charley, he said it couldn’t compare with the sweets his old mam would have ready for him. He’s always talking about the grub he gets every Sunday when he visits you. Well, now I know why. Go on, make me mouth water, what did you give him?”
“Last Sunday? Nothing,” the old woman said.
“Nothing? Not even Sahnetorte?” said Dalziel, amazed.
“Nothing at all. He did not come. It was no matter. I do not expect him. He comes when he will.”
“You’re sure he weren’t here last Sunday?” said Dalziel, looking at her doubtfully.
“Of course I am sure. You think I am senile?”
“Nay, missus, I can see you’re not that. My mistake, he must have said he was going somewhere else. Now, about the cake…”
“I think you’ll find it’s over here, Andy,” said Cap Marvell.
He turned. She was standing regarding him with the kind of expression he’d expect to be printed on his own face if he heard a known villain, caught with his hand in a church poor-box, claiming he was making a contribution.
“Oh aye. So it is. Nice talking, missus. I’ll give your love to Charley.”
“So,” said Cap as they moved away, “this is how you leave your work behind, is it?”
“Nay, lass, I were just passing the time of day…”
“Lying about your birthday? That’s bollocks, and I’ve got a great eye for bollocks.”
“Well, you’ve had the practice…Jesus, that hurt!”
“Next time it won’t be your ankle I kick. Let’s have the truth.”
“It’s nowt really…just a notion I got about Charley Penn. He said he were out here visiting his mam last Sunday afternoon when Johnson got topped. Young Bowler checked her out and she seemed to say that Charley were never away. Just thought when I bumped into her that I’d have a little chat, double check. No harm in that, is there?”
She considered then said, “Bollocks again. I don’t think you bumped into her because you came to the ball, you came to the ball so that you could bump into her. And that was because you reckoned that with her background when Frau Penck found herself being questioned by the police about her son, she probably clammed up tighter than a virgin’s valve. On the other hand, talking to an old chum of Budgie’s who’s escorted the colonel’s mama to the regimental ball, she could let all her resentment at being neglected by her Anglophile son hang out.”
“Virgin’s valve? Don’t know where you pick these expressions up from,” said Dalziel reprovingly.
“Sod the expression. What I’ve said is the truth. Admit it or I’ll push that Sahnetorte into your face.”
Dalziel looked down at the huge portion of the cream cake he’d just helped himself to and said, “Funny, but that’s just what I were going to do. Nay, hold on there, I’m admitting, I’m admitting. OK, it mebbe helped tip the balance, but I’m bloody glad it did. I’d not have missed this for the world. I’m having the best time of my life.”
“That’s as maybe, but you’ve used me, Andy.”
“Well,” he said judiciously through a mawful of whipped cream, “you’ve never complained before. Any road, it’s nearly the sabbath. Good day for forgiving is the sabbath.”
“Oh, I forgive, but I won’t forget. You owe me one, Andy Dalziel.”
“Don’t worry, luv,” he said. “Afore the night’s out, I intend giving thee one. Hey, listen, they’re playing a tango. Let’s go and show these tin soldiers how to do it!”
And as Dalziel escorted his lady on to the dance floor, Peter Pascoe escorted Franny Roote out of the police station.
“Let me say again how sorry I am about this misunderstanding, Mr. Roote,” he said. “A simple breakdown in communication, I’m afraid.”
“That’s what lies at the root of most human problems, isn’t it, Mr. Pascoe?” said the man earnestly. “A simple breakdown in communication. If only words always did what we want them to. Goodnight.”
He climbed into the police car provided to take him back to his flat, smiled up at Pascoe through the window and gave a little wave as the vehicle moved off into the darkness.
