probably got a little notebook where you jot down owt of interest that comes up. Unless you’re not interested in murder.”
“Only as a fine art,” said Penn.
“That a confession? ’Cos I get the impression that’s how this lunatic keeps himself going, got his head bent round some daft idea or other in which killing isn’t wrong, or at least is necessary for the sake of something more important.”
“No, it’s not a confession. But yes, you’re right, I’ve been keeping a close eye on these killings. That’s what writers do. Bit like being a detective, taking note of what makes people tick, especially the oddities, which means most of us.”
“So, have you drawn any conclusions, Charley?”
“Only that there’s a lot more mileage in it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“’Cos he’s obviously a clever sod, and if the sharpest brain in our CID has got to waste time suspecting me, then you can’t be within a moonshot of catching him.”
“Charley,” said Dalziel softly, “there’s one way you can stop me wasting time. Make up your mind if you’re going to come clean or try to tough it out. Last Sunday afternoon…?”
“And if I tell you I went to see my mother, what then?”
“Then I invite you down the nick where the refreshments aren’t half as good as this and the service is twice as lousy,” said Dalziel.
“Oh well, if you’d put it like that to start with…I was with a friend. A female friend.”
“They’re the best kind,” said Dalziel. “But, let me guess, she’s married and being a true gent, you can’t possibly give me her name.”
“Andy, I don’t know why we bother to have conversations when you know everything in advance.”
“Because it’s words that make the world go round,” said Dalziel.
“I thought it was love.”
“Same thing. Nowt that doesn’t come down to words.”
“You’re getting too deep for me, Andy. So what do we do now?”
“You? You do nowt. Me, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m not going to press you to reveal a name, Charley, because I respect your loyalty and delicate feelings in this matter. But you’re right about us being alike. I keep a little notebook too where I jot down oddities. And I reckon when I go through my notes, I’m going to come across-it might be a couple, it might be half a dozen, it might even be more-names of women who could be the femme I’m cherchezing. I’ll put ’em in alphabetic order then I’ll call round to see each of them in turn, preferably at night just when they’re serving up supper to hubby and the family, and I’ll ask ’em, ‘Were you fucking Charley Penn last Sunday afternoon? I need to know else he’s in big trouble.’ And I’m sure that the lady in question will stand up and be counted rather than let you stay in that trouble. In fact, if she’s tired of her old man and fancies getting together with you on a more permanent basis, she might jump at the chance to get this out in the open. Could even be that more than one will see this as too good a chance to miss and I may be stuck with a superfluity of admissions, which could be awkward. But that’s a risk I’ll just have to take. Unless you care to save me from it.”
He nodded as if to affirm his readiness to undertake such a perilous mission and drank his beer.
“Fuck you, Dalziel,” said Penn.
“I take it that’s a ‘yes,’” said Dalziel.
34
HAT BOWLER’S LUNCH had passed with much less drama.
He had taken Rye first of all into a wooded gully where they spotted enough birds to justify the expedition. She listened to his expert commentary with apparent interest but he was careful not to go on too long and risk boredom setting in. Also he was aware that the clouds were getting ever lower and wanted to make sure that their lunch at least was not spoilt by the inevitable rain.
They found a sheltered spot under a huge outcrop of rock from which several loose boulders had detached themselves over the years. He set about kicking it clear of sheep droppings and, when he caught her watching him with some amusement, he said apologetically, “Yeah, I know, it’s like eating in a sheep’s toilet, but they know a thing or two about shade in summer and shelter in winter.”
“Where there’s shit there’s shelter, isn’t that what the shepherds say?” laughed Rye.
“I’ll have to remember that. OK, that does it, I think.”
They sat and ate the assortment of sandwiches he had provided. Despite his promise to be founder of the feast, Rye produced from her knapsack a chocolate-iced sponge cake which she sliced in two.
“Hey, this is good,” he said. “You bake it?”
“That’s not surprise I hear, I hope?”
“Gratitude and delight,” he said.
Things were going well, he felt. She gave every sign of enjoying his company as much as he was enjoying hers, but any hope he had of their growing closeness easing itself into a bit of al fresco grappling vanished when as they drank the rest of the coffee, the rain began, not much, more an undeniable moistness of the air than real spots, but enough he guessed to dampen ardour if applied to naked skin.
Quickly they packed up.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
“I haven’t come all this way to leave without taking a look at the famous tarn,” she said. “And I’ve not forgotten your interesting bits.”
The rain still hadn’t really taken a hold by the time they reached the tarn, with the dampness in the air manifesting itself in the form of a general mistiness rather than a downpour. They stood at the water’s edge, straining their eyes through the vaporous air towards the further bank where a low stone building was just visible.
“Isn’t that the view that Dick painted?” said Rye.
“More or less. Slightly different angle, and a lot better visibility. But that’s certainly Stangcreek Cottage.”
He put the binoculars to his eyes and added, “Looks as if there’s someone there. I can see smoke coming from the chimney.”
“Oh, good. Somewhere to shelter if this gets any worse.”
“Look, we can head back to the car now if you want,” he said anxiously.
“Worried your make-up might wash off?” she mocked. “I thought you were the tough outdoor type. Can we walk right round the lake?”
“Well, it’s all right as far as the cottage but then it starts to get a bit boggy as you get near to Stang Creek itself. That’s the main feed stream for the tarn, but all the water that comes running off the hills back there is looking to find a way out too, and the ground’s full of little creeks and inlets. No way you aren’t going to get your feet wet…”
“You must have been bitten by a rabid duck, all this hydrophobia,” she cut him short. “Come on. Let’s move!”
He followed her, mentally noting that macho protectiveness cut no ice with Rye.
As he’d promised, there was a track of sorts round the northern side of the mere, dangerous to a car’s springs but easy terrain for walkers.
The mist thickened as they walked, cutting visibility down to about twenty yards with occasional tantalizing glimpses across the water, and wrapping them in a grey but not unpleasing cocoon. There was very little sound and what there was came mysteriously as from a great distance. No birds sang and the gentle lapping of the lake water in the reeds was more a foil against which to measure silence than a noise in its own right. After a while Hat let his hand brush Rye’s and she took it and locked her fingers in his, and so they walked on, hand in hand.
Neither spoke. It felt to Hat that there was a spell on them which words could only break and if it remained unbroken, they might walk on like this forever. Was it possible to make vows without speaking? he wondered. And
