What he did know was that his mental ramblings were an attempt to distance himself from the depth of pain and fear he knew awaited them beyond the matte-brown door with its bright brass mail slot and its rudded step. Where a lost child was concerned, not even rage was strong enough to block that out.
The constable opened the house door and spoke softly. A moment later a uniformed sergeant Pascoe recognized as Clark, head of Danby substation, appeared. He didn't speak but just shook his head to confirm that nothing had changed. Dalziel pushed past him and Pascoe followed.
The small living room was crowded with people, all female, but there was no problem spotting the pale face of the missing child's mother. She was sitting curled up almost fetally at the end of a white vinyl sofa. She seemed to be leaning away from rather than into the attempted embrace of a large blond woman whose torso looked better suited to the lifting of weights than the offering of comfort.
Dalziel's entrance drew all eyes. They looked for hope and, getting none, acknowledged its absence by dropping their focus from his face to his shirt.
'Who the hell's this clown?' demanded the blonde in a smoke-roughened voice.
Clark said, 'Detective Superintendent Dalziel, Head of CID.'
'Is that right? And he comes out here at a time like this dressed like a frigging fairground tent?'
It was an image that made up in comprehensiveness what it lacked in detail.
Dalziel ignored her, and crouched with surprising suppleness before the pale-faced woman.
'Mrs. Dacre, Elsie,' he said. 'I came soon as I got word. I didn't waste time changing.'
The eyes, mere glints in dark holes, rose to look at him.
'Who gives a toss what you're wearing. Can you find her?'
What do you say now, old miracle worker? wondered Pascoe.
'I'll do everything in my power,' said Dalziel.
'And what's that, then?' demanded the blonde. 'Just what are you doing, eh?'
Dalziel rose and said, 'Sergeant Clark, let's have a bit of space here. Everyone out, please. Let's have some air.'
The blonde's body language said quite clearly that she wasn't about to move, but Dalziel took the wind out of her sails by saying, 'Not you, Mrs. Coe. You hold still, if Elsie wants you.'
'How the hell do you know my name?' she demanded.
It was indeed a puzzling question but not beyond all conjecture. Coe was Elsie Dacre's maiden name, and an older woman who had assumed the office of chief comforter without either a family resemblance or the look of a bosom friend was likely to be an in-law.
Dalziel just looked at her blankly, not about to spoil that impression of omniscience which made people tell him the truth, or at least feel so nervous, it showed when they tried to hide it.
'Right, Sergeant,' he said as Clark closed the door after the last of the departing women. 'So what's going off?'
'I've got my lads up the dale-'
'Three. That's how many he's got,' interposed Mrs. Coe scornfully.
'Tony, that's Mr. Dacre, naturally wanted to get back up there looking and a bunch of locals were keen to help, so I thought it best to make sure they had some supervision,' Clark went on.
Dalziel nodded approvingly. The more disorganized and amateur an early search was, the harder it made any later fine-tooth combing whose object was to find clues to an abduction, or murder.
'Quite right,' he said. 'Little lass could easily have turned her ankle and be sitting up the dale waiting for someone to fetch her.'
Such breezy optimism clearly got up Mrs. Coe's nose, but she kept her mouth shut. It was Elsie Dacre who responded violently, though so quietly to start with that at first the violence almost went unnoticed.
'No need for all this soft soap, Mr. Dalziel,' she said. 'We all know what this is about, don't we? We all know.'
'Sorry, luv, I'm just trying to-'
'I know what you're trying to do, and I know what you'll be doing next. But it didn't do any good last time did it? So what's changed, mister? You tell me that. What's bloody changed!'
Now the woman's voice was at full throttle, her eyes blazing, her face contorted with anger and fear.
'Nay, lass, listen,' said Dalziel intensely. 'It's early doors, too early to be talking of last time. God knows, I understand how that'll be in your mind, it's in mine, too, but I'll keep it at the back of my mind long as I can. I won't rush to meet summat like that, and you shouldn't either.'
'You remember me, then?' said Mrs. Dacre, peering at Dalziel closely, as if there was comfort to be fixed in the Fat Man's memory.
'Aye, do I. When I heard your maiden name I thought, That could be one of the Coes from over in Dendale. You were the youngest, weren't you?'
'I were eleven when it started. I remember those days, hot days like now, and all us kids going round in fear of our lives. I thought I'd never forget. But you do forget, don't you. Or at least like you say you put it so far at the back of your mind, it's like forgetting
… and you grow up and start feeling safe, and you have a kiddie of your own, and you never let yourself think… but that's where you're wrong, mister! If I hadn't kept it in the back of my mind, if I'd kept it at the front where it belongs… something like that's too important… too bloody terrible… to keep at the back of…'
She broke down in a flood of tears and her sister-in-law embraced her irresistibly. Then the door opened and an older woman came in. This time the family resemblance was unmistakable. She said, 'Elsie, I was down at Sandra's… I've just heard…'
'Oh, Mam,' cried Elsie Dacre.
Her sister-in-law was thrust aside and she embraced her mother as though she could crush hope and comfort out of her.
Dalziel said, 'Mrs. Coe, why don't you make us all a cup of tea?'
The three policemen and the blond woman went into the kitchen. It was just as well. It was full of steam from a kettle hissing explosively on a high gas ring. Mrs. Coe grabbed a tea towel, used it as a mitt to remove the kettle.
'Should make a grand cuppa,' said Dalziel. 'Needs to be really hot. Mrs. Coe, what do you reckon to Tony Dacre?'
'What kind of question's that?' demanded the woman.
'Simple one. How do you feel about your brother-in-law?'
'Why're you asking is what I want to know.'
'Don't act stupid. You know why I'm asking. If I can eliminate him from my inquiries, then I won't have to take this house to pieces.'
Honesty is not only the best policy, it's also sometimes the best form of police brutality, thought Pascoe, watching as shock slackened the woman's solid features.
Dalziel went on, 'Afore you start yelling at me, think on, missus. You want me to have to start asking that poor woman if her man works on a short fuse or has got any special interest in his own daughter? You're not daft, you know these things happen. So just tell me, is there owt I owt to know about Tony Dacre?'
The woman found her voice.
'No, there bloody isn't. I don't like him all that much, but that's personal. But as for Lorraine, he worships that little lass, I mean like a father should. In fact if you ask me, he spoils her rotten, and if she set fire to the house he'd not lose his temper with her. Jesus, I'd not have your job for a thousand pounds. Aren't things bad enough here without you looking for something even filthier in it?'
Her tone was vehement, but she managed to control the sound level to keep it in the kitchen.
'Grand,' said Dalziel with a friendly smile. 'Bring the tea through when it's mashed, eh?'
He went out, pulling the door shut behind him. Behind it, Pascoe noticed for the first time, was a dog basket. Lying in it was a small mongrel dog, somewhere between a spaniel and a terrier. Its eyes were open but it didn't move. Pascoe stooped over it and now its ears went back and it growled deep in its throat. Pascoe responded with soothing noises and though its eyes remained wary, it accepted a scratch between the ears. But when his hand strayed down to its shoulder, it snarled threateningly and he straightened up quickly.
'Anyone sent for the vet?' he inquired.
