Pascoe shook his head irritably. The cooling effect of the shadowy interior plus the lemon barley was rapidly being evaporated by the uncomfortably warm air.
'You know I'm going to have to talk to her, don't you?' he said. 'I'm going to need a properly witnessed statement.'
'Yes, sir. But not now, sir.' Clark's voice was pleading.
'Forgive me for being personal,' said Pascoe, 'but you haven't got something going with Mrs. Hardcastle, have you?'
'No,' exclaimed Clark. Then, more softly. 'No, not now. Once, a long time since, there was… something. But she had three kiddies, it didn't seem right, even though her and Cedric… well, who knows what might have happened? What did happen was little Jenny got took. And that was that. Some women might have got out after that. She saw it as a kind of judgment. And the way it hit Cedric, she knew she'd never leave him, come what might. She told me, no need really, I could see it… so now we're Sergeant Clark and Mrs. Hardcastle. But I'll not see any harm come to her, sir. No matter what.'
He spoke defiantly.
'I'm pleased to hear it,' said Pascoe. 'Look, it's probably best we see her down at the hall, when Mr. Dalziel's back. Get back in there and tell her we'll need to see her down there in, say, two hours. That should give us time to get hold of the super.'
'I'll ask her, sir.'
'You tell her,' said Pascoe fiercely. 'Middle of an investigation like this is no time for personal feelings, Sergeant.'
Was Clark going to turn out to be a liability? he wondered. It was what he was coming to think of as the Dendale effect. Bit like Gulf War syndrome; hard to define, but impossible to deny once you'd met a few of those suffering from it. Including perhaps the Fat Man himself.
He would prefer to believe Dendale was irrelevant, but all roads seemed to lead back there, and till he saw a signpost pointing definitely in another direction, perhaps he ought to follow, if only to confirm a dead end.
He said, 'Sergeant.'
Clark, moving slowly back to the farmhouse, turned to show an unhappy face and said, 'Sir?'
'This fellow Benny Lightfoot, who was he close to?'
'No bugger,' said Clark. 'A right loner.'
'So if he did come back, there's nowhere special he'd head?'
'Only Dendale, and there's nowt there for him now, not even with the drought. All the buildings got 'dozed down before they flooded the dale, including Neb Cottage, where he lived with his gran.'
'His gran. What happened to her?' asked Pascoe.
'She dug her heels in, said they'd have to carry her out of her cottage, and that's what they had to do,' said Clark. 'She barricaded herself in, then had a stroke. I went up there to try to talk some sense into her and I saw her through the window. Another few hours, I reckon she'd have snuffed it.'
'Lucky you were so conscientious,' said Pascoe.
'I'm not sure she saw it that way,' said Clark. 'I went to see her in hospital and she didn't exactly seem grateful.'
'Did she recover?'
'Depends who was talking to her,' said Clark with a reminiscent grin. 'Any official questions about Benny and she'd lost the power of speech and memory. She was certainly a bit confused and had trouble with finding the right words, but she was soon well enough to be a right trouble to the nurses. They'd have discharged her a lot sooner, only they had to find a place for her to go. She couldn't look after herself, you see. Even after she got most of her speech back, she was partially paralyzed down one side. So it had to be nursing home, and she led the Social Services a merry dance when they started making suggestions.'
'But in the end she went?'
'No. A niece turned up. Lived somewhere near Sheffield. Said she'd take her. And that's the last anyone round here saw of her.'
'So she could be still alive,' said Pascoe.
'She'd be getting on, but she's the kind who'd stay alive forever if she thought folk were expecting her to die.'
'Can't remember the niece's name, can you?'
'No. But they might still have a record down at Social Services.'
'Depends who was running the case,' said Pascoe unoptimistically.
'I can tell you that. Lass name of Plowright.'
'You don't mean Jeannie Plowright who's head of Social Services at County Hall now?' said Pascoe, hope reviving.
'Aye, she's done right well,' said Clark. 'I thought she would. Anyone who could survive dealing with old Mrs. Lightfoot was always going to make it right to the top!'
He went into the house. Pascoe took out his mobile and dialed.
'County Hall.'
'Social Services. Ms. Plowright, please.'
A pause, unfilled (thank God) by soothing music. Then a man's voice.
'Hello?'
'Is Jeannie there, please?'
'Sorry, she's out. Can I help?'
'No. When will she be back?'
'Not till this late afternoon, maybe early evening. Look, if it's about-'
'It's not about anything you can help with,' said Pascoe. 'Can you make sure she gets a message?'
'I expect so, but listen-'
'No. You listen. Carefully. My name is Pascoe. Detective Chief Inspector Pascoe. Tell Ms. Plowright I shall call to see her in her office at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. This is urgent and confidential police business, okay? Subject of meeting: Mrs. Agnes Lightfoot, formerly of Neb Cottage, Dendale. You got that? Good. Thank you.'
He rang off. If you see me coming, better step aside, he thought. Bullying Clark for having personal feelings. Now riding roughshod over some poor devil whose name or status I didn't even bother to find out. Another fifteen stone and I'll be indistinguishable from Dalziel!
The phone rang.
'Hello!' he barked.
'Peter, it's me. Listen, don't worry, but Rosie wasn't well at school and Miss Martindale sent for me and I brought her home and I thought it was just too much sun or something, then I got to thinking about Zandra so I rang Jill and she said Zandra was a lot worse, and she'd got the doctor there so I started getting a bit concerned and rang Dr. Truman and he's here now and he says he'd like Rosie to go to hospital for some tests… Peter, can you get there soon?… Please
…'
He'd never heard Ellie like this before. The world reeled as if the great ocean of heathery moor had decided to shrug its shoulders and ease Stirps Farm off its sandbank.
Then all went still again.
He said, 'I'm on my way.'
So much for hard cases, he thought. So much for slagging people off for letting personal feelings get in the way. Dalziel was right. If there was a god, he dearly loved a joke.
'Sergeant Clark!' he roared.
And set off at a run toward the car.
When Wield and Novello reached Bixford, there was no need to ask for directions.
Towering over the sign extending Bixford's welcome to careful drivers was a hoarding proclaiming the imminence of GEORDIE TURNBULL (Demolition and EXCAVATION) LTD.
It stood inside a high chain-link security fence running round a site of about an acre. At its center stood a bungalow, on one side of which was parked a bright yellow bulldozer bearing Turnbull's name in fiery red, and on the other a light blue Volvo station wagon.
