She managed the ghost of a smile and said, 'Point taken.'
'There's a coffee machine on the next floor, look, it says so here. Let's head down there and treat ourselves.'
'Suppose something happens…'
'It'll only take a minute. Better than sitting here… anything's better… Everything's going to be fine, love. Uncle Andy's promised, remember?'
The door opened. A woman came in. They knew her name was Curtis. She was the pediatric consultant.
She came straight to the point.
'She's very ill. I'm afraid we can now confirm it's meningitis.'
'What kind?' demanded Ellie.
'Bacterial.'
The worst kind. Even if he hadn't known that, Pascoe could have guessed from Ellie's expression.
He put his arm round her, but she twisted away. She was looking for someone to hit out at just as he had been with the chief executive and the security man.
He said, 'Ellie.'
She turned on him and yelled. 'What price Uncle Andy now, eh? What price the fat bastard now?'
15
Edgar Wield was feeling quite pleased with himself. He'd got the search under way at Bixford and transported Geordie Turnbull to Danby without so far attracting the attention of any of the flock of carrion crows who called themselves reporters. Downside was that Turnbull's solicitor was also here, closeted in the station's one small interview room with his client.
Then Nobby Clark arrived and told him about Pascoe.
No details. Just that Rosie was in hospital. Wield felt sick. The Pascoes were special to him, the nearest thing to family left for him in this country since his sister emigrated. Edwin… Edwin was different. Closer, yes. But more important? No; just differently so. He looked at the phone. He could ring up and find out what had happened. But he hesitated. He tried to work out why. Fear at what he might hear? That certainly. But something more… He probed, and was bewildered to find something that looked like guilt. For what? Was he mean spirited enough to resent this intrusion on his newfound personal happiness? That would be cause enough to make him feel guilty. He hoped to God it wasn't. But if not that, what? He probed deeper, saw more clearly, still didn't believe it. Then had to. He felt responsible. It was an extension of his feelings about this lost-child case. Some cynical, self-despising element at the center of his psyche did not believe he was meant for happiness and was therefore sure that whatever he got of it could only be procured by subtraction from someone else's store. It was an absurdity, an egotism in its way as disgusting as selfish vanity. But he still hesitated to pick up the phone. It was as if by doing so he would acknowledge creating whatever monstrous news awaited his inquiry.
'Super's just driven into the yard,' said Clark coming into the office and anxiously checking out his appearance in the glass-fronted photo of the queen.
Fear of Dalziel was a healthy condition, but belief that he was appeasable by gleaming brass, polished boots, or any other kind of bullshit meant that you had more than average cause to be afraid, thought Wield, glad of the diversion.
He went out to the yard and saw the Fat Man sitting in his car as if reluctant to get out. The Sergeant approached and opened the door like a commissionaire.
'How do, sir,' he said. 'Got some bad news. Clark says the
DCI'S-'
'I've spoken to him. They reckon it could be meningitis. She's in a coma.'
There it was. The worst. No, not quite the worst. That still lay ahead-perhaps awaiting his phone call…
He said, 'Oh, shit.'
'Aye, that about sums it up. Nowt we can do about it, but, so let's get on with the job.'
He climbed out of the car. Wield, undcvd by this display of stoic indifference, fixed his gaze on the vehicle's dashboard, which was cracked in half.
'Having trouble, sir?'
'Aye,' said Dalziel, rubbing his left hand. 'Speedo got stuck, so I gave it a whack.'
'Hope I never get stuck,' murmured Wield closing the door gently.
'Hope you're going to get started,' said Dalziel. 'Turnbull. From the top.'
Wield was the Schubert of report makers, compressing into little space what others would have struggled to express in symphonies. Even the fact that the greater part of his mind was struggling to accommodate the news about Rosie Pascoe didn't inhibit the flow, and in the short walk from the parking lot to the station office, where sight of Dalziel sent Sergeant Clark snapping to attention, he brought the Fat Man up to strength.
Mention of Turnbull's solicitor made Dalziel smile. He liked it when suspects ran crying to their briefs.
'Dick Hoddle? Nose goes one way, teeth go t'other?'
'That's the one.'
'Bit rich for the likes of Geordie Turnbull, I'd've thought.'
'He's done well, sir. His old boss left him the business or something.'
'Need to be something like that,' said Dalziel. 'Didn't strike me as the kind to save up his bawbees. So what do you reckon, Wieldy?'
'Turnbull's cooperating like a lamb,' said the sergeant. 'Okay, he called up Hoddle, but in the circs, who wouldn't? Waived his right to be present during the search of his premises. Hoddle wasn't happy, but Geordie said something like, if it was a drug bust, it 'ud be different, everyone knew the cops were capable of planting shit all over the place, but not even Mid-Yorks CID was going to fit someone up in a case like this.'
Dalziel, unoffended, said, 'He's not so daft. This sneaker and the ribbon from the car…?'
'Novello's taken them round to show the parents. They're not an exact match with the description of what the little girl was likely wearing, but not a million miles off.'
'And Turnbull says…?'
'Seems he often has kids in his car. Does a lot locally, ferrying folk about, kids to football matches, that sort of thing. But not just kids. Old folk, disabled, all sorts. He's well liked.'
'So was the duke of Windsor,' said Dalziel. 'You've still not told me what you reckon.'
'Same as in Dendale. I reckon everyone who knows him, even the odd husband who doesn't like him, would be amazed if he turned out to be our man,' said Wield. 'And I reckon I would too. Which means he's either very, very clever, or we should be looking somewhere else.'
'Oh, aye? Any suggestions where?'
Wield took a deep breath and said, 'Mebbe you'd best talk to Sergeant Clark, sir.'
'I will, when he's recovered from his fit. Can you hear me, Sergeant, or is it rigor mortis?'
Clark, who on the better-safe-than-sorry principle had opted to remain in a sort of half-attention posture, let his muscles relax.
'Right, lad. I gather you've got some ghost stories to tell me. Off you go.'
Clark had few of Wield's narrative skills and Dalziel let his impatience show.
'So Mrs. Hardcastle, that everyone reckons has gone a bit doolally with grief, has started seeing things? Sounds like it's her doctor she should be talking to, not hardworked coppers. You don't agree, lad?'
Clark, who lacked the guile to conceal his resentment of Dalziel's dismissive remarks about Molly Hardcastle, said, 'I think she saw summat, sir.'
'Summat?' Dalziel spat out the word like a cocktail cherry found lurking in a single malt. 'You mean, summat like a sheep? Or a bush? Or summat?'
