the brow, over which hung a few wisps of thin, graying hair.
It also had something familiar about it.
'Telford?' said Dalziel doubtfully. 'Joe Telford? Is that you?'
'It was,' said the man. 'Long time no see, Mr. Dalziel.'
It was indeed. But not as long as that evidenced by this man's appearance. He must still be in his forties! thought Dalziel. And while he'd never been a large man, surely he'd been taller than this?
He took a few steps toward the sunlight at the end of the alleyway and the man moved back before him, like flotsam pushed up the beach by the tide. Now the reason for the height loss became evident. Telford walked with a stoop, leaning heavily on a thick ashen stick. The dark brown suit he wore, making no concessions to the heat, may once have fitted, but now it hung on his slight frame like a tea towel on a beer pump.
The alleyway ended in an open cobbled yard, across which Dalziel saw the Beulah Chapel. It was an imposing building, constructed of dark red brick and looking rather out of place, certainly out of proportion, in this location. A faint buzz came out of it as from a huge hive of bees. The yard itself was littered with a carpenter's bench, several trestles bearing lengths of wood, and plastic carriers stuffed with tools.
Telford had halted, still in the alleyway's shade. He was tidy enough despite the ill-fitting suit, clean shaven, and smelled of soap and sawdust rather than neglect. This was slightly but not totally reassuring. Dalziel had met too many folk in whom cleanliness was next to dottiness, and his inner sensors were telling him Joe Telford was dotty as a dartboard.
'So how're you doing, Mr. Telford?' said the Fat Man.
'I get by. It's been a worry, but.'
'Aye, I daresay it has,' said Dalziel.
'Still, wi' a bit of luck, you'll catch bugger this time and that'll be an end on it.'
It was the unremittingly matter-of-fact tone of voice which was perhaps the most unnerving thing about the man. In fact, the premature aging apart, it was the only unnerving thing about him. So why was he getting that care-in-the-community tingle? Dalziel decided to apply a subtle psychological test.
'Sorry to hear about your missus,' he said. 'Must've been a shock.'
Telford looked at him and scratched his chin reflectively.
'Not so much of a shock as it'll be to our George when he sees what she does to a tube of toothpaste,' he said.
Dalziel smiled approvingly. Flying colors. That was how you expected a down-to-earth Yorkie to react to domestic strife.
'So you're letting the singers use the chapel,' he said.
'Aye. Why not? To tell truth, Mr. Dalziel, I don't spend a lot of time down here. And Mr. Wulfstan were always a good customer in the old days. Owt needed done at Heck, he always went local, didn't bring in some fancy Dan from town like a lot of them off-comers. He'll be glad of it too.'
'Glad of having somewhere for his concert, you mean? I expect he will.'
'No. Glad you're close to getting things sorted. He'll be wanting to see his little lass as much as me.'
'See his lass?' echoed Dalziel. 'Aye, I daresay, I daresay.'
He was thinking remains. He didn't need any bereavement counselor to tell him how important it was for a parent's peace of mind to have a proper funeral, a proper leave-taking, after no matter how many years.
But Telford's next words sent him reeling back to his initial diagnosis.
'This sun's a bloody nuisance, but. You'll have to take care of that when you find them. Could burn their eyes out after all them years in the dark. Best wait for night afore you fetch them out.'
'Fetch them out? Out of where, Mr. Telford?'
'Out of yon hole in the Neb he's been keeping them in all these years. Aye, night 'ud be best. Then let them get used to the light gradual like.'
Oh, fuck, thought Dalziel. The poor bastard wasn't talking remains, he was talking recovery, he was talking resurrection. He thought his lost lass was going to come up blinking out of some dark cave in the hillside where Benny had kept her all these years. Did he think she'd be older or that some magical suspension of time would have kept her the same age as when she got taken? Dalziel didn't want to know. It was that rare thing, a problem beyond his competence. He remembered Telford's wife. A small, strong woman who had balled up her apron and stuffed it into her mouth when she heard the news. He guessed she'd have kept her suffering to as far as she could, would finally have come to some sort of terms with it. But what was beyond her strength, what she couldn't come to terms with after all these years, was the matter-of-fact craziness of her husband, his gentle insistence that little Madge was alive under the Neb somewhere, just waiting to be rescued. So she'd run. Not far, just to George, who bore a strong physical resemblance to his brother. He bet they lived close. He bet they kept a close eye on Joe. And the Danbyians would accept it. In matters of extramarital lust Yorkshire rustics could be as unforgiving as a government chief whip, but in terms of domestic practicality, they were often more laid back than Latins.
He said gently, 'We'll do what's right, Mr. Telford. Is Mr. Wulfstan here now?'
'Aye, him and some others. I'm just waiting for the truck to come. Mr. Wulfstan's arranged to have my bits and pieces taken round to store at his place in the Science Park. I told him not to bother, they'd not come to harm in this weather. But he insisted. He's a good man.'
'I'll go and have a word with him, then, Mr. Telford. You take care now.'
He strode across the yard thinking, This is no place for me. He didn't mean the Beulah Chapel, he meant Danby. Soon as he'd got news of the case, he should have gone sick, taken a holiday, dumped the whole thing in Peter Pascoe's lap. Then he recalled what else had been dumped in his lieutenant's lap and growled to himself. 'Get a grip on yourself, man, or you'll end up daft as poor Joe Telford.'
He glanced back to the alleyway. The man had stepped farther back into the deep shade and was only visible now as a gleam of eye white. Perhaps he haunted shadowy places because he felt they somehow kept him in touch with his daughter.
Shaking the depressing thought from his mind, Dalziel pushed open the door of the chapel.
There were several people in there, three of them using vacuum cleaners, which explained the buzzing. The floor space was devoid of pews. Perhaps they'd been removed when the chapel was decommissioned. Or maybe the Beulahites didn't believe in sitting at worship. There was nowt so harmless that some religious sect hadn't made it a sin.
At the far end, where presumably the altar (if they went in for altars) had stood, he saw Wulfstan in a little group which included the two singers. Behind them, Inger Sandel was sitting at a piano, plucking out single notes and examining them long after they had ceased to resound in Dalziel's ear. There was no sign of Cap Marvell. He felt a sag of disappointment, then told himself he had no right to be disappointed, not when the man he wanted to see was in place.
Not that his reason for wanting to see him was any stronger than not having anyone else he wanted to see at that moment. Some investigators he knew, when things ground to a halt in an inquiry, got through by sitting down and going over the story-so-far with a fine-tooth comb. He had two on his team who could do that, in their different ways. But his own way was to make things happen, keep prodding, never let the opposition have a rest, even when you didn't have the faintest idea who the opposition was. When this ignorance had been put to him as a possible invalidation of the technique by Peter Pascoe, Dalziel had replied, 'Doesn't matter. The bugger knows who I am and so long as he sees me busy, there's no way he'll rest peaceful in his bed. Push, push, and see what gives.'
'Superintendent,' Wulfstan greeted him. 'I hope you have not decided that you need this hall also.'
'Nay, this is all yours,' said Dalziel magnanimously. 'Standing room only, is it? Like in the Prams?'
'Proms, I think you mean. Where people do stand, yes, but the majority sit. Here everyone will sit. We're having the chairs brought round as soon as we get the place properly cleaned.'
'Aye, I can see you're giving it a good going-over,' said the Fat Man.
'The atmosphere of a carpenter's shop is not helpful to a singer's throat,' said Wulfstan. 'I'll be having a commercial dust extractor brought down from my works later to complete the job. So, how can I help you?'
'Just a word,' said Dalziel. 'Private.'
He glanced at the others in the group. The three he didn't know drifted away. Krog and the woman remained where they were.
'Please, you may say what you will before Elizabeth and Arne,' said Wulfstan.
Dalziel shrugged.
