and try once more to run up the tunnel? She has to try.
She begins to move, pushing herself up from the bone-strewn ground with infinite care. Then, just as she reaches a crouching position, she feels her left hand seized.
Startled, she looks down. The grip is tight but it is no monstrous paw that holds her. It is a child's hand. She lets her gaze run up the slim white arm and finds herself looking at another little girl like herself. Not quite like herself, for her hair is long and blond while Rosie's is short and black. But there is a terror on that pale face she recognizes as her own. And the face, too, she recognizes, or thinks she does. First it is Nina's from the storybook. Then it is her friend Zandra's. Then it is another little blond-haired girl she doesn't know.
'Help me,' says the newcomer. 'Please help me.'
But when Rosie looks back to the nix, she sees it is too late for help. The webbed hands have come down from the pointed ears, the fixed gaze swings back to her face once more.
And the eyes are no longer expressionless blanks.
They are burning, burning.
Shirley Novello had always believed you needed a High Court order, if not a papal dispensation, to persuade banks to break the seal of confidentiality on a client's account.
But now she discovered, as many before her in Mid-Yorkshire, that all seals flew asunder at the open sesame of Dalziel's name.
Or perhaps it was the smile that did it, she thought, as she followed Pascoe's instructions to the letter and smiled knowingly at Willie Noolan of the Mid-Yorkshire Savings Bank.
He smiled back, more lecherous than knowing, then turned to a computer keyboard.
'Old Agnes Lightfoot? She still alive? By God, you're right,' he said, peering at the screen. 'Not much there, but. No one's going to get rich when she snuffs it.'
'It's fifteen years back Mr. Dalziel's interested in,' said Novello.
'Before we got computerized,' said Noolan nostalgically.
'So no record?' said Novello, disappointed.
'For shame! You don't get to be a bank by throwing stuff away. It'll be in the cellar. My lad, Herbert, will soon ferret it out. Herbert!'
Herbert, far from being a lad, was perfect evidence of the bank's reluctance to throw anything away, appearing to a neutral eye more years the far side of a rail pass than the near side of a requiem.
He moved on nimble feet, however, and in a very short space with even shorter breath he was laying on Noolan's desk a file as creased and dusty as his own suit.
'Thank you, Herbert,' said the manager. 'Go and have a lie-down till you get your wind.'
'Isn't he a little old to be working?' said Novello after he'd panted his way out of the office.
'You think so? And aren't you a little young to be asking?'
'Sorry,' said Novello.
'Nay, lass, don't look so crestfallen!' laughed Noolan. 'Herbert's long retired. Only, he prefers it here to home. Says his wife makes demands. I can't imagine what he means. Now let's take a look, shall we? Oh, yes. There it is, I thought it rang a bell. Fifty thousand paid in as compensation by the Water Board. That was the end of July. Then a short while after, forty-nine thousand withdrawn. In cash. Aye, I recall it now. Cash withdrawal like that, everyone wants someone else to sign. More signatures here than a peace treaty. It all comes back now. I tried dissuading her, but she told me if I didn't want her business there was plenty as did. And off she went with the loot in a carpetbag.'
'And this was fifteen years ago?'
'So I said.'
'And the money's never come back into her account?'
He checked, right through to the time when Agent's account was transferred to computer recording.
'Not a thing.'
'Well, thank you very much for your cooperation,' said Novello. 'Mr. Dalziel will be pleased.'
'I'm glad of that. Always happy to help the police, but tell him the slate's beginning to look a bit bare. You don't save with us, do you, luv?'
'I don't earn enough to save with anyone,' said Novello. 'Sorry!'
She examined the facts as she left the building. This let Winifred off the hook. Like Billie Saltair had said, she might be greedy but she'd done nothing dishonest. In fact old Aunt Agnes had rather taken advantage of her cupidity. She probably guessed that it was only the thought of the compensation money that had made her niece take her in. And for all the years she'd spent in Branwell Close, she'd made damn sure Winifred never got a look at her bank statements. But her guard had dropped when she'd had her second stroke and once Winifred saw the state of her accounts, the road to Wark House had been opened. Or rather, the road back from it had been closed.
So now the crazy scenario in which Benny Lightfoot, with the help of his gran's money, fled to Australia, whence he had returned to start killing children again, took another step toward realization.
This meant someone had to talk to Agnes. Someone! It meant she had to talk to the old lady.
Which meant first of all talking to Billie Saltair.
She rang rather than making the journey back to Sheffield. It was a wise move.
'Not today,' said the matron firmly. 'We've just put her to bed. She's not at all well, very feverish. If she gets any worse, we'll call in the doctor. Ring me in the morning.'
Would the Holy Trinity have insisted? Novello wondered. Big Andy was quite capable of interrogating a frail old woman on her deathbed, but was even he capable of pushing past Billie Saltair?
It would have been a battle worth paying ringside prices to see.
Novello knew better than to fight outside her weight unless forced by dire necessity.
'I'll ring you tomorrow,' she said.
As if mollified by this ready compliance, the matron said, 'One thing might interest you. Probably nothing to do with Agnes's visitor, but one of our handymen I was chatting to recalled seeing a white van, like a camper van he said, bumping down the drive that Friday morning.'
Novello smiled. Detective work was contagious. Even Billie Saltair wasn't immune.
'Thanks a lot,' she said, putting some warmth into her voice this time. 'I'll be in touch.'
She put the phone down, picked it up again, and got through to the Danby incident center. Wield was around somewhere but not immediately visible, so she left her update with DI Headingley, who thanked her avuncularly, like she was a little girl tolerated in the adult world for her lisping voice and golden locks. But to some extent this was preferable to the anticipated response of the sergeant, who, she felt, would rather she didn't come up with any more evidence to support a BENNY'S BACK! scenario.
And was he back? she wondered. Certainly someone was back.
She stood at the window of the CID room, wide open in hope of encouraging a cooling draft. All she got, however, were fumes and noise from the traffic in the street below. She raised her eyes to the Madonna-blue sky above the Franciscan-gray roofs and said, 'So where are you now, my wild colonial boy?'
If she'd been a little humbler and cast her eyes down instead of up, she might have seen the 'boy' in question pause outside the main entrance of Mid-Yorkshire Police Headquarters and peer up at the old blue lamp which still hung there. She might have observed that for a moment it looked as if he was making up his mind to enter and share whatever was troubling him with those within.
Then the moment was past. He turned away and in a few steps was lost from view.
Dalziel dipped his biscuit into his postcoital tea, got it to his mouth before it collapsed, bit it, and said, 'Bloody hell,' soggily.
'Bad tooth?' said Cap Marvell sympathetically.
'No,' he replied. 'This is a Grannie's Golden Shortie.'
'Is that a problem?'
'It were for my dad,' said Dalziel. 'It were his recipe.'
It occurred to Cap she knew nothing of Dalziel before he became a policeman, and very little of him before he became the detective superintendent who had, incredibly, eased his bulk into her bed and her affections.
He was back in the former now because when he'd turned up at her flat door earlier that evening, she'd realized he'd never left the latter.
