all. Your generation's made quite an art of hypocrisy.'
'What are you, Miss Fielding?' asked Dalziel suddenly. She was taken aback and locked at him in puzzlement.
'I mean, all the others seem to be something, to have done something. You, though. How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen? Twenty? What do you do?'
'Haven't you heard?' she said, recovered. 'I've got shares in a restaurant. You might say, I own it. Or will do.'
'What? Oh, the house. You're hoping to live off your inheritance, are you? It's always the way. What one generation makes, the next spends.'
'No one asks to be born, Mr Dalziel,' she said.
'Not many return the gift,' Dalziel said. He was trying to remember what it was like when he was nineteen. The girls he knew hadn't been like this but was that just a difference of class rather than of time? A bit of both. Time marched on, but you could always make allowances. The class thing was different. Dalziel liked a fairly rigid class structure. A sense of social level made people easier to deal with – to manipulate, if you spelled it out. That was also what his job was about. But more importantly it gave a man a sense of what he was, whereas these young sods didn't seem to worry about being anything in particular. And it was catching if you weren't careful. You could wake up and feel the numbness of self-doubt spreading to the heart.
He rose and went into the back kitchen to boil the kettle once more.
The girl sat still, inhaling the steam from her cup. She might have been twelve or thirteen, he thought, glancing at her narrow shoulders from behind.
Suddenly something about her age struck him, something so obvious he couldn't understand how he'd missed it before.
'How old's Bertie?' he asked, putting a spoonful of instant coffee into his mug.
'Twenty-four. Why?'
'And Nigel's fifteen. And they're your step-brothers?'
He made a business of pouring out the water and looking for the milk. From the outer room came a laugh.
'Oh, I see. You've just noticed. Yes, Bonnie had Bertie shortly after meeting Conrad for the first time. I think she fell for his Army uniform. She likes men in uniform, you know. She was bringing Bertie up herself when she met my father. They got married. Later I appeared. Then Daddy died and who should turn up again but Conrad. This time she was wise enough, or stupid enough, to get him to the altar. And after fifteen years of intermittent marriage, here we all are. Happy Family.'
'I see,' said Dalziel.
‘It took you long enough,' she said, raising her voice. 'I thought everyone could see at a glance that Bertie was a bastard.'
When he rejoined her, he saw the reason for the change in tone. Bertie was standing in the doorway. Dalziel looked at his watch. It was still only seven o'clock. They really were early risers here; Bertie was fully clothed and from the look of his shoes, he had been outside.
'Don't let me interrupt,' said the fat youth, walking through the kitchen. He shot a malignant glance at Dalziel's mug as he passed but said nothing.
'Morning,' said Dalziel. 'What's it like out? Cold?'
'Why don't you try it?' said Bertie from the other room.
'Later. This restaurant was your idea, your mam says.'
Bertie returned with some coffee and looked insolently at Dalziel.
'What's it to you?' he asked.
'Nothing much,' said Dalziel. 'I was just hearing about your financial troubles. Wondering if it was worth pouring good money after bad, that's all.'
He was quite proud of that. The statement went no further than a general comment but obviously from the glance the other two exchanged it was the particular application that had been made.
Bertie's voice was definitely politer when he replied.
'I don't know what my mother's been saying, Mr Dalziel, but you mustn't get hold of the wrong end of the stick. The work's nearly finished as you can see. A token payment of a couple of thousand would get the contractors back in twenty-four hours. There's no question of long-term difficulty. Any finance house would be keen to advance money once they saw the state of the project. It's just a matter of time.'
'Oh. If that's all… well, I'm glad to hear it,' said Dalziel. 'I must have mistaken Mrs Fielding. Would anyone mind if I fried myself an egg?'
He didn't wait for an answer but set about the business with the expertise of a man long used to living alone. There was some bacon in the fridge, nice thick-cut rashers which looked as if the pig had seen the light of day in the recent past. He kept his mind off the contents of the foil wrapped package which he had found here yesterday.
'Anyone else?' he called.
‘I’ll try one,' Louisa said, joining him at the stove. 'I can't cook for toffee.'
'I bet your mam can,' said Dalziel.
'When she wants,' said the girl. She lowered her voice. 'Don't take any notice of Bertie. He thinks all big businessmen talk like that.'
'Tell lies, you mean?' said Dalziel, cracking another egg one-handed and draining it through his fingers into the pan.
'Don't worry, love,' he went on. 'I know you can't even refund the Bowls Club their money. God knows what else I don't know about! No. If I was a finance house, I wouldn't lend you your bus-fare home.'
'Up you, then,' said Louisa angrily.
'But I am not a finance house. You know what? I'm going to have mine in a sandwich. It can be messy, but what's life without risks?'
There was no need for him to be talking like this. The first hint that he might be interested in the project had been justifiable. Even then you had to pretend there was some kind of case and he was investigating it. But this was just economic prick-teasing. He tried to retrieve his position.
‘If a couple of thousand's all that's needed. I can't see your problem,' he said, carefully organizing his montage of egg and bacon on a slice of thick-cut bread. 'Your grandfather's got this Gumboot thing coming; how much? Fifteen thousand dollars? Won't he chip in?'
'Not bloody likely,' said Louisa, eating her egg more conventionally, albeit straight from the pan. 'He's been against the project right from the start. He's got a little bit of money from his writing, enough to pay his way in the house, and there's not much he can do with the Gumbelow money at his age. But he'd rather flush it down the loo than let Bertie get his hands on it. That's how he sees the business, you see. Always has. Bertie's balls-up. They don't get on, you may have noticed. And now Herrie thinks Conrad would still be alive if it weren't for the business.'
‘Is that right?' said Dalziel.
'So any knight in shining armour willing to take a small risk for a short time would be gratefully received and bounteously recompensed.'
She looked seriously at him and ran her tongue along the prongs of her fork.
‘Is that right?' said Dalziel again. 'Short time.'
He bit into his sandwich. The egg burst, spread, overflowed faster than his mouth could take it in and ran down his chin.
'I said it could be messy,' said Dalziel.
8
