Deadheads

'I think he's down in the canteen,' said the sergeant. 'Said he was hot. You wouldn't think these darkies would feel it like us, would you?'

Wield grunted, and thought that perhaps a cup of tea would cool his own fevered brow, not to mention his simmering temper. He went down to the canteen. It was almost empty, with no sign of Singh. A DC on his way out said he thought the cadet had gone further down the corridor to the locker-room.

His irritation resurfacing, Wield walked the extra twenty yards and pushed open the door. But he didn't go in.

At the far end of the room, naked to the waist, Singh was bent over a washbasin, splashing the running water on to his chest and arms and gently crooning the latest sentimental hit.

The muscles of his slight, flawless torso moved like light on a pool under a wintry sky. Wield caught his breath, holding perfectly still against the door-frame, but the boy sensed there was someone there and turned.

'Hey, Sarge,' he said cheerily. 'I was looking for you.'

'Were you? What the hell are you doing?' demanded Wield roughly.

'Just having a wash down. Who decides when you can go in shirt-sleeves? These tunics are not what you'd call lightweight, are they?'

His attempt to sound friendly touched Wield's heart, but when the boy started moving towards him, drying himself off with a handful of paper towels, Wield said, ‘I’ll be in the canteen for two minutes. No more,' and left.

He bought himself a cup of tea, then added a glass of orange squash. There was no need to take brusqueness to the point of boorishness, he felt. And Singh's attachment was almost up.

But how long will, my attachment continue? he asked himself ironically.

The cadet appeared half a minute later. His apprehensive expression relaxed slightly when Wield pushed the squash towards him.

'That'll cool you down,' he said. 'Now, what's so urgent?'

'Well, I saw Mick Feaver this morning,' began Singh. 'You know, him that we had in because of vandalizing them cars.'

As he unfolded his story, Wield's professional instincts became involved above the personal.

'You're sure he said Rosemont?' he demanded.

'Certain,' protested Singh. 'And he was sure that's what Jonty had said because that's how he could prove he wasn't lying, wasn't it?'

'Sorry?' said Wield, unsure of the pronouns.

'Anyone could say he was going to do a house next week, couldn't they?' explained Singh. 'There's always plenty of houses get done. Then he could just pick one and say that was it! Anyway, I thought I'd best tell somebody.'

'You took your time, didn't you?' said Wield. 'You talked to this lad this morning, you say, and now it's the middle of the afternoon.'

'I couldn't find anyone, and I was kept pretty busy,' said Singh defensively.

'Oh aye. I forgot how busy they keep you,' said Wield gently, realizing that the probable truth was the boy had agonized for hours before taking this further and decisive step in his relationship with Jonty Marsh and Mick Feaver. From old mates to villain and 'grass' in three days, it was a turn-around rapid enough to bring on a nasty bout of nausea.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, youth is resilient even in its betrayals, and now Singh proceeded, 'This Rosemont, Sarge, could it be that place we went out to, with the woman whose Polo got damaged, and the little girl?'

'Could be,' said Wield. 'But likely there's other houses called Rosemont, so don't be putting in for the police medal yet.'

'But if it is,' insisted Singh, excitement glowing in his dark, handsome face, 'will there be a stake-out? Will I be able to come on it?'

'I shouldn't be so keen,' said Wield. 'Even if this lad is talking about the same house, there's still a lot can happen. Most stake-outs I've been on, you just sit around all night, and it's cold, and it's dark, and it's uncomfortable, and nothing ever happens. Come the dawn, you're red-eyed and stiff and knackered and all you've got the energy to do is strangle the silly bugger who put you there in the first place, if you can get your hands on him. So I wouldn't be so keen to get on the job!'

He finished his tea and pushed back his chair.

'But we'd better let Mr Pascoe know when he gets back,' he said. 'He's got more artistic hands than me, so the strangulation process shouldn't be so nasty. On the other hand, he'll probably pass it on to Mr Dalziel when he comes back from London at the weekend. Have you ever had a good look at Mr Dalziel's hands?'

Shaking his head, he stood up and slowly made for the door.

Peter Pascoe didn't know whether to be delighted or not with Shaheed Singh's news. He distrusted simple coincidence. By the time he'd finished questioning the young cadet, Singh felt glad that he wasn't a criminal and not all that pleased to be a policeman.

'What do you think?' Pascoe asked Wield after the door had closed behind the relieved youth.

'Rosemont fits the picture,' said Wield. 'Big, but not big enough to have a living-in staff. Nicely isolated without being buried in the countryside. And probably with enough good stuff lying around to be worth nicking without being so good that it's all carefully catalogued and put in a bank vault when the house is empty.'

'That's the first thing to check, whether the house is going to be empty in the next couple of weeks,' said