'No. I saw them together a few times and they seemed all right. To tell the truth, it was him I felt sorry for. She always struck me as a bit of an up-and-down lady who expected people to dance to her moods.'
Dalziel frowned at this further witness to Gail Swain's volatility.
Chung said, 'You don't like Phil Swain much, do you?'
'I wouldn't say I don't like him,' said Dalziel. 'I hate the bastard's guts!'
'But he is in the clear, right?'
'Not while I'm breathing! What's your interest, luv?'
She hesitated, then said, 'Hell, look, I'd better come clean, Andy. I want you for God, no, don’t say anything yet. I chose you because you've got a kind of special aura. Well, Phil Swain's got an aura too, not for God I hasten to say, but I had put out some feelers, then this awful business about his wife happened and I thought that was that. But when he turned up at the party last Sunday, I got to wondering if he might like something to take his mind off things, you know, sort of occupational therapy . . . but it's you I really want, Andy, and if Phil taking part would really be an obstacle, seeing how you feel about him, well, I'll definitely cross him off my list, if only you'll say yes.'
She spoke hesitantly, uncertainly, but why did he get a feeling that every one of these words had been as carefully thought into place as the notes on a musical score? He had a sense for the second time this night of being none too gently manipulated, but there was a world of difference between Trimble's Cornish wrestling and this oriental massage.
'What was it you wanted the bugger for anyway?' he asked, accepting his cue.
'That's the thing that would make it so difficult, Andy,' said Chung, golden cat's eyes suddenly moon-orbed. 'I wanted him for Lucifer. He'd have to appear with you in the opening pageant so you could cast him down into hell.'
Dalziel began to laugh. At last oriental subtlety and CID technique were on the same wavelength. The end of all interrogation was to make the poor sod want to say what you wanted him to say!
'You know what, luv?' he said. 'You remind me of me!'
And Chung leaned forward so close that he couldn't get his glass to his lips, and murmured, 'I think I have finally found my God.'
'The Second Shepherds' Pageant'
CHAPTER ONE
March came in like a lamb though the forecasters, looking down at their print-outs and up at their rooks' nests, predicted its tail would wag with unprecedented ferocity.
Sergeant Wield, landed with the late shift, wasn't much bothered by the weather without, as long as he got a quiet night within, but at 10.30 his phone rang and a vaguely familiar voice said, 'You want Waterson, try the Sally.'
The line went dead. Wield got the station exchange.
'That call, was it for me by name or just for CID?'
'He asked for you, Sarge.'
Wield stood up and pulled his coat on. Weather had become a consideration. There was a mild and muggy night rubbing against his window-pane, but a trail that started in a nice warm pub could lead anywhere. Or nowhere.
The Pilgrim's Salvation stood against the old city wall in a quarter where decay had halted just short of disintegration, and desperate efforts were being made to revivify the mainly Victorian housing stock.
The Sally went back far beyond the nineteenth century, however. Sacred legend claimed that a famous sinner on pilgrimage to the cathedral had died here before he could claim forgiveness by reaching the holy shrine. Miraculously his abandoned staff had taken root beneath the city wall in testimony of God's unlimited mercy. A more profane provenance merely pointed out that this was the first inn the northern heathens reached on entering the city after their long and thirsty journey.
