Five hundred years later it was still the haunt of sinners in search of all kinds of succour, but also, increasingly, of staider citizens in search of atmosphere. Which category Waterson might fall into was not yet Wield's concern. He had wasted far too much time on anonymous tips to lose more in idle speculation.
But tonight his time was not being wasted. As he approached the Sally its door opened, spilling light, music, and a quartet of pilgrims on to the pavement. Among them in the moment before the closing door cut off the light, he glimpsed his man. He had only seen him once before but Dalziel's heavy rebukes had stamped those features onto his soul.
Wield had halted and now he remained in the shadows. He hoped he wouldn't have to pluck Waterson from the bosom of his companions. Even if the acquaintance were casual, pub loyalties could be alcoholically strong. But if the man got into the blue Peugeot estate they were all standing round, he would have to take the chance.
He was going to be lucky. Two of the others got into the car, the third remained on the pavement a little longer talking to Waterson before getting into the driver's seat. Wield paused long enough to take the car's number as it passed him, then set out after Waterson who was walking briskly away in the opposite direction. He could simply have called out the man's name. There was after all no criminal charge involved here, so no reason for Waterson to run. But he'd kept his head down so successfully for almost two weeks that he clearly wasn't keen to renew acquaintance with the police, and if his vanity kept him as fit as it kept him fashionable, Wield didn't fancy a race. Time enough to close the gap when they reached busier streets.
Unfortunately Waterson's route was taking them away from the city centre through an old residential area, fairly upmarket sixty years ago but since declined to bedsit commerce within and sexual commerce without. A recent purge had temporarily frightened off the kerb crawlers and driven the pros centrewards, so tonight was quiet. Directly ahead was a small park called Kipling Gardens. Once this had been a well-known pick-up point for gays, but AIDS had cut down traffic here without the need of a police purge. Waterson walked briskly past the main gate. Ahead, the road turned down the further side of the park and Wield prepared to accelerate and make up a bit of ground once his quarry was out of sight. But just as he reached the corner, Waterson halted as if sensing a follower, and swung round. Fortunately Wield was just passing the park entrance and he sidestepped smartly into the shadow of the tall brick gateposts. Here he stood completely still, straining his ears for a renewal of Waterson's footsteps and wondering if he'd been spotted.
'Looking for someone, friend,' said a soft voice behind him.
Startled, he turned. A young man in a brass-studded leather jerkin was smiling at him out of the darkness. He didn't look much more than sixteen or seventeen. Wield smiled back and said, 'Some other time, son. I'm meeting a friend.'
It was a gentle dismissal, partly because he didn't want to risk attracting Waterson's attention but mainly because he had no desire to hassle this kid. But he paid dearly for it.
'Here, we've got ourselves one,' said the youth.
And suddenly the darkness behind him was crowded with figures, four, five, six, Wield didn't have time to count, for they were on him, swinging lengths of wood, branches they seemed to be, fresh ripped off trees in the park, less lethal than clubs or metal piping perhaps, but still heavy enough to rip and cut when wielded with such ferocity.
'Dirty fucking queer passing your fucking AIDS round decent people,' gasped the first youth between blows. This was a crazy irony. Wield's care and control had kept him clear of such situations all his life. Now he was being beaten up by mistake. So he thought later, but not now, for now all his thinking was concentrated on keeping on his feet. Once on the ground, the boots would start coming in and God knows what damage might be done.
He'd got his back to the gatepost and his arms were raised to shield his head. A vehicle went by, its headlights sliding over him like a searchlight in a prison camp. He heard it slow to a halt and thought for a moment rescue was coming. His attackers thought so too and hesitated. Then the engine revved noisily and the vehicle accelerated away.
Now the assault resumed with increased fury. His forehead was gashed and blood was streaming down his face. A concerted attack must drive him on to his knees, but fortunately they were coming at him in individual bursts, then springing back, like dogs attacking a badger, which though its situation is hopeless, still has the power to inflict a valedictory wound.
But what wound do they fear from me? Wield asked himself. No weapon, strength failing, covered in blood . . . then it came to him. The AIDS propaganda hadn't done much to still their stupid fears or increase their negligible tolerance, but it had driven home one lesson. The main danger of non-sexual infection came from blood. Hence their keenness to keep their distance as they destroyed him.
Throwing back his head he let out a scream of such ferocity that it momentarily stilled the assault, and into that fraction of silence he bellowed. 'You're right! I've got it! And this time tomorrow you'll all have it too!' And putting his hand to his gashed brow, he started to flick blood into their faces like a priest with an aspergillum.
For a moment it seemed as if their terror would be transformed into even greater violence, but as the first bough was raised to recommence the assault, Wield gasped, 'Sixty seconds you've got to wash it off. Don't you listen to the telly?'
His spurious statistic worked. One of the gang turned and ran into the park. There was a drinking fountain at its centre. The others realized where he was going and with one accord hurled their branches before Wield like palm leaves, and next moment he was alone.
He didn't wait for them to return from their laving, but staggered out of the gateway and across the street. There was no sign of Waterson. Not that Wield could have done much if the man had been standing next to him. It took all his strength to carry him to a house with a light on. Not even his warrant card could persuade the householder to undo the door chain but at least he rang the police, who came prepared to sort out a drunken brawler rather than succour a colleague in distress.
They drove him to the Infirmary where they jumped the long casualty queue with indifferent ease. A pretty Pakistani nurse had started cleaning him up when the cubicle curtain was drawn aside and a voice said, 'Oh my. What happened to you, Sergeant?'
Wield swivelled his eyes to look at Ellison Marwood.
'I got beat up,' he said.
'Anyone I know?' said Marwood, beginning to examine him.
'I doubt it,' said Wield, wincing as the West Indian's fingers probed. 'Are you the only doctor they've got here?'
