doing at the time, a police officer on duty viciously assaulted by a gang of young thugs, dealt with by a nice fascist magistrate with some bored legal aid brief somnambulating through the cross-questioning . . .
He had to do it, whatever. Big risk, little risk, no risk at all. Duty, faith, call it what you will; that personal imperative which, expanded to a general principle, makes religions; corrupted, makes fanatics; but ignored, makes existence meaningless; this was the only arbiter.
He said, 'On Tuesday March the first, you waylaid a man at the entrance to Kipling Gardens, and with the assistance of others as yet unknown, you assaulted him.'
'You what? Who says?' demanded Medwin, unable to hide his consternation.
'I say,' said Wield. 'You should try to pick on people your own size, son. Like dwarves.'
'You're saying it was you?' He stared at Wield in dawning recognition first of the face, then of the trap he'd fallen into.
'That's right,' said Wield. 'You really are in trouble, aren't you?'
There was a tap at the door and Seymour stuck his head in.
'Super's here and wondering how you're getting on,' he said.
'I'll have a word,' said Wield. 'Mr Medwin here turns out to be the young gent who assaulted me m March. He's just going to write a statement. Give him a hand, will you?'
He went out glancing at his watch. Not yet seven. I bet the fat sod's feeling all virtuous about getting up early, he thought.
He was being unjust though he couldn't have guessed it, for there was nothing in Dalziel's appearance to show he hadn't been to bed at all. On his return home from the Gents, he had soaked in a piping hot bath for more than an hour. Then, feeling himself more famished than fatigued, he had breakfasted on a black pudding boiled up in a panful of oxtail soup, sitting naked at his kitchen table, staring out through the soft focus of mucky glass and a damp May morning towards the window where he'd had his only living glimpse of Gail Swain.
Her face he couldn't remember, and next time he saw it, it mostly wasn't there. But the tits . . . in his mind's eye he saw the tits again. His libido seemed to be having an Indian summer, or perhaps it was a Malayan summer, for it was since his close contact with Chung that he'd noticed his imagination running hot. Which reminded him, he was due at rehearsal at ten, so instead of sitting here exciting himself, he'd be better off getting a couple of early hours in.
'Not done yet?' he now greeted his sergeant. 'You're just supposed to be processing these lads, not getting their life stories.'
'This one turned out to be a bit more complicated. Seems to be clear on the train job, says he travelled by car that day, gave me these names as back-up,' said Wield, passing over the list. 'I reckon he's worth looking at for the pub riot, though. He went very amnesiac on that one. And something else came up. I recognized him as the leader of that gang that beat me up.'
'Oh yes,' said Dalziel with a lack of interest almost hurtful in the light of Wield's recent soul-searching. 'Wieldy, this name here, the one without an address...’
'Oh, him. Medwin says he was an old mate he bumped into at the match and gave a lift to. Living down south and just fancied coming back here on impulse. Sounds like he was pleased. Why the interest, sir?'
'The name, lad. The
Even now it didn't register immediately. One man's obsession is another man's yawn. Then he remembered. Arnie Stringer's vanished son-in-law, whose continued absence Dalziel seemed to take as a personal affront! If he'd made the connection himself and gone running, he might have picked up a house point. Now his only reward for getting up so early was Dalziel's reproof.
He said, 'Needn't be the same, sir. Lots of Appleyards in Yorkshire.'
Dalziel looked heavenward and said, 'O ye of little faith! Let's go and find out, shall we?'
Though Dalziel's interview with Jason Medwin breached no human rights agreement, it was nevertheless an act of terror.
The fat man oozed avuncular charm, but as he smiled encouragement and nodded approval, his hands were doing terrible things to a sheet of paper, a plastic cup, and finally a lead pencil which he snapped into four pieces each of which he crumbled to splinters between finger and thumb.
Medwin had started with cheek - ‘Fucking hell, you're really bringing in the heavy mob, aren't you?' - then laughed uproariously.
Dalziel joined in and for a few seconds the two laughed in unison. But Medwin's amusement slowly diminuendoed through a nervous chuckle to a fearful silence, while Dalziel's guffaws went on and on, putting Wield in mind of the Laughing Policeman on the front at Blackpool which as a child he'd always found more frightening than funny. At last Dalziel too modulated to a smile, but by now it was clear that as far as Medwin was concerned, Dalziel's smile held more threat than Wield's grim features set at maximum grue.
It was quickly established that the youth's friend was indeed the Super's own Appleyard.
'Got some slag in the club, and her dad made him marry her. I'd have told him to sod off but Tone never had much bottle.'
'Can't all be heroes,' agreed Dalziel amicably. 'So he ran off south?'
The youth considered. None of this was self-incriminatory, so there was no point in misleading this fat bastard and (eyeing those restless hands) mebbe a lot of point cooperating with him.
'Nah, I reckon he went looking for work to start off, then just sort of got lost.'
'And it was just chance you met him?'
'Yeah. He were always a supporter, mind, and with them being down there, it was natural he'd go to the game.'
