had learnt in prison. When you can't fight your fears any more, run with them, steering them into ever more gothic regions of your subconscious till finally you tumble over into such grotesqueries that even blind panic has to pause and smile. She was Snow White in the storm, she told herself, with malicious laughter screeching from the foul black air, skeletal arms stretching to trip her, evil eyes watching for her to stumble. But beneath it all she sought the assurance that it was only the harmless owl gliding through the storm-tossed trees under which sheltered a myriad tiny creatures, all as frightened as she. It might have worked in a forest. But here were no trees, only concrete and glass, and the bright-eyed creatures sheltering in these doorways looked far from harmless. She was moving faster and faster. Now she was running, crashing into other pedestrians with force enough to draw attention even in rainy New York. At an intersection the Don't Walk sign lit as she approached.
She saw it but her mind was beyond obedience and she would have plunged straight into the speeding traffic if a hand had not grasped at her arm. She spun round, ready to strike out, to scream. She found herself looking at an elderly man wearing the black clothes, broad-brimmed hat and benevolent smile of an old-fashioned preacher.
'Lady, you want to die?' he said. 'It's the best offer I've had all morning,' she gasped hysterically. 'Business that bad, huh?' He examined her sympathetically. 'Lady, you sure are wet. How much you charge for fucking you dry?' He thought she was a hooker. Somehow this snapped her self-control back into place. She said, 'Twenty- seven.'
'Dollars?' he said in surprise. 'Years,' she said. 'I don't think you can afford it.' She walked all the way back to the apartment, driving her limbs at a pace which created enough heat to drive out the damp from her flesh, if not from her clothes. She felt a tremor of something like triumph as she approached the entrance to the building.
She hadn't achieved anything concrete but she'd ventured out alone, taken risks, and was returning unscathed, ready to fight another day.
As she pushed open the street door a hand grasped her elbow, a touch light as a feather, tight as a vice. 'Well, Cissy Kohler! Here's a stroke of luck! I were just on my way to see you.' She felt herself guided across the vestibule, past the questing gaze of the concierge, up to the elevator. Its doors only opened if the man at the desk pressed a switch. The grip on her arm relaxed. She looked up into a face she had only seen this close once before in her life. Then too her hair had been dripping water down her brow and her cheeks. The man had not been smiling then as he was now, but his eyes had been the same. He said, 'Smile nicely at the man, Cissy. Then we'll go up and have a little chat about the old days.' All she had to do was shout.
She looked into those hard condemning eyes. Then she turned towards the concierge and smiled.
SIX
'What do you make, madame?' 'Many things.' 'For instance -‘ 'For instance… shrouds.' Dalziel hadn't made a conscious decision to dump Linda Steele. What happened was, it started raining as they came out of the deli. Steele waved at a cab which came to a halt some fifteen yards beyond them. A young man in a business suit immediately jumped in and the cab pulled away. 'Cheeky sod!' exclaimed Dalziel.
'Happens all the time,' said the woman philosophically. 'Not to me.'
He saw the cab was balked by the lights at the next intersection.
Suddenly he was off running. The jails of Mid-Yorkshire were full of people who'd been surprised to discover how fast a man of his bulk could move if properly motivated. He reached the cab, wrenched open the door and fell in. 'What the hell!' exclaimed the passenger angrily. Dalziel, too out of breath to speak, put his huge mouth close to the man's ear and bellowed, 'AAArrgh!' Terrified, the man opened the other door and fell out on to the damp tarmac. 'Hey, what the fuck's happening back there?' demanded the driver. 'You've just been hijacked, sunshine,' gasped Dalziel. The lights changed. The traffic started to move. He looked back and saw Linda Steele, slow in her high heels, coming gamely up behind them. 'So where to?' said the driver, beginning to edge forward with the traffic. 'Libya,' said Dalziel, smiling apologetically out of the rear window. 'But there's somewhere I'd like you to stop off first.' Perhaps eager to be rid of his unexpected passenger, the driver drove in a manner which made the trip from the airport seem like a cortege. It turned out to be counter-productive. As he started to pull up outside the apartment building Dalziel said, 'No. The next one.' 'Jesus! Make up your mind, fella!' Dalziel wasn't listening. He was watching Cissy Kohler standing on the sidewalk. For an uncharacteristic moment he vacillated. Confront her now, or watch and follow? Then the decision was taken out of his hands. Another cab pulled in, Linda Steele got out and Kohler got in. It would have been easy to hail Steele but this time Dalziel did make a conscious decision. 'Right, Ben Hur,' he said.
'Follow that cab!' Half an hour later his problem had increased by fifty per cent. He could still either confront or follow. But he could also go into the building she'd just come out of and try to find out what she'd been doing there. He could, of course, come back here later, but by then it would be a cold trail. Following by cab wasn't an easy option in city traffic. They'd been lucky to keep in touch this far. As for confronting her, he wanted somewhere quiet and private for that. Or perhaps he was just rationalizing his own unacknowledged reluctance to speak directly with this woman.
Christalmighty, that was how the lad Pascoe talked! He made up his mind. Cissy Kohler was walking away through the rain. Let her go. He knew where her lair was now. 'What do I owe you?' he said to the cab-driver. 'Apart from my life, I mean?' A small, very discreet plaque above the door said Allerdale Clinic. He went through and found himself in a swish vestibule. Over a counter a receptionist smiled welcomingly at him. Like Linda Steele, she seemed to suffer from an excess of teeth, long rows of perfectly white obelisks, gleaming, symmetrical, like a military graveyard after a bad war. He returned her smile, wondering whether to opt for deception or bribery. 'Can I help you, sir?' she asked. 'Aye. Mebbe. Not me exactly. The wife,' he extemporized, plumping for deceit on the grounds that with dental work like that, bribery was likely to be too rich for his constabulary pocket. 'Has she been suffering long?' said the woman sympathetically.
Dalziel, who had not seen his wife for nigh on twenty years, certainly hoped so. 'Long enough,' he said vaguely. 'This place were recommended by a friend. Miss Kohler. In fact she said she might be calling in today. You've not seen her, have you?' 'I'm sorry,' said the woman.
'The name doesn't ring a bell. Would you take a seat, Mr…?'
'Dalziel.' He examined her face and could find no sign of deceit, but that meant nowt except mebbe she was better at it than he was. Either way, deceitful or genuinely ignorant, she clearly wasn't going to help him. He took the suggested seat and thumbed through the glossies. They were all the latest editions, not the dog-eared relics of yesteryear strewn around your normal English waiting-rooms. The whole place smelt of money. This must be where rich Yanks came to have their corns removed or their faces lifted. He toyed with the idea of returning to Yorkshire with a face lift and a hair transplant. That'd make the buggers sit up! He felt a sudden pang of nostalgia for 'the buggers'.
To distract himself he filled in a magazine questionnaire to test his assertiveness rating and discovered to his mild surprise that he was almost clinically shy. Pondering this, he doodled idly, blacking out the teeth of make-up models. This turned his thoughts to Linda Steele.
He felt a little guilty at having slipped her leash, not so much for her sake as for Thatcher's. The man had done him a kindness and might misinterpret his reactions if Steele reported back to him. He took Thatcher's card out of his pocket and looked round for a phone. There was one on the receptionist's desk. The girl herself had vanished.
Dalziel rose, went to the desk and picked up the phone. 'Mr Thatcher's office. Can I help you?' 'I'd like to speak to Dave, please.' 'Mr Thatcher's busy just now…' 'Tell him it's Andy Dalziel.' All over Yorkshire that was sufficient to make a lot of important people put down their business papers, their soup spoons, even their mistresses, and head for the phone. No reason why it should be Open Sesame here, but no reason not to try either. 'Hello? Thatcher.' 'Dave, just to say thanks for pushing Linda at me. We've sort of got separated, but I'll make sure she doesn't take it out on you…' 'Look, I'm kind of busy right now. Maybe we can talk some other time. I hope things work out.' The tone was distant, the line went dead. He'd been cut off in every sense. Thatcher clearly thought all debts had been paid. 'Up yours too, sunshine!' he barked into the mouthpiece before replacing it. He turned to find the receptionist watching him fearfully. 'Wrong number,' he said. 'How're things going?' 'Ms Amalfi, our executive officer, will see you now,' she said. She led him from the reception area into an airy office with a
