carpet like quicksand. You could feel it sucking the money out of your pocket. Behind a rosewood desk stood a middle-aged woman wearing a smart black business suit. The paleness of her features was accentuated by jet black hair so tightly drawn back from her brow that it looked like it had been painted on. Her eyebrows had been plucked to baldness and her lips were set so tight, it was difficult to see if she had any teeth at all, which made a change. 'Jancine Amalfi,' she said, offering her hand. 'I'm sorry you've been kept waiting. Please have a seat. I believe you are making inquiries about the possibility of transferring your wife to the Allerdale?' 'That's right. What I'd really like – ' 'A few details first, Mr Dalziel,' she said, fixing him with a gaze which seemed to burn through to his slim wallet of travellers' cheques. 'Forgive me if I'm direct, but we do not deal in false hope here at the Allerdale, only in facts. We shall of course need sight of your wife's full medical record, but an outline picture now would be most helpful, if you feel able to talk about it.' 'No problem,' said Dalziel. 'Good. So tell me, where is the carcinoma located?' 'You what? Carcinoma? That's cancer, isn't it?' 'That's right.' 'No,' said Dalziel emphatically.
'The lass out there must've picked me up wrong. It's not cancer.' It was one thing to wish a fair dollop of discomfort on his ex-wife, but even his unforgiving nature balked superstitiously at pretending cancer. 'Not cancer? What, then?' 'Piles,' said Dalziel, ingrowing piles. They can be very serious.' ‘Indeed they can,' said Ms Amalfi.
'But I'm afraid it is you who have got things wrong, Mr Dalziel. The Allerdale Clinic is a cancer treatment centre, with a reputation second to none, I am glad to say.' She was clearly puzzled that he could have made such an error, like someone behind a bank counter being asked for a beer. He said, 'I'm sorry. It was this friend, well, more acquaintance really. Miss Kohler. I heard her talking about the place and must've picked it up wrong. You'll know her likely. Smallish lass. Very thin face, greyish hair. I think she might've been in a bit earlier.' Subtle stuff; might have worked with a backward toddler; all it got him from Ms Amalfi was a long cool look. 'The name doesn't ring a bell,' she said, rising. As resistant to authority as Cissy Kohler was conditioned to it, he still found himself being shepherded through the door, into the vestibule and towards the exit. But before Ms Amalfi could bounce him into the street, – the doors swung open and Scott Rampling came in. Dalziel recognized him instantly. Not that Thatcher hadn't been right. This balding, bulky, cold-eyed, middle-aged man was a million miles from the fresh- faced, blond-haired All-American boy of Mickledore Hall. But Dalziel had sat by that boy, and watched that fresh face as he answered Tallantire's questions, and such impressions to an ambitious young detective were as indelible as those of first love to a romantic poet. Interestingly, he saw the recognition was mutual. And unwelcome. But showing Dalziel he was unwelcome was like shooing a hungry dog with a rib of beef. 'I'll go to the foot of our stairs!' he exclaimed in delight. 'Mr Rampling, isn't it? By gum, what a coincidence. Must be how long? Twenty- seven?
Aye. It must be twenty- seven years since we met.' He pumped Rampling's hand and waited with interest for his response. To do him justice, it was high quality. 'How're you doing, Mr Dalziel?' he said.
'I saw your picture in the paper this morning and thought: I wonder, could that be the same? Lot of water under the bridge, huh? We were both a lot younger then. You over here on business or pleasure?'
'Pleasure mainly, I hope,' said Dalziel. 'Not here, of course. I mean, you don't come to these places for pleasure, do you? No, I'm just paying a quick visit here.' He caught a momentary shift of the eyes towards Ms Amalfi and in the plate glass door he saw her minute shake of the head. Also through the door he spotted a couple of wedge-shaped men staring at him like Dobermans and remembered that Rampling was a very important person. 'I'm sorry I don't have more time to talk now, Mr Dalziel,' said Rampling. ‘I'm visiting a sick colleague, then I've got a couple of meetings. But it would be good to talk to you about old times. Tell you what, why don't I give you a ring if I can see my way clear to having a quiet drink with you before I head back to Washington?' 'That'd be grand,' said Dalziel with maximum effusion. 'I hear you're up for a top job. Congratulations.' 'That's kind of you.
Goodbye for now, Mr Dalziel.' He made for the door leading to the clinic's interior. Ms Amalfi followed, pausing to glance back at Dalziel who stood at the exit door buttoning up his coat in preparation for the pelting rain. He smiled and waved. 'Bye-bye, Missus. And thanks.' Then he went out. Satisfied, she followed Rampling. Dalziel came back in. 'Sorry,' he said to the receptionist.
'Something I forgot to say to Scott, to Mr Rampling. How long will he be staying, do you know?' He didn't doubt that once the fearsome Ms Amalfi had a word with her, he'd be Public Enemy Number One, but for the moment he was banking on being sanitized in her eyes by his evident familiarity with someone like Rampling. 'It shouldn't be too long,' said the woman. 'Mr Bellmain's on a fifteen-minute visit cycle.' 'Bad as that?' said Dalziel. 'Poor sod. Get a lot of visits, does he? Family? Friends?' It was a clumsy try. She said coolly, 'Would you like to leave a message for Mr Rampling?' 'Aye. Tell him he forgot to ask the name of my hotel.' He wrote it down. It was, he suspected, surplus to requirements. He went out again, passing the two protectors who looked at him with grave suspicion. 'Tumns in, chests out, lads,' he said. 'You never know who's watching.' A cab pulled up and a rather dumpy woman got out, her face well concealed behind dark glasses and a turned-up Cossack collar. Dalziel was too busy making sure he got into the cab to pay her much heed, but a certain familiarity nagged at him as she walked past the two men with a nod.
An old film star perhaps? He gave the address of Waggs's apartment.
'And drive like I'm a flask of nitro-glycerine,' he said. 'Hey?' said the man uncomprehendingly. Dalziel looked at the name on the identity card. It had about fifty letters, most of them consonants. He said, 'Please yourself, sunshine.' When he got out at his destination, he felt as happy as a round-the-world sailor to feel solid land beneath his feet. He half-expected to find Linda Steele lurking, but if she was, she was making a good job of it. What he did see was Cissy Kohler striding along the pavement, trailing more spray than a waterskier. He hesitated only a moment before deciding what to do. A crook out on licence was still a crook, and a cop off on leave was still a cop. Not even cars driving on the wrong side of the street altered that relationship, though they did remind him he ought to tread a little more lightly than on the sidewalks of Mid-Yorkshire. So he slapped his hand on her shoulder with only enough force to bruise her collarbone, not to break it. He was surprised that she put up no resistance. Like Rampling, she clearly recognized him but that was no reason. On the contrary, he'd have thought. Perhaps she knew that Waggs and a couple of Hesperides heavies were waiting in the flat? But there was no sound as they entered and it felt empty. She turned to face him and he saw her clearly for the first time. Prison had pared her to the bone. His glimpse of her on television hadn't conveyed to him the full extent of the change. It wasn't just a question of three decades of ageing, there was simply nothing left of the young woman whose world had come to an end in 1963. Except perhaps for the eyes. They were regarding him now with the same empty blankness, like windows in a derelict house, that he recalled as he'd burst to the surface with the lifeless body of Westropp's daughter in his arms. There'd been water running down her face then and there was water running there now, dripping from her cheeks and chin on to the expensive carpet. 'Get yourself dried,' he said harshly. 'I can't abide a wet woman.' 'It's a matter of taste,' she said enigmatically. But she headed for the bathroom. He heard the door being locked, then the shower started up. This suited him nicely. He did a quick turn round the living-room and found nothing of interest. He pushed open a door. A bedroom. In the wardrobe male clothes only. So she and Waggs weren't kissing cousins. In fact, from the way she'd clutched her Bible at the press conference, he guessed she'd sublimated all that stuff, and any notion of guilt along with it most likely. Waggs travelled light or was a very careful man.
He passed on to the other bedroom. It looked even barer with little that was feminine in sight, but the Bible on the counterpane told him it was Kohler's. Searching was easy because there was next to nothing to search. He heard the bathroom door open but he didn't move. He had no objection to her finding him in here. In fact it was probably a good thing to establish their relationship from the start. Cop and criminal. Not all the religion in the world was going to change that.
There were footsteps behind him. He didn't turn, waited for her indignant protest, readied himself for his crushing response. Then it occurred to him that he could still hear the distant shower. No louder, still running. It hadn't been the bathroom door. The thought dead-heated with the blow, which was either very expert or very lucky as it caught him at precisely the right point on the stem of his neck to switch off all the juice running between his mind and his muscles.
He fell heavily across the bed, still conscious in the way that a man who has drunk a couple of bottles of Scotch might be still conscious.
His senses struggled to maintain a limited service. Touch had gone completely; he could feel nothing. Smell, taste and sight were occupied by the counterpane up against which his nose and mouth were pressed, giving his eyes about an inch of focus which wasn't enough.
Hearing was faint and intermittent, like a patrol radio in a dead area. Two voices. A man's. A woman's.
