economical. By Ecclesiastes there was a system of annotation almost musical and he guessed that this form of writing had become as natural to her as typing to a trained secretary. It would take some deciphering, but he guessed that here were those memoirs, that journal of her life and thoughts, which the tabloid scavengers would give their best friends' balls to get their hands on. Waggs would probably kick his own if he knew what his panicky haste had made Kohler leave behind. And Kohler herself? How was she going to feel when it dawned on her what had happened? For the first time in twenty-seven years Dalziel felt almost sorry for the woman. He heard the apartment door open. This time he wasn't going to be caught unprepared. He moved silently behind the bedroom door. Footsteps approached cautiously. Paused. Then someone stepped into the room. The second the figure registered on his sight, he moved, launching himself in the kind of tackle which had once turned fleet-footed half- backs into stretcher cases. Fortunately time had slowed his impetus, and place offered a soft bed for landing on rather than a solid patch of earth. Even so, there was no strength for resistance left in the limp body crushed into the mattress beneath his bulk. Nevertheless he raised his hand threateningly, and at the same time recognized that not only the threat but the tackle itself had been unnecessary.
Beneath him Linda Steele opened her eyes and gasped, OK, Dalziel. What the hell are you going to do? Rape me or preach me a sermon?' And he realized that his upraised hand was clutching Kohler's Bible. 'How the hell did you get in here?' he demanded, slipping the book into his jacket pocket. 'Power of the Press. I looked all over for you, finally came back here and the guy downstairs said someone that sounded like you had gone up with Kohler, then Waggs came back and not long after, the two of them left like they'd conjured up the devil. Talking of whom, I realize now that you're just glad to see me, but could you be glad vertically for a while?' 'Eh? Oh. Sorry.' He pushed himself off the bed. She'd not been altogether wrong, he realized. There had been a certain element of pleasure creeping into their contact and not the sort he'd ever experienced on a rugby field. Standing upright brought pain to join the pleasure. He put his hand to the back of his head and winced. 'You OK?' said Linda Steele, sharp-eyed. 'I will be. Someone slugged me. Waggs, I think.' 'Jee-sus. How bad is it?' she said, touchingly solicitous. 'You need a doctor?' 'Nay, lass. I've heard what them buggers charge over here. It is you who can provide all I need.' 'What do you have in mind?' she asked uneasily. He smiled and said, 'Just look at the time. It's hours since you bought me breakfast and my belly thinks me throat's been cut!' Dalziel hadn't made his mind up how much to tell Linda Steele but his instinct advised very little. She was after all not only a woman but a journalist, neither of whose need-to- know ratings occupied much space in Dalziel's scheme of things. A woman's started at how to boil an egg, then got debatable. A journalist's stopped at how to breathe in. On the other hand, as well as giving him his only lead, she was picking up his expenses, which aroused his curiosity as much as his gratitude.
There's no such thing as a free journalist.
Also she was strangely attractive, even dentally speaking. He got a warm glow from the memory of their legs interlocking beneath the breakfast table.
She took him to what she claimed was the best deli in town. They sat side by side, which limited opportunities for patellar interlock but was a great promoter of gluteal frottage.
Interestingly she seemed happy to accept his sketchy account of how he'd spotted Kohler coming out of the apartment house, followed her round town for an hour or so, then accosted her when she was about to re- enter.
'So you've no idea where they've bolted? Or why?' she said.
'Wish I had,' he said. 'Don't bother with the menu, luv, I'll have some of that.'
He pointed at a neighbour's overcrowded plate. But when the waitress came, he heard Steele order him a sandwich and scowled at her meanness, till a piled high plate was put before him.
'This is a sandwich?' he asked in amazement.
'Something wrong?' said Linda Steele.
'Nay, lass. This looks like the best thing that's happened to me since I got here!'
'That's hard to believe, Andy,' she said. 'I'd have thought a well-set-up guy like you would have struck lucky, no problem.'
As she spoke she regarded him sultrily and ran her prehensile tongue round the Grand Prix circuit of her lips.
Dalziel regarded her thoughtfully over a sheaf-sized forkful of corned beef. OK, so he had to admit he fancied her. But that didn't entitle her to jerk him around just because she felt safe in company.
Time to get this thing on the table, so to speak. He forked another bale of beef to his lips and clamped his free hand round her upper thigh. 'You lost something, Andy?' she asked. 'I were just wondering what's for afters?' 'Anything particular you fancy?' 'We could go back to my hotel room and try room service,' he said. He thought that was pretty smooth. In Barnsley it would probably have won an award for smoothness. But this unsophisticated woman threw her head back and howled with laughter. 'That's what they call it in England these days, is it? Well, why not? There must be worse ways of spending a wet afternoon.' Whatever her motive, she gave with unstinting hand and everything else. He was happy to find himself entirely free from jet-lag or whatever they called it. In fact the only trouble was that, as any demolition man knows, if you place a stick of ageing gelignite too close to a source of heat, it may explode spontaneously. 'Come on, Dalziel!' she protested. 'You got another date or something?' 'Thought that was how it were done over here,' he said with an uncharacteristic effort at insouciance 'Sort of American Express.' 'Stick to what you know,' she advised. 'Meantime, I think we'd better take some time out.
You got anything to drink?' They lay together drinking whisky and talking. She was almost as good as Dave Thatcher in the subtle art of casual interrogation, and he saw no reason not to tell her as much about his quest as he'd told the airport man. But still she probed his mind as her assessing fingers probed his body. Mebbe this was how all American journalists worked. In which case he was lucky he hadn't got those guys who shopped Nixon! Finally he tired of being quizzed, but he'd found out the hard way not to be rude to a lass who'd got her hand where Linda had hers, so he said, 'What about you, luv? You a native New Yorker?' 'Do I sound like I am?' she asked almost indignantly. 'Nay, you all sound alike to me,' he said. 'There's differences, is there?' 'You're joking? No, you're not joking! Well, let me tell you, I'm from Ohio. I came to the Big Apple about five years back to make my fortune. I'm still working at it.' 'Could be your luck's turned today,' said Dalziel complacently. 'By the by, I've often wondered, what's all this Big Apple stuff? More like Big Anthill from what I've seen so far.' 'Careful who you say that to, they're very sensitive, these New Yorkers,' warned Linda. 'I've heard all kinds of explanations. One I like best is that to you European folk, America was like those legendary islands way out west, you know, where the sun always shone and there were golden apples growing on the trees. New York being the first landfall for most people got the name, Big Apple.' 'Oh aye, I remember summat of that at school. Weren't there some nymphs used to run around naked, guarding the apples?'
'That's why you remember, is it?' she laughed. 'Yeah, I think you're right. And funny thing, now I come to think of it, you know what those guardian nymphs were called. The Hesperides. That's right. Like Jay Waggs's backers.' That's all right then. I were worried when I thought they might be a bunch of gangsters, but naked nymphs are right up my street.' 'You say so? Well, let's see. But none of this American Express this time, Andy. Let's try for a bit of English reserve, huh?'
He took a deep breath, thought of England, the Dunkirk spirit, once more unto the breach, rule Britannia… 'Andy, they should use you to pay off the National Debt,' said Linda Steele. 'OK if I take a shower.' 'Help yourself,' he said. He lay on the bed and listened to the water running. Then he rose quietly and went through her handbag.
There was nothing of any interest except a journalist's card and more spare condoms than a nice girl ought to carry. Condoms made him think of Arthur 'Noddy' Stamper. Of William Stamper, crime writer and broadcaster. Of his voice on the Golden Age of Murder programme… my mother was… a Bellmain of Virginia, no less… Of the receptionist at the clinic… Mr Bellmain's on a fifteen-minute visit cycle. Kohler had gone to a clinic where a patient called Bellmain was being visited by Scott Rampling. It didn't make much sense. Normally he was a patient man. Everything made sense if you gave it time. Even perhaps life. But time in this mad scrambling place was a much scarcer commodity than it was back in Mid-Yorkshire. There, he had often mocked the boy Pascoe's tendency to go scampering round a case, dropping hypotheses like crap from a dysenteric duck, but he wouldn't have minded that muddying flow here and now. Perhaps he'd ring him later. Linda Steele came out of the shower, glowing darkly, like charcoal on a barbecue. Perhaps, thought Dalziel, I'll ring Pascoe much later. 'I left the shower on for you,' she said. 'If you'd come in to rub my back, think of the water we'd have saved.' 'Nay, lass. Likely we'd have been in there yet,' he said, reaching out. She slipped out of his grasp like a Welsh fly half, got behind him and pushed him
