'Wendy,' she said. 'What do you want?'
'I'm not selling bloody brushes that's for sure,’ snapped the other.
'I'm sorry,' said Cap. 'I didn't mean to be rude, only I'm expecting someone for lunch…'
'And I'll be in the way? Well that shouldn't bother you, Cap. You lot get trained to roll over folk who get in your way, don't you?'
Cap gritted her teeth. Why was it that every time Wendy treated her like she was still the Hon. Mrs Rupert she found herself wanting to act like she was still the Hon. Mrs Rupert?
She said, 'Wendy, please, unless it's a matter of life or death, I wonder if-'
'Life or death!' Wendy interrupted her. 'Why'd that bother you? 'Less it was some sodding animal's life or death, and even then I daresay you've slaughtered more birds and beasts than you've ever bloody well saved!'
'What is it you want to talk about, Wendy?' said Cap, dangerously calm.
'Last night, what the fuck do you think? The price of tea? You're our group leader, aren't you? Right, I want to talk to my leader about what happened on the raid last night.'
'Look, I can see how it must have upset you, finding that body. ..'
'That's not what's upsetting me, no, it's not a few old bones that's upsetting me… look, you gonna let me in or not?'
Cap leaned forward and sniffed.
'You've been drinking,' she said.
'Well pardon me for breathing,' said Wendy. 'Pardon me for eating and drinking and sleeping and waking and pissing and crapping and doing all the other things that real human beings do. Yes, I've been drinking, not much, just enough for me to get the crazy idea it might be worthwhile coming round here to sort things out..’
'Very impressive,' said Cap. 'But it will have to keep till you're a little more sober and I'm a little less busy. I'll see you later, Wendy.'
'Later? Yeah sure, only it might be a bit too fucking late for you, Cap, a bit too fucking late!'
Cap Marvell stepped back and closed the door. Wendy Walker turned away and headed for the lift but before she could reach it, Andy Dalziel who'd been standing in it, listening, for the last few minutes, withdrew the foot which was holding the doors open, and pressed the button for the next floor up.
'Shit,' said Wendy, and headed for the stairs.
Five minutes later the flat bell rang again.
Cap checked through the peephole this time to be sure, then opened the door, smiling widely.
'Hello there,' she said. 'No need to apologize for being late. It's permissible on a first date.'
'Oh aye?' said Dalziel. 'Told me down the station you wanted to make a statement. Didn't say owt about dates.'
'I believe I did mention lunch. But whether you've come with that in mind or your timing is merely a happy coincidence matters little. You're here. There is food. Please take a seat.'
'What if I'm not hungry?'
'You don't look to me, Mr Dalziel, like a man in whom appetite has much to do with hunger. Do sit down.'
Dalziel considered this. The woman were right. So he did sit and eat.
She watched in silence, admiring the simple almost poetic efficiency of his technique.
There was no impression of gluttony, no overfilling of or overspilling from the mouth (which would indeed have been difficult given the cetacean dimensions of that maw), just a simple procession of food through the marble portals of his teeth, a short rhythmic manducation, and a quick swallow which hardly registered on the massy column of his oesophagus.
The pie vanished save for the small wedge she had taken.
He said, 'You going to eat or just watch?'
She began to nibble at the pastry crust, still observing with awe as he split one of the baguettes in half, expertly lined it with cheese, crisps, salad, and pickled onions, replaced the lid, raised it to his lips.
'Remember that scene in the film of Tom Jones where they turn each other on just by eating?' she said. 'I never really understood how it worked before.'
'Eh?' said Dalziel.
She said, 'You'll never get it in.'
Dalziel didn't reply. His mother had brought him up not to speak with his mouth full.
When the baguette had vanished like a waking dream, he poured himself the third can of bitter and said, 'Right, Mrs Marvell, what's all this about?'
'Call me Cap,' she said.
'Why?'
'It was a nickname my ingenious fellow pupils at my boarding school gave me. Captain Marvell. I tried to live up to it during my adolescence. In fact it was trying to live up to it that lost me it. It seemed a Captain Marvellish thing to do to get married to an Hon. at seventeen, but I soon discovered you cannot be called Cap if you're Mrs Rupert Pitt-Evenlode. In fact with that chain of words to trail around behind you, it's difficult to be anything at all except the Hon. Mrs et cetera. But back in '82 I got myself rechristened. I was a born-again pagan… But I see I'm boring you. Why should that be? I know. None of this is news to you, is it? You've been checking up on me!'
'Aye,' said Dalziel completing his yawn. 'Since they cut back on my taster, I'm careful who I eat with. Why didn't mean I wanted the story of your life. It meant, why should I call you anything but Mrs or Miss or Ms Marvell?'
'It would be friendly.'
'Ah well, I try not to get too friendly wi' folk I might have to bang up.'
'I take it your idiom is penal rather than penile, superintendent? Does this mean ALBA are going to prosecute? Excellent.'
'Fancy your day in court, do you? Slap on the wrist? Tuppenny fine? Headlines in the Guardian and flash your kneecaps on breakfast TV?'
'That would suit me nicely. But, despite your intimidatory threats, I doubt if it would suit ALBA. Such people are usually more concerned with damping publicity than provoking it.'
'Could be you're right about ALBA, missus. But it's not them you should be worried about.'
'I'm sorry… oh, you mean you. But what charges could the police bring against me if ALBA won't press for trespass?'
Dalziel smiled like a crocodile being asked if he'd got teeth.
'Going equipped for burglary. Criminal damage. Assault. Obstructing the police.'
She considered this then said, 'Assault?'
'You threatened the TecSec boss with them wire cutters.'
'Threatened? He must be a man of very nervous disposition. The cutters are a tool not a weapon.'
And a very clean tool too. Forensic had found no trace of blood. Surprisingly clean? Dalziel had asked hopefully. That would depend on the mind-cast of their owner, Dr Gentry, Head of the Forensic Lab, who disliked the Fat Man heartily, had replied.
'Weapon's a tool for killing,' said Dalziel. 'And you could have taken his head off if you'd made contact. Courts don't like that sort of thing, especially not since Redcar.'
At least she didn't pretend not to take the allusion.
'That was terrible, and a great disservice to the movement. It wasn't even good protest. Simply turning the poor animals loose achieves very little in terms of their wellbeing and nothing at all in terms of public support.'
'You mean it's the tactics you object to, not killing the odd security guard?' said Dalziel.
'Of course I deplore the man's death,' she said with some irritation. 'It was tragic. But I cannot believe you seriously suspect my group had anything to do with it.'
'Why not?' said Dalziel. 'By all accounts once you got inside the building last night, you all ran wild like a bunch of lagered-up Leeds supporters. What was that all about? Premenstrual tension?'
She was unprovoked. Very cool this one. But beneath it all there was plenty of heat. The notion had him crossing his legs.
'A release of tension, certainly,' she said. 'We'd had a shock. Then suddenly I realized that we'd got where we wanted to be, inside the building. It seemed foolish not to make a gesture.'
