'No further forward then, Wieldy,' said the Fat Man scratching his neck as though it contained something he would like to get out.
'No, sir,' said Wield. He wanted to add that Dalziel's dismissal had got rid of Howard before he'd finished with him, but felt that the moment was so unripe he could break a tooth on it.
'Peter gone home?'
'Yes, sir. He'd just gone when I got back with this tape.'
'And you didn't reckon it were important enough to call him back to take a look at it? Well, you were dead right, weren't you? The lad'll learn more watching Coronation Street than this. So, Howard set loose, Cap Marvell set loose, no more useless revelations from Troll Longbottom or Dr Death, we might as well hang the Vacancies sign outside the cells and head off to enjoy the weekend, Wieldy. Fancy a pint?'
'No thanks, sir. Better get back.'
'Quite right. Mustn't let your dinner spoil. What's it tonight? Parsnip pie?'
Provoked by the sneer, Wield said, 'Meatless day were yesterday, sir. Day after, we always get Dora Creed to go to town on a nice bit of lamb or mebbe a rib of beef. You remember Miss Creed, sir? Runs the Wayside Cafe?'
A glint of interest and envy touched Dalziel's eyes as he recollected the superb nosh Dora Creed dished up for hungry travellers out at Enscombe.
'Sounds like your ship's really come home at last, Wieldy. I'm glad for you. No one deserves it more. Goodnight then.'
He turned and left the room. Wield stood in thought for a moment.
Sympathy to the Fat Man was like flashing The Satanic Verses at a mullah. Clever thing was to head on home and let the memory of Dalziel's unhappiness season his own content. But while his partner, Edwin, might have the shot-silk sensibility to enjoy such a refined Gallic pleasure, his heart was Yorkshire homespun.
He went into the corridor and called after the retreating figure, 'Mebbe just a pint then, sir.' xvi
Cap Marvell sat in front of the television with a glass of her ersatz whisky in one hand and the remote control in the other, zapping across the channels in search of one which might lead her out of the dark maze of her mind for a few minutes. Vain hope, even with the service which vaingloriously trumpets itself as the best in the world.
She turned off the sound but left the picture on for the sake of the shifting images and flickering colours which brought the illusion of life into the room.
She had had a good decade and more in which to find herself, and now here she was, feeling completely lost again. That was real progress! But she had to be practical. Was there anything that could be saved from the situation? Only herself, perhaps; and the way she was feeling now, she wasn't sure she was worth the effort.
Fuck that fat bastard! Five days ago she hadn't known him and she had felt unassailable in mind, spirit and conscience. Now here she was, feeling as adrift as she had felt all those years ago when she had seen the first cracks filigreeing the delicate eggshell structure of her life as Mrs Rupert Pitt-Evenlode.
She sucked on her whisky. She had seen him flinch as he tasted it, and now she drained the glass in defiant affirmation of her own identity which had felt so whole and permanent till he showed up. And would do again. That was the only possible response to this crisis. To survive, to carry on. To show the bastard!
She found herself smiling at her own illogicality. As lovers all over the world know (and how many have not been lovers?), showing you don't care is evidence incontrovertible that you do. But it was a start. Not the showing, but the smiling. Life after Dalziel was a real possibility.
But the bastard, oh the bastard!
Jimmy Howard was also drinking Scotch. It had come out of a pub optic and he neither knew nor cared about the brand. The pub was situated on the far side of town from where he lived and he'd never been in it before. Even so, he had found himself the remotest shadiest corner. He wanted to sit in peace, with minimal risk of being recognized or approached.
There were things to work out, decisions to be made. The trouble with decisions was that they tended to be decisive. His mind went back to that first occasion, not so distant in real time, but light years away in perceived, when he had taken his first silencer. Mr Howard – he was still Mr Howard then, the police constable being addressed respectfully by the ingratiating suspect – Mr Howard, can't we talk this over like sensible men? Sit down like friends even, over a drink. There had been an unmistakable stress on the word drink. And that had been the moment when a step in one direction would have kept him firmly in the fold, while a step in the other… But he had genuinely thought you could step out, then step back in again, with no real harm done, and he'd replied, It would need to be a bloody large drink.
Now here he was again at a crossroads. Different ins, perhaps, and different outs… oh yes, certainly the possibility of very different outs!
He rose and went to the bar, feeling the need of more Scotch.
As the barman set the glass in front of him, 'I'll get that one, Jimmy,' said a voice.
Dalziel said, 'Pete seems happy enough these days. Him and his missus, I mean. Don't think he'll ever feel safe, mind. Way yon Ellie's mind works, a good cop can never feel safe with her. But secure, aye, I'd say he's feeling pretty secure just now. Kiddy helps, of course. Harder to walk out on a kiddy. Aye, a kiddy might have helped.'
Wield for once had refused to submit to Dalziel's eleventh commandment which stated, When I drink, every bugger drinks. He had sat nursing his glass, rising obediently whenever the Fat Man said, 'Your shout, lad,' and getting another pint and whisky chaser. On his own shout, Dalziel ignored the sergeant's demur and always returned with two pints and chasers, both of which he supped almost absent-mindedly as Wield hung on to his initial drink.
One thing you weren't likely to get with the Fat Man was a maudlin, let-it-all-hang-out, I'll-be-sorry-I-said- this – in – the – morning – but- not – as – sorry – as – you'll – be – you-heard-it confession. But Wield knew from long experience that, as the drink took hold, he might give you a quick flash of the truth of his heart through a gauzy veil of obliquities.
'She's a grand lass, Ellie, but,' said Wield who was a considerable fan of Ellie Pascoe.
'I know that, but trouble, you can't deny that. Mebbe it doesn't matter, but, if the rest's all right.'
He waved a glass vaguely to comprehend 'the rest', then emptied it and picked up one of Wield's.
'There was this lass I once knew, a while back, a widow, just after Pete got wed… were you at the wedding, Wieldy?'
'No, sir. Recovering from having my appendix out.'
'Oh aye. Well, like I say, I had a bit of a holiday after, got friendly with this lass. Got pretty close. Looked like it might come to summat. You get these daft ideas, seeing the lad get wed, all that stuff…'
He looked reflectively into his glass and Wield took the chance to look reflectively at the clock he could see in the bar mirror. Shit. Edwin's not going to be pleased, he thought.
'Not boring you, am I, Wieldy?' said Dalziel sharply, as if the sergeant had pulled out a half-hunter and held it to his ear.
'Never came to anything then?' said Wield refusing to be diverted into defence.
'We had our moments,' said Dalziel. 'But there was summat a bit iffy about the way her husband died… I didn't think I could take a chance…'
'In case she topped you as well, sir?' Wield couldn't resist saying.
'In case I had to finger her collar,' retorted the Fat Man. 'I was right, wasn't I?'
'You must have thought you were,' said Wield.
'I knew I was, as a cop. And I was fifty-fifty sure as a man…'
'Sounds like a landslide majority to me,' said Wield.
'Aye, but suppose I'd not been so sure as a man? Suppose I'd felt eighty-twenty she were in the clear? Would I still have been right?'
Crunch time, thought – Wield.
'Depends what's most important,' he said steadily. 'I mean, generally. If it's the job number one always, and the rest runners-up, then that makes things easy, even when they're hard.'
'Yeah? You reckon Peter would jack the job then, if Ellie gave him an either-or?'
'I'd say so. Mebbe it's knowing that that makes her not do it,' said Wield.
'You sound like you've been getting your nose stuck into some of your mate's Reader's Digests,' mocked
