intensive pig farm, it was bought in the eighties by a national hotel chain specializing in establishments that could combine the snobbish attractions of the country house hotel and the corporate attractions of the conference centre plus health and leisure club.
The old coaching inn was completely refurbished and extended to provide all the necessary concomitants of hospitality in the late twentieth century, and though the result might not have satisfied Prince Charles, with its ease of access to the fleshpots of urban Mid-Yorkshire in one direction and the beauties of rural Mid-Yorkshire in the other, it succeeded in satisfying the demands both of those in search of peace and quiet and those intent on expense-account conviviality.
As a coaching inn, the Golden Fleece had naturally had an entrance straight off the road under an archway into its courtyard, but that was impracticable in days when they might be expecting several dozen cars and now you approached along a sweeping driveway through pleasant parkland under whose scattered trees sheep paused in their grazing and lambs in their gambolling as a leather-clad figure rode by, carolling, “We welcome the hope that they bring, Tra-la, Of a summer of roses and wine…”
There were plenty of spaces in the car park but Wield’s eye was caught by a station wagon so long unwashed that its colour was hard to determine. He parked the Thunderbird next to it, dismounted and peered through the grubby window.
The rear seats were covered with a familiar strew of clothing, maps, empty takeaway cartons plus a Spanish onion and a half-full bottle of Highland Park-the famous emergency rations.
Wield was not much given to flights of fancy but for a moment his mind scrabbled for a parallel among the nasty shocks of fact and fiction-Friday’s footprint, Amundsen’s flag fluttering over the Pole, Pearce’s missed penalty in the ’90 World Cup-and found none.
This was Andy Dalziel’s car.
On the other hand, even devils must dine, and there was no rational explanation for the deep sense of foreboding the discovery roused in him.
He set off for the hotel entrance. The car park was discreetly screened from the building complex by a box hedge. As he passed through this he came to a sudden stop. A mock Victorian conservatory had been built on the end of the hotel. Through the glass under a potted palm he saw two heads-one fine-boned, short black hair elegantly coiffured; the other solid as an ancient weathered boulder-leaning close together over a wrought-iron table, like a tableau set up by a nineteenth-century narrative painter working on a canvas entitled The Assignation.
The woman looked in his direction and said something; the big grey head opposite her began to turn, and Wield took a hasty step backwards with the roar of Teutonic cheers and Antarctic winds echoing in his ears.
Back in the car park, he got on his bike and went looking for a space as far from Dalziel’s car as he could get and closer to the path round to the front of the hotel which would keep him out of view of the conservatory.
The cheers and the winds had been replaced by the song he’d been singing all the way from Enscombe, but now he’d moved on to the second verse.
“The flowers that bloom in the spring, Tra la, Have nothing to do with the case…”
Kay Kafka said, “That guy in the biker gear, wasn’t it…?”
“Unless he’s got a twin, which I doubt,” said Dalziel.
“I thought this was a private unofficial meeting, Andy,” said Kay Kafka.
“Me too. Don’t fret, I’ll be having a word. So, things all right with you generally, are they, Kay?”
“They’re fine. No worries. Not till this thing last night.”
“I’ve told you, put that out of your mind. Terrible business, but no reason you should be involved.”
“It looks to me as if Pal wanted to involve me,” she said.
“Aye, you’re right from what you said. But it hasn’t worked. So no problem.”
“I don’t need to make it official then?”
“No point,” he said confidently. “Why complicate what’s simple? As things stand, I doubt Paddy Ireland, that’s the man in charge, will even want to talk to you. No, forget it.”
“I’ll try. But it won’t be easy. He was his father’s son. My stepson. Helen’s brother.”
“He was a nasty twisted scrote.”
“He must have been in great distress to kill himself.”
“Aye, and he wanted to spread it around as much as he could. Like hearing you’ve got leprosy and drowning yourself in the town reservoir. So you forget it and concentrate on them new grandchildren.”
“Stepgrandchildren,” she corrected.
“I doubt they’ll ever see it like that,” he said, emptying his glass. “They don’t know how lucky they are, not yet. Give ’em a couple of years, but, and they’ll know.”
She smiled at him fondly and said, “All this talk of me. How are you, Andy? You still with your friend?”
“Cap? Aye, so to speak.”
“So to speak? That doesn’t sound too positive,” she said, concerned.
“Nay, all I meant was we don’t live together. Not permanent. Like our own space, isn’t that what they say? Any road, she’s away just now.”
“In her own space?”
“Summat like that. She protests.”
“Not too much, I hope?”
“Feels like it sometimes. I used to take the piss out of my lad, Pascoe, ’cos his missus were one of these agitating women. God likes a joke.”
“Because now you’ve got one?”
“Because I’ve got the one. Animal rights, the environment, that stuff. When she says she’ll be away a couple of days but don’t say where, I stop reading the paper in case I see that Sellafield’s been blown up.”
“Your womenfolk are a trouble to you, Andy.”
“Nay, them I think of as mine are worth ten times the trouble,” he said, smiling at her. “How’s that man of thine?”
“He’s away too. Just for the day. London, on business.”
“London. Poor sod,” said Dalziel with feeling. “Still, he’ll be back in God’s own country tonight.”
“I think he’d need to travel a little further to get there in his case,” said Kay.
Dalziel regarded her shrewdly and said, “Feeling homesick, is he? Never had him down as the type.”
“I think he feels that after what happened last September it’s the place to be. Get the wagons into a protective circle, that sort of thing.”
“How about you?”
“You know me, Andy. This is where I want to be, lots of reasons.”
“And two more since last night, eh?”
“Right. And one big one sitting with me now.”
Something which on a less massively sculpted face might have passed for a blush glowed momentarily on the Fat Man’s cheeks.
He pushed his chair back and said, “Now I’d best be on my way.”
“Sure you won’t have another drink?”
“No. One’s enough when I’m driving,” he said virtuously.
“You mean there’s a cop in Mid-Yorkshire who’d dare breathalyse you?”
“There’s some as ’ud pay for the chance,” he said. “You coming?”
“I may get a snack here. Sure you won’t join me?”
“No fear. They cut the crusts off your sandwiches.”
He stood up. Kay rose too, leaned over the table and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“Thanks, Andy,” she said.
“For what?”
“For being my friend.”
