“Wish they’d make their minds up,” he grumbled. “First one tells me the pick-up this afternoon’s been cancelled, then t’other says it’s back on again. I should have stopped in the job, Wieldy. At least when Fat Andy said owt, you knew it were carved in stone and it would take a sledgehammer to change it.”
“Don’t know,” said Wield. “You can do a lot of damage with a chisel if you just keep chipping away. Good to see you, Bri.”
“You too. Hope it’s not so long next time. Any chance you’ll be back?”
“Who knows?” called Wield over his shoulder. “Who knows?”
Dalziel at a case file was like a hyena at a carcase-he usually got to the heart of the matter but he didn’t half leave a mess.
Hat Bowler, schooled by that most methodical of policemen, Edgar Wield, looked uneasily at the spoor of paper which ran from the Fat Man’s side of the desk and ended accusingly at his own feet. Surely there was far more here than when they started?
The super himself seemed to have gone into some kind of trance. Perhaps his astral body was floating somewhere near the ceiling looking down on the chaos and detecting patterns not visible to mere mortal eyes.
Well, two could play the absence game, thought Hat. Officially he himself wasn’t there at all, so none of this could be his responsibility.
He returned his attention to the telephone numbers. So far they’d revealed nothing of interest, though there was one number, a pay-as-you-go mobile, no subscriber name and address attached, which occurred a few times, both in and out, and most significantly on the evening of Pal Maciver’s death.
He took out his own mobile, entered the number, got a message.
When he’d listened to it he switched off and checked the number on the sheet. Then he entered it again, very carefully, and listened to the message once more.
“Sir,” he said.
It took three more sirs crescendo before Dalziel descended to the terrestrial plane.
“Eh? What? You got something, lad?”
“This number, sir. Round about the likely time of Mr Maciver’s death, someone rang his mobile, then his shop, and then his home, in that order.”
“Let’s have a look. Oh aye,” said Dalziel, plucking a sheet of paper apparently at random from the scatter. “That ’ud be Jason Dunn, the brother-in-law he were supposed to be playing squash with. So?”
“Think you should listen to this, sir.”
He pressed redial on his mobile and handed the phone to the Fat Man, who listened.
“Well, well,” he said. “Well, bloody well.”
He switched off, and studied the list of telephone numbers. Finally he nodded, smiled the smile of a cannibal who sees several courses of lunch rowing towards his beach, and stood up.
“Nice one, Hat. That little holiday of thine’s clearly sharpened you up. I’m off out. You hold the fort here, in case any other bugger condescends to show his face. Keep sorting through this stuff, but try to be a bit tidier. You’ve got in a right scrow.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hat. “Sir, if anyone asks, where shall I say you’ve gone?”
“I’ll be down at the sports centre for starters. You play squash, lad?”
“No, sir.”
“Very wise. I once gave it a try but there weren’t room to swing a cat and the other bugger kept bouncing off me and claiming the point. Told everyone later he’d whupped me, but he were the one had to be helped into Casualty, so it were one of them lyric victories Mr Pascoe keeps talking about.”
“Think maybe that would be Pyrrhic,” said Hat boldly.
“Correcting me as well? You must be good and ready to be signed off, lad.”
And whistling a tune which Hat, if he’d been a musical comedy fan, might have recognized as “Goodbye” from The White Horse Inn, the Fat Man strode out of the office.
The young man on reception at the sports complex was a walking piece of physical geography, his biceps and triceps swelling like the Cotswolds and his tight-fitting gold singlet displaying a finely detailed relief map of his pectorals.
Unfortunately his devotion to muscular development seemed to have extended to his brain and neither the flashing of Dalziel’s warrant card nor the baring of Dalziel’s teeth could persuade him to co-operate with the superintendent’s request.
Magnanimously putting this down to natural stupidity rather than wilful obduracy, Dalziel leaned over the counter and said very slowly, Take-me-to-your-leader.”
He also said it very loudly and the leader in question, the complex manager, emerged from his office. Name of George Manson, a native of the town and a long-time supporter of the rugby club bar, he recognized Dalziel immediately and two minutes later the Fat Man was sitting at a desk with a glass of scotch at his elbow and the squash court booking ledger open before him at the current page.
He went slowly back through it, making the occasional note, till he reached a point in December of the previous year. Then he reversed the process till he was back at today’s date. Then he went back again, further this time, before returning once more to the present. In a rhythm approximately matching his temporal progress, the level of his scotch sank only to rise again as Manson kept a waiter’s eye on his unexpected guest.
“Crossing out and another name being put in means a cancellation, right?” said Dalziel.
“Right.”
“And all the courts are here? I mean, there’s not another court put aside for folk who just turn up?”
“No way. Most of the time, evenings and weekends anyway, we’re fully booked.”
“Oh aye? No wonder the intensive care units are overstretched,” said Dalziel. “Thanks a lot.”
“My pleasure. Owt else I can help you with, Andy?” said Manson, curious as to what it was his visitor was looking for.
“Aye,” said Dalziel. “A wee deoch an doris wouldn’t go amiss. Good stuff this, George. Long time since I had a malt at export strength. Thought it all went to the States. Not been buying off the back of a lorry, I hope?”
“Cousin in the trade,” said Manson blandly. “Get you a box, if you like. Trade price.”
“You’re a kind man, George,” said Dalziel, drinking up. “But no thanks. Small gifts I can accept, but owt that smacks of commercial advantage is right against the rules.”
The manager sighed and said, “Remind me, when’s your birthday?”
Half an hour later Dalziel was standing on the touchline of Weavers School rugby pitch on which thirty boys reduced to anonymity by several layers of mud were trying to prove their aptitude for the professional game by knocking hell out of each other. On either side of him stood parents, exhorting their offspring to greater excesses of brutality.
“Ever think of just teaching the lad to run with the ball and pass it?” he observed to the particularly vociferous father next to him.
“What the hell do you know about it, fatso?” came the snarled reply.
Dalziel turned his great head and looked directly into the man’s eyes.
The man fell silent and after a moment moved away.
A few minutes later the whistle blew for no side.
As Jason Dunn trudged off the field with the match ball tucked underneath his arm, he found his way blocked.
“In my day, lad, a ref were supposed to control the game,” said Dalziel.
Whatever retort was forming on Dunn’s lips died as he identified the obstacle.
“These days it’s a hard game,” he said.
“Always were. Ref needs eyes in the back of his head. You weren’t even seeing what you were looking at. They could’ve started gang-banging each other in the scrum and you’d not have noticed. Summat on your mind, Jason?”
He stood aside and fell into step beside the young man as he made his way towards the changing
