And together they hauled at the rope.
Whatever was on the end of it was heavier even than a big carp.
And certainly heavier than a pair of trainers, which were the first things they saw breaking the surface.
Then another heave revealed that the trainers still contained feet, and the feet were attached to legs…
At this point one of them let go and the other made only a token effort to retain his grip. Heedless now of the rain they hurried out of the tunnel to ring the police.
An hour later, with several police cars and an ambulance pulsing their lights into the teeming rain on the road a hundred yards away, the body of what looked at first glance like a child was laid on the canal bank. The rope was bound tight around his ankles.
The police doctor declared what no one doubted, that death had taken place. Photo flashes lit up the scene both inside and outside the tunnel. Radios crackled.
Rain hissed.
Then a new sound was heard, the roar of a powerful motorbike engine being pressed hard.
It skidded to a stop on the wet road, the rider dismounting as it did so and letting the machine come to rest against a hedge. He pulled his helmet off and at the sight of his face the officers advancing to remonstrate fell back.
He pushed his way past them, slithered down the slope into the field and stumbled across the tussocky grass to the canal bank.
There he stood for a moment looking down at the small young face at his feet.
Then he moved through the broken board into the tunnel and a second later all work stopped as a cry like the rage of a wounded Minotaur came trailing out of the dark.
It was not till the following morning that Pascoe learned of the grim discovery. Sunday he'd spent down in Lincolnshire on a visit to Ellie's mother. He'd faxed in a digest of the official part of his Sheffield visit to the Fat Man and suggested they meet first thing on Monday morning to examine the implications. A trip into outer space wouldn't have prevented Dalziel from tracking him down if he'd wanted an earlier consult, but the discovery of the body had kept that great mind occupied.
'Definitely Lubanski,' said Dalziel. 'Dead for a couple of days at least. Being in the water makes it hard to be precise.'
'How'd he die?' asked Pascoe.
'Drowned. But there's evidence he took a beating first. After that it looks like someone tied the rope round his ankles and tossed him into the cut, then dragged him along a bit afore hauling him out. Several times maybe.'
Pascoe grimaced, then said, 'Asking questions, you reckon?'
'Could be.'
'So it could be they didn't mean to kill him, just went too far?'
'Or that they heard all they wanted to hear, so dropped him in and left him to drown. Either way, it's murder in my book.'
'Mine too. How's Wieldy taking it?'
'How do you bloody think?' snarled Dalziel. 'I just about had to tie him down to stop him heading straight off to kick the shit out of Belcher.'
'Doesn't sound such a bad idea,' said Pascoe.
'Oh aye? Old Mr Human-rights Pussyfoot has suddenly become an expert on kicking shit, has he? Well, I've got gold medals and, believe me, this isn't an option. Belchamber gets warned off, Wieldy gets locked up, how's that help anything?'
'If they made Lubanski talk, won't they be warned off anyway?'
'Depends. If all he knew was what he told Wieldy, that was fuck all, wasn't it? Any road, from what Wieldy said about the lad, I wonder if he told them owt, except maybe that Wieldy was a punter after his arse. Easy enough to credit. I don't doubt Belchamber knows Wield's gay. Gay cop in tight black leathers rides into Turk's with a rent boy in tow, what's the criminal mind to think but he's a bent cop in every way, using his clout to get freebies. No, I reckon that's the tale the lad would stick to.'
'You think someone like Lubanski was capable of that sort of resolution?'
'Someone like Lubanski? Hark at you, Chief Inspector. OK, if you won't give the little scrote credit for any noble feelings, how about self-interest? Some psycho's asking you if you've been grassing him up to the pigs. Tell him yes, and you're absolutely certain you're going to die. Keep telling him no, and perhaps, just perhaps, you'll make it. Didn't work out, that's all. Either the psycho miscalculated or he's a real psycho. Either way, it don't matter. Here's how we play it. For the papers, body found in the cut, identification difficult because of deterioration in the water, enquiries proceeding.'
'And Wieldy, is he going to play along?'
'He'd better. I sent for yon Digweed to take him home and keep him there for now, even if it means chaining him to the bed. Yon old fart's likely got the chains anyway.'
Did he actually say that to Digweed? Pascoe decided he didn't want to know and remarked, 'Wieldy won't be happy.'
'Don't want him happy. Just don't want him doing owt that'll make him look like anything but a bent cop shit scared 'cos this lad he's been forcing to give him freebies has turned up dead. That should convince Belcher's boys that Lubanski's told us nowt.'
Pascoe considered then said, 'You've been persuaded that this idea that Belchamber's planning to heist the Elsecar Hoard's got legs, have you? You were a bit sceptical on Friday. My trip to Sheffield persuaded you, did it?'
Dalziel grinned.
'It helped, but it was the phone ringing with news of a definite ident on the body that did it. There's an upside to everything, Pete. Lubanski alive and feeding Wieldy with titbits because he liked to see him smile meant nowt. Lubanski tortured and dead means there's definitely something going off and most likely it's Belchy trying to get his hands on the Hoard. So God bless the lad, eh? But don't tell Wieldy I said that!'
Pascoe looked at his boss with a distaste he made no effort to disguise. From time to time he had tried to persuade Ellie that most of the Fat Man's callousness, not to mention his occasional racism, sexism, and general political incorrectness, was deliberately provocative rather than deep engrained.
'Or maybe it's a safety valve to help him deal with the crap, like a surgeon making bad jokes as he carves open a patient,' he theorized.
'Or maybe you thinking like that is your technique for stopping you kicking the fat bastard in the balls,' said Ellie.
'Probably break my foot if I did’ said Pascoe. But listening to the Fat Man now made him think it might be a risk worth taking.
On the other hand, his own reaction might have less to do with the natural sensitivity of his soul than with (a) guilt that his own attitude to Wield's relationship with the youth had been pretty ambivalent, and (b) the fact that he'd had a lousy night and was feeling a bit under the weather. It was two days since his trip to fluey Sheffield, just about the right incubation time, and he'd breakfasted on orange juice and some proprietary brand anti-flu capsules which consumer tests showed were less effective than simple aspirin, though costing six times as much, but in whose efficacy he had an almost superstitious trust.
Dalziel glowered back at him and said, 'What's up wi' thee? Ellie kick you out of bed last night?'
'I'm fine,' snapped Pascoe. 'By the way, am I ever going to get to hear what's going off in regard to that German journalist and Rye Pomona? Or is it a national security matter, for your eyes only?'
'Could be. Like you and Roote maybe.' It was a telling counterpunch. He'd kept very quiet about his continued concern with and about Franny Roote, and he was sure that Wield wouldn't have engaged in a deliberate act of delation over his researches into ex-Sergeant Roote's background. But it was difficult to do anything in this building without twanging one of the threads that ran straight to Shelob's lair.
'If you show me yours, I'll show you mine,' he said.
'You think that'll be a fair swap?' said Dalziel doubtfully. 'I reckon I'd need change. But all right. Two cocks are better than one, as the actress said to the Siamese twins.'
Despite his show of reluctance, it was, Dalziel had to admit to himself, a relief to share the details of his
