either sucked you in and destroyed you, or, if you managed to withdraw, it showed no sign that you'd touched it.
'No point whatsoever,' he said. 'Listen, it was just a passing notion. If I did find anything positive, I'd get straight in touch. And perhaps you could keep me posted if…'
'Don't worry, you'd hear from me,' said Blaylock, his mellow voice taking on a slight edge of menace.
So that was that, thought Pascoe as he replaced the phone. The unofficial network would be alerted. The news would soon be out. Hieronimo is mad againe.
'So what?' he said aloud.
'Does my heart good to see a man too deep in his work to hear a knock at his door.'
Dalziel stood on the threshold, had been standing there God knows how long.
The unofficial Roote file was open on the desk. Pascoe closed it, not, he prayed, over-casually, and said, 'Must be going deaf. Come in, do.'
'Owt interesting going off?' said Dalziel, his eyes fixed on the unlabelled file.
Taking the bull by the horns was better than waiting to be gored.
'Got another letter from Roote this morning. Would probably have binned it, but I've just had an interesting call from a DCI Blaylock at Cambridge.'
'Never heard of him.'
'He's heard of you,' said Pascoe.
He gave the gist of his conversation, convinced Dalziel had heard his half of it anyway.
As he spoke, the Fat Man ran his eyes over the letter, and Pascoe took advantage of the distraction to slide the file into a drawer. When he'd finished reading, he dropped the letter on to the desk, farted gently and asked, 'So what's this Bollock decided to do next?'
'Blaylock. Nothing. No evidence of crime. Leave it alone.'
'But you reckon Albacore caught Roote with a flamethrower in his hand, and then the lad whacked him on the head and left him to barbecue, right? What do you think he's confessing to in his latest, then? Plans to scupper the Swiss Navy?'
'No,' said Pascoe, aiming at reasonableness. 'Nothing concrete to bother us here.'
'You reckon?' said Dalziel. 'This stuff about Charley Penn, doesn't that bother you?'
'No, not really,' said Pascoe, surprised. 'Nothing new there, is there? We all know how hard it's been for Penn to accept that his best mate was a killer.'
'How about what young Bowler said yesterday?'
Pascoe looked blank and the Fat Man said accusingly, 'I told you all about it in the Bull, but I could tell it weren't going in.'
'Yes it did,' protested Pascoe. 'Something about a break-in at his girl's flat. You can't think Penn had anything to do with that? He may be a bit stretched out at the moment, but I can't see him breaking and entering, can you? Anyway, didn't Bowler say there was no sign of forced entry? I don't see Charley as a dab hand with a picklock!'
'Always got a trick or two up his lederhosen, your Hun. Frogs thought the Maginot Line 'ud keep 'em out in 1940, look what happened there. Any road, he's a writer. Learn all kinds of dirty tricks, them writers. It's the research as does it. Look at yon Christie. All them books, all them murders. Can't touch pitch and not get defiled, lad.'
An idiot might have been tempted to suggest that maybe he was confusing his Christies, but Pascoe knew that Dalziel in frolicsome mood was like an elephant dancing, the wise man did not complain it was badly done, he just steered well clear.
But he couldn't resist a dig.
He said, 'I see what you mean. But it's a bit like this Roote thing, isn't it? No complaint, no evidence, so no case. How do you see yourself proceeding, sir?'
Dalziel laughed, ran a massive finger round the space on the desk where the file had been, and said, 'Like the Huns in 1940. Blitzkrieg! Seen owt of Wieldy?'
'Got another mysterious call and went out.'
'God, I hope he's not going to come back with another half-baked tip.'
'You reckon there's nothing in this Praesidium business then?' said Pascoe, determined to show how closely he had been listening in the Bull.
‘I’m not holding my breath’ said the Fat Man.
'He's usually a pretty good judge,' said Pascoe loyally.
'True. But hormones can jangle a man's judgment worse than a knock on the head. Look at Bowler. Love's a terrible enemy of logic. I think I read that in a cracker.'
'Love… I don't see how Edwin Digweed can have anything to do -'
'Who mentioned Digweed? What if our Wieldy's playing away? Nay, don't stand there like a hen with the gapes. It happens. Is it coffee time yet? I could sup a cup.'
Pascoe, uncertain how serious Dalziel was about Wield, but knowing from experience that the Fat Man's basic instincts sometimes got to places that a cruise missile couldn't reach, recovered his composure and said brightly, 'Going down to the canteen, sir?'
'No way. Buggers stop talking when I show my face there. I like a bit of Klatsch with my Kaffee. Pardon my Kraut, must've picked it up off Charley Penn. If anyone wants me, tell 'em I've gone down the Centre in search of a bit of cultural enlightenment. Ta-rah!'
6
The Ship
Dalziel was right. If you wanted your coffee with Klatsch, not to mention Schlag, latte, or other even more exotic additives, then you headed for Hal's cafe-bar on the mezzanine floor of the Heritage, Arts and Library Centre.
If on the other hand you wanted it with a cloaking background of distant train noises and all too close punk rock, then Turk's was the only place to be.
At least, thought Wield sourly, Ellie Pascoe wouldn't need to agonize over the working conditions of those who had picked the beans to produce this social experience. Anyone with a hand in the process which led to this muck deserved everything they got.
His sourness was caused by the fact that Lee Lubanski hadn't turned up. Twenty minutes of sitting alone in this atmosphere listening to this racket under Turk's indifferent gaze made you wonder if the life you enjoyed outside this place wasn't just a dim memory of people and places long lost. You began to fear that if you stayed too long you might lose all power of decision and end up a permanent fixture like the silent, solitary men hunched over empty cups who surrounded him.
Time to go. He should feel relieved. But he didn't.
He pushed the cup away and began to rise. The door opened and Lee came in.
His young face was twisted with anxiety. He looked like a child who's lost contact with his mam in a supermarket and is experiencing a fear teetering on the edge of panic.
Then he saw Wield and his face lit up. He came straight to the table and apologies began to tumble out of him at such a rate the detail was lost in the torrent.
'Shut up and sit down afore you do yourself an injury’ said Wield.
'Yeah… sure… sorry…'
He sat down and stopped talking but his face still glowed with pleasure at finding Wield waiting. Time to switch off the light.
'Passed on that so-called tip of yours to my boss’ growled Wield. 'He wasn't much impressed. Like I said to you, we don't have the men or the time to follow every bleeding Praesidium van for a whole day. You got any more details?'
