away one lover from a pair of lovers and what was left was two unhappy people.
So he crossed his fingers and, before he could change his mind, pausing only to check that he had the CID room to himself, he took out his mobile and rang his parents' number.
As he spilled out his carefully prepared lie about losing out in the Christmas leave lottery, he could feel his mother's huge disappointment even before she tried to hide it, and by the time he put down the phone, he felt like the worst kind of criminal low-life who deserved everything a gouty judge could throw at him.
And it seemed that God agreed.
'Well, that's good,' said Sergeant Wield's voice behind him. 'Here's me just heard Seymour's down with flu, so having to decide whether it's you or Novello gets pulled in to fill the gap on the Christmas roster, and what do I find but a volunteer? Well done, lad.'
'Come on, Sarge,' said Hat desperately. 'At least ask Novello. She might prefer New Year.'
'Nay, good Catholic girl like her 'ull want to be off at Christmas.'
'Good Catholic! You know she's been going out with that big bearded sergeant in the Transport Police and he's married with four kids.'
That's between her and Father Kerrigan, who no doubt gets a blow-by-blow account at confession, so let's not be having any religious prejudice here, eh?'
'But, Sarge…' Hat began to plead. Then he looked into that rocky landscape of a face and realized there was nothing for him here but a hard landing.
He kept his come-uppance to himself, accepting DC Novello's gratitude at his reported volunteering with a self-deprecating grimace and Rye's sympathy with a philosophic shrug. For a moment when she pulled him down on the sofa to show how far her sympathy went, he started feeling guilty again, but not for long.
Christmas morning itself was so quiet that he didn't even have the consolation of usefulness to salve his disappointment at not being with Rye.
About eleven o'clock Dalziel came wandering in, softly whistling 'God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen'. He nodded approvingly when he saw the amount of paperwork Hat had shifted and said, 'That's it, lad. Improve the shining hour.'
'Yes, sir. Nothing for us yet then?'
The Fat Man laughed, scratched his crotch like a boy scout trying to start a fire, and said, 'Don't worry, lad. Early days. There's lots of folk out there have travelled many a weary mile just to put themselves in striking distance of their nearest and dearest, and it's getting near kick-off time. Prezzies opened, irritations building, down the pub for a few soothing bevvies, back an hour later full of good cheer, turkey burnt, pudding hard-boiled, kids fratching, in-laws sniping – it's a powder keg, and anything can be a spark. Had a chap couple of years back slit three throats with the carving knife just because his missus told him he were making a mess of the bird and why didn't he let her dad do it?'
'Even that's not exactly demanding, is it? I mean, it doesn't take much real detective work.'
'Like in the whodunnits? Shouldn't pay too much heed to them poncy writers, lad. What do they know? Most on 'em 'ud honk their rings if they saw a bit of real blood.'
Hat's acquaintance with poncy writers was limited to Ellie Pascoe and Charley Penn. His dislike of the latter was strong enough to discount his liking for the former, so he nodded enthusiastic agreement which probably wasn't a bad career move anyway.
It occurred to him to wonder how come the Fat Man, who cracked the whip and sent all the animals galloping round the ring, should have ended up stuck in the empty Big Top on Christmas Day. A disaster in his private life? Or a sudden rush of altruism to the head? On the whole, Hat thought it wise not to push his luck by asking.
In fact neither mischance nor nobility had played a part in the Fat Man's decision to take Christmas duty. Amanda 'Cap' Marvell, his inamorata, was spending the holiday with her son, Lieutenant Colonel Pitt-Evenlode MC (the Hero, as Dalziel called him), who had finally found himself a woman sufficiently unimpressed by his heroics to contemplate becoming his wife. Dalziel wasn't invited.
'Worried I'll frighten her off?' Dalziel had asked.
'More likely worried I'll drink too much bubbly and start feeling you up under the table and that frightens her off,' said Cap, who had a nice way of putting things.
'Save the bubbly for Boxing Day,' he'd replied, then told his senior officers they could spend Christmas with their families as he was coming in and he was worth any six of them.
He returned to his office now, opened the huge jar of pickled walnuts he'd found in one of his socks that morning, poured himself a healthy slug from the bottle of Highland Park he'd found in the other, and settled down with The Last Days of Pompeii, with his radio monitor bubbling softly in the background. The minutes ticked by, the pages turned, the whisky and the walnuts sank, and, as he'd forecast, the radio-recorded tide of merry Christmas mayhem rose as the Queen's Speech sailed majestically nearer.
The mayhem so far had all remained at the 'domestic' level, which meant it hadn't risen above bruising and cutting with the occasional breaking of bones, all of which fell within the proper purlieu of Uniform, who were getting more stretched by the minute.
Then like a hooked fish the Fat Man felt his attention jerked from first century Campania to twenty-first century Mid-Yorkshire.
'Disturbance at Church View House, Peg Lane. Informant Mrs Gilpin, Flat 14. Sounds like another drunk. Can anyone take it?'
Dalziel laid down his book, scooped up his radio and said, Tommy, that Peg Lane call, I'll take it.'
'You will?' The sergeant couldn't hide his amazement. 'It's just a D and D, sir…'
'I know, but it's the season of goodwill, and I can tell your lads are getting a bit overstretched, so have this one on CID. Unless you're too proud, that is…'
'No, sir. It's yours and welcome. Cheers!'
Dalziel switched off and bellowed, 'Bowler!'
Five seconds later Hat appeared round the door just as Dalziel came through it.
He leapt aside, then fell into step behind the Fat Man as he raced down the stairs.
'Sir,' he gasped. 'What have we got?'
'Probably nowt, but I could do with a breath of fresh air. You drive.'
In the car, Hat said, 'Where to?'
'Peg Lane.'
'Peg Lane? That's where Rye lives!'
'Aye. And it's Church View we're heading for. Disturbance. Informant your friend Mrs Gilpin. And I'm just wondering if the disturber could be our old friend, Charley Penn. Christ, lad, this is the town I live in you're driving through, not Le Mans!'
But Hat wasn't listening. He sent the car hurtling through the thankfully empty streets recalling that other mad drive only a couple of months before when he'd gone rushing to Rye's rescue. Could lightning strike twice? Could the second strike be fatal…?
Peg Lane was fairly central so the journey took less than five minutes, though to Hat it felt like an hour. The narrow street running between the terraced houses and the eighteenth-century church which gave Rye's building its name was still as an unused film set. Remove the parked cars and you could have shot an episode of Emma here.
An upstairs window opened and a woman wearing a red and yellow paper hat leaned out and said, 'I'm not coming out. It's gone very quiet, but he hasn't left.'
'Who?' demanded Dalziel.
'Him. The mad-looking one your lad asked about who was here before.'
His lad, Dalziel now realized, had already vanished into the building.
With a mild oath at the impetuosity of youth, Dalziel followed.
On the flat over short distances his bulk was little impediment to velocity, but uphill he went steady, not caring to arrive wheezing like a badly maintained set of bagpipes.
He paused on the first landing. Above him he could hear a thunderous knocking and Bowler's voice crying, 'Rye! Rye! Are you there?'
Groaning gently, Dalziel resumed his ascent.
