'I'll do it,' said Ellie, pretty sure she'd been conned again.
She sat down at her desk and began to put together the genealogy pack. It was aimed at the young market, and the introductory blurb urged the tyro genealogist to press older relations for details of family history, adding, 'but be careful. As people grow older, they are more likely to make little slips of memory. So double-check everything!'
Good advice.
More or less the good advice she'd been giving to Peter about Roote.
Would he take it? Maybe. Maybe not.
On the other hand, she thought virtuously, there wasn't much point going around dishing out good advice unless you were willing to take it yourself.
And, because she always found the cloak of virtue a rather itchy cloth, she gave herself a good scratch by adding, and wouldn't it be fun to toss the result of her own researches into Roote's background in front of Peter and say, hey, I think you missed a bit!
She got the pack papers in order and began to read from the beginning.
The Old Town Hall clock, still standing proud despite the fact that its broad face which once enjoyed a clear view right out to the swell of the northern dales now had to squint through a jungle of tumescent modernity, gathered its strength and struck.
The still and frosty air offered such little resistance to the note that even the benighted inhabitants of Lancashire must have been made aware that here in the very middle of God's Own County the Old Year was on his way out and the New on her way in.
For a moment there was no competition, then every bell in the town started ringing, rockets climbed into the air to dim the stars with their cascading colours, car horns sounded, revellers round the equine statue of the Grand Old Duke of York in Charter Park which already bore its traditional embellishment of streamers, toilet rolls, and inflated condoms, burst into raucous cheering while in the more sedate confines of the Old Town Hall itself, the guests at the Lord Mayor's Hogmanay Hop let out a welcoming whoop, then started applying their tongues to the first serious business of the New Year.
One of many things Dalziel liked about Cap Marvell was she gave as good as she got and they might have become linked in a lingual knot it would have taken an Alexander to sever if Margot, the Lady Mayoress, hadn't exercised her droit de seigneuse by tapping him on the shoulder and saying, 'Fair do's, Andy. Save some for old Tom's breakfast.'
'By God, Marge, I'd not have liked to be in thy tag team!' said Dalziel, massaging his shoulder where she'd tapped it.
Not many people dared to call her Marge or make open reference to her former career as a female wrestler, but Margot was not in the mood to be offended. She grabbed Dalziel in a neck lock, gave him a kiss like a hot jam doughnut, said, 'Happy New Year, Andy!' then moved on to perform her consort duties round the rest of the guests.
Dalziel winked at Cap then turned his attention to the age-honoured ceremony of embracing every woman of his acquaintance in turn and wishing them a Happy New Year. The greeting ranged from full-length body hug and mouth contact to a chaste cheek peck, though air-kissing happily had not penetrated the heart of Mid- Yorkshire. Dalziel, who was no grabber of unwilling ass, was usually able to gauge to a T the amount of pressure and skin contact each encounter required, but finding himself suddenly face to face with Rye Pomona, he paused uncertain. He'd been delighted if surprised to see Bowler escorting the young woman into the high-vaulted council chamber (now used solely for social functions since the erection of a modern state-of-the-art Civic Centre a few years back), delighted because Rye looked so much better than last time he'd seen her, and surprised that the young couple hadn't found somewhere noisier, sweatier and younger for their night out. All had been explained when during his welcoming speech the mayor had mentioned their sadness at being without Councillor Steel ('Save a fortune on catering but’ Dalziel had whispered to Cap). 'On the other hand’ continued the mayor, 'it gave him great pleasure to have as his personal guests the young people who had contributed so much to the final apprehension of the monster who murdered him.'
So young Bowler was on a freebie. Couldn't blame him for accepting it, thought Dalziel as he saw the champagne corks flying from the mayoral table. And in fact as the evening went on, the average age of the guests seemed to get lower (or maybe it was just the huge quantities of various elixirs of youth being sunk!) and the band had proved up to anything from Scots traditional through strictly ballroom to dirty disco.
Rye, Dalziel decided, was chaste cheek territory, but as he stooped to administer the salute, she turned her head and kissed him on the lips, not long, but long enough to make him think longer would have been nice.
'I hope you find everything your heart wants, Mr Dalziel’ she said seriously.
'You too, luv. You too.'
His gaze drifted to the woman standing next to her. Bit dumpy, but he liked that. Not bad looking, honey blonde hair over good shoulders, wearing a clinging blue dress cut low enough to show a piste of bosom it would be a pleasure to ski down. He didn't know her though she wasn't totally unfamiliar. There was a man by her side. He didn't know him either, but he looked a bit of a tosser. Narrow, pointed face with restless eyes, one of those linen jackets that looks like it's travelled from Hong Kong scrunched up in the bottom of a rucksack, brightly flowered silk shirt that showed his nipples, and a pair of trousers cut so tight it would take a chisel to get into the pockets which presumably was why he carried a handbag. No doubt there was some modern macho term for the male version, but Dalziel liked to call a spade a spade.
'Happy New Year to you, too, luv’ he said, giving her the peck.
'You too, Superintendent,' she said.
'Do I know you?' he asked.
'We met briefly on Christmas Day but we weren't introduced,' she said.
'This is Myra Rogers, my next-door neighbour’ said Rye.
'I remember’ he said. 'Nice to meet you again.'
'And this is Tris, my escort’ said Mrs Rogers.
Tris, the escort! Has she hired him for the night then? wondered Dalziel. Hope she got a money-back guarantee.
The band which had greeted the New Year with a furious outburst of 'Happy Days Are Here Again' now decided that the time had come when the kissing had to stop and, with a bagpipe skirl, they announced the onset of 'Auld Lang Syne'.
Cap appeared at his side as they formed a circle.
'Had a good snog then?' he asked her.
'Bruised but unbowed’ she said, 'Here we go!'
'Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind
They sang it once with feeling, then repeated the chorus at speed, all rushing into the centre of the circle. Dalziel targeted a man in the Social Service Department who'd given him some grief in a recent case and was pleased to see him retire badly winded.
'Well, that was fun, wasn't it?' said Cap.
'It were all right. Only one verse but, and even then they get the words wrong’ said Dalziel, who tended to get a bit SNP at Hogmanay.
'And you know them all, I suppose?'
'Bloody right. Me dad taught me and I've got the bruises to prove it. My favourite verse is second from last:
And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,
Andgie's a hand o' thine;
We'll tak a right good willie-waught
For auld lang syne.'
'Lovely’ she said. 'But what on earth's a 'right good willie-waught'?'
'Don't know, but I'm hoping to give you one when we get home. Hello, young Bowler. Enjoying yourself?'
'Yes, sir. Very much.'
'Grand. Don't get a taste for free champagne but. It can come pricey. Here, don't rush off, they've just
