'Sorry,' said Wield.
'Hello, funny face,' said the man. He looked rather pale and there was a whiff of a sweet vomit smell on his breath. Drunk too much and gone out to be sick, Wield guessed.
He said, 'Wally not come back then?'
'No. Don't expect him.' Then a suspicious look. 'You know him?'
'Wally? Yeah, from way back. Mind you, it's a long time since I saw him. I'd have said hello earlier, but he didn't look in the mood to chat. Worried about his lad, I expect.'
'Got cause, hasn't he,' said the young man moodily. 'Should have left the selfish bastard in jail. Ruined my fucking night, hasn't he?'
'How's that?'
'Had himself another accident or something. Little shit. Should have thought, with his trouble, no one would have let him near a car. One yell, and Wally goes running.'
'He is his dad,' said Wield. 'Heard you call him LB, what's that all about?'
'Thought you knew him.' Suspicious again.
'Way back, like I said. It was just plain Wally then.'
'It's just a net name he uses. Lunch box. LB. Linford. Gerrit?'
'Got it,' said Wield. Funny.'
'Yeah’ said the young man, looking at Wield assessingly. 'You been dumped too?'
'No, my friend's in there karaokeing. Not rny scene. Sorry.'
The young man went back inside. Wield pulled out his mobile and dialled.
'Pete, it's me,' he said. 'What's this about Liam Linford in an accident?'
Thought this was your night off,' said Pascoe. 'He was in a taxi that went into the river, A driver in another car saw it happen so help got there quick, it was too late. Liam's dead, plus that guy Robson who was his witness. And the driver.'
'Shit,' said Wield. 'Act of God or…?'
'Depends how you look at it. The driver was John Longstreet. That's right. The widower. And when they pulled him out, he was wearing a plastic Hallowe'en mask in the form of a skull.'
After his call was finished, Wield stood outside a while longer. His elation at discovering that Belchamber's LB was Wally Linford, underwriter of serious jobs requiring a lot of cash to set them up, was totally extinguished, though no doubt it would delight Andy Dalziel. But the Fat Man hadn't seen the father's face as he got the news about his son. Not that it would likely have made much difference.
Pondering these things, he re-entered the club room and walked past the momentarily silent karaoke set-up without paying any attention to a young man with electric blue hair and a matching silk shirt open to the waistband of a pair of trousers cut so tight it made your eyes water to look at them, who stood there, mike in hand, waiting his turn.
He glanced round, saw Wield, his eyes opened in delighted surprise and he leapt forward to grab the sergeant's hand.
'Mac!' he cried. 'It really is you. Hey, this is great. I'm on next. Come and give me some backing.'
It was Lee Lubanski.
Not the pale waif whose vulnerability plucked Wield's heart strings, nor yet the streetwise kid whose cynical view of life so depressed him. This was Lee in his party pomp, Lee hyped up on something, Lee so desperately having a good time, so genuinely delighted to see him there that Wield didn't think to resist till it was too late. The music began. Wield recognized the song. The old early eighties hit Total Eclipse of the Heart' and thought, oh shit.
He could see Wim and his guests out there, faces wreathed in delight, hear them urging him on. He caught Edwin's gaze, saw him drop his jaw in mock gobsmacked mode, then give him an encouraging smile. If he pulled free now and walked off, it wouldn't look like stage fright, it would look like a lover's quarrel.
'Every now and then I get a little bit nervous that the best of all the years have gone by,' sang Lee.
He had a good voice for this, a real Bonnie Tyler rasp, and as he approached the big belt-it-out section of the song he urged the still silent Wield to join in.
'For 1 need you now tonight and I need you more than ever
Fuck it, thought Wield. In for a penny, in for a pound. And he started to sing, or at least to growl out the words in a voice as cracked and fractured as his features.
'… forever's gonna start tonight
As the final 'Turn around, bright eyes' faded away, applause broke out, enthusiastic generally and riotous from Wim's table with everyone on their feet, clapping and cheering.
That was great, Mac,' said Lee, his eyes shining. 'What shall we do for an encore?'
'Got to get back to my friends, it's a birthday party, sorry,' said Wield.
The look of hurt disappointment that switched off the light on the boy's face stabbed right through him.
He squeezed his hand then let go.
'Hey, Happy New Year, Lee’ he said. 'Good to see you. Keep in touch, won't you?'
And it was almost as painful to see the way in which this small sop of kindness brought back the light.
'Yeah, sure, Mac. See you soon. Enjoy your party.'
In the taxi on the way home, Digweed said, 'Let me guess. That was Lee Lubanski?'
'Yes. Sorry if it embarrassed you.'
'What's to embarrass in the sight of a dad and his lad having a laugh together?'
'Dad and lad’ echoed Wield. 'Isn't there a poem about dads fucking up their lads?'
'Poetry now, is it? I'll have to take you out more often. 'They fuck you up your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do.' That the one you're thinking of?'
That's the one. It happens, I've seen it. And that's what bothers me, Ed. I'm scared I'm going to fuck the lad up.'
Digweed put his arm round Wield's shoulders.
'Just so long as he doesn't do it to you first, Ed. So long as he doesn't do it to you.'
10
Letter 8. Received Mon Jan 7 th P. P
Mon Dec 31st
Dear Mr Pascoe,
Safely back in Fichtenburg, thank God. The weather was pretty foul in Basel and if Beddoes experienced anything like those conditions, I don't blame him for being suicidal, and I could well understand how Holbein came to design his Dance of Death there. Or perhaps the real gloom was in me. It's curious. I have always been a person happy with his own company, but the fun I'd had with the others over Christmas seemed to have affected me in a strange way, and for the first time ever I felt really lonely.
I could have come back after twenty-four hours without much loss to my researches, but I was resolved not to give in. My hopes of a career depend very much on the job I do with Sam's book and I'm determined not to let the chance pass. Nor was it a complete waste of time. While I found little to add to Sam's own researches in Basel (oh, for your detective skills, that can take you in an empty room and let you emerge with clues to the perpetrator of some long-forgotten crime!), I confirmed some of his speculations and I came away with a sense that he (and dare I say it? Beddoes too!) approved of the progress I was making in my quest.
But I confess I hurried back here today, looking forward to company other than my own, and with lively anticipation of a Silvesterfest (Hogmanay!) to match our Weinachtfest (Christmas!)
Imagine then my gloom when the first person I saw on my arrival was Frere Dierick! He greeted me civilly enough and confirmed what I'd feared, that he was joining Jacques and myself in the chalet. Well, you're not sharing my room, not even if Linda commands it! I assured myself.
Jacques too seemed to have lost his taste for communal living, and it emerged that Dierick was going to bed down on the living-room floor for the couple of nights before the house party broke up. There was a perfectly good
