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The Wood Beyond
Reginald Hill
‘Hill’s wit is the constant, ironic foil to his vision, and to call this a mere crime novel is to say Everest is a nice little hill’ Frances Hegarty, Mail on SundayWhen animal-rights activists uncover a long-dead uniformed body in the grounds of Wanwood House, a research facility, Dalziel is presented with a seemingly insoluble mystery. And he is further perplexed when he’s attracted to one of the campaigners – now implicated in a murderous assault.Meanwhile, the death of his grandmother has led Peter Pascoe to the battlefields of World War 1 and the enigma of who his grandfather was – and why he had to die.



REGINALD HILL
THE WOOD BEYOND
A Dalziel and Pascoe novel



COPYRIGHT (#uca644583-6410-5fab-b00f-e2d9704fd38c)
Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain in 1996 by HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Copyright © Reginald Hill 1996
Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9780007313167
Ebook Edition © JULY 2015 ISBN 9780007386772 Version: 2015-06-22

EPIGRAPH (#ulink_94f4fb91-734c-55f0-b5e6-e7d25f9922aa)
And what may I deem now, but that this is a land of mere lies, & that there is nought real and alive therein save me. Yea, belike even these trees & the green grass will presently depart from me, & leave me falling down through the clouds.
WILLIAM MORRIS, The Wood Beyond the World
No evidence was found to lead us … to think that the convictions were unsound or that the accused were treated unfairly … we cannot rewrite history by substituting our latter-day judgement for that of contemporaries …
JOHN MAJOR, Response (Feb 1993) to request to reconsider cases of British soldiers executed during WW1
si canimus silvas, silvae sint consule dignae
(#ulink_6628fb8f-df84-50bb-9032-dd1641d0dc8b).
VIRGIL, Eclogue IV
* (#ulink_d69fe0c1-5242-5e56-9019-db884e78fbd6) If we must sing of woods, let them be woods that are worthy of a prime minister

CONTENTS
Cover (#ufe41da58-2e44-5970-9ef8-f5d05281febe)
Title Page (#u11fb36f7-5107-5cac-ae96-23814105e2b9)
Copyright
Epigraph (#uf3deb213-746a-5292-b928-9bd12b120f6a)
Prologue
Part One: Sanctuary
i (#ulink_ee937169-23fc-5caa-b20b-2dcb34fc906d)
ii (#ulink_9ab0f171-53f3-59a7-b2fb-ec33b52e102e)
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Part Two: Glencorse
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Part Three: Polygon
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Part Four: Wanwood
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Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By Reginald Hill (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE (#uca644583-6410-5fab-b00f-e2d9704fd38c)
Monday morning, start of a new week, air bright as ice in a crystal glass, brandy-gold sun pouring from delft-blue sky, the old bracken glowing on the rolling moors, the trees still pied with their unblasted leaves, the pastures still green with their unmuddied grass, as October runs into November and thinks it’s September still.
Edgar Wield drove slowly out of Enscombe, slowly because on mornings like this what you were driving through was far more important than where you were driving to, and also because during the short time he’d been living in the village he’d learned that only a fool assumed that the narrow roads ran clear further than the next bend.
His caution was rewarded when he eased round a corner and found George Creed shepherding the stragglers of a flock of sheep through a gate into a field set up with holding pens. The sight made him smile at the echo of his first sighting of Creed doing much the same task on this very road. Since then they’d become both neighbours and friends.
‘’Morning, George, fine-looking beasts,’ he called through his open window.
Domicile entitled him to this pretension of expertise, though he wasn’t altogether sure whether the term beasts could legitimately be applied to sheep as well as cattle.
‘’Morning, Edgar,’ said Creed. ‘Happen they’ll do. Sounds daft, but I’ll be sorry to see them go.’
‘They’re off then?’ said Wield now taking in the significance of the pens.
‘Aye, folk have got to eat, that’s what farming’s all about. But the older I get, the more it bothers me, selling off what I’ve bred up. Don’t be saying owt of this down in the Morris else they’ll be thinking I’m going soft in the head!’
‘Which market are you taking them to?’
‘No market. I’ve always dealt man and boy with Haig’s of Wharfedale. They give me top price ’cos they know my stock, and I sell them my stock ’cos I know they’ll see them right. So watch out for their wagon on your way into town. Take up most of the road them things.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ said Wield. ‘No hurry on a morning like this. I’d as lief be staying here to give you a hand if you’d have me.’
‘I’m always willing to set on a likely lad,’ laughed Creed. ‘But I think you’d be wanting your cards afore the end of the day.’
He glanced upwards as he spoke and Wield followed his gaze into the unflawed bowl of blue sky.
‘You’re never saying it’s on the turn, are you?’ he asked sceptically. ‘Looks set for another month to me.’
‘Nay, it’ll spoil itself by tea time, and make a right job of it too.’
‘You reckon? Well, even if it does, you’re better off here than where I’m going. Wet, dry, hail or shine, there’s no place like Enscombe. See you, George.’
He engaged the clutch and continued his leisurely progress down the valley road which aped the twists and turns of the River Een as though it were of the same ancient natural birth. A couple of miles further on he saw the juggernaut of the livestock transporter coming towards him and pulled off the road into a small piece of woodland to let it past. The driver blew his horn in appreciation and Wield waved as the huge truck with its legend D. HAIG & CO Livestock Wholesalers rumbled by.
When it was past and out of sight, he continued to sit for a while, enjoying the cool breeze through the open window and the way the amber sunlight scintilla’d through the trembling branches. He had the feeling that if he got out of his car and strolled off into the wood, he could keep going forever with nothing changing, no ageing, no hunger, no cold, no crime, no war …
And certainly no rain!
Yes, that was one thing he was certain of. He was a great respecter of the rustic eye, but towns had weather too and Detective Sergeant Wield of Mid-Yorkshire CID wasn’t often caught without his umbrella. No, this time George had got it wrong. This Indian summer had a lot of wear in it yet. He couldn’t see any end to it himself. And what you couldn’t see the end of, surely that must be forever?

part oneSANCTUARY (#uca644583-6410-5fab-b00f-e2d9704fd38c)
The wanton Troopers riding by
Have shot my Faun and it will dye.

i (#ulink_abf13b77-9ddf-54d2-a5c8-30b79a44f89b)
Dear Mrs Pascoe
I do not know if Peter ever mentioned to you that I was his superior officer for some time. Indeed one of my last acts before I was invalided out was to confirm his promotion to sergeant. You may therefore understand with what dismay I received the tragic news of his death, and I wanted to write to you at once to say that in my opinion he was one of the finest men I had the privilege to command, and in no way does the manner of his death divert me from that judgment.
I realize that at a time like this you will scarcely feel able to look ahead, but with a young daughter to bring up, the future and its problems will all too soon demand attention. Recognizing that you may have needs which are pressing and immediate, I beg you to accept the accompanying small initial contribution and my assurance that as soon as the opportunity arises I shall take steps to ensure you and your child are cared for as Peter would have wished.
Meanwhile I remain yours in deepest sympathy,
Herbert Antony Grindal

ii (#ulink_e73da10e-3b91-5974-9e6c-9c4d5b535a71)
Is this thing working? Right. Here we go. Here we go, here we go … sorry. Just testing. OK, from the start. Getting into the wood were easy. Out of the ditch, over the top, and there we were. Mind you, it were like jumping into a raging sea. Wind howling, everything shaking and creaking and groaning like the whole bloody issue was alive, and so much stuff flying around you were in danger of getting your head took off. But we pressed on regardless, taking our direction from the glow up ahead. Even when you can’t see your hand before your face, there’s always that glow.
Then at the edge of the trees we hit wire, and we paused here to get our breath and count heads.
We were all present and correct, the whole eight of us, and Cap started in on the wire. You’ll have met the Captain? Useless with the cutters but won’t let anyone else have them. Sort of badge of office. Eventually there was a hole of sorts and we started through. Jacksie – that’s Jacklin, the well-made one – got snagged and swore. Cap said, ‘Keep it down,’ like someone might hear in all that din, and Jacksie said, ‘If I could keep it down, I wouldn’t have got it stuck,’ and a couple of us got the giggles. It’s easy done when you’re shit scared. Not that it mattered or Jacksie swearing either. Like I said, it were pissing with rain and blowing a gale, and you would have needed a lot more than a giggle to get noticed.
Then we were all through and the laughing stopped.
There’s nowt to laugh at out there. It’s a wasteland. Used to be trees but after the big raid last summer, they blew them all to hell, roots and all, and when it rains for a week, like it’s been doing, the holes all fill with water and the ground gets so clarty, you can feel it sucking you down. Smells too. Don’t know why it should. It were once good mixed woodland like what’s still there. But now it stinks like a ploughed-up boneyard.
Someone – don’t know who – said, ‘This is bloody stupid. We should head back.’ Seconded, I thought. But I kept my trap shut ’cos if there’s one thing guaranteed to make Cap head east, it’s hearing me speak up for west. I should’ve known better than to try diplomacy. It never works. Might as well start scrapping right off and get it over with. Cap just glowered at me as if it had been me mouthing off, and said, ‘Follow me. Keep close.’ And we were off, no pretence of a discussion. Whatever happened to universal suffrage?
God, it were hard going. Two steps forward, one back, and as for keeping close, with that rain coming down and the mist coming up, it was all you could do to see where your next step were going to land, let alone keep an eye on anybody else. So it came as no surprise when somewhere over to the left I heard a splash and yell and a voice crying ‘Oh shit!’ all spluttery. Someone had gone into a crater. My money was on Jacksie, but I didn’t waste time speculating. Even someone a lot better coordinated could drown in one of them holes as easy as the middle of the Atlantic. So I headed for the noise like everybody else. Only I must’ve been a bit more headstrong than the rest ’cos when I got there, I didn’t stop but slid right over the edge, and next thing, I were down the bleeding hole too!
For a while I thought I were going to drown, but once I got the right way up and persuaded Jacksie – I’d been right about that – to stop grabbing my hair, I realized there were only two or three feet of water down there, which was fine so long as you didn’t lose your footing. The real problem was how to get out, ’cos the walls started sloshing and crumbling every time you tried to get a hold on them.
Cap and the others had arrived by now and were reaching down to grab us. They got Jacksie first and I pushed like mad and got nowt but a faceful of boot for my pains. But eventually the useless bugger got hauled out and it were my turn. I reached up and felt someone get a hold of my right hand, I couldn’t see who, my eyes were so full of mud and water, and I thrashed around with my left till finally I found another hand to get hold of. Then, kicking my toes into the side, I started to haul myself out.
I soon caught on I were getting a lot of help with my right hand – turned out to be Cap who were doing the pulling – but nowt at all with my left. But before I could start wondering why, my feet slipped out of the hole I’d kicked in the side of the crater and my hand slipped out of Cap’s, and I started to slide back in, putting all my weight on whoever had got a hold of my left hand.
And it just came away, the hand I was holding on to I mean. And I slid right back down into that filthy water with my fingers still grasped tight around that thing, or like it seemed then, with that thing’s fingers still grasped tight round mine, and I started to scream, and some on the others started to scream too, and eventually even them buggers in the green uniforms started taking notice, and next thing there was a whole platoon of them all around us shouting and shoving and that’s how we ended up getting captured. Me ciggies are all sodden. You’ve not got a dry one, have you?

iii (#ulink_63643e25-0bb3-5907-9898-a130a553388f)
Families are a fuck-up, thought Peter Pascoe.
Otherwise, how come he was standing here in a crematorium chapel with all the inspirational ambience of a McDonald’s though without, thank God, the attendant grilled burger odours, being glared at by his sister, Myra, and squinted at by a bunch of geriatric myopes, as he attempted an extempore exordium of a grandmother he hadn’t seen for nearly two years?
‘Hello. I’m Peter Pascoe and Ada was my grandmother and I’m doing this because …’
Because when he’d arrived and discovered Myra had ordered a full-fig C of E service right down to ‘Abide With Me’, his guilt had vaulted him onto a high horse and he’d gone through the arrangements like Jesus through the money changers, till at his moment of triumph Myra had brought him crashing to earth with the question, ‘OK, smartarse, just what are you going to do?’
‘… because as you probably know, Ada didn’t reckon much to organized religion. She always said that when she died the last thing she wanted was a funeral-chasing parson droning on about her unlikely virtues. So I’m doing it instead … not droning on, I hope … and not unlikely … anyway, I’m doing it.’
And a right cockup you’re making of it too. He could see Myra’s fury moderating into malicious pleasure. If only there’d been time to make a few notes. Only a fool relied on divine inspiration when he’d just dumped God!
‘Well I’m not going to make a lot of notes … I mean, fuss, because Ada hated fuss. But equally I’m not going to let the passing of this remarkable old lady pass un … er … remarked.’
This got worse! Pull yourself together. If you can brief a bunch of CID cynics and pissed-off plods, no need to be fazed by a pewful of wrinklies. What was Myra rolling her eyeballs at? Doesn’t she know a dramatic pause when she hears one?
‘Ada was born in Yorkshire though she didn’t stay there long. The event which changed her life, changed all our lives, come to think of it, was the Great War. So many died … millions … numbers too large to register. One of them was Ada’s father, my great-grandfather. After she got the news, my great-grandmother took her three-year-old daughter and headed down here to Warwickshire. I’ve no details of how they lived. I only discovered the Yorkshire connection because I was a nosy kid. Ada wasn’t one to go on about the past, maybe because there was too much pain in it for her. But I can guess that one-parent families had it even tougher in those days than they do now. Anyway here they came and here they stayed. This was where Ada grew up and in her turn got married. And in her turn she had a child. And in her turn she saw her husband, my grandfather Colin Pascoe, go off to the wars.
‘Did she know as she said goodbye that in her turn she too was never going to see him again? Who knows? But I think she knew. Oh yes. I’m sure she knew.’
That had them. Even Myra was looking rapt.
‘The child they had was, of course, Peter, my father. Naturally he wishes he could be here today. But as you probably know when he took early retirement a few years back, he decided to follow my eldest sister, Susan, and her family out to Australia, and unfortunately urgent commitments have prevented any of them from making the long journey. But I’m sure we will be very much in their thoughts at this sad time.’
He caught Myra’s eye and looked away, but not before they’d shared their awareness that any thoughts turning their way in that antipodean night would probably need the attention of an oneiromantist.
‘So in 1942 Ada got the same news from North Africa that in 1917 her mother had got from Flanders. Another young widow. Another fatherless child. No wonder she hated uniforms and wars and anything which seemed to be celebrating them. She could never look at an Armistice Day poppy without feeling physically sick, and one of her last cogent acts was to rebuke a British Legion volunteer who came round the ward selling them.’
Rebuke? What she’d actually said according to Myra was, ‘Sod off, ghoul.’ Which message it might appear he was passing on to this well-poppied congregation. Ah well. You can’t please all of the people all of the time.
‘But Ada did not let the past destroy her present. She joined one of the accelerated teacher training courses after the war and despite her late start, she climbed high, finishing as Head of Redstones Junior which I myself had the privilege of attending. As you can imagine, having your gran as head teacher was a mixed blessing. Certainly in school I got no favours, just a first-class education. But outside, I got all the love and indulgence a growing boy is entitled to expect from his gran.’
He caught Myra’s eye again and read the message clearly. Favourite! So what? Boy with two bossy elder sisters needed an edge somewhere. Another eye was catching his, the crem. super’s, reminding him of his warning that despite the nanny state, dank Novembers still meant frequent hearses and any overrun could quickly blacken up the bypass. Time to wrap it up. Pity. He just felt he was getting into his stride.
‘Even after retirement, she remained at the centre of things, as a school governor, a member of innumerable committees, and a tireless campaigner in the corridors of power and on the pavements of protest.’
Now he was really motoring! Great phrase, that was. Even though getting the rhythm right meant a solecistic drift from the nounal trochee to the verbal iamb. How old Ada would have rapped his knuckles. The crem. super too looked close to physical violence. Big finish!
‘I doubt if she went gentle into her good night, but gone she has, and the world is a sadder place for her going. But she left it a better place than she found it, and that would have been the only epitaph she wished.’
Big finish nothing. Big cop-out was more like it. Ada had had no illusions about progress. Watching the telly peepshow of famine and disaster and war, she used to rage, ‘They’ve learned nothing. Absolutely nothing!’ Oh well. At least he’d taken his poppy out.
Time for the final music. Myra had gone for Elgar’s Enigma which to Ada’s tin ear probably sounded like bovine eructation. The crem.’s alternatives were all just as classically solemn. Then Pascoe had recalled the one time Ada ever talked about her father, the day he found the photo in the secretaire, and he’d rummaged through the tapes in his car and come up with Scott Joplin. He saw the shock on Myra’s face as ‘The Strenuous Life’ came floating out of the speakers. He’d explain later, sharing his secret knowledge that Ada’s sole recollection of her father – indeed her first recollection of anything – had been of a shadowy figure sitting at an upright piano picking out a ragtime melody.
So the circle closes … so the circle closes.

iv (#ulink_77694f40-4839-5796-a22d-d72eb597ec06)
‘At his grandmother’s funeral?’ said Detective Superintendent Andy Dalziel. ‘You’d think a bugger wi’ letters after his name could come up with a better excuse than that.’
‘He did tell you about it, sir,’ said Sergeant Wield, shouting to make himself heard above the lashing rain.
Dalziel viewed him gloomily through the bespattered car window which he’d lowered by half an inch in the interests of more efficient communication. He was not a man totally insensitive to the comforts of his inferiors, but the sergeant was swathed in oilskins and the Fat Man could see no reason why the torrents niagaraing around their folds should be diverted to his vehicle’s upholstery.
‘Aye and my gran told me not to mess around wi’ mucky women and I paid no heed to her either,’ he said. ‘Still, last time he were here, he wasn’t much use, was he? OK, lad. Let’s have it. What’ve we got?’
‘Remains, sir.’
‘Man? Woman? Child? Dog? Politician?’
‘Remains to be seen,’ said Wield.
Dalziel groaned and said, ‘I hope you’re not letting happiness turn you humorous, Wieldy. You’ve not got the face for it and I’m not in the mood. I were driving home to a warm bed when I were silly enough to switch me radio on and pick up the tail end of this shout. All Control could tell me was there was a body and there was a bunch of animal libbers and it was out at Wanwood. So is this another Redcar or what?’
Six months earlier in May there’d been an animal rights raid on the laboratories of Fraser Greenleaf, the international pharmaceutical conglomerate, located near Redcar on the North Yorkshire coast. As well as releasing the experimental animals, the raiders had vandalized the premises and, most seriously of all, left security officer Mark Shufflebottom, father of two, lying dead with severe wounds to the head. Several weeks later there’d been another raid, bearing all the hallmarks of the same group, on the research labs of ALBA Pharmaceuticals located on Mid-Yorks territory in a converted mansion called Wanwood House. Happily this time no one had been injured. Unhappily neither the Teeside CID in whose jurisdiction Redcar fell, nor the Mid-Yorkshire team led by Peter Pascoe, had met with any success in tracking down the culprits.
‘No, sir. This body’s been here long enough to turn into bones. That’s not to say this couldn’t be the same lot as were here in the summer, though of course it was never established for certain they were the same bunch that raided FG.’
Wield was a stickler for accuracy, a natural bent refined paradoxically by years of deception. Concealing you were gay in the police force meant weighing with scrupulous care everything you said or did, and this habit of precise scrutiny had turned him into one of the most reliable colleagues Dalziel had.
But sometimes his nit-picking could get on your wick.
‘Just tell us what happened, Wieldy,’ sighed the Fat Man long-sufferingly.
‘Right, sir. This group – I gather they call themselves ANIMA by the way – the name’s known to us but not the personnel – sorry – they entered the grounds with the clear intention of breaking into the labs and releasing any animals they found there. But if they were the same lot who were here in the summer, they must have got a bit of a shock as ALBA’s taken some extra precautions since then.’
‘Precautions?’
‘You’ll see, sir,’ said Wield not without a certain well-concealed glee. ‘And on their way through the grounds they sort of stumbled across these bones.’
‘Couldn’t have brought them with them just to get a bit of publicity?’ said Dalziel hopefully.
‘Doesn’t look like it, sir,’ said Wield. ‘They kicked up such a hullabaloo that the security guards finally took heed and came out. When they realized what was going off, they took the demonstrators inside. Gather there was a bit of trouble then. They got loose and ran riot for a bit before they were brought under control.’
‘Violent, eh? So there could be a link with Redcar?’
‘Can’t really comment, sir. Mr Headingley’s up at the house interviewing them. He told me to sort things out down here.’
‘Good old George,’ said Dalziel. ‘Perk of being a DI, Wieldy. Start taking an interest in your promotion exams and you could be up there in the dry and warm.’
Wield shrugged indifferently, his features showing as little reaction to horizontal sleet as the crags of Scafell.
He knew you didn’t learn things from books, you learned them from people. Like that other George, Creed. He’d pay a lot more attention to his weather forecasts from now on in! Also he knew for a fact that not all the elevated rank in the world was going to keep the Fat Man dry and warm.
He said, ‘Yes, sir. I expect you’ll be wanting to view the scene before you head up there yourself.’
It was a simple statement of fact not a challenging question.
Dalziel sighed and said, ‘If that’s what you expect, Wieldy, I expect I’d better do it. Get me waterproofs out of the boot, will you, else I’ll be sodden afore I start.’
Watching Dalziel getting into oilskins and wellies through the streaming glass, Wield was reminded of a film he’d seen of Houdini wriggling out of his bonds while submerged in a huge glass jar.
The car gave one last convulsive shake and the Fat Man was free.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Where’s it at?’
‘This way,’ said Wield.
At this moment Nature, with the perfect timing due to the entry of a major figure on her stage, shut off the wind machine for a moment and let the curtain of sleet shimmer to transparency.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Dalziel with the incredulous amazement of a Great War general happening on a battlefield. ‘They had Dutch elm disease or what?’
On either side of the driveway a broad swathe of woodland had been ripped out and this fillet of desolation which presumably ran all the way round the house was bounded by two fences, the outer a simple hedge of barbed wire, the inner much more sophisticated, a twelve-feet-high security screen with floodlights and closed-circuit TV cameras every twenty yards.
Neither light nor presumably cameras were much use when the wind, as it now did once more, drove a rolling barrage of sleet and dendral debris across this wilderness.
Wield said, ‘These are the precautions I mentioned, sir. We’ve got duckboards down. Try and stay on them else you could need a block and tackle.’
Was he taking the piss? The Fat Man trod gingerly on the first duckboard and felt it sink into the glutinous mud. He decided the sergeant was just being typically precise.
The wooden pathway zigzagged through the mire to avoid the craters left by uprooted trees, finally coming to a halt at the edge of one of the largest and deepest. Here there was some protection from a canvas awning which every blast of wind threatened to carry away along with the two constables whose manful efforts were necessary to keep its metal poles anchored in the yielding clay.
At the bottom of the crater a man was taking photographs whose flash revealed on the edge above him, crouched low to get maximum protection from the billowing canvas, another figure studying something in a plastic bag.
‘Good God,’ said Dalziel. ‘That’s never Troll Longbottom?’
‘Mr Longbottom, yes, sir,’ said Wield. ‘Seems he was dining with Dr Batty, that’s ALBA’s Research Director, when the security staff rang him to say what had happened. Dr Batty’s up at the house.’
‘And Troll came too? Must’ve been losing at cards or summat.’
Thomas Roland Longbottom, consultant pathologist at the City General, was notoriously unenthusiastic about on-site examinations. ‘You want a call-out service, join the AA,’ he’d once told Dalziel.
His forenames had been compressed to Troll in early childhood, and whether the sobriquet in any way predicated his professional enthusiasm for dead flesh and loose bones was a question for psycholinguistics. Dalziel doubted it. They’d played in the same school rugby team and the Fat Man claimed to have seen Longbottom at the age of thirteen devour an opponent’s ear.
He gingerly edged his way round the rim of the crater and drew the consultant’s attention by tugging at the collar of the mohair topcoat he was wearing over a dinner jacket.
‘How do, Troll? Good of you to come. Needn’t have got dressed up, but. You’ll get mud on your dicky.’
Longbottom squinted up at him. Time, which had basted Dalziel, had wasted him to an appropriate cadaverousness.
‘Would you mind staying on your own piece of board, please, Dalziel? Facilis est descensus, but I’m choosy about the company I make it in.’
Education and high society had long eroded his native accent, but he had lost none of the skill of abusive exchange which form the basis of playground intercourse in Mid-Yorkshire.
‘Sorry you got dragged away from your dinner, but I see you brought your snap,’ said Dalziel peering at the plastic bag which contained a cluster of small bones.
‘Which I shall need to feast on at my leisure.’
‘Looks like slim pickings to me,’ said Dalziel. ‘So what can you give me off the top of your head? Owt’ll do. Sex. Age. Time of death. Mother’s maiden name.’
‘It’s a hand, and it’s human, and that’s all I’m prepared to say till I’ve seen a great deal more which may be some time. This one, I fear, like Nicholas Nickleby, is coming out in instalments.’
‘Can’t recall him,’ said Dalziel. ‘What did he die of?’
Longbottom arose with a groan which comprehended everything from the joke to the stiffness of his muscles and the state of the weather.
‘Just look at my coat,’ he said. ‘Do you know how much these things cost? I shall of course be making a claim.’
‘I’d send it to ALBA then. Your mate, Batty. Do you reckon he keeps anything to drink up there?’
‘I should imagine there’s a single methanol in the labs.’
‘That’ll do nicely,’ said Andy Dalziel.

v (#ulink_036a23fa-bcf2-5645-bf1a-5fad92fa1e0e)
Peter Pascoe could have done without the funeral meats but felt he’d gone as far as he dared in disrupting his sister’s arrangements. In fact it worked out rather well as under the influence of cups of tea and salmon sandwiches the wrinkly clones turned into amiable, intelligent individuals, several of them well below retirement age. Some even went out of their way to compliment him on his address, saying how pleased Ada would have been with the service and how much they’d like something like that when their turn came.
Myra clearly took all this in because when they’d waved the stragglers goodbye, she said, ‘OK, so as usual you were right.’
He smiled at her but she wasn’t ready for that yet, and turned back into the old cottage which had been Ada’s home for fifty years.
‘Only room for one in that kitchen,’ she said. ‘I’ll do the washing up. You can carry on with your inventory.’
When she came back into the living room, he was manoeuvring an old mahogany secretaire through the doorway.
‘You’re taking that old thing then?’
‘Yes. I thought I’d get it on the roof rack now so I can make a quick getaway in the morning. Don’t worry. It’s on the inventory. I’ll get it valued and make sure it goes into the estate.’
‘I didn’t mean that … oh think what you will, you always did.’
She turned away, angry and hurt.
Oh shit, thought Pascoe. Whatever happened to old silver tongue?
He reached out and caught her arm and said, ‘Sorry. I was talking like an executor. Maybe a bit like a cop too. Listen, you don’t have to say anything but anything you do say will be taken down.’
She stared at him blankly and for a second he thought she’d forgotten the grubby little schoolboy joke he’d tried to embarrass her with all those years ago.
Then she smiled and said, ‘Knickers,’ and through the eggshell make-up he glimpsed the girl who’d been his closest ally in the long war of adolescence. OK, so her motivation had a lot to do with resentment that Sue, the eldest, could get away with shorter skirts, thicker lipstick, and later hours than herself. Whatever the reason, their closest moments within the family had been together.
‘What about you?’ he said. ‘Isn’t there anything you’d like?’
‘Far too old-fashioned for our house,’ she said firmly.
‘Something small, as a memento,’ Pascoe urged.
‘No need for that. I’ll remember,’ she said.
There was something in her tone, not acerbic exactly, but certainly acetic. She’d never been anyone’s favourite, Pascoe realized. Susan had been the apple of their parents’ eye, would perhaps have been their only fruit if their chosen method of contraception had been more efficient. He himself had been Ada’s favourite – or, as he sometimes felt, target. Driven by the loss of two men in her life (three if you counted the disappointment of her own son) she’d focused all her shaping care on her male grandchild, leaving poor Myra to find her own way.
It had led to marriage with Trevor, the kind of financial advisor who bores clients into submission; an ultramodern executive villa in Coventry, a pair of ultra-neanderthal teenage sons in private education; and a resolve to show the world that what she’d got was exactly what she wanted.
So, no appetite-spoiling bitterness this, just a condiment sharpness.
Pascoe said, ‘About the music …’
‘It doesn’t matter, Pete. I’ve said you were right.’
‘No, I’d like to explain. Here, let me show you something.’
He opened the drawer of the secretaire, reached inside, pressed a knob of wood, and a second tiny drawer, concealed by the inlay pattern, came sliding out of the first.
‘Neat, eh?’ he said. ‘I found it when I was ten. No gold sovereigns or anything. Just this.’
From the drawer he took a dog-eared sepia photograph of a soldier, seated rather stiffly with his body turned to display the single stripe on his sleeve. His face, looking directly into the camera, wore the solemn set expression demanded by old technique and convention, but there was the hint of a smile around the eyes as if he was feeling rather pleased with himself.
‘Know who this is?’
‘Well, he looks so like you when you’re feeling cocky, it must be our great-grandfather.’
Pascoe couldn’t see the resemblance but felt he’d probably earned the crack. He turned the picture over so she could see what was written on the back in black ink faded to grey.
First lance corporal from our draft! December 1914.
Then Pascoe tipped the photo so that it caught the light. There was more writing, this time in pencil long since been erased. But the writer had pressed so hard the indented words were still legible. Killed Wipers 1917.
‘All those years and she couldn’t bear to have it on display,’ mused Pascoe.
‘All those years and you never mentioned it,’ accused Myra.
‘I promised Gran,’ he said. ‘She caught me looking at it. She was furious at first, then she calmed down and made me promise not to say anything.’
‘Another of your little secrets,’ she said. ‘The Pascoes must have more of them than MI5.’
‘You’re right,’ he said, trying to keep things light. ‘Anyway, that was when she told me her only recollection of her father was of him playing on their old piano. Her mother must’ve told her it was ragtime, I doubt if Ada could tell Scott Joplin from Janis Joplin. And that’s what made me think of that tape.’
Myra took the photo from him and said, ‘Poor sod. Can’t have been more than twenty-two or-three. What was he in?’
‘West York Fusiliers. That’s how I found out about the Yorkshire connection.’
‘She really hated uniforms, didn’t she?’ said Myra dropping the picture back in the drawer. ‘I still remember how sarky she got when I joined the Brownies.’
‘Think of how she must have felt with Dad playing soldiers in the TA once a week. Not to mention him turning out a Hang ’em and Flog ’em Tory.’
‘Still voting for the revolution are you, Peter? Funny that, you being a cop. Now that was really the last straw for poor old Ada, wasn’t it?’
She sounded as if the memory didn’t altogether displease her.
‘At least it got her and Dad on the same side for once,’ said Pascoe, determined not to be lured back into a squabble. ‘He told me he hadn’t subsidized me through a university education to pound a beat. He wanted me to be a bank manager or something in the City. Gran saw me as a reforming MP. She was even more incredulous than Dad. She came to my graduation thinking she could change my mind. Dad had given up on me by then. He wouldn’t even let Mum come.’
Despite his effort at lightness he could feel bitterness creeping in.
‘Well, you got your own back, getting yourself posted up north and finding fifty-seven varieties of excuse why you could never make it home at Christmas,’ said Myra. ‘Still, it’s all water under the bridge. Gran’s gone, and I bet Dad bores the corks off their hats down under boasting about my son the chief inspector.’
‘You reckon? Maybe I’ll resign. Hey, remember how you used to beat me at tennis when I was a weedy kid and you had forearms like Rod Laver? Got any of those muscles left?’
Between them they manoeuvred the secretaire out of the cottage and up onto his roof rack. He strapped it down, with a waterproof sheet on top of it.
‘Right,’ said Myra. ‘Now what?’
‘Now you push off. I’ll finish the inventory and start sorting her papers. You’ve got to be back here tomorrow morning to meet the house clearance man, remember?’
Pascoe had been delighted when Myra volunteered for this task, being justly derided by his wife as probably the only man in Yorkshire who could haggle a price upwards.
Myra, a terrier in a bargain, bared her teeth in an anticipatory smile.
‘Don’t expect a fortune,’ she said. ‘But I’ll see we’re not cheated. You’re not expecting me to sell that, are you?’
That was a plastic urn in taupe. Were Warwickshire’s funerary suppliers capable of a bilingual pun? wondered Pascoe.
‘No, that goes with me.’
‘You’re going to do what she asked with the ashes then?’
‘If I can.’
‘Funny, with her hating the army so much.’
‘It’s a symbolic gesture, I assume. I won’t try to work out what it means as I’d prefer to be thinking holy thoughts as I scatter them.’
‘It’s still weird. Then, so was Gran a lot of the time. I shouldn’t care to spend the night in this old place with her ashes on the mantelpiece. You sure you won’t change your mind and come over to us? Trevor would be delighted to see you.’
Pascoe, who had only once set foot in Myra’s executive villa and found it as aesthetically and atmospherically appealing as a multi-gym, said, ‘No, thanks. I’ve got a lot to do and I’d like to be off at the crack.’
They stood regarding each other rather awkwardly. Myra looked untypically vulnerable. Me too maybe, thought Pascoe. On impulse he stepped forward, took her in his arms and kissed her. He could feel her surprise. They’d never been a hugging and kissing family. Then she pressed him close and said, “Bye, Peter. Safe journey. Give my love to Ellie. Sorry she couldn’t make it. But I know about kids’ colds when they’re that age.’
And I know about urgent business appointments with important clients, thought Pascoe. At least Rosie really had been snuffling in bed when he left.
And perhaps Trevor really did have an urgent deal to close, he reproved himself.
He gave Myra another hug and let her go.
‘Let’s not make it so long next time,’ he said.
‘And let’s try not to make it a funeral,’ she replied.
But neither of them tried to put any flesh on these bones of a promise.
He stood in the porch and watched her drive away. He felt glad and sad, full of relief that they’d parted on good terms and full of guilt that they hadn’t been better.
He went inside and addressed the urn.
‘Ada,’ he said, ‘we really are a fucked-up family, us Pascoes. I wonder whose fault that is?’
He worked hard on the inventory till mid-evening then made a neat copy of it to leave for Myra. He’d need another copy to send to Susan in Australia.
One thing he felt certain of. His eldest sister might not be able to fly halfway round the world for her grandmother’s funeral, but she would expect any money making the journey in the opposite direction to be accounted for down to the last halfpenny. The will, of which Pascoe was executor, left various legacies to Ada’s favourite causes and the residue to be divided equally between her three grandchildren. Whether this even-handedness had postdated his fall from grace, Pascoe wasn’t sure, but he was glad that in this at least the old accusation of favouritism was clearly given the lie. Not that there was much – Ada had lived up to her income and the cottage was rented. But Pascoe had seen blood shed over far smaller amounts than were likely to be realized from Ada’s estate and he’d already arranged to have all the paperwork double-checked by Ada’s solicitor, a no-nonsense woman called Barbara Lomax, whose probity was beyond aspersion.
He boxed up some books that interested him or might interest Ellie and scrupulously made a note on the inventory. Next he started sorting out Ada’s papers, starting with a rough division into personal/business. He was touched to find every letter he had ever written to her carefully preserved, an emotion slightly diluted when he realized that this urge to conservation also included fifty-year-old grocery receipts.
His stomach rumbled like distant gunfire. It seemed a long time since the salmon sandwiches. Also he felt like stretching his legs.
Taking a torch from the car he strolled the half-mile to the village pub where he enjoyed a pint and a pie and a reminiscent conversation about Ada with the landlord. As he walked back he found he was knee-deep in mist drifting from the fields, but the night sky was so bright it felt like his head was brushing the stars. The pub telly had spoken of severe weather with gales and sleet in the north. Dalziel was right, he thought with a smile. The soft south really did begin after Sheffield.
He resumed his work on the papers but found that his starry stroll had unsettled him. Also after a while he realized he was more aware than a rational man ought to be of the screw-top urn squatting on the mantel shelf. In the end, slightly ashamed, he took it out to the car and locked it in the boot. As for the papers, home where he had a computer, a calculator and a copier, plus a wife who knew how to work them, was the place to get Ada’s affairs sorted. It was time for bed.
Getting his clothes off was an effort. His limbs felt dull and heavy and the air in the tiny bedroom, though hardly less sharp than the frosty night outside, seemed viscous and clinging. The cold sheets on the narrow bed received him like a shroud.
Sleep was a long time coming …
… a long time coming – maybe because I wouldnt take any rum – no shortage here – how the lads ud lap it up!
And when it did come darkdream came too terrible as ever – only this time there was more – this time when the muzzles flashed and the hot metal burnt I didnt scream and try to wake but went right through it and came out on the other side and kept on going – heart pounding – muscles aching – lungs bursting – like a man running from summat so vile he wont stop till he falls or knows he has left it far behind.
In the end I had to stop – knowing somehow it werent just miles Id run over but years – seventy or eighty of them maybe – near clean on out of this terrible century – and Id run home.
Where else would a frightened man run to?
O it were so good Alice! Fields so fresh and green – woods all bursting with leaf – river running pure and clean with fat trout shadowing all the pools. Away yonder I could see mucky old Leeds – only now there werent no smoke hanging over it – and all that grimy granite were washed to a pearly grey – and shooting up above the old quiet chimneys were towers and turrets of gleaming white marble like a picture in a fairy tale.
As for Kirkton it were just the same as I long to be back in only so much better – with all them tumbledown cottages alongside Grindals turned into gardens – and the mill itself had big airy windows and I could see lasses and lads laughing and talking inside – and that old bog meadow out towards Haggs Farm that used to stink so much was all drained and the river banks built up so thered be no more flooding – and High Street seemed wider too with all them slimy cobbles that broke old Tom Steddings head when his horse slipped covered over with level tarmac – and the Maisterhouse away through the trees with its red brick glowing and its pointing gleaming like it were just built yesterday.
Even St Marks looked a lot more welcoming cos the parson had ripped out them gloomy windows that used to terrify us kids with their blood and flames – and in their stead hed put clear new glass which let sun come streaming through like spring water. Even the old tombstones had been cleaned up and I took this fancy to see my own – only I thought on that Id not be buried here with tothers of my name but far away across the sea where none would ever find me – and soon as I thought that I felt myself being hauled back to this awful place.
But I werent going easy and I fought against it and hung on still and peered over the wall into the schoolyard to see the kiddies playing there all so happy and strong and free – and I wondered whether any on them was descended from me – and I thought I saw a familiar face – then came the sound of a distant crump like they was blasting out at Abels Quarry – only I knew they werent – and a voice a long way off saying some poor sods catching it – and I didn’t want to blink though the sun was shining straight into my eyes – but I had to blink – and though it was only a second or even less when I opened my eyes again sun were gone and kiddies were gone and all I could see were the night sky through the window red and terrible as that old stained glass – and all I could hear were the rumble of the guns – and all I could feel was the straw from my palliasse pricking into my back …
Pascoe awoke. Had he been dreaming? He thought he had but his dream had gone. Or had it? Did dreams ever go? Our present was someone else’s future. We live in other men’s dreams …
He closed his eyes and drifted back to that other place.
… but Ill try to keep them dream children bright in my mind my love – you too – and tell little Ada about them – I still cant credit a bible heaven spite of old padre preaching at me every other day – so unless this lots going to teach us summat about the way we live here on earth wheres the point of it all eh?
Wheres the bloody point?

vi (#ulink_64f6c67b-7a70-54a7-88be-8b4e2ba127f1)
Wanwood House had had pieces added to it in the modern Portaloo style, but basically it was a square solid Victorian building, its proportions not palatial but just far enough outside the human scale to put a peasant in his place. Thus did the nineteenth-century Yorkshireman underline the natural order of things.
His twentieth-century successors were more self-effacing it seemed.
‘Don’t advertise much,’ observed Dalziel looking at a discreet plaque which read ALBA PHARMACEUTICALS Research Division. ‘And there’s nowt on the gate.’
‘Might as well have put a neon sign on the roof for all the good it’s done them,’ said Longbottom ringing the bell.
The door was opened by a man in a dark green uniform with the name ‘PATTEN’ and a logo consisting of an orange sunburst and the letters ‘TecSec’ at his breast. He was leanly muscular with close-cropped hair and a long scar down the right cheek which, helped by a slightly askew nose, suggested that at some time the whole face had been removed and rather badly stitched back on. Dalziel viewed him with the distaste of a professional soldier for private armies. But at least the man sized them up at a glance and didn’t do anything silly like asking for identification.
He ushered them through the nineteenth into the twentieth century in the form of a modern reception area with a stainless-steel desk, pink fitted carpet and hessian-hung walls from which depended what might have been a selection of Prince Charles’s watercolours left standing in the rain.
One of three doors almost invisible in their hessian camouflage opened and a slim fair-haired man in his thirties and a dinner jacket, who reminded Dalziel of someone but he couldn’t quite say who, came towards them saying, ‘My dear chap, you’re soaked. No need, I’m sure. The fuzz must have plenty of pensioned-off sawbones all too keen to earn a bob doing basics.’
Assuming none of this solicitude was aimed at him, Dalziel said, ‘Aye, and we sometimes make do with a barber and a leech. You’ll be Batty, I daresay.’
‘Indeed,’ said the man regarding Dalziel with the air of one nostalgic for the days of tradesmen’s entrances. ‘And you …?’
‘Superintendent Andrew Dalziel,’ offered Longbottom.
‘Ah, the great white chief. Took your time getting here, superintendent.’
‘Got the call on my way back from a meeting in Nottingham,’ said Dalziel. He saw Longbottom smile his awareness that the meeting in question had taken place under floodlights on a rugby pitch.
‘Well, at least now you’re here, perhaps you can tell the bunch of incompetents who’ve preceded you to get their fingers out and start imposing some sort of order on this mess.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said the Fat Man mildly. ‘Talking of messes, sir, that’s a right one you’ve got out there. Looks like a health hazard to me.’
‘On the contrary, it’s a cordon sanitaire,’ said Batty. ‘After the damage those lunatics did last summer, it was quite clearly beyond the police force’s competency to protect us, so we took steps of our own to thwart these criminals.’
‘Criminals,’ echoed Dalziel as if the word were new to him. ‘You’ll be prosecuting then, sir?’
Batty said, ‘If it’s left up to me, we will! Normally we don’t care to give these lunatics the oxygen of publicity, but I suspect in this case, some exposure is already unavoidable?’
‘Aye,’ said Dalziel. ‘Having a body dug up in your back yard usually gives off a lot worse stink than oxygen.’
‘As I feared, though I suppose the exact nature of the publicity depends on how diplomatically things are handled. Troll, what can you tell us?’
Dalziel gave the pathologist a look which dared him to speculate an inch further than he’d done on the edge of the crater.
‘Early days, David, early days,’ murmured Longbottom.
‘And getting close to early hours,’ said Dalziel looking at his watch. ‘Mebbe I could see the witnesses now …?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Patten will take you along. Troll, let’s try to get your outside dry and your inside suitably wetted.’
With an apologetic mop and mow at Dalziel, the pathologist let himself be led away. Dalziel who kept his slates as carefully as any shopkeeper, chalked up another small debt against Batty’s name and followed the security man through one of the hessian doors and down a long corridor.
‘We’ve got them locked up down here,’ he said.
‘Locked up?’
‘They are trespassers, and once they got into the building, they ran amok. One of my men got hit in the stomach, I was threatened …’
‘Oh aye?’ said Dalziel, interested. Mebbe this could have some connection with Redcar after all. ‘Anyone get really hurt?’
‘More dignity than owt else,’ said Patten enigmatically. ‘That’s where they are.’
They’d turned left at a T-junction in the corridor. Ahead, Dalziel had already observed another TecSec man slouching against a door, his head wreathed in smoke. As soon as he became aware of their approach, he straightened his uniform and snapped to attention. There was no sign of a cigarette. Dalziel admired the legerdemain and bet on the big front pocket of the dark green trousers.
‘At ease, Jimmy,’ said Patten. ‘This is Superintendent Dalziel.’
‘I know,’ said the man. ‘How do you do, sir.’
Dalziel was used to being recognized but liked to know why.
‘Do I know you?’ he said.
‘Not exactly, sir. But I know you. I was at Dartleby nick till I took the pension. Uniformed. PC Howard, sir.’
‘Jumped ship, did you? All right, lad. You can piss off now.’
The man looked unhappily at Patten who said, ‘We do have our orders …’
‘That’s what Eichmann said, and they hanged him. So bugger off. And by the way, Howard …’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Your cock’s on fire.’
Leaving the ex-policeman beating at his pocket, Dalziel stepped into the room and halted dead in his tracks.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said.
Gently steaming against a big radiator were eight women, each mucky enough to have set Dalziel’s granny spinning in her grave.
That Wield, he swore to himself. He kept quiet on purpose. I’ll punch the bugger handsome!
One woman detached herself from the huddle and came towards him, saying, ‘Thank God, here’s t’organ grinder. Now mebbe we can get shut of the monkeys.’
She glared towards Patten as she spoke. He returned the glare indifferently. Dalziel on the other hand studied the woman with the intense interest of a gourmet served a new dish. Not that there was much to whet the appetite. She had less meat on her than a picked-over chicken wing and her cheeks were pale and hollow as wind-carved limestone.
Memory stirred. That business down the mine when Pascoe got hurt …
He said, ‘You’re one of them Women Against Pit Closures lot from Burrthorpe. Walker, isn’t it? Wendy Walker?’
She stepped by him and slammed the door in Patten’s face. Then she said, ‘That’s right. Got a fag?’
He pulled out a packet. He rarely smoked now, not because of health fears, still less because of social pressures, but because he’d found it was blunting his ability to distinguish single malts with a single sniff. But he still carried fags, finding them professionally useful both as ice-breakers and cage-rattlers.
‘You’re a long way off the coalface, luv,’ he said, flicking his old petrol lighter.
‘Coal?’
She drew the word into herself with a long breath that reduced the cigarette by an inch of ash.
‘What’s that?’ she said on the outgoing puff. ‘They shut Burrthorpe last year like they’ve shut most on t’others. Them bastards made a lot of promises they didn’t keep, but when they said they’d pay us back for the Strike, by God they kept that one!’
‘It’s still a long way from home.’
‘Home is where the hate is, and there’s nowt left to hate in Burrthorpe, just an empty hole in the ground where there used to be a community.’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt this reunion and the Channel 4 documentary, but you, whoever you are, how long are we to be restrained by these thugs in these disgusting conditions?’
The voice, as up-to-Oxford county as Walker’s was down-to-earth Yorkshire, belonged to a small sturdy woman, her short-cropped black hair accentuating the determined cast of her handsome features. This one too brought a memory popping up in Dalziel’s mind, hot as a piece of fresh toast, of a woman he’d known and liked – more than liked – down in Lincolnshire after Pascoe’s wedding … He hadn’t thought about her for years. What could have pressed that button? he wondered as he stared with undisguised pleasure at the way this woman’s wet sweater clung to her melopeponic breasts.
‘Nay, lass,’ he said. ‘No one’s restraining you, whoever you are. You can bugger off any time you like, once you’ve made your statement. You have been asked to make a statement, Miss er …?’
‘Marvell. Amanda Marvell. Yes, we’ve been asked but most of us are refusing till such time as we have proper representation.’
She glared accusingly, and in Dalziel’s eyes, most becomingly, at Wendy Walker who snapped, ‘Yeah, I’ve made my statement. In fact, when it comes down to it, I’m the only one who’s really got owt to state. Mebbe more than you’ll care to hear, Cap. All I want is to get out of here.’
‘You surprise me, Wendy,’ said Marvell, all cool control. ‘What happened to all the big talk about going for the jugular and taking no prisoners? First sign of trouble, and you’re all for breaking ranks.’
‘Yeah? Mebbe I should have been more choosy who I formed ranks with in the first place,’ snarled Walker.
‘Really? You mean we don’t match up to the standards of your mining chums? Well, I can see that. Once they encountered real opposition, they pretty soon crumbled too, didn’t they?’
There was a time when a provocation like this to a Burrthorpe lass would have started World War Three, and indeed a small red spot at the heart of those pallid cheeks seemed to indicate some incipient nuclear activity. But before she could explode, a round-faced blonde who looked even wetter and more miserable than the rest said, ‘Wendy’s right, Cap. This is serious stuff. It was bones we found out there, a body. Let’s just make our statements and go home. Please.’
Marvell’s et-tu-Brute look was even more devastating than her j’accuse glare, and Dalziel was experiencing a definite wringing of the withers when the door opened and George Headingley’s broad anxious face appeared.
‘Hello, sir. Heard you were here. Can we have a word?’
‘If we must,’ said Dalziel reluctantly, and with a last mnemonic look at Cap Marvell’s gently steaming bosom, he went out into the corridor.
‘All right, George,’ he said. ‘Fill me in.’
Headingley, a pink-faced middle-aged man with a sad moustache and a cream-tea paunch, said, ‘That lot in there belong to ANIMA, the animal rights group and they were—’
Dalziel said, ‘I don’t give a toss if they belong to the Dagenham Girl Pipers and they’ve come here to rehearse, they’re witnesses is all that matters. So what did they witness?’
‘Well, I’ve got one statement on tape so far. The others aren’t being very cooperative but this lass …’
‘Aye. Wendy Walker. First time in her life she’s been cooperative with the police, I bet. Let’s hear this tape then.’
Headingley led him to a small office where the recorder was set up. Dalziel listened intently then said, ‘This Cap, the one with the chest …’
‘Marvell. Captain Marvell, get it? She’s the boss, except that she and Walker don’t see eye to eye.’
‘I noticed. She sounds a bit of a hard case.’
‘Yes, sir. Patten, that’s the TecSec chief, reckons she had serious thoughts about taking a swing at him.’
‘Could pack quite a punch with that weight behind it,’ said Dalziel, smiling reminiscently.
‘It were a set of wire cutters she was swinging. We’ve got them here, sir. Give you a real headache if these connected.’
Dalziel looked at the heavy implement and said, ‘Bag it and have it checked for blood.’
‘But no one got hurt,’ protested Headingley.
‘Not here they didn’t.’
‘You don’t mean you think maybe Redcar … but they’re women, sir!’
‘World’s changing, George,’ said Dalziel. ‘So what else have you been doing, apart from collecting one statement?’
‘Well, I had a talk with Dr Batty when I got here …’
‘He was here when you arrived?’
‘Yes, sir. Expect that Patten rang him first. Then I got things organized outside, and I thought I’d better see if we could rustle up some sort of refreshment for the ladies. I asked that fellow Howard – he used to be one of ours – but he said he couldn’t leave the door, so I went to look for myself. Found the staff canteen, got a tea urn brewing …’
‘You must be the highest paid tea boy since Geoffrey Howe left the cabinet,’ said Dalziel. Still, at least old George knew his limitations. Why get wet and in the way outside when you had someone like Wieldy, who could organize a piss-up on a Welsh Sunday, fifty miles from the nearest brewery.
‘So what now, sir?’ said Headingley. ‘Statements?’
Dalziel thought then said, ‘Walker’s the only one with owt to state and we’ve got hers. Give them all their cup of tea, take details, name, address, the usual, keep it all low key and chatty, but see if you can get any of them to let on they’ve been here before.’
Headingley was looking puzzled and the Fat Man said with didactic clarity, ‘Tie ’em in with last summer’s raid here and we’re well on the way to tying ’em in with Redcar.’
‘Oh yes. I see. You really think then—’
‘Not paid to think, George. I employ someone to think for me, and the bugger’s at a funeral so we’ll have to get by on our lonesome. Patten!’
Closed doors and thick walls were no sound barrier and a moment later the TecSec man appeared.
Dalziel said, ‘The ladies are going along to the staff canteen for refreshments then they’ll be going home. I presume you’ve got all your animals locked away?’
‘Don’t worry. They won’t get anywhere near the labs,’ said Patten confidently.
‘Nay, lad, it’s your men I’m talking about. No more strong-arm stuff, you with me?’
‘Because they’re female, you mean? Listen, that chunky cow, the one they call Cap, she nearly took my head off with a bloody great pair of wire cutters.’
‘Is that right? Your head looks OK to me,’ said Dalziel examining it critically.
‘No thanks to her,’ said Patten. ‘All I’m saying is, if my men get assaulted …’
‘They should count their blessings,’ said Dalziel. ‘There’s a place in Harrogate where it costs good money to get beaten up by a handsome young woman. Like the address? All right, George? Everything under control?’
‘Yes, sir. What about you, sir?’ said George Headingley. ‘Where are you going to be?’
‘Me?’ said Dalziel smacking his lips in anticipation. ‘I’m going to be wherever Dr Batty keeps his single methanol.’

vii (#ulink_e7b77478-12c5-5dbd-b85d-0db4e27edc84)
As Pascoe drove north the following morning, the weather got worse but his mood got better. By the time he got within tuning distance of Radio Mid-Yorkshire, his car was being machine-gunned by horizontal hail, but the familiar mix of dated pops and parish pump gossip sounded in his ears like the first cuckoo of spring.
I must be turning into a Yorkshireman, he thought as he sang along with Boney M.
A newscast followed, a mixture of local and national. One item caught his attention.
‘Police have confirmed the discovery last night of human remains in the grounds of Wanwood House, research headquarters of ALBA Pharmaceuticals. Tests to ascertain the cause of death are not yet complete and the police spokesman was unwilling to comment on reports that the discovery was made by a group of animal rights protesters.’
It sounded to Pascoe’s experienced ear that Andy Dalziel was sitting tight on this one, and with one of those mighty buttocks in your face, even the voice of nation speaking unto nation got a bit muffled.
It also confirmed him in his half-formed resolution that it was worth diverting to dispose of Ada’s ashes. Dalziel believed that time off on any pretext meant you owed him a week of twenty-five-hour days. With a possible murder on his hands, he’d probably raise that to thirty, particularly as Pascoe had been in sole charge of the investigation into the ALBA raid last summer. It had only merited a DCI’s involvement because of the possible connection with the killing at FG’s labs up at Redcar. There’s always a certain pleasure in solving another mob’s case, but Dalziel who was a good delegator had neither interfered nor complained when Pascoe had reported that the investigation was going nowhere. On the other hand Pascoe did not doubt he would be held personally responsible for not having noticed the presence of human remains out at Wanwood even if they turned out to have been buried six feet under!
So, dispose of Ada, else the urn could end up sitting on his mantelpiece for some time, and his guess was that even someone as conscientiously house-humble as Ellie would draw the line at such an hydriotaphic ornament.
Leeds was only a little out of his way. With luck he could be in and out in half an hour.
This pious hope died in a one-way system as unforgiving as a posting to the Western Front. Even when he arrived where he wanted to be, where he wanted to be didn’t seem to be there any more. At least the hail had stopped and the blustery wind was tearing holes in the cloud big enough for the occasional ray of sun to penetrate.
He pulled into the car park of a pile-’em-high-sell-’em-cheap supermarket and addressed an apparently shell-shocked old man in charge of a convoy of errant trolleys.
‘Is this Kirkton Road?’
‘Aye,’ said the man.
‘I’m looking for the West Yorkshire Fusiliers’ barracks.’
‘You’ve missed it,’ said the man.
‘Oh God. You mean it’s back along there,’ said Pascoe unhappily regarding the one-way street he had just with such pain negotiated.
‘Nay, you’ve missed it by more ’n ten years. Wyfies amalgamated wi’ South Yorks Rifles way back. Shifted to their barracks in Sheffield. Call themselves the Yorkshire Fusiliers now. War Office sold this site for development.’
‘Bugger,’ said Pascoe.
Ada’s wishes were precise if curious. My ashes should be taken by the executor of my will and scattered around the Headquarters of the West Yorkshire Fusiliers in Kirkton Road, Leeds.
Knowing her feelings about the army, Pascoe did not doubt that her motive was derisory. She would probably have liked to leave instructions that the urn was to be hurled through a window but knew she would need to moderate her gesture if she hoped to have it carried out. But moderation must surely stop a long way short of being scattered in a car park!
‘Museum’s still here but,’ said the man, happy to extend this interruption of his tedious task.
‘Where?’ said Pascoe hopefully.
‘Yon place.’
The man pointed to a tall narrow granite building standing at the far end of the car park, glaring with military scorn at the Scandinavian ski-lodge frivolity of the supermarket.
‘Thanks,’ said Pascoe.
He drove towards the museum and parked before it. Close up the building looked even more as if it had been bulled, boxed and blanco’d ready for inspection. Pascoe collected the urn from the boot, scuffed his feet on the tarmac to make sure he wasn’t tracking any dirt, and went up the steps.
The lintel bore a mahogany board on which was painted a badge consisting of a white rose under a fleur-de-lis, with beneath it WEST YORKSHIRE FUSILIERS – Regimental Museum. The paint was fresh and bright, the brass door knob gleamed like a sergeant major’s eye, and even the letter box had a military sharpness which probably terrified any pacifist postmen.
Pascoe turned the knob, checked to be sure he hadn’t left fingerprints, and entered.
He found himself in a large high-ceilinged room, lined with display cabinets and hung with tattered flags. It was brightly lit and impeccably clean, but that didn’t stop the air from being musty with the smell of old unhappy far-off things and battles long ago.
Pascoe moved swiftly through a series of smaller rooms without finding any survivors. He even tried calling aloud but there was no response.
Sod it! he thought. The absence of witnesses should be making things a lot easier. All he had to do was scatter and scarper! But somehow, even without a witness, the thought of sullying these immaculate surfaces with powdered Ada was hard for an obsessively tidy man. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust … but there had to be some old dust for the new dust to go to!
He tried a pinch in the darkest corner he could find but it stood out like a smear of coke on a nun’s moustache. Finally he settled on a fireplace. Even this looked to have been untroubled by coal for a hundred years, and the Victorian fire irons which flanked it stood as neat and shiny as weapons in an armoury. But it must have known ash in its time. And what after all was this philopolemic building but a mausoleum in need of a body?
His conscience thus quietened, Pascoe unscrewed the top of the urn, took out a handful of dust, examined it for fear, found it, and with an atavistic prayer, threw it into the grate.
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ demanded an outraged voice.
He turned his head and looked up at a tall grey-haired man wearing an indignant expression, a piratical eye patch and a hairy tweed jacket with the right sleeve pinned emptily across the breast.
Time, thought Pascoe, for the disarming smile, particularly as the man’s present hand was pointing what looked like a flintlock pistol very steadily at his head.
‘You may find this a trifle hard to believe,’ said Pascoe. ‘But I do hope you are going to try.’

viii (#ulink_f378cb9f-fae7-507b-ade6-07b7712a9c95)
It was clear that Troll Longbottom’s forecast was right. These bones were going to be a long time coming.
The drenching dark which had finally made them abandon the hunt the previous night had been replaced by fitful sunlight, but visibility did little to make the job more attractive.
‘Could lose a man down there,’ said Wield looking down into the water-filled crater.
‘I can think of a couple we’d not miss,’ said Dalziel. ‘Even if we pump it out, the mud’s going to be a problem.’
‘The lads last night reported a lot of big granite slabs,’ said Wield. ‘They should give us something to work from. But you’re right. We could spend more time digging each other out than old bones.’
‘Same thing in my case,’ said Dalziel. ‘Good God, have you got a twin or what?’
This last was to Troll Longbottom who was edging his way towards them along the duckboards.
‘Just thought I’d check to see if you had anything more for me yet,’ he said with a smile which wouldn’t have looked out of place at a pirate masthead.
‘Oh aye?’ said Dalziel. ‘If they’d asked you to take a look at Julius sodding Caesar, you’d have told ’em to wait till they invented the video camera. So how come twice in twelve hours I’ve found you up to your fetlocks in clart, breathing fresh air?’
‘Friendship, Andy. Friendship.’
‘Well thanks a lot, Troll. I didn’t realize you cared.’
‘Not for you,’ said the pathologist with a grimace not so different from his smile. ‘For David Batty.’
‘What’s that mean? You shagging his missus or something?’
‘Or something, Andy. So, anything more for me to look at?’
‘Give us a chance! And did you not get plenty last night? Thought all you needed for a life history was a fingernail and a pinch of belly-button fluff.’
‘You flatter me,’ said Longbottom. ‘But I do need just a little more in order to confirm my preliminary dating.’
‘You’ve got a dating? Why’d you not say so? Come on, let’s hear it.’
‘I should say from what I’ve seen so far that the remains were certainly more than five years old.’
‘More than five?’ echoed Dalziel in disgust. ‘Is that the best you can manage? I’ve got lads just out of training could have come up with that!’
‘Well, it was mainly monosyllabic, wasn’t it? What I really need is a jawbone. You can tell a lot from dental work. And a bit of flesh would be a real godsend.’
He spoke with such enthusiasm that Dalziel laughed.
‘Tell you what, Troll,’ he said. ‘If I were you, I’d turn vegetarian.’
‘And I you,’ said the pathologist elliptically, prodding the Fat Man’s gut. ‘Now I must be off. Some of us have work to do.’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ bellowed Dalziel after him, then turning to Wield he asked, ‘So, what do you think?’
‘Bit of mutual backscratching?’ suggested Wield. ‘This Batty’s not just Research Director, he’s the son and heir of Thomas Batty who owns the whole company. Useful contact for Mr Longbottom.’
‘Don’t use a lot of drugs when your specialty’s dead ’uns,’ objected Dalziel.
‘I think you’ll find Mr Longbottom’s an influential man on his NHS Trust’s governing body, sir. Also I hear he’s got a twenty-per-cent share in that new private hospital on the Scarborough Road.’
‘By God, Wieldy, I thought mebbe life out among the turnip tops were turning you soft, but now I see it’s turning you cynical!’
‘I just state the facts, sir,’ said Wield. ‘And here’s another. ALBA, as Mr Longbottom likely knows, have been here just four years.’
‘Meaning Troll’s saying the bones are at least five years old just to stress that Batty and his staff can’t be in the frame? You don’t reckon he’s fixed the figures as a favour, do you?’
‘No, sir. I’d mebbe not care to do business with him, but when it comes to his job, as we’ve all found out, he doesn’t give an inch. You’ve known him longer than anyone, but, so you must know that.’
‘I’m afraid so, Wieldy,’ sighed Dalziel. ‘Pity though. If I thought he’d stretched it to five for Batty, I’d have made bloody sure he stretched it to fifty for me. Still, it’s early days. Mebbe it’ll still turn out to be archaeology. I’m off to have another word with Batty, tell him the good news.’
‘I bet you’ll find Mr Longbottom’s told him already,’ said Wield.
‘Very like, but one thing you’re forgetting, Wieldy.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘The wanker keeps a nice drop of malt. See about getting this water shifted, will you?’
‘My pleasure,’ said Sergeant Wield.
This morning there was a receptionist on duty in the hessian-hung hall. She informed Dalziel that the director was in the labs but would no doubt make himself available as soon as was convenient. Meanwhile if the superintendent cared to take a seat …
Ex-Constable Howard was hovering behind her. He’d changed his burnt trousers but looked pretty bleary eyed.
‘Working you hard, aren’t they?’ said Dalziel sympathetically.
‘Bit short staffed, sir. Also Dr Batty wanted extra men on duty.’
‘Someone should tell him about stable doors. Someone like me. Take me to the labs, lad.’
Without hesitation, Howard opened one of the doors and led the way through pursued by the receptionist’s indignant twitter.
To Dalziel’s inexpert eye, the lab he entered looked like a cross between a small menagerie and a high-class bog. Batty’s features crinkled in a frown when he saw Dalziel but cleared almost immediately. He’d learned quickly – probably coached by Longbottom – that you didn’t trade blows with the Fat Man, not unless you’d got a horseshoe up your boxing glove. Last night he’d poured the Scotch with a generous hand and they’d parted on excellent terms which didn’t prevent either from heartily despising the other.
‘Andy,’ he said. ‘Good morning. Any news?’
Nowt the Troll won’t have told you already, thought Dalziel. And nowt that a drop of the Caledonian cream wouldn’t improve.
‘Just thought I’d let you know we’ll be working out there most of the day, I’m afraid. Good news is them bones were likely here when your company took the place over, so I shouldn’t have to bother your staff.’
‘Excellent. We’re very busy at the moment so could ill afford an interruption. And, Andy, I must compliment you on the way you’ve handled the media. Hardly a mention this morning. Our PR Department are very impressed. Many thanks both personally and on behalf of ALBA.’
Dalziel smiled with false modesty. False, not because he hadn’t called in a lot of favours and up a lot of threats to minimize response to all the phone calls Marvell had made as soon as she got home, but because he permitted this twat to go on thinking it had anything to do with him or his sodding company.
‘When we’ve got a closer dating we’ll need to look back at the history of the house,’ he said.
‘Anything we can do to help, you’ve just got to ask,’ said Batty. ‘As I explained last night, all the records will be stored at Kirkton of course.’
Kirkton, an industrial suburb of Leeds, was ALBA’s home base. Here the company had begun and grown, developing into a large rambling complex which Batty (once the truce had been struck the previous night) had described as a security nightmare. ‘As I explained to your chap who came out when we had that first lot of bother in the summer, Pascoe his name was I think, seemed a very decent kind of fellow’ – his faintly surprised tone had not passed unremarked – ‘the reason we decided to move our research labs was because they were far too vulnerable at HQ. Chap from some animal mag just strolled right in and started taking pictures. Bloody cheek! So we decided to move out here, lock, stock, and barrel. It had been used as a hospital or clinic or something for years, so that was a step in the right direction and it meant we could give the impression that all the refurbishment and extension work had something to do with resuming its old function.’
‘Oh aye,’ Dalziel had interrupted. ‘With no one knowing what was going off but a few lawyers, and all the contractors, and your own staff members and every bugger living in a radius of ten miles, I can see how you might’ve hoped to keep it quiet.’
‘Put like that it does sound a touch optimistic,’ laughed Batty. ‘But we left a token presence in the Kirkton labs to fool the activists’ spies, and for nearly four years it seemed to work. Must have lulled us, I suppose. Then bang! Suddenly last summer the loonies got in and really made a mess of things. That’s when I realized that being remote and isolated was an advantage only till they winkled you out. Moving again clearly wasn’t a solution. So we got a new security company in and gave them the brief to make us secure. The results you have seen.’
He had spoken complacently. Dalziel had kept his own thoughts about those results to himself. No point in rowing with a fellow who had a half-full bottle of Glenmorangie at his elbow.
It had been empty by the time he left, but he’d noticed an unopened one in the cabinet Batty had taken his glass from. The memory rose before him now like a vision of the Holy Grail. He coughed he hoped thirstily and said, ‘Now you’ve had a chance to clear up, did that lot last night do much damage when they ran loose inside?’
‘Not a lot and mainly superficial,’ said Batty. ‘But it’s good of you to be concerned.’
All this gratitude undiluted by a dram was beginning to grate a bit. Wield had entered the lab. He caught Dalziel’s eye and gave a minute shake of his head to indicate he wanted a word but it wasn’t desperate.
Dalziel said, ‘What I’m really concerned about is making sure these aren’t the same lot who were running riot in the summer.’
‘Oh that’s all behind us now,’ said Batty dismissively. ‘We learnt our lesson. Let’s stick with the present, shall we?’
‘Might be behind you,’ said Dalziel magisterially. ‘Not behind the family of that poor sod who got himself killed up at Redcar. Fraser Greenleaf. Same line of business as you only a lot bigger. I’d have thought you’d have heard of them.’
For a second Batty allowed himself to look irritated, then his face assumed a solemn air and he said, ‘Of course. I wasn’t thinking. But do you really believe there might be a connection with these people?’
‘Can’t ignore the possibility, sir.’
‘Of course not. Good lord. Women. What’s the world coming to?’
‘We’re a long way from proving a connection,’ said Dalziel. ‘What about you? Made up your mind about prosecuting yet?’
Batty smiled and shrugged.
‘Like I said, not up to me. Head office decision. I know what I’d do, but I’m just a poor scientist.’
Who also, if Wield was right, happened to be a member of ALBA’s ruling family. Which probably meant they weren’t going to prosecute, but Batty wanted to distance himself from a decision he’d opposed.
Sharp bugger this, thought Dalziel. But not sharp enough to see there was a man dying of thirst in front of him!
Wield meanwhile was taking a tour round the lab, looking at the caged animals with a distaste not even his rugose features could disguise.
He watched as a radiantly beautiful young woman in a radiantly white lab coat picked up a tiny monkey which threw its arms round her neck in a baby-like need for reassurance. Expertly she disengaged it, turned it over and plunged a hypodermic into the base of its spine.
‘Ouch,’ said Wield. ‘Doesn’t that hurt?’
‘Done properly, the animal hardly feels it,’ she reassured him.
He glanced at her security badge which told him he was speaking to Jane Ambler. Research Assistant.
‘No, Jane,’ he said amiably. ‘It was you I meant.’
She regarded him dispassionately and said, ‘Oh dear. Perhaps before you come on so judgmental, you should talk to someone with rheumatoid arthritis.’
‘OK,’ said Wield.
He stooped to the cage, pushed his finger through the mesh and made soothing guttural noises to the tiny beast. Then he straightened up.
‘He’s against it,’ he said.
He found he was talking to Dalziel.
‘When you’re done feeding the animals, sergeant, mebbe we can have a word.’
The Fat Man led the way through the reception area where the receptionist was still sulking. He gave her a big smile and nodded at Howard who’d snapped to attention.
Outside Wield said, ‘That TecSec man, don’t I know him?’
Dalziel, used to being upstaged by his sergeant’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the dustiest corners of Mid-Yorkshire, was not displeased to be able to reply negligently, ‘Oh aye. But not the way you’re thinking. He were one of ours, uniformed out at Dartleby till he took early retirement and got himself privatized. Thinking of following suit, lad?’
‘Not more than once a day, sir. Howard. Oh yes. Jimmy Howard. Didn’t so much take retirement as had it force-fed, if I remember right.’
Dalziel, who took too much pride in Wield’s internet mind to be a bad loser, said, ‘You usually do. So fill me in.’
‘There was talk he was on the take, but before it got anywhere, he were picked up driving over the limit. Got himself a soft quack who gave him a note saying job stress, and no one stood in his way when he went for medical retirement with pension afore the case came up and he got kicked out without.’
‘And the other? Being on the take?’
‘Well, nowt was proved. But he’s a hard-betting man and those who saw him at the races reckoned he couldn’t be losing that much on a constable’s take-home. Makes you wonder, don’t it?’
‘Wonder what, Wieldy?’
‘Did TecSec not know about him? Or did they know and take him on despite? Or did they know and take him on because?’
Dalziel shook his head admiringly.
‘That’s a really nasty mind you’ve got there, Wieldy. Any reason other than natural prejudice?’
‘It was you who said private security companies are guilty till proven innocent, sir,’ said Wield reproachfully. ‘I’ve not seen much of this lot, but there’s something about them doesn’t sit right.’
Dalziel regarded him thoughtfully. A Wield uneasiness was not something to be dismissed lightly.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Take a closer look. Let on it’s these animal libbers we’re interested in, how they acted when they got into the building last night. Which we are.’
‘Right, sir. But it doesn’t sound to me like ALBA will be prosecuting.’
‘Big ears you’ve got. Listen, lad. No one tells me when to stop looking. And I’ll keep this ANIMA bunch in view till I’m completely satisfied there’s no link with Redcar.’
‘You don’t really think there could be a connection, sir?’ said Wield dubiously. ‘I mean from what’s known about this lot, they’re at the soft end of the movement.’
‘First rule of this job is, take nowt on trust,’ said the Fat Man sternly. ‘Keep your eye on the ball and you’ll not buy any dummies.’
This struck Wield as a bit rich when he recalled from Dalziel’s complaint last night at not having been warned of the gender of the protesters that the main thing he seemed to have kept his eye on, and which he mentioned at least three times in the sergeant’s mitigation, was Amanda Marvell’s knockers.
He said, ‘I’ll make a note of that,’ not bothering to muffle the sarcasm.
Dalziel snorted in exasperation and said, ‘All right, so what’s going off? Toad-licking season started early in Brigadoon, has it?’
This was Dalziel’s name for Enscombe.
‘Sorry, sir?’
‘Jokes last night, and back there you were coming over like the press agent for disadvantaged chimps. So what’s it all mean?’
‘I don’t much like what they’re doing there,’ admitted Wield. ‘Sorry. I know I should keep my neb out.’
‘Bloody right you should. Public needs protecting from a neb like yours. Any road, what was it you came in to tell me? You realize I’ve come out of there as thirsty as I went in, so it had better be important.’
‘Not really, sir. Control came through on the radio. Said that woman in charge of the ANIMA lot, what’s her name? Marbles …? Movables …?’
Wield forgetting a name was as likely as the Godfather forgetting a grudge, but Dalziel found himself saying, ‘Marvell,’ before he could stop himself.
‘That’s right. Seems she called in at the station, wanted to see you to make a statement. Could be you’re right, sir, and she’s come to confess.’
‘Oh aye? Well, she had her chance to confess last night,’ said Dalziel. ‘Let her wait. She can sit around till she gets piles.’
‘Oh she’s not sitting around, sir. When she found you weren’t there, she took off. Said for you to call at her flat, it ’ud be more comfortable there anyway. Says not to worry about turning up at lunch time as she can easily rustle up a snack. You want the address, sir?’
All this was said absolutely deadpan, and pans didn’t come any deader than Wield’s. But Dalziel was not fooled.
‘No, I don’t want the bloody address,’ he snarled. ‘And just because you look like the man in the iron mask, don’t imagine I can’t see you’re smirking!’
He strode away. And Wield, his smirk now externalized, watched him go, thinking, and just because you look like a rhino in retreat, don’t imagine I can’t see you’re horny!

ix (#ulink_f0c3c3c3-57f8-5fa8-a03d-6526ea0e7a38)
In a long narrow office as chaotic as the museum was neat, Pascoe drank strong tea with Major Hilary Studholme.
The major had listened to Pascoe’s story with an attention as undiverted as his pistol. With a mental moue of apology in the direction of Ada, Pascoe had felt it better in the circumstances not to explicate her probable motives, and though stopping well short of any direct assertion of regimental pride, it was as nothing to the distance he stayed from even a hint of paranoiac loathing.
The production of his police ID finally convinced the major he was neither a dangerous lunatic nor a bomb-planting terrorist.
As Pascoe sipped his tea, the major riffled through a couple of leather-bound volumes with a dexterity remarkable in a man with only a left hand.
‘Odd,’ he said. ‘Pascoe rings a definite bell, but there’s no record of an NCO of that name buying it at Ypres in 1917. Could have lost his stripe, of course. There’s a Private Stephen Pascoe got wounded … could that be a connection, do you think?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Pascoe. ‘Point is, it won’t be Pascoe, will it?’
The single eye regarded him blankly, then the upper lip spasmed in a silly-ass grimace which laid the hairs of his moustache horizontal and he said, ‘Sorry. Mind seeping out through my eye socket. Of course Pascoe would be your grandmother’s married name. So, what was her maiden name?’
Pascoe thought then said, ‘Clark, I think.’
Studholme grimaced. ‘Got a hatful of Clarks in here,’ he said, patting the leather-bound books. ‘With an “e” or without? Got an initial?’
‘Sorry,’ said Pascoe. ‘All I know about him is there’s a photo with him showing off a lance corporal’s stripe with the date 1914, then a scrawl, presumably my great-grandmother’s, saying Killed Wipers 1917. That puzzles me a bit. I thought the big battle at Ypres was earlier in the war.’
‘Oh yes? If that’s the limit of an educated man’s knowledge, Mr Pascoe, just imagine the ignorance of most of your fellow cits!’
Pascoe found himself ready to bridle. Studholme with his bristly moustache, clipped accent and sturdy tweeds, looked a prototypical member of the British officer class which liberal tradition characterized as snobbish, philistine, and intellectually challenged, not at all the kind of person a young(ish) Guardian-reading graduate, who could get Radio 3 and sometimes did, ought to let himself be lectured by.
On the other hand as a public servant in a police force threatened with radical restructuring, it would be impolitic as well as impolite to get up the nose of a war hero.
‘I know what most educated people know about the Great War, major,’ he said carefully. ‘That even by strict military standards, it was an exercise in futility unprecedented and unsurpassed.’
Shit, that had come out a bit stronger than intended.
‘Bravo,’ said Studholme surprisingly. ‘That’s a start. Let me fill in a bit of detail. The first battle of Ypres took place in October and November 1914. British losses about fifty thousand, including the greater part of the prewar regular army. First Ypres marked the end of anything that could be called open warfare. During the winter both sides concentrated on fortifying their defences and after that it was trench warfare from the North Sea to the Swiss border till 1918.’
‘So why was Ypres so important?’
‘It was the centre of a salient, a considerable bulge in the line. A breakthrough there would have enabled the Allies to roll up the Boche in both directions. Disadvantage of course was that a salient means the enemy can lob shells at you from three sides. Service in the Salient was not something our lads looked forward to even before Passchendaele. My father managed to be in both Ypres Two and Ypres Three. He used to say there was always a special feel about the Salient even at relatively quiet times. Its landscape was more depressing, the stink of its mud more nauseating, its skies more lowering. You felt as you left Ypres by the Menin Gate that it should have borne a sign reading “All Hope Abandon Ye Who Enter Here”.’
‘Sounds like the entrance to CID on a Monday morning,’ said Pascoe with a forced lightness.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Studholme regarding him gravely. ‘My father said that service there changed human nature. You reverted to a kind of subhumanity, the missing link between the apes and Homo sapiens. He called it Homo Saliens, Salient Man. I don’t think he was joking.’
Pascoe drank his tea. He felt the need for warmth. It was very quiet in here. The supermarket car park seemed a thousand miles away.
He said, ‘So what happened at Ypres Two?’
‘Spring of ’15. Jerry made a determined effort to get things straight. Used chlorine gas for the first time. Gained a bit of ground but the Salient remained. Our casualties about sixty thousand including one general, Horace Smith-Dorrien.’
‘That must have really got them worried back home,’ said Pascoe, drifting despite himself towards a sneer. ‘I mean, what’s a few thousand men here or there, but a dead general …’
‘Not dead,’ said Studholme. ‘Stellenbosched. That is, sacked. Terrible offence. Competence.’
‘Sorry?’ said Pascoe, thinking he’d misheard.
‘He was actually in the thick of things and made judgments based on realities. Also he was foolish enough to suggest to French, the C-in-C, that they were losing too many men in pointless frontal attacks. There aren’t many other recorded expressions of doubt by top brass, I tell you.’
‘No wonder, if you got sacked for it.’
‘Indeed. Now, jump forward two years to 1917. Third Ypres, your great-grandfather’s battle. You probably know it as Passchendaele.’
‘Good God, yes. The mud.’
‘That’s right. Everyone remembers the mud. One of man’s worst nightmares, a slow drowning in glutinous filth. Practically a metaphor for the whole conduct of the war.’
Pascoe was now regarding Studholme with wide-eyed interest.
‘You don’t sound like a member of Douglas Haig’s fan club, major.’
Studholme gave a snort like a rifle shot.
He said, ‘When they finally got rid of Sir John French at the end of ’15, it was as if his main fault was not killing off his own men quickly enough. So what they looked for was a general who’d get the job done quicker. French had slain his ten thousands, but Haig was soon slaying his hundred thousands, nearly half a million on the Somme and now another quarter million at Passchendaele. Of course Third Wipers went down as a victory. They gained six or seven miles of mud. Imagine a column of men, twenty-five abreast, stretching out over those six or seven miles, and you’re looking at the British dead. Bit different from Agincourt, eh?’
‘Tell me, major,’ said Pascoe curiously. ‘Feeling like this, how come you took the job of looking after a military museum? In fact, how come you got started on a military career at all?’
For a moment he thought he’d gone too far. The major was regarding him once more with the flintlock gleam in his eye. Then he sipped his tea, brushed his moustache, smiled faintly and said, ‘How come a bright young fellow like you went into the police? Was it the bribes or the chance to beat up suspects that attracted you?’
‘Touché,’ said Pascoe. ‘And apologies for my youthful impudence.’
‘Accepted. Now I’ll answer you. I joined the army ’cos way back about the time of Waterloo, someone decided that the only way to make anything out of my line of Studholmes was to get ’em into uniform and send ’em out for foreigners to shoot at. No one’s come up with a viable alternative since, so on we go, generation after generation, providing moving targets. Rarely get beyond my rank, though my father made colonel. Shot from being a subaltern in ’15 to major, acting lieutenant colonel in ’18. That was one plus for that show – lots of scope for accelerated promotion. If you survived.’
‘Nice to know someone did,’ said Pascoe.
‘Oh yes, he had a talent for it. Lived to be ninety. Still working on his memoirs when he died. I told him he’d left it a bit late, but he said no point in starting till you were pretty sure you were past doing anything worth remembering.’
‘Sounds as if they’d make interesting reading,’ said Pascoe. ‘Talking of which, is there anything you’d recommend to start remedying my immense ignorance about the Great War?’
The major looked at him with one-eyed keenness to see if he was taking the piss. Then selecting a volume from the bookshelf behind him he said, ‘This is about as good a general introduction as you’ll get. After that, if you develop a taste for horror, you can specialize.’
‘Thank you,’ said Pascoe, taking the book. ‘I’ll return it, of course.’
‘Damn right you will,’ said the major. ‘Chaps who borrow your kit and don’t return it always come to a sticky end. Now let’s see if we can’t find somewhere a bit more suitable for your gran than a fireplace, shall we?’
He rose abruptly. As Pascoe followed him out of the office, he said, ‘You run a very tidy museum, sir.’
‘What? Oh thank you. Or do I detect an irony? Perhaps you find tidiness incompatible with a place dedicated to the glorification of war?’
‘All I meant was—’
‘Don’t lie out of politeness, please. Policemen should always speak the truth. So should museums. That’s what I hope this one does. If it glorifies anything it is courage and service. But when the truth is that men were sacrificed needlessly, even wantonly, in the kind of battle your great-grandfather died in, a place like this mustn’t flinch from saying so. We owe it to the men who died. We owe it to ourselves as professional soldiers too.’
They had entered a room at the back of the house, formerly the kitchen but now given over to an exhibition of catering equipment. Studholme pointed through the window into a small paved yard with a single circular flowerbed at its centre. It contained three brutally pruned rose bushes.
‘Looks better in the summer,’ he said. ‘White roses surrounded by lilies. The regimental badge. Used to be an old joke. You always get a good cup of tea from the Wyfies, they even advertise in their badge. Roses, fleur-de-lis; Rosy Lee, you follow? Not a very good joke. Also new recruits are called lilies; passing out, you get your rose. Sorry. Regimental folklore. Set me off, I go on forever. What started this?’
‘My grandmother’s ashes,’ prompted Pascoe.
‘Indeed. The rose bed. Good scattering of bonemeal wouldn’t go amiss there. Or …’ He hesitated then went on, ‘Just say if you think it a touch crass but down in the cellar … well, let me show you.’
He opened a door onto a steep flight of stone steps.
‘Cold, damp and miserable down there,’ said Studholme. ‘Couldn’t think what to do with it. Cost a fortune to cheer it up. Then I thought, why bother? Go with the flow, isn’t that what they say? Not original, of course. Imperial War Museum does something similar, but I reckon for atmosphere, we’ve got the edge.’
‘I’m sorry …?’ said Pascoe.
‘My fault. Rattling on again. Bad habit. Here, take a look.’
He pressed a switch in the wall. Below lights came on, not bright modern electric lights, but the kind of dull yellow flicker that might emanate from old oil lamps. And sound too, a dull basso continuo of distant artillery overlaid from time to time by the soprano shriek of passing shells or the snare-drum stutter of machine-gun fire.
‘Go down,’ urged Studholme.
Pascoe descended, and with each step felt his stomach clench as his old claustrophobia began to take its paralysing grip.
At the foot of the steps he had to duck under a rough curtain of hempen sacking and when he straightened up, he found he was standing in a First World War dugout.
There were figures here, old shop-window dummies, he guessed, now clad in khaki, but their smooth white faces weren’t at all ludicrous. They were death masks, equally terrifying whether belonging to the corporal crouched over a field telephone on a makeshift table or the officer sprawled on a canvas camp bed with an open book neglected on his breast.
In the darkest corner, face turned to the wall, lay another figure with one leg completely swathed in a bloodstained bandage. Close by his foot two large rats, eyes glinting in the yellow light, seemed about to pounce.
‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Pascoe, uncertain in that second if they were real or stuffed.
‘Convincing, ain’t they?’ said Studholme with modest pride. ‘Could have had the real thing down here with very little effort, but didn’t want the local health snoops down on me. Everything you see is authentic. Kit, weapons, uniforms. All saw service on the Western Front.’
‘Even this?’ said Pascoe indicating the sleeping officer’s book.
‘Oh yes. My father’s. Not a great reader, but he told me that at that time in that place, it was a lifeline to home.’
Pascoe picked up the book.
‘Good God,’ he said.
It was a copy of the original Kelmscott Press Edition of William Morris’s The Wood Beyond the World.
‘What?’ said Studholme.
‘This book, it’s worth, I don’t know, thousands maybe. You really shouldn’t leave it lying around down here.’
‘Spoken like a policeman,’ said Studholme. ‘Didn’t realize it was valuable to anyone except me. Still, kind of johnny who comes down here isn’t likely to be a sneak thief, eh?’
‘Spoken like a soldier,’ said Pascoe opening the book and reading the inscription: To Hillie with love from Mummy Christmas 1903. It was clearly a well-thumbed and well-travelled volume. Lifeline to home, Christmas, mother, childhood …
‘Take your time,’ said Studholme. ‘Bit more dust round here won’t be noticed, richer dust concealed, eh? But if you feel it’s too macabre, there’s always the rose bush. I’ll leave you to have a think.’
He turned and vanished up the steps. Carefully Pascoe replaced the book on the dummy’s chest, taking care not to touch the pale plastic hand.
‘So, Gran, what’s it to be?’ he said to the urn which he’d placed by the telephone. ‘Up there with the flowers or down here with the roots?’
He’d already made up his mind, but some pathetically macho pride prevented him from going in immediate pursuit of the major. Next moment he wished he had as one of the passing shells on the sound tape failed to pass, its scream climaxing to a huge explosion with a power of suggestion so strong that the whole cellar seemed to shake and, simultaneously, the lights went out.
Coincidence, or part of Studholme’s special effects? wondered Pascoe, desperately trying to stem the panic rising in his gut.
The telephone rang, a single long rasping burr.
His hand shot out to grab it, hit something, then found the receiver.
‘Hello!’ came a voice, tinny and distant. ‘Who’s that?’
‘This is Pascoe.’
‘Pascoe? What the hell are you doing there?’
‘Is that you, Studholme?’ he demanded.
‘Don’t be an ass, man. This is Lieutenant …’
And a voice behind him at the same time said, ‘Someone wanting me? Damn these lamps!’
For a moment it seemed to his disorientated and panicking mind that the voice came from the camp bed. Then a torch beam shone in his eyes and the major went on, ‘Sorry about this. Often happens when one of those supermarket juggernauts goes up the service road behind us. Sometimes feels like the whole damn place is coming down. Lights should be back on in a tick … ah, there we are.’
The pseudo oil lamps flickered back on. Pascoe blinked then looked at the dummy on the bed. It lay there with the book where he’d replaced it.
Studholme said mildly, ‘Ringing for help?’
‘What?’ He realized he was still holding the telephone. ‘I thought it rang …’
‘Does sometimes,’ said the major. ‘Little battery-operated random ringing device I knocked up. Helps with the atmosphere. Makes people jump, I tell you. Oh dear. Your decision or has your grandmother chosen for herself?’
Pascoe followed his gaze and saw that when he’d grabbed for the phone he must have knocked the urn off the table. It had cracked open when it hit the floor and a spoor of ash marked where it had rolled a few inches.
Pascoe replaced the telephone.
‘Can’t argue with fate,’ he said, trying to establish control.
He picked up the urn and scattered the ashes into the corners of the dugout where, as Studholme had forecast, they blended in imperceptibly.
He felt he ought to say something. But what? It would either come out flip, or pseudo-religious, which was worse. In the end he contented himself with thinking, there you go, Ada. This world was a bit of a disappointment to you. I hope the next comes up to scratch.
It was a relief to get back to the ground floor.
Studholme said, ‘Got a number? I’ll check through our records, see if I can get any details on your great-grandfather’s time in the regiment if you like. Or would you rather put all that behind you?’
‘No, I’d be interested,’ said Pascoe, producing a card. ‘And thanks for being so helpful.’
‘My pleasure. Goodbye, Mr Pascoe.’
He held out his left hand. There was a moment’s awkwardness as Pascoe instinctively reached for it with his right. To cover it he said, ‘By the way, that pistol. It wasn’t really loaded, was it?’
Studholme said, ‘One thing my father taught me was, never point a loaded weapon at anyone you’re not willing to shoot.’
It wasn’t till Pascoe was driving away that it dawned on him that he still didn’t know if his question had been answered or not.

x (#ulink_ca98d648-08fc-54f8-843a-096612a18250)
1982 was a key year for the Tory Party both nationally and in Mid-Yorkshire.
At its start, Margaret Thatcher’s grasp of the premiership seemed rather less secure than Richard Nixon’s of the principles of democracy, while Amanda Pitt-Evenlode, née Marvell, seemed set to be Vice President (Functions) of the Mid-Yorks Conservative Association for at least the next forty years.
Then came the Falklands War. Never (or at least not since Troy) in the field of human daftness had so many gone so far to sacrifice so much for the sake of one silly woman.
Its effect on the fortunes of the UK government is a matter of public record.
Its effect on the life of Amanda Pitt-Evenlode is less widely known.
What it came down to was this: on June 12th, 1982, she was radicalized.
Curiously it was not the news that her only son, Second Lieutenant Piers Pitt-Evenlode of the Yorkshire Fusiliers, was missing in action, believed dead, that did the trick. That came on June 7th and left her prostrate with shock and unable to register, let alone reject, the canonical comforts of her parish priest, the patriotic platitudes of her committee colleagues, or the phylogenic fortitude of her spouse, the Hon. Rupert Pitt-Evenlode, JP.
No, it was the news that Piers had been discovered alive and, apart from a few inconsequential bullet holes, well, that pricked her into life. While all around the air was full of joyful congratulation, and talk of a possible gong, and plans for the welcome-home party, all she could think of was her recent certainty that this war – any war – was a crime against humanity, and its attendant conclusion that those responsible for it, or supportive of it, or even indifferent to it, must therefore be war criminals.
She tried to pretend that such a certainty should crumble in face of her son’s survival, but found she couldn’t keep it up.
Other women’s sons had fallen without being raised from the grave. How then could she be so arrogant as to assert the health of her own boy as the sole yardstick?
She tried to talk about her feelings with those she felt closest to, and found herself once again prayed over and patronized, and finally pushed towards a very fashionable psychiatrist who’d done wonders for Binky Bullmain’s nervous flatulence.
Piers himself, far from being the hoped-for confidant, took to the role of bemedalled hero like a blowfly to dead meat and clearly regarded any hint of her new anxieties as a personal slur.
But still she looked for ways to adapt her new-found self to her family, her social circle and her political party, and still she found herself rejected like a new heart in an old body.
So she resigned from all of them.
The old Amanda Pitt-Evenlode felt a slight pang that the sighs which marked her passing contained as much relief as sorrow.
The new Mandy Marvell didn’t give a toss.
She had married at seventeen, borne Piers at eighteen, and spent the next two decades performing all the duties proper to a woman of her husband’s status in society. This meant that while tennis, golf and swimming kept her body in pretty good shape, her mind had fewer demands made upon it than would have stretched the ratiocinative powers of a footballer’s parrot.
Now she found that one thought led to another in a most delightful way. Happily her father had died before succeeding in his avowed intent of dissipating all the wealth his father had so assiduously accrued, leaving Mandy with a sufficient private income to be able to live comfortably while at the same time paying the divorce settlement from Pitt-Evenlode straight into the coffers of various excellent charities. Her time and energy she gave generously too, but she did not miss any chance of proving all the pleasures which the hills and valleys, dales and fields, of her quiet country existence had failed to yield. She popped and snorted, drank and smoked; she read, wrote, painted and performed; she travelled widely and tried most alternatives from the religious to the medicinal.
For ten years she overwhelmed herself in experience and at this crowded decade’s end she found that all she retained any real enthusiasm for was Mexican beer, the songs of Gustav Mahler, and straight sex. She even found she’d gone off the poor a bit, not in particular, but as an insoluble symptom of humanity’s shittiness. Fifty was approaching fast. She wanted to do something she could see getting done. But what?
It had occurred to her from time to time as interesting though hardly significant that her strongest memories of life with the Hon. Rupert involved animals rather than people. They had started even, but as the humans faded, the beasts came into ever clearer focus. Now ten years on, with the Hon. reduced to little more than a long nose under a silly hat, she could still recall the exact disposition of the dark spots on a pair of Dalmatians called Aggers and Staggers she’d been given on her twentieth birthday. An upwardly mobile farm cat trying to ingratiate itself into smoked-salmon circles with gifts of moles and shrews was clearer to her than the infant Piers; and while she couldn’t have sworn to the Hon’s private parts in a line-up, the splendid equipment of Balzac, the estate’s prize Charolais, was as detailed in her mind as if etched there by Stubbs.
She explained this to her current lover, an American evangelist, on their last night together before he bore his burden of souls and shekels home.
‘This is your heart bleeping you, Cap. Pick up that phone and get in touch with base.’
His phraseology made her wince, but against that she set the pleasure she derived from his habit of crying ‘HALLELUJAH!’ at the moment of climax. And when he had gone she spoke to her heart.
Animals, her heart answered, were the unacknowledged legislators of mankind. They showed fortitude in adversity and temperance in prosperity. They had no need of prisons, nor did they prey on their own kind. Therefore the way humans treated them was the touchstone of their humanity.
To conclude was to act. Six months later her vigorous sampling of local loose coalitions of hunt saboteurs, cetaphiles, donkey sanctuarians, et cetera, had drawn to her several similarly minded women who agreed to form a more tightly knitted group which came to be known as ANIMA. That it was all female was not a conscious choice but a dynamic inevitability. Men fear more than they admire a powerful woman, and for her to rule over them she must normally usurp the masculine leadership of an already existing group. If instead she forms a new one, she will rarely attract male recruits till she is so successful, she doesn’t want them.
The day after the abortive raid on Wanwood House, Cap Marvell laid the table in the kitchen of her flat for two.
It was simple fare: a large pie, a bowl of crisps, a green salad, a wedge of cheese, a jar of onions, and a couple of baguettes. By one place setting she put a tankard and three cans of draught bitter, by the other a tumbler and a bottle of Mexican beer.
At one o’clock precisely the doorbell rang.
Smiling she drew open the door.
The smile faded as she saw Wendy Walker standing in the corridor.
‘Wendy,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m not selling bloody brushes that’s for sure,’ snapped the other.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Cap. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, only I’m expecting someone for lunch …’
‘And I’ll be in the way? Well that shouldn’t bother you, Cap. You lot get trained to roll over folk who get in your way, don’t you?’
Cap gritted her teeth. Why was it that every time Wendy treated her like she was still the Hon. Mrs Rupert she found herself wanting to act like she was still the Hon. Mrs Rupert?
She said, ‘Wendy, please, unless it’s a matter of life or death, I wonder if—’
‘Life or death!’ Wendy interrupted her. ‘Why’d that bother you? ’Less it was some sodding animal’s life or death, and even then I daresay you’ve slaughtered more birds and beasts than you’ve ever bloody well saved!’
‘What is it you want to talk about, Wendy?’ said Cap, dangerously calm.
‘Last night, what the fuck do you think? The price of tea? You’re our group leader, aren’t you? Right, I want to talk to my leader about what happened on the raid last night.’
‘Look, I can see how it must have upset you, finding that body …’
‘That’s not what’s upsetting me, no, it’s not a few old bones that’s upsetting me … look, you gonna let me in or not?’
Cap leaned forward and sniffed.
‘You’ve been drinking,’ she said.
‘Well pardon me for breathing,’ said Wendy. ‘Pardon me for eating and drinking and sleeping and waking and pissing and crapping and doing all the other things that real human beings do. Yes, I’ve been drinking, not much, just enough for me to get the crazy idea it might be worthwhile coming round here to sort things out …’
‘Very impressive,’ said Cap. ‘But it will have to keep till you’re a little more sober and I’m a little less busy. I’ll see you later, Wendy.’
‘Later? Yeah sure, only it might be a bit too fucking late for you, Cap, a bit too fucking late!’
Cap Marvell stepped back and closed the door. Wendy Walker turned away and headed for the lift but before she could reach it, Andy Dalziel who’d been standing in it, listening, for the last few minutes, withdrew the foot which was holding the doors open, and pressed the button for the next floor up.
‘Shit,’ said Wendy, and headed for the stairs.
Five minutes later the flat bell rang again.
Cap checked through the peephole this time to be sure, then opened the door, smiling widely.
‘Hello there,’ she said. ‘No need to apologize for being late. It’s permissible on a first date.’
‘Oh aye?’ said Dalziel. ‘Told me down the station you wanted to make a statement. Didn’t say owt about dates.’
‘I believe I did mention lunch. But whether you’ve come with that in mind or your timing is merely a happy coincidence matters little. You’re here. There is food. Please take a seat.’
‘What if I’m not hungry?’
‘You don’t look to me, Mr Dalziel, like a man in whom appetite has much to do with hunger. Do sit down.’
Dalziel considered this. The woman were right. So he did sit and eat.
She watched in silence, admiring the simple almost poetic efficiency of his technique.
There was no impression of gluttony, no overfilling of or overspilling from the mouth (which would indeed have been difficult given the cetacean dimensions of that maw), just a simple procession of food through the marble portals of his teeth, a short rhythmic manducation, and a quick swallow which hardly registered on the massy column of his oesophagus.
The pie vanished save for the small wedge she had taken.
He said, ‘You going to eat or just watch?’
She began to nibble at the pastry crust, still observing with awe as he split one of the baguettes in half, expertly lined it with cheese, crisps, salad, and pickled onions, replaced the lid, raised it to his lips.
‘Remember that scene in the film of Tom Jones where they turn each other on just by eating?’ she said. ‘I never really understood how it worked before.’
‘Eh?’ said Dalziel.
She said, ‘You’ll never get it in.’
Dalziel didn’t reply. His mother had brought him up not to speak with his mouth full.
When the baguette had vanished like a waking dream, he poured himself the third can of bitter and said, ‘Right, Mrs Marvell, what’s all this about?’
‘Call me Cap,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘It was a nickname my ingenious fellow pupils at my boarding school gave me. Captain Marvell. I tried to live up to it during my adolescence. In fact it was trying to live up to it that lost me it. It seemed a Captain Marvellish thing to do to get married to an Hon. at seventeen, but I soon discovered you cannot be called Cap if you’re Mrs Rupert Pitt-Evenlode. In fact with that chain of words to trail around behind you, it’s difficult to be anything at all except the Hon. Mrs et cetera. But back in ’82 I got myself rechristened. I was a born-again pagan … But I see I’m boring you. Why should that be? I know. None of this is news to you, is it? You’ve been checking up on me!’
‘Aye,’ said Dalziel completing his yawn. ‘Since they cut back on my taster, I’m careful who I eat with. Why didn’t mean I wanted the story of your life. It meant, why should I call you anything but Mrs or Miss or Ms Marvell?’
‘It would be friendly.’
‘Ah well, I try not to get too friendly wi’ folk I might have to bang up.’
‘I take it your idiom is penal rather than penile, superintendent? Does this mean ALBA are going to prosecute? Excellent.’
‘Fancy your day in court, do you? Slap on the wrist? Tuppenny fine? Headlines in the Guardian and flash your kneecaps on breakfast TV?’
‘That would suit me nicely. But, despite your intimidatory threats, I doubt if it would suit ALBA. Such people are usually more concerned with damping publicity than provoking it.’
‘Could be you’re right about ALBA, missus. But it’s not them you should be worried about.’
‘I’m sorry … oh, you mean you. But what charges could the police bring against me if ALBA won’t press for trespass?’
Dalziel smiled like a crocodile being asked if he’d got teeth.
‘Going equipped for burglary. Criminal damage. Assault. Obstructing the police.’
She considered this then said, ‘Assault?’
‘You threatened the TecSec boss with them wire cutters.’
‘Threatened? He must be a man of very nervous disposition. The cutters are a tool not a weapon.’
And a very clean tool too. Forensic had found no trace of blood. Surprisingly clean? Dalziel had asked hopefully. That would depend on the mind-cast of their owner, Dr Gentry, Head of the Forensic Lab, who disliked the Fat Man heartily, had replied.
‘Weapon’s a tool for killing,’ said Dalziel. ‘And you could have taken his head off if you’d made contact. Courts don’t like that sort of thing, especially not since Redcar.’
At least she didn’t pretend not to take the allusion.
‘That was terrible, and a great disservice to the movement. It wasn’t even good protest. Simply turning the poor animals loose achieves very little in terms of their wellbeing and nothing at all in terms of public support.’
‘You mean it’s the tactics you object to, not killing the odd security guard?’ said Dalziel.
‘Of course I deplore the man’s death,’ she said with some irritation. ‘It was tragic. But I cannot believe you seriously suspect my group had anything to do with it.’
‘Why not?’ said Dalziel. ‘By all accounts once you got inside the building last night, you all ran wild like a bunch of lagered-up Leeds supporters. What was that all about? Premenstrual tension?’
She was unprovoked. Very cool this one. But beneath it all there was plenty of heat. The notion had him crossing his legs.
‘A release of tension, certainly,’ she said. ‘We’d had a shock. Then suddenly I realized that we’d got where we wanted to be, inside the building. It seemed foolish not to make a gesture.’
‘A gesture?’ He articulated the word as if some passing bird had crapped in his mouth.
‘That’s right. An act which resounds with significance far beyond its mere physical limitations. You should try one some day, superintendent.’
‘At my age it happens all the time,’ he said. ‘So you took off. And headed straight for the labs. Just a bit of luck that, was it?’
‘What else could it be?’
‘Prior knowledge. Like, from being there before.’
‘Being there when?’
‘In the summer, maybe, when there was a break-in at Wanwood.’
‘Yes, I recall … ah, I see your game, Mr Dalziel. Or may I call you Andy? If I remember right, the raid on Wanwood had many of the characteristics of the raid on Redcar. Lots of mindless vandalism and the animals merely released into the countryside. And you think they could have been done by the same people. Therefore link ANIMA with the second, you link us with the first. Right?’
‘Right as a confession,’ said Dalziel.
‘Which it isn’t. Do you have dates for both these raids?’
‘Can’t remember? I get like that,’ said Dalziel. ‘June 28th. May 19th.’
She rose and went through into the living room, returning with a leather-bound diary.
‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘On June 28th I had dinner with my son, Piers.’
‘He’ll vouch for you, will he? What’s his line? Urban terrorism?’
‘In a manner of speaking. He’s Lieutenant Colonel Pitt-Evenlode MC of the Yorkshire Fusiliers. Like his number?’
‘Just tell me which bishops you were with on May 19th,’ growled Dalziel.
‘Sorry. No clergy. I went to a wedding at Scarborough, but it was a civil rather than a religious ceremony. I stayed the night there. In fact, I stayed up most of the night. There was a postnuptial party which went on until dawn. I think you’ll find I made my presence felt sufficiently to be recalled through the alcoholic haze.’
Dalziel belched. She took it as an expression of doubt.
‘Don’t you believe me? Please, feel free to check.’
‘I may just do that. And it’s nowt to do with not believing you. It’s just that I never believe my luck when folk start volunteering alibis before I’ve even asked for them.’
‘That is perhaps because most of your customers are of a lower order of intelligence in which such pre-emptive thought would indeed be suspicious. If our acquaintance is to mature, you’ll have to get used to dealing with someone whose brain is quite as good as yours. And also with someone who, unlike most of those others, is unworried by your ultimate threat of locking them away. For me to get a prison sentence would be a real publicity coup, so you must see that your threats, even if you meant to carry them through which I doubt, have little weight with me.’
She gave him a smile of great sunniness which was well worth basking in on a drab November day. He returned it gladly. She did after all have a point, and he never minded letting opponents build up a points lead. The more confident they got, the more likely they were to drop their guards and reveal a fatal weakness. Like here. Anyone who seriously doubted his willingness to carry through any threat he cared to make was wide open to a sucker punch any time he cared to throw it. But no need to rush, not with beer and crisps and pickles still on the table, and them lovely sugar loaves to leer at.
He drank and nibbled and leered, and waited to see where she would lead the conversation.
She said, ‘I cannot of course provide alibis for all of my colleagues though two of them, Meg and Donna, were in fact at the Scarborough wedding also.’
‘That ’ud be Jenkins and Linsey? The dykes?’
His reaction when he’d come across this surmise in George Headingley’s notes had been, ‘What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?’ But now he was happy to use the term as a possible irritant.
‘That’s right,’ she said, unirritated. ‘The dykes. As for the others, all I can do is vouch for their commitment to peaceful protest. Except perhaps Wendy.’
‘Walker? But she acted as peacekeeper, didn’t she?’
‘Rather out of character, I feel. What about you? I got the impression you were already acquainted.’
‘Aye. We’ve met.’
‘And did I get the impression you were surprised to find her in such company?’
‘What’re we talking here?’ he said. ‘Class or causes?’
‘Are the two really distinguishable in some people’s eyes? But what I meant was, at the peaceful protest end of the activist scene.’
Dalziel laughed and said, ‘You call what you got up to peaceful protest? I’d not like to see you if you went to war.’
‘I’ll try not to invite you then. But you’ve not answered my question.’
She was very insistent, he thought. That little exchange he’d overheard between her and Wendy Walker must have really got her going for some reason.
He said, ‘What surprised me weren’t so much Walker joining you lot as you lot taking her on board. How’d that happen?’
If he’d hoped to throw her off balance by reversing the question, he had failed. She was smiling rather slyly, an expression he found strangely exciting.
He crossed his legs the other way and waited for the answer.
‘Oddly enough,’ she said, ‘it was through a colleague of yours in a manner of speaking, man and wife being one flesh. A mutual acquaintance introduced us. I expect you know her well. Mrs Ellie Pascoe.’
‘You’re not saying she’s one of your lot?’ he groaned.
‘Not really. Sympathetic but too concerned with suffering humanity to have much energy left for the animal kingdom, so no need to be embarrassed.’
Another weakness, imagining embarrassment was one of his.
‘Still, a bit of a handful, isn’t she? Wendy, I mean.’
‘She’s certainly got her own ideas, and I’m not sure she’ll stay with us forever. Too much energy and resentment, not perhaps enough self-knowledge. Like me, her marriage broke up, but she thinks it was because her husband was a scab, while the truth I suspect is that she so enjoyed the role she found in the Strike that there was no way she was ever going to go back to the life servitude of being a pitman’s wife. Pitman. I had my own Pitt man too, so I can sympathize. But the difference is, I changed sides, while she lost; not only a battle but a whole bloody war. So perhaps it was no wonder she was looking for a new role where the issues were clear cut, even if it meant she has to work for a while at least alongside an old class enemy like me.’
She laughed and Dalziel grinned too. Weakness three. Believing she’d got Wendy Walker and her kind sussed. Couple of weeks on the dole could root out the centuries-deep deference of the British worker, but it took major surgery to eradicate the built-in smugness of the middle class.
He sucked the last drops out of the last can. Every plate was empty. Time for business.
He said, ‘All right, missus …’
‘Cap,’ she urged.
‘All right, Cap. So why did you want to see me?’
‘To make a statement, of course. You were very keen for us to make statements last night.’
‘Was I? Funny how you take these fancies, then go off them. Like being pregnant they tell me.’
‘So you don’t want a statement?’ she said, disconcerted.
‘Depends what you’ve got to state.’
‘I thought we could negotiate,’ she said, recovering. ‘I mean, you’ve got a body in the grounds of Wanwood House. I bet you’ve got some ideas about that already. So if it would help for me to say I saw that plonker Batty start like a guilty thing surprised when he got the news, just say the word. Or that TecSec Nazi, Patten, if it’s him you fancy and you need an excuse to search his pad, maybe I could help there.’
Dalziel scratched his bubaline neck and said, ‘What makes you think I’d take kindly to the idea of fitting someone up?’
‘Oh, I know you wouldn’t do it maliciously,’ she reassured him, her candid brown eyes gazing deep into his. ‘Only if you were sure it was in the best interests of justice. I mean, when I contacted the local media this morning to ask why ANIMA was hardly getting a mention, and got told that in matters sub judice it was editorial policy to afford the police full cooperation, I didn’t immediately think, that bastard Andy Dalziel’s put the frighteners on. No, I thought, that nice superintendent’s imposed a temporary media blackout in the best interests of all concerned. No need for me to go running hysterically to my cousin who does features for Channel 4 or my old school chum who’s a junior minister in the Home Office, is there? Why have confrontation when you can have consultation instead?’
Not bad, approved Dalziel. Just because he’d identified three weaknesses didn’t mean she couldn’t still kick him in the balls. But he was still intrigued as to why she should think he was susceptible to consultation. She didn’t give the impression of being thick.
He said, ‘Let’s get things straight. I take the frighteners off the local media and you’ll sign any statement I care to dictate to you?’
‘More or less,’ she said.
‘Talking about fitting folk up always makes me thirsty,’ he said, crushing the last empty can in his huge fist.
‘Have to be Mexican,’ she said, going to the fridge. ‘It’s good. So good some of the American companies started spreading rumours the Mexican workers piss in it.’
‘So what? Yon reservoir up Dendale, the one supplies most of our tap water, we fished five bodies out of there last year. Cheers. Don’t have another bit of pork pie in there too, do you?’
‘Another bit?’ she said.
It took him a second to work this out.
‘You mean it weren’t pork?’
‘I don’t eat dead animals, Andy, nor encourage my friends to do so. It was basically tofu.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Dalziel, taking a long cleansing suck at his beer. ‘Two things I don’t do, missus. One is feed folk stuff they don’t know what it is. T’other is fit people up. Understand that and we might get on a bit better.’
‘Oh dear,’ she said, concerned. ‘I’ve offended you. I’m not very good on moral codes. I suppose that means goodbye to Plan Two as well.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Well, after our first encounter last night I had the feeling that my boobs hadn’t been so closely scanned since my last radiography checkup. I thought if all else failed … let me rephrase that … I rather hoped all else might fail and I’d have to fall back on the flesh, so to speak. But naturally I’d never come between a man and his moral code.’
Dalziel considered. Another man might have played for time by pretending to suck on the empty bottle or making reference to the weather, but Dalziel did his considering in plain view. Offers of trade-offs of sexual for constabulary favours weren’t uncommon. He rarely bothered himself. A bang was only a bang but a good result was a collar.
On the other hand, if he was honest with himself (and with himself what was the point of being other?), he really fancied this lass. Not just the boobs. These days even Mid-Yorkshire was bulging with highly visible boobs. See two, you’ve seen ’em all. And not the way she spoke which still carried too many overtones of the Pitt-Overload era, or whatever the prat’s name was. And certainly not all this dotty animal rights stuff. And she wasn’t young. And she wasn’t beautiful. Any other strikes against her? Yes, of course, the big one. OK so ALBA would almost certainly decide not to proceed against her. And the possible charges he’d just listed weren’t worth wasting his time on. But if he thought there was any chance at all that she’d been mixed up in this Redcar thing …
Very long odds against. One in a million. Less. She’d offered alibis and from what he’d seen he reckoned that she’d sussed out he wasn’t the kind of cop who’d let a bit of nookie stop him from checking. So why was he looking for an excuse to reject what his whole being was urging him to grab with both hands?
Mebbe he was a bit scared of his own desire. Mebbe it was because there was something about her that hit the spot, like the bouquet of an untried single malt when you opened the bottle, telling you that this was one to be savoured.
She was regarding him oddly. Calculatingly?
‘What’re you thinking of?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Old friend of mine, same name as the novelist. Balzac,’ she said smiling.
Bloody incomprehensible. But which on ’em wasn’t? Condition of service! And at least he now understood her motive for getting him alone. Just as he’d been identifying her weaknesses over the past hour, so she’d identified his last night, and taken a bloody sight less time about it.
Question his sodding vanity wanted answering was this. Was Plan Two a Last Resort, or really a Principle Object disguised as a Last Resort?
She read a question in his eyes, but misread it also.
She said, ‘I had nothing to do with the Redcar raid, Andy. And I deplore what they did, both personally and as an activist.’
Well, she would say that, wouldn’t she? Clever thing for a cop to reply was, I believe you.
‘I believe you,’ he replied. ‘Them bones you lot found last night, looks like they could be pretty old.’
‘So?’
‘I mean too old to have owt to do with ALBA. With a bit of luck they might even turn out too old to have owt to do with the CID!’
‘That’s interesting.’
‘Aye. Means there might be nothing at all to investigate. Certainly means you and the folk up there aren’t mixed up in any investigation. I rang my media contacts on the way here, told ’em they could go to town.’
There. Now let’s see if the chicken still crossed the road.
The phone started ringing.
‘Could be for me,’ said Dalziel. ‘I left ’em your number. Or it could be News at Ten.’
‘Shall I answer it?’
‘Up to you. You’re a free agent.’
‘Yes, I am,’ she said seriously. ‘How about you, Andy? How’s the moral code?’
Dalziel didn’t mind a bit of obliquity but this was beginning to sound … what was that word Pascoe sometimes came out with? … sphincteresque? Summat like that. Any road, enough was enough.
He stood up and started taking his tie off.
‘Moral code? he said. ‘You’ve just cracked it.’

xi (#ulink_9ddac4c1-d408-5d4a-ba15-9cf9ed7c723b)
‘That, I hope, is the secretaire you mentioned. Or have you gone into the funeral business?’ said Ellie Pascoe.
Pascoe, reluctantly acknowledging that the passionate welcome-home embrace was over, followed her gaze to the sheet-shrouded cargo on his roof rack.
‘Have no fear,’ he said. ‘Ada is safely scattered as per wishes, more or less. It was quite entertaining in a macabre way. Give me a hand with this, will you? How’s Rosie?’
‘At school. Memory that it was her friend Sarah’s birthday today coincided with a miracle recovery.’
‘Ah,’ said Pascoe.
‘Ah what? She really wasn’t fit to go yesterday.’
‘I know she wasn’t,’ said Pascoe mildly, thinking that such a hint of defensiveness in a suspect would have had him chiselling at the weakness till it gave. ‘Here we go. You’ve got that end? Right … just let it slide. Great. Et voila!’
Dramatically he whipped the sheet off the secretaire. Ellie regarded it in silence.
‘You are dumbfounded with admiration?’ he said hopefully.
‘You said it was Sheraton.’
‘After Sheraton,’ said Pascoe.
‘About eighty long hard years after.’
Pascoe couldn’t argue. Out of the friendly shadows of Ada’s living room, the secretaire had lost much of its antique charm and stood forlorn and rather shabby in the cruel November sunlight.
‘It’s got a secret drawer,’ he pleaded.
He opened it and showed her the photo. She studied it with interest.
‘Poor devil,’ she said. ‘Gosh, doesn’t he look like you?’
Pascoe took the picture from her and looked at it again. He still couldn’t see it but something in those eyes spoke to him.
‘It’ll look better inside,’ he said, dropping the photo back into the drawer. ‘Unless this is the day you’ve got the Beautiful Homes photographers coming round?’
It was a low shot but she had it coming. Ellie was savage in her mockery of the Good Taste Theme Parks which gleamed at you out of the glossies, but this didn’t stop her from being pretty finical about what stood on her floors and hung on her walls.
They carried the secretaire into the house and set it down in the hallway.
‘Leave it there for the time being,’ said Ellie. ‘Hopefully it’ll find its own place. Let’s have a coffee and you can tell me all about everything.’
She listened alertly to his narrative, laughing aloud from time to time and asking the occasional pertinent question.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Ada ended up as part of a military tableau. Not her intention, I presume.’
‘No. I think on the whole she’d have been happier messing up one of the tidier exhibits,’ Pascoe admitted. ‘She was a lot like you, wanting people to be quite clear what she thought, I mean.’
Ellie considered this. She rarely talked about Peter’s family, not because she disliked them (which on the whole she did) but because Peter himself had made them a no-go area. On the surface Ada was the one she had most in common with, but when strong wills clash, common ground can often be a battlefield. Neither was happy about Peter’s career in the police force but Ada’s objections were the deeper. Ellie had married him because she loved him despite the fact he was a policeman, while Ada felt that all her love and care and hopes for her grandson were betrayed by his choice of career. Ellie, she implied, being the new responsible woman in his life, must bear some of the blame. Such an accusation was an irony which amusement might have rendered barbless had not Ellie surprised in herself a strong resentment which boiled down to simple jealousy that anyone else should dare to imagine they shared her right to criticize her husband! Self-knowledge, she now realized, may bring about changes in the head, but the heart doesn’t give a toss for psychology.
The two women had settled into a polite neutrality easy to maintain as contact between them was minimal. Nevertheless Ellie had encouraged Peter in his attempts to re-establish his old closeness with his grandmother, sensing that Ada was the source of most of the family warmth in his upbringing, but hope of any real rapprochement had died with the old lady’s reaction to Rosie’s birth.
‘A girl,’ she said. ‘You planning any more?’
‘We’ll have to see,’ said Pascoe.
‘Doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s best you should be the last of the Pascoes. I sometimes wonder if Mother didn’t have the right of it after all.’
Slightly enigmatic this last comment might have been, but the general tenor of her indifference to the birth of her great-granddaughter was unmistakable and, in Pascoe’s proudly paternal eyes, unforgivable. Hereafter contact was intermittent and formal, which didn’t stop him from feeling a tremendous upsurge of guilt at the news of her death and the realization that he hadn’t seen her for almost two years.
Ellie had felt neither the indignation nor the guilt. And she would definitely have gone to the funeral, she assured herself, if Rosie’s cold hadn’t interfered.
Or maybe, she added with that instinctive honesty which kept her certainties this side of fanaticism, maybe I’d have found some other reason, like cleaning an old tennis shoe.
‘It really got to her, didn’t it?’ she said. ‘Losing her dad like that in the war. It dominated her life. I hope I’m not that obsessive?’
‘We’d better ask Rosie in twenty years or so,’ said Pascoe lightly. ‘Any calls by the way?’
‘From on high, you mean? Yes, naturally. His Fatship rang first thing this morning, asked if you were back yet. Implied that you were an overeducated rat swimming away from an overloaded ship. Something about animals rights and finding bones in a wood?’
‘Wanwood House, ALBA Pharmaceuticals, I was there in the summer, remember? I heard on the news some activists had got in the grounds and discovered human remains. So he’s missing me? Good! What did you tell him?’
‘I said that your family and fiduciary duties were such as would probably detain you in Warwickshire until late this evening at the earliest.’
‘Excellent,’ said Pascoe. ‘Many thanks.’
‘For what?’
‘For lying for me.’
‘Isn’t that a wife’s duty, lying for her husband, vertically and horizontally?’
‘Well, yes, of course,’ said Pascoe. ‘Tell me, how dutiful are you feeling?’
Before Ellie could reply the doorbell rang.
‘Shit,’ said Pascoe. ‘If it’s him, tell him I’m still fiducing.’
‘And your car came back by itself? Good trick.’
Through the frosted panel of the front door, Ellie could see at once it wasn’t Dalziel. With a bit of luck it would just be a Jehovah’s Witness who could be told to sod off with utmost dispatch. She was feeling pleasantly randy and there was a good hour or more before she needed to think about picking up Rosie from school.
It wasn’t a Witness, it was Wendy Walker, looking like a good advert for the afterlife.
‘Hi, Ellie,’ she said. ‘Spare a mo for a chat?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Ellie brightly. ‘Come in.’
Wendy moved past her and stopped by the secretaire.
‘Nice,’ she said.
‘Make me an offer,’ said Ellie. ‘Come into the kitchen.’
They sat opposite each other at the stripped pine table.
‘Coffee?’ said Ellie.
‘No thanks. OK if I smoke, but?’
There were several reasons why it wasn’t, each of them absolute.
On the other hand, to be asked permission by someone who would have lit up in Buck House without reference to the Queen was a flattery it seemed churlish to deny.
She said weakly, ‘All right but I’ll open a window.’
It was a counterproductive move, merely adding the risk of primary pneumonia to that of secondary cancer.
Drawing a curtain to cut down the draught, she said, ‘Sure you wouldn’t like a coffee?’
‘To sober me up you mean?’ said Wendy aggressively.
‘No, I didn’t, actually. But do you need sobering up?’
‘No. Sorry I snapped. Did have a couple at lunch time but that doesn’t make me a drunk.’
‘No, of course it doesn’t. Was there something particular …?’
‘We went on a raid last night.’
‘Wanwood House? Was that you?’
‘You know about it?’
‘Only what I heard on the news and that wasn’t much.’
‘Yeah, I think that fat bastard’s put the muzzle on.’
‘That won’t please Cap.’
‘Goose feather up the arse wouldn’t please her.’
‘I’m not sure it would do much for me either,’ said Ellie. ‘There was something about a body …’
Wendy told the story quickly, dismissively, scattering more ash than Etna.
Ellie said, ‘Good God, Wendy, no wonder you’re shook up.’
‘Who says I’m shook up?’ demanded the smaller woman.
‘Well, if you’re not, you ought to change your make-up,’ said Ellie spiritedly.
‘What? Oh yeah.’ She managed a faint smile, then went on, ‘No it wasn’t that, something else … when they took us inside and Cap ran riot … look, Ellie, I need an ear … someone to tell me if I’m being stupid or what … and you said, anything came up, I should let you know, right? Or was that just one of the things you lot say to keep us lot happy?’
‘Wendy,’ said Ellie dangerously. ‘That you lot crap only works when you’re up in the fighting line and I’m with a bunch of noncombatants shouting encouragement from the back. This is about friendship or it’s about nothing.’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ said Wendy. ‘It’s just with your man being a bobby … he’s not at home, is he? I’m not ready …’
As if in answer the door opened and Pascoe appeared.
‘Peter,’ said Ellie brightly. ‘You remember Wendy, don’t you? Wendy Walker, from Burrthorpe?’
Burrthorpe. Where he’d almost lost his life down a mine. And almost lost his wife to a young miner.
‘Yes, of course. Hi. Keeping well, I hope?’
‘Fine,’ said Wendy Walker. ‘Hey, look at the time. I’d better get going.’
She stubbed her fag in a saucer and stood up.
Pascoe said guiltily, ‘Don’t rush off on my account.’
She said, ‘No, my timing’s bad today. Ellie, are you going to the party tonight? Thought I might cadge a lift home afterwards if you were. Buses stop at ten and the bike’s a menace when you’re pissed.’
‘Party?’ said Pascoe.
‘You know, the Extramural Department’s do.’
‘But I thought …’ He changed his mind about uttering the thought.
Wendy flashed a bright smile and said, ‘Cheers then,’ and went past him into the entrance hall. Ellie caught up with her on the doorstep.
‘You haven’t said what you want to talk about,’ she said.
‘Probably all in my imagination,’ said Wendy unconvincingly. ‘Look, we’ll have a chat at the party, OK? You will be there, won’t you?’
She fixed Ellie with those bright unblinking eyes, like a hungry whippet that doesn’t know how to beg.
‘Yes,’ said Ellie reluctantly. ‘I’ll definitely be there.’
She watched as Walker mounted the dilapidated mountain bike which was her urban transport and stood on the pedals to accelerate away.
‘Shit,’ said Ellie.
The party in question was basically a celebration of the University Extramural Department’s twenty-fifth year of running day-release courses for the National Union of Miners. Ellie had taught on the course briefly, and it was here that had begun the relationship which had caused so much pain. She’d backed off any further involvement in the course after that. Peter had urged her to go to the party, particularly as it wasn’t just a celebration but a wake. The present course was the last. After Christmas the NUM wouldn’t have enough miners left to make day-release viable. Samson had been brought low. The triumph of Dagon was complete.
But despite her husband’s urgings, or perhaps because of them, Ellie had resolved not to go, a decision confirmed by the coincidence of his return from Ada’s funeral this same day.
Now the case was altered but not in any way she could explain.
It would be nice, she thought, just now and then, to be like one of those bright-eyed brain-deads in the telly ads who never had a problem more pressing than which pack of chemical crap washed whiter.
But that wasn’t an option she had been programmed for.
She turned back into the entrance hall and banged her shin against Ada’s secretaire.
‘And up you too!’ said Ellie Pascoe.

xii (#ulink_ac23b9a8-c75b-5a83-8c52-dc63fa009dd3)
By early afternoon, even with the help of a small pump to keep the water level down, Wield’s team hadn’t recovered as many bones from the crater as would make a good stock. These were dispatched to Longbottom who reacted like a ravenous panther offered a harvest mouse.
His complaints were heard elsewhere because about 1.30, Wield had a rendezvous with Death.
This was the sobriquet of Arnold Gentry, Head of the Police Forensic Laboratory. Rumour had it that he had been excavated along with the Dead Sea Scrolls, and he was certainly one of the few men to make Troll Longbottom look healthy.
He acknowledged Wield’s greeting with a minuscule nod, brooded on the edge of the pit for a while, then said, ‘Sluice it.’
‘Eh?’ said Wield.
‘From what Mr Longbottom says, I gather there has been considerable dispersion of the remains, probably both through natural causes and as a result of the use of mechanical and explosive devices in the clearance of the area earlier this year. This means the precise disposition of the bones is unlikely to be central to your investigation. Therefore it makes sense to load say fifty or sixty cubic metres of earth onto a truck and deliver them to my lab where I will arrange to have them sluiced, thus isolating any bones or other evidential material. This will save you a great deal of time and the state a great deal of money.’
‘You’d best talk to Mr Headingley, sir,’ said Wield seeing the DI approaching. ‘OK if I go off to lunch now, sir?’
‘Aye, why not,’ said Headingley with postprandial expansiveness.
Wield moved quickly away. Dr Death’s suggestion seemed a good one, but he wasn’t going to let George Headingley get his feelings on record. Over the years he’d shown a growing reluctance to take responsibility though none to taking credit. That was what had kept him a superior unlike Peter Pascoe who’d become a mate.
As he reached the drive, a strangulated cry made him glance back.
Gentry had been supporting his proposition by pointing to the fluid condition of the sides of the crater which made any search by manual means both slow and perilous. Headingley, in his efforts to show an alert interest while postponing decision, had ventured too near the edge and suddenly found himself proving Dr Death’s thesis. As Wield watched, the ungainly inspector slid slowly like a ship down a launch ramp into the water-filled crater.
For a moment Wield was tempted to return and supervise the rescue operation. But only for a moment. God’s gifts should be savoured in tranquillity, and besides there were plenty of strong young constables in thigh-length waders to pluck old George from the depths. He turned and continued up the drive.
At the top, he headed down the side of the house and into the old tradesmen’s entrance, now leading directly into the TecSec quarters which consisted of an office, a sitting room with a couple of Z-beds, a washroom and a kitchen.
Wield peered through the office door. Patten was sitting at his desk, typing on a computer. On one wall a range of TV screens showed scenes from various parts of the grounds and building. Very hi-tech, thought Wield. Must be costing ALBA a bomb.
‘OK if I clean up?’ he said.
‘Surprised you bother to ask. Don’t all get your manners from that fat fucker, then?’
‘No. Get mine from Sainsbury’s. Where do you get yours from?’
The security man looked abashed.
‘Sorry. Of course you can. Should be a clean towel in the cupboard.’
When he came back, he found Patten on the phone.
He said, ‘That’s right. Roll ’em up, all three. You got it.’
Then replacing the receiver he said to Wield, ‘I’ve just made a brew. Fancy a cup?’
‘That ’ud be nice. No sugar.’
‘Keep healthy, eh? I’ve seen you down the Leisure, haven’t I? Kung fu, wasn’t it?’
‘I try to keep in shape.’
‘Working with yon tub of lard must give you a real incentive.’
‘Nowt wrong with being big so long as you can punch your weight,’ said Wield mildly.
‘And he can?’ said Patten sceptically.
‘He’s wired a few jawbones in his time,’ said Wield. ‘You army?’
‘That’s right. You been checking up?’ said Patten with a return to his earlier aggression.
‘No. Private security folk are usually ex-cops or ex-forces, and you’re not ex-cop.’
‘How do you know that?’
Wield shrugged and said, ‘Way you don’t stick your pinkie out when you drink your tea.’
‘What? Oh, I see. A joke.’ He sounded surprised.
Here’s another thinks I shouldn’t make jokes, and he doesn’t even know me! thought Wield.
He said, ‘What mob?’
‘York Fusiliers. I busted my leg on an exercise, mended fine but they were rationalizing, that means dumping bodies. Offered me a medical discharge. I offered them a fifty-mile yomp across the moors, my pension against their jobs. No takers.’
It was clearly a bitter memory.
‘So you’ve ended up deskbound,’ said Wield with provocative sympathy.
‘Yeah. Well, not all the time, and at least I’m doing something useful.’
‘Guarding this place is useful?’
‘It’s important work they do and they’ve a right to do it in peace.’
‘You reckon? Bit of overkill that mess out there, isn’t it?’
‘You reckon?’ mimicked Patten. ‘Listen, back last summer they had one watchman and locks you could fart open. Those mad buggers just walked in, smashed the place up and helped themselves to everything, including the watchman’s so-called guard dog. So we got called in. I took one look and said, first thing you want here is a fire zone. That’s a piece of ground in clear view where if anything moves, you shoot it. No need to go too far. Nearer the house the better, as that keeps the circle nice and small and cuts down cost. Also it leaves enough of the outer woodland untouched to keep things from the road looking much the same as they’ve always done. Now if they come, they’ve got to cross the open. We’ve got lights and cameras, and there’s an alarmed security fence it’ll take more than a pair of ordinary wire cutters to get through. Installation’s expensive, I agree. But once it’s done they’re secure forever, and that’s worth more than money to a firm like ALBA.’
‘I can see that,’ said Wield pleasantly. ‘When they were clearing the wood, did the contractors say anything about hitting an old wall or something like that? Seem to be a lot of granite slabs lying around out there.’
‘Not to me.’
‘What about Dr Batty?’
‘Couldn’t say. But if they did, I’m pretty damn sure he’d have said carry on regardless. Old stones can mean a lot of bearded wonders slapping a preservation order on you if you’re not careful.’
He gave Wield a conspiratorial all-mates-together grin which sat uneasily on his scarred and watchful face.
Wield said, ‘I’ll need to talk with your men who were on duty when they brought those women in last night, especially those as chased them round the offices.’
‘Why’s that?’ said Patten, matiness gone.
‘In case ALBA fancy bringing charges. Trespass is no good as far as the house goes, as technically they were invited in, so they’d need to go for criminal damage, assault even. So we’ll need statements.’
‘Save you the bother,’ said Patten delving into his desk. ‘We got our system too. Full reports on any incident. Here, take a look, all signed and sealed.’
He handed a thin file across. Wield looked inside. The reports were all there, full of necessary detail of time, place, duration.
‘Everything in order?’ said Patten. ‘Jimmy Howard keeps us straight on rules of evidence. Useful having an ex-cop around.’
‘Must be,’ said Wield. ‘From a quick glance, doesn’t seem to have been any real damage either to person or property.’
‘More by luck than judgment,’ growled Patten. ‘That fat cow, the one called Cap, she belted one of my lads in the belly with them cutters and looked like she was going to have a swing at my head with them till that skinny lass caught a hold of her.’
‘Walker?’
‘Aye. The one who found the bones in the first place. Got the impression your fat boss knew her. She been in trouble for this kind of thing before?’
‘No. Not animal rights. She was one of them Women Against Pit Closures lot that got going during the Strike.’
‘Is that right?’ Patten pulled at his lip and said, ‘Didn’t think you lot, CID I mean, got mixed up with that. Thought it was all uniformed out there beating up the pickets.’
‘Preserving the peace,’ corrected Wield gently. ‘No, we got involved because there was a murder, out at Burrthorpe, you might have read about it.’
‘No, I don’t recall. 1984, it’d be? I was nobbut a lad, not long in the army, still pretty much a lily.’
‘A what?’
‘Lily. What we called a sprog in our mob. So, this Walker woman, she’s had a change of heart, has she? Moved from miners to monkeys?’
‘Some folk need a cause,’ said Wield. ‘And we like to keep a close eye on all of them. Perhaps I’d better have a word with Jimmy Howard just to make sure I’ve got the full picture.’
‘Sorry, he’s gone off duty,’ said Patten.
‘When’s he back on?’
Patten swivelled round to examine a wall chart which wouldn’t have disgraced the Pentagon. Next to it hung a photo of three men smiling into the camera. On the left was Patten, wearing TecSec uniform. The man on the right – small with a round smiling face beneath tightly packed blond curls – was similarly dressed. His name tag was too small to read except for the initial R. In the centre, elegant in a well-cut, dark grey pinstripe suit, was a lean handsome man who looked as if he might have a very good opinion of himself, not altogether unjustified.
‘Should have gone off at six this morning in fact,’ added Patten, ‘but did an extra stag ’cos of all the excitement, so I shouldn’t bother him at home till he’s had time to catch up on his beauty sleep.’
‘Oh, shan’t need to do that,’ said Wield negligently. ‘Likely these reports you’ve given me will do. Seems a well-organized firm, TecSec. Good mob to work for, are they?’
‘I don’t work for ’em,’ said Patten, ‘I’m a partner.’
‘Sorry. I thought seeing you out here in the uniform …’
‘Like the army, guys who really run the show are out there in the field getting shot at. My partner’s out most of the time drumming up business while I’m out making sure the business we’ve got gets done properly. There’s a girl back in the office knows where to get hold of us.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Wield rising. ‘If ever I need security I’ll know where to come. Thanks for the tea.’
‘My pleasure.’
At the door Wield paused and said, ‘Your security fence, the inner one, you say they’d not have got through that with a pair of wire cutters. Why not use the same stuff for the first lot of wire?’
‘Expense,’ said Patten. ‘Costs a fortune that stuff, and you’d need a lot more ’cos it’s a bigger circle. Also …’
‘Yes?’ prompted Wield.
‘No use fighting people unless you let ’em close enough to get shot,’ said Patten, this time with no attempt at a grin.

xiii (#ulink_e85ff338-f76b-55f3-a5c7-b2917b4db7c0)
The atmosphere in the Pascoe household had remained definitely overcast with poor air quality till Rosie on her return from school burst in on it like the wild west wind. She flung herself on her father as if he’d been away for a decade not a day and gripped him in a stranglehold which would have won style points from a Thug, the whiles rattling off a stream-of-consciousness account of all that had happened to her during their long separation.
Also in there somewhere were expressions of gratitude for her prezzie which at first he took to be creatively predictive, and he was seeking a form of words which would explain why fathers after such a short absence on such a sad mission should be allowed to come home empty handed when it dawned on him that the thanks were for a present received not a gift anticipated.
He glanced at Ellie who mouthed, ‘The secretaire.’
‘Eh?’
‘Rosie saw the secretaire in the hall and she asked me if you’d brought it for her to keep her things in and I said you may very well have.’
After a recent and ideologically very dubious spat between Ellie and her daughter about the state of her room, Pascoe had asserted his paterfamilial authority with the promise of a large gin and tonic for his wife and a large storage chest for his Rosie. He had in mind something in puce plastic, but the little girl’s refined taste could sometimes be as surprising as her occasionally fluorescent language.
‘You like it, do you?’ said Pascoe.
‘Oh yes. I think it’s bloody marvellous,’ she answered very seriously.
He caught Ellie’s eye again and she gave him an I-don’t-know-where-she-gets-it-from look. Since going to school Rosie had moved up a linguistic gear and like Caliban, her profit on it was she now knew how to curse. The problem was to stop her from cursing without letting her know that she had been.
Pascoe said, ‘It belonged to Granny Pascoe and she wanted you to have it.’
‘Granny who’s dead?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is she a ghost?’ asked Rosie uneasily.
‘You know there’s no such thing as ghosts, so she can’t be, can she?’ said Ellie briskly.
‘No,’ said Rosie without conviction.
Pascoe put his mouth to her ear and said, ‘And if she is, she’ll be a ghost down in Warwickshire, because everyone knows ghosts have got to do their haunting round the place where they died.’
The little girl looked greatly relieved though he saw Ellie grimace at this betrayal of rational principles. But she was as pleased as he was at this solution to the problem of Ada’s writing desk.
‘Told you it would find its place,’ she gasped as they collapsed on Rosie’s bed after lugging the secretaire upstairs.
‘Clever old you,’ he said, grinning, and the truce might have been sealed with more than a loving kiss if Rosie hadn’t demanded their help in tidying away all her dolls, toys and other impedimenta into her new store cupboard.
At seven o’clock with Rosie safely stowed in bed and Ellie making ready for her party, Pascoe was in the kitchen pouring himself a lager when the doorbell rang. He heard Ellie’s footsteps on the stairs and her voice calling, ‘I’ll get it.’
Wendy Walker again? he wondered. No. She’d just said she wanted a lift back. Or this time, perhaps it was the Fat Man, come to see for himself that he’d got safely home. Bastard!
But when Ellie came into the kitchen she wasn’t wearing her Apocalypse Now face, though she was wearing a silk dress which struck him as being a touch showy for such a proletarian celebration.
‘Chap called Hilary Studholme to see you,’ she said.
‘Eye patch, one arm, and a limp?’ he asked.
‘Or grey hair, his own teeth and a nice smile,’ said Ellie. ‘Could it be the same guy?’
‘Not in court, it couldn’t,’ said Pascoe. ‘Let’s see.’
The major was standing by the fireplace looking rather ill at ease.
‘Nice to see you again,’ said Pascoe remembering to offer his left hand. ‘Do sit down. I was just pouring myself a drink. Can I get you anything?’
‘Orange juice, anything non-alc. There are those of your colleagues who feel I shouldn’t have a licence. Mustn’t always help the police, must we?’
He smiled his nice smile. From the doorway Ellie said, ‘I’ll get the drinks.’
Seating himself opposite his visitor, Pascoe said, ‘So what brings you into my neck of the woods, major?’
‘Dining out this way with friends. Was going to ring you in the morning, but thought face to face better. Especially as I wanted to show you something.’
He picked up a large envelope which he had set down on a coffee table, flicked the flap open with his thumb and shook some photographs out.
They were all of soldiers in Great War uniform. Two were formal groups, the other was informal, showing four men resting against a gun limber. Their clothes were mud-stained and their efforts to look cheerful sat on their fatigued faces like prostitutes’ smiles.
‘Anyone you recognize?’ said Studholme.
‘Good lord,’ said Ellie who’d returned with the drinks which she was setting down on the table. ‘There you are again, Peter.’
This time, even Pascoe couldn’t deny the resemblance between himself and one of the exhausted soldiers. It was less clear in the group pictures, but Ellie went with unerring accuracy to a face which had Studholme nodding his agreement.
‘So what’s your point?’ said Pascoe. ‘You think this is my great-grandfather, is that it?’
It didn’t seem to him a particularly exciting discovery, certainly not one to bring Studholme even a short distance out of his way.
The major said, ‘You mentioned a photograph you had?’
With the perfect timing she had inherited from her mother, Rosie pushed open the door and came in, barefooted and nightgowned, carrying the photograph from Ada’s secretaire.
‘Look what I found, Daddy,’ she said.
‘Good God,’ said Pascoe, taking the photo. ‘I was twice your age before I learned how to open that drawer.’
‘Girls mature quicker,’ observed Ellie. ‘But that doesn’t mean they don’t need their sleep. Come on. Back to bed with you, Lady Macbeth.’
‘But why is Daddy wearing those funny clothes?’ asked Rosie who had learned early on that the way to delay her mother from any undesirable course of action was to ask as many questions as possible.
‘It’s not me, darling,’ interposed Pascoe. ‘It’s your great-great-granddad, and he just happened to look a tiny little bit like me.’
‘He looks the spitting image of you,’ said Ellie. ‘Doesn’t he, dear?’
‘Fucking right he does,’ agreed Rosie.
Pascoe winced and glanced an apology at the major whose one visible eyebrow arched quizzically. Ellie caught the girl up in her arms and said, ‘Off we go. Say good-night.’
There was a moment’s pause which had Pascoe wondering if his daughter was rifling her word-horde for one of the less conventional valedictory forms such as, ‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down’ or ‘Up yours, arsehole’, but she contented herself with a long-suffering ‘Goodnight then’ over her mother’s shoulder.
‘She is making surprising progress at school,’ said Pascoe when the door had closed.
‘Indeed,’ said Studholme dryly.
He took the photograph from Pascoe’s hand and studied it, then set it alongside the ones he’d brought.
‘Might be doubles,’ he said. ‘Such things happen. Anything can. But chances are they’re the same. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Well, yes. But so what? Do you have a name for the chap in your pics?’ asked Pascoe.
‘Yes. Names for nearly all of them. One of my predecessors was very thorough back in the twenties. Double-checked with survivors. That’s why I came.’
‘Because this is definitely Corporal Clark?’
‘Sergeant at the end. And not Clark. Here. Look.’
He produced a sheet of paper on which someone had patiently traced one of the groups in outline with numbers instead of faces. Below was a key.
Pascoe checked the number of his lookalike. Twenty-two. Then he dropped his gaze to the key.
He was glad he wasn’t standing. Even sitting he felt the chair lurch beneath his behind and saw the air shimmer like the onset of migraine. He blinked it clear and reread the entry.
No 22. Pascoe Peter (Corporal).
‘Is this your idea of a joke?’ he said steadily.
‘No joke,’ said Studholme regarding him closely and with concern.
‘Then what? Can’t be right. My grandmother was Ada Clark who became a Pascoe by marriage, so how could this be her father? Hang on though. Didn’t you say there was a Pascoe in the Wyfies at Third Wipers? Surely this is just a mix up of names?’
‘That was Private Stephen Pascoe. He got wounded not killed. This Corporal Peter, later sergeant, is someone else.’
Ellie came back in.
‘I think she’ll go to sleep now but don’t let her play you up. I’d better be on my way. Peter, you OK?’
He forced a smile.
‘Yes. Fine. I’ll check in a little while. Enjoy yourself.’
‘I’ll try. Major Studholme, nice to meet you. Sorry I’ve got to dash. ‘Bye.’
She was gone. She was good at exits thought Pascoe with the envy of one who usually made an awkward bow.
Studholme was standing up.
‘I’d better be on my way too,’ he said. ‘Bad form, being late.’
Pascoe didn’t rise but studied the other from his chair. With Dalziel breathing down your neck for all those years, one thing you practised till it became instinctive was the art of detailed observation. He let his gaze drift down Studholme’s clothing from his collar to his toecaps. He was beginning to feel something which if not anger, had a deal of anger in it.
‘Late for what?’ he asked. ‘If I had to make a guess, major, I’d say you weren’t going anywhere. All that about having dinner with friends in this neck of the woods is a load of baloney, isn’t it?’
Studholme brushed his forefinger across his moustache and said in a voice which had more of interest than indignation in it, ‘And on what would you base such an unmannerly speculation?’
‘You haven’t changed from when I saw you this morning. Same shirt, same tie, same jacket, same trousers. You haven’t even given your shoes a rub. Oh you look tidy enough, don’t misunderstand me, but I’m certain a man like you wouldn’t go to dine with friends without changing your shirt at least.’
‘Man like me? Little presumptuous on such short acquaintance, isn’t it?’
Again mildly curious rather than outraged.
‘You’ve known me exactly the same length of time,’ said Pascoe who could play this game till the cows came home and went out again. ‘Yet you feel you know me well enough to decide that whatever it really was that you came here to say might be best left unsaid. How’s that for presumption?’
‘Pretty extreme,’ the major admitted with the hint of a smile. ‘All right. May have been wrong. Still can’t be sure.’
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ said Pascoe. ‘Like another drink?’
Studholme shook his head.
‘Thanks but I’ll wait till I get home and can treat myself to a real nightcap. No offence, excellent orange juice.’
He sat down again, easing his right leg straight out in front of him. Did he have a prosthesis or just some muscle damage? wondered Pascoe. He felt a sympathetic twinge in his own leg damaged when he’d been trapped down Burrthorpe Main. Theoretically he’d made a complete recovery from that traumatic experience. His mind had other ideas.
He said, ‘So what’s the big mystery, major?’
Studholme said, ‘Tell me first of all. Your grandmother, why do you think she wanted her ashes scattered at regimental HQ?’
It was honesty time.
‘Not as a mark of respect, that’s for certain,’ said Pascoe. ‘She hated all things military, and the Wyfies in particular. If I had to guess, I’d say it was the nearest she could get to spitting in somebody’s face.’
‘Any idea why she felt so strongly?’
‘She lost her father in the war.’
‘Millions did.’
‘We all find our own way of dealing with things.’
‘Indeed,’ said the major frowning. ‘Though this was extreme.’
‘But you think you know why.’
‘Not absolutely certain—’
‘I think you are,’ interrupted Pascoe. ‘Perhaps not when you arrived, but now … yet you were going to go without saying anything. Why?’
‘Because of your face when you saw the name on that list. You looked like a man looking at his own tomb. I felt, perhaps it would be better …’

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