Dalziel And Pascoe: Under World Part 21

Mycroft considered.

'Well,' he said, 'he were a bit quiet, that was all.'

'Quiet?'

'Aye. When I asked him what exactly was wrong with him, he didn't give me a row or owt like that, just said his guts were bad and he felt too ill to work.'

'Normally you'd have expected a bit of lip?'

'From Farr? Too true!'

'You in particular, or any deputy?'

'Oh, any deputy,' said Mycroft a little too quickly.

Dalziel scratched his slab of a cheek. Mycroft watched fascinated as if looking for the moving finger to start writing messages.

'And he said he'd been looking for Satterthwaite?' said the fat man finally.

'It's in my statement.'

'Aye, but you don't give his exact words.'

'He said, "I can't find that c.u.n.t Satterthwaite, so can you tell him I'm taking an early lowse."'

'Lowse?'

'Knock-off.'

'He didn't like Satterthwaite? Or is c.u.n.t a term of endearment round here?'

Mycroft said, 'I don't think they got on too well.'

'Worse than you and Farr?'

'I never said we got on badly!'

'So you didn't. Why'd he not like Satterthwaite?'

'I don't know. They just rubbed each other up the wrong way, I suppose.'

'And you didn't see Satterthwaite any time after you spoke with Farr?'

'No.'

'Would you have expected to?'

'Not necessarily. But I expected to see him in the Cage at knock-off.'

'You usually left the pit together?'

'Not specifically. But officials are ent.i.tled to ride ahead of the men.'

'So normally you're all in the first lift? I bet that's popular,' laughed Dalziel. 'But it didn't bother you that Satterthwaite wasn't there?'

'No. Something could easily have come up at the last minute.'

'I know the feeling,' said Dalziel. 'All right, Mr Mycroft, what do you personally think could have happened?'

'I've no idea,' said Mycroft.

'That's funny,' said Dalziel. 'Me neither.'

He went to the sideboard and picked up the framed wedding photograph again.

'Lovely la.s.s, your missus,' he repeated. 'Tell you what, Mr Mycroft. I'm off next to your Welfare Club. Mebbe you could show me the way? And mebbe, just so's I don't break the law, you could even sign me in as a guest so I could try a pint if I happen to get thirsty.'

Mycroft took the photograph from him and said, if you like.'

Outside Dalziel took in a deep draught of the cool air and asked, 'Is it far?'

'Not too far.'

'Then let's walk it, see the sights, eh?'

Ignoring the police car parked outside Mycroft's semi, he set off down the road with the smaller man at his side. The police driver watched them till they were about fifty yards away, then started to drive slowly after them.

As they descended the hill from the new estate their progress was remarked from behind curtains or by oblique glances from pa.s.sers-by. But when they levelled out into the older central part of the village, where the pebble-dashed semis gave way to brick terraces, the curiosity was blatant to the point of aggressiveness. Mycroft responded by increasing his pace and watching the pavement with a blank stare. Dalziel on the contrary tossed smiles and nods at the onlookers with the all-inclusive beneficence of a pope and appeared unperturbed by the scowls and glowers which bounced back. There were mutterings too, but nothing audible till a round young man with a red face and a beer belly fell into step slightly behind them and said, 'Found your job at last, Gav? Guide dog to the filth!'

Mycroft slowed and would have turned but Dalziel's huge arm urged him irresistibly onward.

'Makes a change from the pickets, us escorting a bobby through the streets, eh, lads?'

This conceit clearly pleased the hearers and several other men fell into step.

'I'll tell you what, Mr Policeman, why are you only talking to b.l.o.o.d.y deputies?' persued the stout youth, encouraged by the reinforcements. 'What's up wi' the rest on us?'

Dalziel shot him a smile radiant with enough love to convert a cannibal and muttered to Mycroft, 'Who's this comedian?'

'Tommy d.i.c.kinson, big mate of Farr's. He's a nothing. All mouth.'

Something of the tone if not the actual wording of this must have reached d.i.c.kinson, who said, 'What's that you're muttering, Gav? No use muttering when you're a big important deputy. You've got to shout right loud, so that they can hear you on pit-top, so that your own missus can hear you back in village, even if she's got her knees over her ears!'

Again Mycroft would have stopped. Again Dalziel's arm was stronger than the deputy's anger. By now, attracted by the prospect of a bit of bother, there was a crowd of approaching fifty men in close formation behind the leading trio. Their jeering remarks were still just on the right side of good-natured to a man with a deaf ear and a forgiving temperament. But Tommy d.i.c.kinson, feeling the leadership of this small insurrection was at stake, turned up the heat of his personal contribution.

'You'll get nowt but a load of lies from that b.u.g.g.e.r, Mr Policeman,' he yelled. 'He's got no cause to love Col, except mebbe second-hand cause. What've you got on Col anyway? Nowt! And you can bring in your bloodhounds and your foreskin scientists and you'll still not find owt. And something else, Mr Fat b.l.o.o.d.y Policeman: if you're going to say Col didn't get on with Satterthwaite, then you'd better lock up every b.u.g.g.e.r in this town 'cause none of 'em did, excepting a few a.r.s.e-lickers like that guide dog of yours. Wuff! wuff! f.u.c.king wuff!'

They swept into the small forecourt of the Miners' Social and Welfare Club. A flight of three shallow steps led to the front door which was firmly closed. Dalziel with Mycroft at his side went up the steps while the crowd halted at their foot. Dalziel tried the door, confirmed it was locked, and hammered his clenched fist against the woodwork with sufficient force to impress most of the watchers.

'Fat b.u.g.g.e.r must be desperate for a drink,' proclaimed d.i.c.kinson. 'He'll be out of luck, I reckon. Coppers never pay for their own and Gav there's forgotten where his pocket is. So unless Pedro's feeling generous, you'll have to do without a wet note this shift, Mr Policeman, sir.'

Dalziel turned. His size and elevation permitted him to look over the crowd. He could see his car across the street. His driver had his radio mike at his mouth. Their eyes met. Slowly Dalziel shook his head. His judgement was that this gang were still here for the entertainment, but he knew it wouldn't take much to stir up all the residual distrust and dislike of the police into a riot. The sound of fast approaching sirens might be enough. 'What are you shaking tha head at, mister?' demanded d.i.c.kinson. 'Are you calling me a liar like you called my marra a liar?"

'Nay,' said Dalziel, 'I don't know about your marra, lad, but as for you, aye, certainly I'm calling you a liar.'

A great silence fell, broken only by the sounds of the Club door being unbolted and unlocked whose beginnings Dalziel had caught a few moments earlier. The men were looking at Tommy d.i.c.kinson. It was his show. He'd been given a cue which in normal circ.u.mstances could only be answered by violence or at least its threat. If he took a swing at Dalziel now, the whole village would probably explode. d.i.c.kinson hesitated, not through any weighing and a.s.sessing of action and consequence, but simply because he suddenly became aware that for the first time in his working life, he was Number One, the team leader, the man everyone was looking to for a lead. He felt the onset of stage-fright. At this point Neil Wardle, who had just joined the onlookers, called from the back, 'Don't be daft, Tommy. It's not worth it,' and began forcing his way forward.

Wardle's words did what cries of encouragement might have failed to do. To back away now was probably to back out of the limelight for ever. Putting his foot on the lower step, he clenched his fists and twisting his amiable features into as ferocious an expression as possible he said, 'You'd best take that back, you fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

Nay,' said Dalziel, all injured, 'I'll call any man a liar who says I can't get a drink anywhere in Yorkshire.'

Behind him the door opened and Pedro Pedley said, 'What the h.e.l.l's going on here? Who the h.e.l.l are you?'

'Detective-Superintendent Andrew Dalziel, and I want a drink.'

'Well, you can't have one,' growled Pedley. 'First we're not open, that's the Law; and second you're not a member, that's the Rules.'

'Now hang on,' said Dalziel. 'We'll soon put that right. First you are open 'cause I am the Law, and second I'm here as a guest of a member, and them's the Rules.'

'Whose guest? Yours, Gav?'

'What? Drink with a deputy?' cried Dalziel indignantly. 'What are you saying, lad? No, I'm the personal guest of my friend Mr d.i.c.kinson here. Come on, Tommy. Get me signed in before I die of thirst.'

And stooping, he swung the sixteen stone of the amazed miner up on to the top step beside him and, with a fraternal arm round his shoulder, urged him through the door.

'Here, Pedro, are you really open?' called a voice.

Pedro shrugged and said, 'Looks like it.'

'Well, f.u.c.k me. Just goes to show, nowt's completely useless, not even a cop!'

There was a roar of appreciative laughter and the men poured over the threshold, jostling and joking.

Soon only Neil Wardle remained.

'Not coming in, Neil?' asked Pedley. 'We'll not get into bother, not with that fat b.u.g.g.e.r in there.'

'I reckon he may be more bother than this town's ever known,' said Wardle slowly. 'Pedro, how's Maggie?'

'She's gone off to stay with her mam in Barnsley. It'll probably kill the old la.s.s. She thought the sun shone out of Harold's a.r.s.ehole. She never had as much time for Maggie and reckoned she got what she deserved when she got me. I think she blamed us both for what happened when . . . you know, our Tracey. Mebbe they can comfort each other this time.'

'I didn't know it was like that,' said Wardle. 'I'm sorry.'

Pedro, you realize they'll probably start talking about Tracey again, the cops, and everyone.'

'That's another good reason for having Maggie out of the way,' said Pedley. 'Me, I can take it. If I snap I'll just thump some b.u.g.g.e.r. Maggie could go right over the edge if she had to go through that again.'

'It's a pig of a world, Pedro,' said Wardle.

From inside came a cry. 'If this place is open, why's there no b.u.g.g.e.r serving drink?'

'Someone should tell that lot in there,' said Pedley bitterly.

'Never fear,' said Wardle. 'Living round here, most on 'em will find out for themselves sooner or later. Let's get inside, Pedro. I think I'd like a closer look at that fat cop. He'll bear watching, that one, and I don't want Tommy talking himself any deeper in trouble.'

'You reckon he's in trouble, do you?' asked Pedley, leading the way through into the bar.

'The way that b.u.g.g.e.r picked him up like he'd been tickling a trout?' said Wardle. 'Oh yes. He's ready to be b.u.t.tered and fried, is Tommy, and served up for breakfast with a sprig of parsley in his gills!'

Chapter 14.

Wield's job that morning had been to backtrack Colin Farr. The crashed motorbike had been recovered and the sergeant used its location as his starting-point. He was riding his own machine, a lovely old BSA Rocket. In the past, without making a state secret out of it, he'd tended to keep his bike and his job in separate compartments, but recently he had started to use it not only to get to work but, when the occasion demanded, on the job. He wondered if this was some kind of symbolic gesture to reinforce his rather muted coming-out, but having long since acknowledged the fruitlessness of self-a.n.a.lysis, he didn't wonder much. Today, tracing the route of a man on a motorcycle, it was the obvious choice of transport.

But first he walked, taking the shortest way along the network of narrow roads from the scene of the accident to the telephone kiosk where Farr had waited for Ellie Pascoe. There was something here not right. He liked Mrs Pascoe but his judgement was that her heart ruled her head and that whenever she felt a pressure from society or self-interest to act in a certain way, her tendency would be to rush off in the opposite direction.

Wield smiled, without visible evidence. Self-a.n.a.lysis might be a waste of time and spirit, but chopping up other people's minds was fun.

He returned his own mind to the job in hand.

It had taken him twenty minutes to walk from the scene of the accident to the kiosk. That was the time of a fit man in daylight knowing where he was going. He noted it down with the qualification that Farr might have taken as much as twice as long. And there was no knowing how long he may have lain stunned after the crash.

In other words it was probably all a waste of time, but Wield had long since learned to leave inspired short-cuts and quantum leaps to them with the rank to cushion their shortfall.

He returned to his bike, his eyes still searching for signs of Farr's pa.s.sage, but there was a marked absence of bloodstains and footprints, and it needed woodlore more skilled than his to read anything into bent gra.s.s on the verge or broken twigs in the hedgerow.

Back at his bike he studied his map, made a decision and mounted. Here his judgement proved excellent. The first pub he called at was full of traces of Farr's pa.s.sage which the landlord pointed to with a kind of melancholy pride.

He came in, asked for a pint and it went down without touching the sides. It were only then I started realizing how cut he were. He banged the gla.s.s down, said, "Another," and I said, "Is that a good idea?" and he leaned across the bar, and, you see that jar full of ten p's? Well, that were a column for the Cancer Research till his elbow caught it. I said, "Out!" and fair dos, he didn't answer back, but he knocked that stool over as he turned and it caught that table and spilled someone's drink. He didn't seem to notice. It were like he weren't really in the same world as the rest of us. He just set off through the door. I heard a bike start up and I thought: Good riddance if he runs into a wall and breaks his b.l.o.o.d.y neck!'

Wield said, 'You didn't think of ringing the police?'

'What for? They'd just come in here, all b.u.t.tons and gob, frighten off me regulars, sup a couple of free pints, then b.u.g.g.e.r off home with nowt done that's any benefit to me!'

Wield acknowledged defeat, noted all relevant details and pursued his errant task. He missed out on the next two pubs but at the third, the Pendragon Arms, a large roadhouse about ten miles out of Burrthorpe, he struck lucky again. Colin Farr's arrival had been too quiet for anyone to be precise about the time. The landlord's wife had been the first to notice just how much liquor he seemed bent on putting away.

'It was non-stop. Every second person I served was him, at least that's how it felt. But he were quiet enough, a good-looking lad too, he looked a bit down in the mouth, I thought. I bet he's been stood up, I said to myself. I said to him, "Cheer up. It may never happen." And he said, "It has b.l.o.o.d.y happened. But you're right about one thing. Up's the direction. I'll not go down again. There's more dead than living down there. How much would they need to pay you to work with dead men, love?" I said, "I do it for nothing, have you seen my Charlie!" And we had a laugh.'

She laughed again in memory or ill.u.s.tration, and Wield thrust a question into the gap.

'How long did he stay?'

'Half an hour, mebbe. Just went like that. I glimpsed him in the pa.s.sage using the phone...'