Dalziel And Pascoe: Under World Part 31

'Best be sure.'

And raising his foot he drove his heel with great force against the lock.

The boot flew open. There was nothing there that didn't belong in a boot.

'I hope he's got good expenses,' said Pascoe.

'He'll need 'em if the b.u.g.g.e.r's up there, queering my Pitch,' said Dalziel.

They all looked up the track to where along the looming ridge desperate fingers of light were still scrabbling for purchase. Even here, by the car, with the Welfare's chimneys still visible, industrial South Yorkshire seemed a long way away and Pascoe thought coldly that this was a wilderness long before man had made it so and these had been hills under which a lost traveller could dream and never waken.

'You coming or not?' demanded Dalziel, who was already ten yards ahead in close pursuit of Swift.

Reluctantly Pascoe set out after them.

A few yards further on, Swift said, 'Look, sir. That'll be Downey's bike.'

Dalziel put his hand on it.

'Seat still warm,' he said in his best Sherlockian manner. 'We can't be far behind.'

Now the track became a path. Pascoe glanced back. No sign of the cars nor even of the bike, surely they couldn't have come so far so soon? He hurried on, suddenly fearful of being left behind in this frightful dark wood in which mist was beginning to drift like the fetid exhalations of some lurking troll. What was he doing here, for G.o.d's sake? It occurred to him that he had never laid eyes on Colin Farr! What a great qualification for a searcher! If someone dropped down out of a tree in front of him at this very moment, he wouldn't know if it were Farr or some pa.s.sing primate.

His acceleration had brought him up against the other two. For the simple sake of hearing a voice, he said, 'Sir, I don't even know . . .'

'Shh! We're almost there,' hissed Dalziel. He was peering ahead and upwards to where the mist seemed to have concentrated at the far end of a narrow glade. Pascoe strained his eyes and became aware that in fact the area of whiteness was not all mist but a patchy overhanging outcrop of striated limestone. Presumably this was the famous White Rock, not much to write home about, not perhaps unless you spent your days digging black rock out of the earth.

A choking cry cut through his thoughts, there was a flurry of movement at the foot of the overhang, and Dalziel lumbered forward a few steps, shouting. If it was meant to be rea.s.suring, Pascoe couldn't blame anyone for missing the point. A writhing shadow separated, became two men, one upright, one p.r.o.ne. The upright figure took a couple of steps towards them. One of the last drowning fingers of light caressed his face. It was so young, so defiant, so despairing. So beautiful. Here he was at last, the marvellous boy. The phrase no longer a mockery. I was fooling myself when I said I'd never recognize him. I'd have picked him out in a riot.

The p.r.o.ne man was pushing at the earth like an ageing athlete trying for his fiftieth press-up.

The young man stooped and ran his hands over the ground in search of something. He seemed to take the sunlight with him and the p.r.o.ne man was revealed as Arthur Downey. Sergeant Swift took advantage of Farr's distraction to move forward saying, 'It's all right, son. We know it wasn't you. It's all right, believe me. You know me, don't you? It's Sergeant Swift.'

He was almost on top of the crouching man. It was going to be all right, thought Pascoe. Back down the hill, apologies all round, drinks in the club, back home for supper.

'Oh yes,' said Colin Farr. 'I know you, Sergeant Swift. You're very handy with your stick.'

And in one lithe movement he uncoiled. In his hand he grasped a rubber-covered torch. Swift ducked away but his reflexes were no match for the young man's speed; and the torch crashed against the side of his neck with a noise like a mallet on meat. The sergeant staggered sideways, collided with Downey who was still trying to push himself off the ground, and the two of them went over in a blackly comic tangle of limbs.

Pascoe found he couldn't move but Dalziel was rushing forward now yelling, 'Farr, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' For a moment the young man looked as if he might stand his ground. Then he smiled, turned, and with an easy unhurried grace which nevertheless left Dalziel lumbering like a man in a mora.s.s, he loped away into the trees.

Now Pascoe's strength returned. He rushed forward. Dalziel was stooping over Swift. 'Get after the b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' he shouted at Pascoe more in frustration than expectation, or so the Inspector decided as he helped Arthur Downey to sit up. The man looked at him without any recognition.

His face was bleeding and there was some bruising round the throat. A broad-bladed knife lay on the turf between his feet, but the visible damage seemed to have come from blows rather than stabs.

'It's me, Mr Downey. Inspector Pascoe. We met at Mrs Farr's. What happened here?'

'Nothing. I don't know.' He was clearly still confused. Pascoe said, 'Take it easy for a second,' and turned to Dalziel who was kneeling by Swift.

'Is he OK?' he said anxiously.

'He'll live,' said Dalziel. 'But he's going to have a stiffer neck than a fossilized giraffe!'

The sergeant tried to say something, only managed a grunt, then reached into his tunic and plucked out his personal radio.

'Good thinking, lad,' said Dalziel. 'How's your patient, Peter?'

Downey answered for himself.

'What are you lot doing here? Did that foreign woman tell you?'

Ellie. That foreign woman. Would there be a time when he could tell her this and laugh? Pascoe said, 'She had to. Colin Farr's off the hook, you see. We know he didn't kill Satterthwaite, so there's no reason for him to be running around up here.'

'Was off the hook,' Dalziel corrected grimly. 'All we had on him earlier was suspicion of topping a deputy which rates at slightly less than a misdemeanour round here. Now it's a.s.saulting a police officer and that's really serious.'

He switched the radio to 'transmit'.

'What are you going to do?' asked Pascoe.

'What I should have done before. Whistle up some reinforcements. I've tried it soft, and even if I felt inclined to try it soft again, we can't. This time we don't know where he is.'

'I know where he'll be,' said Downey unexpectedly.

Once again Dalziel lowered the radio.

'You do?' he said.

'Pretty certain,' said Downey, 'It's the obvious place he'll hide.'

Suddenly Pascoe felt himself converted to Dalziel's previous viewpoint.

'Why'd he attack you, Mr Downey?' he said in an attempt at diversion.

'G.o.d knows,' said Downey. 'Why's that mad b.u.g.g.e.r ever do anything?'

'He likely backtracked you a bit to be on the safe side,' said Dalziel. 'When he spotted us back along the path, he must have thought you'd brought us with you. Can you take us to this hiding place, Mr Downey? I mean, are you fit enough?'

'Aye, I'm fit.'

'But what about the sergeant?' said Pascoe.

To his dismay Swift had a fit of n.o.bility and croaked, 'OK. Go down by self.'

'No way,' said Dalziel to Pascoe's relief.

But it was short-lived. The fat man started bellowing into the radio till he got a startled response.

'Superintendent Dalziel,' he said. 'Send a bit of support up to the White Rock in Gratterley Wood, would you? Sergeant Swift's got himself slightly injured. Nothing serious but I don't want him walking around here by himself. Send a couple of strong lads to see him safely home. Inspector Pascoe and I are continuing our search for Mr Colin Farr. Chief Inspector Wishart has all details. Out.'

He returned the radio to Swift.

'There you are, lad. See if you can get Luxemburg while you're waiting. And take that knife down with you for Forensic to check out.'

'Sir,' said Pascoe. 'It's getting very dark. Shouldn't we perhaps ask for some lights and a tannoy?'

'What are you planning, lad? To hold a dance? You've got your torch, I've got mine. And Mr Downey here can probably see in the dark. Lead on, Macduff. The sooner we find this madman, the sooner we can all get home to our beds.'

Pascoe's reluctance was more than compensated by Downey's eagerness. He was away so quickly that Dalziel cried, 'Hold on!' and said to Pascoe, 'Move your a.r.s.e, lad, or we're going to lose ourselves another miner!'

Pascoe whose night eyes were never particularly good soon felt himself completely out of touch with their guide, but Dalziel ploughed ahead with apparent confidence. The pale gleam from the torches showed no path beneath their feet, the trees seemed to be pressing together, and the thickening mist to have a strong odour of decay. At last Downey came to a stop and let them catch up.

'All right,' said Dalziel, 'I'm getting too old for this kind of sport. Where the h.e.l.l are you taking us?'

'Nowhere,' said Downey.

'Eh?'

'We're here.'

The two policemen looked round. The little there was to see was indistinguishable from what there had been to see for the last ten minutes. Trees and mist and undergrowth.

'Where?' said Dalziel.

'Here,' said Downey impatiently.

He stopped and started to pull at a clump of gorse bushes. They parted easily and he said with satisfaction, 'I knew it. He's been through here.'

'Where the f.u.c.k's here!' roared Dalziel.

But Pascoe staring into the even darker darkness revealed beyond the bushes was having his worst suspicions confirmed.

'It's a drift,' said Downey. 'Well, it leads into a drift. Original entry got filled in donkey's years ago. They all did eventually, but there's still ways. This ridge is riddled with workings. First mining in Burrthorpe were all done this side of the valley.'

'I've had the history lesson,' growled Dalziel. 'What makes you think Farr's gone in here and not in some other hole?'

'Look, this is where he'll be,' said Downey impatiently. 'I've seen him coming out of here. And I can tell someone's been through here recently. Give us one of your torches and I'll go in after him and try to talk some sense into him.'

'Hold on! Just how far does this drift go?'

'Far as you like,' said Downey. 'G.o.d knows what it links up with. But not much over a furlong on the level.'

'You mean that? Level?'

'More or less,' said Downey.

Pascoe did not like the way this discussion was going. He had an ingrained dislike of dark confined places which he suspected could readily develop into a full-blown hysterical phobia, given encouragement. He could have embraced Downey when the man argued, 'Look, I'm used to being underground. Besides, Colin's more likely to take notice of me alone. You two wait here till I get back.'

'He didn't seem inclined to take much notice of you at the White Rock,' said Dalziel.

Oh G.o.d. Let this be token resistance, prayed Pascoe.

But G.o.d was deaf behind the drifting mist.

'No,' said Dalziel, making up his mind. 'Can't let you go in there alone, Mr Downey. More than my job's worth. And as long as it's level, a bit of blackness won't hurt us, will it, Peter? Lead on, Mr Downey and let's see what we can find.'

He handed Downey his torch. The man shrugged but didn't argue. Stooping, he stepped forward into the dark cavern. Dalziel followed close behind.

Pascoe still hesitated on the threshold. It was stupid to let some absurd police machismo prevent him from confessing his fear.

'Come on, lad! Hurry up with that torch o' thine, will you?'

He took a deep breath, glanced up at the sky. G.o.d might be deaf but he wasn't humourless. Even as he looked the mist was drawn up as though by a sharp intake of breath prior to a good belly laugh, and the sky scintillated with a million stars.

'Oh s.h.i.t.' said Pascoe. And stepped into the dark.

Chapter 7.

It wasn't as bad as he'd feared, he a.s.sured himself. A man could walk almost upright in here and there was the occasional draught of cold air like a lifeline with the outside world. Nor was there much chance of getting lost. After the initial narrow squeeze, they'd found themselves in a tunnel which took them straight forward with no sign of any side pa.s.sage in the torch's bright cone, though it did seem to be descending rather more sharply than Downey had promised.

Dalziel was just ahead. At least he a.s.sumed that hunching hulk was still Dalziel and not some time-travelled troglodyte luring him to its bone-strewn lair.

'Sir,' he whispered. 'Sir!'

'What the h.e.l.l are you muttering about, lad?' said Dalziel irritatedly over his shoulder.

'You shouldn't make too much noise in places like this,' said Pascoe defensively.

'Oh aye. You an expert or something?'

No, but I've seen a lot of movies where people made too much noise, was Pascoe's proper reply.

He said, 'Shouldn't we try to make contact? I mean, we're never going to actually catch up with him, not unless this all comes to a dead end, are we?'

'You mean you want to start shouting to the lad? I thought you were worried about making too much noise just now?'

'I just think we ought to do something,' said Pascoe desperately. Though he couldn't be absolutely certain, he thought he sensed a slight curve developing in the tunnel. Also those comforting draughts of fresh air seemed less frequent here.

'What do you suggest?' said Dalziel.

Pascoe examined his thoughts, tried to separate proper procedure from personal terror, came to an identical conclusion in both cases, and said, 'I think one of us ought to go back and get this thing properly organized.'

Ahead, Dalziel halted, sighed deeply, turned with difficulty, the better, Pascoe guessed, to administer a rebuke.