Authors: Reginald Hill
Like Traffic, you mean, thought Dalziel.
He rose, smiling.
"Well, thanks for your help, sir. One thing, but. You obviously knew about the missing lass, through the papers and having to change your concert venue and all. And you knew you'd been out there Sunday morning. Did you never think it might be an idea to give us a bell, just in case your vehicle had been noticed and we were spending time trying to eliminate it?"
Wulfstan stood up and said, "You are right, Mr. Dalziel. I should have done. But knowing the questions you would ask, and knowing that nothing I said could assist you in any way, I felt that contacting you would simply be a waste of both our times. As it has proved, I fear."
"Wouldn't say that, sir. Wouldn't say that at all," said Dalziel offering his hand.
He gave him a Masonic handshake just for a laugh. He liked people to think the worst of him, because then the best often came as an unpleasant surprise.
"Tell Mrs. Wulfstan thanks for the drink. Hope the concert goes okay," he said at the front door. "Have you found somewhere else, by the by? Thought mebbe you'd use the church."
This echo of what had happened in Dendale produced no perceivable reaction.
"Unfortunately St. Michael's has an intolerable acoustic," said Wulfstan. "But religion may still come to our aid. There's an old chapel which is a possibility."
"Chapel?" said Dalziel doubtfully. "From what I know of chapel folk, I should have thought this concert of thine would have been a bit too frivolous."
"Mahler frivolous? Hardly. But profane, perhaps. However, happily, for us that is, the chapel is no longer used for worship. The sect that built it, the Beulah Baptists, I believe they were called, died out in this area before the war."
"Beulah?" said Dalziel. "Like in Pilgrim's Progress?"
"You've read it?" said Wulfstan, keeping his surprise just this side of insulting. "Then you will recall that from the Land of Beulah the pilgrims were summoned to go over the river into Paradise, for some an easy, for others a perilous passage."
"But they all got there just the same," said Dalziel. "When they tasted of the water over which they were to go, they thought it tasted a little bitterish to the palate, but it proved sweeter when it was down. Bit like Guinness."
"Indeed. Well, it seems these Mid-Yorkshire Beulah Baptists, taking their example from Bunyan's text, went in for a form of total immersion which involved converts passing from one side of a river to the other. The river they used locally was the Strake, which, as you may know, is moderately deep and extremely fast flowing. The candidates for baptism were therefore aided by a pair of elders known, from the book, as Shining Ones. Unfortunately at one ceremony in the late thirties, the river was in such spate that not even the strength of the Shining Ones was able to withstand it, and they and their baptismal candidate, a ten-year-old boy, were swept away and drowned. Local revulsion was so great that the sect withered away after that. I'm surprised you have not heard of the case. The police were accounted much to blame for their incompetence in allowing such a dangerous activity to persist. But perhaps with only one child dying, it was not reckoned a failure to mark down in the annals."
Dalziel, who had been wondering if the revelation of shared acquaintance with The Pilgrim's Progress had modified Wulfstan's attitude to him, realized that he'd got it wrong. But a soft answer turned away wrath.
"And you reckon this chapel might do?" he said.
"Local memory avers that as a place to sing in it had no equal. Whether it can be rendered usable in so short a space remains to be seen. For some years now it's been rented by a local joiner for use as a workshop. You may recall him. Joe Telford from Dendale."
Oh, shit. He didn't let up, did he? Dalziel, for whom the study of revenge and immortal hate was among his favorite hobbies, almost admired the man.
"Telford," he echoed, playing along. "Him whose daughter ..."
"That's right, Mr. Dalziel. Him whose daughter. Telford moved his business to Danby, but by all accounts his heart was never in it. It was his brother, George--you remember him?--who held things together. Joe became increasingly reclusive. His marriage suffered. Eventually his wife could take no more. She went off. With George."
He spoke flatly, with a lack of emphasis that was more emphatic than a direct accusation that this tragedy, too, was down to police incompetence.
"That must have been a shaker," said Dalziel.
"They say Joe hardly noticed."
"And the business?"
"Joe does nothing but a bit of odd-jobbing now, I believe. But he still has a lease on the Beulah Chapel. If he's agreeable and we can get his junk moved, the place cleaned up and certificated by the fire officer in forty-eight hours, then we can go ahead. As a voluntary and amateur body, we have to rely on ourselves to do most of the work, so if I've seemed a little impatient ..."
The ghost of an apology. Funny how folk imagined they had the power to give, and he the thin skin to take, offense.
"Nay, I know all about pressure," said Dalziel.
They shook hands. Level on points. But Dalziel knew in his heart that no matter what happened in his encounters with this man, he could never count himself the winner. Mary Wulfstan had been the last of the Dendale girls to go. By then he'd been on the spot for long enough to have taken care of that. You've got a strong suspect and you're running out of time, break the bugger's leg rather than let him loose. He remembered with affection the old boss who'd given him that advice. Perhaps if he'd contrived an "accident" as Benny Lightfoot was brought up from the cells to be released, Mary Wulfstan would still be alive. ...
He put the thought out of his mind and let it be replaced by another as he was escorted to the front door.
Driving into and through Danby yesterday morning, Wulfstan must have seen the BENNY'S BACK! signs. Why'd he not mentioned them?
It was worth asking, perhaps. He turned. The door was almost closed, but he did nothing to prevent it closing. His gaze had brushed across his car parked a little way down the street, and all desire to resume his interrogation fled.
There was a figure standing by it looking toward him.
He blinked against the dazzle of the sun, and felt a surge of heat up his body which had nothing to do with the weather.
It was the woman he'd glimpsed in Wulfstan's committee meeting. The woman to whom he owed his tenuous acquaintance with Mahler. And much, much more.
She watched his approach with a faint smile on her full lips.
"How do, Andy?" she said. "What fettle?"
Her imitation of his speech mode was unmistakable, but, unlike Elizabeth Wulfstan's wrongly suspected mockery, unresentable. Piss taking between lovers, even ex-lovers, was an expression of intimacy, of true affection.
"Nowt wrong wi' me that the sight of you plus two pints of best can't put right, Cap," he said.
Amanda Marvell, known to her friends as Cap, let her smile blossom fully and held out her hand.
"Then let's go and complete the medication, shall we?" she said.
Stirps End Farm lay in the sun like an old ship on a sandbank, lapped around by thistled meadows and surging fell. Everything about the farmhouse and its yard said, "We have lost, you have won, leave us be, here to rot, washed by rain, parched by sun. Trouble us not and we'll not trouble thee."
They pushed open a gate hanging off its hinges, though they could as easily have stepped through the dry stone wall at several places where its fallen stones lay cradled in nettles.
"Don't know much about farming," said Pascoe. "But this looks like second-division stuff."
"Cedric were always a make-do-and-mend kind of farmer," replied Clark. "But recent years, he's just stuck to making do."
"And you reckon Pontifex gave him the tenancy out of guilt?" said Pascoe, looking round with distaste at the rusting relicts of agricultural machinery which littered the yard. "Lot of guilt to put up with this for fifteen years."
"Lose a kid, what's fifteen years?" said Clark.
Pascoe felt reproved. Out of the barn, which was a continuation of the house and seemed to lean against it for mutual support, a man had emerged and was standing in the dark rhomboid of its warped doorway, regarding them with weary hostility.
"What you after, Nobby?" he demanded.
His voice was harsh and grating, as if from long disuse. He was unageable without expert medical testimony, anything between forty and sixty, with a sharp nose, hollow cheeks, and a salt-and-pepper-stubbled chin indicating an early beard or a very late shaving. He was broad in the shoulder and the hip, but the frayed and patched coveralls he wore hung loosely on him, giving the impression of a big man who'd somehow collapsed in on himself.
"How do, Cedric. This here's Chief Inspector Pascoe. We'd like a word with Jed."
"At work, if that's what you can call it," said Hardcastle. "You'd think there was nowt to do round here."
It would take a great leap of the imagination, or no imagination at all, to think that, thought Pascoe.
"No, he's here, Sergeant," said a woman's voice.
In the doorway of the farmhouse a woman had appeared. She was small and neat and had been baking. Her hands were floured and she wore a dark blue apron over a gray dress. Her long hair was tied up in a square of blue silk, giving a wimpled effect. Indeed with her gray dress and above all a stillness of body and softness of voice which seemed to reflect some deep calm within, she could have passed for a nun.
"How do, Mrs. Hardcastle?" said Clark. "All right if we come in?"
Pascoe noted the formality of their exchange, contrasting with the use of first names man to man. But he got the impression that there was little correlation between form of address and warmth of feeling here. On the contrary.
It was a relief to step out of the hot dung-scented air of the yard into the cool interior, but the contrast didn't stop at temperature. Here was no sign of neglect. On the contrary, everything was neat and cherished, the old oak furniture glowed with that depth which only comes from an age of loving polishing, and brass candlesticks shone on the long wooden mantelshelf flanking almost religiously a large head-and-shoulders photograph of a young girl. Other pictures of the same child were visible; in the nook by the fireplace where in old times a salt box would have stood, and on each of two low windowsills which also held vases of wildflowers, among which Pascoe recognized foxgloves and hawk's-beard, glowing like candles lit to light a lost sailor home.
"You'll take a glass of lemon barley against the warm," said the woman.
"Can't think of anything I'd like more," said Pascoe.
She called, "Jed. Visitors," up the stone stair which rose at one end of the long low-beamed room, then went out into the kitchen.
For a few moments there was no sound. Then, just as Mrs. Hardcastle returned bearing a tray with glasses and a pot jug, footsteps clattered down the stairs and a young man erupted into the room.
He had nothing of his father's wariness or mother's calm, but emanated nervous energy even when he stood still, which was not often. He was slightly built, dressed in a black T-shirt and the kind of tight-fitting jeans which gave a male profile once only enjoyed by aficionados of the ballet. What happened if you got excited? wondered Pascoe.
"Yeah?" said the youth staring defiantly at Clark.
"Nice to see you, too, Jed," said the sergeant. "Couple of questions we'd like to ask. About Saturday night."
The youngster's stare had moved round to Pascoe, who was drinking his lemon barley and finding it as cool and refreshing as a thirsty cop could desire.
"Who's this? Your minder?"
Trying too hard to sound big, thought Pascoe. Especially for a boy who hadn't run any farther from the estate office than home. It had been his intention to stand back and let Clark's local knowledge have room to play. But with the weak it was often familiarity that gave strength, and Clark's most effective interrogatory weapon, which seemed to be a clip round the ear, could hardly be used in present company.
He stepped closer to the youth and said pleasantly, "I'm Detective Chief Inspector Pascoe. I'm making inquiries into the disappearance of a young girl yesterday morning. How old are you, Jed?"
"Seventeen, just turned." He shot an enigmatically accusing glance at his mother, then went on. "You gonna send me a card or something?"
"No," said Pascoe equably. "Just want to check you're an adult in the eyes of the law. That way we don't need to bother your parents to accompany you down to the station. Sergeant, bring him."
He turned away. Mrs. Hardcastle looked like he'd just condemned her son to death. Her husband stood in the doorway, his features working angrily. Even Clark looked shell-shocked.
Pascoe halted his progress to the door, turned back, and said, "Of course, if you answer a couple of questions here, we may not need to trouble you further. Who actually did the spraying? It's always interesting to see if the stories match. Was it you or Kittle?"
It worked. The boy said, "You been talking to Vern? What's he say?"
Pascoe smiled enigmatically and said, "Well, you know Vern."
"What the hell's this mad bugger on about?"
Hardcastle senior had found his voice at last.
Pascoe said, "I'm talking about the words BENNY'S BACK!, sprayed by your son and his mate on the old railway bridge and various other sites around the village. And in view of the fact that Lorraine Dacre went missing yesterday morning, I'm interested to know why he sprayed them."
"It had nowt to do with that," protested the boy. "We did it Saturday night. We knew nowt about the Dacre lass then."
"So why'd you do it?" demanded Pascoe. "Just got an urge, did you? Thought it would be funny? Maybe seeing those words put the idea of taking the girl in someone's mind. Maybe it put it in your mind or Vernon's mind. ..."
"No!" screamed the boy. "I did it 'cos I've had it up to here with Benny fucking Lightfoot. He's been around this house all my life. Take a look around, see if you can find a picture of me or our June. No, there's nowt but our Jenny who got took by Benny Lightfoot all them years ago. We even have a cake for her on her birthday, candles and all, can you believe that? Well, it were my birthday on Saturday and I tret myself to a long lie-in and I got up at dinnertime, thinking there'd be presents and cards like, and a special meal, and what did I find, I found bugger all! I found Mam sitting there trembling and Dad raging like a mad thing and you know why? She'd been out and seen Benny Lightfoot! My birthday, and all I get is--He's back, Benny's back! So I took off out and later I was having a few beers with Vern and he said, "Well, if he's back, let's tell the whole fucking world, see if we can't spoil some other fucker's birthday.""