Authors: Reginald Hill
"Bloody marvelous," groaned Dalziel. "Which leaves me with a ferret down my trousers."
Meaning, Shirley guessed, that if he kept Turnbull too long, he'd start biting, and if he let him go too soon, he'd be out of sight down the nearest hole.
The Fat Man was regarding her broodingly.
"It was you got onto Turnbull in the first place, right?"
"With Sergeant Wield's help," she said cautiously.
"No. Credit where it's due. You did well. Again."
He didn't make it sound like something he expected her to make a habit of.
"So, what do you reckon to this Turnbull? He were reckoned a bit of a masher back in Dendale. So what's the female view. Still got it, has he?"
"He's ... attractive," she said. "Not physically, I mean, not his appearance, but he's got ... charm."
"Charm?" Dalziel savored the word. "Would kids like him?"
"Oh, yes. I think so."
"And could he like kids?"
"Sexually? I don't know. I'd have said he was pretty well focused on mature women, preferably those who were safely married and were happy to have a fling without wanting to rock the boat. ..."
"But?" said Dalziel, who could spot buts the butters didn't know they were butting.
Novello hesitated, then flung caution to the winds.
"But it could be a double bluff. Or not bluff, meaning not conscious. He could chase women because he doesn't want to admit to himself that he really wants to chase little girls. ..."
The look on Dalziel's face made her wish she could whistle the winds back.
He said, "Well, thank you, Mrs. Freud. You been at the communion wine, or you got half the ghost of a reason for spouting this crap?"
She said defiantly, "He's worried about something, I can tell."
To her ears, it sounded far weaker and wafflier than what she'd said before, but to her surprise Dalziel nodded almost approvingly and said, "Well, that's something. Wieldy?"
"Aye. I'd say so too," said the sergeant.
Novello felt like kissing him. Perhaps he'd turn into a frog?
"Right then, let's go and have a chat afore Hoddle starts ringing the Home Office."
"Shall I come?" said Novello hopefully.
Dalziel thought, then shook his head.
"No," he said. "No distractions." Then, observing the look of disappointment which this time she could not disguise, he condescended to explain. "This Turnbull, I recall him and I know his sort. Women make 'em sparkle. Can't help it. Hang him upside down over a tub of maggots and bring a woman into the room and he'd feel better. I don't want him feeling better. I want him feeling bloody terrified! Come on, Wieldy. And don't forget the maggots!"
And Novello, watching them go, felt almost sorry for Geordie Turnbull.
Three hours later Dalziel was feeling sorry for no one but himself. Also he had a lousy headache.
It was called Dick Hoddle and it wouldn't go away, not unless it took Geordie Turnbull with it.
It didn't help that the interview room made The Book and Candle snug (which he remembered with great longing) look like the Albert Hall. Its one window wouldn't open (the result of paint and rust rather than security), and even with the door left ajar, the temperature in there would have cooked meringues.
Hoddle was clearly a meticulous man. Every hour on the hour he made a case for the interview to end, in progressively stronger terms. This was his third.
"My client has been cooperative beyond the call of civility in each and all of its principal senses. ..."
He paused as if inviting Dalziel to demand definition, but the Fat Man didn't oblige. There had been a time, before tape recorders became a fixed feature of interview rooms, when he might have offered to push each and all of the lawyer's crooked teeth down his crooked throat if he didn't belt up and let his client speak for himself. Not that that would have been altogether fair, as Turnbull on several occasions had volunteered answers against his counsel's advice. But Dalziel wasn't feeling altogether fair, just altogether pissed off.
"... and as it became clear to me, as a reasonable man, a good two hours ago that he had no case to answer, I can only assume that even your good self must by now have reached the same conclusion. You are, of course, entitled to hang on to him for twenty-four hours from the time of his arrest--"
"And another twelve on top of that if I give the word," interjected Dalziel.
"Indeed. But admit it, Superintendent, there is no prospect that you are going to be able to charge my client with anything, so any attempt to prolong the agony might appear merely malicious and would certainly add weight to any case Mr. Turnbull might already be contemplating for police harassment and false arrest."
"No," said Geordie Turnbull firmly. "There'll be nothing of that. Once I'm free of here, I'll be happy not to have any contact with the law in any form for the next fifteen years."
Dalziel noted the time span, tried to hear it as an admission that his urge to kill had gone off and wouldn't be returning for another decade and a half, failed, and scratched his lower chin so vigorously, the sound-level needle on the recorder jumped.
The door opened behind him. He looked round. It was Wield, who'd been summoned out a few minutes earlier by Novello. Not an easy face to read, but to Dalziel's expert eye he didn't look like he'd just ridden from Aix to Ghent.
At least it gave him a temporary out. He suspended the interview, flicked off the machine, and went out into the corridor.
"Cheer me up," he invited.
"They do a nice pint round the corner at the Queen's Head," said Wield with a sympathetic glance at the Fat Man's sweat-beaded brow.
"And that's it?"
"If it's cheer you want, sir. Word from Forensic. That hair on the ribbon, definitely not Lorraine's. And so far nothing else in the car which suggests she's ever been in it. Same with the stuff Novello got from that rubbish bin."
"Shit," said Dalziel.
"You really fancy him for it, do you, sir?"
"When you're in the muck, you fancy whatever you've got, as the gravedigger said to the corpse. God, I hate that bastard. I'd really like to bang him up and throw away the key."
"Turnbull?" said Wield surprised.
"No! Hoddle, his sodding brief. Any more good news?"
"Not from Bixford. If Turnbull stood for MP, he'd get elected. The ladies think he's lovely, the men think he's a grand chap so long as it's not their particular lady he's chatting up. The vicar's ready to pawn the church silver if dear Geordie needs bail. And his congregation would rather trust their kids with Geordie Turnbull than with Dr. Barnado."
"Oh, aye? It'll be a different tale once word starts getting around and the tongues start wagging. These Christians can forgive owt save innocence. You think he's innocent, Wieldy?"
Wield shrugged and said, "Makes no difference, does it? Without we've got a lot more, or even a little more, I think we're flummoxed. How about you, sir?"
"I don't know," said the Fat Man. "There's summat there that doesn't smell right ... he's not mad enough, maybe that's it. Hoddle's threatening all kinds of false arrest shit, but Turnbull's being all laid back and forgiving. And he's from Newcastle! When them buggers finish telling you how many times they won the Cup, they start listing all the bad offside decisions against them since 1893."
"Doubt that'll stand up in court, sir," said Wield.
"Happen not. Owt from Burroughs?"
"Not a thing. They've been right up the valley and back down again. She's waiting to be told what to do next."
Dalziel pondered, his great face brooding like God's over a tricky piece of epeirogeny.
"We'll get 'em off the fell," he said finally. "Hit the buildings again. I want every farmhouse, barn, byre, pigsty, hen coop, garden shed, outside privy, every bloody thing turned upside down. She's close, Wieldy. I feel it."
It would have taken a brave man in search of a medal to point out he'd felt much the same back in Dendale all those years ago, and Wield, though no coward, was equally no pot hunter.
He said, "And Turnbull, sir? Does he walk?"
"Don't be bloody daft! Whatever Hoddle says, he's not leaving here till the twenty-four hours are up. No bugger's going to say I let a possible child killer loose afore I were forced to, not this time."
"No, sir. Novello were wondering if mebbe now things have been going on so long, she could sit in. ..."
"No," said Dalziel irritably. "Besides what I said before, bring a new face in now and Hoddle will be abso-bloody-lutely certain he's got us on the run. Tell her to take the Dendale file and learn it by heart. Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock, Peter had an appointment with yon Plowright woman who runs Social Services. Thought he might get a line on old Mrs. Lightfoot, who's probably dead, but if she's not, then she's the one Benny would want to find if he came back, which I don't believe. Ivor can go along instead."
"Sounds like a waste of time," said Wield.
"Better a DC'S time than a DCI'S," said Dalziel. "Think of the money we'll save. Any word of the little lass, by the way?"
"I rang the hospital," said Wield in a flat voice which concealed the effort of will even that call had required. "No change."
He still hadn't been able to bring himself to try and contact Pascoe direct. That needed to be a face-to-face contact, he told himself. But he wasn't sure he believed himself.
"Life's a bastard, eh, Wieldy?" said Dalziel wearily.
"Yes, sir. And then we die," said Edgar Wield.
And so the second day of the Lorraine Dacre inquiry draws to an end.
As the shadows lengthen, her parents, unable now to bear any company but their own, sit together holding hands in the tiny living room of their cottage, neither of them deriving any comfort from their contact except for the possibility of giving it to the other. Hope has died in both their hearts, and all that remains is the concealment of despair.
Between Peter and Ellie Pascoe, too, there is a silence born of a secret, but the secret here is not the death of hope but its survival. Life without Rosie is unimaginable, so they refuse to imagine it. Like primitives in a cave, they watch darkness running toward them across the fells and know it holds danger, but know also that tomorrow the sun will rise again and make all things well.
And Rosie Pascoe?
Rosie Pascoe is in the nix's cave.
It's dark down here, but a little light filters down the long, winding tunnel leading to the entrance. Gradually her eyes begin to adjust and shapes and textures begin to rise out of the darkness.
She is on the edge of a small pool of black water. At least at first it seems dull black, but as she peers into it, a little of the light from that sunlit world far above runs across its surface, polishing it as it passes, so that the blackness shines like a mirror held up to the night sky.
In that dark mirror she sees the roof of the cave, soaring high above, like the ceiling of a great old cathedral. And up there something moves, not much, just enough to catch her eye.
It is a bat, hanging upside down at the topmost point of that high ceiling.
Rosie shivers and lets her gaze move across the pool to its far margin. And there in its black mirror she sees another face, bright shining eyes, sharp prying nose, a lantern jaw fringed with jagged whiskers, and teeth like a length of ripsaw in the smile-parodying mouth.
She cries out and raises her terrified gaze from the reflection to the reality.
It is the nix himself, crouched opposite on the far bank of the pool. Seeing that he has her attention, the nix slowly raises his left hand, andwitha long, thin finger tapering to a long, sharp nail, he beckons to her.
Rosie shakes her head.
The nix stands up straight. Crouched, he had seemed froglike, a large frog it is true, but with the comforting promise of a frog's awkward movement out of the water. Now he straightens into a tall, thin man whose long legs have brought him halfway round the pool before fear, which has locked her muscles, becomes terror, which releases them, and she scrambles away from him over the stones and bones which litter the floor of the cave.
Her first thought, for despite everything she's still thinking, is to keep the water between them, and for a while she succeeds. But her young limbs are growing tired, and on her third circuit of the pool, it seems that the thin light spilling through the entrance tunnel is brightening to a golden glow as if that distant sun is shining directly on its mouth in the gray fellside far above.
The way is long and hard, she knows, and very steep. In a straight race she doubts if she would have much chance against those long, skinny legs. But the call of the sun is too strong.
She breaks away and heads into the tunnel.
How rocky the ground is! How full of twists and turns the passage! How low the ceiling!
She comforts herself with the thought that what is awkward for her must be very difficult indeed for the nix, but when she risks a glance back she sees him crouched low and squat once more, not like a frog this time, but scuttling along like a huge spider.
The sight gives her new strength. Also the growing brightness, which has in it now not just the light but the warmth of the sun.
She turns another bend. Still far above her, but now clearly visible, she glimpses the tiny circle of blue sky. And as she looks, the blue becomes a frame round a familiar face and she hears a familiar voice crying her name.
"Rosie. Rosie."
"Daddy! Daddy!" she calls back, and strives toward him.
But the scuttling noise behind is very close now. She feels those bony fingers tighten round her ankles, she feels those rapier nails digging into her flesh.
And she sees the circle of blue shrink to a pinhole, then vanish altogether as the nix drags her back down to his gloomy cavern and his black and fathomless pool.
DAY 3 The Drowning of Dendale
Betsy Allgood [PA/WWST11-6-88]
Transcript 2 No. 2 Of 2 Copies
Once it started raining, it rained like it were bent on catching up in a week for all the dry weather we'd had over the past months.