it this way, but it had all seemed to develop naturally from the site and the situation. And after years of a carefully disciplined and structured life, he sensed that what lay ahead was a new era of playing things by ear. Unless, of course, this boy could simply be frightened away.
‘Look, you’ve got it all wrong, or maybe you’re pretending to get it wrong … Like I said, I’m a friend of Maurice’s …’
‘Maurice who? I don’t know any Maurices.’
‘Maurice Eaton!’
‘Eaton? Like the school? Who’s he when he’s at home?’
And now the youth was stung to anger.
Leaning with both hands on the desk, he yelled, ‘Maurice Eaton, that’s who he is! You used to fuck each other, so don’t give me this crap! I’ve seen the photos, I’ve seen the letters. Are you listening to me, Macumazahn? I’m a friend of Maurice Eaton’s and like any friend of a friend might, I thought I’d look you up. But if it’s shit-on-auld-acquaintance time, I’ll just grab my bag and move on out. All right?’
Wield sat quite still. Beneath the unreadable roughness of his face, a conflict of impulses raged.
Self-interest told him the best thing might be to spell out what a misery the boy’s life was likely to be if he hung around in mid-Yorkshire, and then escort him gently to the next long-distance coach in any direction and see him off. Against this tugged guilt and self-disgust. Here he was, this youth, a friend of the only man that Wield had ever thought of as his own friend, in the fullest, most open as well as the deepest, most personal sense of the word, and how was he treating him? With suspicion, and hate, using his professional authority to support a personal - and squalid - impulse.
And also, somewhere down there was another feeling, concerned with both pride and survival - an apprehension that sending this boy away was no real solution to his long-term dilemma, and in any case, if the youth meant trouble, he could as easily stir it up from the next phone box on the A1 as from here.
‘What’s your name, lad?’ said Wield.
‘Cliff,’ said the young man sullenly, ‘Cliff Sharman.’
Wield switched on the table lamp and the corners of the room sprang into view. None was a pretty sight, but in one of them stood an old folding chair.
‘All right, Cliff,’ said Wield. ‘Why don’t you pull up that chair and let’s sit down together for a few minutes and have a bit of a chat, shall we?’
As soon as Pascoe walked through the door, his daughter began to cry.
‘You’re late,’ said Ellie.
‘Yes, I know. I’m a detective. They teach us to spot things like that.’
‘And that’s Rosie crying.’
‘Is it? I thought maybe we’d bought a wolf.’
He took off his jacket, draped it over the banisters and ran lightly up the stairs.
The little girl stopped crying as soon as he entered her room. This was a game she’d started playing only recently. That it was a game was beyond doubt; Ellie had observed her deep in sleep till her father’s key turned in the lock, and then immediately she let out her summoning wail and would not be silent till he came and spoke to her. What he said didn’t matter.
Tonight he said, ‘Hi, kid. Remember last week I was telling you I should be hearing about my promotion soon? Well, the bad news is, I still haven’t, so if you’ve been building up any hopes of getting a new pushchair or going to Acapulco this Christmas, forget it. Want some advice, kid? If you feel like whizzing, don’t start unless you can keep it up. Nobody loves a whizzkid that’s stopped whizzing! Did I hear you ask me why I’ve stopped? Well, I’ve narrowed it down to three possibilities. One: they all think I’m Fat Andy’s boy and everyone hates Fat Andy. Two: your mum keeps chaining herself to nuclear missile sites and also she’s Membership Secretary of WRAG. So what? you say. WRAG is non-aligned politically, you’ve read the hand-outs. But what does Fat Andy say? He says WRAG’s middle-of-the-road like an Italian motorist. All left-hand drive and bloody dangerous! Three? No, I’ve not forgotten three. Three is, maybe I’m just not good enough, what about that? Maybe inspector’s my limit. What’s that you said? Bollocks? You mean it? Gee, thanks, kid. I always feel better after talking to you!’
Gently he laid the once more sleeping child back on her bed and pulled the blanket up over her tiny body.
Downstairs he went first into the kitchen and poured two large Scotch-on-the-rocks. Then he went through into the living-room.
In his brief absence his wife had lost her clothes and gained a newspaper.
‘Have you seen this?’ she demanded.
‘Often,’ said Pascoe gravely. ‘But I have no objection to seeing it again.’
‘This,’ she said, brandishing the Mid-Yorks Evening Post.
‘I’ve certainly seen one very like it,’ he said. ‘It was in my jacket pocket, but it can hardly be the same one, can it? I mean your well known views on the invasion of privacy would hardly permit you to go through your husband’s pockets, would they?’
‘It was sticking out.’
‘That’s all right, then. You’re equally well known for your support of a wife’s right to grab anything that’s sticking out. What am I looking at? This Kemble business. Well, the chap who got kicked is going to be all right, but he can’t remember a thing. And Wield’s looking into the graffiti. Now why don’t you put the paper down …’
‘No, it wasn’t the Kemble story I wanted you to look at. It was this.’
Her finger stabbed an item headed Unusual Will.
Published today, the will of the late Mrs Gwendoline Huby of Troy House, Greendale, makes interesting reading. The bulk of her estate whose estimated value is in excess of one million pounds is left to her only son, Alexander Lomas Huby, who was reported missing on active service in Italy in 1944. Lieutenant Huby’s death was assumed though his body was never found. In the event that he does not appear to claim his inheritance by his ninetieth birthday in the year 2015, the estate will be divided equally between the People’s Animal Welfare Society, the Combined Operations Dependants’ Relief Organization, both registered charities in which Mrs Huby had a long interest, and Women For Empire, a social-political group which she had supported for many years.
‘Very interesting,’ said Pascoe. ‘Sad too. Poor old woman.’
‘Stupid old woman!’ exclaimed Ellie.
‘That’s a bit hard. OK, she must have been a bit dotty, but …’
‘But nothing! Don’t you see? A third of her estate to Women For Empire! More than a third of a million pounds!’
‘Who,’ wondered Pascoe, sipping one of the Scotches, ‘are Women For Empire?’
