black pudding doesn’t half make you fart!’
Interesting, thought Pascoe as he replaced the mike. Dalziel was obviously just a little bit more worried than he wanted to be.
Like a good cop, he decided to take his superior’s advice, though his motivation was mixed. Dalziel’s intimate acquaintance with the hostelries of Yorkshire was famous and the Fat Man’s recommendation of a beer was not to be missed. But where was the pub?
A cyclist had come down the High Street as he talked on the radio and was leaning his bike against the wall of a substantial granite-built house directly opposite the village hall.
Pascoe wound down his window and called. ‘Excuse me, sir, can you tell me where the village pub is?’
The young man looked towards him. He had a pale thin face, unshaven, though the resultant fuzz was more down than stubble, and amber eyes which gave an unsettling impression they were used for looking through rather than seeing with. Even more unsettlingly, his hands were occupied untying a shotgun from his crossbar and a gunny bag from his pillion. Something was dripping from the bag. It looked like blood.
Pascoe recalled Dalziel’s warning about making himself look a right Herbert by stirring things up unnecessarily. On the other hand he would look a righter Herbert if he let this youngster pass unchallenged and it turned out he’d got Bendish’s head in his gunny.
He got out of the car, glanced left and right to make sure he wasn’t going to be knocked down by a speeding tractor or stampeding bullock, and when he looked back, the youngster had vanished. It was incredible. Perhaps the camouflage jacket the youth had been wearing was a new advanced model! Then he saw the red droplets glistening up to the closed door.
Pascoe crossed the street. Above the door was a large wooden square which he’d registered vaguely as some form of weatherboarding. But closer, he realized here was a partial explanation of the strange non-response to his question. It was an inn sign, weathered almost to illegibility.
In fact, more than weathered. It looked as if at some time in its existence it had been assaulted with an axe and roasted over a bonfire. The once gilded lettering spelled out in the black of its own decay the just readable words THE MORRIS MEN’S REST above the bubbled, flaking portrait of a portly bearded gent, though identification was not possible beyond his hairiness as the best part of his face looked as if it had been blown away with a blunderbuss.
Pascoe pushed the door. It swung open and he found himself in a shadowy vestibule with four doors off. The spoor of blood led into the second on the left.
He went through and found himself in a large farmhouse kitchen. The young man had vanished, presumably through the open door which led into a rear yard and garden. His gunny bag lay on a broad, well-scrubbed table.
Seeing a chance to check without looking foolish, Pascoe moved quickly forward, undid the lace round the bag’s neck, pulled it open, and peered inside.
A pair of big bright eyes peered back at him.
And a voice said, ‘Who the hell are you, then?’
Happily the voice didn’t come from the bag. Unhappily, it came from a broad-built man standing in the doorway and clutching a huge bloodstained knife in his right hand.
Pascoe took two rapid steps back and another two sideways to put the table between himself and the newcomer, who gestured with his weapon and cried, ‘Watch it!’
Too late he recognized the words as a warning not a threat. His shin caught against a galvanized bucket half hidden under the table. Over it went, spilling its contents all over the floor. He staggered, slipped, fell, put his hands into something warm.
And when he held them up to look at them, they were as red and sticky as the broad blade in the hand of the menacing figure looming over him.
‘They had a very rough passage, he wd. not have ventured if he had known how bad it wd. be.’
The first half of Sergeant Wield’s journey to Enscombe passed in silence.
Wield would have liked to have questioned Terry Filmer about Harold Bendish but as they were ferrying Edwin Digweed back to Enscombe, he contented himself with letting Filmer drive while he studied the print-out he’d collected of the Constable’s personal file.
Academically, he was very bright, bright enough according to his headmaster to have gone to university. Instead he’d opted to join the police in his native city of Newcastle. The head, who couldn’t keep out of his report his feeling that this was a great waste of talent, put it down to misguided adolescent idealism coupled with a belief that universities were élitist, escapist and effete.
Must have been talking to Fat Andy, thought Wield.
During training he had been outstanding on the theoretical and written areas of the course. But there’d been a bit of a problem in the practical areas involving direct contact with the public. Cutting through the jargon, Wield guessed that what they’d got here was a case of that not uncommon youthful arrogance which believes that if tried and tested procedures don’t seem to be working, it’s the procedures that are at fault, not the way they’re being applied.
On attachment, however, the problems identified during training had loomed larger, particularly his readiness to argue the toss at all levels. Reading between the lines, Wield saw that things had come to a head and that while there was a marked reluctance to lose Constable Bendish (which said a great deal for the lad’s potential), it was felt that if a new leaf were to be turned, it would be better to turn it elsewhere. So he’d been transferred to Mid-Yorkshire with the recommendation that before the village bobby system was finally phased out, this could be just the kind of job to help the youngster find his feet.
Things had come a long way even in the years since Wield had trained. They still had a long way to go (who knew it better than he?), but at least brassbound hearts and blinkered brains were no longer essential qualifications for rising to the top of the heap.
He was roused from his meditation by a sharp finger being driven into his shoulder-blade.
‘I’ve remembered something,’ said Digweed from the back seat. ‘Kee Scudamore, she runs the Eendale Gallery opposite my shop, she went up to Old Hall yesterday afternoon shortly after your departure, Sergeant. She took the short cut along Green Alley, that’s the old path which links the church to the Hall, quite overgrown since churchgoing went out of fashion among the gentry. We spoke when she got back and she told me in passing that somewhere along the alley she’d noticed a piece of statuary with a policeman’s hat on it. Could this be significant?’
‘A cap? And she left it there?’ said Wield.
‘Of course. Presumably someone had put it there as a joke. In villages you don’t go around spoiling other people’s fun. Not unless you’re a policeman.’
Wield glanced at Filmer, who said defensively, ‘I didn’t see Miss Scudamore this morning, just her sister. She didn’t say anything.’
‘The Vicar saw it too evidently,’ said Digweed, as though his integrity was being called in doubt.
‘Vicarage was the first place I went
