tell you that for starters.’
Detective Sergeant Edgar Wield was in a good mood as he mounted his ancient but beautifully maintained Triumph Thunderbird and said farewell to Mid-Yorkshire’s Central Police Station with a quite unnecessary crescendo of revs. A couple of uniformed constables coming into the yard stood aside respectfully as he rode past them. He was still a man of mystery to most of his junior colleagues, but whether you thought of him as an ageing rocker who ate live chickens as he did the ton along the central reservation of the M1 or believed the rumours that he was matron-in-chief of a transvestite community living in darkest Eendale, you didn’t let any trace of speculation and/or amusement show. Dalziel was more obviously terrifying, Pascoe had a finger of iron inside his velvet glove, but Wield’s was the face to haunt your dreams.
It had been a long day but in the end quite productive. With time running out, a suspect had finally cracked under the pressure of Wield’s relentless questioning and unreadable features. Then, just as he was leaving, Dalziel had tossed into his lap the job of reassuring Oz Carnwath, the Linford case witness, that the burly man on his doorstep talking about death really had been an undertaker who’d mixed up addresses. He’d left the young man happy and arranged for a patrol car to stop by from time to time during the night. Then he’d returned to the station to put on his leathers and pick up his bike, and finally he was on his way home with all the pleasures of a crime-free Sunday in the company of Edwin Digweed, his beloved partner, stretching ahead. Nothing special, he doubted if they’d get further than the Morris, their local, or perhaps take a stroll along the Een whose valley had the bone structure to remain lovely even in midwinter, or go up to Enscombe Old Hall to check how Monte, the tiny marmoset he’d ‘rescued’ from a pharmaceutical research laboratory, was coping with the cold weather.
Things must be beautiful which, daily seen, please daily, or something like that. One of Pascoe’s little gags which usually drifted across his hearing with small trace of their passage, but that one had stuck. As he recalled it now, he tried superstitiously not to let the thought I am a very lucky man join it in his head.
He came to a halt at traffic lights. Straight ahead the road which tracked the western boundary of Charter Park stretched out temptingly. Parks are the lungs of the city, and the fact that Mid-Yorkshire possessed an abundance of beautiful countryside, easy of access and to suit all tastes, did not mean the founding fathers had stinted when it came to pulmonary provision in the towns. Over the years many unsentimental eyes had looked greedily at these priceless green sites, but that lust for ‘brass’ which is proper to a Yorkshireman comes a poor second in his defining characteristics to the determination that ‘what’s mine’s me own, and no bugger’s going to take it from me’. Try as they might, not an acre of ground, not a spadeful of earth, not a blade of grass, had the developers ever managed to wrest from the grip of Charter Park’s owners in perpetuity – the taxable citizenry. So the road alongside the park stretched straight and wide for a mile or more and a man on a powerful machine might hit the ton, though it’s doubtful if he’d have much time to digest a live chicken.
Wield let himself be tempted. It was a safe indulgence. Over the years he had grown sufficiently strong in resisting temptation to be able to drink the heady potion more deeply than most men.
The lights turned green, the engine roared, but it was the roar of an old lion saying he could run down that wildebeest if he wanted but on the whole he thought he’d probably stretch under a bush and have a nap.
The sergeant moved forward sedately and legally.
It was his slowness that permitted him to see the attempted abduction taking place in the car park which ran much of the length of the park.
Separated from the main road by a long colonnade of lime trees, it was in fact more like a parallel thoroughfare. During the day, visitors to the park left the cars there in a single line. On a summer night it might be quite crowded, but in the middle of winter, apart from the odd vehicle whose steamed-up windows advertised the presence of young love or old lust, there was rarely much activity. But as he went by, Wield saw a man trying to drag a young boy into his slow-moving car.
He braked sharply, went into a speedway racer’s skid, straightened up to negotiate the gap between two lime trees, found it was already occupied by a bench, realigned his machine at the next gap, went through, lost a bit of traction on the loose shaley surface as he straightened up, and lost some time wrestling the Thunderbird back under control. All the while he was blasting out warnings of his approach on the horn. Prevention was better than cure and the last thing he wanted was a high-speed chase through city streets in pursuit of a car carrying a kidnapped child.
It worked. Ahead he saw the boy sprawling on the ground with the abductor’s vehicle roaring off in a cloud of dust which, aided by the fact that the car’s lights weren’t switched on, made it impossible to get the number plate.
He pulled up alongside the boy, who had pushed himself into a sitting position. He looked about ten, maybe a bit older, twelve, say. He had big dark eyes, curly black hair and a thin pale face. He had grazed his hand on falling and he was holding it to his mouth to wash it and ease the pain. He looked angry rather than terrified.
‘You OK, son?’ said Wield, dismounting.
‘Yeah, I think so.’
His accent was local urban. He began to rise and Wield said, ‘Hold on. Got any pain anywhere?’
‘Nah. Just this fucking hand.’
‘You sure? OK. Easy does it.’
Wield took his arm and helped him up.
He winced as he rose then moved all his limbs in turn as if to show they worked.
‘Great,’ said Wield. He reached inside his leathers and pulled out his mobile.
‘What you doing?’ demanded the boy.
‘Just getting someone to look out for that guy who grabbed you. Did you notice the make of car? Looked like a Montego to me.’
‘No. I mean, I didn’t notice. Look, why bother? Forget it. He’s gone.’
A very self-possessed youngster.
‘You might forget it, son. But that doesn’t mean he’s not going to try again.’
‘Try what?’
‘Abducting someone.’
‘Yeah … well …’
The boy thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his thin windcheater, hunched his shoulders and began to move away. He looked waif and forlorn.
‘Hey, where are you going?’ said Wield.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’m worried, that’s all,’ said Wield. ‘Look, you’ve had a shock. You shouldn’t be wandering round here at this time of night. Hop up behind me and I’ll give you a lift.’
The boy regarded him speculatively.
‘Lift where?’ he said.
Wield considered. Offering to take the boy home might not be a good move. Maybe it was what awaited him at home that sent him wandering the streets so late. Best way to find out could be a low-key, friendly chat, unencumbered by the revelation that he was a cop. He put the phone away. The car would be long gone by now and what did he have anyway?
