sir. Except I’ll be in court myself this afternoon,’ said Pascoe.
‘Oh aye, the Linford committal. Nowt to worry about there, we’ve got the scrote sewn up tighter than a nun’s knickers, right?’
‘Right,’ said Pascoe. ‘Though Belchamber will be looking to do a bit of snipping …’
‘Sod the Belcher,’ growled Dalziel. ‘Nowt he can do long as your witness, the Carnwath lad, stays strong. No second thoughts after that scare on Saturday?’
‘Oz is rock solid,’ said Pascoe. ‘And they can’t get at him directly. Not married, no current girl, parents dead. Only close family is a sister in the States. She is coming over for Christmas, but not till Wednesday, by which time it’ll be sorted, God willing.’
‘Then what are you moaning about? Wieldy, five minutes.’
The Fat Man left.
Pascoe watched the great haunches swing out of sight and said, ‘You’ve made yourself indispensable to Rustybum, Wieldy. Could be a fatal mistake.’
‘No, way I look at it is, if the station goes up in flames and Andy can only get one person out, it’ll be me over his shoulder and down the drainpipe. Talking of flames …’
He looked significantly at the letters lying on the desk in front of Pascoe.
‘You think I’m overreacting too?’
‘I think something about Franny Roote’s got to you in a big way. And I think that he knows it and he’s enjoying jerking you around.’
‘So you agree that he’s setting out to provoke me with these confessions … all right, half-confessions?’ said Pascoe hopefully.
‘Mebbe. But that’s all they are, provocations. One thing I’m certain of about our Franny is, he’s not going to put himself at risk.’
‘So your advice is … ?’
‘Forget it, Pete. He’ll soon get tired and concentrate on manipulating his new friends.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Pascoe gloomily.
Wield observed his friend closely, then said, ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’
‘No. Well, yes. It’s silly but … look, Wieldy, if I tell you this, not a word to Andy, eh?’
‘Guide’s honour,’ said Wield girlishly.
Pascoe smiled. Even though he was now living openly with his partner, Edwin Digweed, at work Wield rarely let slip the mask with which he’d concealed his gayness for so many years. This brief flash of campness was a reassurance stronger than a dozen notarized oaths sworn on Bibles and mothers’ graves.
He said, ‘In the letter, you remember the bit where Roote stands up to give Sam Johnson’s paper? He looks at the clock and it’s nine o’clock on Saturday morning, and then he looks down and he sees … here it is … it was you, Mr Pascoe. There you were, looking straight at me.’
He raised his eyes from the paper and looked at Wield with such appeal that the sergeant touched his arm and said urgently, ‘Pete, it’s just a try-on. It’s that German doppelganger stuff he’s picked up from Charley Penn. It’s for frightening kids with …’
‘Yes, I know that, Wieldy. Thing is, last Saturday I took Rosie to her music lesson in St Margaret Street, and I parked outside the church to wait for her. And I saw him.’
‘The teacher?’
‘No, dickhead! Roote. In the churchyard, standing there looking straight at me. St Margaret’s clock began striking nine. I saw him for two chimes of the bell. Then I started getting out of the car and, by the time I’d got out, he’d vanished. But I saw him, Wieldy. At nine o’clock like he says. I saw Franny Roote!’
It came out more dramatically than intended. Not thought I saw or imagined I saw, the plain assertion I saw! He waited impatient for Wield’s reaction.
The phone rang.
Wield picked it up, said, ‘Yes?’ listened, said, ‘OK. Turk’s. But not for an hour,’ and replaced the receiver. He stood in thought for a long moment till Pascoe said, ‘Well?’
‘What? Oh, just someone, owt or nowt.’
Normally such imprecision would have aroused Pascoe’s curiosity but now it merely aggravated his impatience.
‘I mean about Roote,’ he said.
‘Roote? Oh yes. You thought you saw him but he’s in Cambridge. Had your eyes tested lately, Pete? Look, I’d best get along to make sure Andy understands what he’s going to be telling Dan. Good luck with Belchamber. See you later.’
‘Thanks a bunch,’ said Pascoe to the empty air. ‘It’s bad enough seeing things but it gets worse if you turn invisible at the same time.’
And was relieved to find he could still laugh.
It had been the best weekend of Hat Bowler’s life, no competition, not even from the winter weekend a couple of years ago when he’d trudged back from a long unproductive stint in a hide looking for a reported Rock Thrush and there it had been, perched on the bonnet of his MG where it stayed long enough to get three good shots with his camera.
It hadn’t just been the sex but the sense of utter togetherness they shared in everything they did. Saturday had been a perfect day till dinner when she’d pushed away her plate and said, ‘Shit, I’m getting one of my headaches.’ At first he’d laughed, taking it as a joke, then had felt a huge pang of selfish disappointment as he realized it wasn’t. But this had quickly been blanked by anxiety as her face drained of colour. She’d assured him it was nothing, taken a tablet, and when, instead of retiring to her own room, she lay willingly and trustingly in his arms the whole night through, this had seemed an affirmation of love more powerful than sex. Gradually the next morning the colour had returned to her cheeks and by lunchtime she was as active and joyous as ever, and that night … if ever joy was unconfined, it was in the boundless universe which was their bed that night.
They didn’t leave the room till halfway through Monday morning, and only then because they were due to check out. Slowly they drove back into Mid-Yorkshire. They were in Rye’s Fiesta – Hat’s MG was taking even longer than its owner to recover from the injuries sustained during the rescue mission – but it was lack of volition rather than lack of power which dictated their speed. Both knew from experience that joy is a delicate fabric and life’s shoddy sleeve has a thousand tricks up it which can be played to bankrupt poor deluded humans even as they rake their winnings in. This journey was a time-out. In the car with
