Dialogues of the Dead

Wield watched him approach, noting with approval the grace of movement, the pleasant manner with which he greeted acquaintance, the general sense of ease and rightness which emanated from that slim figure. The boy was good, would have still been good if this had been a top-level diplomatic reception rather than a provincial arty-farty piss-up. Others must have noticed too. He’d done well, but not too well, or rather not too quickly. Others had flown to DCI and beyond a lot quicker than Pascoe, but those who hit the top too soon always posed the question, Did you hang around anywhere long enough to get your hands dirty? You’ve made the climb but have you done the time? Looking ahead when he was a sprog, setting out on the steep ascent laid out before a graduate entrant, if Pascoe had been able to foresee his long sojourn in Mid-Yorkshire CID, he’d probably have felt his career must have stalled. But not now. He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, not even with his closest friends, but he had said enough for Wield to know he was aware of his true worth. And aware even more that there were things in his life more important far than ambition. If he had pushed, gone hunting for the glittering prizes, he could probably have been up and away long since. But now he had other agendas. Hostages to fortune, that’s what some clever bugger had called wife and family, probably meaning it cynically. Well, Pascoe had come close to losing both his child and his missus in the past few years, and now he knew beyond any doubt what ransom he was willing to pay to keep them safe, which was everything he had or could expect to have. So nothing was going to happen without the imprimatur of their happiness.

Young Rosie’s move to secondary school a few years ahead was going to be the testing time, Wield guessed. The old days of bully-boy tactics from above-Take the job or you’re off to Traffic! — were, if not passed, at least passing. Others would be aware of this window too and poised to haul the lad up through it as soon as it was fully open.

Of course they’d need to get King Dalziel’s approval.

“Wieldy, you’ve been standing here so long, I’m amazed someone hasn’t bought you.”

“You know me, Pete. Always find people more interesting than pictures.”

Behind them, they heard an upraising of voices which seemed to emanate from the alcove in which the engraver had been displaying her craft. Then it was drowned by the more distant but to their sensitized ears more disturbing sound of sirens.

“The meat wagon?” said Pascoe.

“Yes. And our boys too,” said Wield.

“You switched on?”

“No. I’m off-call,” said the sergeant firmly.

“Me too.”

“Sounds close, but.”

“Probably some poor old girl in the precinct’s shopped till she dropped,” said Pascoe, knowing that Ellie, alert to the dangers signalled by police alarums, was watching him keenly for sign of any inclination to get involved.

“Excuse me,” said a broad Yorkshire voice behind him. “Somebody said you were a copper, is that right?”

He turned to see a lanky woman in a red smock and black tights, with a razored haircut that gave her a look of Sigourney Weaver in Alien 3. He recognized her as Jude Illingworth, the engraver.

“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “Is there something wrong?”

“Aye, is there. You expect it out of doors at a craft fair, mebbe, somewhere open to everybody. If it’s not nailed down, it’ll go. But at a posh do like this …”

I am in no hurry, for where there is no time, haste has no meaning. I follow with my eyes only and wait. The door opens, a man comes out. I watch him out of sight and then go in.

And there he is as I know he must be, alone, stooped over a washbasin, laving his face.

As I approach from behind he looks up and sees me in the mirror.

Oh, this is fine. This is my reward for faithfulness. I have no choice in these matters, but if I had a choice, this I might have chosen, for this allows me to be both player and audience.