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  ‘No,’ said Pascoe uneasily. ‘It’s just that I’ve got to go out.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything,’ said Ellie indignantly.

  ‘No? Well, I was going to tell you when I got home but somehow …’

  ‘You mean,’ said Ellie with detective sharpness, ‘that when you got home and instead of the fast food you’ve been moaning about, you saw I’d rushed back from my class and slaved away cooking your favourite dinner, you lost your nerve!’

  Pascoe smiled placatingly and said, ‘Well, sort of. I was going to say something, but you were so keen to tell me about your interesting afternoon with the horny-handed sons of toil …’

  ‘My God, I know who you really are! You’re Indignant (name and address supplied), I recognize the style! So, tell me, what’s so important that you prefer it to your favourite nosh, not to mention my intellectual company?’

  ‘It’s Mr Watmough,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Watmough? You mean that creepy sod who’s Deputy Chief Constable? I thought he was leaving?’

  ‘He is. That’s why I’ve got to go out. The brass will be laying on a farewell dinner, but tonight he’s popping into the Club for a presentation from the plebs. I feel I ought to be there out of courtesy.’

  ‘Courtesy? To a Social Democrat?’ said Ellie scornfully.

  The announcement of Watmough’s resignation had been followed almost immediately by the leaked news that he was shortlisted as a possible SDP candidate for a winnable local seat. It was no secret that he had been bitterly disappointed when he failed to get the recently vacant Chief Constable’s job. He’d been everyone’s favourite, except for Detective-Superintendent Andrew Dalziel, who rated him, to quote, ‘lower than a duck’s arsehole and twice as wet’. How Dalziel could have influenced the result was not clear, but Pascoe had suspicions close to certainties that it had been the fat man’s spade-like hand that had dashed the foaming cup from Watmough’s foaming lips.

  A period of dark brooding had followed. Watmough was already a small-time media personality with the assistance of Ike Ogilby, editor of the Sunday Challenger, flagship paper of the main Mid-Yorkshire news group. He had been hoping to become a big-time personality via the Chief Constableship, and thence launch himself into the political empyrean. Now, faced with the choice of looking for other Chief’s jobs outside the area where his power base lay, or attempting a low-level take-off, he’d opted for the latter.

  ‘Who’s making the presentation?’ asked Ellie.

  ‘Dalziel.’

  Ellie began to laugh.

  ‘You’re quite right, Peter,’ she said. ‘You can’t miss that. It should be a night to remember. But first you’ll eat up your apple pie and custard. And you’ll sit there and look interested while I finish telling you about Colin Farr and his mates. Are you sitting comfortably?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Then I’ll begin.’

  Chapter 2

  Colin Farr went to the bar and asked for another pint. It was his fourth since he’d come into the Welfare not much more than half an hour ago.

  ‘Thirsty work back at school, is it?’ said the steward. His name was Peter Pedley, but ever since he’d grown a bandido moustache to age his childishly young features when he first went down the pit, he’d been known as Pedro. His body had long ago thickened to a solid barrel which was eighty per cent muscle, and the childishness too had spread into a mature joviality, though the moustache remained. He was a man much respected both for his strength of body and his resilience of spirit. In his mid-twenties he’d been advised by the doctor that the bronchitis which had troubled him since childhood was rapidly worsening underground. With a wife and young family, he was unwilling to take the wage cut and poor prospects of surface work, so he’d taken a job as barman in a Barnsley pub, got to know the business inside out, and eventually returned to the place of his birth as the residential steward of the Burrthorpe Miners’ Social and Welfare Club. Two years later his resilience was tested to breaking-point when his youngest daughter, Tracey, aged seven, disappeared. The child had never been found. The consoling presence of and continued responsibility for three other children had kept Pedley and his wife from falling apart, but Mrs Pedley had aged a decade in the years since the disappearance and Pedro visited the whisky optic on his own behalf as frequently as on his customers’.

  He rarely let it show, however, and he had a sharp eye for alcohol-based trouble in others.

  Now Colin Farr supped two inches off the top of his pint and said, ‘University, not school, Pedro. But you’re right. It’s thirsty work, all that talking.’

  ‘Better than fighting,’ said Pedley, amiably but with a hint of warning. He knew most of his customers better than they knew themselves. Four pints in half an hour was par for the course in some; with young Farr it spelt trouble.

  The young man heard the warning and drank again, regarding Pedley over the rim without resentment. The steward still wheezed through the winter, but when Pedro Pedley sallied forth to sort out trouble, those close to it scattered and those safely distant settled down to enjoy the show. When Colin Farr lowered the glass, it was more than half empty.

  ‘Where’s Maggie?’ he asked.

  ‘She’ll not be working tonight. She’s badly. This is the day it happened.’

  Their eyes met: Pedley’s blank, Farr’s searching.

  ‘Is that right?’ said Farr. ‘Then naturally she’ll be upset.’

  And he went back to his seat moving with easy grace.

  He was alone at one of the round formica tables. The Club’s main public room was a cheerless place when almost empty. Full, you couldn’t see the brown and beige tiled floor, or the cafeteria furniture, or the vinyl-upholstered waiting-room bench which ran round the flock-papered walls. Full, the plaster-board ceiling, steel cross-girder and glaring strip-lights were to some extent obscured by the strato-cirrus layer of tobacco smoke. And best of all, full, the whisper of a man’s own disturbing thoughts was almost inaudible beneath the din of loud laughter, seamless chatter, and amplified music.

  At the moment Colin Farr’s thoughts were coming through too loud, too clear. He’d gone into the students’ union bar at the University today. Its décor and furnishings had not been all that different from the Club’s. The atmosphere had been just as thick; the voices just as loud, the music just as raucous. Yet he had left very quickly, feeling alien. The reaction had troubled him. It was uncharacteristic. He was not a shy person; he’d been around and hadn’t been much bothered at entering some places where he’d been quite literally a foreigner. But the students’ bar had made him feel so uneasy that he’d fled, and the memory of this uneasiness wouldn’t leave him alone.

  It had been self-irritation with his reaction that had made him so sharp with that Mrs Pascoe in the afternoon. Well, partly at least. And partly it had been her. Condescending cow!

  He had finished his fourth pint without hardly noticing. He was thinking about getting out of his seat again, though whether to return to the bar or head out into the night he wasn’t sure, when the door burst open and two men came in. One was Farr’s age but looked older. They’d been in the same class at school, but, unlike Farr, Tommy Dickinson’s career down the pit had been continuous since he was fifteen. Chunkily built, he had the beginnings of a substantial beer-gut, and when his broad amiable face split into a grin at the sight of Farr, his teeth were stained brown with tobacco juice.

  ‘Look what’s here!’ he cried. ‘Hey, Pedro! I thought only working men could get served in this club.’

  ‘You’d best buy me a pint, then,’ said Farr.

  While Dickinson was getting the drinks, the other man sat down at Farr’s table. He was Neil Wardle, in his thirties, a lean taciturn man. His face was as brown and weather-beaten as any countryman’s. In fact, like many of his workmates, as if in reaction against the underworld in which they earned their bread, he spent as much of his spare time as possible roaming the hills around Burrthorpe with
his dog and a shotgun. He was charge-man of the team of rippers in which the other two worked.

  ‘All right, Col?’ he said.

  ‘All right,’ said Farr.

  ‘Your mam all right?’

  ‘Aye. Why shouldn’t she be?’

  ‘No reason. She didn’t say owt about anyone coming round, asking questions?’

  ‘No. What sort of questions?’

  ‘Just questions,’ said Wardle vaguely. Before Farr could press him, Dickinson returned, his broad hands locked round three pint glasses.

  ‘It’s no use, Col,’ he declared in the booming voice which was his normal speech level. ‘Tha’ll have to play hookey from that school. They sent us that Scotch bugger again today. He can’t even speak proper! Three times he asked me for a chew of baccy and I thought the sod were just coughing!’

  Farr’s absence meant that his place had to be filled for that shift by someone ‘on the market’, and men used to working in a regular team did not take readily to a newcomer.

  ‘There’s worse than Jock,’ said Wardle.

  Dickinson rolled his eyes in a parody of disbelief, but he did not pursue the subject. In matters like this, Wardle had the last word, and in any case, most of Dickinson’s complaints were ritualistic rather than real.

  ‘Teacher didn’t ask you to stay behind to clean her board, then?’ he asked slyly.

  Farr wished he hadn’t let on that one of his lecturers was a woman. His friend’s innuendo was not masked by any great subtlety.

  ‘Not today,’ he said. ‘I’m building up to it.’

  ‘All right, is she?’

  He thought about Ellie Pascoe. A condescending cow was how he’d categorized her to himself earlier. But that had been as ritualistic as Tommy’s pretence that he couldn’t understand Jock Brodie’s accent. However, in-depth analysis was not what Dickinson was after.

  ‘She’s got nice tits,’ he said. ‘And she doesn’t wear a bra.’

  ‘Hey up! That’s half the battle, then! Hey, did you hear the one about the lass who’d just got married and next time she met her old dad, he asked her, “What fettle, lass?” and she said, “Dad, can I ask you a question? That bit of skin at the end of my Jack’s thing, what do you call that?” …’

  Colin Farr’s mind drifted away from the joke as his gaze drifted round the rapidly filling room. He knew all the men here by face, and most of them by name. Some there were who’d been young men when he’d been a boy. Some had been middle-aged then who were old now. And one or two had always been old and were now much much older. He knew them all, and their wives and their families, to the second and sometimes the third generation. He was looking at the past of a whole community here, traced in lined and scarred faces, in shallow breathing and deep coughs. Was that what was worrying him? He didn’t think so. It was not the fact that he was looking at the past, he suddenly realized. It was rather that he could be looking at the future! It was here, in this room, in this loud talk, and laughter, and argument, in these wreaths of tabacco smoke and these rings of foam on straight glasses.

  The bar in the students’ union, there’d been foam rings there too, and tobacco wreaths, argument and laughter and loud talk. What there hadn’t been was any sense that this was anyone’s future. It had been here and now; fun and finite; a launching-pad, not an endless looped tape. No sense there of raising a glass at eighteen and setting it down at eighty with nothing changed except your grey hair, gapped gums and wrinkled genitals!

  In his ear Tommy’s voice rose to its triumphant climax.

  ‘“’Ee, lass,” said her dad. “Ah diven’t know what thy Jack calls ’em, but ah calls ’em the cheeks of me arse!”’

  Colin Farr laughed, loud and false and desperate, and rose to his feet.

  ‘Good one, Tommy,’ he proclaimed. ‘Good one. Let’s have another pint!’

  Chapter 3

  The Police Club functions room was crowded, noisy and full of smoke. There was a sound like a spade flattening the last sod on a pauper’s grave. It was Andy Dalziel’s huge hand slapping the bar. Immediately the noise faded and even the miasma seemed to clear for a space of a couple of feet around the massive grizzled head.

  The Detective-Superintendent, Head of Mid-Yorks CID, looked round the room till heavy breathers held their heavy breath, then he opened his speech with the time-honoured Yorkshire formula.

  ‘Right, you buggers,’ he said. ‘You know what we’re here for tonight.’

  His audience sighed in happy anticipation. It occurred to Sammy Ruddlesdin of the Evening Post that his report (written in advance so that he wouldn’t have anything to distract him from the boozing) was more than usually dishonest. In it he’d said that the crowded room bore eloquent witness to the high regard in which DCC Watmough was held by his fellows, while in truth, it bore eloquent witness to the low regard in which they knew that Dalziel held him. Most were here in the simple hope of being entertained by a valedictory vilification!

  They were sadly disappointed. After a few ancient but warmly received anecdotes, Dalziel launched on a meandering and mainly complimentary account of Watmough’s career. There were a few hopeful signs (‘I knew him in them early days with Mid-Yorks. There were some as said he got a bit over-excited under pressure but I always said, you’ve got to flap a bit if you want to be a high flier!’) but they never came to anything. Perhaps Dalziel was saving himself up for the Pickford case? This was Watmough’s finest hour, occurring during a brief sojourn as Assistant Chief Constable in South Yorkshire when he had masterminded the hunt for a child killer. A salesman, Donald Pickford, had obliged by asphyxiating himself in his car and leaving a note of confession. Somehow Watmough, with media support, had turned this into a triumph of detection with himself modestly wearing the bays. He had returned rapidly on the crest of this wave to Mid-Yorks as Deputy Chief and had looked to have enough momentum left to carry him all the way to the Chief’s office only three years later, till a malevolent fate had intervened.

  This same malevolent fate was now approaching his peroration.

  ‘We’ll not soon forget what you’ve done for us in these past few years,’ declaimed Dalziel. ‘Like the man said, you touched nowt you didn’t adorn. Now the time has come for you to move on to fresh fields and pastures new. And the time has come for me, Neville – and it’s good to be able to call you Neville again after these past few years of having to call you sir …’

  Pause for laughter, especially from Peter Pascoe, who recalled Dalziel’s more usual forms of reference, such as Shit-head, Lobby Lud, Her Majesty, Nutty Slack and Rover the Wonder Dog.

  ‘… the time has come for me to present you with this token of our esteem.’

  He picked up a box from the bar.

  ‘Rumour has it you’re thinking of going into politics, or at least into the SDP, so we thought this’d be a suitable gift.’

  From the box he took a clock, turned the hands to twelve and set it on the bar. A moment later a peal of Westminster Chimes began to sound.

  ‘We reckoned that with this, Nev, if you ever do get into Parliament, it won’t matter whose bed you’re ringing home from, you can always convince your missus you’re at an all-night sitting in the House. Goodbye to you, and good … luck!’

  And that was it. Not yet nine o’clock and the action over with not a bloodstain to be seen. The DCC, as relieved as his audience was disappointed, repaid Dalziel’s moderation with a fulsomely sentimental tribute to his colleagues at all levels.

  ‘Brings tears to your eyes, doesn’t it?’ said Pascoe.

  Sergeant Wield, whose shattered visage looked as if it would absorb tears like dew off the Gobi Desert, said, ‘De mortuis.’

  ‘Well, stuff me,’ said Sammy Ruddlesdin behind him. ‘Once through these hallowed portals and it’s goodbye to all that ’ello, ’ello, ’ello, stuff and it’s out with the Latin tags and literary quotes. Even Fat Andy was at it.’

  It was clear Ruddlesdin had been enjoying the hospitality. Beside
him was a short, stoutish man smartly dressed in a black worsted three-piece suit, a sartorial effect somewhat at odds with the handrolled cigarette drooping beneath a ragged and nicotine-stained moustache.

  ‘I dare say you lads know my friend and colleague, Mr Monty Boyle of the Sunday Challenger, the famous Man Who Knows Too Much.’

  ‘I think we’ve met in court,’ said Pascoe. ‘I didn’t think our little occasion tonight would have had much in it for the Challenger.’

  ‘The passing of a great public servant?’ said Boyle with a W. C. Fieldsian orotundity. ‘You surprise me. Dignity needs its chroniclers as much as disaster.’

  He’s winding me up, thought Pascoe. He opened his mouth to inquire what hitherto hidden connection with dignity the Challenger was planning to reveal when Ruddlesdin said, ‘Careful, Peter. Our Monty Knows Too Much because he’s got an extra ear.’

  He drew back the Challenger man’s jacket to reveal, hooked on to the third button of his waistcoat, a slim black cassette recorder, almost invisible against the cloth.

  ‘Just a tool of the trade,’ said Boyle indifferently. ‘I don’t hide it.’

  ‘Voice sensitive too, and directional. If he’s facing you in a crowded bar, it’ll pick you up above all the chatter, isn’t that right, Monty?’

  There was not a great deal of love lost between these two, decided Pascoe.

  ‘It’s not switched on,’ said Boyle. ‘Mr Dalziel’s valediction is, of course, printed on my heart. And I’d never attempt to record a policeman without his knowledge.’

  He smiled politely at Pascoe.

  Ruddlesdin said, ‘Especially not in their club where visitors can’t buy drinks,’ and stared significantly into his empty glass.

  Wield said, ‘Give it here, Sammy. Mr Boyle?’

  ‘No more for me,’ said the crime reporter, glancing at his watch. ‘I have some driving to do before I get to bed.’

  ‘What’s that mean? Farmer’s wife or kerb crawling?’ said Ruddlesdin.