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  Boyle smiled. ‘In our business, Sammy, you’re either pressing forward or you’re sliding backward, have you forgotten that? Once you start just reporting news, you might as well bow out for one of these.’

  He tapped the cassette on his chest before buttoning his jacket.

  ‘Good night, Mr Pascoe. I hope we may meet again and be of mutual benefit soon.’

  He made towards the door through which the DCC and his party were being ushered by Dalziel.

  ‘Jumped-up nowt,’ said Ruddlesdin. ‘I knew him when he couldn’t tell a wedding car from a hearse. Now he acts like the bloody Challenger were the Sunday Times.’

  ‘Very trying,’ sympathized Pascoe. ‘On the other hand, tonight is very wedding and hearse stuff, isn’t it? A column filler for the Evening Post perhaps, but lacking those elements of astounding revelation which set the steam rising from the Challenger.’

  ‘When you buy a whippet you keep your eye skinned to see no one slips it a pork pie before a race,’ said Ruddlesdin.

  ‘Riddles now? You’re not moving to Comic Cuts, are you, Sammy? What is it you’re saying? That Ike Ogilby’s put his minders on Watmough till he gets into Parliament?’

  Ogilby was the Challenger’s ambitious editor, linked with Watmough ever since the Pickford case in a symbiotic relationship in which a good press was traded for insider information.

  ‘No,’ said Ruddlesdin confidentially. ‘What I’ve heard, and will deny ever having said till I’m saying, “told you so”, is that yon clock’s the nearest Watmough’s likely to get to Westminster. This SDP selection he thinks he’s got sewn up – well, there’s a local councillor on the short list, a chap who’s owed a few favours and knows where all the bodies are buried. Smart money’s on him. And Ike Ogilby’s got the smartest money in town.’

  ‘Another rejection will drive the poor devil mad,’ said Pascoe. ‘But if it’s not a personal leak in the Chamber that Ogilby’s after, why keep up his interest in Watmough once he’s resigned from the Force?’

  Ruddlesdin tapped his long pointed nose and said, ‘Memoirs, Pete, I’m talking memoirs.’

  ‘Memoirs? But what’s he got to remember?’ asked Pascoe. ‘He thinks a stake-out’s a meal at Berni’s.’

  Ruddlesdin observed him with alcoholic shrewdness.

  ‘That sounded more like Andy Dalziel than you,’ he said. ‘All I know is that Ogilby’s not interested in buying pigs in pokes, if you’ll excuse the metaphor. Mebbe my dear old jumped-up mate, Monty, is living up to his byline for once. The Man Who Knows Too Much. Wieldy, I thought you’d fallen among thieves! Bless you, my son.’

  Wield had returned with a tray on which rested three pints. The reporter took his and drained two-thirds of it in a single swallow. Pascoe ignored the proffered tray, however. He was looking across the room to the exit through which Dalziel was just ushering the DCC and his party. Before he went out, Watmough paused and slowly looked around. What was he seeing? Something to stir fond memories of companionship, loyalty, a job well done?

  Or something to stir relief at his going and resentment at its manner?

  And how shall I feel when it’s my turn? wondered Pascoe.

  He too looked round the room. Saw the mouthing faces, ghastly in the smoke-fogged strip-lighting. Heard the raucous laughter, the bellowed conversations, the eardrum-striating music. He felt a deep revulsion against it all. But he knew he was not applying a fair test. He was not a very clubbable person. His loyalties were individual rather than institutional. He distrusted the exclusivity of esprit de corps. Not that there was anything sinister here. This scene was the commonplace of ten thousand clubs and pubs the length and breadth of the island. Here was the companionship of the alehouse, nothing more.

  But suddenly he felt hemmed in, short of air, deprived of will, threatened. He looked at his watch. It was only five to nine.

  ‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘I promised not to be late.’

  ‘But your beer …’ said Wield, taken aback.

  ‘Sammy’ll drink it. See you.’

  In the small foyer he paused and took a deep breath. The door leading to the car park opened and Dalziel came in.

  ‘Well, that’s the cortège on its way,’ he said rubbing his hands. ‘Now let’s get on with the wake.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Pascoe firmly, adding, to divert Dalziel’s efforts at dissuasion, ‘and don’t be too sure he won’t be back to haunt you.’

  ‘Eh?’

  He repeated Ruddlesdin’s rumour. Rather to his surprise, instead of being abusively dismissive, Dalziel answered thoughtfully, ‘Yes, I’d heard summat like that too. Makes you think … Ogilby … Boyle …’

  Then he roared with laughter and added, ‘But who’d want to buy memoirs from a man who can scarcely remember to zip up after he’s had a run-off? It’d be the sale of the sodding century!’

  Still laughing, he pushed his way back into the smoke- and noise-filled room while Pascoe with more relief than he could easily account for went out into the fresh night air.

  Chapter 4

  By half past nine, Colin Farr was moving between his seat and the bar with a steady deliberation more worrying to Pedro Pedley than any amount of stagger and sway.

  ‘Young Col all right, is he?’ he asked Neil Wardle as the taciturn miner got another round in.

  ‘Aye,’ said Wardle, apparently uninterested.

  But when he got back to the table, he repeated the question as he set pints down before Farr and Dickinson.

  ‘All right, Col?’

  ‘Any reason I shouldn’t be?’

  ‘None as I can think of.’

  ‘Right, then,’ said Farr.

  ‘What’s that, Neil? A half? You sickening for something?’ said Tommy Dickinson, his face flushed with the room’s heat and his vain efforts to catch up with his friend’s intake.

  ‘No, but I’m off just now to a meeting,’ said Wardle.

  Wardle was on the branch committee of the Union. During the Great Strike there had been times when his lack of strident militancy and his quiet rationalism had brought accusations of ‘softness’. But as the Strike began to crumble and the men began to recognize that no amount of rhetoric or confrontation could bring the promised victory, Wardle’s qualities won more and more respect. There’d only been one ‘scab’ at Burrthorpe Main, but many who had weakened and come close to snapping knew that they too would now be paying the price of isolation if it hadn’t been for Wardle’s calm advice and rock-like support. Since the Strike he’d been a prime mover in the re-energizing of the shattered community. And it was Wardle who’d pushed Colin Farr into seeking a place on the Union-sponsored day-release course at the University.

  ‘Bloody meetings!’ said Dickinson. ‘I reckon committee’s got a woman up there and they take a vote on who gets first bash!’

  Wardle ignored him and said, ‘There’ll be a full branch meeting next Sunday, Col. You’ll be coming to that?’

  ‘Mebbe,’ said Farr indifferently. ‘They’ll likely manage without me, but.’

  ‘Likely we will. But will you manage without them?’

  ‘Union didn’t do my dad much good, did it?’ said Farr savagely.

  ‘It did the best it could and he never complained. Col, you were grand during the Strike. It were a miracle you didn’t end up in jail, the tricks you got up to. Nothing seemed too much bother for you then. But the fight’s not over, not by a long chalk. The Board’s got a long hit list and only them as are ready and organized will be able to fight it.’

  ‘Oh aye? Best day’s work they ever did if they put a lid on that fucking hole!’ exclaimed Farr.

  ‘You fought hard enough to keep it open in the Strike,’ said Wardle.

  ‘I fought. But don’t tell me what I fought for, Neil. Mebbe I just fought ’cos while you’re fighting, you don’t have time to think!’

  Wardle drank his beer, frowning. Dickinson, who hated a sour atmosphere, lowered his voice to what he thought of as a confidential w
hisper and said, ‘See who’s just come in? Gavin Mycroft and his missus. They’re sitting over there with Arthur Downey and that cunt, Satterthwaite. Right little deputies’ dog-kennel.’

  ‘I saw them,’ said Farr indifferently.

  ‘Here, Col, you still fancy Stella?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, Col, you were knocking her off rotten when you were a lad, up in the woods by the White Rock. By God I bet you made the chalk dust fly! And don’t say it weren’t serious. You got engaged when you went off, and you didn’t need to, ’cos you were stuffing her already!’

  He smiled at the perfection of his own logic.

  ‘That’s old news, Tommy,’ said Farr.

  ‘And you were well out of that,’ said Wardle. ‘Marrying a deputy in middle of the Strike and going off to Spain on honeymoon while there were kids going hungry back here! That’s no way for a miner’s daughter to act.’

  ‘What did you want her to do?’ exclaimed Farr. ‘Spend her honeymoon camping on a picket line?’

  ‘See! You still do fancy her!’ crowed Dickinson.

  ‘Why don’t you shut your big gob, Tommy, and get some drinks in?’ said Farr.

  Unoffended, the young miner rose and headed for the bar. Wardle called after him, ‘No more for me, Tommy. I’ve got to be off and look after you buggers’ interests.’

  He stood up.

  ‘Think on, Col. If you’re going to stay on round here, make it for the right reasons.’

  ‘What’d them be?’

  ‘To make it a place worth staying on in.’

  Farr laughed. ‘Clean-up job, you mean? Justice for the worker, that sort of stuff? Well, never fear, Neil. That’s why I’ve stayed on right enough.’

  Wardle looked at the young man with concern, but said nothing more.

  ‘Bugger off, Neil,’ said Farr in irritation. ‘It’s like having me dad standing over me waiting till I worked out what I’d done wrong.’

  ‘He were a clever man, old Billy,’ said Wardle.

  ‘If he were so bloody clever, how’d he end up with his neck broke at the bottom of a shaft?’ asked Farr harshly.

  ‘Mebbe when he had to transfer from the face, he brought some of the dark up with him. It happens.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean, Neil?’ said Farr very softly.

  ‘Figure of speech. See you tomorrow. Don’t be late. Jock never is.’

  Left to himself, Colin Farr sat staring sightlessly at the table surface for a while. Suddenly he rose. Glass in hand, he walked steadily down the room till he reached the table Dickinson had called the deputies’ dog-kennel.

  The three men seated there looked up as Farr approached. Only the woman ignored him. She was in her mid-twenties, heavily made-up, with her small features diminished still further by a frame of exaggeratedly bouffant silver-blonde hair. But no amount of make-up or extravagance of coiffure could disguise the fact that she had a lovely face. Her husband, Gavin Mycroft, was a few years older, a slim dark man with rather sullen good looks. Next to him, in his forties, sat Arthur Downey, also very thin but tall enough to be gangling with it. He had a long sad face with a dog’s big gentle brown eyes.

  The third man was squat and muscular. Balding at the front, he had let his dull gingery hair grow into a compensatory mane over his ears and down his neck.

  This was Harold Satterthwaite. He regarded Farr’s approach indifferently from heavily hooded eyes. Mycroft glowered aggressively, but Arthur Downey half rose and said, ‘Hello, Col. All right? Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Got one,’ said Farr. ‘Just want a word with Stella.’

  The woman didn’t look up, but her husband rose angrily, saying, ‘Listen, Farr, I’ll not tell you again …’

  Downey took his sleeve and pulled him down.

  ‘Keep it calm, Gav. Col’s not looking for bother, are you, Col?’

  Farr looked amazed, then said with an incredibly sweet smile, ‘Me? Nay, you know me better than that, surely? It’s just that me mam wants Mrs Mycroft’s receipt for potato cakes. It’s all right if your missus gives me a receipt, isn’t it, Mr Mycroft, sir?’

  Mycroft was on his feet again, his face flushed with rage. Then Pedro Pedley was between the two men, collecting empty glasses from the table.

  ‘Everything all right, gents?’ he said pleasantly.

  ‘Nowt we can’t take care of ourselves, Peter,’ said Satterthwaite, staring with cold dislike at Colin Farr. He was Pedley’s brother-in-law and shared with his sister the distinction of using the steward’s real name.

  ‘Not in here, you can’t,’ said Pedley. ‘Down the hole or in the street, you do what you like. In here you do what I like. Arthur, you’ve got some sense …’

  He jerked his head towards the door. Downey gently took Farr’s elbow.

  ‘Come on, Col,’ he said coaxingly. ‘Let’s go and sit and have a chat. It’d be like old times for me. Your dad and me had some good nights in here …’

  ‘Not that many, Arthur,’ sneered Satterthwaite. ‘He didn’t dare show his face in here much at the end. I’ll give you that, Farr. You’ve got real nerve. I’d not have thought even you would have had the brass balls to come in here tonight of all nights.’

  Farr swung towards him. His glass fell from his hand and crashed to the floor, scattering beer and splinters. Downey flung his arms round the youth to restrain him. Pedley said, ‘Belt up, Harold! Col, you get yourself out of here else you’re banned. Now!’

  Farr was trying to struggle free from Downey’s restraint, then suddenly he relaxed.

  ‘You know what, Harold?’ he said. ‘You’re full of shit. It’s time somebody took you apart but who wants to get covered in shit?’

  Tommy Dickinson arrived from the bar, his face wreathed with concern.

  ‘What’s going off, Col?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got you a beer.’

  ‘I think mebbe Col’s had enough,’ said Pedley.

  ‘You’re right there, Pedro,’ said Farr. ‘More than bloody enough!’

  He pulled free from Downey, seized the glass from Dickinson’s hand, drained it in a single draught and banged it down in front of Satterthwaite with a crash that almost shattered it.

  ‘Take it easy, Col,’ said Downey.

  ‘You can fuck off too,’ snarled Farr. ‘Call yourself a friend? What did you ever do for my dad? What did any of you ever do?’

  He pushed his way past Dickinson and headed for the exit door.

  Dickinson slurped hastily at his pint and said, ‘I’d best go after him.’

  ‘He’ll be better left,’ advised Downey.

  ‘What the fuck do you know?’ said Dickinson rudely. But when Pedley said, ‘Arthur’s right, Tommy. Best leave him for a bit anyway,’ the chubby miner allowed himself to be led back to the bar where he was soon retailing a lurid version of the incident to eager ears.

  Downey resumed his seat, looking anxiously towards the door.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Arthur, why do you get so het up over a loonie like yon bugger?’ demanded Satterthwaite.

  ‘His dad were my best friend,’ said Downey defensively.

  ‘So you keep telling us when most’d keep quiet about something like that. Or is it just that you think mebbe May Farr’ll become your best friend too if you wet-nurse her daft bloody son?’

  Downey’s long face went pale but Stella Mycroft said slyly, ‘Arthur just likes helping people, don’t you, Arthur? Then mebbe they’ll help him.’

  ‘Oh, you can talk, then?’ said Mycroft. ‘I didn’t hear you say much when that bastard were talking to you.’

  ‘No need, was there?’ said Stella. ‘A lady doesn’t need to open her mouth, or anything, when she’s got three old-fashioned gentlemen around to defend her honour, does she?’

  Satterthwaite snorted a laugh. Downey looked embarrassed. And Gavin Mycroft regarded his wife in baffled fury.

  Outside the Welfare, Colin Farr had paused as the night air hit him, taking strength from his
legs but doing little to cool the great rage in his head. He looked around as if he needed to get his bearings. The Club was the last building at the western end of the village. After this the road wound off up the valley to a horizon dimly limned against the misty stars. But there were other brighter lights up there, the lights of Burrthorpe Main.

  Farr thrust a defiant finger into the air at them then turned towards the town and began to stagger forward.

  Soon the old grey terrace of the High Street was shouldered aside by a modern shopping parade. Business, badly hit by the Great Strike, was picking up again, as evidenced by the brightly lit supermarket window plastered like a boxer’s face with loss-leader Special Offers. Farr pressed his forehead against the glass, enjoying its smooth chill against his fevered skin.

  A car drove slowly by, coming to a halt before the Welfare. A stout man got out. He stood on the Club steps rolling a thin cigarette, then instead of going in, he walked along the pavement towards Colin Farr.

  ‘Got a light, friend?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t smoke. Bad for your health,’ said Farr solemnly.

  ‘You’re an expert, are you?’ laughed the man. He was studying Farr’s face closely in the light from the supermarket window. ‘It’s Mr Farr, isn’t it? From Clay Street?’

  ‘Depends who’s asking.’

  ‘Boyle’s the name. Monty Boyle. You may have heard of me. Here’s my card.’

  He undid his jacket and took a card out of his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘I was thinking, Mr Farr,’ he went on. ‘We may be able to do each other a bit of good. I’m supposed to be seeing someone at your Club, but that can wait. Is there somewhere quiet we can go and have a talk, and a coffee too? You look like a man who could use a coffee.’

  ‘Coffee,’ said Farr, studying the card closely. ‘And somewhere quiet. It’s quiet here. And lots of coffee too.’

  Boyle followed his gaze into the supermarket where a pyramid of instant coffee dominated the window display.

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a smile. ‘But I don’t think they’re open.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Colin Farr.