Dalziel 09 Child's Play Read online

  'Sorry, love, but you don't look eighteen to me, and it's more than me licence is worth to sell you alcohol. You can have a fruit juice, but.'

  It was, of course, a stage-loudness for their benefit, thought Pascoe. Though indeed Jolly Jack Mahoney, the licensee, might well have objected even without a police presence to serving this customer, a small bespectacled girl who didn't look much above thirteen.

  Mahoney leaned over the bar and said in a quieter voice, if it's grub you're after, love, go through that door, there's a bit of a dining-room, the girl'll slip you a glass of wine with your meal, no bother. Them gents over there are the police, so you see my trouble.'

  The girl did not move except to turn her head so that the owl-eye spectacles ringed Dalziel and Pascoe.

  Her voice when she spoke was nervous but determined.

  'I thought you boasted at the Licensed Victuallers Association that the police never bothered you as long as the CID could get drinks at all hours, Mr Mahoney.'

  The publican's jaw dropped through shock into dismay.

  'Hold on, hold on,' he said, glancing anxiously towards Dalziel who was viewing him malevolently. 'You shouldn't say things like that, lass. Do I know you?'

  'You know my father, John Huby, I think.'

  'Up at the Old Mill Inn? By God, is it little Lexie? Why didn't you say, lass! You must be near on twenty now. I know her, she's near on twenty!'

  These last affirmations were directed towards Dalziel who finished his pint, placed the glass on the table and pointed menacingly into it, like Jahweh setting up a widow's cruse.

  A young man had come into the bar, of medium height, elegantly coiffured and dressed in a black and yellow striped blazer, cheese-cloth shirt and cream-coloured slacks. His regularly handsome features broke into a gleaming smile as he spotted the girl and bore down on her, arms outstretched.

  'Dear Lexie,' he cried. 'I am late. Forgive me. Purge me with a kiss.'

  Pascoe was amused to see that the girl ducked at the last second from his questing lips and got him in the eye with her big spectacles. Then the newcomer obtained two glasses of white wine and a plateful of sandwiches from Mahoney and he and the small girl sat down at the far side of the room, still within sight but now out of earshot.

  He returned his attention to Dalziel who was saying, 'That Mahoney, I'll need to have a quiet word about going around slandering the police.'

  'Now?' said Pascoe.

  'Don't be daft! When he's shut and we can get down to some serious drinking.'

  And he bellowed with laughter at the sight of the pained expression on Pascoe's face.

  At their distant table, Lexie and Rod Lomas heard the laugh, but only Lexie registered the source.

  'I really am sorry I'm late,' Lomas was saying. 'But I'm afraid I still tend to think of all urban distances as minute outside of London. To compensate, I tend to treat all country distances as vast. Had we been meeting at your father's pub, say, I dare say I'd have been there an hour ago.'

  Lexie did not reply but bit into a sandwich.

  Lomas said with a smile, 'You don't say a great deal, do you, dear coz?'

  'I were waiting for you to finish putting me at ease,' said Lexie.

  'Oh dear,' said Lomas. 'I see I shall have to watch you, little Lexie.'

  'I'm not your cousin, and I'm five feet two inches barefoot,' said Lexie.

  'Oh dear,' repeated Lomas. 'Are there any other sensitive areas we ought to check out straightaway?'

  'Why do you call yourself Lomas?' said Lexie. 'Your name is Windibanks, isn't it?'

  He grinned and said, 'There you're wrong. It was changed quite legally by deed poll. Rod Lomas is in fact and law my name.'

  'Why'd you change it?'

  'As I launched myself on what I hoped would be a meteoric theatrical career, but what now looks like being a long steady haul to the top, it occurred to me that Rodney Windibanks was not a name to fit easily into lights. Rod Lomas on the other hand is short, punchy, memorable. Satisfied?'

  She continued to chew without replying. Her silence somehow declared its source as disbelief rather than good manners.

  'All right,' he said, it's a fair cop! Why Lomas? It was Mummy's idea. Butter up Auntie Gwen - yes, I know she wasn't my auntie but that's how I thought of her. Mummy made a big deal of it, of course, writing and asking permission to resurrect the family name, promising that I would never bring anything but fame and good report on it. Auntie Gwen replied that I must call myself what I wished. Left to myself, I might have chosen something a little more evocative, like Garrick or Irving, but Mummy is very strong-willed in the pursuit of fortune. Do I shock you?'

  She swallowed, opened the half-eaten sandwich, said disgustedly, 'Brisket. And more gristle than brisket.'

  Lomas looked nonplussed for a moment, then he said with an edge of malice, 'Not that it should shock you, of course. You are a fellow-initiate in the great sucking-up- to-auntie club, aren't you? Indeed, almost a founder member, since you joined shortly after birth. Correct me if I'm wrong, but surely Lexie is short for Alexandra, and I doubt if that was a simple coincidence!'

  Lexie said abruptly, 'What do you want? What are you doing here?'

  Lomas looked at her as if considering taking up the challenge. Then he grinned boyishly and said, 'Believe it or not, dear coz, I came back north in response to a cry for help. When I was up for the funeral, I popped into the Kemble to see some old chums. I'm sure a cultured young person like yourself will be aware that the Kemble has as its artistic director Ms Eileen Chung. Chung and I are long acquainted and I know all her ways, which include a rather distorting tendency to socialize or, worse still, feminize all material that she turns her big doe-eyes on. She is not strong enough to resist the demands of the English set-book, however, and next week as you must know her very first production is Romeo and Juliet. At Salisbury we did it for art, in Yorkshire they do it for O-level! But disaster struck. Night before last, Chung's Mercutio got beaten up and is hors de combat. Desperate for a top-class replacement well-schooled in the part, her thoughts naturally turned to me. By chance I was free. Or rather I was just on the point of signing a big Hollywood contract, but who can resist a friend's cry for help? I dropped everything and came up last night. The show is saved!'

  Lexie said, 'I read in the Post the chap who got beaten up was black.'

  'Indeed yes. A little surprise for the good burghers, a black Mercutio. But Chung says it was not of the essence. She thinks his obvious homosexual passion for Romeo will be quite enough for the city council to bear. But enough of me, fascinating though I am. What of you? How goes the Law?'

  'All right,' said Lexie, discarding another sandwich.

  'Any news on the will front?' he asked casually.

  'How should I know?' she said, alert.

  'Well, you are acting as old Thackeray's secretary, aren't you?'

  'Who told you that?'

  'I don't know. Keechie, I suppose.'

  He laughed at her surprise.

  'Didn't I say? I'm staying out at Troy House. Well, I needed digs. I can only afford the Howard Arms Hotel when Mummy's with me, picking up the tab. Dear Mummy. It doesn't matter how strapped she is for cash, she never settles for less than the best.'

  'She's hard up, is she? Your dad didn't leave her anything, then?'

  Lomas stiffened.

  'Not much,' he said, charm subsumed by some genuine emotion. 'Why do you mention my father?'

  'No reason,' said the girl.

  He glowered at her, then burst out, 'People said he was a crook, but if he was, he'd have left us stinking rich, wouldn't he?'

  She said, 'You were telling me about staying at Troy House.'

  Lomas visibly pulled the charm back over him like a bright-patterned slipover.

  'So I was,' he said. 'I couldn't afford decent digs let alone the Howard Arms so I thought: What about old Keechie? We'd always got on well, so I gave her a ring. She was delighted. It must be lonely for her with nothin
g but those animals for company. What a nuisance they are. After the funeral feast, Mummy trod in something quite disgusting in the drive! Keechie, I'm glad to say, runs a rather tighter ship than old Gwen and apart from the odd moggie on my pillow, I've been unmolested. But it is, of course, early days. I only got here yesterday.'

  He regarded her speculatively.

  'One thing I have realized already is how far it is out of town if you haven't a car. The buses seem to be as rare as virtuous women and go all around the houses, if that's not a contradiction. Keechie tells me you run a car.'

  'You've done a bit of talking about me, haven't you?' said Lexie. 'Yes. I've got an old Mini. The Old Mill's out of the way too.'

  'Precisely. And rather out of the same way, isn't it? What I mean is, you must pass within a few yards, barely two miles anyway, of Greendale village. Perhaps I could persuade you to make a diversion some morning?'

  She said, 'I thought actors slept mornings.'

  'Art never sleeps. Are you game?'

  'I'll not wait around.'

  'I shall be ready and waiting before the bawdy hand of the clock has reached the prick of eight. It's all right. That's not rude, it's Shakespeare. You shall hear for yourself. As reward for your kindness, you shall have a complimentary ticket for our first night next Monday, and an invitation to the party afterwards. Then you can run me home too! Talking of which, how about running me home tonight? I work office hours till we open.'

  'I'm not a taxi-service,' said Lexie, standing up. 'Besides, I've got an evening class so I'll not be going straight back. Thanks for the wine. I'd not pay for them sandwiches if I were you. I'd best get back.'

  'It's been a pleasure,' said Lomas. 'You won't forget to call?'

  'I said so,' replied Lexie. 'Cheerio.'

  She left, passing quite close to Pascoe and Dalziel, who was on his fourth pint and third pie. Neither man paid her much attention. She wasn't the kind of woman to catch a man's eye. Indeed, with her close-cropped hair, big spectacles, un-made-up face and big leather handbag slung over her shoulder like a satchel, she looked for all the world like a schoolgirl returning to the classroom.

  But Rod Lomas watched her out of sight.

  Chapter 6

  'Maurice? It's Mac. Mac Wield.'

  'Good Lord! Mac? Is that really you?'

  'Yes, it's me.'

  'Well, how've you been? How are you?' With a sudden injection of sharpness. ' Where are you?'

  'It's all right, Maurice. I'm safely up here in Yorkshire.'

  'I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . . My dear chap, you'd be more than welcome to come and visit . . .'

  'Except you've got someone staying and you haven't forgotten last time, in Newcastle.'

  'Don't be silly. You were upset. Naturally. How do you know I've got someone staying?'

  'I rang your flat last night. He answered. I rang off. I didn't want to risk causing embarrassment. Also I wanted a private chat.'

  'So you ring me at the office? Not very good police work that, Mac.'

  'It's lunch-time. You're by yourself, else you'd not be talking like this,' said Wield confidently.

  'True. You just caught me. I was on my way - and I must get back on it pretty soon. Mac, can I ring you this evening? Is it the same number?'

  'I'd rather you didn't,' said Wield.

  'Oh. Same reason?'

  'In a way. I'm ringing from work too,' said Wield.

  'My, we are getting bold,' said Maurice Eaton.

  Wield heard the savagely scornful irony with sadness, but it stiffened his resolve. 'Mebbe we are,' he said. 'I'll not keep you. There were just a couple of questions I wanted to ask.'

  'Really? Don't tell me I'm helping with inquiries at last!'

  The voice had changed a lot. It was lighter and slipped more easily in to an archness of delivery which Eaton had once been at great pains to avoid.

  'You're getting bold too, Maurice,' said Wield.

  'Sorry? Don't get you.'

  'You used to be so scared of anyone spotting you were gay, you'd even say your prayers in a basso profundo,' said Wield, savage in his turn.

  'Have you rung me to quarrel, Mac?' asked Eaton softly.

  'No. Not at all. I'm sorry,' said Wield, fearful the connection would be broken before he got answers.

  'Very well. Then what do you want?'

  'Do you know a lad, name of Sharman? Cliff Sharman?'

  There was a silence which was in itself an answer, and more than just a simple affirmative.

  'What about him?' said Eaton finally.

  'He's here.'

  'You mean up there, in Yorkshire?'

  'That's what here means up here.'

  'Then my advice to you, Mac, is, get shot of him quick as you can. He's a poisonous little asp. Put him on his bike and send him on his way.'

  'You do know him, then.'

  'Yes, of course I do. Or I did. Mac, he's trouble. Believe me, get rid of him.'

  'What's he done to you, Maurice? How well did you know him?'

  'What? Oh, hardly at all as a matter of fact.'

  'He said he lived with you.'

  'I took him in as a favour to a friend. Just a few nights. He repaid me by spreading foul gossip about me at my club and then decamping with twenty quid out of my wallet and several knick-knacks I was rather fond of. I almost called the police.'

  'He did, Maurice. He did.'

  Again there was silence.

  'Oh shit, Mac. Has he been bothering you? How the hell . . .? Oh, I get it! I've got some old stuff tucked away, photos and things, sentimental corner, I call it. The young sod must've come across it when he was ferreting around looking for something to steal.'

  Wield let this go for the time being. He could feel a rage deep down inside him but it was like the glow of a forest fire in the next valley, ignorable till the wind changed.

  He said, 'What's his background. Maurice?'

  'I only know what he's told me and God knows how much credence one should give that. He comes from Dulwich, the seedy end I should imagine. His mother still lives there, I gather, but his father took French leave about three years ago when Cliff was fifteen and he's been out of control ever since bumming around the West End in every sense. This town's full of them.'

  'Must break your heart. Work?'

  'You're joking! The odd odd job, but nothing more. No, State Benefits and fool's wallets, that's what kept little Cliffy going. Mac, is he causing you real trouble? I mean, not to put too fine a point on it, blackmail? I'm assuming you've still not come out.'

  'No, I've not,' said Wield.

  'Listen, I'm sure I can get enough on the little shit for you to be able to threaten him back with a good stretch behind bars if he doesn't shut up and go.'

  It was a genuine offer of help and it seemed to spring from a real concern. Wield felt himself touched.

  'No,' he said, 'that won't be necessary. But thanks anyway.'

  Eaton laughed.

  'Oh, I'm sorry,' he said. 'Here's me teaching me grandmother to suck eggs! You've probably done courses in fitting people up!'

  The momentary softening was past. The wind was blowing hard from that neighbouring valley and suddenly the flames came leaping from treetop to treetop over the crest of the hills.

  'Yes,' said Wield harshly. 'I've done courses on memory and deduction as well. And I remember I never had a picture taken of me in any kind of uniform or with any kind of inscription that would show I was a copper. Someone told Sharman that, and told him my rank, and where to find me. And told him what you used to call me. That's what I remember, Maurice. And what I deduce from that is that you had a little giggle one night, lying in your pit with this young lad you took in to oblige a friend. You showed him some old photos and you said, "Can you imagine I once used to fancy that! And you'll never guess what he does for a living. He's a copper! Yes, really, he is." Am I right, Maurice? Is that how it was?'

  'For God's sake, Mac, take it easy! Look. I can't talk now . . .'


  'What's up, Maurice? Has someone come in? No, you mean to say there's people in this brave new fucking world of yours that you're still lying to?'

  'At least there's more than half my life, and that's the most important half, that isn't a lie. Think about that, Mac. Just you bloody well think about it.'

  'Maurice . . .'

  But the phone was dead.

  Wield replaced his receiver and sat with his head in his hands. He'd handled it badly from any point of view, professional or personal. One of Dalziel's dicta for police and public alike was, if you can't be honest you'd better be fucking clever. Well, he hadn't been clever, and he'd certainly not been honest. He'd not let on that Cliff was staying with him and he'd given the impression that the youth had turned up just yesterday instead of several days ago.

  Several days! There he went again. It was a good week since Cliff had moved in. There had been no sexual contact offered or invited, no threats or demands from Cliff, no aggressive cross-questioning from Wield. It was truce, a limbo, the eye of the storm; whatever it was, Wield had discovered in himself a growing fear of disturbing it, and it had taken a conscious act of will for him to ring Maurice. His relief the previous evening when the stranger's voice had given him an excuse to ring off had been great, but it was his awareness of that relief which had sent him impulsively out of the Black Bull today. Had Maurice already left for lunch, he doubted if he would have found the will to try to contact him again.

  Well, now he'd done it, and how much further forward was he?

  He didn't know. He glanced at his watch. It was surprising how little time had elapsed. He could if he wished get back to the Black Bull in plenty of time for another pint and something to eat. But he didn't wish. Pascoe's merry quips and Dalziel's badinage was the last thing he wanted. Whatever the future held, there was work to be done here and now.

  He turned to the files on his desk, a thick one entitled Shoplifting, a thin one labelled Vandalism (Kemble Theatre). Their size was relevant to incidence, not to progress. The best he could say was that nothing needful was omitted, nothing superfluous included. He was the best keeper of records, the best drafter of reports in the CID.

  It occurred to him that if he came out now, either voluntarily or through pressure from Sharman, the best he could hope for would be a sideways shuffle into the dusty solitude of Records. He had no illusion about the degree of liberalism informing the upper reaches of the Mid-Yorkshire Force.