Death's Jest-Book Read online

  ‘Which has now arrived,’ interrupted the presenter, seeing his producer making for-God’s-sake-hurry-this-along signals from the control room.

  Dalziel clearly felt much the same. He’d returned with drinks and was sitting next to Cap on the sofa, glowering at the screen with an intensity of hatred which he usually only saved for winning Welsh rugby teams.

  ‘So Lord Elsecar has put the Hoard on the market,’ continued the presenter at a gallop. ‘The best offer to date has been from America, the British Museum has been given the chance to match it, but so far, even with lottery money and a public appeal, they’re still well short of the mark. So as a last gasp, and following a suggestion made, one might even say a pressure exerted, by the Yorkshire Archaeological Society led by yourself, the Elsecars have agreed for the Hoard to go on tour, with all profits from admission charges to go to the Save Our Hoard Fund. Will they do it?’

  Belchamber made hopeful noises. Cap Marvell laughed derisively.

  ‘Not a hope,’ she said. ‘They’re so far short they’d need everyone in Yorkshire to go five times to get anywhere near! First time I’ve seen a lawyer who can’t add up!’

  ‘That’s great,’ said the presenter. ‘So there you are, all you culture vultures, take the family along to see the money your ancestors spent and what they spent it on back in the Dark Ages. The Hoard will be on exhibition in Bradford till the New Year, then in Sheffield till Friday, January twenty-fifth, after which it moves to Mid-Yorkshire. Don’t miss it! And now the Christmas Party. How many kids are you hoping to get this year, Marcus?’

  Dalziel stood up and said, ‘Like another drink?’

  ‘I’ve hardly touched this one,’ said Cap as she picked up the remote control and zapped the sound off. ‘But I can take a hint. Is there some all-in wrestling on another channel you want to watch?’

  ‘No. It’s just I hear quite enough of yon turd, Belcher, without letting him into my own parlour,’ said Dalziel.

  ‘I take it this means he represents criminals and does a rather good job of it?’

  ‘He does better than a good job,’ said Dalziel grimly. ‘He bends the law till it nigh on breaks. Every top villain in the county’s on his books. I’m late tonight ’cos there was a scare with our one witness in the Linford case, and guess who’s representing Linford.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting that Marcus Belchamber, solicitor, gentleman, scholar and philanthropist, goes around intimidating witnesses?’

  ‘Of course not. But I don’t doubt it’s him as told Linford’s dad, Wally, that the case was hopeless unless they got shut of our witness. Any road, it turned out a false alarm and I left Wieldy soothing the lad.’

  ‘Oh yes. Is the sergeant a good soother?’

  ‘Oh aye. He tells ’em if they don’t calm down, he’ll have to stay the night. That usually does the trick.’

  Cap, who sometimes had a problem working out when Dalziel’s political incorrectness was post-modern ironical and when it was prehistoric offensive, turned the sound back on.

  ‘You look awfully smart, Marcus,’ the presenter was saying. ‘Off clubbing tonight?’

  Belchamber gave the weary little smile with which in court he frequently underlined some prosecution witness’s inconsistency or inanity, and said, ‘I’m driving to Leeds for the Northern Law Society’s dinner.’

  ‘Well, don’t drink too much or you could end up defending yourself.’

  ‘In which case I would have a fool for a client,’ said Belchamber. ‘But rest easy. I shall be spending the night there.’

  ‘Only joking! Have a good night. It’s been a privilege having you on the show. Ladies and gentlemen, Marcus Belchamber!’

  Belchamber rose easily from the depths of his chair, the presenter struggled to get upright, the two men shook hands, and the lawyer walked off to enthusiastic applause.

  ‘He’s a fine-looking man,’ said Cap provocatively.

  ‘He’d look better strapped on the end of a ducking stool,’ said Dalziel.

  ‘And did you notice that DJ? Lovely cut. Conceals the embonpoint perfectly with no suggestion of tightness. Next time you see him, you really must ask who his tailor is.’

  This was a provocation too far.

  ‘Right, lass, if you just came round here to be rude, you can bugger off back to that fancy flat of thine. What did you come round for anyway?’

  She grinned at him and ran her tongue round the rim of her glass.

  ‘Actually I just thought I’d pop round to see what you wanted for Christmas,’ she said languorously.

  ‘I’ll need at least thirty seconds to have a think,’ said Dalziel. ‘But it’s not a tangerine in a sock, I can tell you that for starters.’

  Detective Sergeant Edgar Wield was in a good mood as he mounted his ancient but beautifully maintained Triumph Thunderbird and said farewell to Mid-Yorkshire’s Central Police Station with a quite unnecessary crescendo of revs. A couple of uniformed constables coming into the yard stood aside respectfully as he rode past them. He was still a man of mystery to most of his junior colleagues, but whether you thought of him as an ageing rocker who ate live chickens as he did the ton along the central reservation of the M1 or believed the rumours that he was matron-in-chief of a transvestite community living in darkest Eendale, you didn’t let any trace of speculation and/or amusement show. Dalziel was more obviously terrifying, Pascoe had a finger of iron inside his velvet glove, but Wield’s was the face to haunt your dreams.

  It had been a long day but in the end quite productive. With time running out, a suspect had finally cracked under the pressure of Wield’s relentless questioning and unreadable features. Then, just as he was leaving, Dalziel had tossed into his lap the job of reassuring Oz Carnwath, the Linford case witness, that the burly man on his doorstep talking about death really had been an undertaker who’d mixed up addresses. He’d left the young man happy and arranged for a patrol car to stop by from time to time during the night. Then he’d returned to the station to put on his leathers and pick up his bike, and finally he was on his way home with all the pleasures of a crime-free Sunday in the company of Edwin Digweed, his beloved partner, stretching ahead. Nothing special, he doubted if they’d get further than the Morris, their local, or perhaps take a stroll along the Een whose valley had the bone structure to remain lovely even in midwinter, or go up to Enscombe Old Hall to check how Monte, the tiny marmoset he’d ‘rescued’ from a pharmaceutical research laboratory, was coping with the cold weather.

  Things must be beautiful which, daily seen, please daily, or something like that. One of Pascoe’s little gags which usually drifted across his hearing with small trace of their passage, but that one had stuck. As he recalled it now, he tried superstitiously not to let the thought I am a very lucky man join it in his head.

  He came to a halt at traffic lights. Straight ahead the road which tracked the western boundary of Charter Park stretched out temptingly. Parks are the lungs of the city, and the fact that Mid-Yorkshire possessed an abundance of beautiful countryside, easy of access and to suit all tastes, did not mean the founding fathers had stinted when it came to pulmonary provision in the towns. Over the years many unsentimental eyes had looked greedily at these priceless green sites, but that lust for ‘brass’ which is proper to a Yorkshireman comes a poor second in his defining characteristics to the determination that ‘what’s mine’s me own, and no bugger’s going to take it from me’. Try as they might, not an acre of ground, not a spadeful of earth, not a blade of grass, had the developers ever managed to wrest from the grip of Charter Park’s owners in perpetuity – the taxable citizenry. So the road alongside the park stretched straight and wide for a mile or more and a man on a powerful machine might hit the ton, though it’s doubtful if he’d have much time to digest a live chicken.

  Wield let himself be tempted. It was a safe indulgence. Over the years he had grown sufficiently strong in resisting temptation to be able to drink the heady potion more deeply than most men.


  The lights turned green, the engine roared, but it was the roar of an old lion saying he could run down that wildebeest if he wanted but on the whole he thought he’d probably stretch under a bush and have a nap.

  The sergeant moved forward sedately and legally.

  It was his slowness that permitted him to see the attempted abduction taking place in the car park which ran much of the length of the park.

  Separated from the main road by a long colonnade of lime trees, it was in fact more like a parallel thoroughfare. During the day, visitors to the park left the cars there in a single line. On a summer night it might be quite crowded, but in the middle of winter, apart from the odd vehicle whose steamed-up windows advertised the presence of young love or old lust, there was rarely much activity. But as he went by, Wield saw a man trying to drag a young boy into his slow-moving car.

  He braked sharply, went into a speedway racer’s skid, straightened up to negotiate the gap between two lime trees, found it was already occupied by a bench, realigned his machine at the next gap, went through, lost a bit of traction on the loose shaley surface as he straightened up, and lost some time wrestling the Thunderbird back under control. All the while he was blasting out warnings of his approach on the horn. Prevention was better than cure and the last thing he wanted was a high-speed chase through city streets in pursuit of a car carrying a kidnapped child.

  It worked. Ahead he saw the boy sprawling on the ground with the abductor’s vehicle roaring off in a cloud of dust which, aided by the fact that the car’s lights weren’t switched on, made it impossible to get the number plate.

  He pulled up alongside the boy, who had pushed himself into a sitting position. He looked about ten, maybe a bit older, twelve, say. He had big dark eyes, curly black hair and a thin pale face. He had grazed his hand on falling and he was holding it to his mouth to wash it and ease the pain. He looked angry rather than terrified.

  ‘You OK, son?’ said Wield, dismounting.

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  His accent was local urban. He began to rise and Wield said, ‘Hold on. Got any pain anywhere?’

  ‘Nah. Just this fucking hand.’

  ‘You sure? OK. Easy does it.’

  Wield took his arm and helped him up.

  He winced as he rose then moved all his limbs in turn as if to show they worked.

  ‘Great,’ said Wield. He reached inside his leathers and pulled out his mobile.

  ‘What you doing?’ demanded the boy.

  ‘Just getting someone to look out for that guy who grabbed you. Did you notice the make of car? Looked like a Montego to me.’

  ‘No. I mean, I didn’t notice. Look, why bother? Forget it. He’s gone.’

  A very self-possessed youngster.

  ‘You might forget it, son. But that doesn’t mean he’s not going to try again.’

  ‘Try what?’

  ‘Abducting someone.’

  ‘Yeah … well …’

  The boy thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his thin windcheater, hunched his shoulders and began to move away. He looked waif and forlorn.

  ‘Hey, where are you going?’ said Wield.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I’m worried, that’s all,’ said Wield. ‘Look, you’ve had a shock. You shouldn’t be wandering round here at this time of night. Hop up behind me and I’ll give you a lift.’

  The boy regarded him speculatively.

  ‘Lift where?’ he said.

  Wield considered. Offering to take the boy home might not be a good move. Maybe it was what awaited him at home that sent him wandering the streets so late. Best way to find out could be a low-key, friendly chat, unencumbered by the revelation that he was a cop. He put the phone away. The car would be long gone by now and what did he have anyway? A dark blue Montego, maybe.

  ‘Fancy a coffee or a Coke or something?’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ said the boy. ‘Why not? You know Turk’s?’

  ‘Know of it,’ said Wield. ‘Hop on. You got a name?’

  ‘Lee,’ said the boy as he swung his leg over the pillion. ‘You?’

  ‘You can call me Mac. Hold on.’

  The boy ignored the advice and sat there loosely as if not anticipating any need for anchorage. Wield said nothing but accelerated along the car park till the lime trees began to blur, then braked to swing between them and rejoin the main road. He smiled as he felt the boy’s arms swing round his midriff and lock on tight.

  Turk’s caff was situated in the lee of the Central Station. It was basic just this side of squalid, but had the advantage of staying open late, the theory being it would catch hungry travellers after the station snackbars pulled down their shutters early in the evening. In fact the regular – indeed one might say the permanent – clientele seemed to consist of solitary men in shabby parkas hunched over empty coffee mugs, who gave few signs that they ever contemplated travelling anywhere. The only person who showed any sign of life, and that only enough to offer a customer slow and resentful service, was the morose and taciturn owner, the eponymous Turk, whose coffee was reason enough to keep a country out of the EU, never mind Human Rights, thought Wield, as he watched the boy drink Coke and tuck into a chunk of glutinous cheesecake.

  ‘So, Lee,’ he said. ‘What happened back there?’

  The boy looked at him. He’d shown either natural courtesy or natural indifference when Wield had removed his helmet to reveal the full ugliness of his face, but now his gaze was sharp.

  ‘Nowt. Just a bit of hassle, that’s all.’

  ‘Did you know the guy in the car?’

  ‘What difference does it make?’

  ‘Could make the difference between some nutter driving around trying to kidnap kids and a domestic.’

  The boy shrugged, chewed another mouthful of cake, washed it down with Coke, then said, ‘What’re you after?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Getting mixed up with this.’

  ‘You mean I should’ve ridden on by?’

  ‘Mebbe. Most would.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘OK, but the chat and this –’ he waved the last forkful of cheesecake in the air then devoured it – ‘what’s all that for? You some sort of do-gooder?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Wield. ‘Let me buy you another piece then I’ll save your soul.’

  This amused the boy. When he laughed, his age dropped back to the original low estimate. On the other hand, being smart put as many years on him.

  ‘OK,’ he said. “Nother Coke too.’

  Wield went up to the counter. The cheesecake looked like it contravened every dietary regulation ever written, but the boy needed fattening up. Watch it, Edgar, he told himself mockingly. You’re thinking like your mother! Which thought provoked him into buying a ham sandwich. Edwin was going to be miffed that he was even later than forecast, and it wouldn’t help things if Wield disturbed the even tenor of their pristine kitchen with his ‘disgusting canteen habits’.

  As he resumed his seat, the boy pulled a face at the sandwich and said, ‘You gonna eat that? He makes them out of illegals who didn’t survive the trip.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances,’ said Wield. ‘OK. Now, about your soul.’

  ‘Sold up and gone, long since. What’s your line?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What you do for dosh? Let’s have a look …’

  He took Wield’s left hand and ran his index finger gently over the palm.

  ‘Not a navvy then, Mac,’ he said. ‘Not a brain surgeon neither.’

  Wield pulled his hand away more abruptly than he intended and the boy grinned.

  He’s sussed me out, thought Wield. A couple of minutes and he’s got to the heart of me. How come someone this age is so sharp? And what the hell signals am I sending out? I told him to call me Mac! Why? Because Wield sounds odd? Because only Edwin calls me Edgar? Good reasons. Except nobody’s called me Mac since …

  It was short for Macumazahn, th
e native name for Allan Quartermain, the hero of some of Wield’s beloved H. Rider Haggard novels. It meant he-who-sleeps-with-his-eyes-open and had been given to him by a long-lost lover. No one else had ever used it until a few years ago a young man had briefly entered his life …

  He put the memory of the tragic end of that relationship out of his mind. This wasn’t a young man, this was a kid, and, thank God, he’d never fancied kids. It was time to wrap things up here and get himself back to the domestic peace and safety of Enscombe.

  He finished his drink, pushed his chair back and said, ‘OK, let’s forget saving your soul and get your body delivered safely home.’

  ‘Home? Nah. It’s early doors yet.’

  ‘Not for kids who’re roaming the streets getting into fights with strange men.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right, it’s been my night for strange men, hasn’t it? Anyway, not sure if I want to get back on that ancient time machine of yours. No telling where you’d take me.’

  Again the knowing grin. It was time to stop messing around.

  Wield took out his wallet and produced his police ID.

  ‘I can either take you home or down the nick till we find out where home is,’ he said.

  The boy studied the ID without looking too bothered.

  He said, ‘You arresting me, or wha’?’

  ‘Of course I’m not arresting you. I just want to make sure you get home safe. And as a minor if you don’t co-operate by giving me your address, then it’s my job to find it out.’

  ‘As a minor?’

  The boy reached into his back pocket, pulled out a billfold thick with banknotes and from it took a ragged piece of paper. He handed it over. It was a photocopy of a birth certificate which told Wield he was in the company of Lee Lubanski, native of this city in which he’d been born nineteen years ago.

  ‘You’re nineteen?’ said Wield, feeling foolish. He should have spotted it from his demeanour straight off … but kids nowadays all acted grown up … or maybe he hadn’t been looking at the youth like a copper should …

  ‘Yeah. Always getting hassled in pubs is why I carry that around. So no need to see me home, Mac. Or should I call you sergeant now? I should have sussed when you went on about domestics. But you seemed … OK, know what I mean?’