Child’s Play

‘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 fools’ 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.

Well, perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. Perhaps he only imagined he enjoyed the hustle and bustle, the long hours and continuous pressures of CID work, because they filled a yawning emptiness in his life.

It seemed a reasonable hypothesis and he was a great believer in the rule of reason. But not all the reason in the world could stop him looking at the phone and wishing that it would ring and he would pick it up and hear a voice say, ‘Hello, Mac. Cliff here. How’re you doing?’

Cliff Sharman dialled. The phone rang eight times before it was answered by a female voice slightly muffled by a half-masticated sandwich.

‘Mid-Yorks Evening Post, good morning, sorry, afternoon!’

‘I’d like to talk to one of your reporters,’ said Sharman.

‘Anyone in particular, love? Thing is, they’re mostly out at lunch.’

‘Someone in your investigation department,’ said the youth tentatively.

The voice giggled.

‘Are you sure it’s not the Washington Post you’re after? Hang on, love. Here’s Mr Ruddlesdin.’

He heard her voice call, ‘Sammy!’ and a man’s voice reply distantly, ‘Oh hell, Mavis, I’m on me way out!’

A moment later, the same voice said, ‘Sam Ruddlesdin here. Can I help you, sir?’

Cliff’s resolution was ebbing by the second. He’d thought of trying one of the big nationals, but they all seemed a long way away from Yorkshire and also their numbers weren’t in the book. He reminded himself that all he was dealing with here was some provincial hayseed.

He said boldly, ‘Mebbe I can help you.’

‘How so?’

‘What’s a story about a bent copper worth?’

‘Bent? You mean gay! Or crooked?’

‘Both,’ he extemporized. ‘His bosses don’t know he’s gay, so he’s got to be crooked to keep it quiet, know what I mean?’

‘Who are his bosses?’

‘Well, he’s a detective, isn’t he?’

‘Local?’

‘Yeah, that’s why I’m ringing you and not one of the big papers, see? So what’s it worth?’