The Wood Beyond

Wendy flashed a bright smile and said, ‘Cheers then,’ and went past him into the entrance hall. Ellie caught up with her on the doorstep.

‘You haven’t said what you want to talk about,’ she said.

‘Probably all in my imagination,’ said Wendy unconvincingly. ‘Look, we’ll have a chat at the party, OK? You will be there, won’t you?’

She fixed Ellie with those bright unblinking eyes, like a hungry whippet that doesn’t know how to beg.

‘Yes,’ said Ellie reluctantly. ‘I’ll definitely be there.’

She watched as Walker mounted the dilapidated mountain bike which was her urban transport and stood on the pedals to accelerate away.

‘Shit,’ said Ellie.

The party in question was basically a celebration of the University Extramural Department’s twenty-fifth year of running day-release courses for the National Union of Miners. Ellie had taught on the course briefly, and it was here that had begun the relationship which had caused so much pain. She’d backed off any further involvement in the course after that. Peter had urged her to go to the party, particularly as it wasn’t just a celebration but a wake. The present course was the last. After Christmas the NUM wouldn’t have enough miners left to make day-release viable. Samson had been brought low. The triumph of Dagon was complete.

But despite her husband’s urgings, or perhaps because of them, Ellie had resolved not to go, a decision confirmed by the coincidence of his return from Ada’s funeral this same day.

Now the case was altered but not in any way she could explain.

It would be nice, she thought, just now and then, to be like one of those bright-eyed brain-deads in the telly ads who never had a problem more pressing than which pack of chemical crap washed whiter.

But that wasn’t an option she had been programmed for.

She turned back into the entrance hall and banged her shin against Ada’s secretaire.

‘And up you too!’ said Ellie Pascoe.

xii (#ulink_ac23b9a8-c75b-5a83-8c52-dc63fa009dd3)

By early afternoon, even with the help of a small pump to keep the water level down, Wield’s team hadn’t recovered as many bones from the crater as would make a good stock. These were dispatched to Longbottom who reacted like a ravenous panther offered a harvest mouse.

His complaints were heard elsewhere because about 1.30, Wield had a rendezvous with Death.

This was the sobriquet of Arnold Gentry, Head of the Police Forensic Laboratory. Rumour had it that he had been excavated along with the Dead Sea Scrolls, and he was certainly one of the few men to make Troll Longbottom look healthy.

He acknowledged Wield’s greeting with a minuscule nod, brooded on the edge of the pit for a while, then said, ‘Sluice it.’

‘Eh?’ said Wield.

‘From what Mr Longbottom says, I gather there has been considerable dispersion of the remains, probably both through natural causes and as a result of the use of mechanical and explosive devices in the clearance of the area earlier this year. This means the precise disposition of the bones is unlikely to be central to your investigation. Therefore it makes sense to load say fifty or sixty cubic metres of earth onto a truck and deliver them to my lab where I will arrange to have them sluiced, thus isolating any bones or other evidential material. This will save you a great deal of time and the state a great deal of money.’

‘You’d best talk to Mr Headingley, sir,’ said Wield seeing the DI approaching. ‘OK if I go off to lunch now, sir?’

‘Aye, why not,’ said Headingley with postprandial expansiveness.

Wield moved quickly away. Dr Death’s suggestion seemed a good one, but he wasn’t going to let George Headingley get his feelings on record. Over the years he’d shown a growing reluctance to take responsibility though none to taking credit. That was what had kept him a superior unlike Peter Pascoe who’d become a mate.

As he reached the drive, a strangulated cry made him glance back.

Gentry had been supporting his proposition by pointing to the fluid condition of the sides of the crater which made any search by manual means both slow and perilous. Headingley, in his efforts to show an alert interest while postponing decision, had ventured too near the edge and suddenly found himself proving Dr Death’s thesis. As Wield watched, the ungainly inspector slid slowly like a ship down a launch ramp into the water-filled crater.

For a moment Wield was tempted to return and supervise the rescue operation. But only for a moment. God’s gifts should be savoured in tranquillity, and besides there were plenty of strong young constables in thigh-length waders to pluck old George from the depths. He turned and continued up the drive.

At the top, he headed down the side of the house and into the old tradesmen’s entrance, now leading directly into the TecSec quarters which consisted of an office, a sitting room with a couple of Z-beds, a washroom and a kitchen.

Wield peered through the office door. Patten was sitting at his desk, typing on a computer. On one wall a range of TV screens showed scenes from various parts of the grounds and building. Very hi-tech, thought Wield. Must be costing ALBA a bomb.

‘OK if I clean up?’ he said.

‘Surprised you bother to ask. Don’t all get your manners from that fat fucker, then?’

‘No. Get mine from Sainsbury’s. Where do you get yours from?’

The security man looked abashed.

‘Sorry. Of course you can. Should be a clean towel in the cupboard.’

When he came back, he found Patten on the phone.

He said, ‘That’s right. Roll ’em up, all three. You got it.’

Then replacing the receiver he said to Wield, ‘I’ve just made a brew. Fancy a cup?’

‘That ’ud be nice. No sugar.’

‘Keep healthy, eh? I’ve seen you down the Leisure, haven’t I? Kung fu, wasn’t it?’

‘I try to keep in shape.’

‘Working with yon tub of lard must give you a real incentive.’

‘Nowt wrong with being big so long as you can punch your weight,’ said Wield mildly.

‘And he can?’ said Patten sceptically.

‘He’s wired a few jawbones in his time,’ said Wield. ‘You army?’

‘That’s right. You been checking up?’ said Patten with a return to his earlier aggression.

‘No. Private security folk are usually ex-cops or ex-forces, and you’re not ex-cop.’

‘How do you know that?’

Wield shrugged and said, ‘Way you don’t stick your pinkie out when you drink your tea.’

‘What? Oh, I see. A joke.’ He sounded surprised.

Here’s another thinks I shouldn’t make jokes, and he doesn’t even know me! thought Wield.