A Killing Kindness

‘Hello, sir. Good meeting?’ he said, half rising. Wield was standing to attention as if rigor mortis had set in.

‘Champion, till I got off the train this end,’ said Dalziel, raising a huge right hand which was attempting to squeeze the printing ink out of a rolled up copy of the local paper.

He pretended to notice Wield for the first time, went close to him and put his mouth next to his ear.

‘Ah, Sergeant Wield,’ he murmured. ‘Any messages for me?’

‘No sir,’ said Wield. ‘Not that I know of.’

‘Not even from the other bloody side!’ bellowed Dalziel. He looked as if he was about to thump the sergeant with the paper.

‘It’s all a mistake, sir,’ interposed Pascoe hastily.

‘Mistake? Certainly it’s a bloody mistake. I go down to Birmingham for a conference. Hello Andy, they all say. How’s that Choker of yours? they all say. Fine, I say. All under control, I say. That was the bloody mistake! You know what it says here in this rag?’

He unfolded the paper with some difficulty.

‘It has long been common practice among American police forces to call on the aid of clairvoyants when they are baffled,’ he read. ‘I leave a normal English CID unit doing its job. I come back and suddenly it’s the Mid-Yorkshire precinct and we’re baffled! No wonder Kojak’s bald.’

Pascoe risked a smile. Lots of things made Dalziel angry. Not having his jokes appreciated was one of them.

The fat man hooked a chair towards him with a size ten foot and sat down heavily.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’

For answer, Pascoe shoved Wield’s report towards him.

He read it quickly.

‘Sergeant.’

‘Sir!’

‘Oh, stop standing there as if you’d crapped yourself,’ said Dalziel wearily.

‘Think I may have, sir,’ said Wield.

This tickled Dalziel’s fancy and he grinned and belched. There had obviously been a buffet bar on the train.

‘How’d it happen you had a recorder in your car, lad? Not normal issue these days, is it?’

‘No, sir,’ said Wield. ‘It’s my nephew’s. It’d gone wonky so I’d been having it repaired.’

‘That was kind of you,’ said Dalziel approvingly. ‘At an electrical shop, you mean?’

‘Not exactly, sir,’ said Wield, uncomfortable again. ‘It’s Percy Lowe who services the radio equipment in the cars. He’s very good with anything like this.’

‘Oh aye. In his own time and with his own gear, I suppose,’ said Dalziel sarcastically.

‘He did a good job on your electric kettle, sir,’ said Pascoe brightly.

Dalziel edged nearer the corner of the desk to scratch his paunch on the angle.

‘Let’s hear what the spirits had to say, then,’ he commanded.

He followed Wield’s transcript closely as the tape was played again.

‘Now that’s what I call helpful,’ he said when it was done. ‘That makes it all worthwhile. Here’s us thinking Brenda Sorby was killed after dark when all the time the sun was shining, and that she was chucked into our muddy old canal that’s so thick Judas bloody Iscariot could walk on it, and all the time it was some nice crystal-clear trout stream!’

‘Sir,’ said Pascoe, but the sarcasm wasn’t yet finished.

‘So all we’ve got to do now, sergeant, is work out the most likely nesting ground for albatrosses in Yorkshire. Or condors, maybe. Wasn’t there a pair seen sitting on a slag heap near Barnsley? That’s it! And these dark-skinned buggers’ll be Arthur Scargill and his lads just up from t’pit!’

Pascoe laughed, not so much at the ‘wit’ as in relief that Dalziel was talking himself back into a good mood. He had known the fat man for many years now and familiarity had bred a complex of emotions and attitudes not least among which was a healthy caution.

‘All right, Peter,’ said Dalziel. ‘This crap apart, what’s really happened today?’

‘Nothing much. House to house goes on, but we’re running out of houses.’

‘And the lad, what about the lad?’

‘Tommy Maggs? I saw him again today while the sergeant was at the Sorbys’. It was just about as useful. He sticks to his story. He’s very uptight, but you’d expect that.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, his girl-friend murdered and the police visiting him twice daily.’

‘Oh aye,’ said Dalziel doubtfully. He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ he said. ‘How’s your missus?’

Pascoe’s wife, Ellie, was five months gone with their first child.

‘Fine, she’s fine.’

‘Grand,’ said Dalziel. ‘That’s what you need, Peter. A babby around the house. Steady you down a bit.’

He nodded with the tried virtue of a medieval bishop remonstrating with a wild young squire.

‘So if she’s all right, and my watch is all right, the Black Bull’s open and I’ll let you buy me a pint.’

‘A pleasure, sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘But just the one.’

‘Don’t be shy. You can buy me as many as you like,’ said Dalziel.

As he passed Wield, he dug a finger into his ribs and said, ‘You’d best come too, sergeant, in case we move on to spirits.’

He went chuckling through the door.

Pascoe and Wield shared a moment of silent pain and then followed him.