Dalziel And Pascoe: Pictures Of Perfection Part 19

'I say, I don't want their money and I don't want their company. I want them out of here, and I don't want to see them back.'

'Oh dear,' said Guillemard. 'If they go, then I'll have to go, you do understand that?'

'Understand it? I b.l.o.o.d.y insist on it!' roared Wapshare.

Wield felt like cheering.

Guy the Heir looked round the room, his face still smiling but the smile now thinly stretched over fury.

'If that's the way you feel, Wappy. Your loss, not ours. I mean, it's not what you'd call lively, is it? My ancestors needn't have bothered about trying to close you down, the place died naturally a long time back and it's just that no one's bothered to bury it. Come on, boys. Let's leave this mausoleum before the dust chokes us.'

He made for the door. The others trooped after him.

Wapshare's face relaxed to its customary benevolence.

'Right,' he said. 'Who's good at picking up money?'

There was a general laugh, almost immediately echoed and drowned by a cheer from outside and a crash as though something had been hurled against the pub wall.

Wield half rose, looking inquiringly at Wapshare who shook his head.

'Don't interrupt your meal, Sergeant. They'll just be taking it out on the sign. Guillemards have been doing that for a hundred years, and we're none the worse for it yet!'

Outside an engine roared into life and Wield looked out of the window to see the GUNG-HO! Land Rover heading up the High Street, presumably to continue the merrymaking at the Hall. Most of the customers were bending to pick up the fallen coins. Wylmot, eager to demonstrate how much he belonged, was foremost among them, but the gins had taken their toll and when he stooped he would have gone right over if his wife hadn't grabbed his arm.

'Come on, Dud,' said Wapshare, emerging from behind the bar and taking the other arm. 'We'll find you a nice comfortable seat at the back. Sergeant, I'll be closing for a while till the meeting's over, but don't rush your grub. Help yourself to owt you need, and if you leave afore I'm back, just pull the door shut behind you.'

Five minutes later Wield found himself completely alone. Dalziel's dream of heaven, he thought, just as Pascoe's was probably to be left alone in the Tell-Tale Bookshop for a couple of hours.

And his own dream of heaven? He tried to fantasize but found he couldn't. So, a man without a dream. He ought to be unhappy, but, rather to his surprise, he found he wasn't.

He finished his food, went behind the bar and drew himself another half of bitter, as much for the pleasure of doing it as need of a drink. The place looked different from this side of the counter. He knew a lot of cops who'd taken their pensions and gone in for a pub. He didn't fancy it himself. What did he fancy? A packet of pork scratchings! He helped himself, checked the price list for food and drink, was pleasantly surprised, left his money neatly on top of the till, dropped another couple of pound coins on the reconst.i.tuted Save Our School pile, now more Pyrenees than pyramid, and went out into the night.

It would have been pitch black if the uncurtained window of the village hall hadn't laid a causeway of light across the road. He walked along it till he was close enough to hear as well as see the meeting within.

The Vicar was on his feet. He had a good pulpit voice but he didn't seem to be bringing tidings of great joy.

'The Appeal has done well,' he was saying. 'But as we always knew, there is little chance of getting close to the very large sum we need to guarantee the school's future. . .'

'Then we have to sell the Green,' yelled someone, 'Isn't Phil Wallop interested? We could do with some new houses for the young ones . . .'

'Don't kid yourself our young 'uns 'ud be able to afford owt that Wallop built,' interjected someone else. 'And don't imagine he'd hire local workmen either, if that's what you're thinking . . .'

'Please!' cried the Vicar above the resultant hubbub. 'Look, what I suggest is we postpone any decision .. . yes, I know I said it had to be tonight, but ... look, I don't want to raise hopes but there's a faint chance that a sum of money, a reasonably large sum might... I can't say more. I'll be able to tell you definitely tomorrow ... at the Reckoning . . .'

A man offering a ray of hope ought to try to look happy, thought Wield. But the Vicar's expression was more like what you don't want to see on your doctor's face as he examines the X-rays.

Wield turned away. This was a private meeting, a family affair, and he wasn't a member of the family. It was a rather melancholy thought. Perhaps he should have stayed a bit longer in the Morris and got merry or really miserable. He looked across the road to the pub. In the light from the window behind him he could see the sign above the front door. Pascoe had told him its history. But maybe history was the wrong word.

People don't change, thought Wield. They just do the same things differently.

From the burnt, battered and blasted bosom of William Morris there now protruded a short, dully gleaming rod of steel.

CHAPTER VI.

'We bad a beautiful night for our frisks.'

The High Street was quiet as a deserted film set as Wield strolled back to Corpse Cottage. Not much given to flights of the imagination, he found himself conjuring up pictures of how it must have been a hundred, two hundred, three hundred years ago!

Back at the cottage, he switched on the tiny telly and checked whether Bendish's unappetizing larder ran to a pot of tea. It did, and a good brew at that. The lad might live off junk food but at least he hadn't sunk to instant tea.

But what might he have sunk to?

The thought hit him hard. Here he was, mocking the youngster's eating habits, making himself comfortable in his house, while all the time . ..

All the time what?

He didn't know. Perhaps there was nothing to know, or nothing more than would result in a lot of rolled eye- b.a.l.l.s at the waywardness of youth and a right rollocking for the returned prodigal.

Time to drop a shutter. He sat with his tea on the ancient but very comfortable sofa and concentrated as much of his attention as was necessary on an alternative comedy show. It was certainly alternative, dispensing with all the old detritus of the past, such as laughs.

After a while he decided that, attention-wise, it didn't require both eyes and ears, so he closed the former. And eventually G.o.d, who is merciful even to undesert, cupped His divine hands over the latter, and he fell asleep.

He was woken by a scratching, tapping noise. For a moment he had no idea where he was, and even when awareness of location struggled through, enough confusion remained for him to mislocate the source of the noise in the fireplace wall through which Susannah Hogbin's coffin was alleged to have burst. Interestingly, instead of terror this filled him with a strangely pa.s.sive curiosity. Everyone deserved at least one small personal other-worldly experience before the big general one. He settled back to enjoy his, and was rather disappointed when the noise was repeated, this time indisputably from the window.

He flung back the curtain and discovered that truth long known to doctors, that the living are much more frightening than the dead.

Edwin Digweed's fine-boned face was pressed close against the gla.s.s. Seeing Wield, he gestured imperiously towards the front door.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Wield opened it.

'May I come in?' said the bookseller, stepping past the Sergeant. 'Despite appearances to the contrary, I am not a doorstep salesman.'

The appearance to the contrary consisted of a zipped leather bag which he set down beside him. Wield switched off the TV on which an etiolated, exophthalmic epicene who looked as if a good woman would crack him like a stick was explaining his admiration for Renoir's Baigneuses.

'What can I do for you, sir?' he asked unenthusiastically, hoping that his presence in Corpse Cottage wasn't going to have half the village treating him like the local bobby.

'For a start you can accept my apologies.'

'Eh?'

'It occurred to me after our last encounter that it might be that, to someone unfamiliar with my ways, one or two of my mannerisms could have come across as, how shall I put it, discourtesies.'

Wield, who could think of other ways to put it, said nothing and Digweed resumed, 'So when I heard after the school meeting that you were spending the night here, I got to thinking of you alone in a strange house, not knowing what has happened to your young colleague, though I'm sure nothing untoward has happened to him, nevertheless I thought, as a peace offering and a belated token of welcome to our village . . .'

He unzipped the bag and pulled out a jacketed copy of On the Banks of the Een. The cover ill.u.s.tration had been taken from the painting of Scarletts Pool over Digweed's bed, with his grandfather's initials R.D. still visible though much reduced.

'That's right kind,' said Wield, taken aback. 'How much . . . ?'

'No, no, a welcome gift I say. Also I wondered if I could tempt you to join me in a drink?'

This time it was a bottle of Jim Bean that came out of the bag.

'I am, I fear, a traitor to my continent. Let others sing of single malts and fine French brandies. For me this is the true Hippocrene, the real Spiritus Sacer.'

He was rattling on a bit even by his standards, but Wield didn't mind. This much he had learned from Dalziel. Man offers you a drink, get it down quick, then ask about his motives. And besides, he'd never tasted bourbon.

'I'll get some gla.s.ses,' he said.

'No need,' said Digweed. 'Doubting if young Bendish has reached the age where he can either value or afford decent gla.s.sware, I took the precaution and the liberty...'

He came up with a pair of ornately cut barrel tumblers in golden crystal which caught the light as if filled with suns.h.i.+ne.

Wield, a lover of plain gla.s.s, thought them a bit over the top but so almost was the measure Digweed poured, and when he tasted the sweet smoothness of the liquor, he was able to say without hypocrisy, 'That's smas.h.i.+ng.'

The bookseller smiled and topped up his gla.s.s once more. Wield settled back comfortably. Sooner or later they'd get to the man's real motives. With nectar like this on tap, he could wait.

'Those Rider Haggards you mentioned,' said Digweed.

'Oh aye?' said Wield, disappointed they'd got there so quickly.

He must have given away more than he intended for Digweed added hastily, 'No, I'm not trying to persuade you to sell them, but I should love sometime to see them. A complete set of Haggard firsts in dust wrappers! It would be like . ..'

For once he seemed lost for words. Perhaps the poor old sod didn't find owt exciting except books!

'But no more of books. I cannot have you suspecting my motives.'

'Comes with the job,' said Wield lightly.

'I suppose so. Have you always been a policeman?'

'I were a kiddie for a bit.'

Digweed laughed, genuinely, not his superior putting-down snort, encouraging Wield to a cautious opening-up.

'I started out as a draughtsman's apprentice, but it didn't take. So I joined the Force,' he said.

Age seventeen; panicking at the awareness of his s.e.xuality roused by the attentions of his perceptive boss; making a macho statement.

'A draughtsman?' mused Digweed. 'Do you still draw?'

'Not like your granddad,' said Wield, touching the book. 'Only scene-of-the-crime diagrams. How about you? Did you have a real job afore you retired?'

Oops! His desire to turn the conversation away from himself had made him uncharacteristically clumsy. This stuff took a quick hold!

Digweed raised his eyebrows and tipped the bottle.

'I'm sure there must be questions about the police which contain as many offensive a.s.sumptions,' he said drily. 'Selling books is a real job, believe me. In fact, I too trained for the Law, as a solicitor. But as I lived abroad for much of my life, opportunities to practise were limited. I came back to the UK about ten years ago, intending to find myself a niche in the business world. Instead, I found things in such a state, and such a ghastly gang of blinkered jacka.s.ses running things, that I was ready to leave again in a sixmonth. Happily, I visited the scenes of my birth and upbringing first, partly out of sentiment, partly to sort out some family property. And when I realized that, here in Ens...o...b.. at least, things remained much as they had been, I decided to settle and follow the line of business I had always fancied, selling old books.'

Wield drank some more and said, 'You talk like this place were special, I mean, really special. Almost, like, perfect.'

'Good Lord, no! Ens...o...b.. is very much fuctatus rather than perfectus, I'm glad to say. Perfection is unnatural, Sergeant, because it implies the absence of either development or decline. Haven't you noticed it's the political parties and the religions with the clearest notions of the perfect society that cause the most harm? Once admit the notion of human perfectibility, and the end can be made to justify any amount of pain and suffering along the way. Besides, it would put us both out of work. No crime in the perfect society, and no desire to read about the imperfect past either! So here's to imperfection!'

They both drank deep.

'So to get back to your question, Sergeant, I am certainly not retired. I suspect my argent locks as well as my profession have misled you. Blossom can be white as well as snow. How old do you take me for?'

'Nay, you're not catching me like that,' said Wield.

'I think a man would have to rise early to catch you, Sergeant. Fifty-seven. You are blessed with a face that gives little away, but I bet you had me closer to sixty-seven?'

Wield, who'd never heard his face called a blessing, nodded confession.

'Don't let it bother you. I wish I could tell some winter's tale to explain that my hair turned white in a single night, but it was a gradual process, starting surprisingly early. No coffins came through the wall to accelerate matters. Talking of which, it doesn't bother you staying alone in a place like this?'

'No. Not even afore I started supping this stuff,' said Wield, in fact I've felt right at home from the start. Some spots have a nice feel to them.'

'I know what you mean. I feel the same.'

'Well, that's one thing we've got in common,' said Wield.

'Two,' said the bookseller, holding up the bottle and topping up their gla.s.ses. 'Do I get an impression that you find it surprising we have any common ground at all?'

'Common ground's easy enough to find, sir, except that when you find it, like this Green of yours, it's often just summat else to quarrel about.'

Digweed frowned and said, 'If we're going to quarrel, I'd prefer you stopped calling me sir. It gives you such an advantage.'

'Never fret,' said Wield, 'In the Force it's usually the only term of abuse a poor cop can aim at his superiors.'

'Do I come across as so superior, then? I don't intend to.'

'That makes it worse.'

'I suppose it does. I'm sorry. If it helps, the Digweeds too have been looked down upon in their time.'

'By the Guillemards, you mean? Your granddad, was it?'

'Good Lord! Are you clairvoyant?'

'Just a detective,' said Wield, not unsmugly. 'The way he talked about the birthday treats at the start of his journal. Very acid. Reminded me a bit of you.'

'I'll take that as a compliment,' said Digweed. 'But do go on. Strut your stuff, as they say.'