Reginald Hill – Arms and the Women (страница 9)

‘God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform,’ said Dalziel, whose capacity to surprise should have ceased to surprise her. ‘Then the doorbell rang?’

‘No. I heard their car and spoke to them out of the window. Then I went downstairs and opened the door.’

‘Oh aye, you said. No print on the bellpush then. Pity.’

‘I’m sorry. I should have thought on.’

He smiled at her sarcasm, then said seriously, ‘When they mentioned Rosie, it must have been right bad.’

‘Bad? It felt like the bottom had fallen out of the universe. It was like getting the worst news you could imagine, and knowing it was all your own fault.’

She spoke with a vehemence which came close to being excessive.

‘All your fault? Nay, luv, can’t see how you could ever think that,’ he said, viewing her closely.

If Dalziel had been by himself, she might have stumbled into an explanation.

Maybe something like, I felt so relieved that morning not to be going with Rosie, to know she was in Peter’s care, to have a day at last when I could stop worrying about her. But not just for her sake, and not even because I could probably do with the rest myself, but because when we nearly lost her, I knew then what I must have known before but never had occasion to look straight in the eye, that my single-handed sailing days were over forever, that I’d been pressed as part of a three-man crew on a lifelong voyage over what were hopefully oceans of absolute love. Except if it’s so absolute, how come there’s a little part of me somewhere which, like Achilles’s heel, didn’t get submerged? Forgive me muddling my metaphors, it’s probably this story I’m writing. But that’s another story. No, what I’m trying to say is, no matter how I try to hide it from myself, there’s something in me that sometimes yearns to be free, that gets nostalgic for the long-lost days of free choice, that comes close to seeing this love I feel not as a gift but as a burden, not as a privilege but a responsibility. Perhaps I’m simply a selfish person who knows now she can never be selfish again. Does anyone else feel like this? Am I a monster? That’s why I was so ready to believe them, that’s why I felt so guilty. It was like God had decided I hadn’t got the message loud and clear last time and I needed another dose of the same to get me straight.

Something like that, maybe. But probably not, even if Novello and her little notebook hadn’t been there.

‘Just a figure of speech, Andy,’ she said.

‘So you’d have gone with this pair?’ asked the Fat Man.

‘Anywhere they wanted. If they’d kept it vague I’d have got in that car and…and what, Andy? What did they want with me?’

‘That’s for them to know and us to find out,’ said Dalziel. ‘So what put you onto them?’

‘I’ve told you!’

‘Aye, but telling’s like peeing to a man with a swollen prostate, you think you’ve got it all out but there’s often a bit more to come.’

‘Who speaks so well should never speak in vain,’ said Ellie. ‘OK. At first I couldn’t think of anything except Rosie being ill again. Then when they said about trying to contact Peter and being told he wasn’t available, I nearly said, of course he wasn’t available because he’s on the coach!’

‘But you didn’t? Why not?’

‘I don’t know. I reckon to start with it was just a case of being too shocked to speak, and that gave me time to think, I suppose. And suddenly it was like fireworks going off in my brain. I found myself thinking, it’s not just Jehovah’s Witnesses that don’t drive thirty thousand pound BMWs. I mean, I know the council tax has gone up, but surely the Education Department doesn’t kit its employees out like this? Sorry. It makes sense to me, I assure you. At the same time I registered that two or three times they said he when they were talking about the head at Edengrove. Now, one thing anyone in our local Ed Department will know is that the head of Edengrove is Miss Martindale. Not to know her argues yourself braindead. So I thought I’d just give them a little test. I made up a Mr Johnson as head teacher. And when they didn’t respond to that, I knew something very funny was going on.’

‘So you decided to assault them?’

‘No. I thought of challenging them, but there were two of them and only one of me and if their purpose was as nefarious as I was beginning to imagine, I didn’t like the odds. Time to retreat and lock the door, I thought.’

‘So what brought out the beast in you?’ asked Dalziel.

‘It was the man. The woman was trying to play it cool, very reassuring, nothing to worry about. She could probably see that I was already sick to guts with worry. But he decided that the more worried I got, the less trouble I’d be, and he said something about getting a move on just in case it turned out to be more serious than they thought. God, that really got to me. I thought, you callous bastard! The woman tried to calm things down, but it was too late. I was so angry that I must have been the best advert for gun control you ever saw. Because if I’d had one, I would have shot him, no problem.’

‘Not then,’ said Dalziel. ‘Might have had one now, but. On the other hand, we’d have had a body to work on. Nowt like a body when you’re short of a lead.’

‘Are you saying you’d rather I’d killed one of them?’

He considered.

‘No,’ he said finally. ‘Gets boring interrogating corpses. Serious wound, but, now that would have been nice. Something that would need hospital treatment. How hard did you say you kneed him?’

‘I shouldn’t think he’ll be troubling his wife for a few nights, but I doubt if he’d go for treatment.’

‘Wife? You reckon he was married?’ said Dalziel casually.

‘Well, he wore a big gold ring on his wedding finger… Andy, that was clever. I’d forgotten that. I mean, I didn’t think I’d noticed that.’

‘Not all rubber-truncheon work down the nick. Anything else come to mind, apart from what you scribbled down?’

He looked at the piece of paper Ellie had scribbled her notes on.

‘Man was six feet,’ he read. ‘About thirty – slim build – light-brown hair – bushy – needed a cut – left-hand parting – brown eyes, I think – not blue – squarish face – open honest expression – God the bastards were good!…’

He looked enquiringly at Ellie.

‘Yeah, sorry about that.’

‘Nay, it’s useful what you felt. By good, you mean…?’

‘Saying they were with the Education Welfare Service. That’s the council department that helps deal with problems like absenteeism, truancy, bullying, parental complaint, anything that a school finds it can’t cope with internally. But what I mean is, at first they came over perfect for it. Nice, caring, positive people…’

‘Bumbling do-gooders, you mean? Sorry. Just trying to put it in terms my lads would understand. Clothing – suit – Prince of Wales check – light-blue shirt – blue and yellow diagonal striped tie – could have been Old Boys or a club – on his feet dark-brown sandals…’

‘Did I put that? No, he was wearing a sort of soft leather moccasin, no laces, dark-tan, casual but elegant, in fact, they looked rather expensive, come to think of it. Which is what you’ve made me do, you cunning sod. I never mentioned sandals!’

Dalziel grinned.

‘No. You put nowt. But shoes are important. Change everything else, but you want your feet to stay comfy.’

‘So if he changes into something else because he’s worried that I can describe him, he might keep the same shoes on?’

‘Aye, but don’t get excited. Not the kind of info we pass on to Interpol. Voice – light-baritone range – Irish accent…’

‘No, that one’s not going to work, Andy,’ said Ellie firmly. ‘I said no distinguishable accent, and that’s what I mean.’

‘So not a Yorkshireman.’

‘Not like you, no.’

‘Not deep and musical then. But there’s all sorts of Yorkshire voices. There’s that high squeaky one, like yon journalist fellow who used to shovel shit for Maggie Thatcher. And there’s that one like a circular saw –’

‘No, not northern at all,’ interrupted Ellie.

‘So, not northern and not Irish. We’re getting somewhere. Scottish? Welsh? Cockney? The Queen? Michael Caine? Maurice Chevalier?’

‘You’re getting silly. No, he didn’t have any accent at all, really. Like an announcer on Radio Four.’

‘You think Radio Four announcers don’t have accents?’ said Dalziel. ‘No, hang about, I think I’m with you. It’s you you think doesn’t have an accent! What you mean is this guy spoke the same way you do? Middle-class posh, but not so much it gets up your nose.’

Ellie, faced as so often with a choice between laughing at Andy Dalziel or thumping him, decided she’d been involved in enough violence for the day and laughed.

‘Yes, I suppose that is what I do mean,’ she said.

‘Grand. Now the woman. How’s she for injury, by the way?’

‘She might have a black eye, and a few scratches,’ said Ellie, thinking affectionately of the Pompon de Paris. ‘Hey, and there could be a few threads from her dress hooked on the rose bush by the front door.’

‘We’ll check. So. Age thirties – five-eight or -nine – dark eyes – long face – not bad-looking – expensive make-up –what’s the difference between expensive and not so expensive?’

‘The more you pay, the less you see.’

‘Like sending your kids to public school. Hair black – natural – short – classy stylist – I won’t ask – build slim – good figure – there’s that good again. Know what I mean by good, but what’s it signify to you?’