The Wood Beyond

xii

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.

He said, ‘What mob?’

‘York Fusiliers. I busted my leg on an exercise, mended fine but they were rationalizing, that means dumping bodies. Offered me a medical discharge. I offered them a fifty-mile yomp across the moors, my pension against their jobs. No takers.’

It was clearly a bitter memory.

‘So you’ve ended up deskbound,’ said Wield with provocative sympathy.

‘Yeah. Well, not all the time, and at least I’m doing something useful.’

‘Guarding this place is useful?’

‘It’s important work they do and they’ve a right to do it in peace.’

‘You reckon? Bit of overkill that mess out there, isn’t it?’

‘You reckon?’ mimicked Patten. ‘Listen, back last summer they had one watchman and locks you could fart open. Those mad buggers just walked in, smashed the place up and helped themselves to everything, including the watchman’s so-called guard dog. So we got called in. I took one look and said, first thing you want here is a fire zone. That’s a piece of ground in clear view where if anything moves, you shoot it. No need to go too far. Nearer the house the better, as that keeps the circle nice and small and cuts down cost. Also it leaves enough of the outer woodland untouched to keep things from the road looking much the same as they’ve always done. Now if they come, they’ve got to cross the open. We’ve got lights and cameras, and there’s an alarmed security fence it’ll take more than a pair of ordinary wire cutters to get through. Installation’s expensive, I agree. But once it’s done they’re secure forever, and that’s worth more than money to a firm like ALBA.’

‘I can see that,’ said Wield pleasantly. ‘When they were clearing the wood, did the contractors say anything about hitting an old wall or something like that? Seem to be a lot of granite slabs lying around out there.’

‘Not to me.’

‘What about Dr Batty?’

‘Couldn’t say. But if they did, I’m pretty damn sure he’d have said carry on regardless. Old stones can mean a lot of bearded wonders slapping a preservation order on you if you’re not careful.’

He gave Wield a conspiratorial all-mates-together grin which sat uneasily on his scarred and watchful face.

Wield said, ‘I’ll need to talk with your men who were on duty when they brought those women in last night, especially those as chased them round the offices.’

‘Why’s that?’ said Patten, matiness gone.

‘In case ALBA fancy bringing charges. Trespass is no good as far as the house goes, as technically they were invited in, so they’d need to go for criminal damage, assault even. So we’ll need statements.’

‘Save you the bother,’ said Patten delving into his desk. ‘We got our system too. Full reports on any incident. Here, take a look, all signed and sealed.’

He handed a thin file across. Wield looked inside. The reports were all there, full of necessary detail of time, place, duration.

‘Everything in order?’ said Patten. ‘Jimmy Howard keeps us straight on rules of evidence. Useful having an ex-cop around.’

‘Must be,’ said Wield. ‘From a quick glance, doesn’t seem to have been any real damage either to person or property.’

‘More by luck than judgment,’ growled Patten. ‘That fat cow, the one called Cap, she belted one of my lads in the belly with them cutters and looked like she was going to have a swing at my head with them till that skinny lass caught a hold of her.’

‘Walker?’

‘Aye. The one who found the bones in the first place. Got the impression your fat boss knew her. She been in trouble for this kind of thing before?’

‘No. Not animal rights. She was one of them Women Against Pit Closures lot that got going during the Strike.’

‘Is that right?’ Patten pulled at his lip and said, ‘Didn’t think you lot, CID I mean, got mixed up with that. Thought it was all uniformed out there beating up the pickets.’

‘Preserving the peace,’ corrected Wield gently. ‘No, we got involved because there was a murder, out at Burrthorpe, you might have read about it.’

‘No, I don’t recall. 1984, it’d be? I was nobbut a lad, not long in the army, still pretty much a lily.’

‘A what?’

‘Lily. What we called a sprog in our mob. So, this Walker woman, she’s had a change of heart, has she? Moved from miners to monkeys?’

‘Some folk need a cause,’ said Wield. ‘And we like to keep a close eye on all of them. Perhaps I’d better have a word with Jimmy Howard just to make sure I’ve got the full picture.’

‘Sorry, he’s gone off duty,’ said Patten.

‘When’s he back on?’

Patten swivelled round to examine a wall chart which wouldn’t have disgraced the Pentagon. Next to it hung a photo of three men smiling into the camera. On the left was Patten, wearing TecSec uniform. The man on the right – small with a round smiling face beneath tightly packed blond curls – was similarly dressed. His name tag was too small to read except for the initial R. In the centre, elegant in a well-cut, dark grey pinstripe suit, was a lean handsome man who looked as if he might have a very good opinion of himself, not altogether unjustified.

‘Should have gone off at six this morning in fact,’ added Patten, ‘but did an extra stag ’cos of all the excitement, so I shouldn’t bother him at home till he’s had time to catch up on his beauty sleep.’

‘Oh, shan’t need to do that,’ said Wield negligently. ‘Likely these reports you’ve given me will do. Seems a well-organized firm, TecSec. Good mob to work for, are they?’

‘I don’t work for ’em,’ said Patten, ‘I’m a partner.’

‘Sorry. I thought seeing you out here in the uniform …’

‘Like the army, guys who really run the show are out there in the field getting shot at. My partner’s out most of the time drumming up business while I’m out making sure the business we’ve got gets done properly. There’s a girl back in the office knows where to get hold of us.’

‘Sounds good,’ said Wield rising. ‘If ever I need security I’ll know where to come. Thanks for the tea.’

‘My pleasure.’

At the door Wield paused and said, ‘Your security fence, the inner one, you say they’d not have got through that with a pair of wire cutters. Why not use the same stuff for the first lot of wire?’

‘Expense,’ said Patten. ‘Costs a fortune that stuff, and you’d need a lot more ’cos it’s a bigger circle. Also …’

‘Yes?’ prompted Wield.

‘No use fighting people unless you let ’em close enough to get shot,’ said Patten, this time with no attempt at a grin.

xiii

The atmosphere in the Pascoe household had remained definitely overcast with poor air quality till Rosie on her return from school burst in on it like the wild west wind. She flung herself on her father as if he’d been away for a decade not a day and gripped him in a stranglehold which would have won style points from a Thug, the whiles rattling off a stream-of-consciousness account of all that had happened to her during their long separation.

Also in there somewhere were expressions of gratitude for her prezzie which at first he took to be creatively predictive, and he was seeking a form of words which would explain why fathers after such a short absence on such a sad mission should be allowed to come home empty handed when it dawned on him that the thanks were for a present received not a gift anticipated.

He glanced at Ellie who mouthed, ‘The secretaire.’

‘Eh?’

‘Rosie saw the secretaire in the hall and she asked me if you’d brought it for her to keep her things in and I said you may very well have.’

After a recent and ideologically very dubious spat between Ellie and her daughter about the state of her room, Pascoe had asserted his paterfamilial authority with the promise of a large gin and tonic for his wife and a large storage chest for his Rosie. He had in mind something in puce plastic, but the little girl’s refined taste could sometimes be as surprising as her occasionally fluorescent language.

‘You like it, do you?’ said Pascoe.

‘Oh yes. I think it’s bloody marvellous,’ she answered very seriously.

He caught Ellie’s eye again and she gave him an I-don’t-know-where-she-gets-it-from look. Since going to school Rosie had moved up a linguistic gear and like Caliban, her profit on it was she now knew how to curse. The problem was to stop her from cursing without letting her know that she had been.

Pascoe said, ‘It belonged to Granny Pascoe and she wanted you to have it.’

‘Granny who’s dead?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Is she a ghost?’ asked Rosie uneasily.

‘You know there’s no such thing as ghosts, so she can’t be, can she?’ said Ellie briskly.

‘No,’ said Rosie without conviction.

Pascoe put his mouth to her ear and said, ‘And if she is, she’ll be a ghost down in Warwickshire, because everyone knows ghosts have got to do their haunting round the place where they died.’

The little girl looked greatly relieved though he saw Ellie grimace at this betrayal of rational principles. But she was as pleased as he was at this solution to the problem of Ada’s writing desk.

‘Told you it would find its place,’ she gasped as they collapsed on Rosie’s bed after lugging the secretaire upstairs.

‘Clever old you,’ he said, grinning, and the truce might have been sealed with more than a loving kiss if Rosie hadn’t demanded their help in tidying away all her dolls, toys and other impedimenta into her new store cupboard.

At seven o’clock with Rosie safely stowed in bed and Ellie making ready for her party, Pascoe was in the kitchen pouring himself a lager when the doorbell rang. He heard Ellie’s footsteps on the stairs and her voice calling, ‘I’ll get it.’

Wendy Walker again? he wondered. No. She’d just said she wanted a lift back. Or this time, perhaps it was the Fat Man, come to see for himself that he’d got safely home. Bastard!

But when Ellie came into the kitchen she wasn’t wearing her Apocalypse Now face, though she was wearing a silk dress which struck him as being a touch showy for such a proletarian celebration.

‘Chap called Hilary Studholme to see you,’ she said.

‘Eye patch, one arm, and a limp?’ he asked.

‘Or grey hair, his own teeth and a nice smile,’ said Ellie. ‘Could it be the same guy?’

‘Not in court, it couldn’t,’ said Pascoe. ‘Let’s see.’

The major was standing by the fireplace looking rather ill at ease.

‘Nice to see you again,’ said Pascoe remembering to offer his left hand. ‘Do sit down. I was just pouring myself a drink. Can I get you anything?’

‘Orange juice, anything non-alc. There are those of your colleagues who feel I shouldn’t have a licence. Mustn’t always help the police, must we?’