REGINALD HILL
THE WOOD BEYOND
A Dalziel and Pascoe novel

COPYRIGHT

Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain in 1996 by HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright Â© Reginald Hill 1996

Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780007313167

Ebook Edition Â© JULY 2015 ISBN 9780007386772 Version: 2015-06-22

EPIGRAPH

And what may I deem now, but that this is a land of mere lies, & that there is nought real and alive therein save me. Yea, belike even these trees & the green grass will presently depart from me, & leave me falling down through the clouds.

WILLIAM MORRIS, The Wood Beyond the World

No evidence was found to lead us â¦ to think that the convictions were unsound or that the accused were treated unfairly â¦ we cannot rewrite history by substituting our latter-day judgement for that of contemporaries â¦

JOHN MAJOR, Response (Feb 1993) to request to reconsider cases of British soldiers executed during WW1

si canimus silvas, silvae sint consule dignae*.

VIRGIL, Eclogue IV

* If we must sing of woods, let them be woods that are worthy of a prime minister

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Prologue

Part One: Sanctuary

i

ii

iii

iv

v

vi

vii

viii

ix

x

xi

xii

xiii

xiv

xv

xvi

Part Two: Glencorse

i

ii

iii

iv

v

vi

vii

viii

ix

x

xi

Part Three: Polygon

i

ii

iii

iv

v

vi

vii

viii

ix

x

xi

xii

xiii

xiv

xv

xvi

xvii

Part Four: Wanwood

i

ii

iii

iv

v

Epilogue

Authorâs Note

Keep Reading

About the Author

By Reginald Hill

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Monday morning, start of a new week, air bright as ice in a crystal glass, brandy-gold sun pouring from delft-blue sky, the old bracken glowing on the rolling moors, the trees still pied with their unblasted leaves, the pastures still green with their unmuddied grass, as October runs into November and thinks itâs September still.

Edgar Wield drove slowly out of Enscombe, slowly because on mornings like this what you were driving through was far more important than where you were driving to, and also because during the short time heâd been living in the village heâd learned that only a fool assumed that the narrow roads ran clear further than the next bend.

His caution was rewarded when he eased round a corner and found George Creed shepherding the stragglers of a flock of sheep through a gate into a field set up with holding pens. The sight made him smile at the echo of his first sighting of Creed doing much the same task on this very road. Since then theyâd become both neighbours and friends.

ââMorning, George, fine-looking beasts,â he called through his open window.

Domicile entitled him to this pretension of expertise, though he wasnât altogether sure whether the term beasts could legitimately be applied to sheep as well as cattle.

ââMorning, Edgar,â said Creed. âHappen theyâll do. Sounds daft, but Iâll be sorry to see them go.â

âTheyâre off then?â said Wield now taking in the significance of the pens.

âAye, folk have got to eat, thatâs what farmingâs all about. But the older I get, the more it bothers me, selling off what Iâve bred up. Donât be saying owt of this down in the Morris else theyâll be thinking Iâm going soft in the head!â

âWhich market are you taking them to?â

âNo market. Iâve always dealt man and boy with Haigâs of Wharfedale. They give me top price âcos they know my stock, and I sell them my stock âcos I know theyâll see them right. So watch out for their wagon on your way into town. Take up most of the road them things.â

âIâll be careful,â said Wield. âNo hurry on a morning like this. Iâd as lief be staying here to give you a hand if youâd have me.â

âIâm always willing to set on a likely lad,â laughed Creed. âBut I think youâd be wanting your cards afore the end of the day.â

He glanced upwards as he spoke and Wield followed his gaze into the unflawed bowl of blue sky.

âYouâre never saying itâs on the turn, are you?â he asked sceptically. âLooks set for another month to me.â

âNay, itâll spoil itself by tea time, and make a right job of it too.â

âYou reckon? Well, even if it does, youâre better off here than where Iâm going. Wet, dry, hail or shine, thereâs no place like Enscombe. See you, George.â

He engaged the clutch and continued his leisurely progress down the valley road which aped the twists and turns of the River Een as though it were of the same ancient natural birth. A couple of miles further on he saw the juggernaut of the livestock transporter coming towards him and pulled off the road into a small piece of woodland to let it past. The driver blew his horn in appreciation and Wield waved as the huge truck with its legend D. HAIG & CO Livestock Wholesalers rumbled by.

When it was past and out of sight, he continued to sit for a while, enjoying the cool breeze through the open window and the way the amber sunlight scintillaâd through the trembling branches. He had the feeling that if he got out of his car and strolled off into the wood, he could keep going forever with nothing changing, no ageing, no hunger, no cold, no crime, no war â¦

And certainly no rain!

Yes, that was one thing he was certain of. He was a great respecter of the rustic eye, but towns had weather too and Detective Sergeant Wield of Mid-Yorkshire CID wasnât often caught without his umbrella. No, this time George had got it wrong. This Indian summer had a lot of wear in it yet. He couldnât see any end to it himself. And what you couldnât see the end of, surely that must be forever?

part one SANCTUARY

The wanton Troopers riding by

Have shot my Faun and it will dye.

i

Dear Mrs Pascoe

I do not know if Peter ever mentioned to you that I was his superior officer for some time. Indeed one of my last acts before I was invalided out was to confirm his promotion to sergeant. You may therefore understand with what dismay I received the tragic news of his death, and I wanted to write to you at once to say that in my opinion he was one of the finest men I had the privilege to command, and in no way does the manner of his death divert me from that judgment.

I realize that at a time like this you will scarcely feel able to look ahead, but with a young daughter to bring up, the future and its problems will all too soon demand attention. Recognizing that you may have needs which are pressing and immediate, I beg you to accept the accompanying small initial contribution and my assurance that as soon as the opportunity arises I shall take steps to ensure you and your child are cared for as Peter would have wished.

Meanwhile I remain yours in deepest sympathy,

Herbert Antony Grindal

ii

Is this thing working? Right. Here we go. Here we go, here we go â¦ sorry. Just testing. OK, from the start. Getting into the wood were easy. Out of the ditch, over the top, and there we were. Mind you, it were like jumping into a raging sea. Wind howling, everything shaking and creaking and groaning like the whole bloody issue was alive, and so much stuff flying around you were in danger of getting your head took off. But we pressed on regardless, taking our direction from the glow up ahead. Even when you canât see your hand before your face, thereâs always that glow.

Then at the edge of the trees we hit wire, and we paused here to get our breath and count heads.

We were all present and correct, the whole eight of us, and Cap started in on the wire. Youâll have met the Captain? Useless with the cutters but wonât let anyone else have them. Sort of badge of office. Eventually there was a hole of sorts and we started through. Jacksie â thatâs Jacklin, the well-made one â got snagged and swore. Cap said, âKeep it down,â like someone might hear in all that din, and Jacksie said, âIf I could keep it down, I wouldnât have got it stuck,â and a couple of us got the giggles. Itâs easy done when youâre shit scared. Not that it mattered or Jacksie swearing either. Like I said, it were pissing with rain and blowing a gale, and you would have needed a lot more than a giggle to get noticed.

Then we were all through and the laughing stopped.

Thereâs nowt to laugh at out there. Itâs a wasteland. Used to be trees but after the big raid last summer, they blew them all to hell, roots and all, and when it rains for a week, like itâs been doing, the holes all fill with water and the ground gets so clarty, you can feel it sucking you down. Smells too. Donât know why it should. It were once good mixed woodland like whatâs still there. But now it stinks like a ploughed-up boneyard.

Someone â donât know who â said, âThis is bloody stupid. We should head back.â Seconded, I thought. But I kept my trap shut âcos if thereâs one thing guaranteed to make Cap head east, itâs hearing me speak up for west. I shouldâve known better than to try diplomacy. It never works. Might as well start scrapping right off and get it over with. Cap just glowered at me as if it had been me mouthing off, and said, âFollow me. Keep close.â And we were off, no pretence of a discussion. Whatever happened to universal suffrage?

God, it were hard going. Two steps forward, one back, and as for keeping close, with that rain coming down and the mist coming up, it was all you could do to see where your next step were going to land, let alone keep an eye on anybody else. So it came as no surprise when somewhere over to the left I heard a splash and yell and a voice crying âOh shit!â all spluttery. Someone had gone into a crater. My money was on Jacksie, but I didnât waste time speculating. Even someone a lot better coordinated could drown in one of them holes as easy as the middle of the Atlantic. So I headed for the noise like everybody else. Only I mustâve been a bit more headstrong than the rest âcos when I got there, I didnât stop but slid right over the edge, and next thing, I were down the bleeding hole too!

For a while I thought I were going to drown, but once I got the right way up and persuaded Jacksie â Iâd been right about that â to stop grabbing my hair, I realized there were only two or three feet of water down there, which was fine so long as you didnât lose your footing. The real problem was how to get out, âcos the walls started sloshing and crumbling every time you tried to get a hold on them.

Cap and the others had arrived by now and were reaching down to grab us. They got Jacksie first and I pushed like mad and got nowt but a faceful of boot for my pains. But eventually the useless bugger got hauled out and it were my turn. I reached up and felt someone get a hold of my right hand, I couldnât see who, my eyes were so full of mud and water, and I thrashed around with my left till finally I found another hand to get hold of. Then, kicking my toes into the side, I started to haul myself out.

I soon caught on I were getting a lot of help with my right hand â turned out to be Cap who were doing the pulling â but nowt at all with my left. But before I could start wondering why, my feet slipped out of the hole Iâd kicked in the side of the crater and my hand slipped out of Capâs, and I started to slide back in, putting all my weight on whoever had got a hold of my left hand.

And it just came away, the hand I was holding on to I mean. And I slid right back down into that filthy water with my fingers still grasped tight around that thing, or like it seemed then, with that thingâs fingers still grasped tight round mine, and I started to scream, and some on the others started to scream too, and eventually even them buggers in the green uniforms started taking notice, and next thing there was a whole platoon of them all around us shouting and shoving and thatâs how we ended up getting captured. Me ciggies are all sodden. Youâve not got a dry one, have you?

iii

Families are a fuck-up, thought Peter Pascoe.

Otherwise, how come he was standing here in a crematorium chapel with all the inspirational ambience of a McDonaldâs though without, thank God, the attendant grilled burger odours, being glared at by his sister, Myra, and squinted at by a bunch of geriatric myopes, as he attempted an extempore exordium of a grandmother he hadnât seen for nearly two years?

âHello. Iâm Peter Pascoe and Ada was my grandmother and Iâm doing this because â¦â

Because when heâd arrived and discovered Myra had ordered a full-fig C of E service right down to âAbide With Meâ, his guilt had vaulted him onto a high horse and heâd gone through the arrangements like Jesus through the money changers, till at his moment of triumph Myra had brought him crashing to earth with the question, âOK, smartarse, just what are you going to do?â

ââ¦ because as you probably know, Ada didnât reckon much to organized religion. She always said that when she died the last thing she wanted was a funeral-chasing parson droning on about her unlikely virtues. So Iâm doing it instead â¦ not droning on, I hope â¦ and not unlikely â¦ anyway, Iâm doing it.â

And a right cockup youâre making of it too. He could see Myraâs fury moderating into malicious pleasure. If only thereâd been time to make a few notes. Only a fool relied on divine inspiration when heâd just dumped God!

âWell Iâm not going to make a lot of notes â¦ I mean, fuss, because Ada hated fuss. But equally Iâm not going to let the passing of this remarkable old lady pass un â¦ er â¦ remarked.â

This got worse! Pull yourself together. If you can brief a bunch of CID cynics and pissed-off plods, no need to be fazed by a pewful of wrinklies. What was Myra rolling her eyeballs at? Doesnât she know a dramatic pause when she hears one?

âAda was born in Yorkshire though she didnât stay there long. The event which changed her life, changed all our lives, come to think of it, was the Great War. So many died â¦ millions â¦ numbers too large to register. One of them was Adaâs father, my great-grandfather. After she got the news, my great-grandmother took her three-year-old daughter and headed down here to Warwickshire. Iâve no details of how they lived. I only discovered the Yorkshire connection because I was a nosy kid. Ada wasnât one to go on about the past, maybe because there was too much pain in it for her. But I can guess that one-parent families had it even tougher in those days than they do now. Anyway here they came and here they stayed. This was where Ada grew up and in her turn got married. And in her turn she had a child. And in her turn she saw her husband, my grandfather Colin Pascoe, go off to the wars.

âDid she know as she said goodbye that in her turn she too was never going to see him again? Who knows? But I think she knew. Oh yes. Iâm sure she knew.â

That had them. Even Myra was looking rapt.

âThe child they had was, of course, Peter, my father. Naturally he wishes he could be here today. But as you probably know when he took early retirement a few years back, he decided to follow my eldest sister, Susan, and her family out to Australia, and unfortunately urgent commitments have prevented any of them from making the long journey. But Iâm sure we will be very much in their thoughts at this sad time.â

He caught Myraâs eye and looked away, but not before theyâd shared their awareness that any thoughts turning their way in that antipodean night would probably need the attention of an oneiromantist.

âSo in 1942 Ada got the same news from North Africa that in 1917 her mother had got from Flanders. Another young widow. Another fatherless child. No wonder she hated uniforms and wars and anything which seemed to be celebrating them. She could never look at an Armistice Day poppy without feeling physically sick, and one of her last cogent acts was to rebuke a British Legion volunteer who came round the ward selling them.â

Rebuke? What sheâd actually said according to Myra was, âSod off, ghoul.â Which message it might appear he was passing on to this well-poppied congregation. Ah well. You canât please all of the people all of the time.

âBut Ada did not let the past destroy her present. She joined one of the accelerated teacher training courses after the war and despite her late start, she climbed high, finishing as Head of Redstones Junior which I myself had the privilege of attending. As you can imagine, having your gran as head teacher was a mixed blessing. Certainly in school I got no favours, just a first-class education. But outside, I got all the love and indulgence a growing boy is entitled to expect from his gran.â

He caught Myraâs eye again and read the message clearly. Favourite! So what? Boy with two bossy elder sisters needed an edge somewhere. Another eye was catching his, the crem. superâs, reminding him of his warning that despite the nanny state, dank Novembers still meant frequent hearses and any overrun could quickly blacken up the bypass. Time to wrap it up. Pity. He just felt he was getting into his stride.

âEven after retirement, she remained at the centre of things, as a school governor, a member of innumerable committees, and a tireless campaigner in the corridors of power and on the pavements of protest.â

Now he was really motoring! Great phrase, that was. Even though getting the rhythm right meant a solecistic drift from the nounal trochee to the verbal iamb. How old Ada would have rapped his knuckles. The crem. super too looked close to physical violence. Big finish!

âI doubt if she went gentle into her good night, but gone she has, and the world is a sadder place for her going. But she left it a better place than she found it, and that would have been the only epitaph she wished.â

Big finish nothing. Big cop-out was more like it. Ada had had no illusions about progress. Watching the telly peepshow of famine and disaster and war, she used to rage, âTheyâve learned nothing. Absolutely nothing!â Oh well. At least heâd taken his poppy out.

Time for the final music. Myra had gone for Elgarâs Enigma which to Adaâs tin ear probably sounded like bovine eructation. The crem.âs alternatives were all just as classically solemn. Then Pascoe had recalled the one time Ada ever talked about her father, the day he found the photo in the secretaire, and heâd rummaged through the tapes in his car and come up with Scott Joplin. He saw the shock on Myraâs face as âThe Strenuous Lifeâ came floating out of the speakers. Heâd explain later, sharing his secret knowledge that Adaâs sole recollection of her father â indeed her first recollection of anything â had been of a shadowy figure sitting at an upright piano picking out a ragtime melody.

So the circle closes â¦ so the circle closes.

iv

âAt his grandmotherâs funeral?â said Detective Superintendent Andy Dalziel. âYouâd think a bugger wiâ letters after his name could come up with a better excuse than that.â

âHe did tell you about it, sir,â said Sergeant Wield, shouting to make himself heard above the lashing rain.

Dalziel viewed him gloomily through the bespattered car window which heâd lowered by half an inch in the interests of more efficient communication. He was not a man totally insensitive to the comforts of his inferiors, but the sergeant was swathed in oilskins and the Fat Man could see no reason why the torrents niagaraing around their folds should be diverted to his vehicleâs upholstery.

âAye and my gran told me not to mess around wiâ mucky women and I paid no heed to her either,â he said. âStill, last time he were here, he wasnât much use, was he? OK, lad. Letâs have it. Whatâve we got?â

âRemains, sir.â

âMan? Woman? Child? Dog? Politician?â

âRemains to be seen,â said Wield.

Dalziel groaned and said, âI hope youâre not letting happiness turn you humorous, Wieldy. Youâve not got the face for it and Iâm not in the mood. I were driving home to a warm bed when I were silly enough to switch me radio on and pick up the tail end of this shout. All Control could tell me was there was a body and there was a bunch of animal libbers and it was out at Wanwood. So is this another Redcar or what?â

Six months earlier in May thereâd been an animal rights raid on the laboratories of Fraser Greenleaf, the international pharmaceutical conglomerate, located near Redcar on the North Yorkshire coast. As well as releasing the experimental animals, the raiders had vandalized the premises and, most seriously of all, left security officer Mark Shufflebottom, father of two, lying dead with severe wounds to the head. Several weeks later thereâd been another raid, bearing all the hallmarks of the same group, on the research labs of ALBA Pharmaceuticals located on Mid-Yorks territory in a converted mansion called Wanwood House. Happily this time no one had been injured. Unhappily neither the Teeside CID in whose jurisdiction Redcar fell, nor the Mid-Yorkshire team led by Peter Pascoe, had met with any success in tracking down the culprits.

âNo, sir. This bodyâs been here long enough to turn into bones. Thatâs not to say this couldnât be the same lot as were here in the summer, though of course it was never established for certain they were the same bunch that raided FG.â

Wield was a stickler for accuracy, a natural bent refined paradoxically by years of deception. Concealing you were gay in the police force meant weighing with scrupulous care everything you said or did, and this habit of precise scrutiny had turned him into one of the most reliable colleagues Dalziel had.

But sometimes his nit-picking could get on your wick.

âJust tell us what happened, Wieldy,â sighed the Fat Man long-sufferingly.

âRight, sir. This group â I gather they call themselves ANIMA by the way â the nameâs known to us but not the personnel â sorry â they entered the grounds with the clear intention of breaking into the labs and releasing any animals they found there. But if they were the same lot who were here in the summer, they must have got a bit of a shock as ALBAâs taken some extra precautions since then.â

âPrecautions?â

âYouâll see, sir,â said Wield not without a certain well-concealed glee. âAnd on their way through the grounds they sort of stumbled across these bones.â

âCouldnât have brought them with them just to get a bit of publicity?â said Dalziel hopefully.

âDoesnât look like it, sir,â said Wield. âThey kicked up such a hullabaloo that the security guards finally took heed and came out. When they realized what was going off, they took the demonstrators inside. Gather there was a bit of trouble then. They got loose and ran riot for a bit before they were brought under control.â

âViolent, eh? So there could be a link with Redcar?â

âCanât really comment, sir. Mr Headingleyâs up at the house interviewing them. He told me to sort things out down here.â

âGood old George,â said Dalziel. âPerk of being a DI, Wieldy. Start taking an interest in your promotion exams and you could be up there in the dry and warm.â

Wield shrugged indifferently, his features showing as little reaction to horizontal sleet as the crags of Scafell.

He knew you didnât learn things from books, you learned them from people. Like that other George, Creed. Heâd pay a lot more attention to his weather forecasts from now on in! Also he knew for a fact that not all the elevated rank in the world was going to keep the Fat Man dry and warm.

He said, âYes, sir. I expect youâll be wanting to view the scene before you head up there yourself.â

It was a simple statement of fact not a challenging question.

Dalziel sighed and said, âIf thatâs what you expect, Wieldy, I expect Iâd better do it. Get me waterproofs out of the boot, will you, else Iâll be sodden afore I start.â

Watching Dalziel getting into oilskins and wellies through the streaming glass, Wield was reminded of a film heâd seen of Houdini wriggling out of his bonds while submerged in a huge glass jar.

The car gave one last convulsive shake and the Fat Man was free.

âRight,â he said. âWhereâs it at?â

âThis way,â said Wield.

At this moment Nature, with the perfect timing due to the entry of a major figure on her stage, shut off the wind machine for a moment and let the curtain of sleet shimmer to transparency.

âBloody hell,â said Dalziel with the incredulous amazement of a Great War general happening on a battlefield. âThey had Dutch elm disease or what?â

On either side of the driveway a broad swathe of woodland had been ripped out and this fillet of desolation which presumably ran all the way round the house was bounded by two fences, the outer a simple hedge of barbed wire, the inner much more sophisticated, a twelve-feet-high security screen with floodlights and closed-circuit TV cameras every twenty yards.

Neither light nor presumably cameras were much use when the wind, as it now did once more, drove a rolling barrage of sleet and dendral debris across this wilderness.

Wield said, âThese are the precautions I mentioned, sir. Weâve got duckboards down. Try and stay on them else you could need a block and tackle.â

Was he taking the piss? The Fat Man trod gingerly on the first duckboard and felt it sink into the glutinous mud. He decided the sergeant was just being typically precise.

The wooden pathway zigzagged through the mire to avoid the craters left by uprooted trees, finally coming to a halt at the edge of one of the largest and deepest. Here there was some protection from a canvas awning which every blast of wind threatened to carry away along with the two constables whose manful efforts were necessary to keep its metal poles anchored in the yielding clay.

At the bottom of the crater a man was taking photographs whose flash revealed on the edge above him, crouched low to get maximum protection from the billowing canvas, another figure studying something in a plastic bag.

âGood God,â said Dalziel. âThatâs never Troll Longbottom?â

âMr Longbottom, yes, sir,â said Wield. âSeems he was dining with Dr Batty, thatâs ALBAâs Research Director, when the security staff rang him to say what had happened. Dr Battyâs up at the house.â

âAnd Troll came too? Mustâve been losing at cards or summat.â

Thomas Roland Longbottom, consultant pathologist at the City General, was notoriously unenthusiastic about on-site examinations. âYou want a call-out service, join the AA,â heâd once told Dalziel.

His forenames had been compressed to Troll in early childhood, and whether the sobriquet in any way predicated his professional enthusiasm for dead flesh and loose bones was a question for psycholinguistics. Dalziel doubted it. Theyâd played in the same school rugby team and the Fat Man claimed to have seen Longbottom at the age of thirteen devour an opponentâs ear.

He gingerly edged his way round the rim of the crater and drew the consultantâs attention by tugging at the collar of the mohair topcoat he was wearing over a dinner jacket.

âHow do, Troll? Good of you to come. Neednât have got dressed up, but. Youâll get mud on your dicky.â

Longbottom squinted up at him. Time, which had basted Dalziel, had wasted him to an appropriate cadaverousness.

âWould you mind staying on your own piece of board, please, Dalziel? Facilis est descensus, but Iâm choosy about the company I make it in.â

Education and high society had long eroded his native accent, but he had lost none of the skill of abusive exchange which form the basis of playground intercourse in Mid-Yorkshire.

âSorry you got dragged away from your dinner, but I see you brought your snap,â said Dalziel peering at the plastic bag which contained a cluster of small bones.

âWhich I shall need to feast on at my leisure.â

âLooks like slim pickings to me,â said Dalziel. âSo what can you give me off the top of your head? Owtâll do. Sex. Age. Time of death. Motherâs maiden name.â

âItâs a hand, and itâs human, and thatâs all Iâm prepared to say till Iâve seen a great deal more which may be some time. This one, I fear, like Nicholas Nickleby, is coming out in instalments.â

âCanât recall him,â said Dalziel. âWhat did he die of?â

Longbottom arose with a groan which comprehended everything from the joke to the stiffness of his muscles and the state of the weather.

âJust look at my coat,â he said. âDo you know how much these things cost? I shall of course be making a claim.â

âIâd send it to ALBA then. Your mate, Batty. Do you reckon he keeps anything to drink up there?â

âI should imagine thereâs a single methanol in the labs.â

âThatâll do nicely,â said Andy Dalziel.

v

Peter Pascoe could have done without the funeral meats but felt heâd gone as far as he dared in disrupting his sisterâs arrangements. In fact it worked out rather well as under the influence of cups of tea and salmon sandwiches the wrinkly clones turned into amiable, intelligent individuals, several of them well below retirement age. Some even went out of their way to compliment him on his address, saying how pleased Ada would have been with the service and how much theyâd like something like that when their turn came.

Myra clearly took all this in because when theyâd waved the stragglers goodbye, she said, âOK, so as usual you were right.â

He smiled at her but she wasnât ready for that yet, and turned back into the old cottage which had been Adaâs home for fifty years.

âOnly room for one in that kitchen,â she said. âIâll do the washing up. You can carry on with your inventory.â

When she came back into the living room, he was manoeuvring an old mahogany secretaire through the doorway.

âYouâre taking that old thing then?â

âYes. I thought Iâd get it on the roof rack now so I can make a quick getaway in the morning. Donât worry. Itâs on the inventory. Iâll get it valued and make sure it goes into the estate.â

âI didnât mean that â¦ oh think what you will, you always did.â

She turned away, angry and hurt.

Oh shit, thought Pascoe. Whatever happened to old silver tongue?

He reached out and caught her arm and said, âSorry. I was talking like an executor. Maybe a bit like a cop too. Listen, you donât have to say anything but anything you do say will be taken down.â

She stared at him blankly and for a second he thought sheâd forgotten the grubby little schoolboy joke heâd tried to embarrass her with all those years ago.

Then she smiled and said, âKnickers,â and through the eggshell make-up he glimpsed the girl whoâd been his closest ally in the long war of adolescence. OK, so her motivation had a lot to do with resentment that Sue, the eldest, could get away with shorter skirts, thicker lipstick, and later hours than herself. Whatever the reason, their closest moments within the family had been together.

âWhat about you?â he said. âIsnât there anything youâd like?â

âFar too old-fashioned for our house,â she said firmly.

âSomething small, as a memento,â Pascoe urged.

âNo need for that. Iâll remember,â she said.

There was something in her tone, not acerbic exactly, but certainly acetic. Sheâd never been anyoneâs favourite, Pascoe realized. Susan had been the apple of their parentsâ eye, would perhaps have been their only fruit if their chosen method of contraception had been more efficient. He himself had been Adaâs favourite â or, as he sometimes felt, target. Driven by the loss of two men in her life (three if you counted the disappointment of her own son) sheâd focused all her shaping care on her male grandchild, leaving poor Myra to find her own way.

It had led to marriage with Trevor, the kind of financial advisor who bores clients into submission; an ultramodern executive villa in Coventry, a pair of ultra-neanderthal teenage sons in private education; and a resolve to show the world that what sheâd got was exactly what she wanted.

So, no appetite-spoiling bitterness this, just a condiment sharpness.

Pascoe said, âAbout the music â¦â

âIt doesnât matter, Pete. Iâve said you were right.â

âNo, Iâd like to explain. Here, let me show you something.â

He opened the drawer of the secretaire, reached inside, pressed a knob of wood, and a second tiny drawer, concealed by the inlay pattern, came sliding out of the first.

âNeat, eh?â he said. âI found it when I was ten. No gold sovereigns or anything. Just this.â

From the drawer he took a dog-eared sepia photograph of a soldier, seated rather stiffly with his body turned to display the single stripe on his sleeve. His face, looking directly into the camera, wore the solemn set expression demanded by old technique and convention, but there was the hint of a smile around the eyes as if he was feeling rather pleased with himself.

âKnow who this is?â

âWell, he looks so like you when youâre feeling cocky, it must be our great-grandfather.â

Pascoe couldnât see the resemblance but felt heâd probably earned the crack. He turned the picture over so she could see what was written on the back in black ink faded to grey.

First lance corporal from our draft! December 1914.

Then Pascoe tipped the photo so that it caught the light. There was more writing, this time in pencil long since been erased. But the writer had pressed so hard the indented words were still legible. Killed Wipers 1917.

âAll those years and she couldnât bear to have it on display,â mused Pascoe.

âAll those years and you never mentioned it,â accused Myra.

âI promised Gran,â he said. âShe caught me looking at it. She was furious at first, then she calmed down and made me promise not to say anything.â

âAnother of your little secrets,â she said. âThe Pascoes must have more of them than MI5.â

âYouâre right,â he said, trying to keep things light. âAnyway, that was when she told me her only recollection of her father was of him playing on their old piano. Her mother mustâve told her it was ragtime, I doubt if Ada could tell Scott Joplin from Janis Joplin. And thatâs what made me think of that tape.â

Myra took the photo from him and said, âPoor sod. Canât have been more than twenty-two or-three. What was he in?â

âWest York Fusiliers. Thatâs how I found out about the Yorkshire connection.â

âShe really hated uniforms, didnât she?â said Myra dropping the picture back in the drawer. âI still remember how sarky she got when I joined the Brownies.â

âThink of how she must have felt with Dad playing soldiers in the TA once a week. Not to mention him turning out a Hang âem and Flog âem Tory.â

âStill voting for the revolution are you, Peter? Funny that, you being a cop. Now that was really the last straw for poor old Ada, wasnât it?â

She sounded as if the memory didnât altogether displease her.

âAt least it got her and Dad on the same side for once,â said Pascoe, determined not to be lured back into a squabble. âHe told me he hadnât subsidized me through a university education to pound a beat. He wanted me to be a bank manager or something in the City. Gran saw me as a reforming MP. She was even more incredulous than Dad. She came to my graduation thinking she could change my mind. Dad had given up on me by then. He wouldnât even let Mum come.â

Despite his effort at lightness he could feel bitterness creeping in.

âWell, you got your own back, getting yourself posted up north and finding fifty-seven varieties of excuse why you could never make it home at Christmas,â said Myra. âStill, itâs all water under the bridge. Granâs gone, and I bet Dad bores the corks off their hats down under boasting about my son the chief inspector.â

âYou reckon? Maybe Iâll resign. Hey, remember how you used to beat me at tennis when I was a weedy kid and you had forearms like Rod Laver? Got any of those muscles left?â

Between them they manoeuvred the secretaire out of the cottage and up onto his roof rack. He strapped it down, with a waterproof sheet on top of it.

âRight,â said Myra. âNow what?â

âNow you push off. Iâll finish the inventory and start sorting her papers. Youâve got to be back here tomorrow morning to meet the house clearance man, remember?â

Pascoe had been delighted when Myra volunteered for this task, being justly derided by his wife as probably the only man in Yorkshire who could haggle a price upwards.

Myra, a terrier in a bargain, bared her teeth in an anticipatory smile.

âDonât expect a fortune,â she said. âBut Iâll see weâre not cheated. Youâre not expecting me to sell that, are you?â

That was a plastic urn in taupe. Were Warwickshireâs funerary suppliers capable of a bilingual pun? wondered Pascoe.

âNo, that goes with me.â

âYouâre going to do what she asked with the ashes then?â

âIf I can.â

âFunny, with her hating the army so much.â

âItâs a symbolic gesture, I assume. I wonât try to work out what it means as Iâd prefer to be thinking holy thoughts as I scatter them.â

âItâs still weird. Then, so was Gran a lot of the time. I shouldnât care to spend the night in this old place with her ashes on the mantelpiece. You sure you wonât change your mind and come over to us? Trevor would be delighted to see you.â

Pascoe, who had only once set foot in Myraâs executive villa and found it as aesthetically and atmospherically appealing as a multi-gym, said, âNo, thanks. Iâve got a lot to do and Iâd like to be off at the crack.â

They stood regarding each other rather awkwardly. Myra looked untypically vulnerable. Me too maybe, thought Pascoe. On impulse he stepped forward, took her in his arms and kissed her. He could feel her surprise. Theyâd never been a hugging and kissing family. Then she pressed him close and said, âBye, Peter. Safe journey. Give my love to Ellie. Sorry she couldnât make it. But I know about kidsâ colds when theyâre that age.â

And I know about urgent business appointments with important clients, thought Pascoe. At least Rosie really had been snuffling in bed when he left.

And perhaps Trevor really did have an urgent deal to close, he reproved himself.

He gave Myra another hug and let her go.

âLetâs not make it so long next time,â he said.

âAnd letâs try not to make it a funeral,â she replied.

But neither of them tried to put any flesh on these bones of a promise.

He stood in the porch and watched her drive away. He felt glad and sad, full of relief that theyâd parted on good terms and full of guilt that they hadnât been better.

He went inside and addressed the urn.

âAda,â he said, âwe really are a fucked-up family, us Pascoes. I wonder whose fault that is?â

He worked hard on the inventory till mid-evening then made a neat copy of it to leave for Myra. Heâd need another copy to send to Susan in Australia.

One thing he felt certain of. His eldest sister might not be able to fly halfway round the world for her grandmotherâs funeral, but she would expect any money making the journey in the opposite direction to be accounted for down to the last halfpenny. The will, of which Pascoe was executor, left various legacies to Adaâs favourite causes and the residue to be divided equally between her three grandchildren. Whether this even-handedness had postdated his fall from grace, Pascoe wasnât sure, but he was glad that in this at least the old accusation of favouritism was clearly given the lie. Not that there was much â Ada had lived up to her income and the cottage was rented. But Pascoe had seen blood shed over far smaller amounts than were likely to be realized from Adaâs estate and heâd already arranged to have all the paperwork double-checked by Adaâs solicitor, a no-nonsense woman called Barbara Lomax, whose probity was beyond aspersion.

He boxed up some books that interested him or might interest Ellie and scrupulously made a note on the inventory. Next he started sorting out Adaâs papers, starting with a rough division into personal/business. He was touched to find every letter he had ever written to her carefully preserved, an emotion slightly diluted when he realized that this urge to conservation also included fifty-year-old grocery receipts.

His stomach rumbled like distant gunfire. It seemed a long time since the salmon sandwiches. Also he felt like stretching his legs.

Taking a torch from the car he strolled the half-mile to the village pub where he enjoyed a pint and a pie and a reminiscent conversation about Ada with the landlord. As he walked back he found he was knee-deep in mist drifting from the fields, but the night sky was so bright it felt like his head was brushing the stars. The pub telly had spoken of severe weather with gales and sleet in the north. Dalziel was right, he thought with a smile. The soft south really did begin after Sheffield.

He resumed his work on the papers but found that his starry stroll had unsettled him. Also after a while he realized he was more aware than a rational man ought to be of the screw-top urn squatting on the mantel shelf. In the end, slightly ashamed, he took it out to the car and locked it in the boot. As for the papers, home where he had a computer, a calculator and a copier, plus a wife who knew how to work them, was the place to get Adaâs affairs sorted. It was time for bed.

Getting his clothes off was an effort. His limbs felt dull and heavy and the air in the tiny bedroom, though hardly less sharp than the frosty night outside, seemed viscous and clinging. The cold sheets on the narrow bed received him like a shroud.

Sleep was a long time coming â¦

â¦ a long time coming â maybe because I wouldnt take any rum â no shortage here â how the lads ud lap it up!

And when it did come darkdream came too terrible as ever â only this time there was more â this time when the muzzles flashed and the hot metal burnt I didnt scream and try to wake but went right through it and came out on the other side and kept on going â heart pounding â muscles aching â lungs bursting â like a man running from summat so vile he wont stop till he falls or knows he has left it far behind.

In the end I had to stop â knowing somehow it werent just miles Id run over but years â seventy or eighty of them maybe â near clean on out of this terrible century â and Id run home.

Where else would a frightened man run to?

O it were so good Alice! Fields so fresh and green â woods all bursting with leaf â river running pure and clean with fat trout shadowing all the pools. Away yonder I could see mucky old Leeds â only now there werent no smoke hanging over it â and all that grimy granite were washed to a pearly grey â and shooting up above the old quiet chimneys were towers and turrets of gleaming white marble like a picture in a fairy tale.

As for Kirkton it were just the same as I long to be back in only so much better â with all them tumbledown cottages alongside Grindals turned into gardens â and the mill itself had big airy windows and I could see lasses and lads laughing and talking inside â and that old bog meadow out towards Haggs Farm that used to stink so much was all drained and the river banks built up so thered be no more flooding â and High Street seemed wider too with all them slimy cobbles that broke old Tom Steddings head when his horse slipped covered over with level tarmac â and the Maisterhouse away through the trees with its red brick glowing and its pointing gleaming like it were just built yesterday.

Even St Marks looked a lot more welcoming cos the parson had ripped out them gloomy windows that used to terrify us kids with their blood and flames â and in their stead hed put clear new glass which let sun come streaming through like spring water. Even the old tombstones had been cleaned up and I took this fancy to see my own â only I thought on that Id not be buried here with tothers of my name but far away across the sea where none would ever find me â and soon as I thought that I felt myself being hauled back to this awful place.

But I werent going easy and I fought against it and hung on still and peered over the wall into the schoolyard to see the kiddies playing there all so happy and strong and free â and I wondered whether any on them was descended from me â and I thought I saw a familiar face â then came the sound of a distant crump like they was blasting out at Abels Quarry â only I knew they werent â and a voice a long way off saying some poor sods catching it â and I didnât want to blink though the sun was shining straight into my eyes â but I had to blink â and though it was only a second or even less when I opened my eyes again sun were gone and kiddies were gone and all I could see were the night sky through the window red and terrible as that old stained glass â and all I could hear were the rumble of the guns â and all I could feel was the straw from my palliasse pricking into my back â¦

Pascoe awoke. Had he been dreaming? He thought he had but his dream had gone. Or had it? Did dreams ever go? Our present was someone elseâs future. We live in other menâs dreams â¦

He closed his eyes and drifted back to that other place.

â¦ but Ill try to keep them dream children bright in my mind my love â you too â and tell little Ada about them â I still cant credit a bible heaven spite of old padre preaching at me every other day â so unless this lots going to teach us summat about the way we live here on earth wheres the point of it all eh?

Wheres the bloody point?

vi

Wanwood House had had pieces added to it in the modern Portaloo style, but basically it was a square solid Victorian building, its proportions not palatial but just far enough outside the human scale to put a peasant in his place. Thus did the nineteenth-century Yorkshireman underline the natural order of things.

His twentieth-century successors were more self-effacing it seemed.

âDonât advertise much,â observed Dalziel looking at a discreet plaque which read ALBA PHARMACEUTICALS Research Division. âAnd thereâs nowt on the gate.â

âMight as well have put a neon sign on the roof for all the good itâs done them,â said Longbottom ringing the bell.

The door was opened by a man in a dark green uniform with the name âPATTENâ and a logo consisting of an orange sunburst and the letters âTecSecâ at his breast. He was leanly muscular with close-cropped hair and a long scar down the right cheek which, helped by a slightly askew nose, suggested that at some time the whole face had been removed and rather badly stitched back on. Dalziel viewed him with the distaste of a professional soldier for private armies. But at least the man sized them up at a glance and didnât do anything silly like asking for identification.

He ushered them through the nineteenth into the twentieth century in the form of a modern reception area with a stainless-steel desk, pink fitted carpet and hessian-hung walls from which depended what might have been a selection of Prince Charlesâs watercolours left standing in the rain.

One of three doors almost invisible in their hessian camouflage opened and a slim fair-haired man in his thirties and a dinner jacket, who reminded Dalziel of someone but he couldnât quite say who, came towards them saying, âMy dear chap, youâre soaked. No need, Iâm sure. The fuzz must have plenty of pensioned-off sawbones all too keen to earn a bob doing basics.â

Assuming none of this solicitude was aimed at him, Dalziel said, âAye, and we sometimes make do with a barber and a leech. Youâll be Batty, I daresay.â

âIndeed,â said the man regarding Dalziel with the air of one nostalgic for the days of tradesmenâs entrances. âAnd you â¦?â

âSuperintendent Andrew Dalziel,â offered Longbottom.

âAh, the great white chief. Took your time getting here, superintendent.â

âGot the call on my way back from a meeting in Nottingham,â said Dalziel. He saw Longbottom smile his awareness that the meeting in question had taken place under floodlights on a rugby pitch.

âWell, at least now youâre here, perhaps you can tell the bunch of incompetents whoâve preceded you to get their fingers out and start imposing some sort of order on this mess.â

âIâll do my best,â said the Fat Man mildly. âTalking of messes, sir, thatâs a right one youâve got out there. Looks like a health hazard to me.â

âOn the contrary, itâs a cordon sanitaire,â said Batty. âAfter the damage those lunatics did last summer, it was quite clearly beyond the police forceâs competency to protect us, so we took steps of our own to thwart these criminals.â

âCriminals,â echoed Dalziel as if the word were new to him. âYouâll be prosecuting then, sir?â

Batty said, âIf itâs left up to me, we will! Normally we donât care to give these lunatics the oxygen of publicity, but I suspect in this case, some exposure is already unavoidable?â

âAye,â said Dalziel. âHaving a body dug up in your back yard usually gives off a lot worse stink than oxygen.â

âAs I feared, though I suppose the exact nature of the publicity depends on how diplomatically things are handled. Troll, what can you tell us?â

Dalziel gave the pathologist a look which dared him to speculate an inch further than heâd done on the edge of the crater.

âEarly days, David, early days,â murmured Longbottom.

âAnd getting close to early hours,â said Dalziel looking at his watch. âMebbe I could see the witnesses now â¦?â

âYes, I suppose so. Patten will take you along. Troll, letâs try to get your outside dry and your inside suitably wetted.â

With an apologetic mop and mow at Dalziel, the pathologist let himself be led away. Dalziel who kept his slates as carefully as any shopkeeper, chalked up another small debt against Battyâs name and followed the security man through one of the hessian doors and down a long corridor.

âWeâve got them locked up down here,â he said.

âLocked up?â

âThey are trespassers, and once they got into the building, they ran amok. One of my men got hit in the stomach, I was threatened â¦â

âOh aye?â said Dalziel, interested. Mebbe this could have some connection with Redcar after all. âAnyone get really hurt?â

âMore dignity than owt else,â said Patten enigmatically. âThatâs where they are.â

Theyâd turned left at a T-junction in the corridor. Ahead, Dalziel had already observed another TecSec man slouching against a door, his head wreathed in smoke. As soon as he became aware of their approach, he straightened his uniform and snapped to attention. There was no sign of a cigarette. Dalziel admired the legerdemain and bet on the big front pocket of the dark green trousers.

âAt ease, Jimmy,â said Patten. âThis is Superintendent Dalziel.â

âI know,â said the man. âHow do you do, sir.â

Dalziel was used to being recognized but liked to know why.

âDo I know you?â he said.

âNot exactly, sir. But I know you. I was at Dartleby nick till I took the pension. Uniformed. PC Howard, sir.â

âJumped ship, did you? All right, lad. You can piss off now.â

The man looked unhappily at Patten who said, âWe do have our orders â¦â

âThatâs what Eichmann said, and they hanged him. So bugger off. And by the way, Howard â¦â

âYes, sir?â

âYour cockâs on fire.â

Leaving the ex-policeman beating at his pocket, Dalziel stepped into the room and halted dead in his tracks.

âBloody hell,â he said.

Gently steaming against a big radiator were eight women, each mucky enough to have set Dalzielâs granny spinning in her grave.

That Wield, he swore to himself. He kept quiet on purpose. Iâll punch the bugger handsome!

One woman detached herself from the huddle and came towards him, saying, âThank God, hereâs tâorgan grinder. Now mebbe we can get shut of the monkeys.â

She glared towards Patten as she spoke. He returned the glare indifferently. Dalziel on the other hand studied the woman with the intense interest of a gourmet served a new dish. Not that there was much to whet the appetite. She had less meat on her than a picked-over chicken wing and her cheeks were pale and hollow as wind-carved limestone.

Memory stirred. That business down the mine when Pascoe got hurt â¦

He said, âYouâre one of them Women Against Pit Closures lot from Burrthorpe. Walker, isnât it? Wendy Walker?â

She stepped by him and slammed the door in Pattenâs face. Then she said, âThatâs right. Got a fag?â

He pulled out a packet. He rarely smoked now, not because of health fears, still less because of social pressures, but because heâd found it was blunting his ability to distinguish single malts with a single sniff. But he still carried fags, finding them professionally useful both as ice-breakers and cage-rattlers.

âYouâre a long way off the coalface, luv,â he said, flicking his old petrol lighter.

âCoal?â

She drew the word into herself with a long breath that reduced the cigarette by an inch of ash.

âWhatâs that?â she said on the outgoing puff. âThey shut Burrthorpe last year like theyâve shut most on tâothers. Them bastards made a lot of promises they didnât keep, but when they said theyâd pay us back for the Strike, by God they kept that one!â

âItâs still a long way from home.â

âHome is where the hate is, and thereâs nowt left to hate in Burrthorpe, just an empty hole in the ground where there used to be a community.â

âIâm sorry to interrupt this reunion and the Channel 4 documentary, but you, whoever you are, how long are we to be restrained by these thugs in these disgusting conditions?â

The voice, as up-to-Oxford county as Walkerâs was down-to-earth Yorkshire, belonged to a small sturdy woman, her short-cropped black hair accentuating the determined cast of her handsome features. This one too brought a memory popping up in Dalzielâs mind, hot as a piece of fresh toast, of a woman heâd known and liked â more than liked â down in Lincolnshire after Pascoeâs wedding â¦ He hadnât thought about her for years. What could have pressed that button? he wondered as he stared with undisguised pleasure at the way this womanâs wet sweater clung to her melopeponic breasts.

âNay, lass,â he said. âNo oneâs restraining you, whoever you are. You can bugger off any time you like, once youâve made your statement. You have been asked to make a statement, Miss er â¦?â

âMarvell. Amanda Marvell. Yes, weâve been asked but most of us are refusing till such time as we have proper representation.â

She glared accusingly, and in Dalzielâs eyes, most becomingly, at Wendy Walker who snapped, âYeah, Iâve made my statement. In fact, when it comes down to it, Iâm the only one whoâs really got owt to state. Mebbe more than youâll care to hear, Cap. All I want is to get out of here.â

âYou surprise me, Wendy,â said Marvell, all cool control. âWhat happened to all the big talk about going for the jugular and taking no prisoners? First sign of trouble, and youâre all for breaking ranks.â

âYeah? Mebbe I should have been more choosy who I formed ranks with in the first place,â snarled Walker.

âReally? You mean we donât match up to the standards of your mining chums? Well, I can see that. Once they encountered real opposition, they pretty soon crumbled too, didnât they?â

There was a time when a provocation like this to a Burrthorpe lass would have started World War Three, and indeed a small red spot at the heart of those pallid cheeks seemed to indicate some incipient nuclear activity. But before she could explode, a round-faced blonde who looked even wetter and more miserable than the rest said, âWendyâs right, Cap. This is serious stuff. It was bones we found out there, a body. Letâs just make our statements and go home. Please.â

Marvellâs et-tu-Brute look was even more devastating than her jâaccuse glare, and Dalziel was experiencing a definite wringing of the withers when the door opened and George Headingleyâs broad anxious face appeared.

âHello, sir. Heard you were here. Can we have a word?â

âIf we must,â said Dalziel reluctantly, and with a last mnemonic look at Cap Marvellâs gently steaming bosom, he went out into the corridor.

âAll right, George,â he said. âFill me in.â

Headingley, a pink-faced middle-aged man with a sad moustache and a cream-tea paunch, said, âThat lot in there belong to ANIMA, the animal rights group and they wereââ

Dalziel said, âI donât give a toss if they belong to the Dagenham Girl Pipers and theyâve come here to rehearse, theyâre witnesses is all that matters. So what did they witness?â

âWell, Iâve got one statement on tape so far. The others arenât being very cooperative but this lass â¦â

âAye. Wendy Walker. First time in her life sheâs been cooperative with the police, I bet. Letâs hear this tape then.â

Headingley led him to a small office where the recorder was set up. Dalziel listened intently then said, âThis Cap, the one with the chest â¦â

âMarvell. Captain Marvell, get it? Sheâs the boss, except that she and Walker donât see eye to eye.â

âI noticed. She sounds a bit of a hard case.â

âYes, sir. Patten, thatâs the TecSec chief, reckons she had serious thoughts about taking a swing at him.â

âCould pack quite a punch with that weight behind it,â said Dalziel, smiling reminiscently.

âIt were a set of wire cutters she was swinging. Weâve got them here, sir. Give you a real headache if these connected.â

Dalziel looked at the heavy implement and said, âBag it and have it checked for blood.â

âBut no one got hurt,â protested Headingley.

âNot here they didnât.â

âYou donât mean you think maybe Redcar â¦ but theyâre women, sir!â

âWorldâs changing, George,â said Dalziel. âSo what else have you been doing, apart from collecting one statement?â

âWell, I had a talk with Dr Batty when I got here â¦â

âHe was here when you arrived?â

âYes, sir. Expect that Patten rang him first. Then I got things organized outside, and I thought Iâd better see if we could rustle up some sort of refreshment for the ladies. I asked that fellow Howard â he used to be one of ours â but he said he couldnât leave the door, so I went to look for myself. Found the staff canteen, got a tea urn brewing â¦â

âYou must be the highest paid tea boy since Geoffrey Howe left the cabinet,â said Dalziel. Still, at least old George knew his limitations. Why get wet and in the way outside when you had someone like Wieldy, who could organize a piss-up on a Welsh Sunday, fifty miles from the nearest brewery.

âSo what now, sir?â said Headingley. âStatements?â

Dalziel thought then said, âWalkerâs the only one with owt to state and weâve got hers. Give them all their cup of tea, take details, name, address, the usual, keep it all low key and chatty, but see if you can get any of them to let on theyâve been here before.â

Headingley was looking puzzled and the Fat Man said with didactic clarity, âTie âem in with last summerâs raid here and weâre well on the way to tying âem in with Redcar.â

âOh yes. I see. You really think thenââ

âNot paid to think, George. I employ someone to think for me, and the buggerâs at a funeral so weâll have to get by on our lonesome. Patten!â

Closed doors and thick walls were no sound barrier and a moment later the TecSec man appeared.

Dalziel said, âThe ladies are going along to the staff canteen for refreshments then theyâll be going home. I presume youâve got all your animals locked away?â

âDonât worry. They wonât get anywhere near the labs,â said Patten confidently.

âNay, lad, itâs your men Iâm talking about. No more strong-arm stuff, you with me?â

âBecause theyâre female, you mean? Listen, that chunky cow, the one they call Cap, she nearly took my head off with a bloody great pair of wire cutters.â

âIs that right? Your head looks OK to me,â said Dalziel examining it critically.

âNo thanks to her,â said Patten. âAll Iâm saying is, if my men get assaulted â¦â

âThey should count their blessings,â said Dalziel. âThereâs a place in Harrogate where it costs good money to get beaten up by a handsome young woman. Like the address? All right, George? Everything under control?â

âYes, sir. What about you, sir?â said George Headingley. âWhere are you going to be?â

âMe?â said Dalziel smacking his lips in anticipation. âIâm going to be wherever Dr Batty keeps his single methanol.â

vii

As Pascoe drove north the following morning, the weather got worse but his mood got better. By the time he got within tuning distance of Radio Mid-Yorkshire, his car was being machine-gunned by horizontal hail, but the familiar mix of dated pops and parish pump gossip sounded in his ears like the first cuckoo of spring.

I must be turning into a Yorkshireman, he thought as he sang along with Boney M.

A newscast followed, a mixture of local and national. One item caught his attention.

âPolice have confirmed the discovery last night of human remains in the grounds of Wanwood House, research headquarters of ALBA Pharmaceuticals. Tests to ascertain the cause of death are not yet complete and the police spokesman was unwilling to comment on reports that the discovery was made by a group of animal rights protesters.â

It sounded to Pascoeâs experienced ear that Andy Dalziel was sitting tight on this one, and with one of those mighty buttocks in your face, even the voice of nation speaking unto nation got a bit muffled.

It also confirmed him in his half-formed resolution that it was worth diverting to dispose of Adaâs ashes. Dalziel believed that time off on any pretext meant you owed him a week of twenty-five-hour days. With a possible murder on his hands, heâd probably raise that to thirty, particularly as Pascoe had been in sole charge of the investigation into the ALBA raid last summer. It had only merited a DCIâs involvement because of the possible connection with the killing at FGâs labs up at Redcar. Thereâs always a certain pleasure in solving another mobâs case, but Dalziel who was a good delegator had neither interfered nor complained when Pascoe had reported that the investigation was going nowhere. On the other hand Pascoe did not doubt he would be held personally responsible for not having noticed the presence of human remains out at Wanwood even if they turned out to have been buried six feet under!

So, dispose of Ada, else the urn could end up sitting on his mantelpiece for some time, and his guess was that even someone as conscientiously house-humble as Ellie would draw the line at such an hydriotaphic ornament.

Leeds was only a little out of his way. With luck he could be in and out in half an hour.

This pious hope died in a one-way system as unforgiving as a posting to the Western Front. Even when he arrived where he wanted to be, where he wanted to be didnât seem to be there any more. At least the hail had stopped and the blustery wind was tearing holes in the cloud big enough for the occasional ray of sun to penetrate.

He pulled into the car park of a pile-âem-high-sell-âem-cheap supermarket and addressed an apparently shell-shocked old man in charge of a convoy of errant trolleys.

âIs this Kirkton Road?â

âAye,â said the man.

âIâm looking for the West Yorkshire Fusiliersâ barracks.â

âYouâve missed it,â said the man.

âOh God. You mean itâs back along there,â said Pascoe unhappily regarding the one-way street he had just with such pain negotiated.

âNay, youâve missed it by more ân ten years. Wyfies amalgamated wiâ South Yorks Rifles way back. Shifted to their barracks in Sheffield. Call themselves the Yorkshire Fusiliers now. War Office sold this site for development.â

âBugger,â said Pascoe.

Adaâs wishes were precise if curious. My ashes should be taken by the executor of my will and scattered around the Headquarters of the West Yorkshire Fusiliers in Kirkton Road, Leeds.

Knowing her feelings about the army, Pascoe did not doubt that her motive was derisory. She would probably have liked to leave instructions that the urn was to be hurled through a window but knew she would need to moderate her gesture if she hoped to have it carried out. But moderation must surely stop a long way short of being scattered in a car park!

âMuseumâs still here but,â said the man, happy to extend this interruption of his tedious task.

âWhere?â said Pascoe hopefully.

âYon place.â

The man pointed to a tall narrow granite building standing at the far end of the car park, glaring with military scorn at the Scandinavian ski-lodge frivolity of the supermarket.

âThanks,â said Pascoe.

He drove towards the museum and parked before it. Close up the building looked even more as if it had been bulled, boxed and blancoâd ready for inspection. Pascoe collected the urn from the boot, scuffed his feet on the tarmac to make sure he wasnât tracking any dirt, and went up the steps.

The lintel bore a mahogany board on which was painted a badge consisting of a white rose under a fleur-de-lis, with beneath it WEST YORKSHIRE FUSILIERS â Regimental Museum. The paint was fresh and bright, the brass door knob gleamed like a sergeant majorâs eye, and even the letter box had a military sharpness which probably terrified any pacifist postmen.

Pascoe turned the knob, checked to be sure he hadnât left fingerprints, and entered.

He found himself in a large high-ceilinged room, lined with display cabinets and hung with tattered flags. It was brightly lit and impeccably clean, but that didnât stop the air from being musty with the smell of old unhappy far-off things and battles long ago.

Pascoe moved swiftly through a series of smaller rooms without finding any survivors. He even tried calling aloud but there was no response.

Sod it! he thought. The absence of witnesses should be making things a lot easier. All he had to do was scatter and scarper! But somehow, even without a witness, the thought of sullying these immaculate surfaces with powdered Ada was hard for an obsessively tidy man. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust â¦ but there had to be some old dust for the new dust to go to!

He tried a pinch in the darkest corner he could find but it stood out like a smear of coke on a nunâs moustache. Finally he settled on a fireplace. Even this looked to have been untroubled by coal for a hundred years, and the Victorian fire irons which flanked it stood as neat and shiny as weapons in an armoury. But it must have known ash in its time. And what after all was this philopolemic building but a mausoleum in need of a body?

His conscience thus quietened, Pascoe unscrewed the top of the urn, took out a handful of dust, examined it for fear, found it, and with an atavistic prayer, threw it into the grate.

âWhat the hell do you think youâre playing at?â demanded an outraged voice.

He turned his head and looked up at a tall grey-haired man wearing an indignant expression, a piratical eye patch and a hairy tweed jacket with the right sleeve pinned emptily across the breast.

Time, thought Pascoe, for the disarming smile, particularly as the manâs present hand was pointing what looked like a flintlock pistol very steadily at his head.

âYou may find this a trifle hard to believe,â said Pascoe. âBut I do hope you are going to try.â

viii

It was clear that Troll Longbottomâs forecast was right. These bones were going to be a long time coming.

The drenching dark which had finally made them abandon the hunt the previous night had been replaced by fitful sunlight, but visibility did little to make the job more attractive.

âCould lose a man down there,â said Wield looking down into the water-filled crater.

âI can think of a couple weâd not miss,â said Dalziel. âEven if we pump it out, the mudâs going to be a problem.â

âThe lads last night reported a lot of big granite slabs,â said Wield. âThey should give us something to work from. But youâre right. We could spend more time digging each other out than old bones.â

âSame thing in my case,â said Dalziel. âGood God, have you got a twin or what?â

This last was to Troll Longbottom who was edging his way towards them along the duckboards.

âJust thought Iâd check to see if you had anything more for me yet,â he said with a smile which wouldnât have looked out of place at a pirate masthead.

âOh aye?â said Dalziel. âIf theyâd asked you to take a look at Julius sodding Caesar, youâd have told âem to wait till they invented the video camera. So how come twice in twelve hours Iâve found you up to your fetlocks in clart, breathing fresh air?â

âFriendship, Andy. Friendship.â

âWell thanks a lot, Troll. I didnât realize you cared.â

âNot for you,â said the pathologist with a grimace not so different from his smile. âFor David Batty.â

âWhatâs that mean? You shagging his missus or something?â

âOr something, Andy. So, anything more for me to look at?â

âGive us a chance! And did you not get plenty last night? Thought all you needed for a life history was a fingernail and a pinch of belly-button fluff.â

âYou flatter me,â said Longbottom. âBut I do need just a little more in order to confirm my preliminary dating.â

âYouâve got a dating? Whyâd you not say so? Come on, letâs hear it.â

âI should say from what Iâve seen so far that the remains were certainly more than five years old.â

âMore than five?â echoed Dalziel in disgust. âIs that the best you can manage? Iâve got lads just out of training could have come up with that!â

âWell, it was mainly monosyllabic, wasnât it? What I really need is a jawbone. You can tell a lot from dental work. And a bit of flesh would be a real godsend.â

He spoke with such enthusiasm that Dalziel laughed.

âTell you what, Troll,â he said. âIf I were you, Iâd turn vegetarian.â

âAnd I you,â said the pathologist elliptically, prodding the Fat Manâs gut. âNow I must be off. Some of us have work to do.â

âIâll be in touch,â bellowed Dalziel after him, then turning to Wield he asked, âSo, what do you think?â

âBit of mutual backscratching?â suggested Wield. âThis Battyâs not just Research Director, heâs the son and heir of Thomas Batty who owns the whole company. Useful contact for Mr Longbottom.â

âDonât use a lot of drugs when your specialtyâs dead âuns,â objected Dalziel.

âI think youâll find Mr Longbottomâs an influential man on his NHS Trustâs governing body, sir. Also I hear heâs got a twenty-per-cent share in that new private hospital on the Scarborough Road.â

âBy God, Wieldy, I thought mebbe life out among the turnip tops were turning you soft, but now I see itâs turning you cynical!â

âI just state the facts, sir,â said Wield. âAnd hereâs another. ALBA, as Mr Longbottom likely knows, have been here just four years.â

âMeaning Trollâs saying the bones are at least five years old just to stress that Batty and his staff canât be in the frame? You donât reckon heâs fixed the figures as a favour, do you?â

âNo, sir. Iâd mebbe not care to do business with him, but when it comes to his job, as weâve all found out, he doesnât give an inch. Youâve known him longer than anyone, but, so you must know that.â

âIâm afraid so, Wieldy,â sighed Dalziel. âPity though. If I thought heâd stretched it to five for Batty, Iâd have made bloody sure he stretched it to fifty for me. Still, itâs early days. Mebbe itâll still turn out to be archaeology. Iâm off to have another word with Batty, tell him the good news.â

âI bet youâll find Mr Longbottomâs told him already,â said Wield.

âVery like, but one thing youâre forgetting, Wieldy.â

âYes, sir?â

âThe wanker keeps a nice drop of malt. See about getting this water shifted, will you?â

âMy pleasure,â said Sergeant Wield.

This morning there was a receptionist on duty in the hessian-hung hall. She informed Dalziel that the director was in the labs but would no doubt make himself available as soon as was convenient. Meanwhile if the superintendent cared to take a seat â¦

Ex-Constable Howard was hovering behind her. Heâd changed his burnt trousers but looked pretty bleary eyed.

âWorking you hard, arenât they?â said Dalziel sympathetically.

âBit short staffed, sir. Also Dr Batty wanted extra men on duty.â

âSomeone should tell him about stable doors. Someone like me. Take me to the labs, lad.â

Without hesitation, Howard opened one of the doors and led the way through pursued by the receptionistâs indignant twitter.

To Dalzielâs inexpert eye, the lab he entered looked like a cross between a small menagerie and a high-class bog. Battyâs features crinkled in a frown when he saw Dalziel but cleared almost immediately. Heâd learned quickly â probably coached by Longbottom â that you didnât trade blows with the Fat Man, not unless youâd got a horseshoe up your boxing glove. Last night heâd poured the Scotch with a generous hand and theyâd parted on excellent terms which didnât prevent either from heartily despising the other.

âAndy,â he said. âGood morning. Any news?â

Nowt the Troll wonât have told you already, thought Dalziel. And nowt that a drop of the Caledonian cream wouldnât improve.

âJust thought Iâd let you know weâll be working out there most of the day, Iâm afraid. Good news is them bones were likely here when your company took the place over, so I shouldnât have to bother your staff.â

âExcellent. Weâre very busy at the moment so could ill afford an interruption. And, Andy, I must compliment you on the way youâve handled the media. Hardly a mention this morning. Our PR Department are very impressed. Many thanks both personally and on behalf of ALBA.â

Dalziel smiled with false modesty. False, not because he hadnât called in a lot of favours and up a lot of threats to minimize response to all the phone calls Marvell had made as soon as she got home, but because he permitted this twat to go on thinking it had anything to do with him or his sodding company.

âWhen weâve got a closer dating weâll need to look back at the history of the house,â he said.

âAnything we can do to help, youâve just got to ask,â said Batty. âAs I explained last night, all the records will be stored at Kirkton of course.â

Kirkton, an industrial suburb of Leeds, was ALBAâs home base. Here the company had begun and grown, developing into a large rambling complex which Batty (once the truce had been struck the previous night) had described as a security nightmare. âAs I explained to your chap who came out when we had that first lot of bother in the summer, Pascoe his name was I think, seemed a very decent kind of fellowâ â his faintly surprised tone had not passed unremarked â âthe reason we decided to move our research labs was because they were far too vulnerable at HQ. Chap from some animal mag just strolled right in and started taking pictures. Bloody cheek! So we decided to move out here, lock, stock, and barrel. It had been used as a hospital or clinic or something for years, so that was a step in the right direction and it meant we could give the impression that all the refurbishment and extension work had something to do with resuming its old function.â

âOh aye,â Dalziel had interrupted. âWith no one knowing what was going off but a few lawyers, and all the contractors, and your own staff members and every bugger living in a radius of ten miles, I can see how you mightâve hoped to keep it quiet.â

âPut like that it does sound a touch optimistic,â laughed Batty. âBut we left a token presence in the Kirkton labs to fool the activistsâ spies, and for nearly four years it seemed to work. Must have lulled us, I suppose. Then bang! Suddenly last summer the loonies got in and really made a mess of things. Thatâs when I realized that being remote and isolated was an advantage only till they winkled you out. Moving again clearly wasnât a solution. So we got a new security company in and gave them the brief to make us secure. The results you have seen.â

He had spoken complacently. Dalziel had kept his own thoughts about those results to himself. No point in rowing with a fellow who had a half-full bottle of Glenmorangie at his elbow.

It had been empty by the time he left, but heâd noticed an unopened one in the cabinet Batty had taken his glass from. The memory rose before him now like a vision of the Holy Grail. He coughed he hoped thirstily and said, âNow youâve had a chance to clear up, did that lot last night do much damage when they ran loose inside?â

âNot a lot and mainly superficial,â said Batty. âBut itâs good of you to be concerned.â

All this gratitude undiluted by a dram was beginning to grate a bit. Wield had entered the lab. He caught Dalzielâs eye and gave a minute shake of his head to indicate he wanted a word but it wasnât desperate.

Dalziel said, âWhat Iâm really concerned about is making sure these arenât the same lot who were running riot in the summer.â

âOh thatâs all behind us now,â said Batty dismissively. âWe learnt our lesson. Letâs stick with the present, shall we?â

âMight be behind you,â said Dalziel magisterially. âNot behind the family of that poor sod who got himself killed up at Redcar. Fraser Greenleaf. Same line of business as you only a lot bigger. Iâd have thought youâd have heard of them.â

For a second Batty allowed himself to look irritated, then his face assumed a solemn air and he said, âOf course. I wasnât thinking. But do you really believe there might be a connection with these people?â

âCanât ignore the possibility, sir.â

âOf course not. Good lord. Women. Whatâs the world coming to?â

âWeâre a long way from proving a connection,â said Dalziel. âWhat about you? Made up your mind about prosecuting yet?â

Batty smiled and shrugged.

âLike I said, not up to me. Head office decision. I know what Iâd do, but Iâm just a poor scientist.â

Who also, if Wield was right, happened to be a member of ALBAâs ruling family. Which probably meant they werenât going to prosecute, but Batty wanted to distance himself from a decision heâd opposed.

Sharp bugger this, thought Dalziel. But not sharp enough to see there was a man dying of thirst in front of him!

Wield meanwhile was taking a tour round the lab, looking at the caged animals with a distaste not even his rugose features could disguise.

He watched as a radiantly beautiful young woman in a radiantly white lab coat picked up a tiny monkey which threw its arms round her neck in a baby-like need for reassurance. Expertly she disengaged it, turned it over and plunged a hypodermic into the base of its spine.

âOuch,â said Wield. âDoesnât that hurt?â

âDone properly, the animal hardly feels it,â she reassured him.

He glanced at her security badge which told him he was speaking to Jane Ambler. Research Assistant.

âNo, Jane,â he said amiably. âIt was you I meant.â

She regarded him dispassionately and said, âOh dear. Perhaps before you come on so judgmental, you should talk to someone with rheumatoid arthritis.â

âOK,â said Wield.

He stooped to the cage, pushed his finger through the mesh and made soothing guttural noises to the tiny beast. Then he straightened up.

âHeâs against it,â he said.

He found he was talking to Dalziel.

âWhen youâre done feeding the animals, sergeant, mebbe we can have a word.â

The Fat Man led the way through the reception area where the receptionist was still sulking. He gave her a big smile and nodded at Howard whoâd snapped to attention.

Outside Wield said, âThat TecSec man, donât I know him?â

Dalziel, used to being upstaged by his sergeantâs encyclopaedic knowledge of the dustiest corners of Mid-Yorkshire, was not displeased to be able to reply negligently, âOh aye. But not the way youâre thinking. He were one of ours, uniformed out at Dartleby till he took early retirement and got himself privatized. Thinking of following suit, lad?â

âNot more than once a day, sir. Howard. Oh yes. Jimmy Howard. Didnât so much take retirement as had it force-fed, if I remember right.â

Dalziel, who took too much pride in Wieldâs internet mind to be a bad loser, said, âYou usually do. So fill me in.â

âThere was talk he was on the take, but before it got anywhere, he were picked up driving over the limit. Got himself a soft quack who gave him a note saying job stress, and no one stood in his way when he went for medical retirement with pension afore the case came up and he got kicked out without.â

âAnd the other? Being on the take?â

âWell, nowt was proved. But heâs a hard-betting man and those who saw him at the races reckoned he couldnât be losing that much on a constableâs take-home. Makes you wonder, donât it?â

âWonder what, Wieldy?â

âDid TecSec not know about him? Or did they know and take him on despite? Or did they know and take him on because?â

Dalziel shook his head admiringly.

âThatâs a really nasty mind youâve got there, Wieldy. Any reason other than natural prejudice?â

âIt was you who said private security companies are guilty till proven innocent, sir,â said Wield reproachfully. âIâve not seen much of this lot, but thereâs something about them doesnât sit right.â

Dalziel regarded him thoughtfully. A Wield uneasiness was not something to be dismissed lightly.

âAll right,â he said. âTake a closer look. Let on itâs these animal libbers weâre interested in, how they acted when they got into the building last night. Which we are.â

âRight, sir. But it doesnât sound to me like ALBA will be prosecuting.â

âBig ears youâve got. Listen, lad. No one tells me when to stop looking. And Iâll keep this ANIMA bunch in view till Iâm completely satisfied thereâs no link with Redcar.â

âYou donât really think there could be a connection, sir?â said Wield dubiously. âI mean from whatâs known about this lot, theyâre at the soft end of the movement.â

âFirst rule of this job is, take nowt on trust,â said the Fat Man sternly. âKeep your eye on the ball and youâll not buy any dummies.â

This struck Wield as a bit rich when he recalled from Dalzielâs complaint last night at not having been warned of the gender of the protesters that the main thing he seemed to have kept his eye on, and which he mentioned at least three times in the sergeantâs mitigation, was Amanda Marvellâs knockers.

He said, âIâll make a note of that,â not bothering to muffle the sarcasm.

Dalziel snorted in exasperation and said, âAll right, so whatâs going off? Toad-licking season started early in Brigadoon, has it?â

This was Dalzielâs name for Enscombe.

âSorry, sir?â

âJokes last night, and back there you were coming over like the press agent for disadvantaged chimps. So whatâs it all mean?â

âI donât much like what theyâre doing there,â admitted Wield. âSorry. I know I should keep my neb out.â

âBloody right you should. Public needs protecting from a neb like yours. Any road, what was it you came in to tell me? You realize Iâve come out of there as thirsty as I went in, so it had better be important.â

âNot really, sir. Control came through on the radio. Said that woman in charge of the ANIMA lot, whatâs her name? Marbles â¦? Movables â¦?â

Wield forgetting a name was as likely as the Godfather forgetting a grudge, but Dalziel found himself saying, âMarvell,â before he could stop himself.

âThatâs right. Seems she called in at the station, wanted to see you to make a statement. Could be youâre right, sir, and sheâs come to confess.â

âOh aye? Well, she had her chance to confess last night,â said Dalziel. âLet her wait. She can sit around till she gets piles.â

âOh sheâs not sitting around, sir. When she found you werenât there, she took off. Said for you to call at her flat, it âud be more comfortable there anyway. Says not to worry about turning up at lunch time as she can easily rustle up a snack. You want the address, sir?â

All this was said absolutely deadpan, and pans didnât come any deader than Wieldâs. But Dalziel was not fooled.

âNo, I donât want the bloody address,â he snarled. âAnd just because you look like the man in the iron mask, donât imagine I canât see youâre smirking!â

He strode away. And Wield, his smirk now externalized, watched him go, thinking, and just because you look like a rhino in retreat, donât imagine I canât see youâre horny!

ix

In a long narrow office as chaotic as the museum was neat, Pascoe drank strong tea with Major Hilary Studholme.

The major had listened to Pascoeâs story with an attention as undiverted as his pistol. With a mental moue of apology in the direction of Ada, Pascoe had felt it better in the circumstances not to explicate her probable motives, and though stopping well short of any direct assertion of regimental pride, it was as nothing to the distance he stayed from even a hint of paranoiac loathing.

The production of his police ID finally convinced the major he was neither a dangerous lunatic nor a bomb-planting terrorist.

As Pascoe sipped his tea, the major riffled through a couple of leather-bound volumes with a dexterity remarkable in a man with only a left hand.

âOdd,â he said. âPascoe rings a definite bell, but thereâs no record of an NCO of that name buying it at Ypres in 1917. Could have lost his stripe, of course. Thereâs a Private Stephen Pascoe got wounded â¦ could that be a connection, do you think?â

âI doubt it,â said Pascoe. âPoint is, it wonât be Pascoe, will it?â

The single eye regarded him blankly, then the upper lip spasmed in a silly-ass grimace which laid the hairs of his moustache horizontal and he said, âSorry. Mind seeping out through my eye socket. Of course Pascoe would be your grandmotherâs married name. So, what was her maiden name?â

Pascoe thought then said, âClark, I think.â

Studholme grimaced. âGot a hatful of Clarks in here,â he said, patting the leather-bound books. âWith an âeâ or without? Got an initial?â

âSorry,â said Pascoe. âAll I know about him is thereâs a photo with him showing off a lance corporalâs stripe with the date 1914, then a scrawl, presumably my great-grandmotherâs, saying Killed Wipers 1917. That puzzles me a bit. I thought the big battle at Ypres was earlier in the war.â

âOh yes? If thatâs the limit of an educated manâs knowledge, Mr Pascoe, just imagine the ignorance of most of your fellow cits!â

Pascoe found himself ready to bridle. Studholme with his bristly moustache, clipped accent and sturdy tweeds, looked a prototypical member of the British officer class which liberal tradition characterized as snobbish, philistine, and intellectually challenged, not at all the kind of person a young(ish) Guardian-reading graduate, who could get Radio 3 and sometimes did, ought to let himself be lectured by.

On the other hand as a public servant in a police force threatened with radical restructuring, it would be impolitic as well as impolite to get up the nose of a war hero.

âI know what most educated people know about the Great War, major,â he said carefully. âThat even by strict military standards, it was an exercise in futility unprecedented and unsurpassed.â

Shit, that had come out a bit stronger than intended.

âBravo,â said Studholme surprisingly. âThatâs a start. Let me fill in a bit of detail. The first battle of Ypres took place in October and November 1914. British losses about fifty thousand, including the greater part of the prewar regular army. First Ypres marked the end of anything that could be called open warfare. During the winter both sides concentrated on fortifying their defences and after that it was trench warfare from the North Sea to the Swiss border till 1918.â

âSo why was Ypres so important?â

âIt was the centre of a salient, a considerable bulge in the line. A breakthrough there would have enabled the Allies to roll up the Boche in both directions. Disadvantage of course was that a salient means the enemy can lob shells at you from three sides. Service in the Salient was not something our lads looked forward to even before Passchendaele. My father managed to be in both Ypres Two and Ypres Three. He used to say there was always a special feel about the Salient even at relatively quiet times. Its landscape was more depressing, the stink of its mud more nauseating, its skies more lowering. You felt as you left Ypres by the Menin Gate that it should have borne a sign reading âAll Hope Abandon Ye Who Enter Hereâ.â

âSounds like the entrance to CID on a Monday morning,â said Pascoe with a forced lightness.

âNo, I donât think so,â said Studholme regarding him gravely. âMy father said that service there changed human nature. You reverted to a kind of subhumanity, the missing link between the apes and Homo sapiens. He called it Homo Saliens, Salient Man. I donât think he was joking.â

Pascoe drank his tea. He felt the need for warmth. It was very quiet in here. The supermarket car park seemed a thousand miles away.

He said, âSo what happened at Ypres Two?â

âSpring of â15. Jerry made a determined effort to get things straight. Used chlorine gas for the first time. Gained a bit of ground but the Salient remained. Our casualties about sixty thousand including one general, Horace Smith-Dorrien.â

âThat must have really got them worried back home,â said Pascoe, drifting despite himself towards a sneer. âI mean, whatâs a few thousand men here or there, but a dead general â¦â

âNot dead,â said Studholme. âStellenbosched. That is, sacked. Terrible offence. Competence.â

âSorry?â said Pascoe, thinking heâd misheard.

âHe was actually in the thick of things and made judgments based on realities. Also he was foolish enough to suggest to French, the C-in-C, that they were losing too many men in pointless frontal attacks. There arenât many other recorded expressions of doubt by top brass, I tell you.â

âNo wonder, if you got sacked for it.â

âIndeed. Now, jump forward two years to 1917. Third Ypres, your great-grandfatherâs battle. You probably know it as Passchendaele.â

âGood God, yes. The mud.â

âThatâs right. Everyone remembers the mud. One of manâs worst nightmares, a slow drowning in glutinous filth. Practically a metaphor for the whole conduct of the war.â

Pascoe was now regarding Studholme with wide-eyed interest.

âYou donât sound like a member of Douglas Haigâs fan club, major.â

Studholme gave a snort like a rifle shot.

He said, âWhen they finally got rid of Sir John French at the end of â15, it was as if his main fault was not killing off his own men quickly enough. So what they looked for was a general whoâd get the job done quicker. French had slain his ten thousands, but Haig was soon slaying his hundred thousands, nearly half a million on the Somme and now another quarter million at Passchendaele. Of course Third Wipers went down as a victory. They gained six or seven miles of mud. Imagine a column of men, twenty-five abreast, stretching out over those six or seven miles, and youâre looking at the British dead. Bit different from Agincourt, eh?â

âTell me, major,â said Pascoe curiously. âFeeling like this, how come you took the job of looking after a military museum? In fact, how come you got started on a military career at all?â

For a moment he thought heâd gone too far. The major was regarding him once more with the flintlock gleam in his eye. Then he sipped his tea, brushed his moustache, smiled faintly and said, âHow come a bright young fellow like you went into the police? Was it the bribes or the chance to beat up suspects that attracted you?â

âTouchÃ©,â said Pascoe. âAnd apologies for my youthful impudence.â

âAccepted. Now Iâll answer you. I joined the army âcos way back about the time of Waterloo, someone decided that the only way to make anything out of my line of Studholmes was to get âem into uniform and send âem out for foreigners to shoot at. No oneâs come up with a viable alternative since, so on we go, generation after generation, providing moving targets. Rarely get beyond my rank, though my father made colonel. Shot from being a subaltern in â15 to major, acting lieutenant colonel in â18. That was one plus for that show â lots of scope for accelerated promotion. If you survived.â

âNice to know someone did,â said Pascoe.

âOh yes, he had a talent for it. Lived to be ninety. Still working on his memoirs when he died. I told him heâd left it a bit late, but he said no point in starting till you were pretty sure you were past doing anything worth remembering.â

âSounds as if theyâd make interesting reading,â said Pascoe. âTalking of which, is there anything youâd recommend to start remedying my immense ignorance about the Great War?â

The major looked at him with one-eyed keenness to see if he was taking the piss. Then selecting a volume from the bookshelf behind him he said, âThis is about as good a general introduction as youâll get. After that, if you develop a taste for horror, you can specialize.â

âThank you,â said Pascoe, taking the book. âIâll return it, of course.â

âDamn right you will,â said the major. âChaps who borrow your kit and donât return it always come to a sticky end. Now letâs see if we canât find somewhere a bit more suitable for your gran than a fireplace, shall we?â

He rose abruptly. As Pascoe followed him out of the office, he said, âYou run a very tidy museum, sir.â

âWhat? Oh thank you. Or do I detect an irony? Perhaps you find tidiness incompatible with a place dedicated to the glorification of war?â

âAll I meant wasââ

âDonât lie out of politeness, please. Policemen should always speak the truth. So should museums. Thatâs what I hope this one does. If it glorifies anything it is courage and service. But when the truth is that men were sacrificed needlessly, even wantonly, in the kind of battle your great-grandfather died in, a place like this mustnât flinch from saying so. We owe it to the men who died. We owe it to ourselves as professional soldiers too.â

They had entered a room at the back of the house, formerly the kitchen but now given over to an exhibition of catering equipment. Studholme pointed through the window into a small paved yard with a single circular flowerbed at its centre. It contained three brutally pruned rose bushes.

âLooks better in the summer,â he said. âWhite roses surrounded by lilies. The regimental badge. Used to be an old joke. You always get a good cup of tea from the Wyfies, they even advertise in their badge. Roses, fleur-de-lis; Rosy Lee, you follow? Not a very good joke. Also new recruits are called lilies; passing out, you get your rose. Sorry. Regimental folklore. Set me off, I go on forever. What started this?â

âMy grandmotherâs ashes,â prompted Pascoe.

âIndeed. The rose bed. Good scattering of bonemeal wouldnât go amiss there. Or â¦â He hesitated then went on, âJust say if you think it a touch crass but down in the cellar â¦ well, let me show you.â

He opened a door onto a steep flight of stone steps.

âCold, damp and miserable down there,â said Studholme. âCouldnât think what to do with it. Cost a fortune to cheer it up. Then I thought, why bother? Go with the flow, isnât that what they say? Not original, of course. Imperial War Museum does something similar, but I reckon for atmosphere, weâve got the edge.â

âIâm sorry â¦?â said Pascoe.

âMy fault. Rattling on again. Bad habit. Here, take a look.â

He pressed a switch in the wall. Below lights came on, not bright modern electric lights, but the kind of dull yellow flicker that might emanate from old oil lamps. And sound too, a dull basso continuo of distant artillery overlaid from time to time by the soprano shriek of passing shells or the snare-drum stutter of machine-gun fire.

âGo down,â urged Studholme.

Pascoe descended, and with each step felt his stomach clench as his old claustrophobia began to take its paralysing grip.

At the foot of the steps he had to duck under a rough curtain of hempen sacking and when he straightened up, he found he was standing in a First World War dugout.

There were figures here, old shop-window dummies, he guessed, now clad in khaki, but their smooth white faces werenât at all ludicrous. They were death masks, equally terrifying whether belonging to the corporal crouched over a field telephone on a makeshift table or the officer sprawled on a canvas camp bed with an open book neglected on his breast.

In the darkest corner, face turned to the wall, lay another figure with one leg completely swathed in a bloodstained bandage. Close by his foot two large rats, eyes glinting in the yellow light, seemed about to pounce.

âJesus!â exclaimed Pascoe, uncertain in that second if they were real or stuffed.

âConvincing, ainât they?â said Studholme with modest pride. âCould have had the real thing down here with very little effort, but didnât want the local health snoops down on me. Everything you see is authentic. Kit, weapons, uniforms. All saw service on the Western Front.â

âEven this?â said Pascoe indicating the sleeping officerâs book.

âOh yes. My fatherâs. Not a great reader, but he told me that at that time in that place, it was a lifeline to home.â

Pascoe picked up the book.

âGood God,â he said.

It was a copy of the original Kelmscott Press Edition of William Morrisâs The Wood Beyond the World.

âWhat?â said Studholme.

âThis book, itâs worth, I donât know, thousands maybe. You really shouldnât leave it lying around down here.â

âSpoken like a policeman,â said Studholme. âDidnât realize it was valuable to anyone except me. Still, kind of johnny who comes down here isnât likely to be a sneak thief, eh?â

âSpoken like a soldier,â said Pascoe opening the book and reading the inscription: To Hillie with love from Mummy Christmas 1903. It was clearly a well-thumbed and well-travelled volume. Lifeline to home, Christmas, mother, childhood â¦

âTake your time,â said Studholme. âBit more dust round here wonât be noticed, richer dust concealed, eh? But if you feel itâs too macabre, thereâs always the rose bush. Iâll leave you to have a think.â

He turned and vanished up the steps. Carefully Pascoe replaced the book on the dummyâs chest, taking care not to touch the pale plastic hand.

âSo, Gran, whatâs it to be?â he said to the urn which heâd placed by the telephone. âUp there with the flowers or down here with the roots?â

Heâd already made up his mind, but some pathetically macho pride prevented him from going in immediate pursuit of the major. Next moment he wished he had as one of the passing shells on the sound tape failed to pass, its scream climaxing to a huge explosion with a power of suggestion so strong that the whole cellar seemed to shake and, simultaneously, the lights went out.

Coincidence, or part of Studholmeâs special effects? wondered Pascoe, desperately trying to stem the panic rising in his gut.

The telephone rang, a single long rasping burr.

His hand shot out to grab it, hit something, then found the receiver.

âHello!â came a voice, tinny and distant. âWhoâs that?â

âThis is Pascoe.â

âPascoe? What the hell are you doing there?â

âIs that you, Studholme?â he demanded.

âDonât be an ass, man. This is Lieutenant â¦â

And a voice behind him at the same time said, âSomeone wanting me? Damn these lamps!â

For a moment it seemed to his disorientated and panicking mind that the voice came from the camp bed. Then a torch beam shone in his eyes and the major went on, âSorry about this. Often happens when one of those supermarket juggernauts goes up the service road behind us. Sometimes feels like the whole damn place is coming down. Lights should be back on in a tick â¦ ah, there we are.â

The pseudo oil lamps flickered back on. Pascoe blinked then looked at the dummy on the bed. It lay there with the book where heâd replaced it.

Studholme said mildly, âRinging for help?â

âWhat?â He realized he was still holding the telephone. âI thought it rang â¦â

âDoes sometimes,â said the major. âLittle battery-operated random ringing device I knocked up. Helps with the atmosphere. Makes people jump, I tell you. Oh dear. Your decision or has your grandmother chosen for herself?â

Pascoe followed his gaze and saw that when heâd grabbed for the phone he must have knocked the urn off the table. It had cracked open when it hit the floor and a spoor of ash marked where it had rolled a few inches.

Pascoe replaced the telephone.

âCanât argue with fate,â he said, trying to establish control.

He picked up the urn and scattered the ashes into the corners of the dugout where, as Studholme had forecast, they blended in imperceptibly.

He felt he ought to say something. But what? It would either come out flip, or pseudo-religious, which was worse. In the end he contented himself with thinking, there you go, Ada. This world was a bit of a disappointment to you. I hope the next comes up to scratch.

It was a relief to get back to the ground floor.

Studholme said, âGot a number? Iâll check through our records, see if I can get any details on your great-grandfatherâs time in the regiment if you like. Or would you rather put all that behind you?â

âNo, Iâd be interested,â said Pascoe, producing a card. âAnd thanks for being so helpful.â

âMy pleasure. Goodbye, Mr Pascoe.â

He held out his left hand. There was a momentâs awkwardness as Pascoe instinctively reached for it with his right. To cover it he said, âBy the way, that pistol. It wasnât really loaded, was it?â

Studholme said, âOne thing my father taught me was, never point a loaded weapon at anyone youâre not willing to shoot.â

It wasnât till Pascoe was driving away that it dawned on him that he still didnât know if his question had been answered or not.

x

1982 was a key year for the Tory Party both nationally and in Mid-Yorkshire.

At its start, Margaret Thatcherâs grasp of the premiership seemed rather less secure than Richard Nixonâs of the principles of democracy, while Amanda Pitt-Evenlode, nÃ©e Marvell, seemed set to be Vice President (Functions) of the Mid-Yorks Conservative Association for at least the next forty years.

Then came the Falklands War. Never (or at least not since Troy) in the field of human daftness had so many gone so far to sacrifice so much for the sake of one silly woman.

Its effect on the fortunes of the UK government is a matter of public record.

Its effect on the life of Amanda Pitt-Evenlode is less widely known.

What it came down to was this: on June 12th, 1982, she was radicalized.

Curiously it was not the news that her only son, Second Lieutenant Piers Pitt-Evenlode of the Yorkshire Fusiliers, was missing in action, believed dead, that did the trick. That came on June 7th and left her prostrate with shock and unable to register, let alone reject, the canonical comforts of her parish priest, the patriotic platitudes of her committee colleagues, or the phylogenic fortitude of her spouse, the Hon. Rupert Pitt-Evenlode, JP.

No, it was the news that Piers had been discovered alive and, apart from a few inconsequential bullet holes, well, that pricked her into life. While all around the air was full of joyful congratulation, and talk of a possible gong, and plans for the welcome-home party, all she could think of was her recent certainty that this war â any war â was a crime against humanity, and its attendant conclusion that those responsible for it, or supportive of it, or even indifferent to it, must therefore be war criminals.

She tried to pretend that such a certainty should crumble in face of her sonâs survival, but found she couldnât keep it up.

Other womenâs sons had fallen without being raised from the grave. How then could she be so arrogant as to assert the health of her own boy as the sole yardstick?

She tried to talk about her feelings with those she felt closest to, and found herself once again prayed over and patronized, and finally pushed towards a very fashionable psychiatrist whoâd done wonders for Binky Bullmainâs nervous flatulence.

Piers himself, far from being the hoped-for confidant, took to the role of bemedalled hero like a blowfly to dead meat and clearly regarded any hint of her new anxieties as a personal slur.

But still she looked for ways to adapt her new-found self to her family, her social circle and her political party, and still she found herself rejected like a new heart in an old body.

So she resigned from all of them.

The old Amanda Pitt-Evenlode felt a slight pang that the sighs which marked her passing contained as much relief as sorrow.

The new Mandy Marvell didnât give a toss.

She had married at seventeen, borne Piers at eighteen, and spent the next two decades performing all the duties proper to a woman of her husbandâs status in society. This meant that while tennis, golf and swimming kept her body in pretty good shape, her mind had fewer demands made upon it than would have stretched the ratiocinative powers of a footballerâs parrot.

Now she found that one thought led to another in a most delightful way. Happily her father had died before succeeding in his avowed intent of dissipating all the wealth his father had so assiduously accrued, leaving Mandy with a sufficient private income to be able to live comfortably while at the same time paying the divorce settlement from Pitt-Evenlode straight into the coffers of various excellent charities. Her time and energy she gave generously too, but she did not miss any chance of proving all the pleasures which the hills and valleys, dales and fields, of her quiet country existence had failed to yield. She popped and snorted, drank and smoked; she read, wrote, painted and performed; she travelled widely and tried most alternatives from the religious to the medicinal.

For ten years she overwhelmed herself in experience and at this crowded decadeâs end she found that all she retained any real enthusiasm for was Mexican beer, the songs of Gustav Mahler, and straight sex. She even found sheâd gone off the poor a bit, not in particular, but as an insoluble symptom of humanityâs shittiness. Fifty was approaching fast. She wanted to do something she could see getting done. But what?

It had occurred to her from time to time as interesting though hardly significant that her strongest memories of life with the Hon. Rupert involved animals rather than people. They had started even, but as the humans faded, the beasts came into ever clearer focus. Now ten years on, with the Hon. reduced to little more than a long nose under a silly hat, she could still recall the exact disposition of the dark spots on a pair of Dalmatians called Aggers and Staggers sheâd been given on her twentieth birthday. An upwardly mobile farm cat trying to ingratiate itself into smoked-salmon circles with gifts of moles and shrews was clearer to her than the infant Piers; and while she couldnât have sworn to the Honâs private parts in a line-up, the splendid equipment of Balzac, the estateâs prize Charolais, was as detailed in her mind as if etched there by Stubbs.

She explained this to her current lover, an American evangelist, on their last night together before he bore his burden of souls and shekels home.

âThis is your heart bleeping you, Cap. Pick up that phone and get in touch with base.â

His phraseology made her wince, but against that she set the pleasure she derived from his habit of crying âHALLELUJAH!â at the moment of climax. And when he had gone she spoke to her heart.

Animals, her heart answered, were the unacknowledged legislators of mankind. They showed fortitude in adversity and temperance in prosperity. They had no need of prisons, nor did they prey on their own kind. Therefore the way humans treated them was the touchstone of their humanity.

To conclude was to act. Six months later her vigorous sampling of local loose coalitions of hunt saboteurs, cetaphiles, donkey sanctuarians, et cetera, had drawn to her several similarly minded women who agreed to form a more tightly knitted group which came to be known as ANIMA. That it was all female was not a conscious choice but a dynamic inevitability. Men fear more than they admire a powerful woman, and for her to rule over them she must normally usurp the masculine leadership of an already existing group. If instead she forms a new one, she will rarely attract male recruits till she is so successful, she doesnât want them.

The day after the abortive raid on Wanwood House, Cap Marvell laid the table in the kitchen of her flat for two.

It was simple fare: a large pie, a bowl of crisps, a green salad, a wedge of cheese, a jar of onions, and a couple of baguettes. By one place setting she put a tankard and three cans of draught bitter, by the other a tumbler and a bottle of Mexican beer.

At one oâclock precisely the doorbell rang.

Smiling she drew open the door.

The smile faded as she saw Wendy Walker standing in the corridor.

âWendy,â she said. âWhat do you want?â

âIâm not selling bloody brushes thatâs for sure,â snapped the other.

âIâm sorry,â said Cap. âI didnât mean to be rude, only Iâm expecting someone for lunch â¦â

âAnd Iâll be in the way? Well that shouldnât bother you, Cap. You lot get trained to roll over folk who get in your way, donât you?â

Cap gritted her teeth. Why was it that every time Wendy treated her like she was still the Hon. Mrs Rupert she found herself wanting to act like she was still the Hon. Mrs Rupert?

She said, âWendy, please, unless itâs a matter of life or death, I wonder ifââ

âLife or death!â Wendy interrupted her. âWhyâd that bother you? âLess it was some sodding animalâs life or death, and even then I daresay youâve slaughtered more birds and beasts than youâve ever bloody well saved!â

âWhat is it you want to talk about, Wendy?â said Cap, dangerously calm.

âLast night, what the fuck do you think? The price of tea? Youâre our group leader, arenât you? Right, I want to talk to my leader about what happened on the raid last night.â

âLook, I can see how it must have upset you, finding that body â¦â

âThatâs not whatâs upsetting me, no, itâs not a few old bones thatâs upsetting me â¦ look, you gonna let me in or not?â

Cap leaned forward and sniffed.

âYouâve been drinking,â she said.

âWell pardon me for breathing,â said Wendy. âPardon me for eating and drinking and sleeping and waking and pissing and crapping and doing all the other things that real human beings do. Yes, Iâve been drinking, not much, just enough for me to get the crazy idea it might be worthwhile coming round here to sort things out â¦â

âVery impressive,â said Cap. âBut it will have to keep till youâre a little more sober and Iâm a little less busy. Iâll see you later, Wendy.â

âLater? Yeah sure, only it might be a bit too fucking late for you, Cap, a bit too fucking late!â

Cap Marvell stepped back and closed the door. Wendy Walker turned away and headed for the lift but before she could reach it, Andy Dalziel whoâd been standing in it, listening, for the last few minutes, withdrew the foot which was holding the doors open, and pressed the button for the next floor up.

âShit,â said Wendy, and headed for the stairs.

Five minutes later the flat bell rang again.

Cap checked through the peephole this time to be sure, then opened the door, smiling widely.

âHello there,â she said. âNo need to apologize for being late. Itâs permissible on a first date.â

âOh aye?â said Dalziel. âTold me down the station you wanted to make a statement. Didnât say owt about dates.â

âI believe I did mention lunch. But whether youâve come with that in mind or your timing is merely a happy coincidence matters little. Youâre here. There is food. Please take a seat.â

âWhat if Iâm not hungry?â

âYou donât look to me, Mr Dalziel, like a man in whom appetite has much to do with hunger. Do sit down.â

Dalziel considered this. The woman were right. So he did sit and eat.

She watched in silence, admiring the simple almost poetic efficiency of his technique.

There was no impression of gluttony, no overfilling of or overspilling from the mouth (which would indeed have been difficult given the cetacean dimensions of that maw), just a simple procession of food through the marble portals of his teeth, a short rhythmic manducation, and a quick swallow which hardly registered on the massy column of his oesophagus.

The pie vanished save for the small wedge she had taken.

He said, âYou going to eat or just watch?â

She began to nibble at the pastry crust, still observing with awe as he split one of the baguettes in half, expertly lined it with cheese, crisps, salad, and pickled onions, replaced the lid, raised it to his lips.

âRemember that scene in the film of Tom Jones where they turn each other on just by eating?â she said. âI never really understood how it worked before.â

âEh?â said Dalziel.

She said, âYouâll never get it in.â

Dalziel didnât reply. His mother had brought him up not to speak with his mouth full.

When the baguette had vanished like a waking dream, he poured himself the third can of bitter and said, âRight, Mrs Marvell, whatâs all this about?â

âCall me Cap,â she said.

âWhy?â

âIt was a nickname my ingenious fellow pupils at my boarding school gave me. Captain Marvell. I tried to live up to it during my adolescence. In fact it was trying to live up to it that lost me it. It seemed a Captain Marvellish thing to do to get married to an Hon. at seventeen, but I soon discovered you cannot be called Cap if youâre Mrs Rupert Pitt-Evenlode. In fact with that chain of words to trail around behind you, itâs difficult to be anything at all except the Hon. Mrs et cetera. But back in â82 I got myself rechristened. I was a born-again pagan â¦ But I see Iâm boring you. Why should that be? I know. None of this is news to you, is it? Youâve been checking up on me!â

âAye,â said Dalziel completing his yawn. âSince they cut back on my taster, Iâm careful who I eat with. Why didnât mean I wanted the story of your life. It meant, why should I call you anything but Mrs or Miss or Ms Marvell?â

âIt would be friendly.â

âAh well, I try not to get too friendly wiâ folk I might have to bang up.â

âI take it your idiom is penal rather than penile, superintendent? Does this mean ALBA are going to prosecute? Excellent.â

âFancy your day in court, do you? Slap on the wrist? Tuppenny fine? Headlines in the Guardian and flash your kneecaps on breakfast TV?â

âThat would suit me nicely. But, despite your intimidatory threats, I doubt if it would suit ALBA. Such people are usually more concerned with damping publicity than provoking it.â

âCould be youâre right about ALBA, missus. But itâs not them you should be worried about.â

âIâm sorry â¦ oh, you mean you. But what charges could the police bring against me if ALBA wonât press for trespass?â

Dalziel smiled like a crocodile being asked if heâd got teeth.

âGoing equipped for burglary. Criminal damage. Assault. Obstructing the police.â

She considered this then said, âAssault?â

âYou threatened the TecSec boss with them wire cutters.â

âThreatened? He must be a man of very nervous disposition. The cutters are a tool not a weapon.â

And a very clean tool too. Forensic had found no trace of blood. Surprisingly clean? Dalziel had asked hopefully. That would depend on the mind-cast of their owner, Dr Gentry, Head of the Forensic Lab, who disliked the Fat Man heartily, had replied.

âWeaponâs a tool for killing,â said Dalziel. âAnd you could have taken his head off if youâd made contact. Courts donât like that sort of thing, especially not since Redcar.â

At least she didnât pretend not to take the allusion.

âThat was terrible, and a great disservice to the movement. It wasnât even good protest. Simply turning the poor animals loose achieves very little in terms of their wellbeing and nothing at all in terms of public support.â

âYou mean itâs the tactics you object to, not killing the odd security guard?â said Dalziel.

âOf course I deplore the manâs death,â she said with some irritation. âIt was tragic. But I cannot believe you seriously suspect my group had anything to do with it.â

âWhy not?â said Dalziel. âBy all accounts once you got inside the building last night, you all ran wild like a bunch of lagered-up Leeds supporters. What was that all about? Premenstrual tension?â

She was unprovoked. Very cool this one. But beneath it all there was plenty of heat. The notion had him crossing his legs.

âA release of tension, certainly,â she said. âWeâd had a shock. Then suddenly I realized that weâd got where we wanted to be, inside the building. It seemed foolish not to make a gesture.â

âA gesture?â He articulated the word as if some passing bird had crapped in his mouth.

âThatâs right. An act which resounds with significance far beyond its mere physical limitations. You should try one some day, superintendent.â

âAt my age it happens all the time,â he said. âSo you took off. And headed straight for the labs. Just a bit of luck that, was it?â

âWhat else could it be?â

âPrior knowledge. Like, from being there before.â

âBeing there when?â

âIn the summer, maybe, when there was a break-in at Wanwood.â

âYes, I recall â¦ ah, I see your game, Mr Dalziel. Or may I call you Andy? If I remember right, the raid on Wanwood had many of the characteristics of the raid on Redcar. Lots of mindless vandalism and the animals merely released into the countryside. And you think they could have been done by the same people. Therefore link ANIMA with the second, you link us with the first. Right?â

âRight as a confession,â said Dalziel.

âWhich it isnât. Do you have dates for both these raids?â

âCanât remember? I get like that,â said Dalziel. âJune 28th. May 19th.â

She rose and went through into the living room, returning with a leather-bound diary.

âHere we are,â she said. âOn June 28th I had dinner with my son, Piers.â

âHeâll vouch for you, will he? Whatâs his line? Urban terrorism?â

âIn a manner of speaking. Heâs Lieutenant Colonel Pitt-Evenlode MC of the Yorkshire Fusiliers. Like his number?â

âJust tell me which bishops you were with on May 19th,â growled Dalziel.

âSorry. No clergy. I went to a wedding at Scarborough, but it was a civil rather than a religious ceremony. I stayed the night there. In fact, I stayed up most of the night. There was a postnuptial party which went on until dawn. I think youâll find I made my presence felt sufficiently to be recalled through the alcoholic haze.â

Dalziel belched. She took it as an expression of doubt.

âDonât you believe me? Please, feel free to check.â

âI may just do that. And itâs nowt to do with not believing you. Itâs just that I never believe my luck when folk start volunteering alibis before Iâve even asked for them.â

âThat is perhaps because most of your customers are of a lower order of intelligence in which such pre-emptive thought would indeed be suspicious. If our acquaintance is to mature, youâll have to get used to dealing with someone whose brain is quite as good as yours. And also with someone who, unlike most of those others, is unworried by your ultimate threat of locking them away. For me to get a prison sentence would be a real publicity coup, so you must see that your threats, even if you meant to carry them through which I doubt, have little weight with me.â

She gave him a smile of great sunniness which was well worth basking in on a drab November day. He returned it gladly. She did after all have a point, and he never minded letting opponents build up a points lead. The more confident they got, the more likely they were to drop their guards and reveal a fatal weakness. Like here. Anyone who seriously doubted his willingness to carry through any threat he cared to make was wide open to a sucker punch any time he cared to throw it. But no need to rush, not with beer and crisps and pickles still on the table, and them lovely sugar loaves to leer at.

He drank and nibbled and leered, and waited to see where she would lead the conversation.

She said, âI cannot of course provide alibis for all of my colleagues though two of them, Meg and Donna, were in fact at the Scarborough wedding also.â

âThat âud be Jenkins and Linsey? The dykes?â

His reaction when heâd come across this surmise in George Headingleyâs notes had been, âWhat the fuckâs that got to do with anything?â But now he was happy to use the term as a possible irritant.

âThatâs right,â she said, unirritated. âThe dykes. As for the others, all I can do is vouch for their commitment to peaceful protest. Except perhaps Wendy.â

âWalker? But she acted as peacekeeper, didnât she?â

âRather out of character, I feel. What about you? I got the impression you were already acquainted.â

âAye. Weâve met.â

âAnd did I get the impression you were surprised to find her in such company?â

âWhatâre we talking here?â he said. âClass or causes?â

âAre the two really distinguishable in some peopleâs eyes? But what I meant was, at the peaceful protest end of the activist scene.â

Dalziel laughed and said, âYou call what you got up to peaceful protest? Iâd not like to see you if you went to war.â

âIâll try not to invite you then. But youâve not answered my question.â

She was very insistent, he thought. That little exchange heâd overheard between her and Wendy Walker must have really got her going for some reason.

He said, âWhat surprised me werenât so much Walker joining you lot as you lot taking her on board. Howâd that happen?â

If heâd hoped to throw her off balance by reversing the question, he had failed. She was smiling rather slyly, an expression he found strangely exciting.

He crossed his legs the other way and waited for the answer.

âOddly enough,â she said, âit was through a colleague of yours in a manner of speaking, man and wife being one flesh. A mutual acquaintance introduced us. I expect you know her well. Mrs Ellie Pascoe.â

âYouâre not saying sheâs one of your lot?â he groaned.

âNot really. Sympathetic but too concerned with suffering humanity to have much energy left for the animal kingdom, so no need to be embarrassed.â

Another weakness, imagining embarrassment was one of his.

âStill, a bit of a handful, isnât she? Wendy, I mean.â

âSheâs certainly got her own ideas, and Iâm not sure sheâll stay with us forever. Too much energy and resentment, not perhaps enough self-knowledge. Like me, her marriage broke up, but she thinks it was because her husband was a scab, while the truth I suspect is that she so enjoyed the role she found in the Strike that there was no way she was ever going to go back to the life servitude of being a pitmanâs wife. Pitman. I had my own Pitt man too, so I can sympathize. But the difference is, I changed sides, while she lost; not only a battle but a whole bloody war. So perhaps it was no wonder she was looking for a new role where the issues were clear cut, even if it meant she has to work for a while at least alongside an old class enemy like me.â

She laughed and Dalziel grinned too. Weakness three. Believing sheâd got Wendy Walker and her kind sussed. Couple of weeks on the dole could root out the centuries-deep deference of the British worker, but it took major surgery to eradicate the built-in smugness of the middle class.

He sucked the last drops out of the last can. Every plate was empty. Time for business.

He said, âAll right, missus â¦â

âCap,â she urged.

âAll right, Cap. So why did you want to see me?â

âTo make a statement, of course. You were very keen for us to make statements last night.â

âWas I? Funny how you take these fancies, then go off them. Like being pregnant they tell me.â

âSo you donât want a statement?â she said, disconcerted.

âDepends what youâve got to state.â

âI thought we could negotiate,â she said, recovering. âI mean, youâve got a body in the grounds of Wanwood House. I bet youâve got some ideas about that already. So if it would help for me to say I saw that plonker Batty start like a guilty thing surprised when he got the news, just say the word. Or that TecSec Nazi, Patten, if itâs him you fancy and you need an excuse to search his pad, maybe I could help there.â

Dalziel scratched his bubaline neck and said, âWhat makes you think Iâd take kindly to the idea of fitting someone up?â

âOh, I know you wouldnât do it maliciously,â she reassured him, her candid brown eyes gazing deep into his. âOnly if you were sure it was in the best interests of justice. I mean, when I contacted the local media this morning to ask why ANIMA was hardly getting a mention, and got told that in matters sub judice it was editorial policy to afford the police full cooperation, I didnât immediately think, that bastard Andy Dalzielâs put the frighteners on. No, I thought, that nice superintendentâs imposed a temporary media blackout in the best interests of all concerned. No need for me to go running hysterically to my cousin who does features for Channel 4 or my old school chum whoâs a junior minister in the Home Office, is there? Why have confrontation when you can have consultation instead?â

Not bad, approved Dalziel. Just because heâd identified three weaknesses didnât mean she couldnât still kick him in the balls. But he was still intrigued as to why she should think he was susceptible to consultation. She didnât give the impression of being thick.

He said, âLetâs get things straight. I take the frighteners off the local media and youâll sign any statement I care to dictate to you?â

âMore or less,â she said.

âTalking about fitting folk up always makes me thirsty,â he said, crushing the last empty can in his huge fist.

âHave to be Mexican,â she said, going to the fridge. âItâs good. So good some of the American companies started spreading rumours the Mexican workers piss in it.â

âSo what? Yon reservoir up Dendale, the one supplies most of our tap water, we fished five bodies out of there last year. Cheers. Donât have another bit of pork pie in there too, do you?â

âAnother bit?â she said.

It took him a second to work this out.

âYou mean it werenât pork?â

âI donât eat dead animals, Andy, nor encourage my friends to do so. It was basically tofu.â

âBloody hell,â said Dalziel, taking a long cleansing suck at his beer. âTwo things I donât do, missus. One is feed folk stuff they donât know what it is. Tâother is fit people up. Understand that and we might get on a bit better.â

âOh dear,â she said, concerned. âIâve offended you. Iâm not very good on moral codes. I suppose that means goodbye to Plan Two as well.â

âWhatâs that when itâs at home?â he asked suspiciously.

âWell, after our first encounter last night I had the feeling that my boobs hadnât been so closely scanned since my last radiography checkup. I thought if all else failed â¦ let me rephrase that â¦ I rather hoped all else might fail and Iâd have to fall back on the flesh, so to speak. But naturally Iâd never come between a man and his moral code.â

Dalziel considered. Another man might have played for time by pretending to suck on the empty bottle or making reference to the weather, but Dalziel did his considering in plain view. Offers of trade-offs of sexual for constabulary favours werenât uncommon. He rarely bothered himself. A bang was only a bang but a good result was a collar.

On the other hand, if he was honest with himself (and with himself what was the point of being other?), he really fancied this lass. Not just the boobs. These days even Mid-Yorkshire was bulging with highly visible boobs. See two, youâve seen âem all. And not the way she spoke which still carried too many overtones of the Pitt-Overload era, or whatever the pratâs name was. And certainly not all this dotty animal rights stuff. And she wasnât young. And she wasnât beautiful. Any other strikes against her? Yes, of course, the big one. OK so ALBA would almost certainly decide not to proceed against her. And the possible charges heâd just listed werenât worth wasting his time on. But if he thought there was any chance at all that sheâd been mixed up in this Redcar thing â¦

Very long odds against. One in a million. Less. Sheâd offered alibis and from what heâd seen he reckoned that sheâd sussed out he wasnât the kind of cop whoâd let a bit of nookie stop him from checking. So why was he looking for an excuse to reject what his whole being was urging him to grab with both hands?

Mebbe he was a bit scared of his own desire. Mebbe it was because there was something about her that hit the spot, like the bouquet of an untried single malt when you opened the bottle, telling you that this was one to be savoured.

She was regarding him oddly. Calculatingly?

âWhatâre you thinking of?â he asked abruptly.

âOld friend of mine, same name as the novelist. Balzac,â she said smiling.

Bloody incomprehensible. But which on âem wasnât? Condition of service! And at least he now understood her motive for getting him alone. Just as heâd been identifying her weaknesses over the past hour, so sheâd identified his last night, and taken a bloody sight less time about it.

Question his sodding vanity wanted answering was this. Was Plan Two a Last Resort, or really a Principle Object disguised as a Last Resort?

She read a question in his eyes, but misread it also.

She said, âI had nothing to do with the Redcar raid, Andy. And I deplore what they did, both personally and as an activist.â

Well, she would say that, wouldnât she? Clever thing for a cop to reply was, I believe you.

âI believe you,â he replied. âThem bones you lot found last night, looks like they could be pretty old.â

âSo?â

âI mean too old to have owt to do with ALBA. With a bit of luck they might even turn out too old to have owt to do with the CID!â

âThatâs interesting.â

âAye. Means there might be nothing at all to investigate. Certainly means you and the folk up there arenât mixed up in any investigation. I rang my media contacts on the way here, told âem they could go to town.â

There. Now letâs see if the chicken still crossed the road.

The phone started ringing.

âCould be for me,â said Dalziel. âI left âem your number. Or it could be News at Ten.â

âShall I answer it?â

âUp to you. Youâre a free agent.â

âYes, I am,â she said seriously. âHow about you, Andy? Howâs the moral code?â

Dalziel didnât mind a bit of obliquity but this was beginning to sound â¦ what was that word Pascoe sometimes came out with? â¦ sphincteresque? Summat like that. Any road, enough was enough.

He stood up and started taking his tie off.

âMoral code? he said. âYouâve just cracked it.â

xi

âThat, I hope, is the secretaire you mentioned. Or have you gone into the funeral business?â said Ellie Pascoe.

Pascoe, reluctantly acknowledging that the passionate welcome-home embrace was over, followed her gaze to the sheet-shrouded cargo on his roof rack.

âHave no fear,â he said. âAda is safely scattered as per wishes, more or less. It was quite entertaining in a macabre way. Give me a hand with this, will you? Howâs Rosie?â

âAt school. Memory that it was her friend Sarahâs birthday today coincided with a miracle recovery.â

âAh,â said Pascoe.

âAh what? She really wasnât fit to go yesterday.â

âI know she wasnât,â said Pascoe mildly, thinking that such a hint of defensiveness in a suspect would have had him chiselling at the weakness till it gave. âHere we go. Youâve got that end? Right â¦ just let it slide. Great. Et voila!â

Dramatically he whipped the sheet off the secretaire. Ellie regarded it in silence.

âYou are dumbfounded with admiration?â he said hopefully.

âYou said it was Sheraton.â

âAfter Sheraton,â said Pascoe.

âAbout eighty long hard years after.â

Pascoe couldnât argue. Out of the friendly shadows of Adaâs living room, the secretaire had lost much of its antique charm and stood forlorn and rather shabby in the cruel November sunlight.

âItâs got a secret drawer,â he pleaded.

He opened it and showed her the photo. She studied it with interest.

âPoor devil,â she said. âGosh, doesnât he look like you?â

Pascoe took the picture from her and looked at it again. He still couldnât see it but something in those eyes spoke to him.

âItâll look better inside,â he said, dropping the photo back into the drawer. âUnless this is the day youâve got the Beautiful Homes photographers coming round?â

It was a low shot but she had it coming. Ellie was savage in her mockery of the Good Taste Theme Parks which gleamed at you out of the glossies, but this didnât stop her from being pretty finical about what stood on her floors and hung on her walls.

They carried the secretaire into the house and set it down in the hallway.

âLeave it there for the time being,â said Ellie. âHopefully itâll find its own place. Letâs have a coffee and you can tell me all about everything.â

She listened alertly to his narrative, laughing aloud from time to time and asking the occasional pertinent question.

âSo,â she said. âAda ended up as part of a military tableau. Not her intention, I presume.â

âNo. I think on the whole sheâd have been happier messing up one of the tidier exhibits,â Pascoe admitted. âShe was a lot like you, wanting people to be quite clear what she thought, I mean.â

Ellie considered this. She rarely talked about Peterâs family, not because she disliked them (which on the whole she did) but because Peter himself had made them a no-go area. On the surface Ada was the one she had most in common with, but when strong wills clash, common ground can often be a battlefield. Neither was happy about Peterâs career in the police force but Adaâs objections were the deeper. Ellie had married him because she loved him despite the fact he was a policeman, while Ada felt that all her love and care and hopes for her grandson were betrayed by his choice of career. Ellie, she implied, being the new responsible woman in his life, must bear some of the blame. Such an accusation was an irony which amusement might have rendered barbless had not Ellie surprised in herself a strong resentment which boiled down to simple jealousy that anyone else should dare to imagine they shared her right to criticize her husband! Self-knowledge, she now realized, may bring about changes in the head, but the heart doesnât give a toss for psychology.

The two women had settled into a polite neutrality easy to maintain as contact between them was minimal. Nevertheless Ellie had encouraged Peter in his attempts to re-establish his old closeness with his grandmother, sensing that Ada was the source of most of the family warmth in his upbringing, but hope of any real rapprochement had died with the old ladyâs reaction to Rosieâs birth.

âA girl,â she said. âYou planning any more?â

âWeâll have to see,â said Pascoe.

âDoesnât matter. Maybe itâs best you should be the last of the Pascoes. I sometimes wonder if Mother didnât have the right of it after all.â

Slightly enigmatic this last comment might have been, but the general tenor of her indifference to the birth of her great-granddaughter was unmistakable and, in Pascoeâs proudly paternal eyes, unforgivable. Hereafter contact was intermittent and formal, which didnât stop him from feeling a tremendous upsurge of guilt at the news of her death and the realization that he hadnât seen her for almost two years.

Ellie had felt neither the indignation nor the guilt. And she would definitely have gone to the funeral, she assured herself, if Rosieâs cold hadnât interfered.

Or maybe, she added with that instinctive honesty which kept her certainties this side of fanaticism, maybe Iâd have found some other reason, like cleaning an old tennis shoe.

âIt really got to her, didnât it?â she said. âLosing her dad like that in the war. It dominated her life. I hope Iâm not that obsessive?â

âWeâd better ask Rosie in twenty years or so,â said Pascoe lightly. âAny calls by the way?â

âFrom on high, you mean? Yes, naturally. His Fatship rang first thing this morning, asked if you were back yet. Implied that you were an overeducated rat swimming away from an overloaded ship. Something about animals rights and finding bones in a wood?â

âWanwood House, ALBA Pharmaceuticals, I was there in the summer, remember? I heard on the news some activists had got in the grounds and discovered human remains. So heâs missing me? Good! What did you tell him?â

âI said that your family and fiduciary duties were such as would probably detain you in Warwickshire until late this evening at the earliest.â

âExcellent,â said Pascoe. âMany thanks.â

âFor what?â

âFor lying for me.â

âIsnât that a wifeâs duty, lying for her husband, vertically and horizontally?â

âWell, yes, of course,â said Pascoe. âTell me, how dutiful are you feeling?â

Before Ellie could reply the doorbell rang.

âShit,â said Pascoe. âIf itâs him, tell him Iâm still fiducing.â

âAnd your car came back by itself? Good trick.â

Through the frosted panel of the front door, Ellie could see at once it wasnât Dalziel. With a bit of luck it would just be a Jehovahâs Witness who could be told to sod off with utmost dispatch. She was feeling pleasantly randy and there was a good hour or more before she needed to think about picking up Rosie from school.

It wasnât a Witness, it was Wendy Walker, looking like a good advert for the afterlife.

âHi, Ellie,â she said. âSpare a mo for a chat?â

âYes, of course,â said Ellie brightly. âCome in.â

Wendy moved past her and stopped by the secretaire.

âNice,â she said.

âMake me an offer,â said Ellie. âCome into the kitchen.â

They sat opposite each other at the stripped pine table.

âCoffee?â said Ellie.

âNo thanks. OK if I smoke, but?â

There were several reasons why it wasnât, each of them absolute.

On the other hand, to be asked permission by someone who would have lit up in Buck House without reference to the Queen was a flattery it seemed churlish to deny.

She said weakly, âAll right but Iâll open a window.â

It was a counterproductive move, merely adding the risk of primary pneumonia to that of secondary cancer.

Drawing a curtain to cut down the draught, she said, âSure you wouldnât like a coffee?â

âTo sober me up you mean?â said Wendy aggressively.

âNo, I didnât, actually. But do you need sobering up?â

âNo. Sorry I snapped. Did have a couple at lunch time but that doesnât make me a drunk.â

âNo, of course it doesnât. Was there something particular â¦?â

âWe went on a raid last night.â

âWanwood House? Was that you?â

âYou know about it?â

âOnly what I heard on the news and that wasnât much.â

âYeah, I think that fat bastardâs put the muzzle on.â

âThat wonât please Cap.â

âGoose feather up the arse wouldnât please her.â

âIâm not sure it would do much for me either,â said Ellie. âThere was something about a body â¦â

Wendy told the story quickly, dismissively, scattering more ash than Etna.

Ellie said, âGood God, Wendy, no wonder youâre shook up.â

âWho says Iâm shook up?â demanded the smaller woman.

âWell, if youâre not, you ought to change your make-up,â said Ellie spiritedly.

âWhat? Oh yeah.â She managed a faint smile, then went on, âNo it wasnât that, something else â¦ when they took us inside and Cap ran riot â¦ look, Ellie, I need an ear â¦ someone to tell me if Iâm being stupid or what â¦ and you said, anything came up, I should let you know, right? Or was that just one of the things you lot say to keep us lot happy?â

âWendy,â said Ellie dangerously. âThat you lot crap only works when youâre up in the fighting line and Iâm with a bunch of noncombatants shouting encouragement from the back. This is about friendship or itâs about nothing.â

âYeah, sorry,â said Wendy. âItâs just with your man being a bobby â¦ heâs not at home, is he? Iâm not ready â¦â

As if in answer the door opened and Pascoe appeared.

âPeter,â said Ellie brightly. âYou remember Wendy, donât you? Wendy Walker, from Burrthorpe?â

Burrthorpe. Where heâd almost lost his life down a mine. And almost lost his wife to a young miner.

âYes, of course. Hi. Keeping well, I hope?â

âFine,â said Wendy Walker. âHey, look at the time. Iâd better get going.â

She stubbed her fag in a saucer and stood up.

Pascoe said guiltily, âDonât rush off on my account.â

She said, âNo, my timingâs bad today. Ellie, are you going to the party tonight? Thought I might cadge a lift home afterwards if you were. Buses stop at ten and the bikeâs a menace when youâre pissed.â

âParty?â said Pascoe.

âYou know, the Extramural Departmentâs do.â

âBut I thought â¦â He changed his mind about uttering the thought.

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

âYou havenât said what you want to talk about,â she said.

âProbably all in my imagination,â said Wendy unconvincingly. âLook, weâll have a chat at the party, OK? You will be there, wonât you?â

She fixed Ellie with those bright unblinking eyes, like a hungry whippet that doesnât know how to beg.

âYes,â said Ellie reluctantly. âIâll definitely be there.â

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

âShit,â said Ellie.

The party in question was basically a celebration of the University Extramural Departmentâs 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. Sheâd backed off any further involvement in the course after that. Peter had urged her to go to the party, particularly as it wasnât just a celebration but a wake. The present course was the last. After Christmas the NUM wouldnât have enough miners left to make day-release viable. Samson had been brought low. The triumph of Dagon was complete.

But despite her husbandâs urgings, or perhaps because of them, Ellie had resolved not to go, a decision confirmed by the coincidence of his return from Adaâs 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 wasnât an option she had been programmed for.

She turned back into the entrance hall and banged her shin against Adaâs secretaire.

âAnd up you too!â said Ellie Pascoe.

xii

By early afternoon, even with the help of a small pump to keep the water level down, Wieldâs team hadnât 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 Wieldâs greeting with a minuscule nod, brooded on the edge of the pit for a while, then said, âSluice it.â

âEh?â said Wield.

âFrom 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.â

âYouâd best talk to Mr Headingley, sir,â said Wield seeing the DI approaching. âOK if I go off to lunch now, sir?â

âAye, why not,â said Headingley with postprandial expansiveness.

Wield moved quickly away. Dr Deathâs suggestion seemed a good one, but he wasnât going to let George Headingley get his feelings on record. Over the years heâd shown a growing reluctance to take responsibility though none to taking credit. That was what had kept him a superior unlike Peter Pascoe whoâd 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 Deathâs 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. Godâs 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 tradesmenâs 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.

âOK if I clean up?â he said.

âSurprised you bother to ask. Donât all get your manners from that fat fucker, then?â

âNo. Get mine from Sainsburyâs. Where do you get yours from?â

The security man looked abashed.

âSorry. Of course you can. Should be a clean towel in the cupboard.â

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

He said, âThatâs right. Roll âem up, all three. You got it.â

Then replacing the receiver he said to Wield, âIâve just made a brew. Fancy a cup?â

âThat âud be nice. No sugar.â

âKeep healthy, eh? Iâve seen you down the Leisure, havenât I? Kung fu, wasnât it?â

âI try to keep in shape.â

âWorking with yon tub of lard must give you a real incentive.â

âNowt wrong with being big so long as you can punch your weight,â said Wield mildly.

âAnd he can?â said Patten sceptically.

âHeâs wired a few jawbones in his time,â said Wield. âYou army?â

âThatâs right. You been checking up?â said Patten with a return to his earlier aggression.

âNo. Private security folk are usually ex-cops or ex-forces, and youâre not ex-cop.â

âHow do you know that?â

Wield shrugged and said, âWay you donât stick your pinkie out when you drink your tea.â

âWhat? Oh, I see. A joke.â He sounded surprised.

Hereâs another thinks I shouldnât make jokes, and he doesnât even know me! thought Wield.

He said, âWhat mob?â

âYork 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.â

It was clearly a bitter memory.

âSo youâve ended up deskbound,â said Wield with provocative sympathy.

âYeah. Well, not all the time, and at least Iâm doing something useful.â

âGuarding this place is useful?â

âItâs important work they do and theyâve a right to do it in peace.â

âYou reckon? Bit of overkill that mess out there, isnât it?â

âYou reckon?â mimicked Patten. âListen, 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 watchmanâs so-called guard dog. So we got called in. I took one look and said, first thing you want here is a fire zone. Thatâs 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 theyâve always done. Now if they come, theyâve got to cross the open. Weâve got lights and cameras, and thereâs an alarmed security fence itâll take more than a pair of ordinary wire cutters to get through. Installationâs expensive, I agree. But once itâs done theyâre secure forever, and thatâs worth more than money to a firm like ALBA.â

âI can see that,â said Wield pleasantly. âWhen 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.â

âNot to me.â

âWhat about Dr Batty?â

âCouldnât say. But if they did, Iâm pretty damn sure heâd have said carry on regardless. Old stones can mean a lot of bearded wonders slapping a preservation order on you if youâre not careful.â

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

Wield said, âIâll 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.â

âWhyâs that?â said Patten, matiness gone.

âIn case ALBA fancy bringing charges. Trespass is no good as far as the house goes, as technically they were invited in, so theyâd need to go for criminal damage, assault even. So weâll need statements.â

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

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

âEverything in order?â said Patten. âJimmy Howard keeps us straight on rules of evidence. Useful having an ex-cop around.â

âMust be,â said Wield. âFrom a quick glance, doesnât seem to have been any real damage either to person or property.â

âMore by luck than judgment,â growled Patten. âThat 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.â

âWalker?â

âAye. 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?â

âNo. Not animal rights. She was one of them Women Against Pit Closures lot that got going during the Strike.â

âIs that right?â Patten pulled at his lip and said, âDidnât think you lot, CID I mean, got mixed up with that. Thought it was all uniformed out there beating up the pickets.â

âPreserving the peace,â corrected Wield gently. âNo, we got involved because there was a murder, out at Burrthorpe, you might have read about it.â

âNo, I donât recall. 1984, itâd be? I was nobbut a lad, not long in the army, still pretty much a lily.â

âA what?â

âLily. What we called a sprog in our mob. So, this Walker woman, sheâs had a change of heart, has she? Moved from miners to monkeys?â

âSome folk need a cause,â said Wield. âAnd we like to keep a close eye on all of them. Perhaps Iâd better have a word with Jimmy Howard just to make sure Iâve got the full picture.â

âSorry, heâs gone off duty,â said Patten.

âWhenâs he back on?â

Patten swivelled round to examine a wall chart which wouldnât 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 â small with a round smiling face beneath tightly packed blond curls â 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.

âShould have gone off at six this morning in fact,â added Patten, âbut did an extra stag âcos of all the excitement, so I shouldnât bother him at home till heâs had time to catch up on his beauty sleep.â

âOh, shanât need to do that,â said Wield negligently. âLikely these reports youâve given me will do. Seems a well-organized firm, TecSec. Good mob to work for, are they?â

âI donât work for âem,â said Patten, âIâm a partner.â

âSorry. I thought seeing you out here in the uniform â¦â

âLike the army, guys who really run the show are out there in the field getting shot at. My partnerâs out most of the time drumming up business while Iâm out making sure the business weâve got gets done properly. Thereâs a girl back in the office knows where to get hold of us.â

âSounds good,â said Wield rising. âIf ever I need security Iâll know where to come. Thanks for the tea.â

âMy pleasure.â

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

âExpense,â said Patten. âCosts a fortune that stuff, and youâd need a lot more âcos itâs a bigger circle. Also â¦â

âYes?â prompted Wield.

âNo use fighting people unless you let âem close enough to get shot,â 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 heâd 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, âThe secretaire.â

âEh?â

âRosie saw the secretaire in the hall and she asked me if youâd brought it for her to keep her things in and I said you may very well have.â

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 girlâs refined taste could sometimes be as surprising as her occasionally fluorescent language.

âYou like it, do you?â said Pascoe.

âOh yes. I think itâs bloody marvellous,â she answered very seriously.

He caught Ellieâs eye again and she gave him an I-donât-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, âIt belonged to Granny Pascoe and she wanted you to have it.â

âGranny whoâs dead?â

âThatâs right.â

âIs she a ghost?â asked Rosie uneasily.

âYou know thereâs no such thing as ghosts, so she canât be, can she?â said Ellie briskly.

âNo,â said Rosie without conviction.

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

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 Adaâs writing desk.

âTold you it would find its place,â she gasped as they collapsed on Rosieâs bed after lugging the secretaire upstairs.

âClever old you,â he said, grinning, and the truce might have been sealed with more than a loving kiss if Rosie hadnât demanded their help in tidying away all her dolls, toys and other impedimenta into her new store cupboard.

At seven oâclock 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 Ellieâs footsteps on the stairs and her voice calling, âIâll get it.â

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

But when Ellie came into the kitchen she wasnât 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.

âChap called Hilary Studholme to see you,â she said.

âEye patch, one arm, and a limp?â he asked.

âOr grey hair, his own teeth and a nice smile,â said Ellie. âCould it be the same guy?â

âNot in court, it couldnât,â said Pascoe. âLetâs see.â

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

âNice to see you again,â said Pascoe remembering to offer his left hand. âDo sit down. I was just pouring myself a drink. Can I get you anything?â

âOrange juice, anything non-alc. There are those of your colleagues who feel I shouldnât have a licence. Mustnât always help the police, must we?â

He smiled his nice smile. From the doorway Ellie said, âIâll get the drinks.â

Seating himself opposite his visitor, Pascoe said, âSo what brings you into my neck of the woods, major?â

âDining out this way with friends. Was going to ring you in the morning, but thought face to face better. Especially as I wanted to show you something.â

He picked up a large envelope which he had set down on a coffee table, flicked the flap open with his thumb and shook some photographs out.

They were all of soldiers in Great War uniform. Two were formal groups, the other was informal, showing four men resting against a gun limber. Their clothes were mud-stained and their efforts to look cheerful sat on their fatigued faces like prostitutesâ smiles.

âAnyone you recognize?â said Studholme.

âGood lord,â said Ellie whoâd returned with the drinks which she was setting down on the table. âThere you are again, Peter.â

This time, even Pascoe couldnât deny the resemblance between himself and one of the exhausted soldiers. It was less clear in the group pictures, but Ellie went with unerring accuracy to a face which had Studholme nodding his agreement.

âSo whatâs your point?â said Pascoe. âYou think this is my great-grandfather, is that it?â

It didnât seem to him a particularly exciting discovery, certainly not one to bring Studholme even a short distance out of his way.

The major said, âYou mentioned a photograph you had?â

With the perfect timing she had inherited from her mother, Rosie pushed open the door and came in, barefooted and nightgowned, carrying the photograph from Adaâs secretaire.

âLook what I found, Daddy,â she said.

âGood God,â said Pascoe, taking the photo. âI was twice your age before I learned how to open that drawer.â

âGirls mature quicker,â observed Ellie. âBut that doesnât mean they donât need their sleep. Come on. Back to bed with you, Lady Macbeth.â

âBut why is Daddy wearing those funny clothes?â asked Rosie who had learned early on that the way to delay her mother from any undesirable course of action was to ask as many questions as possible.

âItâs not me, darling,â interposed Pascoe. âItâs your great-great-granddad, and he just happened to look a tiny little bit like me.â

âHe looks the spitting image of you,â said Ellie. âDoesnât he, dear?â

âFucking right he does,â agreed Rosie.

Pascoe winced and glanced an apology at the major whose one visible eyebrow arched quizzically. Ellie caught the girl up in her arms and said, âOff we go. Say good-night.â

There was a momentâs pause which had Pascoe wondering if his daughter was rifling her word-horde for one of the less conventional valedictory forms such as, âDonât let the bastards grind you downâ or âUp yours, arseholeâ, but she contented herself with a long-suffering âGoodnight thenâ over her motherâs shoulder.

âShe is making surprising progress at school,â said Pascoe when the door had closed.

âIndeed,â said Studholme dryly.

He took the photograph from Pascoeâs hand and studied it, then set it alongside the ones heâd brought.

âMight be doubles,â he said. âSuch things happen. Anything can. But chances are theyâre the same. Wouldnât you agree?â

âWell, yes. But so what? Do you have a name for the chap in your pics?â asked Pascoe.

âYes. Names for nearly all of them. One of my predecessors was very thorough back in the twenties. Double-checked with survivors. Thatâs why I came.â

âBecause this is definitely Corporal Clark?â

âSergeant at the end. And not Clark. Here. Look.â

He produced a sheet of paper on which someone had patiently traced one of the groups in outline with numbers instead of faces. Below was a key.

Pascoe checked the number of his lookalike. Twenty-two. Then he dropped his gaze to the key.

He was glad he wasnât standing. Even sitting he felt the chair lurch beneath his behind and saw the air shimmer like the onset of migraine. He blinked it clear and reread the entry.

No 22. Pascoe Peter (Corporal).

âIs this your idea of a joke?â he said steadily.

âNo joke,â said Studholme regarding him closely and with concern.

âThen what? Canât be right. My grandmother was Ada Clark who became a Pascoe by marriage, so how could this be her father? Hang on though. Didnât you say there was a Pascoe in the Wyfies at Third Wipers? Surely this is just a mix up of names?â

âThat was Private Stephen Pascoe. He got wounded not killed. This Corporal Peter, later sergeant, is someone else.â

Ellie came back in.

âI think sheâll go to sleep now but donât let her play you up. Iâd better be on my way. Peter, you OK?â

He forced a smile.

âYes. Fine. Iâll check in a little while. Enjoy yourself.â

âIâll try. Major Studholme, nice to meet you. Sorry Iâve got to dash. âBye.â

She was gone. She was good at exits thought Pascoe with the envy of one who usually made an awkward bow.

Studholme was standing up.

âIâd better be on my way too,â he said. âBad form, being late.â

Pascoe didnât rise but studied the other from his chair. With Dalziel breathing down your neck for all those years, one thing you practised till it became instinctive was the art of detailed observation. He let his gaze drift down Studholmeâs clothing from his collar to his toecaps. He was beginning to feel something which if not anger, had a deal of anger in it.

âLate for what?â he asked. âIf I had to make a guess, major, Iâd say you werenât going anywhere. All that about having dinner with friends in this neck of the woods is a load of baloney, isnât it?â

Studholme brushed his forefinger across his moustache and said in a voice which had more of interest than indignation in it, âAnd on what would you base such an unmannerly speculation?â

âYou havenât changed from when I saw you this morning. Same shirt, same tie, same jacket, same trousers. You havenât even given your shoes a rub. Oh you look tidy enough, donât misunderstand me, but Iâm certain a man like you wouldnât go to dine with friends without changing your shirt at least.â

âMan like me? Little presumptuous on such short acquaintance, isnât it?â

Again mildly curious rather than outraged.

âYouâve known me exactly the same length of time,â said Pascoe who could play this game till the cows came home and went out again. âYet you feel you know me well enough to decide that whatever it really was that you came here to say might be best left unsaid. Howâs that for presumption?â

âPretty extreme,â the major admitted with the hint of a smile. âAll right. May have been wrong. Still canât be sure.â

âThereâs only one way to find out,â said Pascoe. âLike another drink?â

Studholme shook his head.

âThanks but Iâll wait till I get home and can treat myself to a real nightcap. No offence, excellent orange juice.â

He sat down again, easing his right leg straight out in front of him. Did he have a prosthesis or just some muscle damage? wondered Pascoe. He felt a sympathetic twinge in his own leg damaged when heâd been trapped down Burrthorpe Main. Theoretically heâd made a complete recovery from that traumatic experience. His mind had other ideas.

He said, âSo whatâs the big mystery, major?â

Studholme said, âTell me first of all. Your grandmother, why do you think she wanted her ashes scattered at regimental HQ?â

It was honesty time.

âNot as a mark of respect, thatâs for certain,â said Pascoe. âShe hated all things military, and the Wyfies in particular. If I had to guess, Iâd say it was the nearest she could get to spitting in somebodyâs face.â

âAny idea why she felt so strongly?â

âShe lost her father in the war.â

âMillions did.â

âWe all find our own way of dealing with things.â

âIndeed,â said the major frowning. âThough this was extreme.â

âBut you think you know why.â

âNot absolutely certainââ

âI think you are,â interrupted Pascoe. âPerhaps not when you arrived, but now â¦ yet you were going to go without saying anything. Why?â

âBecause of your face when you saw the name on that list. You looked like a man looking at his own tomb. I felt, perhaps it would be better â¦â

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