Child’s Play. Reginald Hill
so simply he had not anticipated.
I’m a friend of Maurice’s. That had been unnecessary. Only Maurice Eaton had ever called him Mac, their private name, short for Macumazahn, the native name of Allan Quatermain, the stocky, ill-favoured hero of the Rider Haggard novels Wield loved. It meant he-who-sleeps-with-one-eye-open and Wield could remember the occasion of his christening as clearly as if … He snapped his mind hard on the nostalgia. What had existed between him and Maurice was dead, should be forgotten. This voice from the grave brought no hope of resurrection, but trouble as sure as a War Office telegram.
When he reached the café, he had no problem in picking out the caller. Blue-streaked hair, leg-hugging green velvet slacks and a tight blue T-shirt with a pair of fluorescent lips pouting across the chest, were in this day and age not out of the ordinary even in Yorkshire. But he’d called himself the suntanned one, and though his smooth olive skin came from mixed blood rather than a Mediterranean beach, the youth would have been impossible to miss even if he hadn’t clearly recognized Wield and smiled at him welcomingly.
Wield ignored him and went to the self-service bar.
‘Keeping you busy, Charley?’ he said.
The man behind the counter answered, ‘It’s the quality of the tea, Mr Wield. They come here in buses to try it. Fancy a cup?’
‘No, thanks. I want a word with that lad in the corner. Can I use the office?’
‘Him that looks like a delphinium? Be my guest. Here’s the key. I’ll send him through.’
Charley, a cheerful chubby fifty-year-old, had performed this service many times for both Wield and Pascoe when the café had been too full for a satisfactory tête-à-tête with an informant. Wield went through a door marked TOILETS, ignored the forked radish logo to his left and the twin-stemmed Christmas tree to his right, and unlocked the door marked Private straight ahead. It was also possible to get into this room from behind the bar, but that would draw too much attention.
Wield sat down on a kitchen chair behind a narrow desk whose age could be read in the tea-rings on its surface. The only window was narrow, high and barred, admitting scarcely more light than limned the edges of things, but he ignored the desk lamp.
A few moments later the door opened to reveal the youth standing uncertainly on the threshold.
‘Come in and shut it,’ said Wield. ‘Then lock it. The key’s in the hole.’
‘Hey, what is this?’
‘Up here we call it a room,’ said Wield. ‘Get a move on!’
The youth obeyed and then advanced towards the desk.
Wield said, ‘Right. Quick as you like, son. I’ve not got all day.’
‘Quick as I like? What do you mean? You don’t mean …? No, I can see you don’t mean …’
His accent was what Wield thought of as Cockney with aitches. His age was anything between sixteen and twenty-two. Wield said, ‘It was you who rang?’
‘Yes, that’s right …’
‘Then you’ve got something to tell me.’
‘No. Not exactly …’
‘No? Listen, son, people who ring me at the station, and don’t give names, and arrange to meet me in dumps like this, they’d better have something to tell me, and it had better be good! So let’s be having it!’
Wield hadn’t planned to play it this way, but it had all seemed to develop naturally from the site and the situation. And after years of a carefully disciplined and structured life, he sensed that what lay ahead was a new era of playing things by ear. Unless, of course, this boy could simply be frightened away.
‘Look, you’ve got it all wrong, or maybe you’re pretending to get it wrong … Like I said, I’m a friend of Maurice’s …’
‘Maurice who? I don’t know any Maurices.’
‘Maurice Eaton!’
‘Eaton? Like the school? Who’s he when he’s at home?’
And now the youth was stung to anger.
Leaning with both hands on the desk, he yelled, ‘Maurice Eaton, that’s who he is! You used to fuck each other, so don’t give me this crap! I’ve seen the photos, I’ve seen the letters. Are you listening to me, Macumazahn? I’m a friend of Maurice Eaton’s and like any friend of a friend might, I thought I’d look you up. But if it’s shit-on-auld-acquaintance time, I’ll just grab my bag and move on out. All right?’
Wield sat quite still. Beneath the unreadable roughness of his face, a conflict of impulses raged.
Self-interest told him the best thing might be to spell out what a misery the boy’s life was likely to be if he hung around in mid-Yorkshire, and then escort him gently to the next long-distance coach in any direction and see him off. Against this tugged guilt and self-disgust. Here he was, this youth, a friend of the only man that Wield had ever thought of as his own friend, in the fullest, most open as well as the deepest, most personal sense of the word, and how was he treating him? With suspicion, and hate, using his professional authority to support a personal - and squalid - impulse.
And also, somewhere down there was another feeling, concerned with both pride and survival - an apprehension that sending this boy away was no real solution to his long-term dilemma, and in any case, if the youth meant trouble, he could as easily stir it up from the next phone box on the A1 as from here.
‘What’s your name, lad?’ said Wield.
‘Cliff,’ said the young man sullenly, ‘Cliff Sharman.’
Wield switched on the table lamp and the corners of the room sprang into view. None was a pretty sight, but in one of them stood an old folding chair.
‘All right, Cliff,’ said Wield. ‘Why don’t you pull up that chair and let’s sit down together for a few minutes and have a bit of a chat, shall we?’
As soon as Pascoe walked through the door, his daughter began to cry.
‘You’re late,’ said Ellie.
‘Yes, I know. I’m a detective. They teach us to spot things like that.’
‘And that’s Rosie crying.’
‘Is it? I thought maybe we’d bought a wolf.’
He took off his jacket, draped it over the banisters and ran lightly up the stairs.
The little girl stopped crying as soon as he entered her room. This was a game she’d started playing only recently. That it was a game was beyond doubt; Ellie had observed her deep in sleep till her father’s key turned in the lock, and then immediately she let out her summoning wail and would not be silent till he came and spoke to her. What he said didn’t matter.
Tonight he said, ‘Hi, kid. Remember last week I was telling you I should be hearing about my promotion soon? Well, the bad news is, I still haven’t, so if you’ve been building up any hopes of getting a new pushchair or going to Acapulco this Christmas, forget it. Want some advice, kid? If you feel like whizzing, don’t start unless you can keep it up. Nobody loves a whizzkid that’s stopped whizzing! Did I hear you ask me why I’ve stopped? Well, I’ve narrowed it down to three possibilities. One: they all think I’m Fat Andy’s boy and everyone hates Fat Andy. Two: your mum keeps chaining herself to nuclear missile sites and also she’s Membership Secretary of WRAG. So what? you say. WRAG is non-aligned politically, you’ve read the hand-outs. But what does Fat Andy say? He says WRAG’s middle-of-the-road like an Italian motorist. All left-hand drive and bloody dangerous! Three? No, I’ve not forgotten three. Three is, maybe I’m