Or at least feels he might at some point be able to use you.
From what I know of you, lying here in my little casket, Sergeant, this may not be the least of his errors.
loved by his friends…
refusing to yield…
Edgar Wield…
Edgar Wield…
Every age has its own defining philosophical speculations, often best expressed in terms which may at a glance appear over-personalized and tainted with self-interest.
It was, for example, in relation to her prospects of professional advancement that Shirley Novello first asked herself the question, was being treated like a man a form of sexual discrimination?
Things had seemed pretty straightforward the first time she had attended a CID gathering in the Black Bull with the Holy Trinity and found she was expected to go to the bar and collect the drinks no matter who was actually buying the round. She was disappointed without being surprised, as this chimed perfectly with the expectation at all levels in the Force that if tea or coffee were to be fetched, any woman present would be the fetcher. Novello had worked out various non-confrontational strategems to avoid doing this, but she had not been afraid to fall back on confrontation.
Confrontation with Andy Dalziel, however, felt as futile as confrontation with Uranus. (Or any planet, but Uranus somehow seemed most fitting.) Hit it hard as you could, you weren’t going to jolt it out of its orbit.
The other two, however, gave the impression that they might in their better moments be susceptible to the nudge of right reason.
But before she could nerve herself to put this to the test, she had discovered by distant observation that if the group consisted of the Trinity alone, it was usually Wield who did the fetching and carrying, while if the three became a pair, it was Pascoe.
So now right reason asked, if a male sergeant and a male chief inspector could accept this as the natural order of things, was it reasonable for a female constable to cry discrimination?
Or, to put it another way, what should a woman do who fought for equal treatment and then found that the equal treatment she fought for was in fact unequal?
These were the speculations thronging her mind as she returned from the bar at eleven o’clock on the morning after the attempted kidnapping of Ellie Pascoe, bearing a tray loaded with a pint of best, a half of the same, a fizzy mineral water and a Coke.
Pascoe’s request for the mineral water had emboldened her to buy the Coke.
They were in the Black Bull to discuss possible ramifications of yesterday’s events. The chief inspector had arrived late at the station, having spent the morning ensuring that his house and Edengrove School were being watched over to his satisfaction. He looked worn out, and it was this wanness which the Fat Man had used as an excuse to retire instantly to the pub where, he averred, he had his best thoughts, and they would be free from interruption. Novello’s inclusion had had all the appearance of a throwaway afterthought, coming as Dalziel led the trio out of the CID room. But Novello had long since concluded that most of the Fat Man’s apparent afterthoughts were carefully planned. The wise thing was to be neither flattered by his attention nor offended by the lack of it.
She placed the tray on the table, noting with some satisfaction that she’d managed to slop a little beer over Dalziel’s change (the seriousness of the occasion was marked by the fact that Dalziel had actually bought a round), and then put all personal and philosophical considerations out of her mind to focus on the debate in progress.
The on-the-table theory was that the attempted abduction had something to do with Pascoe’s work.
‘Wieldy, you were trawling that mind of thine for folk Pete’s put away who were nutty enough to take it personally.’
Dalziel’s natural Luddism was expressed in his boast, ‘Who needs great ugly lumps of hi-tech equipment cluttering the place when we’ve got Wieldy who’s twice as efficient and three times as ugly?’ but Novello had noticed that the sergeant’s computer skills were state of the art.
Whatever its source, the list of perps who’d gone down threatening the DCI with personal injury was impressively long. For a nice quiet guy, Pascoe seemed to have got up a lot of criminal noses.
But Wield’s conclusion was that in most cases the threats had just been empty, if over-heated, air.
‘You need a special kind of twist to nurse a grievance and plan revenge,’ said Wield.
‘Is that right, Sigmund?’ said Dalziel. ‘So what you’re saying is, you’ve dug deep and ended up with nowt but an empty hole?’
‘No,’ said Wield. ‘In fact, I struck a root. Franny Roote.’
Dalziel looked blank for a moment, then let his jaw drop in the mock-amazement he had taken to affecting if Wield essayed a joke.
‘You mean that weird student at yon college? My memory serves me right, we couldn’t do him for owt but being an accessory.’
‘That’s right,’ said Wield. ‘But after listening to what had gone on there, the judge ordered a psycho-evaluation before sentencing. And after getting an earful of that, he decided best place for Roote was a secure hospital. To start with the lad refused all treatment, and during this period he seems to have fixed on the DCI, or sergeant as he was then, as the man responsible for putting him there. He seemed to think you had something personal against him.’
‘I know it’s silly, but I do tend to feel strongly about people who try to kill me,’ said Pascoe. ‘I recall I got a weird letter from him while he was waiting trial. I passed it on to the court, so in a way he was right about me helping to get him certified. But there’s been nothing since. I haven’t thought about him for years.’
‘Doesn’t mean he’s not been thinking about you,’ said Dalziel. ‘Wieldy, I take it there’s summat else.’
‘Only that he finally accepted the treatment and settled down to being a model patient-cum-prisoner. Did an OU degree in English Literature, and went on to start a research course for a Ph.D. or some such thing. Finally he convinced them he wasn’t a menace to society any more and got himself discharged. Last month.’
There was a moment’s silence, then the Fat Man said, ‘That it?’
‘Except…’
‘What?’
‘He’d know Ellie, she was teaching at the college then, wasn’t she? When you met her.’
Pascoe nodded.
‘So?’ said Dalziel.
‘Nothing. Just a connection,’ said Wield. ‘Also, probably means nowt, but this research he’s doing. His topic is, I made a note of it, aye, here it is… Revenge and Retribution in English Drama.’
Another silence, then Dalziel said, ‘Beats sewing mailbags and breaking rocks, I suppose. Got an address?’
‘Aye. Sheffield.’
‘Not so far, then. Set up liaison with South Yorkshire, then pop down there in the morning and check him out.’
‘Can’t do it tomorrow, sir. Day off.’
‘Oh aye? And what are you doing that’s more important than finding out who’s threatening your colleague’s family, Sergeant?’ demanded Dalziel in that tone of high moral dudgeon he saved for underlings who dared