Finally he stood up and turned his attention to the humans.
‘Peter Pascoe, DCI,’ said Pascoe, offering his hand. ‘And this is Superintendent Dalziel.’
‘We’ve met,’ said Douglas shortly. His voice had a Scots burr.
‘Aye, what fettle, Dixie?’ said Dalziel. ‘So, what’s the damage?’
‘Shoulder and ribcage badly bruised. I don’t think there’s a fracture, but he needs an X-ray to be sure. Possibility of internal injury. I think it’s best in all the circumstances if I take him back to the surgery with me. Any news of the wee lassie?’
‘Not yet,’ said Pascoe. ‘These injuries, what do you think caused them?’
‘No accident, that’s for sure,’ said the vet flatly. ‘If I had to guess, I’d say someone had given the poor beast a good kicking. Good day to you.’
Gently he lifted the dog from the basket and went out of the kitchen.
‘Good man, that,’ said Sergeant Clark approvingly. ‘Really worries about sick animals.’
‘Aye, well, he supports Raith Rovers,’ said Dalziel. ‘So someone gave the dog a kicking. That’s enough to get the show on the road. Good thinking to have the beast checked out.’
Pascoe said, ‘Yes. Well done, Sergeant Clark. So what do you want me to do, sir? Call in the troops and set up an incident room?’
‘Aye, best go by the book,’ said Dalziel without enthusiasm. ‘Any suggestions, Sergeant? As far as I recall, your Section Office isn’t big enough to swing a punch in.’
‘St Michael’s Hall, sir,’ said Clark with brisk efficiency. ‘Doubles as assembly hall and gym for the primary school and as a community centre. I’ve spoken on the phone with Mrs Shimmings the school head. You’ll likely remember her, sir. She were in Dendale, like me. Miss Lavery, she was then. She’s really upset. Says she’ll go to the school now to be on hand in case we need her help, talking about the little girl and such.’
Dalziel looked at him reflectively and said, ‘Well done, Sergeant. You’re thinking so far ahead, you’ll end up telling fortunes. OK, Peter, off you go. Tell ’em I want someone from uniformed who knows left from right to head up the search team. Maggie Burroughs’ll do nicely. And we’ll need a canteen van. It’ll be thirsty work tramping round them fells. And an information caravan for the Common. I’ll be here to see they get themselves sorted. Any questions?’
‘No, sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘Lead on, Sergeant.’
Clark went out. As Pascoe followed, Dalziel’s voice brought him to a halt.
‘Word of advice, lad,’ he said.
‘Always welcome,’ said Pascoe.
‘Glad to hear it. So listen in. You do Nobby Clark a favour, don’t let him pay you back in beer. Make sure you work the bugger’s arse off. All right?’
Not just a conjuring trick, thought Pascoe. He really does know everything.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Right off its haunches.’
St Michael’s Primary, like Danby itself, had grown.
The original stone building, apparently modelled on the old church from which it took its name, had sprouted several unbecoming modern extensions which compensated in airiness for what they lacked in beauty. The Hall, standing between the church and the school, was clearly designed by the same hand and even had a belfry and stained-glass windows through which filtered a dim religious light to illumine a spacious lofty interior with a stage at one end and a small gallery at the other.
Pascoe wrinkled his nose as the musty smell set up resonances both of lessons in the gym and of amateur dramatics in draughty village halls. Not that the entertainments on offer here were totally amateur. Among the notice board’s ‘Forthcoming Attractions’ he saw a poster for the opening concert of the eighteenth Mid-Yorkshire Dales Music Festival due to take place the following Wednesday and consisting of a song recital by Elizabeth Wulfstan, mezzo-soprano, and Arne Krog, baritone.
That name again. He recalled the strong young voice singing mournfully, And now the sun will rise as bright/As though no horror had touched the night …
The heat wave looked set for many more days, perhaps weeks, but he doubted if there’d be any more bright dawning for the Dacres.
For Christ’s sake! he admonished himself. Don’t rush to embrace the worst.
‘This will do nicely,’ he said to Clark, and got on his mobile. He’d already set the operation in motion back at Liggside and this was merely to confirm the location. ETA of the first reinforcements was given as thirty minutes.
‘I’ll go and have a word with Mrs Shimmings,’ he said. ‘You OK, Sergeant?’
The man was pale and drawn, as if he’d been exposed to biting winds on a winter’s day.
‘Yes, fine. Sorry. It’s just being here at the school, the incident room … suddenly it’s really happening. I think up till now I’ve been trying to pretend it were different from last time, over in Dendale, I mean. Not that it wasn’t the same then to start with, telling ourselves that at worst there’d been an accident and little Jenny Hardcastle ’ud be found or manage to get back herself …’
‘Then you’ll know how these things work,’ said Pascoe harshly. ‘One thing we’ll need to get sorted quickly is this Benny business. Someone’s responsible for these graffiti. We need to find out who, then we can start asking why. Any ideas?’
‘I’m working on it,’ said Clark. ‘Has to be a stupid joke and a lousy coincidence, hasn’t it, sir? I mean, it were done last night and Lorraine didn’t vanish till this morning. And the perp wouldn’t do it in advance, would he?’
‘Less chance of being caught,’ said Pascoe.
‘But that ’ud mean the whole thing were planned!’
‘And that’s worse than impulse? Well, you’re right. Worse for us, I mean. Impulse leaves traces, plans cover them up. Either way, we need the spray artist.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Clark. ‘Sir …’
‘Yes?’ prompted Pascoe.
‘Benny. Benny Lightfoot. Anything you know that I don’t? I mean, there could be information that reached HQ but you felt best not to pass on down here, for fear of opening old wounds …’
‘You mean, could Benny really be back?’ said Pascoe grimly. ‘From what I’ve heard, I doubt it. But the very fact that you can ask shows how important it is to finger this joker’s collar. Get to it.’
He walked across the playground to the school. He could see the figure of the head teacher at the window of a classroom he guessed would be Lorraine’s. She’d been standing at the main entrance when they arrived, but after a brief exchange, he’d cut the conversation short and headed into the hall.
Now he joined her in the classroom and said, ‘Sorry about that, Mrs Shimmings, but I had to get things rolling.’
‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘I know how these things work.’
He recalled then that like Clark, she too had been here before. Looking at her closely, he detected the same symptoms of re-entry to a nightmare she thought she’d left behind.
She was a slimly built woman with greying chestnut hair and candid brown eyes. Late forties.