LITMIR.BIZ

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metal had probably never been bright (why give the poor bloody ducks even a chance of a chance?), now it was rusty and dirty and a spider had spun a few hopeful strands across the muzzle.

      It began to rain and after a few moments he returned to the shelter of the car. The boatman ignored his invitation to join him and remained where he was, even his cigarette appearing impervious to the downpour.

      Nearly half an hour later the first of the funeral party returned. It was the blond youth, alone and on foot.

      ‘Shit!’ said Dalziel and clambered out of the car once more.

      ‘Hello,’ said the youth as he approached. ‘You’re stuck in the water?’

      Dalziel smiled his congratulations.

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Where’s the funeral cars?’

      ‘I was just telling Pappy, there’s a lot more water on the road about a quarter of a mile round the bend. They weren’t very happy about taking their shiny limousines through it on our way to the church and now they reckon it’s even deeper, so I was sent on to bring the boats a bit farther along.’

      He grinned amiably, apparently unresentful of the task. Dalziel could guess who had elected him to it. Anyone who let a woman punch him on the nose without setting matters right between them very quickly was saddling himself up for a hag-ride.

      The boatman was casting off already.

      ‘Hang on,’ said Dalziel. ‘I’ll get my stuff.’

      The level of the water seemed perceptibly higher as he waded back to the car and unloaded his old cardboard suitcase. As he returned cautiously to the dry road, he saw to his chagrin that the rowing-boat was already on its way, leaving him to the uncertain mercies of the punt.

      ‘He’s in a hurry,’ he grunted as he placed his case carefully on one of the seats. The floor looked as if a halfpenny dropped from three feet would blast a hole through it.

      ‘A devoted retainer,’ said the other with enough of mockery in his voice to give Dalziel some hope for him. ‘I’m Charles Tillotson, by the way.’

      ‘Andrew Dalziel.’

      ‘Dee-Ell,’ echoed Tillotson. ‘Dee-Ell. Spelt D-A-L-?’

      ‘Z-I-E-L,’ finished Dalziel.

      ‘How impressive to be pronounced differently from the way you are spelt,’ said Tillotson, flourishing the pole. ‘It’s sort of a test for people, isn’t it? Perhaps I should drop the ILL, Totson. What do you think?’

      ‘How about Tit?’ said Dalziel. ‘Are we going to move or shall we sit here getting wet all bloody day?’

      Gingerly he seated himself next to his case and closed his eyes as Tillotson thrust off stylishly, got the pole stuck instantly and almost dislodged himself in his efforts to pull it out.

      By the time they had followed the bend of the road and got the rowing-boat back in sight, it had reached the new landing-point and the rest of the party were already embarking. To Dalziel’s dismay the funeral car then began to move off.

      ‘Hey!’ he bellowed, drawing the attention of the mourners and frightening a small batch of teal who were exploring their new-found territory. But the black limousine purred disdainfully on its way and was soon out of sight.

      ‘Sod the bastard!’ said Dalziel savagely.

      ‘Pappy must have forgotten,’ surmised Tillotson.

      ‘Sod him too.’

      Some explanation of his presence must have been required and given on the rowing-boat for when they drew level, no one showed much curiosity about him.

      The woman, Mrs Fielding he presumed, was sitting in the stern with the old man. The stout youth had taken an oar and was seated alongside Pappy who returned Dalziel’s accusing gaze blankly. The boy was in the bows, curled up like the Copenhagen mermaid. And the other three were crowded in the flat-bottomed boat lately occupied by the coffin.

      ‘I think some of you must go back with Charley,’ said Mrs Fielding in a firm, rather deep voice. Her veil was lifted now, revealing a strong almost masculine face which grief and hard weather had only been able to sting to a healthy flush.

      ‘Oh no,’ protested the thin girl, Louisa. ‘Bertie’s rowing too, and we can’t weigh much more than a coffin.’

      ‘Nevertheless,’ insisted her mother.

      ‘I’ll go,’ said the dark hairy man who was taking some shots of the floods with an expensive-looking camera. He stood up and stepped into the punt with the ungainly ease of a sailor.

      This seemed to satisfy Mrs Fielding’s distribution problems for the moment. She now addressed Dalziel.

      ‘I’m sorry the car went before Pappy could speak with the driver. If you’d care to come to the house, you can phone from there. Alternatively, we can leave you here and phone on your behalf.’

      The man called Pappy started rowing and Bertie quickly picked up the stroke as Dalziel considered the alternatives. The rain was coming down harder. The occupants of the rowing-boat were concealed almost completely by a carapace of umbrellas which brought to mind the shield-wall of a Viking ship.

      Dalziel turned to Tillotson.

      ‘Follow that boat,’ he said.

       3

       A Nourishing Broth

      The teal had dropped back to the surface and followed at a safe distance.

      ‘I had a friend,’ said the ugly man in a pseudo-American accent, ‘got badly hurt trying to screw a duck.’

      ‘Oh, yes?’

      ‘Yeah. He had this thing, you know, about having relationships with the whole of creation. But the duck didn’t see it that way. Took half his nose off. After that he changed his scheme, went for the spiritual communion thing more, you know.’

      ‘Just as well perhaps,’ said Dalziel. ‘He might have had trouble with ants.’

      The other laughed approvingly.

      ‘That’s true, man.’

      He thinks he’s tested me, thought Dalziel. Now I’ve passed his little shock test, he’ll try to patronize me.

      ‘Charley there, the boy with the wooden whanger, now he goes in more for this kind of kick.’

      He squatted behind the punt gun and made firing noises more appropriate to a howitzer.

      ‘No, Hank, you’ve got it wrong,’ protested Tillotson amiably. ‘I like a bit of sport, that’s all. I say, these floods are rather jolly though. I bet a lot of birds will come back. It must have been fine fowling country, this, before they drained it.’

      ‘See what I mean?’ said the other. ‘He’s just aching to get this old phallic symbol jerking off again.’

      At last Dalziel had penetrated through the pseudo-mid-Atlantic flip speech style to a couple of recognizable vowels. He liked to know where he was with people and basic information about background was a good place to start. It gave him something to occupy his mind, to keep out the greyness which threatened to seep in whenever he relaxed.

      ‘Not many ducks in Liverpool,’ he said. ‘My name’s Dalziel. Who’re you?’

      The dark man looked at him assessingly before replying, ‘Hank Uniff.’

      Dalziel laughed, a short sharp offensive bark which acknowledged that there hadn’t been much chance of his interlocutor being called Jim Smith or Bill Jones.

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