On Beulah Height - Reginald Hill

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into the still dark waters of the mere.

      Daylight visions now, he thought. Were they better or worse than waking in the dark and still smelling the mud of Passchendaele?

      ‘Peter!’ said Ellie in a tone that told him she’d spoken his name already.

      ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Miles away.’

      ‘Yes, I’ve noticed. Peter, don’t you think …’

      But the moment wasn’t ripe. A voice said, ‘Lovely morning again, sod it!’ and they saw the postman coming up the drive. He handed Pascoe two packages, one small, one large. Both were addressed to Ellie, but when he proffered them, she took the small one and ignored the other.

      ‘Oh, good,’ she said, tearing it open. ‘That Mahler disc.’

      ‘Songs for Dead Children. Just the stuff for a summer’s day,’ he said, taking it from her hand and replacing it with the other package which bore a well-known publisher’s logo. ‘What about this?’

      ‘If I want cheering up, I’ll listen to Mahler,’ she said.

      ‘Perhaps they’ve just sent your script back to ask you to make a few minor revisions?’ he offered.

      ‘Bollocks,’ said Ellie. ‘I’ve got these Braille-sensitive fingers. They can read “get stuffed” through six layers of wrapping. Weird design.’

      She was determined not to talk about the novel. He looked down at the disc which bore a silhouette drawing of a girl’s or cherub’s profile, spouting a line of music. He found himself thinking of Dendale, though the connection seemed slight. Then he spotted what it was. In the bottom right corner, as on the map from the Dendale file, were the initials E.W. Not of course Edgar Wield this time, but, as was confirmed when he turned the disc over and read the small print on the back, Elizabeth Wulfstan.

      ‘Does the translation, sings the songs, designs the cover; I wonder if she plays the instruments in the orchestra?’ he said.

      ‘Very likely. Some people get all the talent, which is why there’s so little left over for the rest,’ said Ellie, dispiritedly.

      ‘It’ll happen, love. Really. You’ve got more writing talent in your little finger than any of those London creeps licking each other’s bums in the Sunday reviews,’ he said loyally, putting his arms round her.

      They clung together as if he were going back to the Front after all too short a leave.

      Then he got into his car and drove away.

       THREE

      ‘How many times?’ said Father Kerrigan.

      ‘Five.’

      ‘Jesus! With the same fellow, was it?’

      ‘Yes, Father,’ said Detective Constable Shirley Novello indignantly.

      ‘And on the Sabbath, too.’

      ‘Does that make it worse?’

      ‘It doesn’t make it any better. Five times. It’s this hot weather I blame. Is he one of mine? Don’t tell me. I’ll recognize him by the weary way he walks. And this is why I didn’t see you in church yesterday? You were too busy fornicating.’

      ‘No, Father. I told you. We went off to the seaside for the day, and it just sort of happened.’

      ‘No, my girl. Once it just sort of happens, five times takes enthusiasm.’

      It wasn’t easy, thought Novello as she left the church a little later, being a modern woman, a Roman Catholic, and a Detective Constable all at the same time. They got in each other’s way. To the soul sisters, a good screw was ‘exuberating in your own sexuality’; to the holy father it was the sin of fornication. As for her job, there were times when it required her to behave in ways equally offensive to both the sisterhood and the Fatherhood.

      She arrived at the Danby incident room five minutes late. No sign of Dalziel (thank you for that at least, God); or Pascoe. But Wield was there.

      ‘Sorry, Sarge,’ she said. ‘Went to confession.’

      Somehow telling a lie in these circumstances didn’t seem on.

      ‘Hope you got it on tape,’ said Wield.

      A joke? She made a guess and smiled.

      ‘You weren’t here yesterday? Me neither. Get up to speed, then I’d like you to take a closer look at these three car sightings.’

      ‘Super around?’

      ‘Up the dale with DI Burroughs and the search team.’

      ‘And Mr Pascoe?’

      ‘Along shortly. He’s checking the shop.’

      An excuse for lateness? They covered each other’s backs, these two.

      The thought must have showed. Wield said, ‘Or mebbe he’s at confession too. Takes longer as you get older, they say.’

      Another joke? He was in an odd mood today. She found herself a computer screen and went to work.

      Three cars. In the early stages of a case like this when you went in mob-handed, with rough-terrain search teams, house-to-house enquiries, media appeals, etc. etc., what you rapidly got was a vast amount of clutter. Which is why the better part of investigation was elimination. (Pascoe.) Not easy. Probably by the time she sorted out these three, there’d be several others reported. Sunday was a bad day for witnesses. People went off for the day, didn’t get back till late. There’d be huge gaps in yesterday’s house-to-house. Not her problem. Yet.

      She plotted her car sightings on the map. The closest, not a sighting but a hearing, was on the Corpse Road. Someone had added a note, evidence of parking two hundred yards up track: 4WD? Not much point pursuing the flower arranger. On the other hand … she looked at her watch, then rose and headed out, whistling a hymn tune which caused Sergeant Wield to wonder if too much religion might be getting in the way of her work.

      The hymn was in fact ‘In Life’s Earnest Morning’, but its present occasion was secular. Novello had once lodged with a dog-owning family. The dog, a well-trained poodle, had signalled its need to go out every morning by a loud yapping to which her landlord, equally well trained, had responded by singing, ‘In life’s earnest morning, When our hope is high, Comes thy voice in summons, Not to be put by,’ as he got the lead and headed for the door.

      She headed past the church and sat on a stone at the foot of the Corpse Road. After only five minutes her faith was rewarded. A springer spaniel came running down the track, stopped dead when it saw her, then approached cautiously. She reached out her hand and spoke to it softly and finally it allowed her to scratch its head.

      It was followed a few moments later by a breathless, thickset woman in loose cotton slacks and a pink suntop.

      ‘There you are, Zebedee,’ she said. ‘It’s all right. He won’t bite.’

      ‘Me neither,’ said Novello.

      She stood up and introduced herself. The woman gave her name as Janet Dickens, Mrs, and said she lived about ten minutes’ walk away.

      ‘Is this about that little girl?’ she asked. ‘That’s really dreadful. We were away all day yesterday across at my sister’s near Harrogate – we go alternate Sundays and they come here – but I heard it on the news when we got back.’

      ‘Did you take Zebedee for his walk before you went?’ asked Novello.

      ‘Oh yes. No way he’ll let me get away without his morning stroll.’

      ‘And you always come here.’

      ‘That’s right. He gets quite uppity if I try to take

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