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      Her son too was, as might be expected, tubercular, but happily at an early enough stage for treatment. The assumption of the social worker’s report was that he’d been the product of an unprotected encounter with a client, but in this alone did Lee’s fragmented account differ from what Wield had read.

      ‘My mam were going to get married, but she couldn’t ’cos she were only fifteen, so she had to wait till she were sixteen, and something must have happened with my dad …’

      Had some bastard lied to the girl in order to get her into bed for nothing? Or had she lied to her son so that he wouldn’t have to grow up thinking he was the product of a five-quid shag up against a garage wall?

      Whatever, it was clearly important to the boy. To the young man. To the nineteen-year-old male prostitute who’d got him here on the promise of useful information.

      Wield sat up straight and looked at his watch to break the thread of confidentiality.

      ‘OK, Lee,’ he said. ‘I’ve got things to do. So what did you want to see me about?’

      For a moment Lee looked hurt, then his features became watchful and knowing.

      ‘Thought you might like to hear about a heist that’s coming off,’ he said with an effort at being casual.

      ‘A heist?’ said Wield, hiding his smile at the use of this Hollywood word.

      ‘That’s right. You interested or wha’?’

      ‘Won’t know till you tell me a bit more,’ said Wield. ‘Like, what? Where? When?’

      ‘Friday. Security van.’

      ‘Good. Any particular security van?’

      ‘You wha’?’

      ‘You may not have noticed, lad, but the streets of our city are pretty well jammed with security vans at the busy times of day.’

      ‘Yeah, well, it’s one of Praesidium’s.’

      This was better. Praesidium was a newish Mid-Yorkshire security company which by aggressive marketing was making its presence felt in a growth industry.

      Wield close-questioned Lee about the cargo, time and location, but the boy just shrugged, and his only response to enquiries about the source of his information was it was guaranteed good, this with a double dose of that knowing look.

      ‘OK, Lee,’ said Wield. ‘It’s not much to go on, but I’ll mention it to my boss. He’s a payment-by-results man, by the way.’

      ‘Payment? What payment?’ said the youth angrily.

      ‘You’ll be wanting something for your trouble, won’t you?’

      ‘It was no trouble, just a favour, for what you did for me last night. Or should I have offered you money for that? Or summat else maybe?’

      The implication was clear, but the indignation seemed genuine.

      Wield said, ‘Sorry, lad. Picked you up wrong. My line of work, you think … well, you know, you don’t often get owt for nowt. Sorry.’

      ‘Yeah, well, that’s all right,’ said Lee.

      ‘Good. OK. Listen, how can I get hold of you?’

      ‘Why should you want to get hold of me?’

      ‘Just in case anything comes up. About the … heist.’

      Lee thought a moment then said, ‘I’ll be in touch if there’s owt, don’t worry.’

      Wield said, ‘Sure, that’s fine,’ not doubting he could get a line on the young man whenever he wanted. ‘Got to go now. Cheers. You take care of yourself.’

      This time he didn’t look into the cafe as he walked by the window, not wanting to risk another glimpse of vulnerability. For the moment all that mattered was this tip. It was too vague to be of much use as it stood. He could imagine what Dalziel would tell him to do, so he might as well do the do-able part before he got told.

      Back on his bike, he headed for the estate that housed Praesidium Security.

      Praesidium’s boss, Morris Berry, a fleshy man with sweaty palms, was unimpressed. He called up the job sheets for Friday on his computer and after a quick examination opined that, if the tip were true, they must be dealing with a singularly unambitious gang of heisters as the only job worth the risk of a hit was the rural wages round. This delivered wage packets to various small businesses across the county. OK, with Christmas bonuses included, the initial amount carried was larger than usual, but it still only amounted to thousands rather than hundreds of thousands, and of course with each delivery, it got less.

      Wield checked for himself and had to agree with the conclusion. At least it narrowed down the likely time of the hit as the gang must know that the longer they waited, the less they were going to get. Berry laughed and asked what made him think crooks were that clever. This lot must be really thick to contemplate attacking one of his state-of-the-art vans with the latest tracker devices installed so he knew their exact location all the time.

      He demonstrated this with a computerized map of Yorkshire which showed van-shaped icons flashing away at various locations. Then he zoomed in on one of them.

      ‘There we are, Van 3 on the A1079 approaching The Fox and Hen. If the bastard stops there, he’s fired!’

      The bastard, happily for him, kept going. Wield, impressed enough to have even more doubts about Lee’s tip, glanced at his watch. Jesus, it was two o’clock. Time for a pint and pie in what should by now be the CID-free zone of the Black Bull.

      Peter Pascoe felt nervous. Despite all his assurances first to Ellie then to the Fat Man that the Linford case was well under control, he still had misgivings. At the heart of them stood Marcus Belchamber, advocate solicitor, of what was generally regarded as Yorkshire’s premier law firm, Chichevache, Bycorne and Belchamber.

      It was universally acknowledged that if you wanted to sue your loving gran for feeding you toffees at five to the detriment of your pancreas at thirty, or if you wanted rid of your spouse but not your spouse’s assets, you retained Zoë Chichevache. If you wanted to draw up a commercial contract which would leave you keeping your fortune when all about you were losing theirs and blaming it on you, you retained Billy Bycorne. But if you simply wanted to stay out of jail, you sent for Marcus Belchamber.

      He was of course an ornament of Yorkshire society, exuding reliability and respectability. His standing as a minor man of learning, particularly in the field of Roman Britain, was unassailable. Even his one approach to flashness was an unobtrusive learned jest in that he drove a Lexus bearing the numberplate JUS 10, which, if you took the digit 1 as letter I could be translated as Behold the Law!

      Dalziel had a dream. ‘One day the bastard ’ull overreach himself and I’ll have his bollocks for breakfast.’

      But, in the private opinion of the Fat Man’s colleague, such a culinary treat was unlikely ever to be on the menu. Why should one who could so easily gather the golden apples free ever risk lending his clients his arm to shake the tree?

      And today Belchamber was appearing for the accused, Liam Linford.

      Pascoe had been in on this case almost from the start, which was late one November night when John Longstreet, twenty-six, taxi driver, had arrived home from his honeymoon with his wife, Tracey Longstreet, nineteen. Home was a flat in Scaur Crescent on the Deepdale Estate. Because the street in front of the flats was lined with cars, Longstreet had parked opposite. As he unloaded the cases, his young wife, eager to enter her new home, had set out across the road, pausing in the middle of it to turn and ask him if their honeymoon had left him so weak he needed a hand.

      As he started to reply to the effect that he’d soon show her how weak he was, a car came round the corner at such speed it threw his wife ten feet into the air and thirty feet forward so that she crashed down on the windscreen of the braking vehicle, slid along the bonnet and

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