matter was settled in their favour when further drainage revealed the remains of a wheeled vehicle, suggesting the chest was being transported somewhere when accident or ambush had caused the carriage to overturn and sink in the swamp.’
‘So it was theirs, no question? Why didn’t they sell it straight away if they were so hard up?’ asked the presenter.
‘Because good things like bad often come in bundles, and at just about the same time the heir apparent to the baronetcy caught himself a rich American heiress, so they stowed the Hoard in the bank vault against a rainy day …’
‘Which has now arrived,’ interrupted the presenter, seeing his producer making for-God’s-sake-hurry-this-along signals from the control room.
Dalziel clearly felt much the same. He’d returned with drinks and was sitting next to Cap on the sofa, glowering at the screen with an intensity of hatred which he usually only saved for winning Welsh rugby teams.
‘So Lord Elsecar has put the Hoard on the market,’ continued the presenter at a gallop. ‘The best offer to date has been from America, the British Museum has been given the chance to match it, but so far, even with lottery money and a public appeal, they’re still well short of the mark. So as a last gasp, and following a suggestion made, one might even say a pressure exerted, by the Yorkshire Archaeological Society led by yourself, the Elsecars have agreed for the Hoard to go on tour, with all profits from admission charges to go to the Save Our Hoard Fund. Will they do it?’
Belchamber made hopeful noises. Cap Marvell laughed derisively.
‘Not a hope,’ she said. ‘They’re so far short they’d need everyone in Yorkshire to go five times to get anywhere near! First time I’ve seen a lawyer who can’t add up!’
‘That’s great,’ said the presenter. ‘So there you are, all you culture vultures, take the family along to see the money your ancestors spent and what they spent it on back in the Dark Ages. The Hoard will be on exhibition in Bradford till the New Year, then in Sheffield till Friday, January twenty-fifth, after which it moves to Mid-Yorkshire. Don’t miss it! And now the Christmas Party. How many kids are you hoping to get this year, Marcus?’
Dalziel stood up and said, ‘Like another drink?’
‘I’ve hardly touched this one,’ said Cap as she picked up the remote control and zapped the sound off. ‘But I can take a hint. Is there some all-in wrestling on another channel you want to watch?’
‘No. It’s just I hear quite enough of yon turd, Belcher, without letting him into my own parlour,’ said Dalziel.
‘I take it this means he represents criminals and does a rather good job of it?’
‘He does better than a good job,’ said Dalziel grimly. ‘He bends the law till it nigh on breaks. Every top villain in the county’s on his books. I’m late tonight ’cos there was a scare with our one witness in the Linford case, and guess who’s representing Linford.’
‘You’re not suggesting that Marcus Belchamber, solicitor, gentleman, scholar and philanthropist, goes around intimidating witnesses?’
‘Of course not. But I don’t doubt it’s him as told Linford’s dad, Wally, that the case was hopeless unless they got shut of our witness. Any road, it turned out a false alarm and I left Wieldy soothing the lad.’
‘Oh yes. Is the sergeant a good soother?’
‘Oh aye. He tells ’em if they don’t calm down, he’ll have to stay the night. That usually does the trick.’
Cap, who sometimes had a problem working out when Dalziel’s political incorrectness was post-modern ironical and when it was prehistoric offensive, turned the sound back on.
‘You look awfully smart, Marcus,’ the presenter was saying. ‘Off clubbing tonight?’
Belchamber gave the weary little smile with which in court he frequently underlined some prosecution witness’s inconsistency or inanity, and said, ‘I’m driving to Leeds for the Northern Law Society’s dinner.’
‘Well, don’t drink too much or you could end up defending yourself.’
‘In which case I would have a fool for a client,’ said Belchamber. ‘But rest easy. I shall be spending the night there.’
‘Only joking! Have a good night. It’s been a privilege having you on the show. Ladies and gentlemen, Marcus Belchamber!’
Belchamber rose easily from the depths of his chair, the presenter struggled to get upright, the two men shook hands, and the lawyer walked off to enthusiastic applause.
‘He’s a fine-looking man,’ said Cap provocatively.
‘He’d look better strapped on the end of a ducking stool,’ said Dalziel.
‘And did you notice that DJ? Lovely cut. Conceals the embonpoint perfectly with no suggestion of tightness. Next time you see him, you really must ask who his tailor is.’
This was a provocation too far.
‘Right, lass, if you just came round here to be rude, you can bugger off back to that fancy flat of thine. What did you come round for anyway?’
She grinned at him and ran her tongue round the rim of her glass.
‘Actually I just thought I’d pop round to see what you wanted for Christmas,’ she said languorously.
‘I’ll need at least thirty seconds to have a think,’ said Dalziel. ‘But it’s not a tangerine in a sock, I can tell you that for starters.’
Detective Sergeant Edgar Wield was in a good mood as he mounted his ancient but beautifully maintained Triumph Thunderbird and said farewell to Mid-Yorkshire’s Central Police Station with a quite unnecessary crescendo of revs. A couple of uniformed constables coming into the yard stood aside respectfully as he rode past them. He was still a man of mystery to most of his junior colleagues, but whether you thought of him as an ageing rocker who ate live chickens as he did the ton along the central reservation of the M1 or believed the rumours that he was matron-in-chief of a transvestite community living in darkest Eendale, you didn’t let any trace of speculation and/or amusement show. Dalziel was more obviously terrifying, Pascoe had a finger of iron inside his velvet glove, but Wield’s was the face to haunt your dreams.
It had been a long day but in the end quite productive. With time running out, a suspect had finally cracked under the pressure of Wield’s relentless questioning and unreadable features. Then, just as he was leaving, Dalziel had tossed into his lap the job of reassuring Oz Carnwath, the Linford case witness, that the burly man on his doorstep talking about death really had been an undertaker who’d mixed up addresses. He’d left the young man happy and arranged for a patrol car to stop by from time to time during the night. Then he’d returned to the station to put on his leathers and pick up his bike, and finally he was on his way home with all the pleasures of a crime-free Sunday in the company of Edwin Digweed, his beloved partner, stretching ahead. Nothing special, he doubted if they’d get further than the Morris, their local, or perhaps take a stroll along the Een whose valley had the bone structure to remain lovely even in midwinter, or go up to Enscombe Old Hall to check how Monte, the tiny marmoset he’d ‘rescued’ from a pharmaceutical research laboratory, was coping with the cold weather.
Things must be beautiful which, daily seen, please daily, or something like that. One of Pascoe’s little gags which usually drifted across his hearing with small trace of their passage, but that one had stuck. As he recalled it now, he tried superstitiously not to let the thought I am a very lucky man join it in his head.
He came to a halt at traffic lights. Straight ahead the road which tracked the western boundary of Charter Park stretched out temptingly. Parks are the lungs of the city, and the fact that Mid-Yorkshire possessed an abundance of beautiful countryside, easy of access and to suit all tastes, did not mean the founding fathers had stinted when it came to pulmonary provision in the towns. Over the years many unsentimental eyes had looked greedily