Читать книгу On Beulah Height - Reginald Hill - Страница 17

They are long, the days of midsummer, and usually their beauty lies in their length, with sunlight and warmth apparently unending and giving those able to relax a taste of that eternal bliss which was ours before the Great Banker in the Sky repossessed our first home and garden.

It was not so for the police working in Danby. There was not even that sense of growing urgency which the approach of night usually brings to a search team, that resentment at having the operation interrupted by several hours of darkness. From somewhere a dullness had stolen upon them, a feeling of futility. It sprang, Pascoe guessed, from the community’s close links with Dendale, from a common memory of what had happened there fifteen years ago, and from the link made in so many minds between the three Dendale children who had vanished without trace and Lorraine Dacre.

On the surface, Andy Dalziel fought against it, but in some ways it seemed to Pascoe he was a major contributor to it. It wasn’t that he gave the impression of a lack of urgency and involvement. On the contrary, he seemed to be more personally involved in this case than in any other Pascoe could recall. It was just that somehow he seemed to feel the whole physical and bureaucratic structure of the investigation – the search parties, the incident room, the house-to-house – was some kind of going-through-the-motions gesture, serving only as a sop to public morale.

For Pascoe, the machine was a comfort. It collected scraps of information, some negative, such as, this patch of ground or that outhouse had been searched and nothing had been found; some positive. You put these scraps in place, and joined them together carefully like the numbered dots in a child’s drawing book, and eventually with luck a recognizable shape emerged.

He wished Wieldy was here. When it came to making sense out of joined-up dots, no one came close to Sergeant Wield. But he and his partner were away for the weekend on a book-buying expedition in the Borders. At least that was what the partner, Edwin Digweed, antiquarian bookseller, was doing. Wield’s interest in books began and stopped with the works of H. Rider Haggard. He, as Andy Dalziel with instinctive salaciousness had put it when told of the sergeant’s non-availability, was just along for the ride.

About eight o’clock, Dalziel appeared in the incident room and told Pascoe he’d given instructions for the search to be wound down for the night.

‘Still a couple of hours of daylight,’ said Pascoe, slightly surprised.

‘We’re short-handed,’ said Dalziel. ‘And knackered. They’ll miss things in the dusk, start thinking of home, stop for a quiet drag, next thing we’ve got another grass fire down here and everyone’s up all night. I’ve called in on the Dacres, let them know.’

‘How’d they take it?’

‘How do you think?’ snarled the Fat Man. Then relenting, he added, ‘I pushed the no-news-good-news line. Never say die till you’ve got a body that has.’

‘But you don’t feel like that, sir?’ probed Pascoe. ‘From the start you’ve been sure she’s gone for good.’

‘Have I? Aye. Happen I have. Show me I’m wrong, lad, and I’ll give you a big wet kiss.’

Nobly, in face of such a threat, Pascoe persisted. ‘It could be abduction. There’s still some car sightings unaccounted for.’

This was straw-grasping stuff. All early-morning vehicle sightings had been eliminated except for three. A local farmer had seen a blue car heading up the Highcross Moor road at what he termed a dangerous speed; several people had noticed a white saloon parked on the edge of Ligg Common; and Mrs Martin, a short-sighted lady who’d gone early into St Michael’s Church to carry out her flower-arranging duties, thought she’d heard a vehicle going up the Corpse Road.

‘The Corpse Road?’ Dalziel echoed.

‘That’s right. It’s what they call the old track …’

‘… that runs over the Neb into Dendale, the one they used for bringing their dead ’uns across to St Mick’s for burying before they got their own church,’ completed Dalziel. ‘Don’t come the local historian with me, lad; I’m a sodding expert.’

He scratched his chin thoughtfully, then said, ‘Tell you what, fancy a walk? It’ll do you good, you’re looking a bit peaky.’

‘A walk …? But where …?’

‘You’ll see. Come on.’

Outside, the Fat Man plunged briefly into the boot of his car, from which he emerged with a small knapsack which he tossed to Pascoe.

‘You carry it up. I’ll carry it down.’

‘Up?’ said Pascoe uneasily.

‘Aye. Up.’

He led the way through a small gateway into the churchyard, through the green and grey lichened tombstones, past the church and out of the lych gate on the far side. A pleasant green track stretched ahead running between old elms and yews. At least it was pleasant for the first thirty yards or so, then it began to grow more rocky and steep.

‘Anything that came up here would need four-wheel drive. Or a tractor maybe,’ panted Pascoe. ‘Ground’s too hard to leave any traces.’

‘Well, thank you, Natty Bumppo,’ said Dalziel. ‘What’s been here then? Herd of cows in gum-boots?’

In a small clearing just off the track where the trees had thinned out considerably, he pointed to the crushed grass and powdered earth in parts of which tyre tracks were clearly visible.

‘Yes, well, OK,’ said Pascoe. ‘There’s been something up here. Well spotted, sir.’

He turned away and took a couple of steps back down the track.

‘Hey, sunshine, what’s your hurry? We’ve not got there yet.’

He looked back to see that Dalziel was still heading uphill where the track emerged from the trees and began to wind across the open fellside.

‘But why …? I thought you were just … Oh, sod it!’ said Pascoe, and followed.

In fact, the track meandered fairly gently up the fellside, worn there over centuries by the heavy feet of all those sad processions – and also, he reassured himself as the melancholy vision threatened to overwhelm him, by their presumably much lighter feet, tripping merrily back to Dendale after the wake.

At least, being the eastern flank of the Neb, it was out of reach of the declining sun, though he managed to produce sweat enough by the time he laboured up to the sunlit ridge.

‘Forty-five minutes,’ said Dalziel, sitting at his ease against a boulder. ‘I’d have thought a fit young shag like you ’ud have done it in half an hour.’

Pascoe sagged to the ground beside him, trying not to pant too audibly.

‘Gi’s the sack then,’ said the Fat Man.

Pascoe wriggled it off his shoulders and handed it over.

Then he turned his attention to Dendale.

It was only now, looking down, that he realized how much of a real frontier the Neb must have seemed to the old dalesmen. The fell on this side was much steeper and the sinuous curves of the Corpse Road on the Danby side turned into sharp zigzags beneath him. Also, while Danby had one foot and half its soul in the great fertile agricultural plain of Mid-Yorkshire, the narrow glaciated valley of Dendale belonged completely to the county’s wild moorlands.

It was, he supposed, this wildness and steep enclosure which had made the dale so attractive to the grey suits in search of a reservoir site. He knew nothing of their search and final selection, but guessed it contained much that was unedifying, with references to the greater good of the greater number and the difficulties of making omelettes without breaking eggs flowing like hot lava, destroying all lives and homes that lay in its path.

Doubtless there’d been an Enquiry. There always was. Some linguistic archaeologist of the next age, putting together a lexicon of late twentieth-century usage would probably conclude that the space between choosing a site and starting work on it was for some arcane reason called ‘The Public Enquiry’.

So the inevitable had happened and the valley had changed. Beyond recognition? Possibly. Beyond redemption? Probably. In one sense it was wilder now than before, because human beings no longer lived and worked here.

But the stamp of man’s presence was visible beyond disguise in the shape of the long curve of the dam wall.

Nature, though, is a tough cookie. Through his art man tries to perfect her, and through his science to control her. But always she will shrug her shoulders and be herself again.

So here it was, the famous reservoir, built out of public money for the public weal in the days when privatization of public utilities was still a lurid gleam in a pair of demon eyes. Now of course it was a key feature in the master plan by which Mid-Yorkshire Water plc hoped to keep its consumers (sorry; customers) wet and its shareholders wealthy for the next hundred years.

And Nature, simply by opening her great red eye in the sky for a couple of months, had set all the plans at nought.

Around the dark waters of the reservoir ran a broad pale fillet of washed rock and baked mud across which ran the lines of ancient walls and on which stood piles of shaped and faced stone showing where bits of the drowned village had come gasping up for air again.

‘You want this beer or not?’ said Dalziel.

Pascoe turned to find the Fat Man was proffering a can of bitter.

‘Well, I carried it up,’ said Pascoe. ‘I might as well carry it down.’

He took a long satisfying pull. Dalziel meanwhile had put down his own can and extracted from the knapsack a pair of binoculars with which he was scanning the valley.

What else did I lug up here? wondered Pascoe. A kitchen sink?

‘This is where it all started, lad,’ said Dalziel. ‘This is what I wanted you to see.’

‘Thank you for the thought, sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘Is there anything in particular I should be looking at, or is it just the general aesthetic I should be drinking in?’

‘Is that what they call irony?’ wondered Dalziel. ‘That’s sarcasm for intellectuals, isn’t it? Lost me. I just want you to have some idea what it used to be like down there, what it must have felt like fifteen years back when they were told they had to get out. I reckon it pushed one of the buggers over the edge. Now I know you think I’ve been brushing my teeth in home-brew or something, but if I’m going to be tret like a half-wit, I’d like to be tret like a half-wit by some half-wit who’s got half an idea what I’m talking about. You with me, lad?’

‘Trying to be, sir.’

‘That the best you can do?’

‘I’ve always felt that if Satan took me up to a high place, I’d be inclined to go along with most anything he said till I got down safe,’ said Pascoe. ‘So fire away. Give me a guided tour.’

‘No need,’ said Dalziel. ‘I’ve got a map. It was in the file. I’ve got the rest of the file down in the car. You can take it home tonight and have a good read. Here.’

He passed over a sheet of cartridge paper. Pascoe looked at it and smiled.

‘I recognize this fair hand, surely? Yes, there they are, the magic initials E.W.’

‘Aye, it’s one of Wieldy’s. Thing you’ve got to remember is that what he’s marked as houses are nowt but piles of rubble down there.’

‘Was that the action of the water?’ wondered Pascoe.

‘No. The Water Board bulldozed them. They reckoned if they left buildings standing underwater, they’d be paying off sub-aqua freaks’ widows for evermore. Even the houses that weren’t going to be submerged they knocked down. Didn’t want anyone trying to sneak back and take possession.’

Pascoe studied the map. Dalziel passed him the glasses.

‘Start at the main body of the village,’ said Dalziel. ‘If you follow the Corpse Road down, you’ll see it ends at a bloody great rock. Shelter Crag, that is. So called ’cos that’s where they used to lay their dead ’uns, all wrapped up nice and cold for their trip over the hill to St Mick’s. When they got their own church, that seemed obvious place to build it, and that’s what that big pile of stones was.’

Slowly Dalziel guided Pascoe round the ruined valley with the care and precision of a courier who’d made the trip too often ever to forget. The main body of the village was easy enough to sort out once he’d got the church located. In any case, its relicts were substantial enough to be immediately obvious. Buildings which had stood apart weren’t so easily identified. Hobholme, the farm where the first girl had lived, wasn’t too difficult, but the Stang, site of the dale joinery, seemed to have been scattered far and wide. Heck, the Wulfstans’ house, had re-emerged as a substantial promontory of stones running out from the new shore to the edge of the shrinking mere, and on the far side it was easy to spot the long rounded hillock alongside which had stood Low Beulah, the home of the girl who had survived.

But Neb Cottage, home of prime suspect Benny Lightfoot, and scene of that last attack, perhaps because it was high enough up the fell not to have spent the last fifteen years under water, was very hard to spot. Perhaps, like the man himself, it had re-entered the earth from which its stones had been prised.

He didn’t share this fancy with the Fat Man but swung the glasses to bring the dam wall into view.

Somewhere there was a valley – the Lake District was it? – whose naive inhabitants according to legend built a wall to keep the cuckoo in and so enjoy spring forever. Here the purpose had been scientifically sounder, but not all that much more successful. With two-thirds of its footing in dried-up clay and the middle third lapped by sun-flecked wavelets that wouldn’t have swamped a matchbox, the dam wall looked as awkward as a rugger forward at a ballet school.

He ran his gaze up the gentle concavity of its front to the balustraded parapet. There was someone there, a man, strolling along, very much at his ease. From this distance and angle it was hard to get much impression of his face, but he was tall with long black hair brushed straight back.

‘Someone down there,’ said Pascoe.

‘Oh aye? Bit earlier and likely you’d have seen dozens. Local historians, bird-watchers, nebby hikers. No way the Water Board can keep them away without mounting an armed guard,’ said Dalziel. ‘Let’s have a shufti.’

He took the glasses, scanned the dam, then lowered them.

‘Gone, else you’re having visions. Someone up on Beulah Height, though.’

He’d raised his glasses to the saddled crest of the opposite fell.

‘Beulah Height. And Low Beulah. Someone must have been pretty optimistic,’ mused Pascoe.

‘Am I supposed to ask why?’ demanded Dalziel. ‘Well, no need, clever-clogs. “Thou shalt be called Hephzibah and thy land Beulah.” Isaiah sixty-two: four. And Pilgrim’s Progress, last stop afore heaven, the Land of Beulah “where the sun shineth night and day”. Got that just about right. Mind you, there’s some as say it comes originally from Anglo-Saxon. Beorh-loca or some such. Means hill enclosure. There’s the remains of some old hill-fort up there, dating from Stone Age times they reckon. Some time later on, farmers used the stones to make a sheepfold under the saddle, so they could be right.’

‘You haven’t been going to evening classes, have you, sir?’ asked Pascoe, amazed.

‘You ain’t heard nothing yet. Could be it’s the fold itself gives the name. Bought or bucht is a fold and law’s a hill.’

‘That makes Height a touch tautologous, doesn’t it?’ said Pascoe. ‘And it all sounds a bit Scottish, anyway.’

‘Do you not think we sent missionaries down to civilize you buggers?’ said Dalziel, referring to his own paternal heritage. ‘Any road, there’s others still who say it’s really Baler Height, bale meaning fire, ’cos this is where they lit the beacon to warn of the Armada in 1588. You likely got taught that at college, or were they not allowed to learn you about times when we used to whup the dagoes and such?’

Ducking the provocation, and slightly miffed at having their usual cultural roles reversed, Pascoe said, ‘And Low Beulah? They lit a beacon to warn the ducks, perhaps?’

‘Don’t be daft. A low’s one of them burial mounds. Yon little hillock next to where the farm was is likely one of them.’

Pascoe knew when he was beaten.

‘I’m impressed,’ he said. ‘You really did your homework fifteen years back.’

‘Aye. Whatever there were to know about Dendale, I learnt by heart,’ said Dalziel heavily. ‘And you know what? Like all them dates and such I learnt at school, it did me no fucking good whatsoever.’

He pushed himself to his feet and stood there, glowering into Dendale, looking to Pascoe’s imagination like some Roman general sent to tame a rebellious province, who’d discovered that in terrain like this against foes like these, classical infantry tactics were no sodding good.

But he’d find a way. They – Roman generals and Andy Dalziels – always did.

Except of course in this case he was looking into the wrong valley.

As if in response to this critical thought, Dalziel said, ‘I know what’s down there is old stuff, lad. And what’s down in Danby is a new case. But there’s one thing I learnt fifteen year back that chimes useful to me now.’

‘What’s that, sir?’ asked Pascoe dutifully.

‘I learnt that in this place in this kind of weather, the bastard who took that first lass didn’t stop, mebbe couldn’t stop, till he’d taken two more and had a go at taking another. That’s why I brought you up here, to try to get it into your noddle. Some things you can’t learn out of books. But take the Dendale file home with you for homework anyway. I’ll test you on it tomorrow.’

‘Will I be kept in if I fail?’ asked Pascoe.

‘With this one, I think we’ll all be kept in long after the bell goes,’ said Dalziel. ‘Now let’s be getting back down while it’s still light enough to see how far we’ve got to fall.’

He strode ahead down the Corpse Road.

Pascoe took a last look across the dale. The setting sun filled the fold bowl between the two tops of Beulah Height with a pool of gold. Last stop afore heaven. On a night like this you could believe it.

‘Oy!’

‘Coming,’ he called.

And he followed his great leader into the darkness.