Death's Jest-Book (42 page)

This, as well as being a nicely
turned compliment, explained everything.

Since they got together, Wield
had met several of Digweed's friends. Most of them he liked very
much, and generally they seemed to like him, but he avoided getting
too close. Over the years, like a lot of his straight colleagues.
Wield had learnt to be careful about his choice of friends outside
the Force. He'd been upfront with Digweed about his reluctance to be
swamped by a whole new circle of acquaintance, vicariously acquired,
and usually he'd met his partner's chums singly or in pairs.

Wim Leenders was a six and a half
foot, sixteen and a half stone, chisel-bearded Dutchman who'd moved
to England twenty years ago because he liked to climb rocks and walk
uphill. He collected early books on mountaineering and fell walking,
which was how Digweed had come to know him. He seemed to have rather
more money than his outdoor-gear shops might be expected to generate,
but a careful check by Wield (memory of which filled him with shame)
had turned up no hint of naughtiness. Most of the time, as if
self-conscious about his physical presence, he was a very
quiet-mannered, self-effacing, gently courteous kind of chap, but
when he let his hair down, he became a runaway juggernaut. Wield had
seen something of this side of him at a funeral wake. What he was
going to be like at his own fiftieth didn't bear thinking of. This
made his choice of Tinks a damage-limitation tactic which said much
for his basic good sense. But Wield still couldn't quite grasp why
Edwin hadn't simply made an excuse when he got the invitation.

So, because he believed in
openness in a relationship, he asked the question direct.

Digweed said, 'Wim helped me out
of a rather tricky situation a few years back, long before I knew
you. Of course my first reaction was to say no to his invitation, but
he has been most pressing and I've brooded on the matter for some
days and come to the conclusion it would be - how to put it? -
pusillanimous of me to refuse. But I really do need what you would
call back-up, Edgar.'

'Of course I'll come,' said
Wield. 'On one condition.'

'And what is that?'

There is going to be jelly and
cream, isn't there?'

Digweed laughed, then said
seriously, Thank you, Edgar. I appreciate it.'

Which made
Wield feel good, though the feeling had not developed into any lively
anticipation of enjoyment as through the taxi window bearing them
south about nine thirty that night he saw a serpentine neon sign
wriggling the name
Krystabel's
across the dark winter sky.

But life is full of surprises.

As they got out of the taxi, the
club doors burst open and a burly man in a long mohair overcoat
emerged. He had a mobile phone pressed to his ear and his face was
deathly pale. Behind him appeared a young man with a fashionably
shaven head and wearing a tight black T-shirt which showed off his
muscular torso.

'Come on, LB, it'll be OK, don't
let him snarl you up like this,' he called. 'Hey, would you like me
to come with you?'

The burly man showed no sign of
having heard and strode off towards the car park.

Wield, who had retreated into the
taxi, now got out. He didn't watch the departing man but concentrated
on the other who, becoming aware of this, said 'You'll know me again,
funny face’ before twisting round and going back inside.

'Yes, I will’ Wield told
himself. 'Friend of yours?' said Digweed. 'The night is young’
said Wield, smiling. Suddenly he felt like a party.

Earlier
that same evening, Liam Linford too had felt like a party.

The police had used every
delaying tactic possible and, despite Marcus Belchamber's best
efforts, the young man had eaten his Christmas dinner in custody.
Released in time for New Year, his first impulse had been to tear the
town apart and make sure those he held responsible for his
misfortunes got what was coming to them.

His father had other ideas.

'You keep your head down, your
nose clean. I'll get this business sorted, right?'

'Yeah, like you got Carnwath's
sister sorted, you mean?' sneered the young man. 'Let's face it, Dad,
you couldn't sort washers. If you'd let me break his legs like I
wanted, I'd not have spent the holidays in that shithole . . .
Jesus!'

He found himself sitting on the
floor, nursing a bruised jaw, looking up at Wally Linford in a mood
he'd never seen him in before.

'You talk like that to me, you're
out of here’ grated the older man. 'You step out of line by
half an inch and you're on your own. So help me God, Liam, I'll throw
you to the wolves. Couple of years inside might be just what you
need. Make up your mind. Do this my way, or do it alone’

And Liam, who didn't know much
but knew that without the clout derived from being Wally's son and
heir he was nothing, had seethed with resentment but obeyed.

Hogmanay he'd celebrated quietly
at home. But a week into the New Year and he was opining that he
might as well have stayed inside, there was probably more fun to be
had there. But his father's threats had kept him on the leash till
that Saturday night when he saw Wally Linford leaving the house,
heading off to find whatever it was passed for fun in his weird
world. Liam waited till his car was out of the drive, then got on the
phone and rang his closest friend and chief supporting witness,
Robbo.

Robbo might have had plans of his
own but he knew better than to object. He turned up at the Linford
house twenty minutes later and found Liam waiting. When he opened the
door of his Porsche to let his friend in, Liam showed he'd absorbed
some of his father's lesson by saying, 'No way. The Filth would love
to get me and you for drunk driving. I got a taxi coming. Here it is
now. Right, mate, this is a whole night job, they told you that?
Great. First stop, Molly Malone's!'

By eight thirty they were getting
very drunk and the pub was getting crowded.

'Fuck this,' said Liam. 'Let's go
to Trampus's, I fancy cunt. And if that other cunt Carnwath's still
working there, I'll mebbe tell him I fancy him too.'

Robbo was still sober enough to
wonder if this was such a good idea, but he was shouted down and
moments later they spilled out into the car park.

'Mr Linford. Over here,' called
the driver of a taxi parked a little way away from the pub door.

‘Thought it was a fucking
car before,' said Robbo as they got into the vehicle, which was a
traditional London taxi.

'More room in this, sir,' said
the driver, huddled in his seat, woollen hat pulled over his ears and
scarf wound round his neck against the dank chill of the night.
'Where to?'

'Trampus's club,' said Liam. 'And
get a fucking move on!'

The driver seemed to take the
instructions to heart and soon they were bowling along at speed to
satisfy even their drunken impatience to be where the action was.

Soon the windows steamed up and
when Robbo tried to wind one down to let some cool air in, nothing
happened.

He rapped on the security panel
separating passengers from driver and yelled. 'Here, mate, let some
fucking air in!'

The driver didn't respond and
Liam said, 'Give it a rest, Robbo. They lock the doors and windows
so's we can't fuck off without paying. As if we would.'

He followed this with a burst of
raucous laughter at memories of past occasions when they'd bilked
some unfortunate taxi driver.

Robbo, who was rubbing at the
steamed up window didn't join in.

He said, 'Where's this mad fucker
taking us? We're out in the fucking country. Hey, you, where the fuck
are we?'

He banged on the panel again and
the driver said, 'Short cut.'

Now Liam too rubbed a spyhole in
the condensation. Outside there was nothing but darkness with
occasionally a glimpse of trees or hedgerows blurring past.

'Short cut?' yelled Liam.
'Shortcut where?'

The driver turned to look at him.
His face was a skull.

'Shortcut to hell,' he said.

He dragged the wheel over, the
taxi went through a hedge, down a steep embankment, and turned upside
down as it plunged into a river.

In the rear the two men, bleeding
and battered into sobriety, were screaming as they wrestled with the
locked doors. For a moment they were suspended in a cocoon of air.
Then in the front the driver wound down his window to let the water
in.

Soon the screaming stopped.

‘Look
who's here! Ed and Ed! Now truly my cup is full and runneth over!'

Any hope Wield had nursed of
taking a back seat vanished when Wim Leenders' voice boomed out
across the room as they entered and they were ushered to a table of
at least twenty already merry partygoers who were urged to shift
along so that the newcomers could sit to the right and left of their
jovial host.

He put his arms round them both
and invited them to sample the very best that Tinks could offer.

That the champagne was the best
Wield took on trust, never having learnt how to distinguish between
bubbles. But he drank his share with no discernible effect, toyed
with a taco, shuffled a few circuits of the dance floor, and
applauded a comic who made Andy Dalziel sound like a Sunday School
teacher. After an hour or so he found he was really enjoying himself.
Then it came to karaoke time and when Wim started looking for
recruits for his famous Village People turn, he slipped off to the
loo.

They didn't pipe the music from
the club in here, thank God, and he sat in comfortable silence,
thinking how great it was to see the usually staid and controlled
Edwin letting his hair down, and how lucky he was to have somehow got
all the disparate elements of his existence into such a perfect
balance.

When he emerged, he could still
hear the joyous chant of 'In the Navy' coming from the main room, so
he stepped outside for a moment to get a breath of fresher air and
almost bumped into the muscular young man in the black T-shirt.

'Sorry,' said Wield.

'Hello, funny face,' said the
man. He looked rather pale and there was a whiff of a sweet vomit
smell on his breath. Drunk too much and gone out to be sick, Wield
guessed.

He said, 'Wally not come back
then?'

'No. Don't
expect him.' Then a
suspicious look. 'You know him?'

'Wally? Yeah, from way back. Mind
you, it's a long time since I saw him. I'd have said hello earlier,
but he didn't look in the mood to chat. Worried about his lad, I
expect.'

'Got cause, hasn't he,' said the
young man moodily. 'Should have left the selfish bastard in jail.
Ruined my fucking night, hasn't he?'

'How's that?'

'Had himself another accident or
something. Little shit. Should have thought, with his trouble, no one
would have let him near a car. One yell, and Wally goes running.'

'He is his dad,' said Wield.
'Heard you call him LB, what's that all about?'

'Thought you knew him.'
Suspicious again.

'Way back, like I said. It was
just plain Wally then.'

'It's just a net name he uses.
Lunch box. LB. Linford. Gerrit?'

'Got it,' said Wield. Funny.'

'Yeah’ said the young man,
looking at Wield assessingly. 'You been dumped too?'

'No, my friend's in there
karaokeing. Not rny scene. Sorry.'

The young man went back inside.
Wield pulled out his mobile and dialled.

'Pete, it's me,' he said. 'What's
this about Liam Linford in an accident?'

Thought this was your night off,'
said Pascoe. 'He was in a taxi that went into the river, A driver in
another car saw it happen so help got there quick, it was too late.
Liam's dead, plus that guy Robson who was his witness. And the
driver.'

'Shit,' said Wield. 'Act of God
or . . . ?'

'Depends how you look at it. The
driver was John Longstreet. That's right. The widower. And when they
pulled him out, he was wearing a plastic Hallowe'en mask in the form
of a skull.'

After his call was finished,
Wield stood outside a while longer. His elation at discovering that
Belchamber's LB was Wally Linford, underwriter of serious jobs
requiring a lot of cash to set them up, was totally extinguished,
though no doubt it would delight Andy Dalziel. But the Fat Man hadn't
seen the father's face as he got the news about his son. Not that it
would likely have made much difference.

Pondering these things, he
re-entered the club room and walked past the momentarily silent
karaoke set-up without paying any attention to a young man with
electric blue hair and a matching silk shirt open to the waistband of
a pair of trousers cut so tight it made your eyes water to look at
them, who stood there, mike in hand, waiting his turn.

He glanced round, saw Wield, his
eyes opened in delighted surprise and he leapt forward to grab the
sergeant's hand.

'Mac!' he cried. 'It really is
you. Hey, this is great. I'm on next. Come and give me some backing.'

It was Lee Lubanski.

Not the pale waif whose
vulnerability plucked Wield's heart strings, nor yet the streetwise
kid whose cynical view of life so depressed him. This was Lee in his
party pomp, Lee hyped up on something, Lee so desperately having a
good time, so genuinely delighted to see him there that Wield didn't
think to resist till it was too late. The music began. Wield
recognized the song. The old early eighties hit Total Eclipse of the
Heart' and thought, oh shit.

He could see Wim and his guests
out there, faces wreathed in delight, hear them urging him on. He
caught Edwin's gaze, saw him drop his jaw in mock gobsmacked mode,
then give him an encouraging smile. If he pulled free now and walked
off, it wouldn't look like stage fright, it would look like a lover's
quarrel.

'Every now
and then I get a little bit nervous that the best of all the years
have gone by,'
sang Lee.