Devices & Desires

Rickards said: 'You'd think so, wouldn't you.'

He sat in silence for a minute then said: 'I think I'd like just a small whisky now, Mr Dalgliesh, if it's all the same to you.'

It was after midnight when he finally left. Dalgliesh walked out with him to the car. Looking out across the headland Rickards said: 'He's out there somewhere, watching, waiting. There's hardly a waking moment when I don't think of him, imagine what he looks like, where he is, what he's thinking. Susie's ma is right. I haven't had much to give her recently. And when he's caught, that'll be the end. It's finished. You move on. He doesn't, but you do. And by the end you know everything, or think you do. Where, when, who, how? You might even know why if you're lucky. And yet, essentially, you know nothing. All that wickedness, and you don't have to explain it or understand it or do a bloody thing about it except put a stop to it. Involvement without responsibility. No responsibility for what he did or for what happens to him afterwards. That's for the judge and the jury. You're involved, and yet you're not involved. Is that what appeals to you about the job, Mr Dalgliesh?'

It was not a question Dalgliesh would have expected, even from a friend, and Rickards was not a friend. He said: 'Can any of us answer that question?'

'You remember why I left the Met, Mr Dalgliesh.'

'The two corruption cases? Yes, I remember why you left the Met.'

'And you stayed. You didn't like it any more than I did. You wouldn't have touched the pitch. But you stayed. You were detached about it all, weren't you? It interested you.'

Dalgliesh said: 'It's always interesting when men you thought you knew behave out of character.'

And Rickards had fled from London. In search of what? Dalgliesh wondered. Some romantic dream of country peace, an England which had vanished, a gentler method of policing, total honesty? He wondered whether he had found it.

BOOK TWO. Thursday 22 September to Friday 23 September

It was ten past seven and the saloon bar of the Duke of Clarence pub was already smoke-filled, the noise level rising and the crowd at the bar three feet deep. Christine Baldwin, the Whistler's fifth victim, had exactly twenty minutes to live. She sat on the banquette against the wall, sipping her second medium sherry of the evening, deliberately making it last, knowing that Colin was impatient to order the next round. Catching Norman's eye, she raised her left wrist and nodded significantly at her watch. Already, it was ten minutes past their deadline and he knew it. Their agreement was that this was to be a pre-supper drink with Colin and Yvo

She had disliked Colin since their first meeting; the relationship, at a glance, had been fixed in the stereotyped antagonism between newly acquired fiancée and slightly disreputable old schoolmate and drinking partner. He had been best man at their wedding – a formidable pre-nuptial agreement had been necessary for that capitulation – and had carried out his duties with a mixture of incompetence, vulgarity and irreverence which, as she occasionally enjoyed telling Norman, had spoilt for her the memory of her big day. It was typical of him to choose this pub. God knew, it was vulgar enough. But at least she could be certain of one thing: it wasn't a place where there was a risk of meeting anyone from the power station, at least not anyone who mattered. She disliked everything about the Clarence, the rough scrape of the moquette against her legs, the synthetic velvet which covered the walls, the baskets of ivy spiked with artificial flowers above the bar, the gaudiness of the carpet. Twenty years ago, it had been a cosy Victorian hostelry, seldom visited except by its regulars, with an open fire in winter and horse brasses polished to whiteness hung against the black beams. The lugubrious publican had seen it as his job to repel strangers and had employed to that end an impressive armoury of taciturnity, malevolent glances, warm beer and poor service. But the old pub had burnt down in the 1960s and been replaced by a more profitable and thrusting enterprise. Nothing of the old building remained and the long extension to the bar, dignified by the name Banqueting Hall, provided for the undiscriminating a venue for weddings and local functions and on other nights served a predictable menu of prawns or soup, steak or chicken, and fruit salad with ice-cream. Well, at least she had put her foot down over di

'Relax, darling. Your old man's enjoying himself. It's your round, Norm.'

Ignoring Colin she spoke to Norman: 'Look, it's time we were going. We agreed we'd leave at seven.'

'Oh, come on, Chrissie, give the lad a break. One more round.'

Without meeting her eyes, Norman said: 'What'll you have, Yvo

Colin said: 'Let's get on to spirits. I'll have a Joh

He was doing it on purpose. She knew that he didn't even like whisky. She said: 'Look, I've had enough of this bloody place. The noise has given me a head.'

'A headache? Nine months married and she's started the headaches. No point in hurrying home tonight, Norm.'

Yvo

Christine said, her face burning, 'You were always vulgar, Colin Lomas, but now you're not even fu

Colin leaned back and smiled. 'You heard what your lady wife said. She wants the car keys.'

Without a word, shamefaced, Norman took them out of his pocket and slid them over the table. She snatched them up, pushed back the table, struggled past Yvo

She had only passed her driving test after her marriage and this was the first time that she had driven unaccompanied by night. She drove slowly and carefully, her anxious eyes peering ahead, glad that at least the route home was familiar. She wondered what Norman would do when he saw that the car had gone. Almost certainly he would expect to find her sitting there, fuming but ready to be driven home. Now he'd have to rely for a lift on Colin who wouldn't be so keen on coming out of his way. And if they thought that she was going to invite Colin and Yvo