exhaust fumes. He had left a rambling incoherent letter expressing horror at what he had been compelled to do. A search of the area revealed the body of the Barnsley girl a quarter of a mile away. No reference was made to Tracy Pedley, the missing Burrthorpe girl, but there was a clear reference to Mary Brook and to another unsolved child-murder in Mid-Yorkshire some two years before.
Watmough at his final press conference made no bones about claiming to have solved just about every childmolesting case in the county over the past decade. Dalziel was heard to opine that likely Pickford was Jack the Ripper and had murdered the Princes in the Tower too, but his many enemies regarded this as sour grapes. Watmough was meanwhile flourishing a piece of computer printout at reporters and declaring, 'Look, here is the man's name. He knew we were pressing close and took the only way out. This is a triumph for modern detective methods!'
Privately, like many others, Ogilby reckoned that it wasn't difficult after the event to get any bloody name on a printout. But he already had a vested interest in Watmough, and the media as a whole had had their full quota of bungling half-wits for the week, but were a bit short on heroes. So Watmough got the vote and a month later returned triumphantly to Mid-Yorkshire as Deputy Chief Constable.
'You've not got another spectacular murder solution up your sleeve, have you, Nev?' inquired Ogilby, a touch satirically.
'No,' said Watmough, slightly miffed. 'Prevention's better than cure. A good modern force is the best deterrent, and that's what I've created.'
'Indeed yes,' said Ogilby placatingly. 'I know you've been most eloquent in your arguments for policing that reflects the changes in modern society. Talking of which, how do you feel about homosexuals?'
'Generally? Well, what I feel is, a man's entitled to his own beliefs and tastes, as long as they don't involve breaking the law, of course,' said Watmough. 'Personally, I don't much care for poofters, but I would never let that personal distaste prejudice my judgement on a legal matter, of course.'
'Of course not,' said Ogilby.
He paused, quietly savouring the moment, then resumed, 'But what I really meant, Nev, was - how do you feel about homosexual policemen? I only ask because the Evening Post got rung up the other day inquiring if they'd care to buy a story, about a gay copper in Mid-Yorkshire CID.'
Watmough's bout of coughing as he choked on his wine drew Dalziel's attention.
'He were weaned too early,' he said in explanation. 'Now, let me get this straight. You want me to help you check out this man's credentials? That's not police work, you know that. Hire a private eye. The estate can bear it.'
'Despite the television, as you well know, the competent and reliable private eye is a rare bird, hard to find outside Southern California, and more likely to be caged or shot at than assisted by the carabinieri. I need to check Signor Alessandro Pontelli's background in Florence. I need to know when he left Italy, when he came to this country, where he's staying, who he's seen. I need to compare his physical characteristics with any records that exist of Alexander Lomas. All these things can be done swiftly and easily by the police, whereas a poor solicitor . . .'
He smiled sadly and topped up Dalziel's Fleurie.
'It's the Co-ordinator for Interpol you should've asked for lunch, not me,' said Dalziel. 'My job's investigating crime, not running a where-are-they-now agency.'
'In a sense, this could be classed as a criminal investigation, surely,' murmured Thackeray.
'What sense is that?'
'If this man's making a fraudulent claim, surely that's a crime? Personation, forgery, fraud - all of these must be involved?'
'Mebbe,' said Dalziel. 'I'd need better grounds than you're giving me, though.'
'Yes. I realize that I shouldn't have asked. Still I thought, at a personal level perhaps . . . but never mind. I hope you've enjoyed your lunch.'
'It were
Watmough at his final press conference made no bones about claiming to have solved just about every childmolesting case in the county over the past decade. Dalziel was heard to opine that likely Pickford was Jack the Ripper and had murdered the Princes in the Tower too, but his many enemies regarded this as sour grapes. Watmough was meanwhile flourishing a piece of computer printout at reporters and declaring, 'Look, here is the man's name. He knew we were pressing close and took the only way out. This is a triumph for modern detective methods!'
Privately, like many others, Ogilby reckoned that it wasn't difficult after the event to get any bloody name on a printout. But he already had a vested interest in Watmough, and the media as a whole had had their full quota of bungling half-wits for the week, but were a bit short on heroes. So Watmough got the vote and a month later returned triumphantly to Mid-Yorkshire as Deputy Chief Constable.
'You've not got another spectacular murder solution up your sleeve, have you, Nev?' inquired Ogilby, a touch satirically.
'No,' said Watmough, slightly miffed. 'Prevention's better than cure. A good modern force is the best deterrent, and that's what I've created.'
'Indeed yes,' said Ogilby placatingly. 'I know you've been most eloquent in your arguments for policing that reflects the changes in modern society. Talking of which, how do you feel about homosexuals?'
'Generally? Well, what I feel is, a man's entitled to his own beliefs and tastes, as long as they don't involve breaking the law, of course,' said Watmough. 'Personally, I don't much care for poofters, but I would never let that personal distaste prejudice my judgement on a legal matter, of course.'
'Of course not,' said Ogilby.
He paused, quietly savouring the moment, then resumed, 'But what I really meant, Nev, was - how do you feel about homosexual policemen? I only ask because the Evening Post got rung up the other day inquiring if they'd care to buy a story, about a gay copper in Mid-Yorkshire CID.'
Watmough's bout of coughing as he choked on his wine drew Dalziel's attention.
'He were weaned too early,' he said in explanation. 'Now, let me get this straight. You want me to help you check out this man's credentials? That's not police work, you know that. Hire a private eye. The estate can bear it.'
'Despite the television, as you well know, the competent and reliable private eye is a rare bird, hard to find outside Southern California, and more likely to be caged or shot at than assisted by the carabinieri. I need to check Signor Alessandro Pontelli's background in Florence. I need to know when he left Italy, when he came to this country, where he's staying, who he's seen. I need to compare his physical characteristics with any records that exist of Alexander Lomas. All these things can be done swiftly and easily by the police, whereas a poor solicitor . . .'
He smiled sadly and topped up Dalziel's Fleurie.
'It's the Co-ordinator for Interpol you should've asked for lunch, not me,' said Dalziel. 'My job's investigating crime, not running a where-are-they-now agency.'
'In a sense, this could be classed as a criminal investigation, surely,' murmured Thackeray.
'What sense is that?'
'If this man's making a fraudulent claim, surely that's a crime? Personation, forgery, fraud - all of these must be involved?'
'Mebbe,' said Dalziel. 'I'd need better grounds than you're giving me, though.'
'Yes. I realize that I shouldn't have asked. Still I thought, at a personal level perhaps . . . but never mind. I hope you've enjoyed your lunch.'
'It were
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