Pictures of Perfection. Reginald Hill

the bugger. Well, he reckons one of his ploughboys has gone walkabout.’

      Ploughboy was Dalziel’s personal nomenclature for any uniformed officer stationed in the sticks. For decades the arrangement had been for each sizeable village to have its own resident constable under the immediate supervision of a Section Office in some centrally placed small township. Economy disguised as efficiency was causing a radical shake-up of the system, and in the not too distant future the village bobby would vanish completely. Wield, like most thinking coppers, regretted his imminent demise. This was hands-on policing with good public relations, and the additional advantage that it provided a testing ground to see how promising youngsters coped with responsibility.

      ‘If Sergeant Filmer says he’s missing, he ought to know,’ said Wield.

      ‘You reckon? Thing is, it’s the lad’s day off. He clocked off at noon yesterday and he’s not due back on till eight tomorrow morning. Only Filmer calls in at the police cottage first thing this morning – says there was a report he needed, but I reckon he just likes to stick his neb in, keep them on their toes – and there’s no one there.’

      ‘But it’s his day off.’

      ‘Makes no matter to Filmer. He uses his key to get inside, checks the bedroom, finds the bed’s not been slept in.’

      ‘So he got up early and made the bed. Or found somewhere better to sleep last night.’

      ‘Against the rules. You don’t sleep away from home without you inform your Section Office.’

      ‘You don’t ring up at midnight and say, “Hey, Sarge, I’ve struck lucky”, do you?’ said Wield.

      ‘My reaction, just. Not Filmer. He checks the wardrobe. If the lad did strike lucky, he went on the date wearing his uniform, ’cos it isn’t there. Next he checks the car. It’s alongside the cottage, badly parked, unlocked, with stains on the passenger seat.’

      ‘Bloodstains?’

      ‘Strawberry jam for owt I know,’ growled Dalziel. ‘Now Filmer’s right up in the air. Starts making what he calls discreet inquiries. I can hear him. I’ve lost a constable, anyone seen him?’

      ‘And had anyone?’

      ‘Not since yesterday afternoon. But first off he finds some old sod who reckons he saw our missing ploughboy about tea-time having a set-to with a Hells Angel …’

      ‘In uniform? Or out?’

      ‘In. So Filmer decides either there was an emergency which got him back in uniform, or mebbe this old boy who’s rising eighty and recovering from a stroke is a bit confused. He keeps on asking, and, lo and behold, he finds himself another witness in the village who also recalls having a bit of bother yesterday with a Hells Angel. Only he got closer and he gives a description which makes this bugger sound like a cross between King Kong and Rasputin. Now Filmer really panics. First off he radios in a right alarmist report to the Mother Superior, who naturally lobs the buck straight upstairs to Desperate Dan, who can’t find me ’cos I’m out doing some real police work, so he drops it like a steaming hot turd right into the lad’s lap. If I’d been around it’d have got slung back with interest. Let Uniformed take care of their own, say I!’

      ‘So what’s the state of play now, sir?’ asked Wield, who had no problem identifying the Mother Superior as Chief Superintendent Almond, the new Head of Uniformed Branch, while Desperate Dan was of course Chief Constable Daniel Trimble, and ‘the lad’ was Wield’s very good friend, Chief Inspector Peter Pascoe.

      ‘You know Peter. Always a soft touch. Though fair do’s, by the time he gets landed, yon daft bugger Filmer has decided that he can kill two birds with one stone by bringing in the ploughboy’s car for Forensic to check the stain, and the witness to look at our Family Album to try and spot King Kong.’

      ‘He put a witness in a car he wants Forensic to look at and drove him here?’ said Wield incredulously.

      ‘See what I mean? Pete decides he’d best go and tiptoe through the turnips himself, to see what damage has been done. Left me a note. He can be a wilful bugger when he wants.’

      Wield had a good face for hiding smiles, a capacity he used now.

      ‘And Filmer?’

      ‘He’s in here with his star witness turning pages. You have a word with him, Wieldy, come the old Sergeants’ Union, see if he’s got owt sensible to say. I seem to make him nervous, can’t think why.’

      Another smile was absorbed and Wield pushed open the door.

      The shining bald head of Sergeant Filmer was bent alongside the shining silver head of a man peering at a pageful of photographs.

      At the sound of the door, both heads turned.

      Filmer’s face registered relief as he recognized Wield.

      The witness’s face registered first surprise, then relief also.

      And Wield’s face for once allowed his feelings of disbelief, comprehension and dismay to be printed clear.

      ‘So you’ve got him!’ cried Edwin Digweed, the Enscombe bookseller. ‘Jolly good. Now perhaps you’ll admit I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that here was a face marked for villainy if ever I saw one.’

      ‘You what?’ said Dalziel, who had followed Wield into the room.

      ‘Is it Harold Bendish that’s missing?’ asked Wield.

      ‘That’s right. What’s this old bugger on about?’

      The old bugger looked ready to be offended, but as Wield advanced towards him, fear took over and he retreated till his legs caught the lip of the table and he could go no further.

      ‘For heaven’s sake, someone!’ he cried. ‘Shouldn’t this man be under restraint?’

      ‘It’s all right, sir,’ said Wield soothingly. ‘There’s been a mistake. I’m a detective.’

      ‘What?’ Digweed looked from Wield to Filmer, saw no denial there, looked back to Wield, recovered both his balance and his aplomb, and said, very Lady Bracknellish, ‘A detective? You? That does indeed sound like a very great mistake. I still find it hard to believe. Superintendent …?’

      ‘This is Detective-Sergeant Wield, one of my officers,’ said Dalziel in a dangerous voice. ‘Will someone tell me what’s going off here?’

      ‘I was in Enscombe yesterday, sir,’ said Wield. ‘I met Mr Digweed, briefly. Then a bit later on, I …’

      ‘You assaulted Constable Bendish!’ interposed Digweed. ‘Excellent. To preserve your cover, isn’t that the term? I presume that extraordinary costume you had on was some form of cover?’

      ‘I spoke with Bendish, sir,’ said Wield stolidly, addressing himself to Dalziel.

      ‘Oh aye? And what did you say?’

      Wield glanced doubtfully at Digweed, who said, ‘Yes, yes, of course. From being so vital a witness I have to be dragged from my place of business – which incidentally will be doing no business at all while I’m away – I have become an intrusive member of the general public who must on no account be allowed to overhear high-level police discussion. Excuse me, gentlemen, I shall return home where I will spend more of my valuable time penning a strong letter of complaint. You do, I presume, employ at least one token literate to read such letters? Never mind. I’ll put it on tape also. Now I give you good day.’

      He strode out. It was a rather good, very English sort of exit.

      Dalziel jerked his head at Filmer, who went in apologetic pursuit.

      Then the Fat Man turned to Wield and fixed him with a gaze which would have frozen a Gorgon.

      ‘Right, sunshine,’ he said with dreadful softness. ‘Now you can tell me what you were