Pictures of Perfection. Reginald Hill

pushed the door. It swung open and he found himself in a shadowy vestibule with four doors off. The spoor of blood led into the second on the left.

      He went through and found himself in a large farmhouse kitchen. The young man had vanished, presumably through the open door which led into a rear yard and garden. His gunny bag lay on a broad, well-scrubbed table.

      Seeing a chance to check without looking foolish, Pascoe moved quickly forward, undid the lace round the bag’s neck, pulled it open, and peered inside.

      A pair of big bright eyes peered back at him.

      And a voice said, ‘Who the hell are you, then?’

      Happily the voice didn’t come from the bag. Unhappily, it came from a broad-built man standing in the doorway and clutching a huge bloodstained knife in his right hand.

      Pascoe took two rapid steps back and another two sideways to put the table between himself and the newcomer, who gestured with his weapon and cried, ‘Watch it!’

      Too late he recognized the words as a warning not a threat. His shin caught against a galvanized bucket half hidden under the table. Over it went, spilling its contents all over the floor. He staggered, slipped, fell, put his hands into something warm.

      And when he held them up to look at them, they were as red and sticky as the broad blade in the hand of the menacing figure looming over him.

       CHAPTER THREE

      ‘They had a very rough passage, he wd. not have ventured if he had known how bad it wd. be.’

      The first half of Sergeant Wield’s journey to Enscombe passed in silence.

      Wield would have liked to have questioned Terry Filmer about Harold Bendish but as they were ferrying Edwin Digweed back to Enscombe, he contented himself with letting Filmer drive while he studied the print-out he’d collected of the Constable’s personal file.

      Academically, he was very bright, bright enough according to his headmaster to have gone to university. Instead he’d opted to join the police in his native city of Newcastle. The head, who couldn’t keep out of his report his feeling that this was a great waste of talent, put it down to misguided adolescent idealism coupled with a belief that universities were élitist, escapist and effete.

      Must have been talking to Fat Andy, thought Wield.

      During training he had been outstanding on the theoretical and written areas of the course. But there’d been a bit of a problem in the practical areas involving direct contact with the public. Cutting through the jargon, Wield guessed that what they’d got here was a case of that not uncommon youthful arrogance which believes that if tried and tested procedures don’t seem to be working, it’s the procedures that are at fault, not the way they’re being applied.

      On attachment, however, the problems identified during training had loomed larger, particularly his readiness to argue the toss at all levels. Reading between the lines, Wield saw that things had come to a head and that while there was a marked reluctance to lose Constable Bendish (which said a great deal for the lad’s potential), it was felt that if a new leaf were to be turned, it would be better to turn it elsewhere. So he’d been transferred to Mid-Yorkshire with the recommendation that before the village bobby system was finally phased out, this could be just the kind of job to help the youngster find his feet.

      Things had come a long way even in the years since Wield had trained. They still had a long way to go (who knew it better than he?), but at least brassbound hearts and blinkered brains were no longer essential qualifications for rising to the top of the heap.

      He was roused from his meditation by a sharp finger being driven into his shoulder-blade.

      ‘I’ve remembered something,’ said Digweed from the back seat. ‘Kee Scudamore, she runs the Eendale Gallery opposite my shop, she went up to Old Hall yesterday afternoon shortly after your departure, Sergeant. She took the short cut along Green Alley, that’s the old path which links the church to the Hall, quite overgrown since churchgoing went out of fashion among the gentry. We spoke when she got back and she told me in passing that somewhere along the alley she’d noticed a piece of statuary with a policeman’s hat on it. Could this be significant?’

      ‘A cap? And she left it there?’ said Wield.

      ‘Of course. Presumably someone had put it there as a joke. In villages you don’t go around spoiling other people’s fun. Not unless you’re a policeman.’

      Wield glanced at Filmer, who said defensively, ‘I didn’t see Miss Scudamore this morning, just her sister. She didn’t say anything.’

      ‘The Vicar saw it too evidently,’ said Digweed, as though his integrity was being called in doubt.

      ‘Vicarage was the first place I went when I didn’t find Bendish in Corpse Cottage,’ said Filmer. ‘But Mr Lillingstone wasn’t in.’

      ‘I thought the police house was called Church Cottage?’ said Wield.

      ‘It is, really. But Corpse Cottage is the name the locals use. The vicarage is the only house that overlooks it, so that’s why I called there straight off. But like I say, the Vicar was out.’

      Turning to Digweed, Wield said, ‘If the hat was put there as a bit of fun, sir, can you think of anyone who might enjoy that kind of joke?’

      Digweed said, ‘Children perhaps. Or the childlike mind. Tricks with policemen’s helmets were, I recall, a favourite pastime of The Drones’ Club.’

      Wield, who had watched Jeeves on the telly, said, ‘Get a lot of Bertie Woosters in Enscombe, do you, sir?’

      Digweed nodded a patronizing acknowledgement and said, ‘I suppose Guy Guillemard comes closest.’

      ‘Guy?’ said Wield, his memory jogged. ‘The one your neighbour wouldn’t serve yesterday? Who is he exactly?’

      ‘Exactly, he is Squire Selwyn’s great-nephew and, alas, heir, despite the superior claims of his granddaughter.’

      ‘So why doesn’t she inherit?’

      ‘Because,’ said Digweed. ‘Salic Law is one of the mediaeval practices still very popular in the upper reaches of Yorkshire society.’

      Wield turned back to the front and his file. If the old sod expected him to ask what Salic Law was, he was going to be disappointed.

      They were only a couple of miles outside Enscombe now on the narrow winding road Wield remembered from the day before, bounded by an ancient drystone wall on one side and a hedgerow not much younger on the other.

      A Post Office van came up behind them, tailgated them for a while, then on the first not very long straight gave a warning peep on the horn and shot past.

      ‘Bit chancy,’ said Wield.

      ‘He’s late for the lunch-time pick-up,’ said Filmer. ‘Always late, is Ernie Paget. Except when he’s early ’cos he doesn’t want to be late somewhere else.’

      ‘At least he does move at speed when he has to,’ observed Digweed irritably. ‘Do we have to dawdle so? I have work to do even if you don’t!’

      ‘More haste less speed,’ observed Wield, which was not very original but proved almost immediately accurate. The red van had vanished round the next bend. Suddenly they heard a screech of brakes, a chorus of baa-ing, and a loud bang!

      ‘Holy Mother!’ exclaimed Filmer, hitting the brake hard.

      They went round the bend in a fairly controlled skid, coming to a halt aslant the road with a jerk that threw Wield and Filmer against each other and flung Digweed forward with his arms wrapped round the front-seat head restraints.

      The van hadn’t been so fortunate. It was halfway through the hedge, straddling