Pictures of Perfection. Reginald Hill

speed limit imposed by yet another sign, the biker passed beneath the arch into a greening gravelled drive curving out of sight between high banks of rhododendrons in need of pruning.

      To the left just inside the gateway stood a square single-storey building, presumably the lodge, its rather forbidding front made gay by window-boxes full of daffodils. The biker glimpsed the figure of a man standing in one of the windows and he gave a friendly nod. In that brief moment of distraction, a girl of five or six came hurtling out of the shrubbery to his right, hit the front wheel of the bike, bounced off, and sat down on the gravel.

      ‘Bloody hell,’ said the biker. ‘You all right, luv?’

      She put her hand to her mouth and let out a strange noise which it took his tear-anticipating ear a little while to identify as giggling.

      Then she rose, dusted herself off and ran past him into the porch of the Lodge where she turned to look back and wave.

      He watched her easy movement with relief till a strangely situated knocking sound made him turn his head, when he found himself looking into the face of a uniformed policeman who was rapping his knuckles against his crash helmet.

      Correction. Almost uniformed. He was wearing tunic and trousers but was hatless, his vigorous red hair tousled by the gusting wind. Even the serious expression he was wearing and a fading bruise high on his right cheekbone couldn’t disguise how young he was.

      He brought his face close enough for his breath to mist the biker’s plastic visor and demanded, ‘Can’t you read?’

      The biker sighed at this further aspersion on his literacy.

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can read.’

      ‘Then you’ll know the sign back there says five miles an hour.’

      ‘Aye, I noticed, and that was what I were doing.’

      ‘Oh yes?’ sneered the young policeman.

      Slowly he began a circumambulation of the motorbike. He moved with an easy grace, like a man who was proud of his body, which to the biker’s keen eye, with its breadth of shoulder and narrowness of waist, looked a body to be proud of.

      His circle complete, he halted, and with his eyes still focused on the machine as though by sheer force of will he could create a fault, he thrust his left hand under the biker’s nose, snapped his finger and said, ‘Documentation.’

      The biker examined the outstretched hand which had half a dozen stitches, perhaps more, in a cut which ran from the thumb-ball along the wrist under the shirt cuff. Then, with another sigh, he unzipped his jerkin, reached inside and came out with a wallet.

      ‘Any particular reason I should show you this?’ he asked mildly.

      The constable’s handsome young face slowly turned.

      ‘Because I’m asking you, that’s one particular reason. Because I’m telling you, that’s another particular reason. Two enough?’

      ‘Plenty. As long as you’ll be putting ’em in your report.’

      ‘What I put in my report’s got nothing to do with you,’ said the constable.

      ‘You think not? Here,’ said the biker. He handed over the documents he’d removed from his wallet, then slowly removed his helmet.

      The youngster looked from the documents to the face, then back to the documents, like a soldier trying not to believe a dear-John.

      ‘Oh hell,’ he said unhappily. ‘You might have let on.’

      And Detective-Sergeant Wield said, ‘You need documentation to get treated politely round here, do you?’

      ‘Yes, I mean, no, of course not, only you’ve got to keep a sharp eye open for strangers out here …’

      He was nobbut a lad, thought Wield, noting how the embarrassed flush blended in with the rich red of his windblown hair.

      He said abruptly, ‘Worried about strangers, are you? Seems to me that come Easter, you’re going to have a lot more to worry about, and from that sign on the gate, some of ’em will be very strange indeed. You got a hat, lad?’

      ‘Yeah, I’m sorry, Sarge, it’s back there … in the car …’

      ‘Wear it.’ Wield’s brain, which his CID Chief, Andy Dalziel, opined should be pickled in strong ale and sold to IBM after the Sergeant’s death, had been punching up references to Enscombe.

      He said, ‘Post Office here got done, twice, wasn’t it? Once before Christmas, once just after. We never got anyone, as far as I recall. That’d be strangers too, I suppose?’

      ‘I expect so, Sarge.’

      ‘And wasn’t there some bother about the War Memorial last Remembrance Day?’

      ‘Yes, Sarge. It got desecrated, I’d just started here then.’

      ‘Did you get it sorted?’

      ‘I think so, Sarge.’

      ‘Anything else important happen here since you came?’

      ‘No, Sarge. I don’t think so.’

      ‘What about those stitches in your arm? And that bruise on your face? You been in a ruck?’

      ‘Oh no, Sarge.’ He laughed, not wholly convincingly. ‘Walked into the branch of a tree, fell and cut myself on a rock.’

      ‘Oh aye? So. Two break-ins and an attack by nature. Real crime wave! No wonder you’re neurotic about strangers. But the rule is, nice first, nasty when you see a need. You got that, Bendish?’

      The name had popped into his head. He must have seen it on a report. He’d had nothing to do personally with either of the PO jobs here.

      The young constable was clearly impressed and disconcerted at this degree of knowledge. His mind was trying to fit it in with the appearance of a detective-sergeant, some way past the first flush of youth, wearing black leather and riding a high-powered motorbike.

      He said, ‘You’re not here officially, are you, Sarge? I mean under cover …?’

      Wield barked the sound which friends recognized as his way of expressing amusement though others often took it as a sign that the interrupted lycanthropic process suggested by his face was about to be resumed.

      ‘No, son. Just out enjoying the countryside. And dying for a cup of tea. It said something back there about refreshments.’

      ‘You’re out of luck. Sorry,’ said Bendish as though he felt personally responsible. ‘Place isn’t open to the public till Easter; it does say so on the sign. You must have missed it. But there’s a café in the village. Dora Creed’s place. She’s a smashing baker. Very welcoming.’

      ‘Oh aye?’ said Wield. ‘I saw it. Next to a bookshop. Make me welcome there too, would they?’

      ‘Oh yes. Old Digweed’ll talk to you for hours about books if you let him.’

      ‘So,’ said Wield, ‘if we add you, that must make Enscombe about the most welcoming place in Yorkshire. It fair wears a man out. I reckon I’ll head on home and make my own tea.’

      To give unalloyed joy is a rare privilege. Observing the undisguisable relief and pleasure which broke out in the young man’s face, Wield thought: Mebbe I should say goodbye to folk more often.

      ‘Sorry about the misunderstanding, Sarge,’ said Bendish.

      ‘You’ll be sorrier if I catch you wandering around again baht ’at,’ said Wield heavily. ‘This isn’t Ilkley Moor. Take heed!’

      He revved up and set off slowly through the gateway. The watcher at the window had vanished but the little girl was still standing in the porch. He waved at her as he passed and she waved back, then ran into the house.

      The young constable