Dialogues of the Dead

129 'You're right, Andy,' he said. 'If we show the way, then all these other good folk can be off to their lunches, eh?' His touching belief that, as with royalty, nobody ate dll he ate or left before he left, was contradicted by the steady flow of exiting guests as one o'clock approached. But his eagerness to join them was not shared by his wife, who had recovered from her brush with the Hon.'s jacket and was now displaying the oenological expertise recently acquired on a Sunday Times Wine Society week end. Having expressed the opinion that over-oaked chardonnay had had its day, she had been brought a newly opened bottle of red by Percy Follows. 'Don't tell me what it is,' she cried, sniffing deeply at the glass cradled in her hands. 'Ah, this is good, this is interesting. I'm getting exotic fruit, I'm getting mangrove swamps, I'm getting coriander, I'm getting cumin, I'm getting jaggery.' 'Shouldn't let it bother you, luv,' said Dalziel. 'After fifteen pints of best, I sometimes get a bit jaggery meself. Now are we going, or what?' 'It's a Shiraz Merlot blend, I'd say. Western Australia? About '97?' said Margot. All eyes turned on Follows who, keeping his hand clamped firmly over the bottle's label, said, 'Spot on, my dear. What a nose you have there.' It was indeed a nose to be proud of. If you were a macaw, thought Cap. She saw a similar thought form on Dalziel's lips, got him in a restraint-lock disguised as an affectionate linking of arms, and said, 'You're right, dear. Time to be on our way.' They moved off, closely followed by the mayor and his triumph ing wife. Ambrose Bird approached Follows, prised the bottle from his fingers, examined the label which read St-Emilion, and said mag nificently, 'Creep!' And now the gallery really did begin to empty fast. Soon, of the hundred or so guests who'd attended, only a couple of dozen remained. Among them was Edgar Wield, the glass of chilled white wine he'd received on arrival now warm in his hand. He had little interest in art but his partner, Edwin Digweed, had wanted to come. Sensing Wield's reluctance he had said acidly, 'Very well. I shall remember this next time you want me to attend an autopsy.' Any more realistic argument might have made Wield dig his heels in, but this made him smile and give in with a good grace, neither of which would have been detectable to a stranger but both of which Digweed spotted and appreciated. Now he waited with ironic patience for Digweed, who couldn't sharpen a pencil without cutting his finger, to finish a deep discussion he was having with a hunky young wood-turner about the relative merits of elm and yew, and looked forward to the rest of the day which, with luck, would give him the pleasure of his partner's company away from any disruptive crowd. He saw Pascoe and Ellie by the exit talking to Ambrose Bird, or rather Ellie and the Last of Actor-Managers were talking. Wield knew that if Ellie had a weakness, it was a tendency to be star-struck by fully paid-up luwies. Pascoe, who wore the sweet smile with which he masked impatience, caught Wield's eye, made a wry face, then moved towards him. Wield watched him approach, noting with approval the grace of movement, the pleasant manner with which he greeted acquaintance, the general sense of ease and tightness which emanated from that slim figure. The boy was good, would have still been good if this had been a top-level diplomatic reception rather than a provincial arty-farty piss-up. Others must have noticed too. He'd done well, but not too well, or rather not too quickly. Others had flown to DCI and beyond a lot quicker than Pascoe, but those who hit the top too soon always posed the question, Did you hang around anywhere long enough to get your hands dirty? You've made the climb but have you done the time? Looking ahead when he was a sprog, setting out on the steep ascent laid out before a graduate entrant, if Pascoe had been able to foresee his long sojourn in Mid-Yorkshire CID, he'd probably have felt his career must have stalled. But not now. He didn't wear his heart on his sleeve, not even with his closest friends, but he had said enough for Wield to know he was aware of his true worth. And aware even more that there were things in his life more important far than ambition. If he had pushed, gone hunting for the glittering prizes, he could probably have been up and away long since. But now he had other agendas. Hostages to fortune, that's what some clever bugger had called wife and family, probably