TWO
'Is your hand steady enough to write?' 'It was when you came in.' Two hundred and fifty miles to the south, Detective-Superintendent Andrew Dalziel was also confronting the high cost of literature. He rarely read crime novels, but bookstall advertising had left a subliminal impression that the genre had more Queens than Solomon, so when he rang the bell of William Stamper's St John's Wood flat, he anticipated the epicene, and would not have been dismayed by drag. Instead the door was opened by a burly man in a balding woollen dressing-gown, his unshaven face pouched and pallid with what Dalziel's expert eye identified as the effect of a serious hangover. ' 'Morning, lad. Like a ciggy, or do you still prefer bull's-eyes?' 'I'm sorry…' said Stamper, blinking hard. His reopened eyes looked at air. Somewhere behind him Dalziel's voice said, 'If this is what writing does to you, I'd give it up and get a real job. Kitchen in here? You look like you need a coffee almost as much as me. Ever travel Intercity? Every time you lift your cup, they hit a bump so's you throw the stuff over your shoulder. Best place for it, I reckon.' 'Who the hell are you?' demanded Stamper. 'You've forgotten me already?' said Dalziel, amazed. He paused in his task of spooning large quantities of instant coffee into half pint mugs to produce his warrant card. 'Detective-Superintendent Dalziel. But you can call me Uncle Andy.' 'Good God! The bull's-eyes. It's you… only there's a lot more of you.' 'Aye, well, like they say, the merrier, the more. You've not stayed still yourself. I'd not have known you from yon skinny little kid. Is there owt to put in this?'
'Milk, you mean?' Dalziel frowned and said, 'I'd not advise milk to a man in your condition. It curdles the stomach. Me, I'm all for this homosexual medicine.' Stamper stared, then said, 'Homeopathic, you mean?' 'Aye, that's the lad. Hair of the dog. It's all right, I see it.' If he did, it was with some strange Celtic third eye, for he now strolled into the living-room and set the mugs on a pile of typescript on a desk, one of whose drawers he opened to reveal a half-filled bottle of Teacher's. He poured a carefully judged measure into each mug. 'Enough to taste but not to waste,' he said. 'Well, how have you been, young William?' Stamper drank and shook his head, not negatively but in search of clear thought. He said slowly, 'Hold on. I stopped being young William God knows when, and you were never Uncle Andy. So let's get things in their right perspective. What the hell do you want, Superintendent?' 'Not sure. I got off at King's Cross, wanted somewhere for a coffee and a crap, and you were handiest.' 'How did you happen to have my address?' Dalziel said, 'Have you not been getting my Christmas cards, then? No, seriously, that programme you did on the murder, it were good. Only, you were still accepting the verdicts then. Now Cissy Kohler's gone free.' 'So?' 'So, did it surprise you? I mean, you must've done a lot of research on the case.
Did you turn up anything that made you think, hello, that's funny?'
Stamper shook his head, winced, and said, 'No, but it was a retrospective, not an investigation.' 'Oh aye? Well, now you know you missed summat. That must nark you a bit.' 'Not a lot,' said Stamper.
'OK, when Waggs contacted me, I admit I did wonder if I'd missed an opportunity for a bit of media glory, but I couldn't honestly make out a case for getting the scent first.' 'So you talked to Waggs? I didn't see you on his telly show.' 'No point,' said Stamper. 'There was nothing I had to contribute.' 'Little lad hiding behind a curtain and nebbing on the mouldy oldies? Same little lad who spotted Kohler wandering around with blood dripping from her hands? Come on! With credentials like that, these telly people would likely have paid good money to hear you fart! How's your dad, by the way?' 'What?' 'Arthur Stamper. Sir Arthur, I beg his pardon. One of Maggie's knights.
Service to industry, weren't it?' 'Service to self,' snarled Stamper.
'As to how he is, I wouldn't know. I haven't seen him since… for a long time.' 'No? Aye, well, that figures, hating his guts like you do …' 'Now hold on…' 'No need to be coy,' said Dalziel. 'If you want to keep a secret, you shouldn't take advertising space on the airwaves.' Stamper drank again and said, 'It showed that much?' 'Not so a deaf man in a smithy would have noticed,' comforted Dalziel.