The Wood Beyond

'Hello there,' she said. 'No need to apologize for being late. It's permissible on a first date.'

'Oh aye?' said Dalziel. 'Told me down the station you wanted to make a statement. Didn't say owt about dates.'

'I believe I did mention lunch. But whether you've come with that in mind or your timing is merely a happy coincidence matters little. You're here. There is food. Please take a seat.'

'What if I'm not hungry?'

'You don't look to me, Mr Dalziel, like a man in whom appetite has much to do with hunger. Do sit down.'

Dalziel considered this. The woman were right. So he did sit and eat.

She watched in silence, admiring the simple almost poetic efficiency of his technique.

There was no impression of gluttony, no overfilling of or overspilling from the mouth (which would indeed have been difficult given the cetacean dimensions of that maw), just a simple procession of food through the marble portals of his teeth, a short rhythmic manducation, and a quick swallow which hardly registered on the massy column of his oesophagus.

The pie vanished save for the small wedge she had taken.

He said, 'You going to eat or just watch?'

She began to nibble at the pastry crust, still observing with awe as he split one of the baguettes in half, expertly lined it with cheese, crisps, salad, and pickled onions, replaced the lid, raised it to his lips.

'Remember that scene in the film of Tom Jones where they turn each other on just by eating?' she said. 'I never really understood how it worked before.'

'Eh?' said Dalziel.

She said, 'You'll never get it in.'

Dalziel didn't reply. His mother had brought him up not to speak with his mouth full.

When the baguette had vanished like a waking dream, he poured himself the third can of bitter and said, 'Right, Mrs Marvell, what's all this about?'

'Call me Cap,' she said.

'Why?'

'It was a nickname my ingenious fellow pupils at my boarding school gave me. Captain Marvell. I tried to live up to it during my adolescence. In fact it was trying to live up to it that lost me it. It seemed a Captain Marvellish thing to do to get married to an Hon. at seventeen, but I soon discovered you cannot be called Cap if you're Mrs Rupert Pitt-Evenlode. In fact with that chain of words to trail around behind you, it's difficult to be anything at all except the Hon. Mrs et cetera. But back in '82 I got myself rechristened. I was a born-again pagan. . But I see I'm boring you. Why should that be? I know. None of this is news to you, is it? You've been checking up on me!'

'Aye,' said Dalziel completing his yawn. 'Since they cut back on my taster, I'm careful who I eat with. Why didn't mean I wanted the story of your life. It meant, why should I call you anything but Mrs or Miss or Ms Marvell?'

'It would be friendly.'

'Ah well, I try not to get too friendly wi' folk I might have to bang up.'

'I take it your idiom is penal rather than penile, superintendent? Does this mean ALBA are going to prosecute? Excellent.'

'Fancy your day in court, do you? Slap on the wrist? Tuppenny fine? Headlines in the Guardian and flash your kneecaps on breakfast TV?'

'That would suit me nicely. But, despite your intimidatory threats, I doubt if it would suit ALBA. Such people are usually more concerned with damping publicity than provoking it.'

'Could be you're right about ALBA, missus. But it's not them you should be worried about.'

'I'm sorry.. oh, you mean you. But what charges could the police bring against me if ALBA won't press for trespass?'

Dalziel smiled like a crocodile being asked if he'd got teeth.

'Going equipped for burglary. Criminal damage. Assault. Obstructing the police.'

She considered this then said, 'Assault?'

'You threatened the TecSec boss with them wire cutters.'

'Threatened? He must be a man of very nervous disposition. The cutters are a tool not a weapon.'

And a very clean tool too. Forensic had found no trace of blood. Surprisingly clean? Dalziel had asked hopefully. That would depend on the mind-cast of their owner, Dr Gentry, Head of the Forensic Lab, who disliked the Fat Man heartily, had replied.

'Weapon's a tool for killing,' said Dalziel. 'And you could have taken his head off if you'd made contact. Courts don't like that sort of thing, especially not since Redcar.'

At least she didn't pretend not to take the allusion.

'That was terrible, and a great disservice to the movement. It wasn't even good protest. Simply turning the poor animals loose achieves very little in terms of their wellbeing and nothing at all in terms of public support.'

'You mean it's the tactics you object to, not killing the odd security guard?' said Dalziel.

'Of course I deplore the man's death,' she said with some irritation. 'It was tragic. But I cannot believe you seriously suspect my group had anything to do with it.'

'Why not?' said Dalziel. 'By all accounts once you got inside the building last night, you all ran wild like a bunch of lagered-up Leeds supporters. What was that all about? Premenstrual tension?'

She was unprovoked. Very cool this one. But beneath it all there was plenty of heat. The notion had him crossing his legs.

'A release of tension, certainly,' she said. 'We'd had a shock. Then suddenly I realized that we'd got where we wanted to be, inside the building. It seemed foolish not to make a gesture.'

'A gesture?' He articulated the word as if some passing bird had crapped in his mouth.

'That's right. An act which resounds with significance far beyond its mere physical limitations. You should try one some day, superintendent.'

'At my age it happens all the time,' he said. 'So you took off. And headed straight for the labs. Just a bit of luck that, was it?'

'What else could it be?'

'Prior knowledge. Like, from being there before.'

'Being there when?'

'In the summer, maybe, when there was a break-in at Wanwood.'

'Yes, I recall. . ah, I see your game, Mr Dalziel. Or may I call you Andy? If I remember right, the raid on Wanwood had many of the characteristics of the raid on Redcar. Lots of mindless vandalism and the animals merely released into the countryside. And you think they could have been done by the same people. Therefore link ANIMA with the second, you link us with the first. Right?'

'Right as a confession,' said Dalziel.

'Which it isn't. Do you have dates for both these raids?'

'Can't remember? I get like that,' said Dalziel. 'June 28th. May 19th.'

She rose and went through into the living room, returning with a leather-bound diary.

'Here we are,' she said. 'On June 28th I had dinner with my son, Piers.'

'He'll vouch for you, will he? What's his line? Urban terrorism?'

'In a manner of speaking. He's Lieutenant Colonel Pitt- Evenlode MC of the Yorkshire Fusiliers. Like his number?'

'Just tell me which bishops you were with on May 19th,' growled Dalziel.

'Sorry. No clergy. I went to a wedding at Scarborough, but it was a civil rather than a religious ceremony. I stayed the night there. In fact, I stayed up most of the night. There was a postnuptial party which went on until dawn. I think you'll find I made my presence felt sufficiently to be recalled through the alcoholic haze.'

Dalziel belched. She took it as an expression of doubt.

'Don't you believe me? Please, feel free to check.'

'I may just do that. And it's nowt to do with not believing you. It's just that I never believe my luck when folk start volunteering alibis before I've even asked for them.'

'That is perhaps because most of your customers are of a lower order of intelligence in which such pre-emptive thought would indeed be suspicious. If our acquaintance is to mature, you'll have to get used to dealing with someone whose brain is quite as good as yours. And also with someone who, unlike most of those others, is unworried by your ultimate threat of locking them away. For me to get a prison sentence would be a real publicity coup, so you must see that your threats, even if you meant to carry them through which I doubt, have little weight with me.'