Child’s Play
‘Reginald Hill stands head and shoulders above any other writer of crime fiction’ ObserverWhen Geraldine Lomas dies, her huge fortune is left to an animal rights organization, a fascist front and a services benevolent fund. But at her funeral a middle-aged man steps forward, claiming to be her long-lost son and rightful heir.He is later found shot dead in the police car park, leaving behind a multitude of suspects. And Superintendent Dalziel and Peter Pascoe find themselves plunged into an investigation that makes most of their previous cases look like child’s play…
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REGINALD HILL
CHILDâS PLAY
A Dalziel and Pascoe novel
Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1987
Copyright © Reginald Hill 1987
Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780586072578
EPub Edition © July 2015 ISBN: 9780007386222 Version: 2015-06-18
For Rose and Peter
Table of Contents
SECOND ACT: Voices from the Grave
THIRD ACT: Voices from the Gallery
spoken by a member of the company
A simple child, dear brother Jim,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
Wordsworth: We are seven
Death? Not much. Not then, not now. What is it? You here, I there: you stopping, I going on? Unimaginable! But I can imagine dying and the fear of it. The love of it too. I can imagine a corvette in heavy seas - a bathtub vessel in harbour, but let a gale come howling up the Tyrrhenian, then in the twinkling of a dog-star, its steel sides are changed to perilous cliffs and the dinghy far below bounces on the wild waters like a babyâs teething-ring.
I can hear what the wind sings! At home, a fatherâs anger and a motherâs tears; at school, nipping draughts and stumbling repetitions, dreadful doubts and tiny triumphs ⦠the sum of the squares ⦠Lars Porsena of Clusium ⦠a spot on the nose ⦠a place in the Eleven ⦠how to mash a girl ⦠arma virumque cano!
Now I seize the rope and feel its fibres burn my frozen palms. With what strange utterance the wind resounds against this metal cliff; arms and the man, it sings ⦠you âorrible sprog! ⦠move to the right in threes! ⦠hands off cocks and on to socks! ⦠squeeze it like a tit! ⦠a pip on the shoulder ⦠a place on a course ⦠how to kill a man â¦
Italiam non sponte sequor!
And now at last the gaping O receives me and suddenly it is once more a dinghy and the wind is just a wind. Master of myself finally, and of these men who kneel around me, I give commands. Eyes gleam white as fish in sea-dark faces, paddles plunge deep, and my buoyant craft drives over the grasping waves towards the sounding but unseen, the undesired but never to be evaded Ausonian shore.
Fanciful, you say? Romantic even? Oh, but I have still darker imaginings. Time blows like mist in a wind, parting and joining, revealing and concealing, and now the wind is a wind of autumn bearing with it not the salt spume of foreign seas but the bright decay of fallen leaves and the peppery scent of heather and the dust of limestone tors.
There is noise in it too, animal noise, a breathing, a coughing, an uneasy shuffling of feet as I pass over the dew-damp grass towards the darkling house. A window stands carelessly open ⦠reckless I enter and the wind enters with me ⦠slowly I move across the rooms ⦠along corridors ⦠up stairs ⦠uncertain, hesitant, yet driven on by a gale in the blood stronger than any fear.
I push open a bedroom door ⦠a nightlight shines like a corpse-light ⦠but this dimly apprehended shape is no corpse.
Whoâs there? Is there someone there? What do you want?
It is time to speak into this light which shows so little.
Mother?
Whoâs there? Closer! Closer! Let me see!
And now the wind is a burning wind of the desert in my veins, and it sobs and it shrieks, and the house bristles with light, and I reach for the saving darkness as the helpless, hopeless sailor embraces the drowning sea â¦
Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet
The unexpected death of some old lady.
Byron: Don Juan
No one who attended Gwendoline Hubyâs funeral would soon forget it.
