The Price of Butcher's Meat by Reginald Hill

have transport arranged?”
    I suppose I could’ve told him I preferred to walk. Or that Roote were giving me a lift. But sod that. Only a fool turns down what he wants out of pride, and what I really wanted now were to crash out in my pit.
    â€œNay,” I said. “That ’ud be grand.”
    I looked at my beer glass. It were half full. I realized I didn’t want it.
    Only a fool sups what he don’t want out of pride.
    But I could feel Roote watching me, and this time pride won.
    I drained the glass, set it down, and hauled myself out of my chair.
    â€œThanks, mate,” I said to the landlord. “Good pint that.”
    â€œThank you, sir. Hope we see you again soon,” he said.
    â€œNever fret, I’ll be back.”
    Roote caught my arm and said in a low voice, “Mr. Dalziel, just one thing. About Mr. Pascoe, I’ll leave it up to you.”
    Whether I told him or not, he meant.
    I gave him a nod and left.
    I wouldn’t trust Roote as far as I could throw him, which, the way I were feeling just then, was about half a yard. But credit where due, I couldn’t fault him over how he’d dealt with Pete.
    Which don’t stop me wondering, now they’ve finally got me tucked up in bed and talking to myself under the sheet, if one of the reasons Franny Roote took off abroad with no forwarding address was ’cos he didn’t want Pete Pascoe feeling responsible for him, then why when he came back to England did he opt to settle here in Mid-Yorkshire? Okay it’s right on the fringes of our patch, but it’s still our patch!
    Can’t get that tune buffalo woman’s nephew were whistling out of my mind. How did the words go? Let’s see…summat about an Indian maid…aye, that’s it!
    There once was an Indian maid,
    and she was sore afraid
    that some buckaroo would stick it up her flue
    as she lay in the shade.
    And so on. Gets dirtier. Not the kind of thing I’d expect Fester to choose for his Desert Island Discs. And why should it bother him so much?
    Questions, questions, lots and lots of sodding questions hopping madly round my mind to that jaunty little tune. But it’s always the same one leading the dance.
    What the fuck is Roote really up to here in Sandytown?
    Never fear, one way or another, I’ll find out afore I go!
    But all I want to do now is sleep.
    So it’s good night from you, Mildred, and it’s good night from

7
    FROM: [email protected]
    TO: [email protected]
    SUBJECT: Min of Information!
    Hi Cass!
    Thanks for pic. He is truly gorgeous! I want one of my own. Does he have a brother? Nice smile. Whats he got to smile about—I wonder?!!
    Back to dull old Sandytown! After lunch yesterday Tom excused himself—to catch up on all the stuff that had piled up in his absence—& Min—whos clearly decided to make me her own!—asked me if Id like to go swimming with her. I thought she was being kind—& meant the sea—& said yes please—but it turned out she meant the swimming pool at this 5 star hotel Tom told us about—the Brereton Manor. Seems the Parkers have membership of the Health & Leisure Club—natch—but the kids arent allowed in without a responsible adult—so Min the minx had elected me! Mary tried to rescue me—but I said—no problem—& off we went.
    Minnie led me over the road—& through a gate—then across a golf course that looked to be in the final stages of construction.
    â€”Should have been finished for Easter—Min told me proprietorially.
    Serious money being spent here—I thought—confirmed when we reached Brereton Manor. Must have been a grand old house—now much modified & extended—all the eco-friendly—carbon unfriendly—stuff theyve got at Kyoto—but tastefully blended in—the kind of detail that costs a fortune. Presumably the idea is youve been invited to a 1920s weekend house