Bones & Silence (16 page)

'In extremis even atheists say their prayers. And it is a leader's privilege to delegate.'

Ellie laughed, then said, 'These letters, any chance of taking a peek?'

Pascoe hesitated before replying, 'I don't have them with me. I left them at work.'

It was true, but it was not the true reason for the hesitation and he guessed that Ellie sensed it. Prior to the case which left him with his still painful leg, he had confided without inhibition or censorship in Ellie. If asked then, he would have said he did it out of complete love, complete trust. But in the grey hospital hours he had found himself wondering if he hadn't simply been testing that trust and that love to destruction. Finally had come a time when they found themselves in public and private opposition and, retrospectively, he found himself identifying a certain perverse satisfaction in having reached a boundary. As he emerged from the greyness, so that identification had become far less positive. But it added an extra and sufficient weight to the pressures keeping partially closed what had once been totally open.

Ellie rose and yawned. 'No bother,' she said lightly. 'I've got enough on my plate without solving your cases for you.'

He followed her back into the dining-room, eager to minimize damage.

'How's the unpaid job?' he asked.

'Could be fun. But time-consuming. I'll never be nasty about PR men again.'

'Like to bet?' smiled Pascoe. 'Incidentally, you might like to do a bit of PR liaising with Chung on my behalf: Somehow word's got out that she's keen to cast Dalziel as God. Could you assure her my lips have been sealed? I don't want to end up in some oriental death-lock.'

'You could have fooled me,' said Ellie. 'But I shouldn't worry. Leaks from the Kemble are like leaks from the Cabinet. She-who-must-be-obeyed drills the holes.'

'Chung? But why?'

'It's called pressure, dear. What's the best way of getting Dalziel to do something?'

'I don't know. Bribery? Corruption? Telling him not to do it . . .'

'Well done! I've no doubt Chung will be trying all the other techniques and some we haven't thought of besides. But for him to be told
not
to do it, the people who tell him have got to know he's been asked, right?'

'This is all too clever for me. And how come Chung knew what buttons to press so quickly anyway . . . Oh no! Ellie, you haven't got yourself involved as psychological adviser as well as PR person, have you?'

She blushed beautifully. Normally he was a great admirer of his wife's blushes but admiration and trepidation were poor partners. If Dalziel were even to begin to suspect the collective guilt of the Pascoe household . . . The phone rang before he could launch into remonstrance. He picked it up nervously, certain it was going to be Dalziel. Instead he heard Wield's voice.

'Sorry to bother you, only there's been some trouble at the Rose and Crown in Bradgate. You know there's a floodlit match tonight? Well, some visitors got into a barney with some of City's supporters. Landlord tried to intervene and he's ended up in hospital. Thought you should know.'

It was a kindness. Normally the Sergeant wouldn't have bothered Pascoe with a pub brawl, but Dalziel had been making ever more abrasive noises about the lack of visible progress on the football hooligan front, and it would be well to be word-perfect on this incident.

'I'll wander down there,' said Pascoe. 'Super around, is he?'

'No. I gather Mr Trimble asked him to drop in for a chat earlier and he came out with a face like fat. Pulled the handle off the door when he shut it behind him, I hear tell. Any idea what's upset him?'

'I hope not, Wieldy,' said Pascoe fervently. 'I sincerely hope not!'

By the time Dalziel reached the Kemble, he was cooling down. Retaliation was after all the better part of rage. A wild swing could move a lot of air, but it took a carefully planted boot in the balls to bring tears to the eyes.

Nor was it simply a matter of personal esteem and self-satisfaction. Dan Trimble wasn't a bad sort of fellow, friendly, bright, and not ungenerous with his Glenmorangie. Mid-Yorkshire could have done a lot worse. But a Chief Constable had to understand that while he might indeed among constables be a chief, when it came to detective-superintendents, he was at best second among equals.

The man's first error had been to tell him bluntly that it was time he tied up the Swain case. He was being pressurized by Eden Thackeray, by the coroner's office, by the Press, and even by the Delgado Corporation's American lawyers who were concerned (a) to have the body released for interment in the family vault and (b) to have the circumstances of death cleared up so that the process of dealing with Gail Swain's will could be commenced, particularly as this involved a substantial block of Delgado shares recently inherited from her father.

‘I’ll be blunt, Andy,' said Trimble. 'I've given you plenty of rope, but it doesn't look as if you can hang Swain with it, does it? We have his statement and Waterson's statement which concur on the main issues -'

'Once I get my hands on Waterson, I'll change all that!' interrupted Dalziel.

Trimble looked at him doubtfully, then said, 'How close are you to finding him?'

'Very close,' lied Dalziel.

'I hope you're not bullshitting me, Andy,' said Trimble quietly. 'I like to back my men, but I'm getting bad vibrations here. Everything points to a verdict of suicide. The way I see it, the most serious charge on offer will be harassment against you if you don't wrap this thing up quickly. So be warned!'

That had been bad enough but worse had followed. Clearly relieved at having got the professional unpleasantness out of the way, and perhaps already congratulating himself on how easily he'd got his famous Yorkshire bear to do the Cornish Floral Dance, Trimble poured the whisky and said with a smile, 'Changing the subject, I had to laugh at lunch today. Someone said he'd heard that one of my officers was to play God in these Mysteries. I told him there was room for only one God in the Mid-Yorkshire Force, and like cleanliness, he was next to it! He assured me he'd had this on good authority, and I assured him on even better authority that if any of my officers proposed to bring the Force into disrepute by letting himself be wheeled round town on a carnival float in his nightgown, I'd be the first to know!'

Dalziel regarded him blankly, but behind the cold granite slab of his forehead bubbled a thermal spring of thought. He'd met Chung's invitation to be God with the great guffaw of derision it deserved, but she hadn't been put out, merely smiling and making a joke, and pouring more whisky with such a generous hand that he'd left her with the promise that he'd think about it.

Well, he'd thought, and guffawed again, and was seeing her this evening to drink more of her Scotch, and assure her firmly but suggestively that his ambitions were earthy rather than divine.

But now all of a sudden he was feeling there was something going off here that he didn't quite grasp.

He said, 'What you mean, sir, is, if someone wanted to do summat like that, you reckon you could ban him?'

'I'd hope it would never come to that, but oh yes, Andrew, never doubt it. I could and I would!'

So there he was, professionally and personally put in his place. He'd almost crushed his tumbler into a crystal ball and shown Trimble his future in it. But a wise man does bad by stealth, and so he had fled the field, leaving the Cornish pixie to his suppositious triumph.

A tumblerful of Chung's Highland Park took the last of the heat from his head, and when the sinuous Eurasian said, 'You seem a bit down, Andy. Anything bothering you?' he was able to laugh and reply, 'Nowt I can't sort out.'

A few moments later, however, rather to his surprise, he found himself telling her all about Trimble's interference in the Swain case, though he was careful to avoid any mention of names. It was a futile discretion, however, for after only a few sentences, Chung interrupted with, 'Hey, this is Phil Swain you're talking about, right? But I thought he must be right in the clear. I mean, he was at my party! I must say I was surprised to see him after what happened to his poor wife, she was on our Arts Committee.'

'You knew her well?' asked Dalziel, alert for new information.

'No, hardly at all. This great interest she's supposed to have had didn't show in practice. She only attended every second meeting. I reckon her membership was cosmetic, but fair do's, she was always ready to lead the way when we were touting for cash.'

'That must have pleased her husband,' sneered Dalziel. 'Did you ever hear her talk about him?'

'No. I saw them together a few times and they seemed all right. To tell the truth, it was him I felt sorry for. She always struck me as a bit of an up-and-down lady who expected people to dance to her moods.'

Dalziel frowned at this further witness to Gail Swain's volatility.

Chung said, 'You don't like Phil Swain much, do you?'

'I wouldn't say I don't like him,' said Dalziel. 'I hate the bastard's guts!'

'But he is in the clear, right?'

'Not while I'm breathing! What's your interest, luv?'

She hesitated, then said, 'Hell, look, I'd better come clean, Andy. I want you for God, no, don’t say anything yet. I chose you because you've got a kind of special aura. Well, Phil Swain's got an aura too, not for God I hasten to say, but I had put out some feelers, then this awful business about his wife happened and I thought that was that. But when he turned up at the party last Sunday, I got to wondering if he might like something to take his mind off things, you know, sort of occupational therapy . . . but it's you I really want, Andy, and if Phil taking part would really be an obstacle, seeing how you feel about him, well, I'll definitely cross him off my list, if only you'll say yes.'

She spoke hesitantly, uncertainly, but why did he get a feeling that every one of these words had been as carefully thought into place as the notes on a musical score? He had a sense for the second time this night of being none too gently manipulated, but there was a world of difference between Trimble's Cornish wrestling and this oriental massage.

'What was it you wanted the bugger for anyway?' he asked, accepting his cue.

'That's the thing that would make it so difficult, Andy,' said Chung, golden cat's eyes suddenly moon-orbed. 'I wanted him for Lucifer. He'd have to appear with you in the opening pageant so you could cast him down into hell.'

Dalziel began to laugh. At last oriental subtlety and CID technique were on the same wavelength. The end of all interrogation was to make the poor sod want to say what you wanted him to say!

'You know what, luv?' he said. 'You remind me of me!'

And Chung leaned forward so close that he couldn't get his glass to his lips, and murmured, 'I think I have finally found my God.'

part four

Mak:
Now were time for a man that lacks what he would;

To stalk privily unto a fold,

And nimbly to work then, and be not too bold,

For he might abuy the bargain, if it were told

At the ending.

Now were the time to reel;

But he needs good counsel

That fain would fare well,

And has but little spending.

The Towneley Cycle:

'The Second Shepherds' Pageant'

February 28th

Dear Mr Dalziel,

Still here. Still resolved. I envy you your job. You may not be winning, but at least you spend your time doing something positive about human unhappiness. I look at my life and wonder how I got where I am. Is it in the stars? The genes? Or is there one decision which, changed, would have changed everything? Well, there's no way to test that, is there? What you see is what you've got. What the world sees is another matter. Perhaps I'm seeing you all wrong, as the world probably sees me all wrong. Perhaps beneath it all, you too are uncertain, confused, unhappy.

No! I can't, I won't believe it! Not Detective-Superintendent Dalziel! I'm not saying that you don't find it horrible that so many people get so brutally killed in this beautiful world of ours, but I'm pretty certain you feel it a blessing that you don't care for most of them! You would probably have thought Alnoth, whose feast day it is, was a nut to live as a hermit in the forest, but you'd have uprooted trees to track down the robbers who murdered him!

Well, that was a long time ago. Looking back, the easiest way to trace the progress of the human race is to follow the blood. Looking forward ... is there anything to look forward to? Yes, of course; there's the Mayor's Ball, dedicated this year to Death with Dignity. How fitting. Can I make it? Let me check my diary. Yes, I should still be around. What about you? I do hope you go. Who knows? Perhaps we could even dance the last waltz together!

CHAPTER ONE

March came in like a lamb though the forecasters, looking down at their print-outs and up at their rooks' nests, predicted its tail would wag with unprecedented ferocity.

Sergeant Wield, landed with the late shift, wasn't much bothered by the weather without, as long as he got a quiet night within, but at 10.30 his phone rang and a vaguely familiar voice said, 'You want Waterson, try the Sally.'

The line went dead. Wield got the station exchange.

'That call, was it for me by name or just for CID?'

'He asked for you, Sarge.'

Wield stood up and pulled his coat on. Weather had become a consideration. There was a mild and muggy night rubbing against his window-pane, but a trail that started in a nice warm pub could lead anywhere. Or nowhere.

The Pilgrim's Salvation stood against the old city wall in a quarter where decay had halted just short of disintegration, and desperate efforts were being made to revivify the mainly Victorian housing stock.