Bones & Silence (20 page)

It wasn't bad as a cry of defiance, but it seemed to Pascoe that he'd got his lines wrong. It wasn't God but the fallen angels who went in for cries of defiance which might rise to, but could never disturb, the real Allbloodymighty sitting on his crystal throne.

CHAPTER
THREE

Perhaps the great secret of Dennis Seymour's likeability was that he didn't work at it. He was Juan rather than Giovanni, his charm was intuitive not calculated, and its rewards came more as surprises than triumphs.

Having committed himself to his beautiful Bernadette, he was genuinely reluctant to put himself in the way of other offers. Not that he ever sought them, but it was incredible what a sympathetic interrogation could lead to. Recently a 'friend' in the Force had hinted to Bernadette that her fiancé was CID's sexual stormtrooper and this hadn't gone down too well, so Seymour adopted his coldest, most official manner when he called on Pamela Waterson.

To start with she replied in kind, indeed was almost hostile; Seymour wouldn't have minded if she'd stayed this way, but he couldn't help being genuinely sympathetic when she told him she was too tired to put up with much questioning, and
she
couldn't help responding to his genuine sympathy. After fifteen minutes they were sitting on a sofa, drinking coffee and capping each other's awful-job anecdotes.

'What really gets up my nose is being me,' she said finally after a long recital of plaints.

'Sorry?'

'What I mean is, I don't have to put up with all this crap. Overworked, understaffed, poorly paid, lousy facilities, being told I'm a selfless angel when I do my job, and a selfish shit when I moan about it; I could walk away from all this, you know. Head for the private sector tomorrow, get everything I want. Or go abroad and get twice as much as I need. Only, because I'm
me,
I won't do it, I can't do it. It's crazy, isn't it? Like sitting in a prison cell with only two ways out, a door to comfortable freedom or a window with a thousand-foot drop to bare rock, and knowing you can never take the door.'

'You're sure about that?' said Seymour.

'Of course I'm sure! I've just said it, haven't I?' she said angrily.

'No, what I mean is, there's usually more than two ways out of things.'

'Is that so? Name me another two,' she challenged.

'All right,' grinned Seymour. 'What would happen if you threw a bedpan at the Chief Health Officer?'

'I'd get sacked.'

'That's one. And what would happen if you got pregnant?'

'At the moment I think they'd call the poor little blighter Jesus,' she said sadly.

'It'd make two whatever they called him. Do you fancy a family, luv?'

'I took it for granted when I got married,' she said. 'I'm a Catholic, you see. Not good, but still Catholic. He had other ideas. I took the easy line and went along. No, that's not fair. I went along because that's what I wanted then. Now I wish . . . but it's too late . . .'

'It's definitely over between you then? You'll get divorced?'

She shook her head. 'No divorce,' she said. 'I'm still that much of a Catholic. But yes, it's definitely over. Oh, I still fancy him, I suppose. That funny-looking fellow who came the first time likely told you he caught us cuddling. Not that it meant anything. There's nothing so comfortable as a cuddle when you're tired and depressed.'

She glanced at Seymour thoughtfully as she spoke and he took a long draught of air from his empty coffee cup.

'You see,' she resumed, 'I didn't leave him because I found out he was different after we married. Rather, it was because he was more like himself than I realized.'

'Eh?' said Seymour.

She smiled and said, 'Does sound daft, doesn't it? What I mean is, before we married, I knew he talked big but got easily scared; I knew he was crazy about natural blondes with long legs. But none of it mattered. Knowing how frightened he got just seemed to make us closer, and I believed I could steer him clear of situations which might make him blow up. As for blondes with long legs, well, I was one, wasn't I? So what happened? Nothing, except that I found that to prove how unscared he was, he could get himself involved in stupid things. And I couldn't be around all the time to stop him blowing up. And his love of willowy blondes didn't stop with me. Like I say, I can't put the blame on not knowing what he was like!'

'What kind of stupid things did he get himself involved in?' wondered Seymour.

'Things like trying to set up on his own. I mean, you're mad to be self-employed when no one in his right senses would work for you in the first place!'

'But you still like him? So when he rang and asked you to meet him, you went?'

'Of course. Why not?' she demanded.

'You knew the police wanted him to help in a serious inquiry,' said Seymour as sternly as he could manage.

'Oh,
that,'
she said dismissively. 'You'll find him in the end. This business is just a silly tragic accident, right? It'd probably all be cleared up by now if he hadn't run off.'

'Very probably. So why'd he run?'

'I don't know. Because it made him feel important, likely.'

'Is that what he told you when you met?' said Seymour.

'No. I asked him about it, naturally, but he just got all mysterious, and that was one of the games I stopped playing with him very early on.'

'So what else did you talk about?'

'I can't remember all of it. Just the bad bits when he started getting excited. That's the trouble with Greg, the good bits are lovely, he can be charming, amusing, marvellous to be with ninety per cent of the time, but once you've had a taste of the other ten per cent, that's what you remember.'

'So tell me about the bad bits at the Sally,' said Seymour.

'Well, there were two. When I gave him Mr Swain's message -'

'Mr Swain?'

'Yes. He rang me a few days ago and asked if Greg had been in touch. When I said no, he said if I did hear from him, would I let him know?'

'So you told Mr Swain Greg had made contact?'

'Yes, and he said would I ask Greg to get in touch with him?'

'And what did Greg say when you told him this?'

'That was when he started getting excited, and it wasn't till I convinced him I'd not let on to Mr Swain where we were meeting that he calmed down. He said to tell Mr Swain not to worry, he'd definitely be hearing from him.'

'And has Swain rung you since last night?'

'Not that I know of.'

'Fine. Now what else upset your husband? You said there were two.'

'Yes. That was when he asked me for money. He said he was hard up and couldn't get to a bank. I gave him what I'd brought with me. About forty pounds, it was all I could manage. He told me it wasn't enough, he needed a lot more than that, and began to get very excited. God, he was trying to keep out of sight and he still couldn't control himself!'

She shook her head in exasperation, but there was still affection there too. There had to be something very attractive about this lunatic!

'So what happened?'

'I did the only thing possible to defuse things. I left.'

'And your husband?'

'When I looked back he was heading for the bar with my money.'

'And would this explosion transfer itself to somebody else?'

'Oh no. If he was by himself he might sit in a corner muttering for a while. But in a pub, he'd be all charm and good cheer in a couple of moments once I was away. That's always been the unfair thing about Greg. He comes out of these bouts fine, it's those around him who are fond of him that have things mucked up for them.'

She was close to tears. Seymour squeezed her hand, then hastily let it go. He tried to make his next question unambiguously official.

'Mrs Waterson,' he said. 'It's in everyone's interest for us to find Greg. Did he give any hint where he was staying? Until we talk with him, we can't wrap this thing up, you see. Has he got any close friends who might be putting him up?'

'If he has, they'll have blonde hair and long legs,' she said. 'Do I sound bitter? Well, perhaps I am, but not jealous bitter. Just that, well, it's sometimes a hell of a job making sense out of life, and this kind of stuff doesn't help. Are you married?'

'Me? No,' said Seymour uneasily. 'Heavily engaged, though.'

It felt a good time to retreat. He began to rise.

'One-way traffic, is it?' she said. 'Sorry. Look, sit down. Relax. Have some more coffee.'

'I can't,' said Seymour. 'I've got work to do.'

'Isn't that what you're doing here? Look, I'm enjoying talking to you. All right, so you're a cop, but it makes a change from nurses and doctors, believe me. And you're not like the others I've met. The ugly one, he was all right but I couldn't feel easy with him. And Mr Dalziel, he gave the impression he'd just keep going till he got everything sorted out the way he wanted. That must be a great way to feel. Anyway, with him looking after the shop, what's your hurry?'

If she'd smiled seductively at him, Seymour would have been off at the double. But she just regarded him very seriously, very calmly, and though he had been aware from the start of her long legs and lissom figure, he now saw for the first time how truly beautiful she was, and simultaneously glimpsed the real depth of unhappiness beneath the revealed discontent.

Reluctantly, telling himself it was duty's call he was answering, he began to sit down again when the flat bell rang.

'I'll get it,' he said. There was an outside chance it might be Waterson, and he didn't want to give him a start.

But the face which glowered hostilely at him was black.

'Dr Marwood,' said Pamela Waterson behind him.

'I just thought I'd look in to see you were all right,' said the doctor. 'Don't let these fellows wear you out.'

'I'd say it's the hospital that wears her out,' retorted Seymour.

'Would you now? Who are you?'

'Detective-Constable Seymour.'

'Constable? It's been sergeants and superintendents up till now. Does a constable mean we're getting near the bottom of the barrel?'

A rude riposte flared in Seymour's mind but he damped it down.

'I'm just doing my job, sir,' he said woodenly. 'And for the time being I've finished it. Thank you for answering my questions, Mrs Waterson, and for the coffee. Excuse me, sir.'

He pushed past Marwood. Behind him as he descended the stairs he heard a brief exchange, then the door closing. But to his surprise, Marwood wasn't on the inside of it. Footsteps came slapping down the concrete stair behind him and as he reached the vestibule of the nurses' home, Marwood's voice called, 'Constable. Mr Seymour. Hang on a minute.'

He stopped and turned.

'Yes, sir,' he said.

'Look, I was rude up there. I'm sorry.'

'Were you, sir? I didn't notice.'

'Balls. You almost gave me a mouthful. What stopped you? Me being a doctor or me being a black?'

The question was asked in as casually non-aggressive a fashion as it could be, but Seymour spotted it’s have-you-stopped-beating-your-wife quality and responded deftly, 'Me being a policeman, sir.'

Marwood laughed and said, 'I see you all come from the same mould in Mid-Yorkshire. You may look completely different, but inside you're all pretty sharp.'

Compliments now. The apology might have been due, but this meant he was after something. Giving or taking? wondered Seymour.

'I get worried about Mrs Waterson,' said the doctor as they strolled towards the car park together. 'She's been under a lot of pressure lately.'

Seymour unlocked the door of his car without answering. If Marwood had more to say, he'd say it.

He got in the car, closed the door, wound down the window and waited.

After a moment, the doctor said, 'Seems to me you people are making a real meal out of getting hold of that man of hers.'

'Doing our best, sir. The Super doesn't like getting the dogs out for a low-key inquiry.'

This was the merest zephyr of a provocation but Marwood felt it.

'Low-key? That woman back there's a nervous wreck and you call it low-key!'

'I'm sorry for Mrs Waterson's domestic problems, sir, but honestly I don't see that they're anything to do with us. We just want to talk to her husband to sort a few things out, then hopefully we can turn him loose to get his marriage straight. I get the impression they're still genuinely fond of each other.'

And this was provocation at gale force.

'Hey, listen, man, there's no way that marriage can ever be straight. He's unbalanced. More, he's a crook. Is that what it takes to get you people off your arses and going full pelt? He's a crook!'

'And what kind of crook is he, sir?' asked Seymour with what he hoped was just enough incredulity to push Marwood over the starting line. For now he guessed that the doctor's dilemma was not being able to get what he wanted unless he gave what he did not want to give.

Probably what he wanted was for Waterson to be put right out of the picture. But for some reason he felt this would put him out of the picture too.

And at last the explanation came.

'He's the kind of crook who asks his wife to steal drugs for him from the hospital!' grated Marwood. 'Now I haven't told you that. If you tell anyone I've told you that, especially Mrs Waterson, I'll deny it. But it's the truth. Now will you get the dogs out and put the useless shit behind bars where he belongs?'

CHAPTER
FOUR

Initially, Seymour's report did little to rouse Dalziel's spirits.

'Drugs again,' he said. 'Shit. And did she do it?'

'Dr Marwood says not. I don't think he'd have told me about it if she had. It's Waterson he wants to get at, not her.'

'Sounds to me very like it's her he wants to get at,' said Dalziel salaciously. 'And what does she say?'

'I didn't ask her, sir,' said Seymour. 'I thought it best to get back here. Also if I'd gone straight back to her room, she'd have known it was the doctor who told me.'

'Give me strength,' said Dalziel. 'Did your mummy tell you always follow doctor's orders, or what? Listen, son, we're not a caring profession, we're a catching profession. It's crime you should worry about, not some black bugger's sensibilities.'