Bones & Silence (23 page)

'I don't know them personally,' said Pascoe. 'But I see you do. What happened at your interview with Miss King, Mr Coombes?'

'Nothing pleasant, I assure you. I tried to speak to her rationally but she entered full of defiance and moved very rapidly through insolence to abuse. To cut a long story short, she resigned.'

'Walked out, you mean.'

'Indeed. This led to another unpleasant scene, this time with Mr Waterson who accused me of sacking her. I urged him to check his facts, but he walked out too.'

'Was this the occasion of his leaving the firm permanently?'

'Not immediately. We had become fairly inured to Gregory Waterson's explosions here. They were regarded by some as outbursts of temperament. But a few days later he really went over the top at a meeting with our managing director when there was a client present. All this business of Miss King came out once more and I gather he was personally abusive towards me and eventually to our managing director,
and
the client. Enough's enough. He seemed really amazed when he was told that this was the end. The directors were generous, more generous than they needed to have been in view of the circumstances. I doubt if there's an industrial tribunal in the land that would have awarded him a penny.'

It struck Pascoe that Coombes was in sympathy with this hardness rather than his directors' generosity and he wondered what hints of Waterson's liaison with his wife had reached the man's ears. No doubt Waterson's final outburst had left no stone unthrown. But he couldn't feel too much sympathy for a man whose reaction to an office affair was to pontificate at the girl and have a friendly chat with the man.

He stood up and said, 'If I could have Miss King's address. In Monksley as well as Bulmer's Wharf. And I'd also like the name of the director of Chester Belcourt who recommended her to you.'

There was no real need for this. He asked merely as a sign of his distaste and he saw that Coombes took the message. Pascoe guessed that next time he came to this office, if there was a next time, it would be the hard seat in front of the desk for him.

*    *    *

Bulmer's Wharf proved a double disappointment, being more like an aquatic Wimpey Estate than a floating Street of a Thousand Pleasures. Also, where
Bluebell
should have been was a gap. A middle-aged woman nursing a sullen baby on the boat next door confirmed that Beverley King had lived there till three maybe four weeks ago when
Bluebell
had moved off without warning or explanation. She thought she recognized Waterson as a frequent visitor from Pascoe's description but could offer no further help, except her expert nautical opinion that
Bluebell's
only remaining ambitions were submarine and any voyage of more than a few miles would probably see them realized.

Frustrated, Pascoe left. His route back to the station took him along String Lane. He'd forgotten about Harold Park, but as he approached Food For Thought, he noticed a grimy Peugeot estate parked outside with Govan, the bearded Scot, talking to someone through its window. Pascoe couldn't see the number, but it was worth checking.

As he drew near, the Peugeot's indicator started winking as it tried to force its way back into the stream of traffic. Pascoe halted alongside and leaned across to open his window. The Peugeot driver did the same. He had a round red farmer's face which looked fertile ground for rustic jollity but was presently tarred with indignation.

'What's your problem, mate?' he demanded.

'Mr Park?'

'Who's asking?'

Taking this as affirmative, Pascoe introduced himself.

‘I called earlier. I wonder if we could have a word. It won't take long,' said Pascoe with a reassuring smile. Behind him someone tooted impatiently. He went forward another twenty yards and found a spot to park illegally. Then he got out and walked back to where Park was now standing on the pavement talking to Govan, the shop-keeper. Jollity had resumed its rightful place and the man greeted him effusively, 'Sorry about that, Mr Pascoe. Thought you were some half-baked twit wanted to leave his car there while he popped in to Mr Govan's for a bag of ginseng. As a matter of fact I was just on my way to look you up. Mr Govan said you'd called and as I'm a bird of rare passage so to speak, I thought I'd better check it out.'

It wasn't a local nor any kind of northern accent. Pascoe thought he detected a West Country burr overlaid with something closer to London.

'That was very good citizenly of you, Mr Park,' he replied.

'Self-interest. I don't want to have a heart attack because you decide to flag me down on the motorway,' he said with a hearty laugh. 'Step inside out of the weather.'

Pascoe found himself ushered into a narrow and smelly passage alongside the shop and through a flaking door. Here Park paused to empty a box stuffed full of what looked like junk mail before leading the way up a flight of creaking and uncarpeted stairs and through another door which decoratively was the twin of that below.

After all this squalor, the flat was a pleasant surprise. A single large living-room, with kitchenette and shower-room off, it was freshly decorated and comfortably appointed.

‘This is nice,' said Pascoe.

'Isn't it,' said Park proudly. 'I like to leave it scruffy outside. I'm away such a lot, the less attractive it looks to the criminal fraternity the better. Am I right or am I right, Mr Pascoe?'

'Very wise. I gather you're a traveller, Mr Park.'

'That's right. Veterinary products. It's pretty specialized so a small patch is no use to me. When I've got something good to sell, I've got to push it as wide as I can if I'm to live as well as I like, so draw a line south of the Wash and north of Carlisle, that's my area. Can I get you a cup of tea?'

He went into the kitchenette without waiting for an answer. Pascoe picked up an ornately carved rosewood box from the table, opened it and studied its contents. Two safety-pins, a button and a china thimble. After a moment he sensed he was being studied in his turn. Looking up, he saw Park smiling at him from the kitchenette.

'Sorry,' he said closing the box. 'Habit.'

That's all right. You look at whatever you like, my son. I've got some nice stuff. Morocco, that's where that box came from. I always like to bring something nice back from abroad. Poke around the cupboards. God knows what you'll find.'

Pascoe didn't accept the invitation but he did walk around the room peering at some rather pleasant water-colours of local scenery. There was only one window and it overlooked the back yards and loading areas of the String Lane shops. Immediately below he spotted Mr Govan's ginger mop. The Scot was closing the rear door of a small blue van. He then walked round to the driver's door, halted, looked down, and swung his foot at the front wheel. It was impossible to hear what he was saying, but the mime was so perfect that Pascoe had no difficulty in imagining the rich Scots oaths that greeted his discovery of the flat tyre.

'Sugar?'

'No, thanks,' he said turning. He sat down in a comfortable white leather chair and sipped the excellent tea which Park offered him.

'Now what can I do for the police?' said the traveller.

'Last night I believe you were drinking at the Pilgrim's Salvation,' said Pascoe.

'That's right. But not too much,' said Park defensively.

'I'm pleased to hear it. Do you use the Sally a lot, Mr Park?'

'Occasionally. No more than three or four other pubs.'

'And was there any special reason you chose it last night?'

'No. I just fancied a drink and the Sally popped into my mind.'

'So you weren't meeting anyone there?'

'No. What's this all about, Mr Pascoe? You're getting me worried.'

'No need,' smiled Pascoe. 'The two men who got into your car with you when you left, who were they?'

Park looked at him in amazement, with a pink edge of indignation.

'What is this?' he demanded. 'Am I being watched or something?'

'Nothing like that,' said Pascoe. 'The men?'

'I don't know, do I? I was leaving and I said, anyone want a lift towards the centre? and these two chaps said thanks very much.'

'You always offer complete strangers lifts?'

'I didn't say they were complete strangers, did I? We'd got talking, half a dozen of us, chewing the fat the way you do in a pub. These two, one was called Bob and the other Geoff. I dropped 'em off together at the corner of the market place. You're not telling me they were wrong 'uns, are you? I can't believe it!'

Pascoe shook his head slightly and said, 'There was another man with you outside the pub. He didn't get in the car but walked off by himself.'

'Oh, him. What was his name? Glen, I think. He joined in the chat and left the same time I did. I offered him a lift but he said no, he was going in the other direction. Is it him you're interested in?'

'Possibly. When he left you outside, you didn't get any hint of where precisely he might be heading?'

Park thought a while then shook his head.

'No, sorry. Who is he anyway? What's he done?'

'Nothing, except prove rather elusive,' said Pascoe, rising. 'Thanks very much for your time, Mr Park.'

Down on the pavement a pasty-faced girl with lank brown hair was rattling the handle of the shop door. Govan had shut up early, it seemed. Pity. The girl looked much in need of health food.

He started his car and edged out into String Lane. He should at least have felt some satisfaction at removing one more query from his list, but his mind was ill at ease. Park had a powerful personality. It was easy to see he'd make a good salesman. But the further you got away from him, the more his jollity, his amiability, his plausibility, began to seem a surface. His uncollected mail showed he hadn't been up to his flat, so he must have just arrived back in String Lane when Pascoe spotted him. Govan, like a good citizen, had told him instantly that the police wanted to talk to him, and Park, like an even better citizen, had set off for the police station without even getting out of his car . . . were ever two such good citizens gathered before in one place? Then up the stairs, the easy chit-chat, the making of tea, the invitation to poke around his cupboards . . . while down below, Govan had shut up shop in the middle of market day and was loading something into his van . . .

He was at the end of String Lane. He turned left and left again into a narrow, almost tunnel-like entry which if his geometry was right ought to open up into the service area behind the shops. It did. And there was the blue van, jacked up with a wheel leaning against its side. The rear doors were open and Govan stood there, in his hands a cardboard box which he was handing to Harold Park.

Pascoe got out of his car, stooping to pick up his walking stick which lay alongside the front seat. He used it as little as possible, but there were still occasions when it came in useful.

The two men looked at him as if he were a pantomime demon, popped up from a trap. Park was the first to recover.

'Hello, again,' he said, beaming. 'Forget something? Me too. I'd asked Mr Govan to store these samples for me and I'd almost gone off without 'em.'

He held out the box for inspection. The black lettering on it read
Romany Rye Veterinary Products 24 x 500 grams Flea Powder.

'How interesting. I'll try some of that on my pussy,' said Pascoe, reaching for the box. He saw the age-old debate argued out on Park's face: fight or run. Saw the ballots cast. And as the salesman with a nimbleness which belied his bulk turned and headed for the open rear door, Pascoe used his own casting vote by hooking his walking stick around the man's left ankle.

He hit the rough ground with a crash which made Pascoe wince with empathized pain. Behind him he heard movement and turned to ward off any proposed attack. But Govan too had voted for flight. Pascoe watched with interest as he leapt into his van and started the engine. It would have been a splendid racing start, rear tyres screaming as they burnt rubber in search of traction. As it was, the jack collapsed, the front bumper ploughed into the ground, and the only screaming that was to be heard was the Scot's as his face collided with the windscreen.

Pascoe sighed, returned to his car and unhooked his radio mike. 'Assistance, please,' he said. 'Rear of Food For Thought, the health food store on String Lane. One car will be enough. But we'd better have an ambulance.'

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was Andrew Dalziel's proud boast that he could go anywhere and receive the same welcome. Only the words sometimes varied.

'What the hell do you want?' demanded Philip Swain. 'Haven't we seen enough of each other for one day?'

'I thought you were keen to start rehearsing the Mysteries,’ said Dalziel, smiling like a turnip lantern. 'Can I come in?'

'You can wait there till I ring Thackeray,’ growled Swain. He turned and retreated to a wall phone.

Dalziel stood obediently on the doorstep, still smiling. Two things he'd done between his pint and pie at the Black Bull and coming out to Currthwaite. First he'd rung Messrs Thackeray, etc. and ascertained that old Eden was out at a client conference in Harrogate. Secondly he had checked the inquest record on Tom Swain.

Mitchell was right. The gun had indeed been his sister-in-law's Python which he had borrowed from the club armoury, allegedly to test its power on the range. It had been Philip Swain who discovered his brother's body out in the barn, a site selected, according to Tom's farewell letter, because he did not wish to taint any room in the farmhouse with distressing memories. This letter had seemed to be the most businesslike document the elder Swain had prepared during his disastrous tutelage of the farm. In it he carefully catalogued his debts, separating them into prospective, imminent, immediate, overdue and
subjudice.
Perhaps his intention was a definitive assessment of the situation before opting for this most final of solutions. If so, his plan had been incontrovertibly confirmed. The grand total was vast. Most of it was still to pay off after Philip Swain inherited, and Dalziel had come to sympathize with Gail Swain. She must have had to dig deep even before the physical refurbishment of the place began. No wonder she broke the pitcher when her husband came back to the well after his building firm ran into trouble.