Bones & Silence (29 page)

'Which is?'

'When in doubt, it's your shout. Come on, lad, the Bull's been open for nigh on ten minutes!'

CHAPTER TWO

Eustace Horncastle was no connoisseur of revenge. Hot or cold, it was a dish his cloth forbade him, and he felt this no great deprivation, believing with that fervour reserved for the more militant tenets of his faith that the Lord would repay.

Unhappily, his knowledge of what the Lord would do was not matched by an equal degree of self-awareness. Vengeance, plainly served at whatever temperature, would have been pushed aside with genuine moral revulsion; but Mrs Horncastle could testify that, reconstituted, it had been a staple of his diet for many years.

The way it worked was this. At the conscious level, wrongs were forgiven, slights forgotten, provocations met with forbearance and pain with fortitude. But somehow, somewhere, some time, something would emerge, justifiable in terms of logic, Christian teaching, and the greatest good of the greatest number, which without bearing much resemblance to most known forms of vengeance, yet had its sweet and sour aftertaste.

April 21st

Dear Miss Chung,

You will recall when I promised my support in obtaining for you permission to use the area around the ruins of St Bega 's Abbey as the fixed site for your production of the Mysteries I pointed out that any decision on this would require the ratification of the Cathedral Chapter. For various reasons it did not prove possible to lay the proposal before a full Chapter till yesterday and I regret to inform you that the feeling of the meeting was strongly against the idea. The environs of St Bega's have a very special ambience and it was felt that it would be inappropriate for such a peaceful and holy spot to be used for what is essentially a secular and commercial entertainment.

I do not doubt that the City Council will renew its offer of Charter Park, however, and I assure you of my continued personal support for your endeavours.

Yours very sincerely,

Eustace Horncastle

'Oh you bastard,' said Eileen Chung.

She picked up the phone on her desk at the Kemble and dialled. A woman's voice answered.

'Dorothy, is that you? Hi. Chung here. Is your lovely husband in?'

'I'm afraid not. Can I help?'

'I don't think so. It's not important. I'll catch up with him later,' said Chung with Erinnic certainty. 'How're you doing?'

'I'm fine.'

'That's good. It's time you dropped by for a coffee. I know you're up to your halo with good works and all that, but we can always put you to work if you feel guilty. How about this afternoon?'

The two women had met several times since their encounter over the Pliny tomb. Their exchanges had been light and social but undershot on both sides by a strong current of memory.

'I might do that. Ought I to get Eustace to ring you back?'

It was a strange turn of phrase.

She knows what this is about, thought Chung. And she's hinting a doubt at my strategy.

'No need,' she said easily. 'I'd prefer to see him. Perhaps we can plot an ambush when you come round.'

She replaced the phone. Dorothy Horncastle had been right. She would get nowhere talking to the Canon on the phone. Even face to face her charms were uncertain now that he'd cried Lamia. But without St Bega's, her production felt flat and dull, as flat and dull as Charter Park. She should have taken more care of this. She stood up and walked restlessly around the room. The walls were papered with the Mysteries - storyboard, scripts, routes, costume and pageant designs - it was all there, in every sense. This was what had attracted her in the first place. The only other way to get such a comprehensive statement of life was to do all of Shakespeare from
Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!
to
And my ending is despair,
a journey not to be concentrated into a holiday week!

'What's up with you, lass? You look like you bit an apple and swallowed a worm.'

It was Dalziel. Sometimes you knew backstage when he was in the foyer; others, he came up behind you like a scouting Indian.

'Worm's about it,' she said handing him the letter.

He read it and said, 'Makes a difference using Charter Park, does it?'

'Like playing at Barnsley instead of Wembley,' she said.

'I'm a rugby man meself,' he said, 'and clart's clart whatever the scenery. What's the plan, then?'

She shrugged hopelessly. Dalziel watched and thought that Chung shrugging should have a government health warning. No mere shoulder movement this but an undulation running down her long lithe body like a Mexican wave.

He grinned and said, 'Right. Let the dog see the rabbit.'

'What are you doing?' she asked as he dialled a number on her phone.

'Can't compete with you at shaking titties, luv,' he said. 'But I'm a dab hand at shaking other things, like fists, faith and front row forwards. Hello! Bishop in? He can't be busy, it's not Sunday. Tell him it's Andy Dalziel and there may be a problem about his ticket for the Welsh game next season. What? No, I don't want him to ring back, I want him now. If the monkey's around, the organ-grinder can't be far away.'

He smiled sweetly at Chung, who hissed, 'Who are you talking to, for God's sake?'

'Bishop's chaplain. Nice lad, but he plays lacrosse. Lacrosse! No wonder there's no respect for religion. Hello, Joe. About time. No, the lad got it wrong, of course there's no problem about your international tickets. Have I ever let you down? I'd fix you up with a helmet and let you walk the line if that was the only way to get you in. That's me, reliable. Like you, Joe. You can trust me like I trust you. Right, I'll come to the point, I know you're a busy man. Friend of mine's got a problem . . .'

Ten minutes later he put the phone down and said, 'There you are. All fixed.'

'My God, Andy. And I mean that literally! But what about the Chapter? And I thought the Bish was shit-scared of Eustace?'

'It seems at this Chapter meeting the use of St Bega's wasn't really on the agenda. It had all been fixed ages back. It was old Horny-cassock himself who brought it up and naturally there were a couple of sniping speeches at him because he gets up a lot of noses, and suddenly he says, right, I think I've got the feeling of the meeting and they're into any other business, no vote taken. As for Joe being scared of Horncastle -' Dalziel smiled ursinely - 'who'd you be more scared of, luv? A wanked-out cleric or me?'

'No competition,' said Chung. 'But how do you know him, the Bishop, I mean . . .'

'Didn't anyone tell you I was a failed priest?' said Dalziel so seriously that she let her astounded half-belief show till his huge frame started to shake with convulsions of laughter which were Krakatoa to her Mexican wave.

'Oh, you bastard,' she said joining in.

'I told you,' he said between guffaws. 'He were one of the front row forwards I was good at shaking. Bugger tried to bite me ear off once. I had three stitches. He told me after it were a kind of reverse transubstantiation, my blood tasted like Sam Smith's beer. Now, I'm no bishop, I really am busy, so what about this rehearsal? Lucifer still on his travels, is he?'

'Philip? Yes, it's a damn nuisance. He said a week and its been more than two.'

'Don't worry, luv,' said Dalziel. 'He'll be back, word of God. Now I've got this grand idea for when I'm talking to Noah...’

There had to be easier ways of earning a crust than rehearsing Andrew Dalziel, thought Chung. But, once she got it into his head that though in matters criminal and even episcopal he might reign supreme, in matters theatrical she was boss, he could be sensational as God.

She explained this to Dorothy Horncastle that afternoon. The Canon's wife smiled as if the idea pleased her. Chung, whose curiosity about masks and motives was the mainspring of her professional life, said, 'You like the idea of a big fat copper as God, don't you? What's the appeal? Rude sign at the Church? Put-down for the Canon? Or what?'

It was a step into an intimacy which had yet to be proved, but Chung hadn't got where she was by pussyfooting around.

For a few moments the woman froze, her features setting into just the kind of umbraged mask a lady of her class and condition ought to wear in face of such intrusive familiarity. Then a slow thaw set in, another smile struggled through like a weak spring sun, and she said ruefully, 'Sorry, I'm still getting used to your . . .'

'My big mouth. Say it, hon,' laughed Chung. 'It's my best feature.'

'Your directness,' corrected Dorothy. 'Your honesty.'

'Come on! You're so honest, it drips out of you!'

'No. I obey rules, I follow the law. That's not the same. I only approach real honesty in fantasy.'

'Me too,' said Chung. 'It's my job. But don't think honesty means you've got to put up with crap. It can also mean telling the people who dish it out to go screw themselves.'

'Go screw. . .' Dorothy tested the words. 'I'm not quite sure if I'm ready for that. Don't misunderstand me. All I mean is that profanity should come as naturally as the leaves to a tree or it should not come at all.'

'You work at it, hon. Meanwhile, you can just tell me to mind my own business.'

'You know, I don't think I will. Why do I like the idea of Mr Dalziel making a hit as God? Certainly not because of any sense of rude gesture, or putdown. On the contrary, I think he is perfect for the part! After all, isn't the image most people have of God precisely that of a big fat copper who will put everything right?'

'Is it? I suppose so. But there's more to Andy than that. He can make a lot of noise when he wants but he can also manage to be so quiet he's practically invisible. And he ought to be a straight up and down establishment figure, but he doesn't really fit in anywhere. Usually when people say someone's their own man, they mean they haven't sussed out who owns him. But with Andy, I reckon it might actually be true. Hell, am I making any kind of sense?'

'Of course you are,' said Dorothy Horncastle, who had been listening intensely. 'You're saying Mr Dalziel is ubiquitous, omniscient and immortal. My dear, clearly you didn't cast him as God. He
is
God!'

She spoke very seriously and for the second time that day Chung found herself inhibited from taking as joke what had to be a joke.

Then the Canon's wife began to smile and soon the two women were laughing together, or at least they were laughing at the same time.

CHAPTER THREE

Philip Swain landed at Manchester Airport at 7.30 on the morning of one of those days of early May which can make a Yorkshireman feel good to be alive even in Lancashire. His trip had taken three weeks rather than the one he had anticipated, but he had gone out tourist and come back first and there was no sign of flight fatigue on his face as he collected his luggage from the carousel.

He strode confidently through the green channel and out into the main arrivals hall, heading for the exit like a pit pony eager for the sky. Footsteps accelerated behind him and a hand clamped heavily on to his shoulder. He halted, spun round, then smiled broadly.

'Arnie,' he said. 'You needn't have come all this way. I'd have got a taxi.'

'Cost you a fortune,' said Arnie Stringer lugubriously.

'Arnie, I've got a fortune,' said Swain.

'All settled, is it?'

‘I said so when I rang, didn't I? It took a bit longer than I thought, but once it dawned it was cash I wanted, not Delgado voting shares, we did a deal.'

'Aye, I don't doubt them Yankee lawyers are as tricky as us own. Thackeray rang to check when you'd be back. Says he'll be out to see you. Money's toasted cheese to them rattons.'

'We need a good lawyer now,' said Swain reprovingly. 'Come on, Arnie. Where's the car? I can't wait to get back to Moscow. Christ, how I'm sick of air-conditioning and muzak!'

The two men said little more till they were out of Manchester and on the motorway, climbing high up into the Pennines. Swain wound down the window and breathed in deep as he gazed out over the bleak moorland stretching away on either side.

'That's good,' he said.

'Good? It's ninety per cent diesel,' said Stringer. 'You'll get fresher air in a multi-storey car park.'

Swain regarded his partner speculatively. There was a streak of sardonic humour in the man which sometimes made Swain believe the stories of their common ancestry. But his Nonconformist conscience was pure Stringer.

'What's up, Arnie?' he asked. 'You've been a real misery, even by your low standards.'

'Nowt's up. I'd have told you else, wouldn't I?'

'I know you would. But there's something . . .'

They were at the top now. Behind them, Lancashire. Ahead, Yorkshire. The morning sun was bright in their eyes. Stringer had pulled down the visor to keep it out, but Swain was happy to relax with its warmth on his face.

'It's our Shirley,’ said Stringer abruptly.

'What? She's not still on about that husband of hers, is she?'

'Not so much now, but she were. We had a big row about it. I told her again I'd tried looking for him, but there was no finding them as don't want found. We got a bit heated. She seems to have settled down since, but she let on it was her as set that fat bastard looking for him. Social Security inquiry! God, he's cunning.'

'I never doubted that. But what's in it for him?' wondered Swain. 'He dishes out favours like Nero on a bad day. He's probably only going through the motions. So stop worrying.'

'It's Shirley I worry about.'

'Yes, I know that, Arnie. But you said she seemed more settled now.'

'Settled? Aye, but sometimes it's more than settled. Resigned, maybe. Or just plain given up. I think maybe it's not knowing where she's at.'

'Well, Arnie, I can see you're upset, but there's nothing you can do about it. Absolutely nothing. You mustn't risk hurting Shirley. Or that lovely grandson of yours. God gave
you
the strength to bear things, but he didn't give everyone that strength. It'll all come out all right in the end. Divine providence. That will take care of things, won't it?'