Bones & Silence (34 page)

'That's what they say about you,' she said. 'Doesn't matter what's in front of you, you'll keep walking straight forward till you tread on the truth, even if it means bringing it back broken.'

'So you did know he'd been back?'

'I heard a rumour, that was all. A lad said another lad said . . .'

'But you didn't make more inquiries?'

'I've got some pride,' she flashed. 'If he'd come back to see me, he knew where I was. I didn't want people to think I was crawling after him.'

'So you kept quiet till you saw the chance to get someone else doing the crawling for you?'

'No!' she said. 'You're not built for crawling, are you?'

It was, he decided, mainly a compliment.

'So shall I keep on looking?' he asked. Her answer wasn't going to influence him in the slightest, but he wanted to hear what it was.

'Please yourself,' she said.

'What's up, lass? Lost interest? Or hope?'

‘'What's it matter? In the long run, what's any of it matter?'

'The truth matters,' he said. 'Tread on it hard as you like, you'll not break it. It's only lies that crack easily.'

He trotted down the stairs thinking that Pascoe would have been proud to hear him coming over so philosophical.

Stringer was in the pick-up, Swain in the JCB. Both had their engines running.

'All done, Superintendent?' Swain shouted above the noise.

'Just about,' bellowed Dalziel. 'Your brother shot himself in there, didn't he?'

He pointed into the barn. The pride of the Diplomatic Corps, thought Wield.

'That's right.'

'Must have asked yourself a thousand times why he did it?'

Only Dalziel could contrive to have an intimate tete-a-tete
fortissimo.

'No. Only once,' shouted Swain, clearly determined not to back away.

'You mean you got the right answer straight off?'

'I mean he obviously shot himself because there was no way he could see to save the farm.'

'At the inquest you said no
other
way.'

'Did I? I may have done. Makes no difference, does it?'

'Didn't he try to borrow money from you to pay off his debts?'

'Naturally. But I didn't have enough to lend.'

'What about your wife? Didn't he ask her?'

'Possibly. But she would not have been inclined to put money into a bankrupt farm. Nor am I inclined to listen to your offensive questions any more, Dalziel. I thought you'd been officially warned about harassing me over Gail's death.'

'It's not your wife's death I'm talking about, sir, it's your brother's,' yelled Dalziel. 'But I gather Mrs Swain coughed up quick enough once you'd inherited Moscow?'

'It was our home then. A good investment.'

'So if you did say no
other
way, you'd have been right? I mean, your brother must have known that once you inherited, there'd be a much better chance of Mrs Swain sorting things out?'

'I doubt if Tom was in the right state of mind for such abstruse calculations, Superintendent,' said Swain, his effort at control now clearly visible along the jaw line.

'But it was a pretty clear message he left,' objected Dalziel.

'He left no message, as you well know!' snarled Swain.

'Using your wife's Python to blow his head off sounds to me like he was trying to say something,' said Dalziel genially. 'But I mustn't keep you back. You're rehearsing this afternoon, aren't you? She's got me at it later this morning. Real slave-driver, that Chung, isn't she?'

'I begin to feel she has committed a monstrous blasphemy in casting something as gross as you to play the Godhead, Dalziel!' shouted Swain, pale-faced. His hands worked at the gear levers, Dalziel stepped smartly aside and the huge machine roared out of the yard narrowly missing the policeman's car.

'What's up with him, do you think?' wondered Dalziel.

'I suppose having to shout like the town crier about your dead brother and your dead wife might upset some folk, sir,' suggested Wield.

'Mebbe so,' said Dalziel. 'But it were interesting how long it took to get him upset. Christ, look at the time. Nowt done, half the morning gone, and that Chung gets right nasty if you're late for rehearsals. You'd think she'd have more respect for Superior Beings, but not her. Comes of mixing the blood, I reckon. Like chemicals. You've got to be careful or you end up with a hell of a bang.' Then, smacking his lips grossly, he added, 'And that's what she'd be, I dare say. A hell of a bang!'

Was it all in the mind or did he really have immoral longings in him? wondered an intrigued Wield.

'Fancy your chances there, do you, sir?' he prodded.

'Go and wash your mind out, Sergeant,' ordered Dalziel sternly. 'Professional and platonic, that's me and Chung. Never forget, a virtuous woman's price is far above rubies.'

Then, pushing a near fatal finger into Wield's ribs, he added, 'And I'm not sure these days if I could even afford Ruby!'

And shaking with mirth at his own high wit, he headed for the car.

CHAPTER FIVE

Crimper's Knoll was a pleasant place to be on a fine summer morning. It was a pleasure Philip Swain planned to share with perhaps half a dozen house-holders at about two hundred thousand pounds apiece. But there was more than money involved here. This would be his showcase. After this people would start thinking of Swain and Stringer as creators as well as constructors. Such was his excitement at the project that though detailed plans were still to be drawn up and he had not yet obtained even outline planning permission, he couldn't wait to set his mark on the ground. 'We'll need an access road,' he told his partner. 'A man doesn't need planning permission to give himself access to his own land. I've got all my life to shape my behind to an office chair. This is one job I'm going to start myself!'

But the JCB had rested like a sleeping mastodon in the lee of the Knoll ever since its arrival more than an hour earlier, and the two men sat almost as still on a grey rock, looking westward over the sun-flooded central Yorkshire plain.

Stringer broke the long silence.

'You've been a good mate to me, Phil,' he said.

'And I'll not say owt to harm you, rest assured.'

'You'll lie, you mean?' said Swain. 'I thought the whole point was to stop lying.'

'Another little 'un in a good cause won't harm me. But the big one . . .'

'That was in a good cause too. A better cause,' insisted Swain. 'For your own daughter, your grandson

'Mebbe it were for them, part of it. But mostly it were for me. I see that now.'

'And what's opened your eyes? That fat policeman? A strange instrument of virtue if ever I saw one!'

'Aye, he's a mad bad bugger, right enough,' agreed Stringer. 'But God's not choosy. It's the Devil who sends his agents in fancy wrapping. And no matter who sent him, one thing's certain, he'll get there in the end. So I'm not being brave or virtuous. I just want to be the one who tells our Shirley.'

'Arnie, you're wrong,' insisted Swain. 'Sit it out. Keep quiet and there's no way Dalziel can . . .'

'Nay, my mind's made up,' said Stringer, rising. 'I know you're only thinking of me, but believe me, Phil, this will be the best for me too. I'll mebbe be able to sleep quiet in my bed again.'

Swain rose too.

'If that's the way you want it, Arnie,' he said.

'It is.'

'Then I'll see you get the best help money can buy. Meanwhile you're still a partner in this business, so let's get some work done, shall we?'

It was getting on for noon and in the less than pastoral surroundings of the police canteen before Wield caught up with Pascoe.

'It's been hell,' said Pascoe. 'We were just going to ship them off to Leeds when Medwin's doting parents turned up with a very nasty solicitor. Seems young Jason didn't turn eighteen till March the twentieth, and the brief got very stroppy about his rights as a minor if he was questioned about offences committed before that date. He had a point.'

'Shit,' said Wield, angry with himself. 'I should have spotted that. It was recognizing him that threw me.'

'Not to worry. I got it sorted,' said Pascoe.

'Thanks. And did you have time to . . . ?'

'Ask your supplementary? What else are chief inspectors for but to clean up after sergeants? Now let me see.' He produced a notebook and thumbed through it. 'You wanted to know if he noticed a vehicle slowing down as he was enjoying himself beating you up. Yes, he did. And it might have been a car or it could have been a van or maybe even a pick-up. And it might have been black or blue or brown or burgundy, and it may have stopped and someone could have got into it, but by this time he was being so cooperative, I reckon he'd have said it was a snow-white stretch limo with Father Christmas in the back if I'd pressed him. Odd. I'd not have put him down as the cooperative type.'

'Mr Dalziel had a heart to heart with him,’ said Wield.

Pascoe grimaced understanding, and grimaced again as he sipped his coffee which occupied the grey area between emetic and enuretic.

'So what you're positing,' he said, 'is maybe someone else was following Waterson too? And you fancy Swain. Any reason other than the fact that the Super would like to fit him up for everything since the Princes in the Tower?'

'Not really. But he did know the meeting was arranged. Mrs Waterson told him.'

'But not where.'

'He could have followed her to start with.'

'Why not just go into the Sally then and speak to Waterson?'

'Because he wanted somewhere more private. Or perhaps he wanted to find out where Waterson was hiding out. Or it could even be he spotted me tailing Waterson and held back. Then when I got attacked, he saw his chance to get to him before I did, drove up and told him to hop in if he didn't want to have his collar felt.'

'And then?'

'Paid him off mebbe. Gave him enough for him and the girl to make themselves scarce.'

'Must've been a hell of a pay-off for them to afford to vanish so completely,' said Pascoe. 'And a pay-off for what? And if Swain owed him money, why not approach him direct to get paid instead of hiding out till he's so broke he's got to touch his wife for a few bob? And why . . .'

Wield was saved from further catechismal punishment by the intervention of Sergeant Broomfield.

'Thought I'd find CID busy down here,' he said. 'Look, I just got this report of an accident. Normally I'd send one of my lads to sort out details but when I saw it was on Philip Swain's land . . .'

Pascoe took the sheet of paper.

'Good God,' he said. 'This sounds nasty.'

'They say it's critical,' said Broomfield grimly.

'What's up? Has Swain been hurt?' asked Wield.

'Not Swain. Arnie Stringer. The JCB went over on him. Thanks, I'll take care of this.'

He passed the paper to Wield.

'Not very lucky, the Swains, are they?' said the sergeant.

'Luckier than the Stringers by all accounts,' said Pascoe. 'Mr Dalziel needs to be told. He's rehearsing, you say?'

'That's right.'

A slow smile split Pascoe's face.

'Tell you what, Wieldy. You get yourself down to the Infirmary and see what's going off there. While I personally will assault the battlements of heaven!'

The cathedral precincts were thronged with small groups of people whom Pascoe at first took for sightseers on a guided tour. But soon he realized that the focal figure in each group was not a travel courier but one of Chung's company busily rehearsing a section of a crowd. He recalled Chung saying, 'You've no idea how much work it takes to get people to look and act like themselves!'

He also spotted Canon Horncastle standing in the dark shadow cast by the Great Tower, his black cloth blending in so closely with the shade that his thin white face looked like some marble gargoyle peering out with malicious disapproval at the activity around. Pascoe waved, but the Canon either did not see or did not care to acknowledge him, and he pressed on to the ruins of the abbey.

Here he found the Greatest Story Ever Told had stopped for a tea-break. Dorothy Horncastle was dispensing mugs of the stuff from a large copper urn, and close by in the midst of a crowd of acolytes stood Chung. She was talking with her usual total animation but when she saw Pascoe approaching, she fell silent and watched him as if he were the person in the world she most wanted to see, making everyone else watch him too.

'I feel like I should be carrying a message from Marathon,' he said, rather embarrassed as she drew him aside.

'And you're not?'

'Not for you,' he grinned, his embarrassment ebbing as he began to glow in the focal heat of her complete attention. 'And I'm not sure if we've won or lost.'

'Either way it's always good to see you, Pete. Was it Ellie you wanted? She was here, sticking her little mike in my face. I thought it was only a little background piece the
Post
wanted but she's going at it like it's the full biography! I hate to think what shock-horror revelations she's going to make. Maybe I should appoint you as my editorial representative in the Pascoe household?'

'No, thanks. I'd rather run a marathon. Is my other boss around?'

'What? Oh, Andy. Yeah. Behold.'

She pointed. It was such a gracefully sensuous gesture that Pascoe had to force his attention from its execution to its direction.

There sitting on a broken pillar a little removed from all the activity was Dalziel. He had his spectacles on and he was busy conning his part, his heavy lips moving as he read the lines.

'I didn't know God was short-sighted,' said Pascoe.

'Shit, I thought everybody knew
that!'
 said Chung. 'Watch how you go with him. His mind's not on the job this morning and I've had to give him a kick or two. He's about ready to start chucking thunderbolts.'

The picture of Chung kicking Dalziel was so delightful that Pascoe laughed as he reluctantly moved away. Meeting Chung always made him feel good.

Meeting Dalziel on the other hand wasn't so invariably pleasant.

'I'm sorry to interrupt,' he said.