Bones & Silence (35 page)

'I doubt it,' snarled Dalziel, not looking up. 'But it can likely be arranged. What do you want? Forgotten how to wipe your nose?'

If not a thunderbolt, it was certainly a very torrid blast.

'Things going well, I hope, sir?' said Pascoe with unctuous solicitude.

Now Dalziel looked up.

'No,' he said. 'They're not, as mebbe yon Chung's told you already. You two look very matey. I hope you're behaving yourself, lad. Man with a wife and kiddie should look for his naughties with a discreet widow in another town.'

The old sod's jealous, thought Pascoe with a shame-making pang of triumphal delight.

'I'm sorry you're having trouble,' he said. 'Is it the lines?'

'No, it's not just the lines. I can make up the lines. It's the whole bloody daft business! How the hell I got myself into it in the first place I'll never know.'

Pascoe made his face a blank and said, 'It'll be all right on the night, I'm sure. But there was something I thought you would like to know about Swain...’

'Swain! That bugger. It's him that's been on my mind all morning. Here's me playing God and I can't even nail one miserable bloody sinner. What's he done now?'

'Nothing that I know of, but there has been an accident.'

He gave what details he could. Dalziel rose, stuffing his script into his pocket.

‘There's altogether too many accidents happen around that sod,' he said, his eyes gleaming. 'It's time I arranged a few of my own.'

'I know you want to keep him in the frame for his wife's death . . .'

'The frame I want to keep him in's got bars on it and a sign on the door saying "not wanted on voyage".'

'Andy, where are you going? We're ready to start again.'

It was Chung blocking their path. Now this is true elemental drama, thought Pascoe. The irresistible force and the immovable object.

'Sorry, luv. This is urgent. Deathbed deposition, likely. And as it's not Lazarus, I'd best get a move on.'

'For Christ sake, Andy! Can't Pete here handle it? You've got any number of highly qualified staff but I've got only one God!'

She was gorgeously angry, and using a joke to keep it under control.

'Some things are too important to be left to the help,' said Dalziel portentously. 'Anyroad, God is everywhere, isn't that what the Bible says? So really I'm not going at all, am I?'

It was all rather disappointing. Suddenly the immovable object stepped aside and the irresistible force swept on.

'Sorry,' said Pascoe with a ruefully apologetic smile.

'For what? He was no use to us today anyway.

‘Perhaps I should have gone for you after all, Pete,' said Chung.

It was, he hoped, another controlling joke, but he didn't stay to find out.

Wield was waiting for them at the main entrance to the Infirmary.

'They're still working on him,' he said. 'I've spoken to Swain. He's so cut up it's hard to make sense of him, but what seems to have happened is, he was working the JCB on the steepest bit of Crimper's Knoll when it began to slide. Stringer was down the slope a ways. When he realized what was happening he tried to get out of the way but the ground was still slippery from the overnight rain, and he lost his footing and the JCB went over him. Mrs Stringer and the daughter are up in the waiting-room on the surgery ward.'

'How're they?' asked Pascoe.

'Holding on,' said Wield. 'It's Swain who looks like he's falling apart.'

'That's how I like 'em,' said Dalziel, rubbing his hands. 'Wieldy, you've got somewhere I can talk to him?'

'Sister lent me an office. He's still in there.'

'Right. Show me. Peter, you've got a nice sympathetic smile. You go and keep the Stringers company.'

'I doubt if sympathetic smiles are what they want right now,' said Pascoe.

'Jesus,' said Dalziel. 'I'm not asking you to pay asocial call. Go and talk to them and see if they know anything!'

'What about?'

'If I knew that, I wouldn't have to go down on my hands and knees to get you to find out, would I?'

Both men looked at Wield. Both shook their heads sadly inviting support. Wield arranged the Alpine rugosities of his face into what he hoped was a Swiss neutrality and quickly turned away.

Swain did indeed look to be deeply distressed. Dalziel, who considered he had a fair nose for bullshit, was surprised to detect the scent of genuine emotion, but he comforted himself with the thought that even a cold cunt like Swain might be expected to be temporarily taken aback after running a JCB over his mate.

'Any news?' demanded Swain as the Superintendent entered the office.

'About what?' asked Dalziel. 'Oh, you mean about Stringer. No, I think they're still trying to reassemble the pieces. You brought everything back, did you? Marvellous what they can stitch back on if they get it while it's still hot.'

The builder's emotional turmoil coalesced for a moment into a glance of pure hatred as he demanded, 'What the hell do you want here, Dalziel?'

'Accident. Culpable negligence maybe. That's police business, wouldn't you say? But we know that's not the whole of it, or even the half, don’t we, Mr Swain? We both know what I'm really after is nailing you for topping your missus. Nay, lad. You sit still. No need to get excited. This is just a friendly chat between chums. Yes, we are chums in a way. It's shared intimacies that bind friendships, and there's nowt much more intimate than watching a man blow his wife's head off, is there? All right, screwing her, maybe, but I've never been keen on watching that sort of thing. It either turns you on or it turns you off, and either way's not much help to a busy milkman. So come on, Phil! Between mates, why'd you run your digger over poor old Arnie? I mean, it couldn't be to save Moscow Farm again! You'll have paid off Muncaster Securities by now, I expect. And anyroad, poor old Arnie won't be leaving you a wagonload of dollars, will he? Or had you been forging his signature too perhaps? But what to, for God's sake? By the look of him, if you stuffed every penny he'd got into the poor box, it'd still rattle. Nay, this is all too deep for me. This'll take some plumbing and you know what it's like getting a plumber these days. So I'll need your help, Phil. Tell you what. Why don't we sneak off somewhere and have a pint and you can get it all off your chest, then I'll put you down and you can rest peaceful in your bed till slopping-out time? What do you say?'

It was an avalanche of a speech, meant to sweep Swain off his feet while he was still emotionally off balance. But Eden Thackeray had been right about Swain's temperament. However flawed his long-term judgements, when it came to here and now, he was a downhill racer.

Shaking his head in disbelief, he said, 'You really are mad, Dalziel, it's not just an act. You're right off your trolley.'

'No need to talk like that, lad,' said Dalziel. 'What's up? Can't you take a joke? Is this all the thanks I get for trying to cheer you up while you wait to see if you've killed your mate or not?'

At last he got through, for suddenly Swain was on his feet. But whether his rage had impetus enough to carry through a physical attack was not to be proved for at the moment of truth the door opened and Wield appeared.

He looked at the scene disinterestedly and said, 'Sorry to butt in, sir, but they've brought Mr Stringer back from the theatre.'

'Let's hope he enjoyed the show. How is he?'

'They wrap it up, sir, but as far as I can make out, it's touch and go whether he wakes up before he snuffs it.'

'Bad as that? Hardly seems worth the bother. On the other hand, a man's last words should always be listened to with respect, wouldn't you agree, Mr Swain?'

Swain did not reply but pushed past the two policemen and disappeared down the corridor.

'Any luck there, sir?'

'Hard to say. No visible damage but if you keep pounding away at the ribs, you're bound to sap a bit of their strength. Couple of hours somewhere with no windows and a thick wall and I reckon he'd cave in. But I dare say Mr Pascoe's missus would be sticking Amnesiacs International onto us before I could get a result. Peter, what the hell are you doing here?'

'Didn't Wieldy tell you?' said Pascoe, who was standing peering out of a window into the green and pleasant Infirmary gardens. 'Stringer's in the recovery room and they've let his wife and daughter sit by his bed.'

'And that's where you should be too, lad. Front row stalls! I bet Swain's trying to book his ticket.'

'I saw him a moment ago. He looks terrible, really upset.'

'Aye. I believe he really is,’ said Dalziel. 'Wouldn't you be?'

'If I thought I'd killed a friend? Yes, of course I would.'

'Oh aye? Well, that's one way of looking at it.'

'I can't think of any other,' said Pascoe.

'You can't?' said Dalziel. 'How about if you thought you'd killed an enemy and found out maybe you'd done a botched job? How would you feel then, Detective Chief Inspector?'

CHAPTER SIX

Arnie Stringer opened his eyes for the last time at three o'clock in the afternoon. Though he lay in a sunlit room, for a few moments everything seemed grey and fuzzy. Then like a holiday slide coming into focus, he saw things sharp and clear, his wife and his daughter, dark-eyed and pale; his friend and partner, dry-lipped with worry; and a half-familiar youngish man, his eyes screwed up in mute apology.

It occurred to Stringer that if this were a holiday slide it had been a lousy holiday. His jokes were rare enough for him to want to share this one, but he was aware that he had life-force enough left for only a very few words. His mind seemed to be compensating for his bodily weakness by working at the speed of light and he had already rehearsed a dozen sage and serious family valedictions when it came to him who the stranger was.

Staring straight at Pascoe, he said slowly and distinctly, 'Phil not to blame. God's will. Only helping a friend. Good friend to me.'

And that was it. Time for one last look of . . . affection? exhortation? regret? ... at his wife and daughter, then he let himself slip to his reward, the exact nature of which had always been something of a puzzle to him. He did not doubt it would contain an opportunity for chapel folk to say a big I-told-you-so to the church folk across the way, but the rest was . . . the rest was . . . mystery . . .

A nurse, needing to confirm what needed no confirmation, summoned a doctor. It was Marwood. He made to draw the sheet over the dead man's face but Mrs Stringer said, 'No, he couldn't thole being covered up.'

Marwood nodded and moved away. Pascoe said, 'Mrs Stringer, Shirley, I'm sorry. He was a good man.' Mrs Stringer said tearfully, 'Thank you, he were,' but Shirley only returned his gaze blankly. He went after Marwood and found him outside the door.

'All roads lead you lot to the Infirmary, it seems,' said the doctor.

'Too many of them,' said Pascoe. 'How's Mrs Waterson by the way?'

'Looking like she ought to be one of her own patients,' said Marwood. 'You making any progress, or is that too much to ask?'

'No.'

'No, it's not? Or no progress?'

'Both, I fear,' said Pascoe.

'At least you're honest.'

'A good quality in a policeman and in a doctor too, wouldn't you say?'

'Depends on the patient. And on the suspect, I'd guess. Be healthy.'

Pascoe watched him walk away. He had sensed an ambiguity in the man's inquiry into progress in the hunt for Waterson. It figured that a man in love with a woman whose husband was missing might have mixed feelings about his reappearance. Yet earlier Marwood had been keen to the point of snouting to see the police get their hands on Waterson.

Suddenly Pascoe thought of Wield and the car which had slowed down as he was being beaten up by Jason Medwin. He had been very sceptical of the sergeant's attempts to implicate Swain, but now it occurred to him that there had been someone else who knew of the Sally rendezvous that evening.

Marwood.

He had rung Wield with the tip-off. What if then he had gone along himself to see the fun? And instead of the expected arrest, he had seen Wield diverted and Waterson on the point of getting away, so he had acted himself and offered Waterson a lift and . . .

And what? Here the hypothesis petered out. Marwood had come on duty by the time Wield got taken to the Infirmary, so that left very little time for . . . anything.

But how much time did it take for . . . anything? Especially for a doctor?

And here was a classic explanation of that ambiguity he had sensed.

A man, a woman, and a body. Only if the body is found will the woman feel free to give herself to the man. But if the body is found and something in the manner of death points at the man, then he loses both the woman and his liberty.

'Mr Pascoe!'

It was Swain, obviously addressing him for the second or third time.

'I'm sorry. I was miles away.'

'So I gathered. I would like some information. What is the procedure for laying a complaint against a member of the police force?'

Pascoe was jerked back to full alertness. Swain, he observed, seemed to have made a rapid recovery from the trauma of Stringer's death and looked quite his old self again.

'Depends what you have in mind, sir,' said Pascoe.

'What I have in mind is to do whatever is necessary to prevent that creature Dalziel from harassing and maligning me.'

'I'm sure the Superintendent has no intention of causing you offence,' lied Pascoe. 'I know he can be a little heavy-handed at times. It's really just a matter of style . .’

'Telling me I murdered my wife and deliberately turned the JCB over on Stringer, that's style? You heard what Arnie said? I hope you made a note of it. It was an accident, a tragic accident. But what's the use of talking to you? Another five stone and fifteen years and you'll just be the same as Dalziel. I'll leave it to my lawyer. Once he gets to work, you won't be able to close ranks tight enough to hide that fat bastard!'

He turned and strode away. For the first time Pascoe noticed that Shirley Appleyard had come out into the corridor and was standing a few feet away.