Bones & Silence (36 page)

'Is it right what he said, that Mr Dalziel reckons he might have deliberately killed Dad?' she said.

'I don't honestly think so,' said Pascoe. 'Mr Dalziel sometimes likes to stir things up, that's all. Besides, what your father said at the end seems to make it clear it was an accident.'

'I suppose so. Pity he couldn't have managed a few words for his family, though,' she said with a surface irony that didn't altogether conceal real pain.

'How's your mother?' asked Pascoe.

'She wants to sit there a bit longer. But I've got to shoot off now and see to my boy. A neighbour's looking after him. At least I'll see a bit more of him now.'

'Why? I mean, your job . . .'

'I'll not stay. I only took it in the first place 'cos Dad fixed it up and I couldn't bear for him to go on about me being a layabout like he did when Tony told him to stuff his job. But I've never liked Mr Swain much, and anyroad with Dad gone and all that money in the bank, he's going to be wanting something a bit more cut-glass than me answering the phone, isn't he?'

'I don't know,' said Pascoe. 'Only a fool bothers with cut-glass when he's got immortal diamond.'

It was a line which could have sounded emptily corny, but the grave pleasure with which Shirley Appleyard accepted it made the risk worthwhile.

'Thanks,' she said. 'I'll mebbe see you.'

He watched her walking away. Life had tested her hard during her nineteen brief years. He hoped it wasn't a test to destruction.

'Make a complaint?' said Dalziel. 'But why'd he ask
you?'

'Because I was there, I suppose,' said Pascoe.

'He knows you're on my team and he knows the first thing you're going to do is warn me,' said Dalziel reflectively. 'And he could have said all that to my face, couldn't he, and achieved the same effect? So it must have been you in particular he wanted to talk to. But why?'

'I think you're reading too much into it, sir. He was just very angry. Incidentally, was what he said true?
Did
you accuse him of those things?'

'In a manner of speaking,' said Dalziel with the long-suffering expression of one used to misinterpretation.

'In what manner of speaking do you tell a man he's murdered not only his wife but his business partner?' wondered Pascoe.

'In a bloody uncompromising manner,’ growled Dalziel.

'But how can you be so sure, sir?' demanded Pascoe. 'Until we can talk to Waterson and Beverley King, we're stuck with Waterson's statement, and as for Stringer, there's no motive or evidence to suggest anything but an accident, and Stringer's last words confirm this.'

'Mebbe. Bit odd he felt he had to confirm it. Wouldn't you say?'

'He opened his eyes, saw me and Swain side by side, put two and two together and wanted to get things straight. Human nature, when you're dying.'

'You reckon?' said Dalziel, shaking his head. 'Funny view of human nature they sold you at that college, Peter. If I were you, I'd write and ask for a refund. What was it he said again?'

'He said it wasn't Swain's fault, how many times do I have to tell you,' said Pascoe, driven to petulance.

'No, the exact words. First rule of detective work, lad. Always be precise.'

Pascoe took a deep breath, closed his eyes and recited, 'Phil not to blame. God's will. Only helping a friend. Good friend to me.'

'That's it? You're sure?'

'Yes, I'm sure.'

'Then why did you say all he said was that it wasn't Swain's fault?'

'Because that's what he did say!' exclaimed Pascoe indignantly. 'That was the gist.'

'The gist.' Dalziel chewed on the word. 'Aye, the gist. Mebbe that's what Swain wanted you to remember, just the gist! Mebbe that's why he grabbed you and made all that commotion about getting my wrist slapped so you'd come back here full of his pathetic threats and with no better bloody recollection of what Stringer actually said than the sodding bloody gist!'

Dalziel struck his desktop so hard that his telephone jumped inches in the air with a little squeak of alarm and a pile of papers fluttered out of his in-tray on to Pascoe's lap.

'But what else did he say besides it wasn't Swain's fault?' asked Pascoe, clutching the errant mail. A familiar typeface caught his eye and he tried to shuffle it to the top.

'He said, helping a friend, right? How was running a JCB over Stringer helping a friend?'

'He was referring to the job . . .'

'They were business partners! If Marks went out with Spencer to stock shelves, you'd not call that helping a friend, would you?'

'Probably not,' said Pascoe. 'Sir, have you looked at your mail yet?'

'No! When have I had time to look at mail, doing every other bugger's job?' said Dalziel irritably. 'Like yours. You're supposed to be the clever sod with words, aren't you? Well, you've not been so clever here, lad.
Helping a friend .
. . I'll tell you what it means to me, shall I? I think it means there was something Swain did to help Stringer out, and it was a bit dodgy, and when Arnie realized he were popping his clogs, he wanted to be sure his mate didn't get lumbered . . . Are you listening to me, Chief Inspector?'

'Yes, sir. Sorry. It's just that there's a letter here from the Dark Lady.'

'Not another! It's barely a week since the last. I wish she'd put up or shut up!'

'She was helpful last time, sir,' reminded Pascoe.

'I'd have heard about Thackeray soon enough,' said Dalziel ungraciously. 'What's she say this time? Knows who Jack the Ripper was, does she?'

'Nothing so dramatic,' said Pascoe, troubled. 'But you said Tony Appleyard came back up here in February, and you were wondering how it might be that Swain helped a friend

He held out the letter. Impatiently Dalziel snatched it, scanned it quickly then read it again more slowly.

'Christ, it's a bit cryptic, isn't it?'

'Yes. Rings a bell though . . .
beneath these pavements . . .'

'I don't mean the fancy bloody words! I mean, which bloody pavements?'

Pascoe rose and went to the window and looked down. He heard himself saying, 'If Marks went out with Spencer to plant potatoes, he might call
that
helping a friend.'

Instantly he regretted what might later be classified as persuasion, but to his relief, Dalziel was still shaking his head.

'No! I'd need to be dafter than that mad lass of thine! I'd need a lot more to persuade me, let alone Dan Trimble . . .'

The telephone rang. He picked it up and grunted, 'Yes?' and listened.

Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he said to Pascoe, 'It's George Broomfield. He says Swain's just turned up. Wants to see Trimble but he's out feeding his face at one of them civic lunches that don't finish till tea-time. Swain doesn't seem bothered, though. Says he'll wait.'

'Come to complain?' speculated Pascoe.

'Or to check up,' said Dalziel. With sudden decision he spoke into the phone. 'George, where is he? Right, I want you to do something for me. Ring the Council Works Department and ask if we can borrow a couple of pneumatic drills straightaway. And George, use the phone on the desk and speak up loud and clear like it's a bad line. That's the idea.'

He replaced the receiver.

'What . . . ?' began Pascoe but Dalziel laid his forefinger to his lips.

'Silent prayer,' he said. 'Mebbe God'll send us a sign.'

He folded his arms on the bow-front of his belly.

A minute passed. The phone rang again.

'Yes,' rapped Dalziel.

A slow smile oozed over his lips as he listened, then he said, 'Of course. It's open house up here. Fetch him right up.'

He relapsed once more into a Buddha-like repose.

Two minutes passed. There was a tap at the door.

'Come in,' he said gently.

The door was opened by Sergeant Broomfield who said, 'Mr Swain to see you, sir.'

He stood aside and Swain stepped in. He was elegantly dressed in grey slacks and a royal blue blazer, but his hair was ruffled and his face was pale.

'Superintendent. Mr Pascoe,’ he said.

'Mr Swain,' said Dalziel genially. 'Didn't expect to see you again so soon. What can we do for you?'

Swain took another step forward, waited till Broomfield had pulled the door shut behind him, then said in a voice almost too low to be heard, 'I couldn't keep away. I've come here to confess.'

part seven

Angel:
Ilka creature, both old and young;

Believe I bid you that you rise;

Body and soul with you ye bring,

And come before the high justice.

For I am sent from heaven king

To call you to this great assize.

The York Cycle:

‘
The Last Judgment'

May 16th

Dear Mr Dalziel,

It's St Brendan's day. Funny that Ireland which produces so much of the mindless violence which has helped me to despair also produced so many saints. The Navigator they call him, because he travelled around so much. Thinking of him reminded me of another watery story I once read, about a poet, Shelley I think, who went out in a rowing-boat with a friend and her young children. Suddenly his eyes lit up and he .said, 'Now let us together solve the great mystery!' Seeing that he was very close to tipping the boat over, the poor terrified woman managed to say sharply, 'No, thank you, not now. I should like my dinner first and so should the children.' And Shelley rowed them back to the shore instead.

Me, I've run out of smart answers, and when there's nothing left inside to cope with the greater nothingness outside, I reckon that's the time to start rocking the boat!

I don't know if what I told you last time was any use. Probably not. It would have been nice to help you solve your little mystery before I solved my Great One. But I don't suppose it matters much to you. Win some, lose some, there's always another one round the corner. Anyway, here's a farewell thought so obvious, you've probably got it painted on your office wall. If I was looking for someone with no talent for hiding, and he couldn't be found in the places he was likely to hide, I'd start looking in the places he was likely to have been hidden. In times of stress we all turn to what we know. A sailor would turn to the sea, a farmer to the earth; and a builder . . . well, we're only lightly covered in buttoned cloth and beneath these pavements are shells, bones and silence.

Good luck with your searching. And you're right not to waste time on me. I'm not hidden, only lost.

CHAPTER ONE

They took Philip Swain down to the car park. He led the way into the very first garage to have its foundations dug early in February. Here in one corner he drew an oblong on the concrete floor with a piece of chalk.

'You're very precise,' said Pascoe.

'It's not something a man's likely to forget,' said Swain.

As they came out of the garage a council truck pulled into the car park.

'The drills,' said Dalziel with satisfaction. 'They've been quick for a change. Let's get them to work.'

'Sir, mightn't it be best to wait for Mr Trimble?' suggested Pascoe, back in his role of moderating influence.

'What for?' demanded Dalziel, whose euphoria when Swain first appeared had been replaced by a kind of irritated watchfulness as the nature of the man's 'confession' became clear. 'Wieldy's a tidy sort of fellow. He'll keep the mess down, won't you, lad? Come on, sir. Let's get back inside and put a bit of fat on this tale of thine.'

By the time they reached the interview room, they could hear the drills at work.

'Now, sir, in your own time,' said Dalziel. 'You've been cautioned, remember, and Constable Seymour here will be taking notes. So go ahead.'

'I want to start by apologizing,' said Swain quietly. 'I know I've acted very stupidly. All I can say in my defence is I did it for my friend, but even then I wouldn't have become involved if I'd thought that a serious crime had been committed. Arnie told me it was an accident, and he was a man I trusted beyond reserve.'

'The facts, sir,' urged Dalziel.

'Of course. Arnie came to me that Saturday night or early Sunday morning. It was the first weekend in February, I can't recall the exact date. I've never seen a man so distressed. What had happened was he'd heard a noise outside his cottage and went down to find his son-in-law trying to force a window. Obviously he wanted to get in and make contact with Shirley without disturbing her parents. Arnie said he was in a disgusting condition, stinking of drink and vomit. Not only that, he looked so wasted and unwell that Arnie feared it was more than just drink. I'm afraid that Arnie's attitude to things like AIDS was rather fundamentalist. He regarded it as a judgment of God and he did not doubt his son-in-law deserved to be heavily judged.'

'To the point of death, you mean?' said Dalziel.

'If God willed. But not at Arnie's hand, you must believe that. Appleyard took off when he saw Arnie. He made for the farm and Arnie caught up with him by the old barn. He pushed him inside and told him to get away from Yorkshire and never show his face here again. And when he thought he'd made his point, he turned away to go back to the cottage. Now I'm not saying he wouldn't have given the lad a good shaking while this was going on, but nothing more. Only, when he turned away, the boy who must have been almost demented flung himself on Arnie and tried to strangle him from behind. Arnie staggered round trying to shake him off, and finally he got rid of him by throwing him over his head. Unfortunately the boy fell onto an old spike harrow that had been lying around with a lot of other junk for years. One of the spikes went clean through his throat, and when Arnie dragged him clear he was dead. I'm sure a post-mortem will confirm all this.'

'It would have confirmed it then,' grunted Dalziel. 'Why'd he not call the police, this pillar of the chapel? Why didn't you call the police for that matter?'