An April Shroud

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Yeah. Look, man, you take that up with the Post Office, OK? No, she’s not available right now. I mean, we just had the funeral so she may not want to talk insurance. OK. I’ll tell her.’

He replaced the phone.

‘Sphincter?’ said Bertie.

‘That’s it. Seems to think we’re trying to avoid him. The usual moans. He’s a pain. I should have asked if we were insured against Nig’s taking off!’

Louisa’s sibling solicitude, recently overflowing, was now completely spilt.

‘Little bastard,’ she said. ‘He should have been drowned at birth.’

‘That’s a bit strong,’ protested Tillotson, but she ignored him and followed Uniff out of the room.

Tillotson caught Dalziel’s eye and grinned sheepishly.

‘Someone ought to tell Pappy,’ said Bertie suddenly. He was right, thought Dalziel, but he obviously had no intention of doing anything about it himself.

‘Yes, they should,’ said Tillotson. ‘I’ll take the punt.’

He left, whistling cheerfully.

‘Go with him,’ said Dalziel.

‘Do you mean me?’ said Bertie incredulously.

‘I’m not so old I see bloody spectres,’ said Dalziel. ‘Who else? You really want a drowning on your hands, then let the lad go punting by himself. Hurry up.’

‘Why can’t you go?’ demanded Bertie.

‘I’m older than you,’ said Dalziel, patience draining away. ‘And I’m colder than you, and I’m wetter than you, and I’m a guest in your fucking house, and I don’t care a toss if yon silly bugger ends up in the south Pacific. But he’s your friend. So get a bloody move on!’

Bertie moved, looking rather dazed. At the door he paused, opened his mouth goldfish-like, but left without speaking.

‘You’ve had practice,’ said Mavis admiringly. ‘What was it? Army?’

Dalziel had lost sight of her presence and looked at her assessingly, working out if an apology were in order. He decided not.

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Natural leadership qualities. That one needs a bit of stirring.’

‘Mebbe so,’ said the girl. ‘But don’t be too certain about Bertie. Some people develop that kind of complacency as a cover. The world’s ruled by calm, smug, self-righteous pigs, and they’ve all been clever enough to get to the top of the dungheap.’

‘Cocks,’ said Dalziel.

‘Eh?’ said the girl warily.

‘It’s cocks on dunghills, not pigs,’ he explained. ‘I don’t expect there’s a lot of nature study in Liverpool.’

‘You’d be surprised. Hank’s right. You are wet. Better get into something dry or you might find yourself spending more time here than you plan.’

‘I don’t plan to spend any time here,’ said Dalziel. ‘What about you? Just down for the funeral, are you?’

She shook her head, her straight black hair moving with it and stopping when the negative movement stopped. It was heavy and wiry, perfectly natural and with none of the gloss and bounce the TV commercials projected as the most desirable qualities of the female – and male – coiffure.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Business mainly.’

Dalziel sneezed.

‘Business,’ he echoed invitingly, but all she answered was, ‘You’re mad to hang around like that.’

‘I suppose I am,’ he said. ‘I’d best go and see if I can borrow any more clothes from the late lamented. Hey, he didn’t die of anything catching, I hope?’

‘Not unless having a hole drilled through your chest’s catching.’

‘What?’

‘He fell off a ladder in the Banqueting Hall,’ said Mavis. ‘You’ve seen the Banqueting Hall, have you? Well, when the builders stopped coming, Conrad decided to have a go at the do-it-yourself. He was up the ladder with an electric drill trying to fix one of the beams. The ladder slipped. Down he came. Unfortunately he fell on to the drill and it was locked on. Straight through his ribs into the heart. Goodbye, Conrad.’

‘That’s nasty,’ commented Dalziel, more because he felt it was expected of him than because he felt any distress. But it was certainly an interesting way to go.

‘Was he by himself?’

‘Yes.’

‘So no one saw it happen?’

‘What do you want? Colour pictures?’

‘No. I don’t think so. Well, I’d best get dried. It’s been nice talking to you, Miss Uniff.’

‘Mavis will do. It makes me feel younger.’

‘You want to feel younger?’ he said, surprised.

‘Oh yes,’ she answered. ‘When I see what age does to you, I want to feel as young as I can possibly get, Mr Dalziel.’

‘And what does age do to you?’

‘It makes you crazy for money, I think,’ she said slowly. ‘Like, in the end perhaps that’s the only way left to keep on pretending you’re young.’

‘I’ve stopped pretending,’ grinned Dalziel.

‘That’s what they all think. But you’ll see. You’re not rich are you, Mr Dalziel?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘It might do. If you’ve got money and you stay in this house much longer, you’ll be offered a deal. You might not even notice but you will. Go and get dry now.’

Dalziel lay naked in the dead man’s bed under half a dozen blankets. After stripping off his wet clothes and towelling himself down till his flabby and fat-corrugated skin glowed, suddenly a warm nap had seemed best of all things.

He had pondered a long time on the events of the day and decided that though there was enough in this household to make him curious, so far it was curiosity at a personal rather than professional level. There must have been an inquest on Fielding and the usual investigations. It wouldn’t require much effort on his part to get an unofficial look at the finding. But he had no intention of doing so. Oh no. This was an interesting interlude, a bit damper but probably a bit more lively than following a guide round some mouldy cathedral or making conversation with some poofy hotel barman. But tomorrow he’d be on his way. If they couldn’t do anything about his car, then sod it. He’d hire another and collect his own later.

Relaxed by his resolve, he fell asleep.

When he awoke it was quarter to six and he was starving. He rubbed his eyes, yawned, scratched his groin sensuously and headed for the bathroom.

What kind of nosh did they dish up here? he wondered as he pushed open the door. Old Fielding had made some nasty crack about Mrs Greave, the cook. But it’d have to be very bad to blunt Dalziel’s appetite tonight.

The bathroom was full of steam. He paused in the doorway. Someone moved among the wraith of vapour and he had no difficulty in recognizing Mrs Fielding though her head was half covered by a towel and the rest of her body was not covered by anything but a healthy post-hot-bath glow.

‘Beg pardon,’ he said, stepping back and closing the door. But he couldn’t close out the mental picture of what he had seen and when he sat down on the bed, he realized he had the beginnings of an erection.

He whistled softly as he considered the phenomenon. He was far from being a sexual obsessive. Indeed, since his wife had left him, his sex life had been minimal. Not that opportunity was short. Like any society dedicated to money and male chauvinism, Yorkshire provided the kinds of relief strong men need from the pressures of the day. But a police officer had to be very careful. It was on the surface a very conventional society and scandals were easily kindled. As for paying for it, Dalziel refused on a point of pride rather than principle.

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