Bones and Silence
He turned away to re-enter his house but something made him turn again almost immediately. Suddenly from soft porn it was all action movie on the golden screen … a man moving … something in his hand … another man … a sound as explosive as a cough too long suppressed during a pianissimo … and without conscious thought, Dalziel was off and running, cursing with increasing fervour and foulness as he crashed from one pile of household detritus to another.
His gate was unlocked. The gate of the house behind wasn’t, but he went through it as though it was. He was too close now to see up into the first-floor room. It occurred to him as he charged towards the kitchen door that he might be about to meet a gunman equally anxious to get out. On the other hand there might be people inside as yet unshot, whom his approach could keep that way. Not that the debate was anything but abstract, as if an incendiary dropped on Dresden should somehow start considering the morality of tactical bombing as it fell.
The kitchen door flew open at a touch. He assumed the lay-out would be similar to his own house, which it was, saving him the bother of demolishing walls as he rushed through the entrance hall and up the stairs. There was still no sign of life, no noise, no movement. The door of the room he was heading for was ajar, spilling light on to the landing. Now at last he slowed down. If there had been sounds of violence within he would have entered violently, but there was no point in being provocative.
He tapped gently at the door and pushed it fully open.
There were three people in the room. One of them, a tall man in his thirties wearing a dark blue blazer with a brocaded badge on the pocket, was standing by the window. In his right hand was a smoking revolver. It was pointing in the general direction of a younger man in a black sweater crouched against the wall, squeezing his pallid terrified face between his hands. Also present was a naked woman sprawled across a bed. Dalziel paid these last two little attention. The young man looked to have lost the use of his legs and the woman had clearly lost the use of everything. He concentrated on the man with the gun.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said Dalziel genially. ‘I’m a police officer. Is there somewhere we can sit down and have a little chat?’
He advanced slowly as he spoke, his face aglow with that deceptive warmth which, like a hot chestnut in your lap, can pass at first for sensuous delight. But before he got quite within scorching distance, the gun arm moved and the muzzle came round till it was pointing at Dalziel’s midriff.
He was no gun expert but he had experience enough to recognize a large-calibre revolver and to know what it would do to flesh at this range.
He halted. Suddenly the debate had moved from the abstract to the actual. He turned his attention from the weapon to its wielder and to his surprise recognized him, though he had to bang shut his mental criminal files to get a name. There was a connection with the police but it wasn’t professional. Not till now.
‘How do, Mr Swain,’ he said. ‘It is Mr Swain, the builder, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said the man, his eyes focusing properly on Dalziel for the first time. ‘That’s right. Do I know you?’
‘You may have seen me, sir,’ said Dalziel genially. ‘As I’ve seen you a couple of times. It’s your firm that’s extending the garages behind the police station, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
‘Detective-Superintendent Dalziel.’ He held out his hand, took a small step forward. Instantly the gun was thrust closer to his gut. And in the split second before launching what might have been, one way or another, a fatal attack, he realized it was not being aimed but offered.
‘Thank you,’ he said, taking the barrel gently between two huge fingers and wrapping the weapon in a frayed khaki handkerchief like a small gonfalon.
The transfer of the weapon released the younger man’s tongue. He screamed, ‘She’s dead! She’s dead! It’s your fault, you bastard! You killed her!’
‘Oh God,’ said Swain. ‘She was trying to kill herself … I had to stop her, Waterson … the gun went off … Waterson, you saw what happened … are you sure she’s dead?’
Dalziel glanced at the man called Waterson, but cataplexy seemed to have reasserted its hold. He turned his attention to the woman. She had been shot at very close range. The gun he judged had been held under her chin. It was a powerful weapon, no doubt about that. The bullet had destroyed much of her face, removed the top of her head and still had force enough to blow a considerable hole in the ceiling. The last oozings of blood and brains dripped quietly from her long blonde hair to the carpeted floor.
‘Oh yes,’ said Dalziel. ‘She’s dead all right.’
Interestingly his stomach was feeling much calmer now. Could it be the running that had done it? Mebbe he should take up jogging. On second thoughts, it would be simpler just to avoid mineral water in future.
‘What happens now, Superintendent?’ asked Swain in a low voice.
Dalziel turned back to him and studied his pale narrow face. It occurred to him he didn’t like the man, that on the couple of occasions he’d noticed him around the car park with his ginger-polled partner, he’d felt they were a right matching pair of Doctor Fells.
There are few things more pleasant than the coincidence of prejudice and duty.
‘Impatient are we, sunshine?’ he said amicably. ‘What happens now is, you’re nicked!’
part two
Adam: Alas what have I done? For shame!
Ill counsel, woe worth thee!
Ah Eve, thou art to blame;
To this enticed thou me.
The York Cycle: ‘The Fall of Man’
February 14th
Dear Mr Dalziel,
I want to say I’m sorry. I was wrong to try to involve a stranger in my problems, even someone whose job it is to track down wrongdoers. So please accept this apology and forget I ever wrote.
In case you’re wondering, this doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind, only that next time I feel in need of an untroubled and untroubling confidant, I’ll ring the Speaking Clock! That might not be such a bad idea either. Time’s the great enemy. You look back and you can just about see the last time you were happy. And you look ahead and you can’t even imagine the next time. You try to see the point of it all in a world so full of self-inflicted pain, and all you can see are the pointless moments piling up behind you. Perhaps counting them is the point. Perhaps the best thing I can do with time is to sit listening to the Speaking Clock, counting off the seconds till I reach the magic number where the counting finally stops.
I’m growing morbid and I don’t want to leave you with a nasty taste, though I’m sure a pint of beer would wash it away. I’m writing this on St Valentine’s Day, the feast of lovers. You probably won’t get it till St Julianna’s day. All I know about her was she specialized in being a virgin and had a long chat with the Devil! Which do you prefer? Silly question. You may be a bit different from other men but you can’t be all that different! So forget Julianna. And forget me too.
Your valedictory Valentine
CHAPTER ONE
Peter Pascoe’s return to work was not the triumphal progress of his fantasies. First he found his parking spot occupied by a heap of sand. For a fraction of time too short to be measured but long enough to excoriate a nerve or two, he read a symbolic message here. But his mind had already registered that the whole of this side of the car park was rendered unusable by a scatter of breeze blocks, hard core, cement bags, and a concrete mixer.
Behind him a horn peeped impatiently. It was an old blue pick-up, squatting low on its axles. Pascoe got out of his car and viewed the scene before him. Once there had been a wall here separating the police car park from the old garden which had somehow clung on behind the neighbouring coroner’s court. There’d been a tiny lawn, a tangle of shrubbery, and a weary chestnut which used to lean over the wall and drop sticky exudations on any vehicle rash enough to park beneath. Now all was gone and out of a desert of new concrete reared a range of unfinished buildings.
The pick-up’s peep became a blast. Pascoe walked towards it. The window wound down and a ginger head, grizzling at the tips, emerged above a legend reading SWAIN & STRINGER Builders, Moscow Farm, Currthwaite. Tel. 33809.
‘Come on,’ said the ginger pate, ‘some of us have got work to do.’
‘Is that right? I’m Inspector Pascoe. It’s Mr Swain, is it?’
‘No, it’s not,’ said the man, manifestly unimpressed by Pascoe’s rank. ‘I’m Arnie Stringer.’
‘What’s going on here, Mr Stringer?’
‘New inspection garages. Where’ve you been?’ demanded the man.
‘Away,’ said Pascoe. ‘Not the best time of year to be working outside.’
It had been unseasonably mild for a couple of weeks but there was still a nip in the air.
‘If bobbies with nowt better to do don’t hold us back talking, we’ll mebbe get finished afore the snow comes.’
Mr Stringer was obviously a graduate of the same charm school as Dalziel.
It was nice to be back.
Retreating to the public car park, Pascoe entered via the main door like any ordinary citizen. The desk area was deserted except for a single figure who observed Pascoe’s entry with nervous alarm. Pascoe sighed deeply. While he hadn’t really expected the Chief Constable to greet him with the Police Medal as journalists jostled and colleagues clapped, he couldn’t help feeling that three months’ absence to mend a leg shattered in pursuit of duty and a murderous miner deserved a welcome livelier than this.
‘Hello, Hector,’ he said.
Police Constable Hector was one of Mid-Yorkshire’s most reliable men. He always got it wrong. He had been everything by turns – beat bobby, community cop, schools’ liaison officer, collator’s clerk – and nothing long. Now here he was on the desk.
‘Morning, sir,’ said Hector with a facial spasm possibly aimed at bright alertness, but probably a simple reaction to the taste of the felt-tipped pen which he licked as he spoke. ‘How can we help you?’
Pascoe looked despairingly into that slack, purple-stained mouth and wondered once more about his pension rights. In the first few weeks of convalescence he had talked seriously about retirement, partly because at that stage he didn’t believe the surgeon’s prognosis of almost complete recovery, but also because it seemed to him in those long grey hospital nights that his very marriage depended on getting out of the police. He even reached the stage where he started broaching the matter to Ellie, not as a marriage-saver, of course, but as a natural consequence of his injury. She had listened with a calmness he took for approval till one day she had cut across his babble of green civilian fields with, ‘I never slept with him, you know that, don’t you?’
It was not a moment for looking blank and asking, ‘Who?’
‘I never thought you did,’ he said.
‘Oh. Why?’ She sounded piqued.
‘Because you’d have told me.’
She considered this, then replied, ‘Yes, I would, wouldn’t I? It’s a grave disadvantage in a relationship, you know, not being trusted to lie.’
They were talking about a young miner who had been killed in the accident which crippled Pascoe and with whom Ellie had had a close and complex relationship.
‘But that’s not the point anyway,’ said Pascoe. ‘We ended up on different sides. I don’t want that.’
‘I don’t think we did,’ she said. ‘On different flanks of the same side, perhaps. But not different sides.’
‘That’s almost worse,’ he said. ‘I can’t even see you face to face.’
‘You want me face to face, then stop whingeing about pensions and start working on that leg.’
Dalziel had come visiting shortly after.
‘Ellie tells me you’re thinking of retiring,’ he said.
‘Does she?’
‘Don’t look so bloody betrayed else they’ll give you an enema! She doesn’t want you to.’
‘She said that to you?’
Dalziel filled his mouth with a bunch of grapes. Was this what Bacchus had really looked like? AA ought to get a picture.
‘Of course she bloody didn’t,’ said Dalziel juicily. ‘But she’d not have mentioned it else, stands to reason. Got any chocolates?’
‘No. About Ellie, I thought …’ He tailed off, not wanting a heart to heart with Dalziel. About many things, yes, but not about his marriage.
‘You thought she’d be dying to get you out of the Force? Bloody right, she’d love it! But not because of her. She wants you to see the light for yourself, lad. They all do. It’s not enough for them to be loved, they’ve got to be bloody right as well! Your mates too mean to bring you chocolates, is that it?’
‘They’re fattening,’ said Pascoe, loyal to Ellie’s embargo.
‘Pity. I like chocolate. So drop this daft idea, eh? Get the years in first. And you’ve got that promotion coming up, they’re just dragging their feet till they’re sure you won’t be dragging yours. Now I’d best be off and finger a few collars. Oh, I nearly forgot. Brought you a bottle of Lucozade.’
He winked as he put it on the bedside locker. The first bottle he’d left, Pascoe had taken at face value and nearly choked when a long swig had revealed pure Scotch.
This time he drank slowly, reflectively. But the only decision he reached after another grey night was that on your back was no place for making decisions.
Now here he was on his feet, thinking that on your back might not be such a bad place after all.
‘Constable Hector,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I work here. DI Pascoe, remember?’
In Hector’s memory a minute was a long time, three months an eternity.
He’s going to ask for identification, thought Pascoe. But happily at that moment, Sergeant Broomfield, chief custodian of the desk, appeared.
‘Mr Pascoe, good to see you back,’ he said, offering his hand.
‘Thanks, George,’ said Pascoe with almost tearful gratitude. ‘I thought I might have been forgotten.’
‘No chance. Hey, have you heard about Mr Dalziel, though? Got himself a killer, single-handed, last night. He says that round here they’re so certain of getting caught, they’ve taken to inviting CID to be present! He doesn’t get any better!’
Chuckling, the sergeant retired to the nether regions while Pascoe, conscious still of Hector’s baffled gaze, made his way upstairs. He had brought his stick, deciding after some debate that it was foolish to abandon it before he felt ready. But as he climbed the stairs he realized he was exaggerating its use. The reason was not far to seek. I’m reminding people I’m a wounded hero! he told himself in amazement. Because there wasn’t a reception committee, and because Fat Andy has somehow contrived to upstage me, I’m flaunting my scars.
Disgusted, he shouldered the stick and tried to run lightly up the last couple of stairs, slipped and almost fell. A strong hand grasped his arm and supported him.
‘I expect you’d like another three months away from here,’ said Detective-Sergeant Wield. ‘But there’s got to be easier ways. Welcome home.’
Wield had the kind of face which must have thronged the eastern gate of Paradise after the eviction, but in those harsh features Pascoe read real concern and welcome.
‘Thanks, Wieldy. I was just trying to prove how fit I am.’
‘Well, if you fancy a miracle cure, come and touch God’s robe. You heard about his little coup last night?’
‘I got a hint from Broomfield.’
‘You’ll get more than a hint up here.’
Dalziel was on the phone but he waved them in expansively.
‘Couldn’t take the risk of hanging about, sir,’ he was saying. ‘He might have been away or we could’ve ended up with one of them hostage situations, tying up men and traffic with reporters and the SAS crawling all over the place!’
He made them both sound like rodents.
‘Thank you, sir. Ten o’clock? That’ll suit me fine. And I’ll make sure them buggers carry on working regardless!’
He replaced the receiver.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘I gather congratulations are in order.’
‘I believe they are,’ said Dalziel complacently. ‘Though Desperate Dan’s got mixed feelings. Doesn’t know whether to pat my back or stab it. Either way he’ll need a box to stand on!’
He was referring to Dan Trimble, Chief Constable, who, though small by police standards, was not a dwarf.
‘Mixed feelings? Why?’
‘Being out of practice at detective work, lad, you likely didn’t notice it’s like a bomb site down there.’ Dalziel had risen and was looking out of his window. ‘That’s Dan’s personal project. Part of his grand modernization plan. Rumour is he set the coroner up with a rent boy to get him to part with his garden. And he probably had to flog his own ring to get those tight bastards at County Hall to allocate the money. Trouble is, if the work’s not finished in March, the money is! That’s why Dan was all set to give me a kiss and a police medal till he heard who it was I’d nicked.’
‘And who was it, sir?’ asked Pascoe.
‘Swain. Philip Swain. Chap whose building firm’s doing the work down there. Or not as the case may be.’
He opened the window, leaned out and shouted, ‘Hey! What are you buggers on? A slow motion replay? If King Cheops had had you lot, we’d be looking at the first bungalow pyramid.’
He closed the window and said, ‘Got to keep ’em at it. At least till I’ve got my hands on Dan’s congratulation Glenmorangie. He wants to see you too, Peter. Nine-thirty sharp.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Pascoe, hope and unease stirring simultaneously.
‘That’s right. By God, it’s good to see you back! We’ve been snowed under these last few weeks. I’ve dumped a few things on your desk just to ease you back in again.’
Pascoe’s heart sank. Dalziel’s few was anyone else’s avalanche.
‘What exactly did happen last night,’ he asked by way of diversion.
‘Nowt much. I happened to see this chap, Swain, blowing his wife’s head off next door, so I went in and disarmed him and brought ’em both back here …’
‘Both? You brought the body as well?’
‘Don’t be daft. There were this other chap there, name of Waterson, it’s his house. He were scared shitless, could hardly move or talk. The quack took one look at him, shot him full of something and got him admitted to the Infirmary. Me and Swain had a little chat, he told a lot of lies, and an hour later I was enjoying the sleep of the just. That’s how neat and tidy we’ve been doing things since you’ve been away, lad, but no doubt now you’re back, you’ll start complicating things again.’
‘I’ll try not to, but I’m still a bit vague as to what precisely happened. This fellow Swain …’
‘Nasty bit of work. Just the type to top his missus,’ said Dalziel.
‘You’ve had other dealings with him?’
‘No. Only ever seen him twice before but some people you can sum up in a second,’ said Dalziel solemnly. ‘I gave him plenty of rope and he’s just about hanged himself, I reckon. Take a look at his statement and you’ll see what I mean.’
He pushed a photocopied sheet across the desk and Pascoe began to read.
I make this statement of my own free will. I have been told I need not say anything unless I wish to do so, and that whatever I say may be given in evidence. Signed: Philip Swain.
My name is Philip Keith Swain. I live at Moscow Farm, Currthwaite, Mid-Yorkshire. I am a partner in the firm of Building Contractors known as Swain and Stringer, working from the same address. I am thirty-eight years old.
A short while ago my company was engaged by Gregory Waterson of 18 Hambleton Road to convert his loft into a draughtsman’s studio. During the course of this work, he visited my premises on several occasions. These visits brought him into contact with my wife, Gail. I saw that they had become very friendly but any suspicions I might have had that the relationship went further I put out of my mind for two reasons. The first was that I simply did not want to risk a confrontation with Gail. For some time she had been behaving in an increasingly irrational fashion, bouts of deep depression alternating with moods of almost manic liveliness. When she was down, she talked sometimes of killing herself, more specifically of blowing her head off. I wanted her to see a doctor but, being American by birth, she had always refused to have anything to do with English doctors whom she regarded as mediaeval in both equipment and attitude. She did however promise to see an American doctor as soon as she returned to the States. And this was the other reason I made no comment about Waterson. I knew Gail was going back to California in the near future.
Early last summer her father had died. She was very close to him and I think it was from this date that her bouts of depression set in. The news that her mother’s health had gone into a rapid decline since Gail had returned to England after her father’s funeral made matters worse. I think she had blamed her mother for her father’s death and had not been careful to conceal her feelings, and now she was feeling guilty herself. These are necessarily amateur observations. All I knew for certain was that her mental state was far from stable, but everything pointed to nothing but good coming from her return to Los Angeles with the opportunity this would afford for sorting things out with her mother and also for consulting her family physician.
She was due to leave on Sunday February 8th. I had offered to drive her down to Heathrow, but despite the mild weather, she said she was worried about bad road conditions and she would go by train. She refused my offer to accompany her, saying she knew how much work I had on my plate, and then, when I persisted, demanding angrily if I didn’t think her capable of making a simple train journey alone. At this point I desisted and in fact went to work on the Sunday morning to take advantage of the continuing good weather, and thus did not even see her out of the house. I was therefore relieved when she rang me the following day, ostensibly from Los Angeles, to say she’d arrived safely.
I heard nothing further from her but a woman rang up a couple of times and asked to speak to her. When I told her Gail was out of the country, she made a sort of disbelieving sound and rang off. Then earlier tonight she rang again. I’m certain it was the same woman, she sounded young, with a Yorkshire accent though not very strong. She asked me if I still believed Gail was in America. I said yes, of course. And she went on to say that I was wrong and if I wanted to see Gail I ought to go round to 18 Hambleton Road. Then she rang off.
I immediately rang Gail’s mother in LA. I got through to the housekeeper-cum-nurse that Mrs Delgado, my mother-in-law, had taken on since her illness. She said Gail had never arrived but had sent a cable to say she was stopping off to see some friends on the East Coast and would get in touch as soon as she knew when she’d definitely arrive. No one was surprised as Gail was notoriously impulsive. I made light of the matter and advised the nurse not to mention my call to Mrs Delgado as I didn’t want her to worry. But I myself was very worried and the only thing I could think of to do was go round to Hambleton Road.
I arrived at 10.30. There were lights on but Mr Waterson took a long time to answer the door. When he saw who it was, at first he looked shocked. Then he said, ‘You know, don’t you?’ And as soon as he said that, I did.
The odd thing was I didn’t get angry, perhaps because I got the feeling he was almost relieved to see me. He said, ‘You’d better come in.’ I said, ‘Where is she?’ He said, ‘She’s upstairs. But don’t go rushing up there. She’s in a very strange mood.’ I asked what he meant and he said she had been drinking heavily and was talking about killing herself. I said something like, ‘So she’s putting you through that hoop too? Tough luck.’ And he said, ‘You mean you’ve seen her like this before? That’s a relief. But that gun scared the shit out of me. Is it really loaded?’