Bones and Silence
‘Oh aye, but not to pour into this sort of thing.’ She gestured at the yard. ‘She were generous enough by all accounts with things like art and music, wildlife and restoration funds, you know, all the posh sort of things where you meet the top people. I don’t think she’d have been sorry to stop being a builder’s wife.’
‘Well, she’s managed that,’ said Pascoe. ‘Did she strike you as a moody kind of person: you know, on top of the world sometimes, then down in the dumps a bit later?’
His effort to put the question casually failed completely.
‘Drugs, you mean,’ said the girl. ‘Is that what you’re looking for?’
Pascoe thought of reading the Riot Act, of lying through his teeth, then decided that neither of these courses was going to get him anywhere.
‘Would it surprise you?’ he asked.
‘Why should it?’ she asked. ‘People’ll do owt for a bit of pleasure these days. But Mrs Swain, I’d not have said she was more up and down than most, though with her money, she’d be able to afford a steady enough supply for it not to show, wouldn’t she?’
It was a reasonable answer. The more he talked to this girl, the more he felt the need for a sharp mental reprimand. On first sight he’d been ready to categorize her as being as lumpy mentally as she looked physically. Now he realized he’d been very wrong on both counts.
He said, ‘From what you say, Mrs Swain wouldn’t have much to do with the day-to-day running of the business?’
‘Nowt at all.’
He went on, ‘Might she bump into any of your customers, though?’
‘Not in a big room she wouldn’t. There were never that many.’
Pascoe laughed out loud and this natural response was far more effective than his earlier hackneyed attempt at charm, for the girl gave him her first smile.
‘A Mr Gregory Waterson, for instance?’ he went on. ‘Do you know if she ever met him?’
‘Him who had the studio conversion? Oh yes, she met him.’
‘You saw them together?’
‘He came here a couple of times about the job. Once neither Mr Swain nor Dad were around, but he met Mrs Swain in the yard and went into the house with her.’
‘Oh?’
‘Not what you’re thinking,’ she said. ‘Not that I reckon he didn’t try his hand.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’d been roughing out some figures for him and I went to the house myself to give him them and I got the impression he’d been coming on strong and Mrs Swain had told him where to get off.’
‘I see. Did you get the impression he’d persist?’
‘Oh aye. Thought he were God’s gift.’
‘But you didn’t agree with his estimate?’
She shrugged. ‘Funny kind of gift for God to make, I’d say.’
‘But a matter of taste perhaps? Would Mrs Swain perhaps be more interested than she let herself show at first?’
‘How should I know that?’ she asked scornfully.
‘Sorry,’ repeated Pascoe. ‘But as an observer, how would you say things were generally between the Swains?’
Again she shrugged.
‘It was a marriage,’ she said. ‘Anything’s possible.’
Pascoe laughed and said, ‘That’s a touch cynical, isn’t it? If you don’t believe in the power of true love, I think you’ve got the wrong book.’
She picked up her discarded Jane Eyre.
‘You mean it ends happy?’ she said. She sounded disappointed.
‘Afraid so. You’ll need to try men for unhappy endings,’ said Pascoe with gentle mockery. ‘Try Tess of the d’Urbervilles. Or Anna Karenina. Now they’re really miserable!’
He grinned as he spoke and was rewarded with a second faint smile.
‘What’s the rest of this building used for?’ he asked.
‘Down below, you mean? That was the old byre and stables, I think. Now it’s used for garages and to store stuff they don’t like to leave out in the wet.’
‘Is it open? I’d like to take a look.’
‘It’ll be locked. Dad doesn’t trust anybody.’
She picked up a bunch of keys, rose and led the way down the outside stair. She was right. All the doors were padlocked. She stood and watched as Pascoe poked around in a desultory fashion. He had little hope that he was going to find a barrowful of dope out here, and if it were hidden by the thimbleful, it would take a trained dog to sniff it out.
Finished, he walked out into the yard again.
‘Same kind of stuff over there?’ he asked, looking at the barn on the far side.
‘No. That’s empty.’
‘Better have a glance all the same.’
Again she was right. The stone floor was swept clean. He looked up into the rafters, screwing his eyes up against the darkness. He thought he saw a movement. There were certainly patches of darker darkness against the dull grey of the slates.
‘Bats,’ said the girl.
‘What?’
‘Bats. Pipistrelles, I think they call them.’
He took an involuntary step backwards. Dark places he’d never cared much for, even less since his experience down the mine. And the creatures of darkness, in particular bats, made him shudder. Ellie, in whom he detected a definite green shift in recent months, had become a member of a local Bat Preservation Group. Had she opted for whales or wild orchids, he could have gone along with her in passion, perhaps even in person; but while intellectually one hundred per cent in favour of the rights of bats, the thought of actually touching them filled him with horror.
‘It’s all right. They’re hibernating,’ said Shirley Appleyard.
Ashamed of being detected in this unmanly behaviour, Pascoe said brusquely, ‘Why’s this place not used for anything?’
‘Don’t know. There was some talk of Mrs Swain turning it into an indoor shooting gallery.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Came to nowt. Mebbe because of the bats. You can’t disturb them, you know. Or mebbe Mr Swain didn’t like the idea because of his brother.’
‘His brother?’
‘The one who used to own this place. Tom Swain.’
It rang a faint bell.
‘Didn’t he …?’
‘Shot himself a few years back. In here,’ said the girl, deadpan.
‘In here? Not very lucky with guns, the Swains, are they?’
The girl didn’t reply. Pascoe looked around the barn. Bats and a ghost. He couldn’t blame Swain for objecting to his wife’s proposal.
He said, ‘It looks as if someone’s got some plan for it now.’
‘Because it’s been cleared out?’ The girl shrugged. ‘There was nothing but a load of rusty old farm stuff here. Mr Swain got rid of it a couple of weeks back.’
‘So he is planning to use it?’
‘Mebbe. I think he were more interested in the money he got for the scrap.’
‘Really?’ said Pascoe, alert to this hint of financial problems. ‘Money a bit short, is it?’
‘You’d need to ask Mr Swain or my dad about that,’ said the girl.
‘Sorry. I’m not going behind their backs, but you did mention the scrap,’ he said conciliatorily.
‘Yes, I did,’ she admitted. ‘It were just that it amused me at the time.’
She looked the kind of person who might well treasure up anything which proved a source of amusement.
‘What was funny about it?’ he asked.
‘Just the name of the dealer, that was all. They called him Swindles.’
‘Joe Swindles?’ said Pascoe.
‘That’s right. You know him? That figures.’
It was true that the police and Joe Swindles were long acquainted, but the old boy had gone for some years now without overstepping the mark, and in fairness Pascoe said, ‘Just socially. There’s nothing against him.’
‘Too clever, is he?’
Pascoe laughed, then stopped as he was sure he heard a respondent squeaking from up in the rafters.
He said, ‘Well, that’ll do, I think,’ and stepped out into the sunlight.
The girl took this as her dismissal and went back up the stairway to her office without saying anything more.
He watched her, frowning, then went back into the house.
Seymour was on his knees in the kitchen with his head in the electric oven.
‘If you’re trying to kill yourself,’ said Pascoe, ‘I’d opt for gas. If not, then pack up. I’ll just ring in, then we’re on our way to the gun club.’
He dialled the station and got through to Wield.
‘Is he in?’ he asked.
‘Eden Thackeray’s turned up to see Swain,’ said the Sergeant. ‘The Super’s taken him upstairs for a chat and a drink.’
‘Will he be long?’
‘Depends,’ said Wield. ‘You know he fixed up for Swain to be checked out for drugs? Well, the doctor’s been held up on some emergency and the Super won’t be wanting to let old Eden at his client before he’s been given the once over. Is it anything important?’
‘Just a negative on drugs at Moscow,’ said Pascoe. ‘But the business doesn’t look too healthy financially. Send him a note in, will you? How’d you get on?’
Wield gave him a brief account of his interview with Mrs Waterson. As he listened Pascoe flicked through the pages of the wedding album which he’d laid on the table by the phone. Shirley Appleyard had been a little ungenerous. Certainly at the time she was married, Gail Swain had been rather more than all right. He paused at an all-female group photograph by the side of a palm-fringed swimming pool. Even among those tanned and cosseted women she stood out, slim, radiant, her fair hair glowing like a candle flame.
But as he drove away from Moscow Farm a few moments later it was an image of a stocky, unkempt, pale-faced woman reading Jane Eyre that he took with him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Philip Swain is an interesting, not to say complex character,’ said Eden Thackeray. ‘I’m surprised you were not previously acquainted, Andrew.’
‘We were. He’s the jobbing builder mucking up our car park,’ said Dalziel.
‘I mean socially. As twin luminaries in our great social galaxy, I would have expected your orbits to cross before now.’
Dalziel grinned. He enjoyed Thackeray’s gentle pisstaking in much the same way as the solicitor enjoyed his more gamesome assaults. Superficially everything about the two men was different, but it was mainly a difference of style. Beneath his bland exterior, the senior partner of Messrs Thackeray, Amberson, Mellor and Thackeray was as sharp, ruthless, and even anarchic as Dalziel himself.
‘They’ve crossed now,’ said the fat man. ‘And they used to build gibbets at crossroads. So why’s he interesting, apart from having shot his missus?’
‘Andrew, please. A slip of the tongue, I realize, but you really should be more careful.’
‘I’m the most careful bugger you’ll meet in a summer day at Scarborough Fair,’ said Dalziel. But he smiled as he spoke. Information came before provocation. He had said nothing yet about the content of his own witness statement. On the other hand, to balance matters, he hadn’t mentioned Waterson’s either, nor the latter’s defection.
‘Mrs Swain’s suicide is part of a long tragic history for that family,’ resumed Thackeray. ‘He’s a Swain of Currthwaite, you knew that, of course?’
‘I know he lives out there. I thought he’d be just another townie with a daft American wife playing at country living.’
‘Not entirely unjust,’ admitted Thackeray, holding his glass to the light to admire the crystal facets and also, apparently fortuitously, to point its emptiness. Dalziel groaned satirically and refilled it with the twelve-year-old Islay he’d dug out of his desk on the lawyer’s arrival.
‘How kind. Yes, Swain is by education and, I suspect, inclination, a townie. But there have been Swains at Currthwaite since Elizabeth’s day. Minor country gentry rather than good yeoman stock, I’d say. Indeed, they have usually appeared if not reluctant, certainly rather feckless farmers. But with a great sense of loyalty to the place. They were forever getting into debt, and on many occasions even lost the farm, but somehow they always contrived to get it back. Their saving grace has been that, despite the fact that few of them have shown any talent for safe investment and humdrum business, there is a consistently recurring strain of ingenuity and opportunism which has hitherto pulled them back from the brink of complete disaster.’
‘Good con-men, that’s what you mean?’ said Dalziel.
Thackeray sighed and said, ‘What I mean is what I say, Andrew. To continue, Philip is the product of the family’s last period of prosperity in the post-war years.’
‘Spiv time,’ grunted Dalziel. ‘Sorry. Go on.’
‘His elder brother, Tom, was naturally in line for the farm, and Philip was packed off to college to read business studies. It was a superstitious rather than a sensible choice. Philip’s bent was entirely practical and something like engineering would have made much more sense, but I think his father hoped that by laying him on the altar of commerce, he might at last appease Mammon and usher in a long period of prosperity for the Swains.’
‘You don’t half talk pretty,’ said Dalziel, topping up their glasses. ‘Is that how you get to charge so much?’
‘It helps. Where was I? Oh yes. Philip did all right, nothing spectacular, but family influence helped him to a job locally with Atlas Tayler who you may recall were successfully making the transition from old electrics to new electronics in the seventies. He was still playing his promising young executive role there five years later when they got taken over by the American company, Delgado International, who were keen to establish a European base.’
‘Delgado. Hey, he called his mother-in-law Mrs Delgado.’
‘Perhaps because that’s her name, Andrew,’ said Thackeray kindly. ‘Yes, he married into the family, albeit a cadet branch. He and Gail met when the Americans ferried a group of their new staff out to head office in Los Angeles on a re-orientation course. They fell in love. No doubt the family looked him over, decided there was no harm in adding a bit of family loyalty to the financial ties binding Atlas Tayler to them, and gave their approval. So it was back here after the honeymoon and onward and upward in his executive career. Meanwhile, back at Moscow Farm, his father had died and brother Tom was making a real pig’s ear of running things. It was hard to lose money when the EEC were practically paying farmers to grow less, but Tom was the worst kind of Swain.’
‘I doubt it,’ growled Dalziel.
‘For heaven’s sake, Andrew, I’m telling you all this so you will understand what a decent and reliable citizen my client is,’ snapped Thackeray.
‘Oh aye? I thought you were just spinning things out till the bottle was empty,’ said Dalziel. ‘Also, it doesn’t say much for the family lawyer letting all these Swains get so deep in trouble.’
‘I’m very conscious of that. But there’s a secretive streak about them when it comes to money matters,’ said the lawyer, frowning. ‘I doubt if even Philip knew just how bad things were with the farm, though I know he’d been putting what funds he could afford at Tom’s disposal for some time. But finally it all got too much for the poor man and one day he went into the barn and blew his brains out. That’s why even you should realize what a devastating effect this new tragedy will have had upon my client.’
‘Aye, it must be a bit rough,’ said Dalziel with spurious sympathy. ‘So that’s how Phil got his hands on Moscow, was it?’
‘Yes, but it was an inheritance more troublesome than covetable. Everything that could be mortgaged was, and all the buildings had fallen into a sad state of disrepair. There was no way that Philip’s salary could take care of things, but happily his wife had a not inconsiderable dot and was sufficiently taken by the notion of family roots to pour out dollars with a liberal hand till Moscow Farm became a place fit for a Californian to live in. I suspect that was the happiest time of their marriage. She got a real kick out of interior decorating, by plastic card of course, while he enjoyed himself even more by planning and helping with the restructuring.’
‘What about farming?’
‘His practical bent didn’t extend to things that mooed or needed planting. But he hung onto the land. A wise move, when you see what has happened since between the village and the town. To this government, a Green Belt is a martial arts qualification needed for survival in the Cabinet. Once the land to the east is all gone, there’ll be planning permission for the asking on Moscow’s acres to the west, and prices will rocket.’
‘Right,’ said Dalziel. ‘So we’ve got Philip Swain with a good job, his family home all refurbished, and lots of valuable development land in the foreseeable future. How come he ends up as a small builder with cash-flow problems?’
Thackeray sipped his whisky and wondered why Dalziel was being so blatant. The phone rang on the fat man’s desk. He picked it up, listened, said, ‘You’re sure? Shit. All right, stick him in two. I’ll be down shortly.’
‘Bad news?’
‘Depends how you look at it. So what happened when Delgado decided to back out of Britain?’ Dalziel asked.
‘You recall that?’
‘Aye. Five hundred lost jobs was still making headlines two years ago,’ growled Dalziel. ‘And wasn’t there a lot of flak about a Yankee contrick?’
‘Indeed. Delgado’s certainly played their cards very close to the chest. Right up to the announcement of closure, everyone thought they were in fact planning to expand their UK investment instead of relocating it in the cheaper pastures of Spain. There were rumours of a takeover bid for a company in Milton Keynes. Of course it could never be proved that Delgado’s started them deliberately, but certainly they were up and away before the unions knew what had hit them.’
‘But not Swain?’
‘No. Philip took his redundancy money like the rest of them. He had the usual Swain longing to be master of Moscow and his own life. Like a good Thatcherite, he decided to create his own small business. He chose building, partly because he believed he’d discovered a constructive talent in himself while putting the farm to rights. And partly because of Arnold Stringer.’
‘That’s the big gingery chap who’s Swain’s foreman?’
‘Swain’s partner,’ corrected Thackeray. ‘Also his childhood playmate. There have been Stringers in Currthwaite as long as Swains, peasant stock as opposed to gentlemen farmers, of course, and chapel rather than church, but such divisions were never urged upon the young. Indeed, according to local folklore, a Swain cuckoo has from time to time slipped into the Stringer nest. Whatever the truth, the two boys went happily to the village school together. Later of course their paths diverged. Stringer was a farm worker at Moscow at fifteen, decided there was no future in it when he got married at eighteen, took a job on a building site, and eventually set up on his own in a small way. And that’s how he stayed. It’s clear he wasn’t cut out to be one of Mrs T’s success stories. He still lives in one of the few Moscow farm cottages still standing and it was natural that when Philip took over he should push the basic re-building work his way. It was equally natural that when Philip started looking for an entrée into the construction business, he should opt for energizing his old schoolmate’s firm. Stringer’s trade expertise, Swain’s social contacts, it was potentially a winning combination.’
‘You approved?’ said Dalziel.
‘I felt there were worse ways for him to invest his lump sum,’ said Thackeray carefully. ‘He is a Swain, after all, and I was fearful he might just pour his redundancy pay-off down some empty gold mine.’
‘And since then?’ said Dalziel refilling their glasses.
‘Since then, what?’
‘Well, this winning combination hasn’t exactly been bothering Wimpey’s, has it? As far as I can make out, doing our car park and garages is the biggest job they’ve ever had. And like I say, my lad, Pascoe, reckons there’s not a lot of money in the bank. Though likely things’ll be different now his missus has been sent off?’
‘Andrew,’ said the lawyer warningly.
‘Just thinking aloud,’ said Dalziel. ‘Another thing strikes me. Situated like he was, married into the family and all, he must have been a right useless wanker for Delgado’s to turn him off like a factory hand.’
‘That is where you’re wrong,’ said Thackeray. ‘I happen to know that Swain was offered a top executive post with an excellent salary at head office in Los Angeles.’
‘But he couldn’t bear to leave sunny Currthwaite, is that it?’
‘Partly, yes,’ said the lawyer seriously. ‘But there was something else which may help you understand the quality of the man. Because they did not trust his native loyalties, Philip was not made privy to Delgado’s plans. When news of the closure came out, he was enraged.’
‘Was he now? Aye, he struck me as a good actor too.’
‘This was no act, believe me,’ urged Thackeray. ‘You ask the unions involved. There’s not one of them will hear a bad word against Swain.’
‘So you’re telling me Swain jacked in his sinecure with Delgado’s as an act of solidarity with his downtrodden comrades?’ said Dalziel.
‘Andrew, I’m not telling you anything,’ said Thackeray, suddenly aware how far he’d let himself be led in discussing his client’s background. ‘I’m merely passing the time of day till whatever obstacle lies in the way of my immediate interview with my client is removed. With another kind of officer I might by now have grown suspicious. But if one member of the Gentlemen’s Club cannot trust another, what is the world coming to? Incidentally, talking of the Gents, I gather you have not yet taken up your allocation of Ball tickets, so I have brought them along. They are in great demand so any you do not want for your own guests will be easily disposable. It’s twenty-five pounds the double ticket, so that will be two hundred and fifty pounds.’
‘Christ,’ said Dalziel. ‘When we were lads, you could go to a good hop, with a guaranteed jump after, if it weren’t raining, all for one and six. And she paid for her own.’
‘That was a long time ago, long enough for the present good cause to seem not unattractive, perhaps. Think of it as an investment.’
Dalziel glared at him balefully as he wrote a cheque. The Gents were sponsoring the Mayor’s Spring Charity Ball which this year was in aid of the local Hospice Appeal fund. He tossed the cheque over the table and said, ‘I’ll just go and see what’s holding things up.’
‘Take your time,’ said Thackeray, reaching for the Islay.
Dalziel went down to No. 2 interview room feeling irritated. Things weren’t going smoothly. First of all the police doctor’s late arrival had necessitated keeping Thackeray occupied, a tactic which had so far cost him two hundred and fifty pounds and a deal of malt. Then had come Pascoe’s message that Moscow Farm was clean. And finally he’d just been told on the phone that the doctor could find no signs of addiction, physical or psychological, on Swain.
The builder was looking weary but still in control. Dalziel, aware of Thackeray’s imminence, came straight to the point.
‘How long had your wife been a drug addict, Mr Swain?’
Swain made no effort at shock or indignation but shook his head and said, ‘So this is what this has all been about?’
‘You knew about her habit, then?’
‘She was my wife, for God’s sake. How couldn’t I know? All right, she had a problem but she’d kicked it.’
‘That’s not what the pathologist says.’
‘You mean she was snorting again? No, I didn’t know.’
‘Snorting? No, lad, not snorting. She’d got more perforations than a sheet of stamps,’ exaggerated Dalziel.
His reaction was startling. He stared at Dalziel incredulously and cried, ‘You what? Injecting, you mean? Oh Christ! The bastard!’
And as he spoke these words he smashed his left fist hard into his right palm, you could see the knuckle prints. This was genuine beyond histrionics. But who was he thumping? wondered Dalziel.
‘This bastard, who is he?’ he asked gently. ‘Do you mean Waterson?’
‘What? No. Of course not. He’s not the type. There’s no way it could be him.’ He didn’t sound very convincing.