Bones and Silence dap-11

by Reginald Hill

  As he drew near, the Peugeot's indicator started winking as it tried to force its way back into the stream of traffic. Pascoe halted alongside and leaned across to open his window. The Peugeot driver did the same. He had a round red farmer's face which looked fertile ground for rustic jollity but was presently tarred with indignation.

  'What's your problem, mate?' he demanded.

  'Mr Park?'

  'Who's asking?'

  Taking this as affirmative, Pascoe introduced himself.

  ‘I called earlier. I wonder if we could have a word. It won't take long,' said Pascoe with a reassuring smile. Behind him someone tooted impatiently. He went forward another twenty yards and found a spot to park illegally. Then he got out and walked back to where Park was now standing on the pavement talking to Govan, the shop-keeper. Jollity had resumed its rightful place and the man greeted him effusively, 'Sorry about that, Mr Pascoe. Thought you were some half-baked twit wanted to leave his car there while he popped in to Mr Govan's for a bag of ginseng. As a matter of fact I was just on my way to look you up. Mr Govan said you'd called and as I'm a bird of rare passage so to speak, I thought I'd better check it out.'

  It wasn't a local nor any kind of northern accent. Pascoe thought he detected a West Country burr overlaid with something closer to London.

  'That was very good citizenly of you, Mr Park,' he replied.

  'Self-interest. I don't want to have a heart attack because you decide to flag me down on the motorway,' he said with a hearty laugh. 'Step inside out of the weather.'

  Pascoe found himself ushered into a narrow and smelly passage alongside the shop and through a flaking door. Here Park paused to empty a box stuffed full of what looked like junk mail before leading the way up a flight of creaking and uncarpeted stairs and through another door which decoratively was the twin of that below.

  After all this squalor, the flat was a pleasant surprise. A single large living-room, with kitchenette and shower-room off, it was freshly decorated and comfortably appointed.

  ‘This is nice,' said Pascoe.

  'Isn't it,' said Park proudly. 'I like to leave it scruffy outside. I'm away such a lot, the less attractive it looks to the criminal fraternity the better. Am I right or am I right, Mr Pascoe?'

  'Very wise. I gather you're a traveller, Mr Park.'

  'That's right. Veterinary products. It's pretty specialized so a small patch is no use to me. When I've got something good to sell, I've got to push it as wide as I can if I'm to live as well as I like, so draw a line south of the Wash and north of Carlisle, that's my area. Can I get you a cup of tea?'

  He went into the kitchenette without waiting for an answer. Pascoe picked up an ornately carved rosewood box from the table, opened it and studied its contents. Two safety-pins, a button and a china thimble. After a moment he sensed he was being studied in his turn. Looking up, he saw Park smiling at him from the kitchenette.

  'Sorry,' he said closing the box. 'Habit.'

  That's all right. You look at whatever you like, my son. I've got some nice stuff. Morocco, that's where that box came from. I always like to bring something nice back from abroad. Poke around the cupboards. God knows what you'll find.'

  Pascoe didn't accept the invitation but he did walk around the room peering at some rather pleasant water-colours of local scenery. There was only one window and it overlooked the back yards and loading areas of the String Lane shops. Immediately below he spotted Mr Govan's ginger mop. The Scot was closing the rear door of a small blue van. He then walked round to the driver's door, halted, looked down, and swung his foot at the front wheel. It was impossible to hear what he was saying, but the mime was so perfect that Pascoe had no difficulty in imagining the rich Scots oaths that greeted his discovery of the flat tyre.

  'Sugar?'

  'No, thanks,' he said turning. He sat down in a comfortable white leather chair and sipped the excellent tea which Park offered him.

  'Now what can I do for the police?' said the traveller.

  'Last night I believe you were drinking at the Pilgrim's Salvation,' said Pascoe.

  'That's right. But not too much,' said Park defensively.

  'I'm pleased to hear it. Do you use the Sally a lot, Mr Park?'

  'Occasionally. No more than three or four other pubs.'

  'And was there any special reason you chose it last night?'

  'No. I just fancied a drink and the Sally popped into my mind.'

  'So you weren't meeting anyone there?'

  'No. What's this all about, Mr Pascoe? You're getting me worried.'

  'No need,' smiled Pascoe. 'The two men who got into your car with you when you left, who were they?'

  Park looked at him in amazement, with a pink edge of indignation.

  'What is this?' he demanded. 'Am I being watched or something?'

  'Nothing like that,' said Pascoe. 'The men?'

  'I don't know, do I? I was leaving and I said, anyone want a lift towards the centre? and these two chaps said thanks very much.'

  'You always offer complete strangers lifts?'

  'I didn't say they were complete strangers, did I? We'd got talking, half a dozen of us, chewing the fat the way you do in a pub. These two, one was called Bob and the other Geoff. I dropped 'em off together at the corner of the market place. You're not telling me they were wrong 'uns, are you? I can't believe it!'

  Pascoe shook his head slightly and said, 'There was another man with you outside the pub. He didn't get in the car but walked off by himself.'

  'Oh, him. What was his name? Glen, I think. He joined in the chat and left the same time I did. I offered him a lift but he said no, he was going in the other direction. Is it him you're interested in?'

  'Possibly. When he left you outside, you didn't get any hint of where precisely he might be heading?'

  Park thought a while then shook his head.

  'No, sorry. Who is he anyway? What's he done?'

  'Nothing, except prove rather elusive,' said Pascoe, rising. 'Thanks very much for your time, Mr Park.'

  Down on the pavement a pasty-faced girl with lank brown hair was rattling the handle of the shop door. Govan had shut up early, it seemed. Pity. The girl looked much in need of health food.

  He started his car and edged out into String Lane. He should at least have felt some satisfaction at removing one more query from his list, but his mind was ill at ease. Park had a powerful personality. It was easy to see he'd make a good salesman. But the further you got away from him, the more his jollity, his amiability, his plausibility, began to seem a surface. His uncollected mail showed he hadn't been up to his flat, so he must have just arrived back in String Lane when Pascoe spotted him. Govan, like a good citizen, had told him instantly that the police wanted to talk to him, and Park, like an even better citizen, had set off for the police station without even getting out of his car . . . were ever two such good citizens gathered before in one place? Then up the stairs, the easy chit-chat, the making of tea, the invitation to poke around his cupboards . . . while down below, Govan had shut up shop in the middle of market day and was loading something into his van . . .

  He was at the end of String Lane. He turned left and left again into a narrow, almost tunnel-like entry which if his geometry was right ought to open up into the service area behind the shops. It did. And there was the blue van, jacked up with a wheel leaning against its side. The rear doors were open and Govan stood there, in his hands a cardboard box which he was handing to Harold Park.

  Pascoe got out of his car, stooping to pick up his walking stick which lay alongside the front seat. He used it as little as possible, but there were still occasions when it came in useful.

  The two men looked at him as if he were a pantomime demon, popped up from a trap. Park was the first to recover.

  'Hello, again,' he said, beaming. 'Forget something? Me too. I'd asked Mr Govan to store these samples for me and I'd almost gone off without 'em.'

  He held out the box for inspection. The black
lettering on it read Romany Rye Veterinary Products 24 x 500 grams Flea Powder.

  'How interesting. I'll try some of that on my pussy,' said Pascoe, reaching for the box. He saw the age-old debate argued out on Park's face: fight or run. Saw the ballots cast. And as the salesman with a nimbleness which belied his bulk turned and headed for the open rear door, Pascoe used his own casting vote by hooking his walking stick around the man's left ankle.

  He hit the rough ground with a crash which made Pascoe wince with empathized pain. Behind him he heard movement and turned to ward off any proposed attack. But Govan too had voted for flight. Pascoe watched with interest as he leapt into his van and started the engine. It would have been a splendid racing start, rear tyres screaming as they burnt rubber in search of traction. As it was, the jack collapsed, the front bumper ploughed into the ground, and the only screaming that was to be heard was the Scot's as his face collided with the windscreen.

  Pascoe sighed, returned to his car and unhooked his radio mike. 'Assistance, please,' he said. 'Rear of Food For Thought, the health food store on String Lane. One car will be enough. But we'd better have an ambulance.'

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was Andrew Dalziel's proud boast that he could go anywhere and receive the same welcome. Only the words sometimes varied.

  'What the hell do you want?' demanded Philip Swain. 'Haven't we seen enough of each other for one day?'

  'I thought you were keen to start rehearsing the Mysteries,’ said Dalziel, smiling like a turnip lantern. 'Can I come in?'

  'You can wait there till I ring Thackeray,’ growled Swain. He turned and retreated to a wall phone.

  Dalziel stood obediently on the doorstep, still smiling. Two things he'd done between his pint and pie at the Black Bull and coming out to Currthwaite. First he'd rung Messrs Thackeray, etc. and ascertained that old Eden was out at a client conference in Harrogate. Secondly he had checked the inquest record on Tom Swain.

  Mitchell was right. The gun had indeed been his sister-in-law's Python which he had borrowed from the club armoury, allegedly to test its power on the range. It had been Philip Swain who discovered his brother's body out in the barn, a site selected, according to Tom's farewell letter, because he did not wish to taint any room in the farmhouse with distressing memories. This letter had seemed to be the most businesslike document the elder Swain had prepared during his disastrous tutelage of the farm. In it he carefully catalogued his debts, separating them into prospective, imminent, immediate, overdue and subjudice. Perhaps his intention was a definitive assessment of the situation before opting for this most final of solutions. If so, his plan had been incontrovertibly confirmed. The grand total was vast. Most of it was still to pay off after Philip Swain inherited, and Dalziel had come to sympathize with Gail Swain. She must have had to dig deep even before the physical refurbishment of the place began. No wonder she broke the pitcher when her husband came back to the well after his building firm ran into trouble.

  Swain hung the phone up angrily. Dalziel continued to smile. Now it was decision time for the builder: follow Thackeray's advice and refuse to talk until the lawyer was available, or show how little he had to fear by letting the policeman in?

  A firm believer in his own maxim, never offer a choice unless you don't mind which choice is made, Dalziel said with lively interest, 'Why's it called Moscow Farm, Mr Swain? I mean, a place this old must go back before us ignorant buggers up here in Yorkshire had ever heard of Moscow. How old is it, anyway?'

  It was hard not to answer two questions on a subject so dear to Swain's heart.

  He said, 'Seventeenth-century, most of the present building. But there's bits of the mediaeval walls still in situ, and records show there was a settlement here before Domesday.'

  'And Moscow?'

  'The name's changed a couple of times, usually after it passed out of the family's hands for a while. Beginning of the last century we lost it and one of my ancestors went off to do a bit of soldiering in Europe. A mercenary. Five years later he turned up rich enough to buy it back. He changed the name to Moscow. The story was that he somehow made his cash during Napoleon's retreat, though it was never clear whose side he was officially on.'

  'How the hell do you make money out of something like that?' wondered Dalziel, genuinely curious now.

  'Looting the poor bastards who froze to death, I expect,' said Swain. 'As you may have heard, it's an old family tradition that anything's permissible when it comes to the farm.'

  He spoke sardonically, clearly intending to let Dalziel see he knew what the fat man was up to, but the gibe faded into surprise as he became aware of his surroundings. Somehow as they talked he and Dalziel had moved from the doorstep to the sitting-room and the fat man was now sitting at his ease in a broad old-fashioned wing chair.

  'What the devil is it you want?' exploded Swain.

  Dalziel's expression became earnest.

  'First I want to say I'm sorry we seem to have got off on the wrong foot, Mr Swain. Now I've got a clear picture of what really happened, I'd like to start over again, so that, like Mr Thackeray said, we can get this all cleared up and you can enjoy your sorrow in private.'

  'I'll drink to that,' said Swain, regaining some of his equilibrium.

  'Now that's a grand idea. Scotch'll be lovely.'

  Swain looked a little put out to be taken so literally, but he fetched Dalziel a reasonably large Scotch with a reasonably good grace.

  'That's better,' said Dalziel. 'Nippy out. Looks like we're getting the real winter at last. You'll have been glad it kept off so long.'

  'Will I?'

  'Because of the car park job, I mean. Can't be much fun laying bricks in a blizzard. But no work, no pay, eh?'

  'Dan Trimble wanted it done as soon as possible,' said Swain, inserting the familiarity casually. 'And the long term weather forecast was good.'

  'But not the short term financial forecast? Still, no worries now, not once all them lovely dollars drop into your account.'

  'What's that supposed to mean?' demanded Swain, angry again, but this time in control of his anger.

  'Whoah!' exclaimed Dalziel. 'Don't get mad. I thought that was all behind us. I'm not meaning to be offensive, Mr Swain. You'll get your wife's brass, that's only right, that's the way she wanted it, else why make your wills the way you did?'

  'What do you know about our wills?' asked Swain.

  In fact Dalziel knew very little except what he'd guessed, but he saw no reason not to sow a little discord between Swain and his lawyer.

  'You mustn't blame anyone,' he said. 'There's nowt confidential about a will. Question some people might ask though is, if your missus had managed to get back to the States, would she have changed it?'

  'Changed it? Why?'

  'In my experience, wives aren't bothered much about benefiting their husbands after giving them the old heave-ho!' sneered Dalziel.

  But Swain was out of reach of his provocation now.

  'Who says Gail was leaving me?' he asked quietly.

  'Come on, Mr Swain. Stands to reason, doesn't it? She wanted you to take up a post with the family firm in California, you wanted her to pump money into your business here. She gives you an ultimatum, then shacks up with her boyfriend. Any chance of a drop more of this? It's a Glenlivet, isn't it?'

  It was the need of thinking space rather than hospitality which took Swain back to the drinks cupboard, but Dalziel didn't mind. His gratitude was all to God for making some men clever enough to squeeze whisky out of barleycorn, and himself clever enough to squeeze it out of a stone.

  'You seem to have been very busy sticking your nose into my affairs, Dalziel,' said the builder grimly.

  'Your wife's affairs. Sorry, I didn't mean . . . but now you've brought the subject up, did she have a lot of affairs, Mr Swain, or was Waterson a one-off?'

  'I don't know! How the hell should I know? Waterson was the first that I knew of and it came as a great shock to me!'

  'Aye, so you sa
id. But you didn't live in each other's pockets, did you? You had your interests, she had hers. Like this Arts Committee. And the Gun Club. Must've spent a lot of time there, made some close friends, especially when she were on the team.'

  Swain's grimness dissolved into a harsh laugh.

  'Mitchell, you mean? For heaven's sake, man, Gail grew up surrounded by real Hollywood studs. You don't think she was going to find that pathetic imitation anything but amusing, do you?'

  'There's all kinds of amusement,' probed Dalziel.

  Swain took a long pull at his whisky. To drown a resurgence of rage? If so, the Scotch proved a good palliative, for his response was measured and reasonable.

  'OK, look, I don't know. I was deceived once, so why not a dozen times?'

  He should have let his anger speak. It would have rung truer than this rueful acceptance of possible cuckoldry, thought Dalziel. Or was he, as Pascoe clearly thought, letting prejudice colour all his responses to Swain? He felt a sudden uncharacteristic flood of self-doubt. OK, so the man had plenty of motive for killing his wife, but most men did, and vice versa. Might it not after all have been simply a happy accident that just when he must have thought all was lost, Gail had turned out not to be in Los Angeles changing her will, but in Hambleton Road, killing herself?

  He looked at Swain and thought, No! Swains don't have that sort of luck! In fact from what he'd learned of the family, they seemed to suffer from congenital bad luck. What they did have, some of them, was a certain capacity for grabbing at straws, for plucking their own salvation out of other people's disaster.

  Sod all the contradictions and contra-evidence! Sod pious Pascoe and his clever little experiments! In Dalziel's book of certainties Swain had killed his wife, and Dalziel had as good as seen him do it! The flood of self-doubt had parted and he was safely through it, but there was still a long trek to the Promised Land.

  He said, 'A man needs to be busy himself to be deceived, Mr Swain.'