When he opened his eyes again, Nigel was standing at the foot of the bed.
'Where's the grapes, son?' asked Dalziel.
'What?'
'You're standing there like a reluctant relative on a sick visit. For Christ's sake, make yourself comfortable.'
The boy came round the bed and sat in the chair vacated by his mother. Bonnie pushed Dalziel's feet aside and sat at the foot of the bed. She opened her mouth to speak but Dalziel shushed her.
'I'll do the talking,' he said. 'You listen. Both of you. I'll be brief. Don't interrupt. This whole project was never a serious attempt to get a restaurant going. At least not on your dad's part, Nigel. I mean, think about it! A medieval Banqueting Hall! Did you ever hear of owt so daft! So what was going on? I'll tell you. Bertie came home from Liverpool one fine day with a bright scheme for burning this place down and picking up the insurance. Only, it had to be a bit more complicated than that. To really collect you need something worth insuring, not just a tatty old house.
'He'd got a taste for this when he was in Liverpool and he was dealing with Uniff's bit of fire trouble. They recognized fellow spirits and came to an arrangement by which Uniff claimed for ten times more stuff than got damaged. It was so easy, they reckoned they could make a good living out of it.
'So they work out this scheme. It's ingenious. Launch what looks like a genuine business venture, so you're insuring not only a building which has rocketed in value since it got refurbished, but also the business itself. I haven't seen the policy yet, but I gather they're covered for six months' loss of estimated profits. Plus, of course, a little bonus. You're covered for all fittings, furnishings, stock etc. But why burn it? Why can't it, like Uniffs equipment, just be moved elsewhere? Resold later? I wondered why anyone should want to store all that junk I found. But I soon caught on. If you're going to claim for expensive reproduction furniture and hangings, not to mention costumes, you need lots of ash of the right kind. It's a grand scheme. Really grand.'
Dalziel shook his head in reluctant admiration. Bonnie let out an incredulous sigh.
'I don't believe it,' she said. 'I don't believe it.'
Dalziel put on his favourite-uncle look and reached across to pat her knee with one hand while with the other he squeezed Nigel's arm reassuringly.
'I know it's hard,' he said. 'I'm sorry. They didn't tell you; knew it would be no good. You wouldn't have gone for anything like that. Aye, the criminal mind recognizes honesty when it sees it.'
Bonnie looked at him sharply but his expression matched his tone of vibrant sincerity.
'No, I reckon that in on the deal were Bertie and his father, the Uniffs, and Mrs Greave and Papworth, of course.'
'Why Mrs Greave?'
'Obvious. You wanted to take on someone who'd look after the skivvying behind the scenes. They couldn't risk you getting hold of some nice ordinary kitchen manager who'd spot something funny was going on right off. So they brought in Mrs Greave. As Papworth's recently widowed daughter, she wouldn't be asked for references, that kind of thing. And she was very useful to have around. No doubt she and Papworth were going to start things burning while the rest of you were giving each other nice alibis a good distance away. A big fire like this, you see, they'd look very closely at it. That's where your husband came in.'
'How?'
'Well the REME's one branch of the Army where they let officers know things. With his electrical know-how, it must have seemed a good idea to have some kind of electrical fault causing the fire. Now in an old place like that, especially an old stables, you must have had a lot of rats. Stands to reason. Right then. A big hungry rat comes along, sees some nice new wire, decides to have a chew. What happens? It sinks its teeth in, gets electrocuted and sets up a short. I won't get technical, because I know bugger all about it, but it's possible. It has happened. A little glow becomes a big fire. When the fire-investigation officer has a look, what does he find? Well, the charred remains of a rat for one thing. And if there's enough left to do any tests on, he finds it's been electrocuted. Problem solved. Insurance coughs up. Everyone's happy.'
'How do you know all this, Andy?' asked Bonnie quietly.
'I'm guessing. But it seems likely unless Mrs Greave kept frozen rats in your fridge to make pies with. Frozen electrocuted rats.'
'What happened to Mrs Greave.'
'Simple,' said Dalziel cheerfully. 'She spotted me right off. Didn't need to search my pockets. Her kind know a bobby when they see one. So she got cold feet in the end and took off. She was scared that Bertie and Uniff might still go ahead even with me around. She wanted no part of it, so off she went to sell her wares down Lime Street again.'
Nigel shifted in his chair and Dalziel looked at him thoughtfully.
'Of course, if you suspected some of this, it might explain why you decided to run away, lad,' he said. 'You're a puzzle to me, I must admit.'
'I just wanted to be by myself,' said the boy unconvincingly.
'Like Garbo,' guffawed Dalziel. The boy flushed and began to stand but the big hand caught hold of his arm again, not reassuringly this time, but like a clamp.
'Sit still, lad. Visiting time's not up yet. I've not finished my story. You see, everything was fixed to go ahead. All that was needed was to get at the wiring and plant the rat. So first they got the workmen out of the way. Someone, the Uniff girl I think, rang Gibb and said there was no money in the kitty. Gibb remarked how badly Conrad conducted the interview, not his usual persuasive self at all. You see, he wanted the workmen out of the way so he could work at his leisure. And also having Gibb off the job gave him the excuse for carrying on himself so that no one i.e. you, or Herrie, or Louisa or even Charley Tillotson, would be surprised to find him up a ladder with a drill. But then he did something very silly which spoilt everything.'
'Yes,' said Bonnie.
'He had his accident and got killed. Jesus! I bet that upset everybody. Careful, son!'
He spoke sharply to Nigel who had forced himself upright and glowered threateningly down at the recumbent policeman.
'Never hit a man when he's down,' advised Dalziel. 'Not unless you can hit him so hard, he'll stay down. Stand if you want, but don't go away.'
'Why are you doing this, Andy?' asked Bonnie.
'Because he's got as much right as you have to know what his dad was up to. Frankly I don't think either of you find it too hard to believe. He sounds a likely lad, does old Conrad. But it's better you hear about it now, straight, than that you get it through some roundabout questioning later on.'
'Questioning? Who from?' asked Bonnie. 'You mean that the police can still do something about it, even though nothing happened?'
'Mebbe,' said Dalziel grimly. 'There's a thing called conspiracy. Hard to prove if people keep their mouths shut. Me, I reckon that Bertie's got sense enough to try to cut his losses and actually make a go of the business. I think that's the other reason Herrie has decided to invest his money. I don't know how much he knew, but he must have had a shrewd idea of what his son was like. But then so must you.'
He eyed Bonnie thoughtfully for a moment before going on.
'Anyway, now the only way of protecting the investment and protecting your and Nigel's interests is to make a go of things, I don't know if it's possible but it looks as if they're going to have a try. I just want to be sure there aren't any fires around here in a couple of months time when everybody's forgotten I ever existed. Well, that's it.'
He made to rise from the bed, but Bonnie restrained him.
'You run along, Nigel,' she said to her son. 'There are one or two things Mr Dalziel and I have to talk about.'
The boy rose and left without speaking.
'He looks as if he could do with two good nights' sleep,' commented Dalziel.
'Couldn't we all?' said Bonnie. 'Andy, why are you doing this?'
'Doing what? I'm doing nowt except having a private chat.'
'Private chat nothing! You know damn well Bertie will screw everything y
ou've said out of Nigel in ten minutes flat. And if he didn't talk, well, I'd have to.'
'That's honest,' said Dalziel. He eased his braces off his shoulders, settled back on the pillow and inserting his hand into his shirt began to scratch his belly. Impatiently she snatched his hand away. He opened one eye and looked at her. With a sigh she leaned forward so that her head rested on his chest, pulled his shirt out of his waist-band and began to scratch for him.
'Oh Andy,' she said. 'What are you up to?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well you're a policeman, and I think you believe in it. But you seem to be giving us a warning.'
'I'm on holiday,' he said. 'A little bit to the left. That's grand.'
'Well,' she said dubiously. 'I suppose there's a bit of the Sydney Cartons even in the nastiest, most cynical of us.'
'Of the what?'
'Oh, do stop pretending to be pig-ignorant! Yes, I suppose one generous, unselfish act might squeeze even you into heaven.'
'I'm at it all the time,' protested Dalziel. 'Farther down please. Ah!'
She kneaded away at his flesh with strong fingers.
'Oh Andy,' she said. 'I need someone to trust and rely on. I really do. I'm tired of trying to hold things together single-handed.'
Dalziel reached over her shoulder and cupped her right breast in his broad palm.
'Why don't you take two hands to it?' he asked.
Forty-five minutes later after a perfunctory tap on the door, Tillotson burst in and halted, red with embarrassment, when he saw the two heads on the pillow.
'What is it, Charley?' asked Bonnie in an exasperated tone.
'I'm sorry,' said Tillotson, retreating, it's just that the police are here again. They want to see everyone. They say that Mrs Greave is dead.'
He left and Bonnie poked Dalziel hard with her forefinger.
'You knew about this?'
'Aye,' he said, sitting up and yawning.
She watched him in silence as he got out of bed and began to dress.
'Listen, love,' he said as he peered in the mirror and dragged her silver-backed brush through his greying and retreating stubble, ‘It's no good lying there looking suspicious. My shoulders are no good as public leaning posts. I either carry you or I drop you. Partnership means doing things my way.'
She laughed at this, realized he hadn't intended a joke, frowned, then flung back the sheets and jumped out of bed.
The brush paused in mid-stroke as Dalziel regarded her in the mirror.
'All right,' she said. 'You're the boss. Lead on, Sydney. Even if we are travelling by tumbril.'
16
Dead Ducks
After a brief preliminary consultation Dalziel kept very much in the background as Balderstone and Cross worked their way steadily through everyone in the household taking statements about the events of the previous day with particular reference to conversations with and last sightings of Annie Greave.
Papworth excited particular interest, of course, but even old Hereward was fed with black coffee and interviewed in his own bed. Dalziel meanwhile wandered outside to see how Gibb and his men were getting on. The progress they had made was not perceptible to the inexpert eye, but the little builder assured him that all was proceeding to schedule.
Dalziel continued his perambulation, returning eventually to the front of the house where he stood looking out over the lake. It really wasn't much of a lake, he realized, now that the sinking of the flood waters was making its normal limits much more clear. Not your Windermere or your Loch Lomond. But it might be a useful adjunct to the restaurant if you knew how to exploit it. A floating bar perhaps. Or gondolas.
He laughed to himself. It would be easy to start thinking in the nutty fashion of the Lake Housers.
Suddenly a dull explosion shattered his thoughts. Birds screamed and rose from the trees and the lake. But a couple did not rise and lay instead staining the water with dye as bright as their bills. From behind the small island which Dalziel had examined for signs of Nigel only two days ago emerged the duck punt. The gun in the bows was still smoking and Tillotson waved triumphantly when he saw he had a spectator.
'Great,' said a voice behind Dalziel. 'Roast duck stuffed with lead for supper.'
'The buggers'll sink before he reaches them,' said Dalziel.
'You were looking for me earlier,' said Uniff.
'Not really,' said Dalziel. 'I was just poking round your room.'
'Hey, man,' said Uniff, grinning through his tangled beard. 'You're too honest to be honest. What'd you find?'
'Tell you what I didn't find. I didn't find a serial number on your camera and I didn't find those dirty pictures you showed me.'
'Dirty? Those weren't dirty! Man, I could show you pictures that would blow your mind!'
'I doubt it. Your sister said she posed for 'em. She's a liar.'
Suddenly Uniff drew himself upright, placed his left hand on his hip and thrust the other forward as if holding a sword.
'Call my sister a liar, sir? Zounds, you besmirch our family honour. On guard!'
The change of accent was very good, rather better on the whole than his American.
'I got Sergeant Cross to check with Epping,' said Dalziel. 'Annie Greave had that tattoo on her inner thigh.'
'Ain't you the clever one,' said Uniff, reverting. 'So what?'
'So why did Mavis lie?' said Dalziel. 'You know the question I'm really asking myself, Mr Uniff? Why did you get so worried after you'd shown me those pictures?'
'Like I said, you're the law.'
'Never forget it. No. Two answers are possible. One: you were worried in case Annie blabbed when we picked her up. If you and Bertie were forced into a position of your word against hers, it wouldn't help matters if it could be shown that you knew her well enough to use as a model. So get rid of all the photos. Two: if you knew Annie was lying like one of the babes in the wood all cold under a pile of leaves, then you'd be even less keen to let me find a connection.'
'What're you trying to say, friend?' asked Uniff uneasily.
'I'm not your friend, friend,' said Dalziel. 'And you don't need an interpreter. Now, I don't know what time you went missing from the little party last night, but I do know what time you got back. Empty roads, fast car. You could get to Epping and back in five hours easy.'
'I told you, I was drinking after hours,' said Uniff.
'That's what they all say round here,' mocked Dalziel. 'I'll tell you something else for nothing, seeing as this is one of my helpful days. You can file, file away at a number stamped in metal; we've got machines in our labs that'll bring it up like a chicken pox.'
'Man, I'm shaking,' said Uniff. 'What's it to be - the rubber truncheon or the water torture?'
He sounded quite recovered from his momentary uneasiness.
'Tell you what,' said Dalziel thoughtfully. 'I think I understand you. You really do think that money's just a game.'
'No. An evil,' said Uniff.
'Oh aye. But you need it.'
'Yeah. That's a game. Getting it, spending it. But I don't like the game so I won't play to the rules.'
'You'll commit crimes?'
'Not against people. Just the money system,' said Uniff. 'Look, man, money's immoral, right? Then all activities aimed at getting hold of money are immoral, right? Your pay-cheque at the end of the month is just as immoral as . . . as . . .'
'As defrauding an insurance company,' suggested Dalziel.
'Nice example, Andy,' grinned Uniff. 'That's about the strength of it.'
'So when I suggest you're crooked with money, all I get from you is a laugh. But when I suggest you might have something to do with Annie Greave's death, you begin to shake.'
'Hurting people's something else,' said Uniff seriously. 'You gotta see that. Humanity makes me shake.'
'Is that it? Or guilt?'
Suddenly their conversation was interrupted by two sodden, bleeding birds thrust between them by Charley Tillotson.
'Yo
u two look very serious,' he said cheerfully.
'Not as serious as those things,' said Uniff. 'I thought Bonnie said no shooting.'
'Yes. I believe she did. But she didn't seem to mind when I gave her a couple earlier for dinner. There's plenty to spare just at the moment with the flooding. Think of what it must have been like in the old days.'
'You need a licence for that thing,' warned Dalziel.
'Do I really?' asked Tillotson. 'Well, Bonnie might have one. It's her gun, after all. I'll go and ask her.'
'Have you made your statement?' asked Dalziel.
'Oh yes. First in,' said Tillotson proudly.
He went into the house dripping blood and water.
Dalziel turned to follow him, but Uniff placed a restraining hand on his arm.
'Would you answer me a question for a change, Andy.'
'Mebbe.'
'Well, man; like, you keep on dropping hints and making threatening noises, but I just had a little talk with the prodigal son and what he said made you sound more like a mother hen than an avenging angel. This fire business, which is all fantasy, you dig, I mean I admit nothing, but if that's what you believe, then shouldn't we all be down at headquarters having our fingernails pulled out? What's the name of the game, man? Or can I guess?'
Dalziel didn't answer, but turned away and went back into the house.
Behind him Uniff laughed provocatively but Dalziel ignored him. Very soon, he was beginning to realize, he would have to make a decision. In fact he supposed that already that afternoon he'd taken very definite steps towards making it. At the moment he could examine his professional conscience and find it pretty clear if you ignored those small shifting misty areas which always swirled around on the periphery. What he knew to be relevant he had passed on to Balderstone and Cross. And what he merely suspected to be relevant he had not yet consciously decided to withhold.
Ideally Balderstone and Cross should sort things out for themselves without reference to his own special knowledge gained as a guest in this house. Yet they felt, as he would do in their shoes, entitled to share this knowledge. The only way to remove himself from this pernicious position was indeed to remove himself and that might be as painful as remaining.
Dalziel 04 An April Shroud Page 18
