An April Shroud dap-4

by Reginald Hill

  The interviewing had taken place as nearly all semi-formal activities seemed to in this house in Herrie's sitting-room. At least with the old man sleeping the sleep of the stoned upstairs, there should have been no indignant outbursts.

  He met Nigel coming out of the door.

  'All right?' said Dalziel genially.

  The boy said nothing but looked at him with an expression which might have been accusation or fear. As he moved on, Dalziel watched him with a troubled mind.

  Inside Cross and Balderstone sat drinking tea. Bonnie must have made it, thought Dalziel with absurd possessive pride. She was the only one in the house who would even have considered making the policemen comfortable.

  'Finished?' asked Dalziel looking at the pile of statement forms which lay on the table by the teapot.

  'Yes, sir,' said Balderstone.

  'Except for one,' said Dalziel.

  'What?'

  'Mine.' He produced from his inside pocket a foolscap sheet folded in quarters and placed it with the others.

  'I was here too, don't forget,'

  'We hadn't forgotten, sir,' said Balderstone.

  'Tell me then. What's new?'

  'Well, nothing much, sir,' said Cross. 'As far as we can make out, Annie Greave was last seen about the place at two-thirty yesterday afternoon. It was Mrs Fielding that saw her. That was just before the presentation ceremony. So any time after that she could have packed up and gone. We've checked with taxi services, bus and train ticket offices, but no joy yet. She could have been picked up by a passing motorist, of course.'

  'Passing where?' asked Balderstone. 'The road past the gate runs between Low Fold and High Fold and it's still under a foot of water most of the way.'

  'Yes, sir,' said Cross. 'So either she walked to Low Fold and got a bus there, which no one recalls. Or she was given a lift by someone in the house though no one admits it. Now this could have been just before the ceremony…'

  'No,' interrupted Dalziel. 'I was walking back from the village between two-fifteen and two-forty-five and no cars passed me coming from the house. And everyone was gathered in this room when I got back.'

  'Except Papworth,' said Cross reprovingly. 'But the rest were here till the drinking started. No one's so sure who was where doing what from about four o'clock on.'

  Dalziel felt they were both regarding him significantly. His shoulders rose in a small non-typical Gallic shrug.

  'The thing is,' said Balderstone. 'No one would surely be much bothered by admitting they'd given her a lift and just dropped her in Orburn, say, or even farther afield. So I think we've got to accept that nobody did this. Which raises the much more important question. Could anyone have taken her all the way to Epping, either dead or alive, and got back here within the known period of their absence? The answer is, only two. Papworth and Uniff. Now they're both vague enough to be suspicious. Uniff won't give us the name of the pub he claims he was drinking in after hours and Papworth won't give us the name of the woman he claims he was rogering. They both have highly developed senses of honour, it seems. Well, I've tried to avoid waving the big stick…'

  'Why?' interrupted Dalziel. 'They shouldn't give us big sticks if they don't want us to wave 'em. Any road, that's up to you. I tell you this, though, on my patch we wouldn’t need to ask. We'd know the pub and we'd know the woman.'

  Cross and Balderstone exchanged glances in the face of this large and unmannerly claim. Dalziel glowered at them, recognizing in himself a desire to fall out with them and then let ill-temper cut the ties of co-operation.

  'Of course, we're approaching it from that side too, sir,' said Balderstone calmly. 'Now, the other possibility, and this looms very large in view of the statements we have received, is that Mrs Greave left with one of the visitors.'

  'Visitors?'

  'The people here for the presentation. You can't recall when any of them left, sir?'

  'No,' said Dalziel, shaking his huge head slowly. 'They'd all gone, except Arkwright, when I came back downstairs.'

  'After your… discussion with Mrs Fielding,' said Balderstone, glancing at Dalziel's statement. 'It's a pity, but they all seem to have got away fairly quietly. Lots of cheeriohs inside the house, but no one seems to have escorted them to the door.'

  'Do you know where they went?' asked Dalziel.

  'Your own surmise, London, seems very likely. But we've passed on the information to Epping and no doubt they will be checking down there. Well, I think we've done all we can here and it's getting on.'

  He began to gather up the sheets of paper from the table. Dalziel glanced at his watch. It was after six.

  'By the way, sir,' said Balderstone, 'Mr Albert Fielding while we were talking to him made enquiries about the procedure for bringing a complaint against a police officer.'

  'What did you do to him? Forget to kiss his arse?' asked Dalziel.

  'No, sir. The complaint, I gathered, was aimed at you.'

  'What!'

  'He seemed to think that certain insinuations you made in the presence of his young brother, Nigel, were slanderous. I indicated that as you were not here in an official capacity, he would be best advised to seek redress through a civil action, when the police, I assured him, would investigate the alleged offences thoroughly. This seemed to quieten him down.'

  'The puffed-up nowt!' said Dalziel. 'He needs to be locked up for a few months.'

  'Perhaps. But it seems unlikely now. Conspiracy is very difficult to prove, especially when the conspirators are forewarned.' His voice was studiedly neutral.

  'It would never have stuck,' said Dalziel.

  'You're probably right,' agreed Balderstone. 'This boy Nigel puzzled me a bit, though. The one you talked to.'

  'Yes?'

  'Well, we just had him in as a matter of form. So we could say we'd seen everyone in the house. His mother had told us he just came back this morning. That struck me as odd. He's how old? Fifteen? Sixteen? And she hadn't been much bothered when he ran away. Strange, even in this day and age.'

  'He'd done it before,' said Dalziel. 'And he did ring.'

  As though on a cue the telephone rang and Dalziel grabbed it. It was the uniformed sergeant at Orburn Police Station wanting to talk to Cross. Balderstone and Dalziel moved across into the window bay to avoid disturbing him.

  'The lad seemed very disturbed by it all,' continued the inspector.

  'He's very young,' offered Dalziel. 'I suppose from his point of view, Annie Greave was almost one of the family. And he still hasn't got over his dad's death.'

  'You're probably right,' said Balderstone. 'It can't have helped for him to hear you saying what you thought his father had been up to either.'

  'No,' said Dalziel. 'An error of judgement, that. I'm sorry.'

  'There's been a sight too much death about this house,' said Balderstone. 'Mr Fielding, Mrs Greave. And Spinx, of course. We found his car by the way. When he came through the gates he turned right and ran it down through the trees to the lake edge. A good spot to hide. You haven't picked up any hint of what he was after, have you?'

  'No. Everyone seemed baffled. Probably he was just trying a last desperate snoop before reporting failure.'

  'It was his last, sure enough,' said Balderstone. 'Tell me, sir, you said you'd leave it to us to break the news of Annie Greave's murder so you could have a chat with the people here before they knew about it. Did anything come out of this?'

  'Not really,' admitted Dalziel, thinking guiltily of how he had spent a great deal of his time since getting back to the house. 'I had a good go at Papworth, but got nowhere. He says he picked Annie up one night in the Pool, struck up a regular liaison with her and brought her out here when the chance presented itself.'

  'It's possible, I suppose,' said Balderstone. 'When they're getting on a bit, some of these girls fancy a steady relationship even if it means a cut back in pay. But not out here, I shouldn't have thought. You indicated to Sergeant Cross that you were pretty certain Papworth was knocking
her off, though.'

  'Yes, I did,' agreed Dalziel. Another prevarication.

  'So there might be something in it. What about connecting the others with her?'

  'I think there's a chance Uniff might have been using her as a model for some candid camera shots. Hard to prove, though. Liverpool CID might be able to establish a connection, but what would it prove?'

  'I don't really know, sir,' said Balderstone blankly. 'So no one said anything which suggested a foreknowledge of Mrs Greave's death.'

  Dalziel shook his head. He could do this quite honestly.

  Cross put the telephone down and joined them in the bay shooting a quick glance at Balderstone. It seemed to Dalziel that the inspector nodded almost imperceptibly as though indicating to the sergeant that it was all right to go ahead. If true, this both piqued and alarmed him.

  'They've been on from Essex again,' he said. 'Trying to baffle us with speed, I reckon. But fair dues, they've done well, or the Met has. They found the Yanks at Claridge's and seem pretty convinced they're in the clear. Penitent, the BBC man, they got hold of also. He started talking about his civic rights a bit quick, but in the end they were sure he hadn't seen Annie Greave.'

  'Pity,' said Dalziel, feeling much more disappointed than the single word showed. He was surprised to find how much he wanted Annie to have been seen alive and well and a long way from Lake House.

  'You fancied him?' asked Balderstone.

  'He was alone.'

  'No, he wasn't,' interrupted Cross. 'I think that's what bothered him. It turns out that he gave a Miss Nicola Sugden a lift back…'

  'Who?' asked Balderstone.

  'The lass in the green tunic!' said Dalziel. "The photographer.'

  'That's her,' said Cross. 'And she seems to have spent the night in Penitent's flat. His wife and two kids arrived home from a visit halfway through the interview.'

  'No wonder he abandoned poor Arkwright!' said Dalziel. 'That means Butt was by himself.'

  'Yes, sir,' said Cross, looking at his notebook. 'They contacted the paper he was doing the feature for and got his address. It's in Chigwell, Essex, only five or six miles from Epping.'

  Dalziel began to scratch his ankle, bending forward to conceal the relief on his face.

  'Butt,' he said. 'Nasty bastard. I'd have said touching up typists on the Underground was his limit but you can never tell.'

  'We mustn't jump to conclusions, sir,' said Balderstone in a tone of admonition too mild to be insubordinate. 'What did Mr Butt have to say for himself, Sergeant?'

  'Nothing, sir,' said Cross. 'They couldn't get hold of him. It seems he flew out to Brazil first thing this morning. On an assignment. They checked, of course, and it's genuine.'

  'Damn!' said Dalziel. 'Yes, he was going on about it yesterday. You'd have thought it was a royal visit. Here, what about his car?'

  'Yes, they thought of that as well, sir,' said Cross. 'It was parked at the airport. They opened it up, had a good look. In the boot they found an old travelling rug. On it were traces of make-up, some hairs and a small patch of blood. They're doing tests on them, of course. Also in the boot was a small spade, the kind of thing motorists sometimes have in case of heavy snow. This one had traces of fresh earth on the blade. 'They're cross-checking that too.'

  'It sounds promising,' said Balderstone. 'When's he come back?'

  'He has a return flight booked for a week on Saturday,' said Cross. 'But they won't wait that long, will they?'

  Dalziel shrugged.

  'I don't know. They won't want to alarm him. There's no extradition treaty with Brazil, remember. And after that balls-up with Biggs, everyone will be treading very carefully.'

  'In any case,' added Balderstone, 'they haven't finished their tests yet. Mind you, it would all fit very nicely. Very nicely indeed. Now we must be off, Sergeant. Mr Dalziel will be wanting his dinner. Goodbye, sir. We'll keep in touch.'

  Dalziel walked with them to the front door and watched them drive away with much unprofessional relief. When he turned to re-enter the house, Bertie was standing there.

  'All right, Dalziel,' he said. 'You've got your car back now, so there's nothing to stop you following your friends.'

  Dalziel pushed by him with enough force to make the stout youth stagger. He made for the kitchen, followed closely by Bertie who talked incessantly.

  'This isn't a fascist state, Dalziel. You can't go around bullying people and slandering them without being made to pay for it. Just shove off, get out of our lives, go and decompose somewhere else.'

  They were all in the kitchen except Hereward. There was a smell of roast duck in the air and Louisa was setting the table.

  'Have they gone?' asked Bonnie.

  'Yes, just,' said Dalziel. 'They asked me to say cheerioh and thank you for the tea.'

  'How frightfully polite,' mocked Uniff.

  'Wasn't it?' agreed Dalziel. 'More than I can say for laughing boy here.'

  He sat down and smiled at Louisa.

  'Don't forget to lay a place for me.'

  Bonnie looked coldly at Bertie.

  'What have you been saying?'

  'I told him he'd outstayed his welcome. His car's back on the road and there's nothing to keep him here. There's enough to bother us without having to lock our doors because we've let a nasty creeping spy into the house.'

  'He's right, you know, Andy baby,' said Uniff. 'Nothing personal, but, hell, we'd be crazy to keep you.'

  'Wait a minute!' interjected Louisa. 'Who's giving orders? Let me remind you whose house you're in. If anyone decides who goes, who stays, it's Bonnie and me.'

  'And what do you say, love?' asked Dalziel.

  'I'm not sure.'

  'Well, while you're deciding, shall we eat?' asked Dalziel.

  He almost fell out of his chair as Bertie seized it from behind and pulled.

  'To hell with this!' cried the stout youth. 'Just get packed, Dalziel, and get out.'

  'Quieten down, lad,' said Dalziel soothingly. 'It's ill-mannered to talk like that to a guest. It's downright stupid to talk that way to a business associate.'

  Something in his voice quenched Bertie's wrath. 'What do you mean?' he asked uneasily.

  'What I say,' Dalziel said. 'Earlier this afternoon I accepted your chairman's invitation to invest a couple of thousand of my hard-earned savings in your business. Ask your mam. So you're no longer just my friends, you're my colleagues. And I'll tell you what, Bertie. I'll be worth my weight in fire-insurance.'

  No one spoke for a moment, then Uniff began to laugh.

  'Bonnie!' cried Bertie. 'It's not true?'

  Slowly his mother nodded.

  'Right,' said Dalziel, seizing a knife and fork and holding them in clenched hands. 'Madam Chairman, if the meeting has been called to order I think I'm ready for item number one.'

  17

  Opening Night

  It is a truth universally acknowledged by all married men that their wives are rational, understanding, submissive and amiable only in proportion as they are distanced from their mothers.

  'For God's sake, Ellie,' protested Peter Pascoe. 'We've only called in to pick up the presents. It's Saturday. I start work on Monday. I need all of tomorrow to get myself organized!'

  'We can still be home by mid-morning,' said Ellie firmly. 'If you keep off the booze, that is. Which might not be a bad thing.'

  'What's that mean?'

  'Well,' said Ellie maliciously, 'that was a nasty case of brewer's droop you caught last Tuesday. I understood CID men were immune. You'll be back in uniform if you're not careful.'

  'It was that southern beer,' protested Pascoe, grinning. 'That's why I want to get home really. Surely they'd understand?'

  'No,' said Ellie. 'Mum and Dad have gone to a lot of bother. Just look at the way they've done up this bedroom. As for tonight, the table's booked and it's not been cheap, I can tell you. They're not all that well off and I'm not going to let their efforts be wasted. So resign yourself to it. And let's
go downstairs before they start worrying. In my family decent folk don't screw in the afternoon.'

  'All right,' sighed Pascoe. 'They said it would be like this but I never believed them. You know, I wouldn't mind so much if we were being treated to the best French cuisine in Lincolnshire. But a medieval banquet! Jesus wept!'

  It was even more hideous than he anticipated. For a start the car parking was chaotic. A tall blond youth in a see-through tunic and knee-breeches was directing operations with a fine disregard for the laws of space, time and dynamics. Leaving the car was almost as dangerous as remaining in it, but they finally reached the bar where even Ellie's isn't-this-nice expression fractured momentarily when she found they were attached to a gaggle of Townswomen's Guild members, many of whom insisted on dredging up anecdotal treasures from her distant childhood. Fortunately their simultaneity made them mostly incomprehensible.

  Pascoe caught Ellie's expression and smiled; and smiled yet again when he saw his father-in-law demand confirmation of the exorbitant prices the striking middle-aged barmaid had charged him for their aperitifs. He suddenly felt that the evening might prove ghastly enough for an objective student of the social sciences to be able to enjoy himself.

  Inside the alleged medieval Banqueting Hall, which was more like a parody than an imitation, goodies continued to spill out of the cornucopia. The room was illuminated by electric candles whose dim religious light showed rows of benches and tables set with wooden platters, plastic-handled daggers and goblets made of some alloy so light that once filled to the brim with unctuous mead they became dangerously unstable. Which, decided Pascoe after a careful sip, was more than he was likely to do. The diners were packed close on the benches. Pascoe had Ellie's mother on one side and on the other a statuesque townswoman from whose close-pressed thighs he might have derived much harmless pleasure had it not felt strangely corrugated.

  From a gallery at the far end of the hall came music vaguely Elizabethan in style, and a girl so slightly built that in the best Elizabethan tradition she might have been a boy was singing about the pleasures of her hey- nonny-nonny-no. The assembled diners, who seemed not to have been much deterred by the price of pre-dinner drinks, joined in the chorus with prurient enthusiasm.