'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?'
Now this mention of a gun did really upset me. I knew Gail had guns, of course, but I thought they were safely locked up at the Mid-Yorks Gun Club where she was a member. When Waterson saw my reaction, he began to look really worried again. That was an odd thing. We should have been at each other's throats, I suppose. Instead we were, temporarily at least, united by our concern for Gail.
We went up together. Perhaps this was a mistake, for when Gail saw us, she began laughing and she gabbled something about all the useless men in her life sticking together, and the only good one she'd ever known being dead. She was drunk and naked, sitting on the bed. She had this revolver in her hands. I asked her to give it to me. She laughed again and held it with the muzzle pressed against her chin. I told her not to be silly. It wasn't the wisest thing to say, but I couldn't think of anything else. And she just laughed higher and higher and I thought I saw her finger tightening on the trigger. And that's when I jumped forward to grab at the gun.
What happened then I can't say precisely, except that the gun went off and then I was standing there holding it, and Gail was lying with her head blown to pieces across the bed, and some time after, I don't know how long, Mr Dalziel came into the room.
This dreadful accident has devastated my life. I loved my wife. I am sure that it was her dreadful feelings of guilt and unhappiness after
her father's death that drove her to seek solace in infidelity. And I know that despite everything, we could have worked things out.
Signed: Philip Swain.
'Well,' said Dalziel. 'What do you reckon to that?'
'I don't know,’ said Pascoe slowly. 'It's . . . odd.'
'Of course it's bloody odd. Fairy tales usually are! What he still hasn't twigged is I saw him with the gun in his hand before I heard the shot. Once we get Mr Gregory Waterson's version, it'll be two to one, and then I'll make the bugger squirm!'
This simple scenario did little to assuage Pascoe's sense of oddness. But he didn't want to seem to be muddying Dalziel's triumph so he held his peace and tried for a congratulatory smile. It lacked conviction, however, for Dalziel said, 'You've not changed, have you, lad? In fact, all them weeks lying in bed playing with yourself have likely set you back. What you need is some good solid meat to get your stomach settled. I've got just the thing. Football hooligans.'
He regarded Pascoe complacently and received in return a look of surprise. The big clubs in West and South Yorkshire had their share of maniac supporters, but City, Mid-Yorkshire's only league side, rattling around the lower divisions for years, rarely attracted serious home-grown trouble.
'I've not read about any bother,' said Pascoe. 'And anyway crowd control's uniformed's business.'
'Murder isn't,' said Dalziel grimly. 'Saturday before last, young lad vanished travelling back to Peterborough from a visit to his girlfriend in London. They found him next morning with a broken neck at the bottom of an embankment near Huntingdon.'
'Sad, but what's it to do with us?'
'Hold your horses. City were playing in North London that day and it seems there were a lot of complaints about bevvied-up City supporters on the train the dead lad would have caught from King's Cross.'
'But you said he'd been visiting his girl, not attending a match. Why should he get picked on?'
'Colour of his eyes'd be provocation enough for some of these morons,' declared Dalziel. 'But it was more likely the colour of his scarf. Royal blue, which some bright spark in Cambridgeshire spotted was the colour of City's opponents that afternoon. Could be nowt, but there's been one or two hints lately that our local loonies are keen to get organized like the big boys, so this could be a good excuse to bang a few heads together before they get properly started, right?'
'I suppose so,' said Pascoe reluctantly. It didn't sound a very attractive assignment. He glanced at Wield in search of sympathy, but Dalziel took it as an attempt to pass the buck.
'No use trying to delegate, lad. The sergeant here's going to be busy. How's your bedside manner, Wieldy? Christ, the sight of you coming through the door would get me back on my feet pretty damn quick! Why don't you get yourself off down to the Infirmary and take this shrinking violet Waterson's statement so that I can spoil Mr lying bastard Swain's lunch? No, better still, I’ll leave it till after lunch and give him indigestion. No reason why we should miss opening time at the Black Bull, is there? Not when it's celebration drinks all round!'
'You mean you're in the chair because of this collar?' asked Pascoe, trying not to sound surprised.
'Don't be daft,' said Dalziel, who was not notorious for treating his staff. 'I'll let Desperate Dan supply the booze for that. No, it's you who'll be in the chair. Peter, unless you crap on the Chief's carpet when he calls you in.'
Wield caught on before Pascoe and shook his hand, grinning broadly and saying, 'Well done, sir!' Dalziel followed suit.
'One thing but,' he said. 'When you give Ellie the glad tidings, point out it'll be a couple of years before it makes any difference to your pension. Now sod off and start earning your Chief Inspector's pay!'
CHAPTER TWO
Detective-Sergeant Wield parked his car in the visitors' car park and set off up the long pathway to the Infirmary. The oldest of the city's hospitals, it had been built in the days when visitors were regarded as a nuisance even greater than patients and had to prove their fitness by walking a couple of furlongs before they reached the entrance. As recompense, the old red brick glowed in the February sun and a goldheart ivy embraced it as lovingly as any stately home. Also the path ran between flowerbeds white with snowdrops. Spotting a broken stalk, Wield stopped and picked the tiny flower and carefully inserted it in his button-hole.
What a saucy fellow you're becoming! he mocked himself. You'll be advertising for friends in the Police Gazette next.
His lips pursed in an almost inaudible whistling as he strode along but inside he was smiling broadly and singing Bunthorne's song from Patience:. . as you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediaeval hand . . .'
His merry mood lasted along the first straight mile of corridor but by the time he reached his destined ward, the sights, sounds and smells of the place had silenced his inner carolling.
There was no one at the sister's desk and he went into the open ward.
'Mr Waterson? First door on your left,' said a weary nurse who looked as if she should be occupying the bed she was making.
Wield pushed open the door indicated and went in.
It occurred to him instantly that Waterson must have private medical insurance. A nurse in a ward sister's uniform was leaning over him. Their mouths were locked together and his hands were inside her starched blouse, roaming freely. No way did you get this on the National Health.
Wield coughed. The nurse reacted conventionally, doing the full guilty thing surprised bit, jumping backwards while her fingers scrabbled at her blouse buttons and blood flushed her pale and rather beautiful face like peach sauce over vanilla ice. The man, however, grinned amiably and said, 'Good morning, Doctor.'
'It is Mr Waterson, isn't it?' said Wield doubtfully.
'That's right.'
Wield produced his warrant card.
'Good lord. It's the fuzz, dear. I expect you've come for a statement? It's all ready. They wake you at sparrow fart in these places, you know, so I've had hours to compose.'
He thrust a single sheet of foolscap bearing the Local Health Authority's letter-head into Wield's hand.
The woman meanwhile had reassembled herself into the pattern of a brisk efficient ward sister.
'If you'll excuse me,' she said. 'I'll look in later.'
'Nice, isn't she?' said Waterson complacently as the nurse left.
Wield examined the man neutrally. He was approaching thirty, perhaps had even passed it. Nature had tossed youthful good looks into his cradle, and nurture in the form of an artistic hairdresser, an aesthetic dentist and possibly an expensive dermatologist, had made sure the gift wasn't wasted.
'The sister is an old friend?' he ventured. Waterson smiled. There was charm here too.
'Wash your mind out, Sergeant,' he said. 'That was no sister, that was my wife!'
Deciding this was a conundrum best postponed, Wield looked at the statement. It consisted of a single very long paragraph written in a minute but beautiful hand. It wasn't easy to read but one thing was very quickly clear. It was a lot closer to Swain's version of events than to Dalziel's!
Wield began to read it through a second time.
Gail Swain and I became lovers about a month ago. It was difficult to see as much of each other as we would have liked, so when Gail came up with a plan for us to have a longer period together I was delighted. She was going back to America on a visit to see her mother and she rearranged things so that she wouldn't need to get there till much later than she'd told her husband. I wanted to fix up a hotel somewhere but she said no, she would come to me as soon as she could and she preferred to stay with me in town. I think the idea of stopping so close to her home excited her in some way. She turned up at my house in Hambleton Road last Thursday. I know she had allegedly left for America on the Sunday but what she had been doing in the meantime she never said. She was in a rather strange mood when she arrived and though things went well enough at first, by the time the weekend was over I was seriously worried. She never left the
house but stayed inside all the time, drinking heavily, watching television, playing records, and talking wildly. Sexually she made increasingly bizarre demands upon me, not I felt for her own physical satisfaction so much as my humiliation. When I suggested she ought to be thinking about leaving, she became abusive and said things like, they would need to carry her out of there for all the neighbours to see. Last night she was the worst I had seen her. When I tried to reason with her, she produced this gun and said something about this being the only thing that spoke any sense. I know nothing about guns so I had no idea if it was real or loaded or anything. She aimed it at me and said it would be nice to have some company when she went. Just then the doorbell went and when I went downstairs to answer it, I found it was Philip Swain, her husband. I was naturally taken aback but also in a strange way I was quite relieved to have someone else to share the responsibility with. It just all came spilling out how worried I was and it must have got across as genuine, for instead of throwing a jealous fit, he came upstairs to see for himself. As soon as she saw us together, she became quite hysterical. She was laughing madly and screaming abuse and waving the gun, first at us, then at herself. I went towards her to pacify her and she put the gun under her chin and said if I came any closer she would kill herself. I was still uncertain whether the gun was real or not but I could see that she was in such a state she was likely to press the trigger unawares so I made a dive at her. Next thing the gun went off and there was blood and flesh and bone everywhere. I'm afraid I just collapsed and after that everything was a blur until I awoke this morning and found myself in the Infirmary. I can see now that Gail was a highly disturbed woman and was always capable of doing damage to herself or others. But I blame myself entirely for what happened last night. If I had acted differently and called for professional help instead of trying to disarm her myself, perhaps none of this would have happened.
Dalziel 11 Bones and Silence Page 3
