'One more question,' said Pascoe. 'If Mrs Swain wanted to carry one of her weapons around with her - because she felt in need of personal protection, say - which would she be most likely to have chosen?'
'The Beretta probably, or the Sidekick,' Mitchell answered promptly.
'Why?'
'Well, she wouldn't choose the Python, not unless she was planning to blow somebody away. It's big and it's heavy and it takes the .357 Magnum cartridge which is a danger to people in the next room if you happen to miss. The Hammerli on the other hand is a specialized weapon, OK for punching holes in a target but not much else. It takes one .22 rimfire cartridge at a time and it's got a hair trigger, not the kind of thing you carry in your pocket. Why do you ask?'
'The curiosity of an idle mind,' smiled Pascoe.
He took a last look at the array of dully gleaming guns in their padlocked cabinets.
'See anything you fancy?' inquired Mitchell. 'We've always room for law officers at the MYGC.'
'I was just wondering how many rifles make a good ploughshare,' said Pascoe. And went in search of Seymour.
He found the redhead in conclave with a wizened woman of indeterminate years. The wide amiable smile had vanished but not before it had been all too effective if Pascoe read truly the desperate grimace which greeted his appearance.
With difficulty breaking free from a grip like the mummy's hand, Seymour stood up, took a brief farewell, and followed his chief out to the car park.
'Bernadette would not like it,' said Pascoe judiciously.
'Bernadette wouldn't believe it,' said Seymour. 'I'm not sure I do.'
'What did she say to you?'
'I said, why was the place so empty. I expected to hear people banging away all over the shop. And she said they didn't open till evenings on a Tuesday, but as for banging away, we could soon alter that if I liked
'Seymour, you'll die of an over-active double entendre one of these days,' sighed Pascoe. 'But I'm not interested in your foreplay. I meant, what did she say that might interest us?'
'Her name's Mrs Martin. Babs to her friends. She's in charge of the kitchen,' said Seymour. 'There's a hatch from the kitchen into the members' lounge. I doubt if there's much said in there that she doesn't hear.'
They got into Pascoe's car. He started the engine and pointed it back towards the centre of town.
'And?' he said.
'Mrs Swain was always around till about eighteen months ago. Since then she's dropped out of all team and social events and when she did come, it was purely to fire off a few rounds and usually at the quietest time of the day.'
'Damn. Mitchell said she'd dropped out of the competition team and I forgot to ask him why,' said Pascoe, annoyed.
'No need to ask Mitchell when you've got Babs,' said Seymour. 'It seems that after Swain started his own building firm, he was so keen to make a go of it, he wasn't averse to canvassing old chums for jobs. Meaning anything from grouting a gazebo to getting them to use their influence to swing a small council contract his way. Babs says from what she overheard it was the general opinion that Gail Swain was highly embarrassed by this. Before, she'd come across as the high-powered Californian jet-setter injecting a bit of glam into a staid old Yorkshire family. Now she was just the wife of a small builder pestering his mates for hand-outs.'
'And did his mates mind?'
'From what Babs says, they rather admired Swain for his cheek. As for his wife, they were mainly amused to see her taken down a peg. Evidently she was a better shot than most of them and didn't mind letting them know.'
'So she decided to duck out rather than brazen it out? Well, well. I think we should offer your friend Babs a job in CID!'
They drove on in silence for a while.
'Sir,' said Seymour. 'Does any of this really matter? I mean, we know what happened, more or less. And we know how it happened, more or less.'
'The little more, and how much it is,' said Pascoe. 'The little less, and what worlds away.'
'Pardon?' said Seymour, thinking he sometimes preferred Dalziel's brutal directness to Pascoe's gentle obliquities. And when they had the Super's preferred guilty candidate banged up in the cells, that was quite enough to satisfy an ambitious young constable who could see no promotion points in proving Dalziel wrong.
But all that changed when they reached the station.
As they pulled into the car park, a metallic blue BMW pulled out. Both cars halted to give the other right of way and in the front seat of the BMW Pascoe recognized Eden Thackeray driving and by his side Philip Swain.
Thackeray waved, both in recognition and thanks, then drove on.
'Christ,' said Seymour, twisting in his seat. 'That was Swain. He's getting away!'
'Aided and abetted by one of the town's leading lawyers?' said Pascoe. 'Or do you think Swain has a gun made out of moulded bread dough and stained with boot blacking pressed into his side? In which case, Dennis, which would you prefer - to undertake the high speed car chase or to rush inside and untie Mr Dalziel?'
'My mother used to say something sarcastic about sarcasm,' muttered Seymour.
'Mine too,' laughed Pascoe. 'So let's both go in and untie the Super, shall we?'
part three
God: Of all the mights I have made most next after me,
I make thee as master and mirror of my might;
I bield thee here bainly, in bliss for to be,
I name thee for Lucifer, as bearer of light.
The York Cycle:
'The Creation'
February 19th
Dear Mr Dalziel,
So I've changed my mind again! There's so much in the world I'd like to change but my mind's the only bit I can get at. I mean I've changed my mind about writing to you, not about killing myself. That's the only sure thing in my life. If I didn't have that to look forward to, I think I'd just curl up and die. (Joke.)
You must be thinking I'm really unstable, chopping and changing like this. The trouble is things have been happening fast, things to stretch me out, and I got to thinking: I don't need to put up with this; why not do it now? I came very close, believe me. But I want it to be something properly planned, a choice, not a whim.
Afterwards, though, I found myself desperate to talk to someone. I came close several times. A friendly word, a sympathetic smile, and I was ready to confide all! But in my mind, I kept on hearing your voice calling my name, which of course you don't know, and I knew I had to get back to you. You see, others would want to stop me, but all you'll be interested in is whether I'm proposing to commit a crime. Well, I'm not. It used to be a crime, but not any more. So you've got no reason to waste public money in using your famous expertise to find me. With you I'm quite safe. It's like having my personal confessor. Except I don't want absolution, just an unshockable ear! Incidentally, as far as I know, no saint has bagged this day so I dedicate it to you, though you may need to pull off a miracle to satisfy the powers that be that you've earned it! Here endeth today's confession.
CHAPTER ONE
'Peter, for God's sake!' gasped Ellie Pascoe as they ran their third amber. 'Are you trying to kill us?'
'We're late,' said Pascoe.
'For picking up Fat Andy? What's to hurry? And I don't see why you said you'd pick him up anyway.'
'Three reasons. One: we promised Chung we'd get him there and this guarantees it.'
'Why are you so concerned about pleasing Chung when it's Andy who's your chum?' she inquired with one of those elenctic U-turns that so often left Pascoe facing the wrong way.
'Come on! You were in on the arm-twisting!' he accused.
'That was before I knew it was going to cost us fifty quid,' said Ellie. 'Let the sod get a taxi with his rake-off!'
Pascoe, uncomfortable in his role of Judas goat leading Dalziel towards Godhead, had been easy meat when the fat man had started touting his tickets to the Mayor's Ball. 'It's for a good cause,' he'd protested to Ellie. 'It's conspicuous charity,' she'd retorted. 'If all th
ose fascist ego-trippers just gave the ticket money to the Hospice Fund, plus what they'll probably spend on new outfits, booze, getting there, etc., we could all have two beds to die in!'
'Second reason,' said Pascoe. 'You've never actually penetrated the monster's lair. Now's your chance!'
When Dalziel returned hospitality, he took you to a pub or a restaurant. Ellie could not deny her often expressed curiosity about his unimaginable home life.
'All right,' she said. 'That's two. So let's hear the third.'
'If two are good enough, that's a majority,' he said evasively.
'Don't be smart, Peter. It doesn't sit right on a Chief Inspector. What's three?'
'In a minute. We're almost there.'
Suddenly he gave a loud double blast on his horn, causing Ellie to jump.
'What was that for?' she demanded.
Thought I saw a cat,' he said vaguely, turning left, then left again almost immediately.
'Are we lost?'
'No. Here it is.' He pulled up and got out, looking at his watch.
'We've plenty of time,' said Ellie. 'Is this really it? I was expecting something a little more gothic.'
'You really ought to watch more old movies. When he's abroad, all he needs is a coffin full of earth from his native Transylvania.'
Dalziel flung open the door at the first ring of the bell. He was immaculate in white shirt, red and green striped tie, and a suit of superb cut in a high quality charcoal grey worsted. For an unhappy moment Pascoe thought that he was ready for an immediate departure, then he noticed he was barefooted.
'Ellie, what fettle?' he said heartily. 'It's been a long time.'
'Hello, Andy,' she replied. 'You're looking very smart.'
'The suit, you mean? Man with a good suit can go anywhere, isn't that what they say? Come away in. Take your coat off, Ellie, so you'll feel the benefit. By God, you don't look so bad yourself. Just wait till I get you up at the Mayor's Ball. We'll show these young 'uns a thing or two!'
Pascoe blew his nose violently in a vain effort to smother his snort of laughter at this coetaneous assumption. Ellie glared at him and Dalziel said, 'Help yourselves to booze. I'll not be long.'
The room they were left in was small and square and contained a three-piece suite in uncut moquette; a fourteen-inch television; a glass-fronted cabinet with a Queen Anne style tea service; a Victorian commode; a marble fireplace polished to look like plastic; a mantel bearing a stopped carriage clock, two brass candlesticks, three brass monkeys, and a chipped ashtray inscribed A Present from Bridlington; above the fireplace hung a round mirror in need of resilvering which interrupted the flight of three china ducks across a sky-blue wallpaper trellissed with pink dog-roses.
'It's like a BBC set for a fifties play,’ said Ellie, running a finger delicately along the mantel. It came up dustless.
'He probably has a woman who comes in and does,' said Pascoe.
'Just like you, eh? Where's this booze he told us to help ourselves to?'
Pascoe opened the commode. It was packed full of glasses and bottles, all whisky, some single malts, some blended. He poured from one picked at random and handed a glass to Ellie. Then he glanced at his watch again.
'Peter, settle down. It's an informal do, it doesn't matter what time we get there within reason.'
'Lad getting impatient, is he?' said Dalziel, coming into the room. 'He's quite right, though. When the booze is free, don't be backward about coming forward.'
'All right if you're not driving,' said Pascoe. 'In fact, start as I mean to go on, could you put a spot of water in this, sir?'
He handed his glass to Dalziel, who wore the expression of a priest asked by a communicant for a little salt on his wafer. Then, shaking his head sadly, he left the room.
'Dilution does not affect blood alcohol level,' Ellie began to lecture, but her audience was in the process of following his host out of the room.
'Come to make sure I drown it?' growled Dalziel at the kitchen sink.
'Just a drop,' said Pascoe placatingly. 'So this is where you were that night?'
'What?' Oh aye.'
'And you were in the dark?' Pascoe flicked the light switch up and down a couple of times, leaving it off.
'That's right.'
'You never said what you were doing. I mean, do you spend a lot of time just standing here in the dark?'
'I do what I bloody well like in my own house.'
'Yes, of course. My God. What's that?' exclaimed Pascoe.
In the first floor of the house immediately behind a light had come on in a room with the curtains open. A man stood before the open window, brandishing something in his right hand.
'Bloody hell!' said Dalziel. 'What the fuck's going on?'
Pascoe opened the kitchen door and both men pressed out into the yard. A second man appeared. There seemed to be a brief struggle and he was pushed away.
'Come on,' said Dalziel, setting off down the yard. Distantly Pascoe heard a muffled bang and he went after the fat man, cursing as he hit obstacles that Dalziel seemed able to plough through.
Out of the gate, across the alley, into the garden of the house on Hambleton Road; the back door was unlocked; through the kitchen, up the stairs; Pascoe's leg was aching badly and it was all he could do to keep up, but he was close behind as the Super burst into the bedroom.
A man in a dark blue blazer with a starting pistol in his hand stood by the window. Another man in a black roll neck sweater crouched by the wall. And on the bed, imperturbable as ever, sat Sergeant Wield.
Dalziel spun round to face Pascoe.
'What's this, lad?' he said softly. 'Games evening, is it?'
Pascoe smiled wanly. In the five days since Swain's release, nothing had happened. Dalziel was unrelenting in his belief that Swain was involved in his wife's death far beyond the admission of moral responsibility made in his statement. While not denying a strong intuitive antipathy for the man, he claimed his conviction was based firmly on the evidence of his own eyes. The fact that Waterson's statement in so far as it differed from Swain's tended to place even less blame at his door didn't impress Dalziel in the least. Give him ten minutes with Waterson, he said, and he'd soon alter that. But, perhaps fortunately, Waterson had managed to disappear without trace, and the daily sight of Swain supervising the car park extension was clearly such an irritant that Pascoe had begun to fear his superior might say or do something more than normally outrageous.
Thus it had seemed a good idea to see if he could provoke bit of self-doubt in the fat man by staging this 'reconstruction'.
Now all at once it didn't seem like such a good idea after all.
'Just a bit of reconstruction, sir, to get timings right,' he said brightly.
'Reconstruction? Then you ought to do it properly. I didn't see any tart flashing her tits in the moonlight.'
'No. Sorry, sir. Short on tarts. But in other respects, how was it?'
Dalziel looked at him with speculation edging anger out of his eyes. Then he let his gaze drift from the man with the gun to the man by the wall.
'You want me to say that Constable Clark there with the gun was the man I saw first, don't you? But I don't think he was. I think it was the other way round, it was Billings I saw first and they've switched the gun. Right?'
'Sorry, sir. But no, it was Clark.'
'But it was me you saw with him, not Billings,' said Wield.
Dalziel stared at the sergeant, who was wearing a dark grey leather bomber jacket.
'And it wasn't a gun Clark was carrying but this.'
Pascoe picked up a pipe from the bed.
'Clever,' said Dalziel. 'But neither Swain nor Waterson smoke pipes, do they? And I still heard the gun go off after I saw Swain holding it.'
Pascoe thought: This is one step forward, two back! He said, 'Like tonight?'
'Aye, the same sequence.'
'Yes, sir. Only they fired the starting pistol before Clark appeared at the window. The bang we heard a
fterwards was Dennis Seymour with a paper bag in the garden shed.'
There was a long and dreadful silence.
'All right, you buggers,' said Dalziel finally. 'So you reckon you've proved I'm as unreliable as any other witness, eh? Well, prove away, but I know what I know. This was your idea, was it, Peter? I always had you down as clever but I never had you down as unkind. No need to make a fool of people when all you've got to do is ask.'
Oh Christ, thought Pascoe. Vicious anger he'd been prepared for but not pained reproach.
He said, 'I'm sorry, sir, but I thought the element of surprise
'Oh, it's a surprise right enough, Peter. I'll remember you like surprises. And I'll tell you another thing you got wrong.'
He swung to face Wield.
'That tart on the bed even with her face shot off was a bloody sight prettier than him!'
He left, banging the door behind him.
Wield looked at Pascoe, then began to smile.
'Thought we'd really upset him there,' he said.
'Me, too,' said Pascoe. 'But I'll tell you what. I'm not going to stand near the edge of any station platforms for a bit!'
By the time they got to the Kemble, Dalziel's good humour was almost completely restored by Ellie's sympathetic hearing of 'the daft tricks that clever bugger she'd married had been up to'. But the truce was rudely shattered when they entered the theatre foyer and the first person they saw was Philip Swain.
'What's this? Have you got me here for more games, Peter?' snarled Dalziel, stopping dead.
Pascoe, with cause enough for guilt at entrapping the fat man, could only stutter a most unconvincing denial which Dalziel brushed aside as he advanced towards Swain and demanded, 'What the hell are you doing here?'
Swain, who had paused at the cloakroom to remove an elegant overcoat, lost none of his composure.
'Superintendent, good evening,' he said. 'What am I doing here? My wife was something of a patron of the drama and I feel I owe it to her memory to keep up that support. More to the point, what are you doing here? I shouldn't have thought it was your scene.'
Dalziel 11 Bones and Silence Page 9
