An April Shroud

14

Lunch at the Lady Hamilton was an expensive and alcoholic occasion. Only the best would do for Hereward Fielding and though the Lady Hamilton's best had won it no stars in the posher eating guides, the food was hot and plentiful and swam around very pleasantly in the three bottles of criminally costly claret that the old man insisted they drank with it. All this he regarded merely as a base for the brandy which followed and by two-thirty he was ready to tell the story of his life.

Dalziel whose caution and capacity had both proved larger was willing enough to listen to this personal history as long as it came fairly swiftly to the past twenty-four hours.

'My life has been tragic. Tragic,' Hereward assured him.

'It's been very sad lately,' agreed Dalziel.

'Sad is no fit word for it,' reproved Fielding. 'Sad is… sad. What I feel is despair. A despair all the stronger because I half believe in futurity. We may survive, Dalziel.'

'That's hopeful,' said Dalziel. Surprisingly, he realized he meant it. That bloody wine must have got to him after all.

'No. Oh no. Think of it. When we dead awake it will be to each as if but a second ago he had felt the pangs of dying, the explosion in the head, the drowning of the lungs, the fingers tightening round the throat. What a noise of screaming and wailing there will be at that moment! Followed by what a moment of silence and amazement as we realize the pain is no more.'

'Well, that is hopeful,' asserted Dalziel. 'These dead people, did you have anyone special in mind?'

But the old man was not listening to him.

'But this in turn will be followed by the onset of such a fear at the strangeness and uncertainty of this awakening that all we remember of that forever unattainable past – sunlight, sea-smells, the pleasures of mind and appetite, and even the pains of dying – will seem more desirable to us than all the fabled joys of immortality. Even your lonely, frightened and unhappy existence will beckon you backward with siren song, Dalziel. Even that. Even that.'

He nodded emphatically, and set his brandy balloon like a specimen case over his nose as he sought the last few drops.

'I'll tell you what you are,' said Dalziel, irritated by this unmannerly comment on his own state of being, 'you're pissed. We'd best be on our way home.'

Before I'm finished, he told himself grimly, I'll give these bastards something else to be sorry for.

The old man seemed to read his thoughts.

'Don't be offended, Dalziel. It's not pity I offer. Nor is it pity I ask for. It's merely an audience. And in return, I offer an audience. This is the best we can do for each other, be audiences. Shall we in good music-hall tradition exit with a song?'

He struck his brandy glass with a coffee spoon, took up the resultant note with remarkable accuracy and began to sing.

'Oh, the life of the spirit's a very fine thing But you can't be a monk without flogging your ring And strangely enough I believe you will find You can't be a tart without flogging your mind.'

The waiters gathered in a concerned but uncertain posse by the kitchen door. The large bill had already been paid with a lavish tip, but it wasn't just gratitude or hope of future largesse that immobilized them, Dalziel felt; it was disbelief that this patrician figure could be the source of the disturbance. Then they were joined by the shiny under-manager whose face set in horror and indignation as he recognized Dalziel.

'Come on, Herrie,' said Dalziel grimly. 'Let's go home.'

He stood up, put his hand under the old man's arm and eased him up.

Outside he deposited the now almost comatose Fielding in the Rover and, puffing from the exertion, he closed the door with his buttocks, leaned against it and began to scratch himself against the handle. Chief Inspector Balderstone who turned up a few moments later was reminded of a brown bear he once saw up against a tree in a Disney nature film.

'Glad I've caught you, sir,' he said.

'Hello, lad,' said Dalziel genially. 'You've been quick. What've you found out? Was I right?'

'Mainly, sir. But we'll come to that in a minute. More important is, they've found Mrs Greave.'

'And you think that's more important?' said Dalziel scornfully. 'You've still a lot to learn, Inspector. Where'd they pick her up? Liverpool.'

'Not quite,' said Balderstone. 'Epping Forest.'

'Christ,' said Dalziel. 'She must have taken a wrong turning!'

'She did that all right,' said Balderstone. 'She'd been bashed over the head and then strangled.'

Annie Greave's body had been discovered at nine o'clock that morning by a man riding through Epping Forest. His horse had been reluctant to pass close to a pile of loose branches and leaf mould which looked as if it had been heaped hastily into a shallow ditch. The man dismounted, pulled aside a branch and saw shining through in all its unnatural glory the red hair of Annie Greave.

With her in the ditch had been a suitcase and handbag, so identification had not been difficult. When the Liverpool police were contacted to be told of the woman's death and asked if anything were known, they recalled that Cross had rung them the previous evening asking for a watch to be kept for the woman.

'Time of death?' asked Dalziel, screwing up his face at the temperature of his beer.

After ensuring that Herrie was comfortable and not in any immediate danger of choking himself, he had escorted Balderstone back into the Lady Hamilton with the assurance that professional ethics forbade him to discuss so serious a matter in the street.

'Not known yet, but I doubt if it'll be much help. You rarely get better than give-or-take-three hours. But they reckon she was dumped before three o'clock this morning.'

'How's that?'

'There was a thunderstorm which started just about then. Very heavy rain for an hour. The body had obviously been out in it.'

'Who've they got down there?' asked Dalziel. 'Sherlock bloody Holmes? Anything else?'

'Well, she hadn't been robbed and she hadn't been raped. At least, not so you'd notice.'

'What's that mean?'

'She'd had intercourse not all that long before death. But no signs of force. Also a meal.'

'They're on the ball, these bloody cockneys,' admitted Dalziel grudgingly. 'Our police surgeon wants two weeks' notice to take a blood sample.'

'Their pathologist just happened to be handy when they brought her in.'

'What had she eaten?' asked Dalziel.

'Sausages.'

'That figures,' Dalziel laughed. 'Sausages, eh? What about her case?'

'Sorry?'

'Did it look as if she'd packed it herself? Had anyone been through it?'

'No, sir. Neatly packed, they said. Everything nicely folded. Woman's packing. Oh, and there were a couple of bottles of gin.'

'Souvenirs,' said Dalziel, thinking that it all fitted. Annie Greave hadn't rushed off in a hurry. No, she'd made up her mind to go, got ready, then slipped away when everyone else was too busy to notice. The last time she'd been seen at Lake House was mid-afternoon, as far as Cross's questioning had been able to discover. But Dalziel felt that she had probably delayed her departure till the post-presentation party was well under way.

What had happened then? Had someone come to collect her. A taxi, perhaps. Doubtless this was being checked. Or had she arranged with someone in the house to drive her to a bus or railway station?

He tried to arrange in his mind the inmates of the house during the period of hard drinking after the presentation, but found it almost impossible. Bonnie had looked for and been unable to find Mrs Greave round about five, but all that meant, of course, was that she'd vacated her room by then. She might still have been close by, waiting for her lift.

'The question is,' said Balderstone. 'Did she mean to head south? And if she did, did she know who she was going with or did she just get herself picked up and come unstuck?'

'You mean some fellow who had his fun and then started arguing about the price? Possible,' said Dalziel, adding diffidently, 'You'll be covering transport cafes, that kind of thing? And local taxi services.'

'Yes, sir, thank you,' said Balderstone politely. 'Er, look, sir, what do you think? Could this have anything to do with what's going on in Lake House?'

'You tell me,' said Dalziel. 'What is going on in Lake House?'

'Well, those points you asked us to check. You were right in just about every respect.'

Dalziel showed no surprise, but sipped his beer cautiously to see if it had reached a drinkable temperature.

'First we checked on Henry Uniff. Liverpool fire service had a record of his fire and someone had made a note of his insurers. A company called Royal Oak.'

'Oh,' said Dalziel, disappointed.

'Who are a subsidiary of Provincial Traders.'

'Ah,' said Dalziel. 'Get on with it, man. It's not a Book at sodding Bedtime.'

'Who,' continued Balderstone unperturbed, 'as you know, were for a time Mr Bertie Fielding's employers. His ambitions, it seems, were managerial to start with, but the parent company found him unsatisfactory. It was thought his peculiar talents might be better suited to the more outward-going atmosphere of an insurance office and he was offered a transfer to Royal Oak. He dealt personally with the Uniff fire. There was a medium-sized amount involved. A few thousand all told, most of it on film equipment. They dictated us a list. Not much help except that this item, the rostrum-camera, has a serial number.'

'Useful,' said Dalziel. 'I'll take that. Thanks.'

'Lastly, we've contacted Anchor Insurance. It seems that Mrs Fielding has already been on to them, expressing sympathy for Spinx's accident but great indignation that it should have taken place while he was unlawfully trespassing on her property – especially as it seems likely that he was there on Anchor's behalf. I think she's got them worried. It could be a bit embarrassing. As for what you asked, yes, there's a whacking great fire insurance. The building, I mean the restaurant and kitchens not the main house, plus contents is covered for fifty thousand pounds.'

'Jesus wept!' said Dalziel. ‘It's nowt but a ruined stables!'

'Yes indeed. The thing is, it's not just intrinsic value that's covered, but potential loss of revenue, you follow? But there's no theft insurance at all. They felt that until the place was completed and properly covered by alarms, it was too easy a target. Premiums would have been very high, so the Fieldings put all their eggs in one basket.'

'Big bloody basket,' said Dalziel. 'And the rat?'

'Just as you thought, sir,' said Balderstone. 'I had to pass all this on to my superiors, you understand, sir.'

'I wouldn't understand if you hadn't,' answered Dalziel. 'What do they say?'

'Well, the way things stand, we've got no kind of case at all. In fact, we've not really got any crime. This woman's death belongs to the Met, the man Spinx will almost certainly get a verdict of accident, and that just leaves the theft…'

'Which I lay odds you won't have for long.'

'No, sir. And that's all. Isn't it, sir?'

'As far as I know,' said Dalziel, looking him straight in the eyes.

'Good. Well, sir, we'll be asking more questions up at Lake House, of course. And we're keener than ever to get hold of this man Papworth. But I can see us coming out of the other end of all this with nothing but a lot of time wasted. I just wondered, well, my super wondered, how long you intend staying at the house.'

'Why?' asked Dalziel.

'Well, it might be useful having someone on the inside, so to speak. Till we see how things go.'

'Jesus wept!' said Dalziel. 'I bet he didn't mention expenses! And I'm supposed to be on holiday.'

It didn't sound very convincing. He didn't even really try.

'All right, I can spare another day or so,' he said finally. 'But I'll have to tell them what I think. It's got to be stopped. I think it has been, but they've got to know we know, just in case.'

Balderstone looked dubious.

'I'm not sure, sir…' he began.

'Look,' said Dalziel. 'What're you hoping for? Conspiracy? Christ, there's no hope. I know 'em. No. Frighten the bastards, that's what. I'll do that, but I'll leave it to you to tell them about Open Annie. I'll have another chat with 'em first. Once they know she's dead, they'll clam up. Form a defensive ring! But I'll be inside and if anyone knows more than they should, I'll see they get an arrow up the arse!'

Feeling very pleased with his metaphor, Dalziel tipped the remnants of his beer into a pot holding a tired-looking rubber plant. The assistant manager stood in the doorway, looking disapproving. Dalziel addressed him as they passed.

'The reason the best barmaids have big tits,' he said, 'is for warming up pots of cold tasteless beer.'

The man's expression did not alter but Dalziel was entertained to notice that Balderstone looked distinctly embarrassed.

Hereward Fielding had slumped across the driving seat in their absence so Dalziel pulled him upright and wound the seat-belt round him with all the ferocity of a devout executioner strapping a heretic to the stake.

'That should hold the old sod,' he grunted to Balderstone through the open window. 'Oh, by the way. You won't forget there were six, no five, other people who left Lake House last night, probably heading for London. All pissed and two at least horny with it.'

Balderstone looked nonplussed. Dalziel hoped he was pretending.

'Butt, the feature writer and his dolly photographer, Penitent the BBC man, and the two Yanks. I'd try Penitent first, he had a car to himself. His side-kick was too stoned to travel. Which, as it turns out, may have been lucky for someone.'

'How's that?'

'Well, someone tried to get into bed with him, thinking he was Annie. Which means that whoever it was thought that Annie was alive and well and ready for fun.'

The thought of Arkwright's black face rising from the pillow made Dalziel laugh again and it kept him amused all the way home. Or rather all the way to Lake House, which is not my home, he reminded himself. Though the sight of his own car parked at the head of the drive made him feel pleasantly lord-of-the-manorish as he halted the Rover alongside.

The garage had delivered it at lunch-time, Tillotson informed him. Bonnie had paid the bill, so would he please settle up with her?

Dalziel nodded his approval of this young gentleman's protection of a lady's interests. It was good to know that there were still young men who recognized that a lady of breeding should find it impossible to ask for money. Not that he approved of the elitism implicit in the recognition (as an elite of one, he felt that most other elites were puffed-up crap) but he disapproved even more of women being like men.

'I hope the sods haven't charged for cleaning it,' he said, looking disapprovingly at the tide-mark left round the paintwork by its recent immersion.

'I wouldn't be surprised,' said Tillotson cheerfully. 'Still, drop Pappy fifty pence and he'll give it a polish for you. Does it quite nicely too.'

‘If he was here, I might do that,' said Dalziel.

'Oh, he's here,' said Tillotson casually. 'Turned up shortly after you left.'

'What!' bellowed Dalziel. 'Has anyone told Sergeant Cross?'

'No, I don't think so. Should they have done?'

Could he really be so thick? wondered Dalziel, looking darkly at Tillotson across whose face signs of uneasiness were passing like the movement of a field of wheat at the first breath of the approaching storm.

'Would you like to see him? Shall I fetch him?' offered Tillotson, eager to be somewhere else.

'No,' growled Dalziel who had paused in his efforts to ease the still-sleeping Fielding out of the car. 'You look after the old man.'

'Oh. Is he ill?' said Tillotson, concerned.

'No,' said Dalziel. 'He's unconscious. Which means he doesn't know he's back in this bloody nut house. Which means, for my money, he's very well indeed. Here, get hold.'

He found Papworth in his room, stretched out on his bed apparently asleep. He was fully clothed except for his boots which lay on the floor as though they had been kicked off and dropped over the bed end. The room smelled of tobacco, sweat and something else rather unpleasant which Dalziel couldn't place.

'On your feet, Papworth,' commanded Dalziel.

The man didn't move, but Dalziel sensed that he was awake. He lifted his right foot, placed it against the bed end and thrust with all his weight. The bed moved a couple of inches and crashed against the wall.

Papworth jerked upright, his face taut with anger.

'You stupid fat bastard!' he said.

'Temper,' said Dalziel mildly. 'You look as if you'd like to kill me.'

'Don't give me ideas,' said Papworth, swinging his legs off the bed.

'You think you could kill a man just because he woke you up?' asked Dalziel. 'That's interesting.'

'Your words, not mine. Why don't you sod off?'

Dalziel grinned horribly.

'I ought to warn you, Mr Papworth, that I am a police officer.'

'Don't bother. I know,' said Papworth. ‘It's not hard to smell 'em out.'

‘In here it would be bloody miraculous,' said Dalziel, sniffing. 'What else do you know, Mr Papworth?'

'What do you mean?'

'Come on!' snapped Dalziel. 'Don't play the thick ploughboy with me. That tube of tool-grease you've been passing off as your daughter, she took off last night. Where'd she go?'

'Mrs Greave? I don't know. She's a free agent. What's up? Didn't she give her notice?'

'It's not what she gave. It's what she took.'

Briefly Dalziel listed the missing items. Papworth, fully in control of himself now, was unimpressed.

'All that? She must have had a big bag.'

'Oh no,' said Dalziel who had also settled down. 'This lot's been going for a long while. And you never noticed?'

'I'm the outdoor man,' said Papworth. ‘If she'd taken any trees, I'd have noticed.'

Dalziel smiled inwardly. There was nothing he loved better than a joker. In his experience of interrogation, wit was the last defence of the guilty and generally it sprang from deep uncertainties rather than the confidence it claimed to demonstrate.

'Look,' he said in a voice unctuous with reasonableness. 'Look. There's nothing for you to worry about. Don't take any notice of me if I shout a bit. It's my upbringing. I'm like you. Good solid working-class stock. I've no time for these fancy fal-da-rils. Look. This woman, Annie Greave, now we know what she's not. She's not your daughter. And we know what she is. She's a Liverpool whore. What we don't know is where she is. And it might help us to find her if you told us how you came to meet her in the first place.'

‘If she's a pro,' said Papworth, 'I'd have thought that were obvious.'

'True,' said Dalziel, looking pleasantly surprised as though the thought hadn't struck him. 'So you picked her up. Where was this – Liverpool?'

'That's it,' said Papworth.

'I thought so. What were you doing in Liverpool? It's a good way. Not the kind of place you go for a holiday.'

Dalziel laughed as he spoke, inviting Papworth to share the absurdity of the thought.

‘I went there a few times with young Master Bertie,' said Papworth. The feudal phrase came awkwardly from his lips.

'Did you? As his valet?' said Dalziel, unable to restrain the sarcasm. But it appeared to pass unnoticed.

'He worked up there. Didn't have a car, so when he was going back after a stay at Lake House, I'd sometimes drive him in the Rover and bring it back the next day.'

'And spend the night screwing Annie,' said Dalziel with a wink.

'That's it.'

'And you got to enjoy this so much that when the chance came to install her here in Lake House, you thought, why not? But for decency's sake, and to save the bother of testimonials, you said she was your daughter?'

'Right again,' said Papworth. 'You needn't have woken me up, seeing you've managed to work it all out by yourself.'

'I like a nice chat,' said Dalziel genially. 'So. Let me see. Bertie was how long in Liverpool? Just over a year, I think. Fifteen months, say. And he came back here to start the restaurant project early this year. How often did he come home while he was away? Every weekend? Once a month? Twice a year?'

'Once a month, six weeks at the outside,' said Papworth cautiously.

'And you drove him back and screwed Mrs Greave. That'd make between eight and twelve jumps you had with her last year. Enough to give you a taste for it?'

'I didn't count,' said Papworth. 'Does it give you a thrill, these questions?'

'No. No,' said Dalziel thoughtfully. 'I was just thinking how advanced the prison service in Liverpool must be. Nowt like it in Yorkshire, I tell you, else there's some would be queuing up.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean Annie Greave spent eight months last year in gaol, that's what I mean. And if you were getting on board each time you drove bouncing Bertie back home, then you must have real influence. Yes indeed.'

It was, of course, a lie. Criminals lied all the time and Dalziel saw no reason why this useful privilege should be reserved for them alone.

Of course, all Papworth had to do was say you must be daft! and indeed the man was looking at him with what might be honest puzzlement as he rolled another of his revolting cigarettes.

'Well?' prompted Dalziel.

The door burst open and Bertie Fielding entered.

'Hello, Pappy,' he said. 'I've been looking for you. Ah, you're here, Dalziel. That's useful. It'll save ringing up Cross.'

'We're having a private conversation,' growled Dalziel. 'Do you mind?'

‘In your house with your employees, you can have all the private conversations you wish,' said Bertie. He was feeling confident enough to say it as a joke rather than make it as nasty as he was capable of, observed Dalziel.

'Pappy, now the water's going down, we really ought to start cleaning up the bottom bit of the lawn. The flood's left an awful mess. I've got Hank out there earning his keep, but we need your expertise.'

'Right,' said Papworth. 'I'll come now.'

'Hold on!' said Dalziel. 'I'm not finished with you yet.'

‘Is this some kind of official interrogation?' enquired Bertie. 'What's it all about, Pappy?'

'He's asking me about Mrs Greave. Something about some missing stuff.'

Bertie laughed. The sight of his soft fleshiness gently shaking filled Dalziel with revulsion. At least at his age I was nothing but bone and muscle, he thought.

‘Is that it? Well, consider your constabulary duty done, Mr Dalziel, sir. That's what I was going to ring Sergeant Cross about. It's all been a mistake.'

'What?'

'A mistake. Look, it's a bit complicated, but what it boils down to is this. There's nothing missing.'

'What?'

'That's the long and short of it, I'm afraid. I've done a careful check this morning and in fact all the missing stuff can be accounted for. The booze has been stored elsewhere. It's silly, really.'

'And you didn't know?' demanded Dalziel.

'Not in the least. Not till this morning.'

'And who was it that altered your arrangements without letting you know? And why didn't he or she speak up last night?'

'Well, that would have been a bit difficult,' said Bertie, grinning broadly, it was my late father, God bless him. Who else?'

'So now you've tracked the drink down? And the ovens? Had he fiddled with them too?'

'Oh yes,' said Bertie. 'Security. Very distrustful man was my father.'

It was of course unanswerable. And even though Dalziel had forecast this turn of events to Balderstone that morning, he felt angrily frustrated.

'You can see for yourself if you like,' offered Bertie.

'No thanks,' said Dalziel to whom another thought had occurred. Was this why he had been steered away from the house that morning?

'So come on, Pappy,' said Bertie. 'Mr Dalziel doesn't need to question you any more. Do you, Superintendent?'

Dalziel hesitated. Now would be a dramatic time to reveal that Annie Greave was dead. If he were in charge of the case and could have followed up his revelation by getting Papworth and Bertie into a nice neutral interview room for the next couple of hours, he wouldn't have hesitated. But it wasn't up to him. In any case, as he had stated to Balderstone, his ambiguous position in this house was a positive advantage. Once launch into a full scale interrogation and he would have stepped outside the wagon ring and joined the other redskins whooping around in the darkness.

He decided to compromise.

'Don't forget,' he said to Bertie, it wasn't just a nonexistent theft we had here last night. A man got drowned.'

'What's that to do with me?' demanded Papworth.

'Depends what time you left the house last night and where you went,' said Dalziel. 'You might have seen him on the road.'

Papworth considered for a moment.

'No,' he said. 'I saw nothing. I've no time to gawp at passers-by.'

'That's a little bit vague,' said Dalziel. 'Let's see if we can help you. What time did you leave the house?'

'Latish. I'm not a man for clocks,' said Papworth.

'All right,' said Dalziel understandingly. 'Let's try the other end. Where'd you go and what time did you get there?'

'Well,' said Papworth. 'I had a wet in the village.'

'In the Green Man?' said Dalziel. 'But you were away all night, Mr Papworth. Don't the pubs around here ever close?'

'Not so you'd notice,' said Papworth, standing up and making for the door. 'I'd best be getting to work.'

Bertie stood aside to let him by, but Dalziel blocked his path.

'You're not telling me you were boozing all night,' he said incredulously.

Pappy grinned slyly.

'Not all night,' he said. 'These are long nights for a country woman if her man's away. They like a bit of company. You ought to try it, Mr Dalziel. Have another look round my room if you want to.'

He squeezed past Dalziel and went out. Bertie followed and closed the door behind him, leaving Dalziel in the fuggy room.

Dalziel wrinkled his nose in distaste as he considered what the man had said. With typical economy he found a word to cover both experiences.

'Chickenshit,' he said.