Bones and Silence

'Aye, but is there a bloody parachute?' asked Dalziel.

'A couple of times and you'll be running up there like a mountain goat,’ she said persuasively. 'Look.'

She was more like a mountain lion, lithe and tawny, as she scaled the ladder with no apparent effort. Dalziel looked up at her, erect and magnificent, on the tiny platform. She beckoned to him, smiling encouragingly.

'Care for a bunk up, Superintendent?'

He turned and looked at Philip Swain. This was another of the troubles with playing God. As Chung had rightly judged, Swain's presence in the cast had been a positive incentive to someone of Dalziel's character. But Trimble's warning about harassment had inhibited him more than he cared to admit, and now, to add injury to inhibition, the jury at the re-convened inquest on Gail Swain had brought in a verdict of death by misadventure. Swain had left the court with words of sympathy ringing in his ears, while Dalziel's had been filled with the flea-like buzz of pained reproof.

He had brought much of it on himself by refusing to desist from his efforts to blow clouds of suspicion Swain's way, thus obliging Eden Thackeray to waft them aside with reluctant ease.

'You had been where that night, Superintendent?' he had asked, smiling.

It turned out that Thackeray knew exactly where he'd been, how much he'd supped, and, their friendship notwithstanding, would bring witnesses to prove it if necessary. When the old solicitor somehow contrived to get him to admit he was being sick into a bucket when he first noticed Gail Swain at the window, his credibility was completely ruined and the coroner's summing up had come close to a recommendation that his conduct of the case be investigated by his superiors.

'Shouldn't you be in California?' he said to Swain now.

'I'm flying out with the coffin at the weekend.'

'Well, I hope it all goes off all right.'

'Thank you,' said Swain, surprised. 'Yes, it's going to be an extremely fraught experience. Not helped, of course, by the delay.'

'What? Oh aye. You're talking about the funeral. I meant the really important thing, your talks with them Delgado lawyers. I reckon they'd have made me mayor of LA if I'd pinned a murder charge on you!'

Swain came close to anger, then opted for amusement.

'That's better, Superintendent,' he said. 'I thought for a moment you were going soft. But thanks for your good wishes all the same. If they're sincere.'

'They're sincere enough,' said Dalziel. 'I want you back here in my reach as soon as possible.'

'How touching. And why is that?'

Dalziel smiled like a polar bear.

'Because of the Mysteries, of course,' he said. 'Because your understudy's crap, and Chung reckons you're the very best Devil she's ever directed.'

He was telling the truth. Swain was excellent m his part and Chung had been very annoyed to learn he was likely to be away for as long as a week.

'I'm flattered,' he said, smiling. 'And I do hope you've managed to reach your heaven by the time I return.'

'I'll get there in the end,' said Dalziel. 'I usually do. Don't forget your lines while you're away. I'll be listening carefully.'

'Andy, are you going to get your ass up here or not?' yelled Chung.

'All right, I'm coming,' said Dalziel. And began the long ascent.

Back at the station later, he parked his car in the refurbished car park which was like a constant mocking reminder of his failure. In his office he rummaged through his mail and groaned as he came across another letter from what Pascoe called the Dark Lady. As if conjured by his thought, Pascoe came into the room.

'Stopped knocking, have we?'

'Sorry, sir. Thought you were still at your theatricals. I was going to drop this on your desk.'

'Tell me about it. I'm pig sick of reading words just now.'

'I just had a call from Leeds Central. As you know, they've had real trouble with their football yobs. But because they're highly organized over there, that's meant they're vulnerable to infiltration and the Leeds undercover operation's had one or two excellent results.'

'Send the buggers a medal, then. What's this got to do with us?'

'The word is that during the last couple of seasons some of our City supporters, short of any real action over here, got themselves into the Leeds gang for their jollies. But now they're dividing themselves between the two because they've got big ambitions to make a name for themselves as the City mob. Just first names so far, which isn't much help, but as soon as they can get some real detail, they'll let us know. Promising, eh?'

'Yes, must be nice to get other buggers to do your work for you,' said Dalziel sourly. 'I wish I could manage it. I seem to recollect asking some idle sod to get this joker sorted.'

He tossed the latest letter across to Pascoe who read it with a troubled look on his face.

'Doesn't sound like a joker to me,' he said.

'No? Then get her off my back! Christ, you've had long enough!'

This from a man who found the Dark Lady's plight an irritation too trivial to waste his own precious time on was too unjust for argument. Pascoe rang Pottle and got invited to have a drink in the University Staff Club. The psychiatrist read the letter twice.

'She's very confused,' he said.

Pascoe, with a guest's sensitivity, suppressed the mock amazement which rose to his lips by taking a long pull at his spritzer. Pottle regarded him with a slight smile which suggested he had noted the suppression.

'That may seem obvious,' he went on. 'But what I detect is a confusion beyond the basic mental and spiritual turmoil which has brought her to the point of suicide. It's all to do with this understanding of her own motives which hovers between the conscious and the subconscious. Despite her disclaimer, she began to suspect her use of Dalziel as a sounding-board was also an appeal for discovery, so she ended the correspondence after letter two. Then her need to "talk" grew so strong she had to start again to protect herself from discovery! After another two letters, the pattern repeats itself, and she resolves to stop once more, though this time without announcing it.'

Pascoe interrupted, 'Not out of fear of being tracked down so much as fear that that's what she really wanted?'

'More or less,' said Pottle. 'Several weeks pass. And finally an awareness that she is rapidly approaching the point of no return brings with it a desire to be prevented so strong that she has re-opened the correspondence. Such fascinating ambiguities! She claims to be distressed lest Dalziel had passed the case to a more feeling subordinate. An inspired guess or actual knowledge? Subconsciously, of course, she is probably simply miffed that the Great Detective as she calls him isn't taking her seriously. Happily, you are.'

He regarded the detective sympathetically and poured another inch of Muscadet into his glass, not hiding his disapproval as Pascoe topped it up with soda.

'I'm driving,' said Pascoe. In fact he quite liked the combination and didn't think anyway that the Staff Club's Muscadet was worth getting religious over.

'Last time you said she was probably as likely to give clues for policemen as psychiatrists,' he went on. 'Does it still look that way?'

'I believe so. But they may not be all that obvious.'

'Policemen aren't allowed to ignore the obvious,' said Pascoe. 'I've already asked Mr Dalziel for a list of his partners at the ball. That should eliminate half a dozen.'

'So many? I should have thought one veleta would have sent him reeling to the bar,' said Pottle, who had suffered much abuse from Dalziel over the years. 'Yes, that was certainly a very obvious clue, reducing your suspects by about fifty thousand at a stroke. And she's started talking about methods at last. Jumping under a train. Possibly just a tease. Never take what she says too literally. But clues there are, and there'll be more before the end.'

'She'll write again.'

'Oh yes. No doubt about it. The closer she gets, the more nods and winks she'll give. But you'll need to be sharp. Don't expect a name and address!'

'It'd make life a lot easier,’ said Pascoe.

‘That's what we'd all like,’ said Pottle gently. 'Including your Dark Lady.'

As Pascoe drove back to Headquarters, he brooded on what Pottle had said. He recognized in himself the growth of an obsession, but he did not know or perhaps did not want to know how to combat it. It was all right for Pottle to tell him to be a detective, but he didn't feel like a detective, more like a medium striving to make contact with a lost soul and having to work through some not totally sympathetic spirit guide! These intermediaries often figured as Red Indians, or Chinamen. He'd got Dalziel.

He picked up his car radio mike and intoned, 'Is there anybody there?'

'Say again, over,' crackled the radio.

Hastily he replaced the mike. A chief inspector was too senior to be wild, too junior to be eccentric. It was the sober middle age of a police career. But even the middle-aged were allowed their obsessions and if you had one, there was only one thing to do - ride it till either you fell off or it dropped from under you.

Outside his room, he bumped into Dalziel and said rather aggressively, 'You won't forget that list of your dancing partners, will you, sir?'

Dalziel didn't reply but opened the door and ushered Pascoe inside, then overtook him and sat at his desk.

'This is your in-tray, lad,' he said kindly. 'And this sheet of paper here is the list I promised. And these sheets here are the complete guest list. So if you take this list from this one, you'll find you've got close on two hundred names, one of which might belong to this daft tart who's wasting so much of your highly expensive time.'

'At least it's a life I'm trying to save, not just my self-esteem,' retorted Pascoe, allowing himself to be stung.

'Meaning?' said Dalziel.

Pascoe was already regretting his outburst but he knew better than to back down.

'Meaning we still seem to be spending a lot of time and energy chasing around after Gregory Waterson so you can try to re-open the Swain case.'

'I'm not denying it,' said Dalziel equably. 'But he is a criminal suspect, isn't he?'

'All right. But Tony Appleyard's not a criminal, is he?' said Pascoe obstinately. 'And we seem to have got half the police in north London and all the DHSS looking for him.'

'It's about time them buggers had something useful to do,' said Dalziel. 'Anyroad, I made a promise, lad.'

'To Shirley Appleyard, you mean? But you've said yourself she's not pressurizing you.'

'That's right. I wasn't sure from the start why she really wanted to see him. Stick a knife in him, mebbe. Anyroad, yes, she seems to have lost interest. Last time I told her I'd heard nowt, she just shrugged and said, I shouldn't bother any more. It's not worth it. Likely he's dead.'

'And why are you still bothering?' asked Pascoe, rancour erased by genuine interest.

'Because it's worth it to me,' grunted Dalziel. 'One, I'll break my own promises, not wait till someone gives me permission. And two, I want to know. He might be a useless specimen but he's from off my patch, and he went south to work, not to die, if that's what's happened to him. I wouldn't put it past them cockneys. Here's a dead 'un, not one of ours, another bloody northerner, when's the next load of rubbish going out to the tip? It's time they knew they've got me to answer to!'

This was the nearest thing to a radical political statement Pascoe had ever heard from the Superintendent. It wasn't going to usher in the Socialist Millennium, but shouted loud enough, it might cause a little unease in Thatcherland.

'Look, sir,' he said. 'I'm sorry if I sounded off a bit . . .'

'Never apologize, never explain,' said Dalziel, rising. 'Just do your job, and never forget the golden rule.'

'Which is?'

'When in doubt, it's your shout. Come on, lad, the Bull's been open for nigh on ten minutes!'

CHAPTER TWO

Eustace Horncastle was no connoisseur of revenge. Hot or cold, it was a dish his cloth forbade him, and he felt this no great deprivation, believing with that fervour reserved for the more militant tenets of his faith that the Lord would repay.

Unhappily, his knowledge of what the Lord would do was not matched by an equal degree of self-awareness. Vengeance, plainly served at whatever temperature, would have been pushed aside with genuine moral revulsion; but Mrs Horncastle could testify that, reconstituted, it had been a staple of his diet for many years.

The way it worked was this. At the conscious level, wrongs were forgiven, slights forgotten, provocations met with forbearance and pain with fortitude. But somehow, somewhere, some time, something would emerge, justifiable in terms of logic, Christian teaching, and the greatest good of the greatest number, which without bearing much resemblance to most known forms of vengeance, yet had its sweet and sour aftertaste.

April 21st

Dear Miss Chung,

You will recall when I promised my support in obtaining for you permission to use the area around the ruins of St Bega 's Abbey as the fixed site for your production of the Mysteries I pointed out that any decision on this would require the ratification of the Cathedral Chapter. For various reasons it did not prove possible to lay the proposal before a full Chapter till yesterday and I regret to inform you that the feeling of the meeting was strongly against the idea. The environs of St Bega's have a very special ambience and it was felt that it would be inappropriate for such a peaceful and holy spot to be used for what is essentially a secular and commercial entertainment.

I do not doubt that the City Council will renew its offer of Charter Park, however, and I assure you of my continued personal support for your endeavours.

Yours very sincerely,

Eustace Horncastle

'Oh you bastard,' said Eileen Chung.

She picked up the phone on her desk at the Kemble and dialled. A woman's voice answered.

'Dorothy, is that you? Hi. Chung here. Is your lovely husband in?'

'I'm afraid not. Can I help?'

'I don't think so. It's not important. I'll catch up with him later,' said Chung with Erinnic certainty. 'How're you doing?'

'I'm fine.'

'That's good. It's time you dropped by for a coffee. I know you're up to your halo with good works and all that, but we can always put you to work if you feel guilty. How about this afternoon?'

The two women had met several times since their encounter over the Pliny tomb. Their exchanges had been light and social but undershot on both sides by a strong current of memory.

'I might do that. Ought I to get Eustace to ring you back?'

It was a strange turn of phrase.

She knows what this is about, thought Chung. And she's hinting a doubt at my strategy.

'No need,' she said easily. 'I'd prefer to see him. Perhaps we can plot an ambush when you come round.'

She replaced the phone. Dorothy Horncastle had been right. She would get nowhere talking to the Canon on the phone. Even face to face her charms were uncertain now that he'd cried Lamia. But without St Bega's, her production felt flat and dull, as flat and dull as Charter Park. She should have taken more care of this. She stood up and walked restlessly around the room. The walls were papered with the Mysteries - storyboard, scripts, routes, costume and pageant designs - it was all there, in every sense. This was what had attracted her in the first place. The only other way to get such a comprehensive statement of life was to do all of Shakespeare from Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night! to And my ending is despair, a journey not to be concentrated into a holiday week!

'What's up with you, lass? You look like you bit an apple and swallowed a worm.'

It was Dalziel. Sometimes you knew backstage when he was in the foyer; others, he came up behind you like a scouting Indian.

'Worm's about it,' she said handing him the letter.

He read it and said, 'Makes a difference using Charter Park, does it?'

'Like playing at Barnsley instead of Wembley,' she said.

'I'm a rugby man meself,' he said, 'and clart's clart whatever the scenery. What's the plan, then?'

She shrugged hopelessly. Dalziel watched and thought that Chung shrugging should have a government health warning. No mere shoulder movement this but an undulation running down her long lithe body like a Mexican wave.

He grinned and said, 'Right. Let the dog see the rabbit.'

'What are you doing?' she asked as he dialled a number on her phone.

'Can't compete with you at shaking titties, luv,' he said. 'But I'm a dab hand at shaking other things, like fists, faith and front row forwards. Hello! Bishop in? He can't be busy, it's not Sunday. Tell him it's Andy Dalziel and there may be a problem about his ticket for the Welsh game next season. What? No, I don't want him to ring back, I want him now. If the monkey's around, the organ-grinder can't be far away.'

He smiled sweetly at Chung, who hissed, 'Who are you talking to, for God's sake?'

'Bishop's chaplain. Nice lad, but he plays lacrosse. Lacrosse! No wonder there's no respect for religion. Hello, Joe. About time. No, the lad got it wrong, of course there's no problem about your international tickets. Have I ever let you down? I'd fix you up with a helmet and let you walk the line if that was the only way to get you in. That's me, reliable. Like you, Joe. You can trust me like I trust you. Right, I'll come to the point, I know you're a busy man. Friend of mine's got a problem . . .'

Ten minutes later he put the phone down and said, 'There you are. All fixed.'

'My God, Andy. And I mean that literally! But what about the Chapter? And I thought the Bish was shit-scared of Eustace?'

'It seems at this Chapter meeting the use of St Bega's wasn't really on the agenda. It had all been fixed ages back. It was old Horny-cassock himself who brought it up and naturally there were a couple of sniping speeches at him because he gets up a lot of noses, and suddenly he says, right, I think I've got the feeling of the meeting and they're into any other business, no vote taken. As for Joe being scared of Horncastle -' Dalziel smiled ursinely - 'who'd you be more scared of, luv? A wanked-out cleric or me?'

'No competition,' said Chung. 'But how do you know him, the Bishop, I mean . . .'

'Didn't anyone tell you I was a failed priest?' said Dalziel so seriously that she let her astounded half-belief show till his huge frame started to shake with convulsions of laughter which were Krakatoa to her Mexican wave.

'Oh, you bastard,' she said joining in.

'I told you,' he said between guffaws. 'He were one of the front row forwards I was good at shaking. Bugger tried to bite me ear off once. I had three stitches. He told me after it were a kind of reverse transubstantiation, my blood tasted like Sam Smith's beer. Now, I'm no bishop, I really am busy, so what about this rehearsal? Lucifer still on his travels, is he?'

'Philip? Yes, it's a damn nuisance. He said a week and its been more than two.'

'Don't worry, luv,' said Dalziel. 'He'll be back, word of God. Now I've got this grand idea for when I'm talking to Noah...’

There had to be easier ways of earning a crust than rehearsing Andrew Dalziel, thought Chung. But, once she got it into his head that though in matters criminal and even episcopal he might reign supreme, in matters theatrical she was boss, he could be sensational as God.

She explained this to Dorothy Horncastle that afternoon. The Canon's wife smiled as if the idea pleased her. Chung, whose curiosity about masks and motives was the mainspring of her professional life, said, 'You like the idea of a big fat copper as God, don't you? What's the appeal? Rude sign at the Church? Put-down for the Canon? Or what?'

It was a step into an intimacy which had yet to be proved, but Chung hadn't got where she was by pussyfooting around.

For a few moments the woman froze, her features setting into just the kind of umbraged mask a lady of her class and condition ought to wear in face of such intrusive familiarity. Then a slow thaw set in, another smile struggled through like a weak spring sun, and she said ruefully, 'Sorry, I'm still getting used to your . . .'

'My big mouth. Say it, hon,' laughed Chung. 'It's my best feature.'

'Your directness,' corrected Dorothy. 'Your honesty.'

'Come on! You're so honest, it drips out of you!'

'No. I obey rules, I follow the law. That's not the same. I only approach real honesty in fantasy.'

'Me too,' said Chung. 'It's my job. But don't think honesty means you've got to put up with crap. It can also mean telling the people who dish it out to go screw themselves.'

'Go screw. . .' Dorothy tested the words. 'I'm not quite sure if I'm ready for that. Don't misunderstand me. All I mean is that profanity should come as naturally as the leaves to a tree or it should not come at all.'

'You work at it, hon. Meanwhile, you can just tell me to mind my own business.'

'You know, I don't think I will. Why do I like the idea of Mr Dalziel making a hit as God? Certainly not because of any sense of rude gesture, or putdown. On the contrary, I think he is perfect for the part! After all, isn't the image most people have of God precisely that of a big fat copper who will put everything right?'

'Is it? I suppose so. But there's more to Andy than that. He can make a lot of noise when he wants but he can also manage to be so quiet he's practically invisible. And he ought to be a straight up and down establishment figure, but he doesn't really fit in anywhere. Usually when people say someone's their own man, they mean they haven't sussed out who owns him. But with Andy, I reckon it might actually be true. Hell, am I making any kind of sense?'

'Of course you are,' said Dorothy Horncastle, who had been listening intensely. 'You're saying Mr Dalziel is ubiquitous, omniscient and immortal. My dear, clearly you didn't cast him as God. He is God!'

She spoke very seriously and for the second time that day Chung found herself inhibited from taking as joke what had to be a joke.

Then the Canon's wife began to smile and soon the two women were laughing together, or at least they were laughing at the same time.

CHAPTER THREE

Philip Swain landed at Manchester Airport at 7.30 on the morning of one of those days of early May which can make a Yorkshireman feel good to be alive even in Lancashire. His trip had taken three weeks rather than the one he had anticipated, but he had gone out tourist and come back first and there was no sign of flight fatigue on his face as he collected his luggage from the carousel.

He strode confidently through the green channel and out into the main arrivals hall, heading for the exit like a pit pony eager for the sky. Footsteps accelerated behind him and a hand clamped heavily on to his shoulder. He halted, spun round, then smiled broadly.

'Arnie,' he said. 'You needn't have come all this way. I'd have got a taxi.'

'Cost you a fortune,' said Arnie Stringer lugubriously.

'Arnie, I've got a fortune,' said Swain.

'All settled, is it?'

‘I said so when I rang, didn't I? It took a bit longer than I thought, but once it dawned it was cash I wanted, not Delgado voting shares, we did a deal.'

'Aye, I don't doubt them Yankee lawyers are as tricky as us own. Thackeray rang to check when you'd be back. Says he'll be out to see you. Money's toasted cheese to them rattons.'

'We need a good lawyer now,' said Swain reprovingly. 'Come on, Arnie. Where's the car? I can't wait to get back to Moscow. Christ, how I'm sick of air-conditioning and muzak!'

The two men said little more till they were out of Manchester and on the motorway, climbing high up into the Pennines. Swain wound down the window and breathed in deep as he gazed out over the bleak moorland stretching away on either side.

'That's good,' he said.

'Good? It's ninety per cent diesel,' said Stringer. 'You'll get fresher air in a multi-storey car park.'

Swain regarded his partner speculatively. There was a streak of sardonic humour in the man which sometimes made Swain believe the stories of their common ancestry. But his Nonconformist conscience was pure Stringer.

'What's up, Arnie?' he asked. 'You've been a real misery, even by your low standards.'

'Nowt's up. I'd have told you else, wouldn't I?'

'I know you would. But there's something . . .'

They were at the top now. Behind them, Lancashire. Ahead, Yorkshire. The morning sun was bright in their eyes. Stringer had pulled down the visor to keep it out, but Swain was happy to relax with its warmth on his face.

'It's our Shirley,’ said Stringer abruptly.

'What? She's not still on about that husband of hers, is she?'

'Not so much now, but she were. We had a big row about it. I told her again I'd tried looking for him, but there was no finding them as don't want found. We got a bit heated. She seems to have settled down since, but she let on it was her as set that fat bastard looking for him. Social Security inquiry! God, he's cunning.'

'I never doubted that. But what's in it for him?' wondered Swain. 'He dishes out favours like Nero on a bad day. He's probably only going through the motions. So stop worrying.'

'It's Shirley I worry about.'

'Yes, I know that, Arnie. But you said she seemed more settled now.'

'Settled? Aye, but sometimes it's more than settled. Resigned, maybe. Or just plain given up. I think maybe it's not knowing where she's at.'

'Well, Arnie, I can see you're upset, but there's nothing you can do about it. Absolutely nothing. You mustn't risk hurting Shirley. Or that lovely grandson of yours. God gave you the strength to bear things, but he didn't give everyone that strength. It'll all come out all right in the end. Divine providence. That will take care of things, won't it?'

Swain spoke earnestly, his eyes fixed on the driver's silhouetted face.

'Yes,' said Stringer. 'I suppose it will.'

'Right, then. Let's get home,' said Philip Swain.

As they dropped down into Yorkshire, Swain grew more and more relaxed and Stringer increasingly morose. When they climbed out of the car in the yard at Moscow Farm, it could have been the driver who'd made the long trip from the States and the passenger who had spent the night in his own bed.

Eden Thackeray who had been sitting in his Saab listening to a tape of The Yeomen of the Guard clearly thought so.

'You're looking well, Philip,' he said as they shook hands. 'So well, I assume your trip was successful, financially speaking?'

'Oh yes,' said Swain. 'I think even you will have to agree that Swain and Stringer are at last on a sound footing. But why are you sitting out here? Shirley's got a key.'

He glanced at the office window.

'Shirley, Mrs Appleyard, did offer to let me into the house, but I demurred. I don't think our musical tastes coincide.'

Swain frowned slightly at the excuse, then said, 'Well, come in now. Thanks, Arnie. We'll talk later.'

Stringer accepted his dismissal blankly and made for the office.

Swain led the lawyer into the house, his face glowing with visible delight in being home once more.

'What'll you drink?' he said.

'It's a little early. A glass of Perrier perhaps to toast your safe return.'

Swain pulled a face but he poured himself the same.

'So what's new here?' he asked.

'Not much. The police still haven't traced Mr Waterson or Miss King.'

'What's that to do with me?' asked Swain in irritation. 'If and when they find Waterson, he'll just confirm what the inquest has already settled. I want to put all that behind me and start remembering Gail as she was, not the subject of a police investigation, or an estate for blood-sucking lawyers to haggle over. Sorry. I mean the Americans, of course. They make you lot look like a bunch of social workers.'

'Which is what we are at heart,' said Thackeray.

'You say so? And presumably you've come rushing out here simply to check up on my well-being?' smiled Swain. 'How very kind. But while you're here we might as well chat about the firm's future. I've got real plans. You know that development on Crimpers Knoll I talked about? Well, now . . .'

But he became aware that Thackeray was holding up his hand and shaking his head.

'What's up?' said Swain.

'Philip, you're quite right, it is the firm's future I wanted to see you about. I always knew that if you became a rich man, you would not be content to sit back; you would want to use your money to move your business on to a much more elevated plane, and what I've been wondering is whether my firm can offer you the kind of representation you will now require. In short, it seems to me that now would be a good time to take stock and ask ourselves if the interests of a burgeoning company and of its clients and employees might not be better served by a more specialized law firm.'

Swain was regarding him in astonishment and dismay.

He said, 'Look, if this is pique because I didn't consult you about my negotiations with Delgado...’

'No, no. How could you? I know nothing of American law. And that's precisely my point. For special circumstances you want specialists. I do not believe we can serve you in the future as we have served you in the past. And since I do not wish that any mistaken loyalty on your part should postpone the parting till it assumes the dimension of a dismissal, I think it behoves me to make the first move. I have prepared a list of commercially orientated firms I can personally recommend,’

He put his glass on the table, laid an envelope alongside it, rose and offered his hand.

Swain ignored it, saying, 'For God's sake, Thackeray, what's going on? You've been my lawyer for years...’

'But am so no longer. I'm sorry to seem so precipitate but you were away longer than expected and I'm off for a bit of a break in Sardinia in a couple of days. I wanted the decks to be cleared before I left, for your sake, I mean. Good luck, Philip. I know how hard you've worked to earn it.'

The lawyer dropped his unclaimed hand, smiled pleasantly, nodded and walked from the room.

Behind him, Swain stared unseeingly into his Perrier water. Then he shook his head as though to wake himself, emptied the glass into an ashtray, drew the top from his whisky decanter and poured himself a long measure.

Suddenly he looked indeed as a man might be expected to look who had just flown six thousand miles and lost eight hours in the process.

part six

Scribe: Alas the time that this betid! Right bitter care doth me embrace; All my sins be now unhid: Yon man before me them all doth trace.

The N. Town Cycle:

'The Woman Taken In Adultery'

May 7th

Dear Mr Dalziel,

Another month without a letter! To tell the truth I seemed to have hit bottom as far as human life was concerned, i.e. I knew everyone who really mattered to me was dead and I stopped hoping to hear mystic voices from afar summoning me to a tearful reunion. And of course anyone who reads the papers had long ago given up on man as a species worth anything more than early extinction. But curiously this final death of hope in humanity seemed to open me up to nature and for a while I was almost able to lose myself in little lambs and daffodils and all the blossom of spring. Then last week a big wind blew and suddenly I was treading petals underfoot, and watching the rain beat down the flowers, and on the news they were still arguing about which areas of the country were producing lambs fit to eat post-Chernobyl.

So much for nature! So now I'm confirmed in my resolution. But I've not forgotten my promise to help if I could. It's harder than I thought. You really earn your money, don't you? But something I heard might interest you. Did you know that Eden Thackeray has stopped being Philip Swain's lawyer? Probably you did, and probably it doesn't mean anything anyway. But remember the widow's mite. When you've not got much to give, a little can be a lot!

I'll try to do better next time. If there's time for a next time. Meanwhile you could do worse than apply to John of Beverley whose day this is. A Yorkshire bobby and a Yorkshire saint! What a combination. He was very good with the poor and the handicapped. Also he helped the English win at Agincourt. So either way you might find him useful!

CHAPTER ONE

'Got the sack, did he? What? Oh, I see. Mind you, he would say that, wouldn't he? No need to get aereated. Tara.'

Dalziel put the phone down. Pascoe and Wield had come into the room while he was talking and he regarded them parsonically as he intoned, 'There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not.'

'And what might they be, sir?' inquired Pascoe politely.

'You don't know? Jesus, what's religious bloody education coming to? Tell him, Wieldy.'

'Don't remember exactly,' said Wield. 'Isn't one of 'em something about the way of a man with a maid?'

'Oh aye. I might have guessed that'd be the one that stuck in your mind. That'd be a bit too wonderful for you right enough, wouldn't it?'

Pascoe, though suspecting he was the only one to feel embarrassed, said quickly, 'And what are the others, then?'

'Summat about ships and serpents, or is that the Walrus and the Carpenter? Anyroad, here's a fifth. Eden Thackeray's no longer representing Swain.'

He tossed Pascoe the Dark Lady's letter.

'I wonder how she knows?' said Pascoe.

'Oh, sod that,' said Dalziel impatiently. 'All that matters is, it's true.'

'So what's so wonderful about a man with new money wanting a new lawyer?'

'Nowt. Except that that's not the way it was. I just rang up the firm to check, old Eden's away in Sardinia till the weekend but I charmed his secretary into telling me the truth. It was Eden who sacked Swain, not the other way round. And a lawyer giving up money, that's a lot too wonderful for me!'

Pascoe still couldn't share the fat man's wonder. The Swain case was yesterday's news, the only loose end being the continued absence of Greg Waterson and his girlfriend, and they were more the Drug Squad's concern than Dalziel's. His lack of enthusiasm showed, for Dalziel snarled, 'All right. Doubting bloody Thomas, leave it to me. I'll sort old Eden out when he gets back. Meanwhile what have you got that needs a conference on a Monday morning? And it had better be something a lot more important than tracking down that dotty tart!'

This seemed grossly ungrateful in view of the significance the Superintendent seemed to have found in the Dark Lady's information, but only a fool tried to score debating points off Dalziel.

Pascoe said, 'It's this football gang. Leeds have come up with something positive.'

'Not afore time,’ said Dalziel. 'Further West you get, more useless and idle the buggers become. Lancashire, Wales, Ireland, America. Must be something to do with the Gulf Stream. So, what have they got, lad?'

'Seems now that the season proper's over, these yobboes are at a bit of a loose end. So our City breakaway group have issued an invitation to their Leeds mates to come across here and have a bit of a joust.'

'You're joking! You're not? When?' demanded Dalziel.

'Three weeks' time. Bank Holiday Monday, May thirtieth. Day of your dramatic debut, sir. Perhaps that's the real attraction...’

The fat man's face told him he'd picked the wrong subject for humour and he quickly became serious. 'Leeds reckon their undercover team have got enough evidence for conspiracy to cause an affray. They've given us four names...’

'Four? Is that all they could manage?'

'They're the ringleaders. With another dozen being rounded up in Leeds, it should nip things in the bud and prevention's better than cure.'

'I suppose so. It'll just leave the steamers, the druggies, the yardies and the dips to sort out. What's the plan?'

'There's a few loose ends to tie up. Then next week, Tuesday morning, at the crack, we'll pick up our four, do a preliminary interrogation here, then ferry them over to Leeds to join their dozen.'

'What's up? Don't the miserable sods trust us?'

'They've done all the graft,’ said Pascoe, 'so we've got to play their rules. But it'll give us a chance to see if we can tie any of our lot in with chucking that lad off the train or smashing up the Rose and Crown.'

'You'll be lucky,' said Dalziel pessimistically. 'Still, it's better than nowt. Let's make a really big splash out of this and mebbe it'll persuade some of the other villains to pick somewhere else for their holiday outing.'

He really doesn't want his debut spoiled! thought Pascoe.

He said, 'How's it all going, sir? The Mysteries, I mean.'

Dalziel eyed him assessingly, decided to take it this time as genuine interest, and said, 'It's bloody hard work, I'll tell you that for nowt. I sometimes wonder how I got conned into taking it on.'

'Chung's hard to resist,' smiled Pascoe complacently, sure now that his role as Judas-goat was undetectable.

'A lot of 'em are,' growled Dalziel. 'At first. Then you let 'em talk you into something daft, like marriage or play-acting. That's when you see the change. But I've said I'll do it and I'll not go back on my word. Someone round here's got to show a bit of community spirit. I'm surprised you've not got yourself involved, Peter, your missus being so thick with Chung. You must have boxed real clever to keep out.'

He was regarding Pascoe assessingly once more and Pascoe's sense of security evaporated like spit on a flatiron.

That night he described the scene to Ellie and said casually, 'Chung is completely discreet, I suppose?'

'No, thank God, else I'd have a very dull article.'

Ellie was now deeply immersed in preparing a profile of Chung for the Evening Post's Mysteries Souvenir Edition. She'd been flattered when Chung had insisted she should write it rather than one of the paper's regular reporters, who, she alleged, couldn't be trusted to get the facts straight about a flower show. Ellie's enjoyment of the task was marred only by the difficulty of getting Chung to sit still. Most of her interviews were given on the move, but it was all great copy and Ellie was increasingly optimistic that her piece would be the jewel in the crown of the Souvenir Edition.

'Any chance of a preview?' asked Pascoe.

'No way. You'll pay your money like everybody else,' said Ellie firmly.

There was nothing in her tone to hint reprisal for his own unwillingness to let her see the Dark Lady letters, but he felt it as such. Since that unacknowledged clash, he had made an effort to talk about this and other cases, but she had registered only a polite interest and slipped away from the subject as soon as possible. He felt, though did not feel ready to argue, that police evidence was a bit different from Chung's biography. Instead he managed a smile and said, he hoped not too tartly, 'Then I shall feel as entitled to be critical as anyone else. Incidentally, as you chase her around, have you come across Fat Andy in rehearsal?'

'I saw him distantly. He was curiously impressive.'

'Curiously?'

'I mean, he was just himself. No acting that you could notice, just Andy Dalziel on high, bellowing mediaeval verse. But it sounded like he was saying it, not reciting it, I mean actually saying it, his own words.'

'Do you think we've been wrong all these years and he really is God?'

'Have you noticed the state of the world lately?' asked Ellie. 'How could you ever doubt it?'

CHAPTER TWO

"Evening, Mr Thackeray,' said the barman at the Gents. 'You look as if you enjoyed your holiday.'

'I think I did, John,' said the lawyer, a smile splitting his bronzed face. 'The usual, please.'

As the barman reached for the twelve-year-old Macallan, a finger like a Colt Python dug into Thackeray's spine.

'And another of the same, John,' he said without turning. 'Andrew, how are you?'

'Better than you, I'd say,' said Dalziel, hoisting one bovine buttock on to a stool. 'You've got a terrible colour, did you know that? You ought to try a holiday.'

'I'll think about it. I understand you rang the office while I was away.'

'That's right,' said Dalziel. 'Not very helpful, that lass of thine.'

'I'm sorry to hear that. Cheers.'

'Up yours,' said Dalziel threateningly. 'Never fear, I'll get to the bottom of it.'

'No one quicker,' said Thackeray, peering admiringly into Dalziel's empty glass.

'You know what I mean.'

'I haven't the faintest idea.' The lawyer placed his equally vacant glass next to Dalziel's and inquired politely, 'Are you thirsting for Oxfam this week, perhaps?'

'You'd not take a drink off a man who's about to call you a bloody liar, would you?'

'Certainly not. On the other hand, you'd not have taken a drink from a man you were just about to call a bloody liar, so there must be some misunderstanding.'

Dalziel considered this, nodded and said, 'All right. But you'll cough before we leave here tonight and that's a promise. John, are you a plant from the League of Temperance or what? There's empty glasses here. Monday's Toad-in-the-Hole night and we'll need a solid base for that.'

With the empty smile of one who wishes the cook were of his mind, John reached for the Macallan.

The old long-case clock in the vestibule of the Gents had struck two and John had fallen asleep at his post before Dalziel found the key to unlock Eden Thackeray's confidences.

Drink he had tried till the Toad was awash in its hole with Burgundy and Scotch. Bribery had followed, with promise of advance viewing of police evidence in any two cases of the lawyer's choice over the next year. Then blackmail in the form of marvelling references to the tolerant attitudes of Thackeray's older, richer clients to the eighteen-year-old 'niece' he had taken with him to Sardinia.

Apart from a raised eyebrow at Dalziel's familiarity with his private life, the lawyer had treated all these gambits with equal indifference. Baffled, Dalziel rose and went for a regrouping pee. On his return he paused at the bar to order more malt.

'Mr Thackeray all right, is he?' said John with the thick accent of the newly awoken.

'Yes. Why?'

'Eleven's his usual limit. Midnight on Club Nights. I've never known him so late before.'

It was a brave attempt to get rid of his last two customers but it failed miserably. Dalziel's face lit up like dawn across the bay.

He said, 'You're right, lad. Make them doubles.'

'You've been drinking doubles these past four hours,' said John sourly.

'Then double doubles!' said Dalziel.

He put the glass down in front of Thackeray and said, 'Sup up. That's your last.'

'Is it?'

'Aye. It's long past your bedtime and I need to be up at the crack too. So no more pissing about. Cards on the table. What we both know is I want to find out why you jacked in representing Phil Swain. But what I've only just realized is you're as keen to tell me as I am to find out!'

'What on earth makes you think that?'

You'd have buggered off hours ago else! You've just been hanging on hoping I'll come up with a reason good enough to let you blab without too much damage to your professional bloody conscience.'

Thackeray considered, smiled, said, 'That's terribly subtle, Andy. But having tried intoxication, corruption and threat, what remains? A good kicking?'

'Man's got to try what he knows,' said Dalziel unapologetically. 'No, I'm giving up on you. That's why first thing tomorrow, I mean today, I'm going to start shoving Swain around till he cries harassment. Then I'll keep on shoving till he gets another brief to stop me. Then I'll keep on shoving till I get hauled up before Desperate Dan or mebbe even the courts. Then I'll keep on shoving till . . . you get the picture?'

'You'll be in deep trouble?'

'Aye.'

'And it will all be my fault?'

'Aye.'

'I don't know if my conscience can permit that,' said Thackeray gravely. 'Particularly when what I know is so little. The needs of a present friend are more pressing than those of a former client, sub specie aeternatis, wouldn't you say?'

'Likely I would if I could pronounce it,' agreed Dalziel.

'Then listen carefully, for I am about to talk to myself. While Swain was in America, I received a phone call from a man called Crawford who works for a company called Muncaster Securities. Basically all that Crawford seemed to want was assurance that Swain really was in America, tying up the details of his wife's estate. When I started to inquire as to the exact nature of Muncaster Securities' connection with my client, he cut our conversation short very politely and rang off. My curiosity was naturally roused. So I made some discreet inquiries

'Oh aye?' laughed Dalziel. 'You mean you didn't rest till you'd pulled every string you could lay your hands on!'

'I have fairly extensive connections in the finance world,' admitted Thackeray. 'To cut things short, what I discovered was that Swain's financial position was far more perilous than I knew. Moscow Farm was mortgaged up to the hilt and in as bad a state financially as when Tom Swain shot himself. In theory the date had already passed on which Muncaster Securities were entitled to call in the debt and possess the farm. In practice, of course, they would rather have their money with additional penalty interest, and the imminence of Swain's inheritance had made them hold their horses. Crawford was simply double-checking.'

He stopped talking, raised his glass and drank carefully, observing Dalziel over the rim.

'And?' said the fat man.

'And what?'

'You're not telling me you threw over a potentially stinking rich client because you took the huff he'd not told you all his business, are you?' sneered Dalziel. 'So what's the rest? You might as well spill it. Be less painful for your influential mates. I've got strings I can pull too, only most of 'em are tied round influential bollocks!'

'Oh dear,' sighed Thackeray. 'I knew there'd come a moment when I wondered if this were such a good idea. All right, there were a couple of other things to give me pause. One was that between February 7th when Gail left allegedly en route for America and February 15th when she was shot, three cheques were issued on her account to pay off Swain's most immediate debts.'

Dalziel digested this with the peptic assistance of his double double.

'Farewell present?' he suggested.

'Perhaps.'

'Or are you thinking that mebbe he gave himself the present of one of her cheque-books and reckoned with her out of the country, she wasn't likely to be paying much attention to her UK account for a while?'

'It's possible. Doubtless by examination of the signature on those cheques, it would be provable. Though of course as the money is now his . . .'

'It wasn't then,' said Dalziel. 'So you began to wonder if your client was a forger? Well, well. Hold on. Once he'd started down that path, why not pay off Muncaster the same way?'

'This was a current account. All right for a couple of thousand, but wholly inadequate for the Moscow Farm mortgage.'

'Stole the wrong cheque-book, did he? Not much use, these Swains, when it comes to money, are they? Incidentally, what happened to the cash he borrowed? I know his business was staggering along, but he can't have lost that much in a tuppenny-ha'penny set-up like that.'

'Every Swain finds his own South Sea Bubble. Swain found his very close to home. You remember I told you that when Delgado were preparing to pull the rug from under Atlas Tayler, they threw up a smokescreen to fool the Unions by letting rumours develop about a possible expansion in the UK via a small components firm in Milton Keynes?'

'But you said Swain knew nowt about that and got all indignant with the Yanks when they suddenly threw everyone out of work.'

'And I told you true,' said Thackeray. 'It was merely the cause of the indignation I mistook.'

Dalziel digested this, then began to grin. 'You mean that's where the money went . . .?'

'Yes. They didn't trust him enough to make him privy to their schemes, but he was close enough to get the first whisper of their interest in the Milton Keynes firm. Perhaps they were even ruthless enough to use him as an unwitting disseminator of their smoke. But what actually happened was Swain suddenly saw a chance to get rich and independent. He borrowed every penny he could, mortgaging Moscow up to the hilt, and started buying shares in the components firm. Once the rumours got out - and they'd be fuelled by Swain’s purchases - the shares started rising, but he kept on buying.'

'Hey, I know nowt about City law, but that's criminal, isn't it?' said Dalziel, suddenly alert to a new possibility of getting something he could stick on Swain.

'Swain certainly thought so,' said Thackeray grimly. 'That's why he covered his tracks so well. But settle down, Andrew. It's only criminal if you make a profit. Delgado weren't interested in a takeover, so insider trading doesn't come into it. You can hardly prosecute a man for making a foolish investment and suffering a substantial loss.'

'I suppose not. No wonder he told Delgado's to stuff their bloody job!' Dalziel began to smile, almost admiringly. 'But it wasn't all loss, was it? He managed to get himself elected as the workers' friend by taking a moral stand against the big bad capitalists. Christ, you've got to give it to the sod. If he lost an arm, he'd sell it for sausage meat!'

'It was unforgivable hypocrisy,' said Thackeray, with distaste.

'Well, that's not a crime either,' said Dalziel. 'So now you're wondering if when he saw he couldn't hold off these Muncaster people any longer, he mightn't have started wondering how it would be if his missus snuffed it.'

'No, Andrew. The facts are so plain that I cannot see how even your prejudice can maintain you in your belief that Swain is culpable in his wife’s death. Hypocritical, self-centred and immoral he may be, but that doesn't make him a killer.'

'Doesn't make him unfit to be your client either,' said Dalziel shrewdly. 'I mean, that description must fit half the buggers on your books! There has to be something else.'

'Perhaps you have merely lost touch with the workings of a sensitive conscience, Andrew,' said Thackeray, rising.

At the bar, John yawned a heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving.

Dalziel shook his head thoughtfully and said, 'Money. It's something to do with money. In the bank's where you sods keep your conscience, isn't it?'

Then a broad smile spread over his face.

'Here! It wasn't ... it couldn't ... I bet it was! One of them pressing debts that got paid off out of Mrs Swain's account, was it a lawyer's bill? Did the cheeky bugger pay off your account with a forged cheque? By God, I've not been much taken with Swain so far, I admit it. But there's good in everyone if you look close enough. Paying off his lawyer with a forged cheque! I'd drink to the cheeky bugger if I had a drink! What a good idea! Sit yourself down, Eden, and stop looking so long faced. John, set 'em up again. Double double doubles!'

CHAPTER THREE

Not long after Dalziel finally answered John's increasingly blasphemous prayers by leaving the Gents, Sergeant Wield was on his way to work. This was the day of the soccer hooligan dawn raid. Let's make a big splash with this one, Dalziel had said. But as usual, Wield thought as he shook the drizzle out of his raincoat, it was the poor bloody infantry that got wet.

At least he had the consolation of being inside. Pascoe was in the great outdoors, coordinating the uniformed teams making the arrests. He would move behind them from house to house, getting what he could from parents and family, and making sure his searchers picked up any scraps of supportive evidence from the youths' rooms.

Wield's task meanwhile was to welcome the arrested men and take down initial statements, hoping to squeeze some nice gobbets of self-incrimination from them while sleep was still hot in their eyes and dawn-knock fear still sour in their guts.

The first three were, in varying proportions, surly, defiant, indignant and afraid, but that was all they seemed to have in common. What was it that united in violence a nineteen-year-old car mechanic, a twenty-one-year-old who'd never worked, and a newly-wed twenty-three-year-old who'd just passed the second part of his exams to become a solicitor's clerk? He, oddly enough, was the only one who didn't start mewling for a lawyer. Perhaps already he was anticipating what this might do to his career and hoping for an anonymous exit route. Wield applied pressure and soon a steady trickle of names and information emerged, interrupted at intervals by protestations of personal innocence. Only when pressed about the train killing and the pub assault did the trickle dry completely. He had enough legal nous to know where grassing stopped and witnessing began.

The fourth and last was eighteen, unemployed, and the least distressed of those arrested, perhaps because he had had the longest time to recompose himself.

He was also the ringleader of the gang that had attacked Wield at the park gates the night he had followed Waterson.

There was no sign of recognition. Wield, accustomed to being unforgettable in his cragginess, felt strangely piqued.

'Medwin, Jason,' recited Wield. 'Seventy-six Jude's Lane. Unemployed.'

'That's me,' agreed the youth pleasantly.

'Ever been employed?'

'Apprentice fitter when I left school. Redundant.

Then I was with the Parks Department for a few months.'

'Redundant again?'

'Nah. Jacked it in. Didn't suit me.'

'What do you reckon would suit you, son?' asked Wield.

'Don't know. Job like yours mebbe.' He grinned. 'Must be grand to be able to thump people with no comeback!'

Wield said gently, 'Like thumping people, do you?'

Medwin shrugged.

'Don't mind a bit of a mill,' he said.

'Is that right? Why is that?'

'Don't know. Gives me a buzz. Let's me know I'm alive.'

'Someone thumps you back hard enough, it might let you know you're dead,' suggested Wield.

Another shrug. He was a good-looking boy; blond hair cropped short up the sides, fashionably coiffured on top; nose slightly crooked (result of some old fight perhaps?); eyes deep blue; smile attractive; cheeks lightly downed; jaw edged with stubble to show he'd been too quickly roused for shaving . . . Wield pulled himself up. What had started as a professional description was turning into . . . what? He reminded himself that Medwin, Jason, went to football matches to cause mayhem, lay in wait for gays at park gates, was planning to disrupt the holiday pleasure of thousands of visitors to the city.

'So you don't mind if someone hurts you or kills you?' he said.

'Not much. No one else does.'

'No? I see. No friends, eh? Find it hard to get on with people?'

He touched a nerve. For a second he saw the eyes that had glared at him with a killing hatred the night of the attack. Then a blink, and the smiling boy with the crooked nose was back.

'I got friends,' he said. 'Lots of them.'

'Name six,' said Wield.

'What do you mean?' demanded Medwin, puzzled. 'You don't think I'm going to give you lot my mates' names just like that!'

'Why not? They're not crooks, are they?'

'I'm not a crook and I'm here,' said Medwin.

'All right, I'll put it another way. Tell me what you were doing on these three nights and give me the names of any witnesses who'll support you.'

He scribbled three dates on a sheet of paper and pushed it across the table.

Medwin looked at them blankly. The first was February 6th, the night the young man had been thrown from the London train. The second was February 26th when the Rose and Crown had been wrecked and the landlord put into hospital. The third was March 1st, the night that Wield had been attacked.

'Well?' prompted the sergeant.

'You've got to be joking,' said Medwin. 'Takes me all my time to remember last night.'

'Let me jog your memory. Sixth of Feb, City lost four nil in the Smoke, and a young lad was pushed off a train near Peterborough.'

'Now hang about!' exclaimed Medwin. 'No way can you tie me in with that.'

He sounded genuinely indignant.

'You didn't go to the game, then?'

'Of course I did. Never miss. But I weren't on that train or any train. Went down by car with some of my mates.'

'Names. Addresses,' said Wield tossing a pencil over the table, adding as Medwin didn't pick it up, 'Come on, son. They'll be witnessing they couldn't have been on the train either, won't they?'

Reluctantly he admitted the logic and began scrawling on the paper.

When he'd finished Wield looked at the list.

'Crowded car,' he observed. 'Here, this one's got no address.'

'Don't know where he's living now. He moved away south. We bumped into each other at the game and had a few bevvies after and he said he was thinking of coming back up on a visit so I said would he like a lift and he said yeah. He's likely gone south again by now. I might try it myself. I mean, there's nowt to keep anyone up here, is there?'

'You'd be surprised,' said Wield menacingly. 'Right, now try City's home game against the Reds. Nil-nil draw.'

He let the youth work this one out for himself, saw realization dawn, but there was no indignant protestation of innocence this time, just a veiling of the eyes and a shaking of the head.

'Got me there,' he said. 'Don't remember that one.'

'I thought you never missed a match?' said Wield.

'Almost never. But when you see such a lot, you can't recall 'em all, can you?'

Wield nodded friendly agreement and made a note that this was one for the injured landlord to see.

'So what about the other date?' he asked.

'March first?' said the youth shaking his head once more. 'Means nowt.'

'It means you know that the Reds game was on Friday February twenty-sixth for a start,' observed Wield drily. 'Now there wasn't a game this night, you're right. Not a game of football anyway.'

'So what did happen? Give us a clue, won't you?' the youth said, grinning.

He really has no idea, Wield assessed. Queer-bashing probably wasn't worth remembering, a mere training session for the real fights at the weekend. Now was the moment to jump on him, to watch his expression as he realized he'd assaulted a cop, to listen to his lies and to squeeze from him a list of names to support some extempore alibi. One of them would break, kids always did. And a cop's word would be enough for most magistrates to pour shit on him from a great height.

But Wield found himself hesitating. He could sense danger here. A bright lawyer could offer the defence that Medwin had genuinely believed he was being propositioned in the hope that a normally prejudiced jury would accept this as provocation to violence. Suppose he went further and tried to find something in Wield's words or manner which might have justified such a mistake? Suppose he sensed a hesitation and asked Wield direct if he were gay? Philosophically, ever since his life crisis some eighteen months earlier, Wield had been 'out'. In practical terms, and certainly in terms of his professional image this had meant very little so far, but he had derived peace and strength from the certainty that he would never again prevaricate if faced by the question direct.

But to risk inviting this question in open court with some twinkle-toed brief tap-dancing all over him was no part of his bargain. It could bring the Force into ridicule, possibly get the charge dismissed, certainly set the right wing press sniffing around, scenting blood, offering deals, hinting protection. It could mean his career gone.

But perhaps, in fact probably, it would never come to this or anywhere near it. Simple evidence of what he was doing at the time, a police officer on duty viciously assaulted by a gang of young thugs, dealt with by a nice fascist magistrate with some bored legal aid brief somnambulating through the cross-questioning . . .

He had to do it, whatever. Big risk, little risk, no risk at all. Duty, faith, call it what you will; that personal imperative which, expanded to a general principle, makes religions; corrupted, makes fanatics; but ignored, makes existence meaningless; this was the only arbiter.

He said, 'On Tuesday March the first, you waylaid a man at the entrance to Kipling Gardens, and with the assistance of others as yet unknown, you assaulted him.'

'You what? Who says?' demanded Medwin, unable to hide his consternation.

'I say,' said Wield. 'You should try to pick on people your own size, son. Like dwarves.'

'You're saying it was you?' He stared at Wield in dawning recognition first of the face, then of the trap he'd fallen into.

'That's right,' said Wield. 'You really are in trouble, aren't you?'

There was a tap at the door and Seymour stuck his head in.

'Super's here and wondering how you're getting on,' he said.

'I'll have a word,' said Wield. 'Mr Medwin here turns out to be the young gent who assaulted me m March. He's just going to write a statement. Give him a hand, will you?'

He went out glancing at his watch. Not yet seven. I bet the fat sod's feeling all virtuous about getting up early, he thought.

He was being unjust though he couldn't have guessed it, for there was nothing in Dalziel's appearance to show he hadn't been to bed at all. On his return home from the Gents, he had soaked in a piping hot bath for more than an hour. Then, feeling himself more famished than fatigued, he had breakfasted on a black pudding boiled up in a panful of oxtail soup, sitting naked at his kitchen table, staring out through the soft focus of mucky glass and a damp May morning towards the window where he'd had his only living glimpse of Gail Swain.

Her face he couldn't remember, and next time he saw it, it mostly wasn't there. But the tits . . . in his mind's eye he saw the tits again. His libido seemed to be having an Indian summer, or perhaps it was a Malayan summer, for it was since his close contact with Chung that he'd noticed his imagination running hot. Which reminded him, he was due at rehearsal at ten, so instead of sitting here exciting himself, he'd be better off getting a couple of early hours in.

'Not done yet?' he now greeted his sergeant. 'You're just supposed to be processing these lads, not getting their life stories.'

'This one turned out to be a bit more complicated. Seems to be clear on the train job, says he travelled by car that day, gave me these names as back-up,' said Wield, passing over the list. 'I reckon he's worth looking at for the pub riot, though. He went very amnesiac on that one. And something else came up. I recognized him as the leader of that gang that beat me up.'

'Oh yes,' said Dalziel with a lack of interest almost hurtful in the light of Wield's recent soul-searching. 'Wieldy, this name here, the one without an address...’

'Oh, him. Medwin says he was an old mate he bumped into at the match and gave a lift to. Living down south and just fancied coming back here on impulse. Sounds like he was pleased. Why the interest, sir?'

'The name, lad. The name. Tony Appleyard! I'm surprised you didn't spot it. Too early in the morning for you, is it?'

Even now it didn't register immediately. One man's obsession is another man's yawn. Then he remembered. Arnie Stringer's vanished son-in-law, whose continued absence Dalziel seemed to take as a personal affront! If he'd made the connection himself and gone running, he might have picked up a house point. Now his only reward for getting up so early was Dalziel's reproof.

He said, 'Needn't be the same, sir. Lots of Appleyards in Yorkshire.'

Dalziel looked heavenward and said, 'O ye of little faith! Let's go and find out, shall we?'

Though Dalziel's interview with Jason Medwin breached no human rights agreement, it was nevertheless an act of terror.

The fat man oozed avuncular charm, but as he smiled encouragement and nodded approval, his hands were doing terrible things to a sheet of paper, a plastic cup, and finally a lead pencil which he snapped into four pieces each of which he crumbled to splinters between finger and thumb.

Medwin had started with cheek - ‘Fucking hell, you're really bringing in the heavy mob, aren't you?' - then laughed uproariously.

Dalziel joined in and for a few seconds the two laughed in unison. But Medwin's amusement slowly diminuendoed through a nervous chuckle to a fearful silence, while Dalziel's guffaws went on and on, putting Wield in mind of the Laughing Policeman on the front at Blackpool which as a child he'd always found more frightening than funny. At last Dalziel too modulated to a smile, but by now it was clear that as far as Medwin was concerned, Dalziel's smile held more threat than Wield's grim features set at maximum grue.

It was quickly established that the youth's friend was indeed the Super's own Appleyard.

'Got some slag in the club, and her dad made him marry her. I'd have told him to sod off but Tone never had much bottle.'

'Can't all be heroes,' agreed Dalziel amicably. 'So he ran off south?'

The youth considered. None of this was self-incriminatory, so there was no point in misleading this fat bastard and (eyeing those restless hands) mebbe a lot of point cooperating with him.

'Nah, I reckon he went looking for work to start off, then just sort of got lost.'

'And it was just chance you met him?'

'Yeah. He were always a supporter, mind, and with them being down there, it was natural he'd go to the game.'

'But you didn't know he was in that bit of London?'

'Nah. Look, we weren't that friendly, just saw each other around the games, know what I mean? It was him came after me at the match. I thought I must owe him money or something, the way he grabbed hold of me.'

'So he was glad to see you.'

Medwin nodded. 'Yeah, he was. He looked a bit rough and I asked him if he was working and he said he'd been doing a bit on the lump, nothing regular, and he'd not felt up to much recently anyway. He kept on asking questions about back here, about his wife and things. Well, I didn't know her from shit and in the end when we'd had a few bevvies, I said why don't you come back up and see for yourself? It's only a quick belt up the mo'way. He said, why not? dead casual like, but underneath he were right keen. I'll tell you what, old Tone were no advert for heading south to make your fortune!'

'If he was in such a bad way, why'd he not come back earlier?' said Dalziel. It sounded more like a question to himself than to the youth but Medwin wasn't taking chances.

'Would have done if the tart's old man hadn't warned him off.'

'What's that? Appleyard said he'd been warned off by his father-in-law? When? How?'

The intensity of Dalziel's interest hit the youth like a fist.

'I don't know, do I? I'm just saying what Tone said. I said he'd be OK back here with the Security plus whatever he could bum off his wife's family. And he said, the only brass I'll get from her fucking preaching father is coffin handles. Then he went on - But sod him, I don't care what he says, I'll come back if I like, and see what he can do! I said you should stick one on the old wanker, Tone, and he said yeah, but I reckoned it were the drink talking.'

Who needed hypnotism to trigger total recall? Wield asked himself admiringly. Fat Andy could induce it wide awaking, and probably plant as many conditioned responses as he liked too.

'And when you got here, what did you do?'

'It were close on midnight and we dropped him near the pea-canning factory on the ring road.'

'Because that's where he wanted to be?'

'Not exactly. To tell the truth he were a bit of a pain. We'd had to stop a few times so he could honk, and when he had to get out again on the edge of town we thought, fuck it! and drove off. I mean, you try to help some people but they just won't help themselves, will they?'

He looked at Dalziel with wide-eyed appeal.

The fat man smiled once more.

'You're right, Jason. But you've helped me, haven't you? And I think that deserves a reward. Tell you what I'm going to do. Can't drop all the charges against you, but I'm going to give you a break on one of them. Let's see, what've we got? Oh aye. You were in the Rose and Crown when the landlord got duffed up. Don't try to play innocent, lad. This isn't an audition for the Mysteries. We've got witnesses. What else? You've got an alibi for the train job, if it checks out. And you were boss of the gang that beat up my sergeant here, right? That's the one to scrub, I reckon. You could get a couple of years for assault on a police officer and I shouldn't like to think of a good-looking boy like you in an over-crowded cell.'

He smacked his leathery lips together in an obscene kissing noise. Medwin was looking dazed. Dalziel went on, 'Don't worry so much, son. Full cooperation on the pub job, lots of names, and we'll go easy, never fear. Youthful high jinks in a bar, we've all done it, even magistrates. Bound over, a fine mebbe. And we'll keep stumm about the other, eh? Constable Seymour here will steer you straight. And I'm always handy if you need any assistance!'

With a genial wave, Dalziel led the way out.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Wield said indignantly, 'What's going off, sir? You'd got what you wanted, you didn't need any deal, and that bastard beat the shit out of me and God knows how many more besides

'Hold on to your hat, Sergeant,' said Dalziel. 'Do you really want to sit in court and hear that clever little sod tell the beak that you offered him a fiver for a quick wank? That's what he'd likely say; and what do you do if some clever brief comes sniffing round your private life?'

This was such a precise re-run of his own fears that Wield could find no words of protest that wouldn't ring hypocritically.

Dalziel continued, 'And don't worry about Jason. I heard yesterday afternoon that that landlord's had a relapse, long-term kidney damage, so anyone tied up with that rumpus isn't going to walk. Also there's the little matter of conspiracy to cause an affray charge which is why he's been picked up in the first place. That'll come as a nice little surprise when we ferry him across to Leeds in an hour or so. Meanwhile you and me have got work to do. Come on.'

'Yes, sir. Where to, sir?' said Wield, trying not so much to conceal as not to feel the great wave of relief washing over him.

'Where to? Do you not listen when I'm interrogating?' He glanced at his watch. 'Builders start bright and early, don't they? I reckon our best bet for having a little chat with Arnie Stringer will be at Moscow Farm! Let's get a move on. I've got a rehearsal at ten and God can't be late, can he?'

CHAPTER FOUR

It had stopped raining and the sky was beginning to clear with promise of a fine summer day. The yard at Moscow Farm was full of noise and activity. Shirley Appleyard was climbing up the outside stair to her office. Her father was loading a surveyor's level on to a shiny new pick-up, and Philip Swain was backing a gleaming yellow JCB out of the barn door.

But when Dalziel's car drove into the yard, they all paused. And when Swain switched off the JCB's engine, the pause turned into a stillness against which the drift of clouds across the pale blue sky seemed like frenzy.

Slowly Dalziel raised his hand, in greeting presumably, but it seemed to Wield as if the puppet-master had twitched the strings, for the three figures before him instantly returned to life.

'Superintendent, what can I do for you?' said Swain, jumping down.

'You?' Dalziel considered long enough to telepath several grossly offensive suggestions. 'You could tell me who your new lawyer is.'

Swain raised his eyebrows, specially plucked by Chung to look more diabolic.

'So I could,' he said pleasantly. 'But why should you want to know?'

'Just so I'll know who to expect next time we have you down at the station,' said Dalziel.

'In that case, it's hardly worth telling you as I might have changed him several times by then.'

Dalziel laughed, untroubled by Swain's show of assurance. The man was bright enough to have looked behind Thackeray's upfront reasons for breaking the connection, and it wouldn't be comfortable for him to find Dalziel's great grey head peering behind the screen too. But it was early days to decide what, if anything, might be made of the lawyer's doubts.

He said, 'Man knows his own business best. It's Mr Stringer I've come to see today, if you can spare him.'

'We're very busy . . .'

'So I see. Must be grand to be able to afford decent equipment at last. Take a lass out in one of these things and she'd not be able to complain you didn't make the earth move for her!' He patted the JCB admiringly. 'Big job, is it? Someone's drive? Or more garages?'

It only became a gibe if you let it. Swain said, 'We're clearing a bit of land on the farm estate. Crimper's Knoll. Do you know it? Not much use for anything but grazing a few sheep, but it will make a lovely setting for a few quality homes.'

'Is that right? You'll have got planning permission?'

Swain smiled a smile compounded of new money and old blood.

'It's in train,’ he said. 'So if you could let me have my partner back as quickly as possible. Do you want to talk inside?'

'Out here will do fine,’ replied Dalziel.

He put his arm around the foreman's shoulders and led him away. Wield said, 'Use your phone?' and without waiting for an answer went up the stairway to the office.

Shirely Appleyard said as he passed her on the stair, 'What's he want?'

'There's divided opinion on that, luv,' said Wield.

Inside the office he closed the door firmly behind him and dialled the station number asking for Pascoe, who did not sound happy when he came on.

'Where the hell are you?' he demanded. 'I've just got in and the place is like a morgue.'

Rapidly Wield explained what had happened, then went on, 'Seymour should be in the interview room with Medwin still. There's something I should have asked the boy and he'll likely be en route for Leeds by the time I get back. It's about the night he attacked me.'

'I thought you said Il Duce had promised him immunity on that? He must be going soft in the head.'

This was no time to explain Dalziel's motives. Wield said, This is just information. It's simply that when Medwin and his gang were beating me up, a vehicle went by. It slowed down, might even have stopped, then it took off again.'

'Like the driver thought of helping, then decided not to get involved?'

'Or like he mebbe picked up Waterson,' said Wield. 'Just a thought. It could be worth asking.'

'You're not getting as dotty about Waterson as the old man is about Appleyard, are you, Wieldy? Good job someone's here doing the real work, isn't it?'

'Anything you want me to tell the Super?' said Wield innocently.

'With his hearing, likely he's heard me already! Cheers.'

Wield left the office and joined Shirley Appleyard at the head of the stair.

She said, 'What're they talking about? Is it about Tony? Have you heard something?'

'Like what?'

'Like .. . like he's dead maybe.'

'Why should he be dead?' wondered Wield.

'I don't know. I wake up in the night sometimes and I'm sure he's dead. Then I tell myself in the morning it was just one of them daft turns you get in the night. But recently it's not mattered whether it's been black dark or broad day, I've still felt the same. So is that why he's come?'

'No,' said Wield, moved by the pain he could see on the girl's face. 'The Super would be up here talking to you if he'd brought bad news, wouldn't he?'

'Would he?' she scoffed. 'You men! We even get our tragedies as drippings from your pot!'

She turned away abruptly and went into the office. Wield, no stranger to pain himself, felt her loneliness and abandonment crying out to him.

He turned and glared down angrily towards the two big men rapt in each other's company.

'So you lied,' Dalziel was saying.

'I said so, didn't I? I lied to me own daughter, you don't think I was going to be bothered lying to the sodding police!'

'That sounds reasonable,' said Dalziel with complete sincerity. 'So now you say that when you went looking for your son-in-law, he'd left the lodging-house you had as his address, but one of the other lodgers said he thought Tony might be staying with a friend in what-was-it Street?'

'Webster Street. Have you got cloth ears or what?' said Stringer angrily.

'Good tale stands twice telling,' reproved Dalziel. 'So you went round . . .'

'. . . and I sat in my car, not knowing which house it might be. It were a long street, tall terraces, mainly flats or bedsits, there was no way I could try 'em all. So all I could do was sit and hope . . .'

'What did you hope, Mr Stringer?' asked Dalziel gently. 'That you'd see Tony and persuade him to come home with you? Or that you'd warn him off forever?'

'I just wanted to talk,' said Stringer. 'I'm a reasonable man. I didn't blame him for going off looking for work. Better than sitting on your backside up here, drinking your dole like some I know.'

'You could have given him a job yourself, couldn't you?'

'Do you think I didn't offer?' exclaimed Stringer indignantly. 'He didn't want to work for me, told me flat. Said it were bad enough living with me. I said he could soon put that right if he had a mind to.'

'And he took off south. Right. So now you're sitting in Webster Street and suddenly you see your son-in-law walking along the pavement and he's with this lass...’

'This tart!' said Stringer fiercely. 'I know a whore when I see one.'

'That's a great talent,' said Dalziel admiringly. 'Saves you a lot of bother in a nunnery. So you follow them into this house and have a row..’

'I didn't want a row. I just wanted to know what the useless article were playing at.'

'So there wasn't a row?'

'It weren't all that quiet,' admitted Stringer. 'Upshot were that this tart started yelling she'd had enough, this were her pad, she were going out and when she came back she didn't want to find either of us here.'

'And after she'd gone, you got down to some really serious discussion?'

Stringer said grimly, 'I told him straight I didn't want him coming back up here and being around my lass and my grandson, not after he'd been rolling around with that slag and picking up everything she'd got!'

'Oh aye? And how did you make sure he got the message? Nut him and knee him, the old Liverpool reminder?'

'I never laid a hand on him,' said Stringer. 'Didn't need to. He were passing bricks just listening to me.'

'And you left him well persuaded he'd best not show up here again?'

'I reckon I did,' said Stringer.

'It'll mebbe come as a shock, Mr Stringer, but you were a lot less persuasive than you think,' said Dalziel. 'But mebbe you know that already.'

'What are you on about?'

'I mean your son-in-law, Tony Appleyard, did come back, Mr Stringer. Reappeared and vanished again, like a magician's mate.'

Stringer regarded him blankly.

He said, 'Come back, you say? He'd not come near me, would he? Not after what I'd said to him.'

'It wouldn't be you he wanted to see, would it?' said Dalziel.

He turned and looked up at the stair leading to the office. It was empty now. Wield had descended and was talking to Swain. But a shadowy figure could be seen behind the grimy window.

'And he didn't come near Shirley, if that's what you're thinking. What's all this about anyway?'

'I should've thought that were obvious. Lad goes missing, it's our job to find him.'

'Come off it! You showed no interest before. And you lot don't waste time chasing after folk unless you think you've got good reason.'

'We chase when we're asked sometimes, Mr Stringer.'

'Is that right? And who asked you?'

Dalziel shrugged massively. It was Stringer's turn to raise his eyes to the office window.

'Why's she so concerned about him?' he asked in genuine bewilderment. 'Useless idle lout that's brought her nowt but tribulation.'

'And a child,' said Dalziel. 'You'd not be without your grandson, would you? At least you owe him that.'

'I owe him nowt,' said Stringer fiercely. 'Nowt! Look, will you have to tell her that I saw him in London?'

'That would bother you?'

Stringer thought for a moment. He looked old and defeated. He said, 'No, you're right. Why should something like that . . . something so trivial ... Do you believe in God, Mr Dalziel?'

'As a last resort,' said Dalziel.

'What? Oh aye. Well, I've believed in Him as a first and last and only resort. I've tried to run my life proper. I always reckoned if you did that, then nowt could happen that wasn't meant to happen. I don't mean it'd all be plain sailing, I'm not an idiot, but that it'd all have a meaning and God's will would show through everything!'

'And?'

'Well, that's all right till things start going to pieces, one thing after another, and all the time you're saying, Thy will, not mine, and sometimes you're excusing God, and sometimes you're excusing yourself ... Do you understand what I mean? No! Why the hell should you?'

He looked at Dalziel with a terrible contempt but the fat man did not feel it was all directed at him, nor would he have much cared if it had been.

He said, 'Mebbe I understand how your lass feels playing second fiddle to a pile of red bricks. Excuse me.'

He walked away and ran lightly up the stairway to the office.

Shirley Appleyard said, 'What's up?'

'Nowt,' said Dalziel. 'We heard a rumour that your husband came back up here early in February. I were just asking your dad if he'd heard owt about it.'

'And what's he say?'

'That he hadn't. I don't suppose you knew owt about it either, else you'd have told me when you asked me to find him, wouldn't you?'

She didn't meet his gaze for a moment but when she did, hers was as unblinking as his.

'That's what they say about you,' she said. 'Doesn't matter what's in front of you, you'll keep walking straight forward till you tread on the truth, even if it means bringing it back broken.'

'So you did know he'd been back?'

'I heard a rumour, that was all. A lad said another lad said . . .'

'But you didn't make more inquiries?'

'I've got some pride,' she flashed. 'If he'd come back to see me, he knew where I was. I didn't want people to think I was crawling after him.'

'So you kept quiet till you saw the chance to get someone else doing the crawling for you?'

'No!' she said. 'You're not built for crawling, are you?'

It was, he decided, mainly a compliment.

'So shall I keep on looking?' he asked. Her answer wasn't going to influence him in the slightest, but he wanted to hear what it was.

'Please yourself,' she said.

'What's up, lass? Lost interest? Or hope?'

‘'What's it matter? In the long run, what's any of it matter?'

'The truth matters,' he said. 'Tread on it hard as you like, you'll not break it. It's only lies that crack easily.'

He trotted down the stairs thinking that Pascoe would have been proud to hear him coming over so philosophical.

Stringer was in the pick-up, Swain in the JCB. Both had their engines running.

'All done, Superintendent?' Swain shouted above the noise.

'Just about,' bellowed Dalziel. 'Your brother shot himself in there, didn't he?'

He pointed into the barn. The pride of the Diplomatic Corps, thought Wield.

'That's right.'

'Must have asked yourself a thousand times why he did it?'

Only Dalziel could contrive to have an intimate tete-a-tete fortissimo.

'No. Only once,' shouted Swain, clearly determined not to back away.

'You mean you got the right answer straight off?'

'I mean he obviously shot himself because there was no way he could see to save the farm.'

'At the inquest you said no other way.'

'Did I? I may have done. Makes no difference, does it?'

'Didn't he try to borrow money from you to pay off his debts?'

'Naturally. But I didn't have enough to lend.'

'What about your wife? Didn't he ask her?'

'Possibly. But she would not have been inclined to put money into a bankrupt farm. Nor am I inclined to listen to your offensive questions any more, Dalziel. I thought you'd been officially warned about harassing me over Gail's death.'

'It's not your wife's death I'm talking about, sir, it's your brother's,' yelled Dalziel. 'But I gather Mrs Swain coughed up quick enough once you'd inherited Moscow?'

'It was our home then. A good investment.'

'So if you did say no other way, you'd have been right? I mean, your brother must have known that once you inherited, there'd be a much better chance of Mrs Swain sorting things out?'

'I doubt if Tom was in the right state of mind for such abstruse calculations, Superintendent,' said Swain, his effort at control now clearly visible along the jaw line.

'But it was a pretty clear message he left,' objected Dalziel.

'He left no message, as you well know!' snarled Swain.

'Using your wife's Python to blow his head off sounds to me like he was trying to say something,' said Dalziel genially. 'But I mustn't keep you back. You're rehearsing this afternoon, aren't you? She's got me at it later this morning. Real slave-driver, that Chung, isn't she?'

'I begin to feel she has committed a monstrous blasphemy in casting something as gross as you to play the Godhead, Dalziel!' shouted Swain, pale-faced. His hands worked at the gear levers, Dalziel stepped smartly aside and the huge machine roared out of the yard narrowly missing the policeman's car.

'What's up with him, do you think?' wondered Dalziel.

'I suppose having to shout like the town crier about your dead brother and your dead wife might upset some folk, sir,' suggested Wield.

'Mebbe so,' said Dalziel. 'But it were interesting how long it took to get him upset. Christ, look at the time. Nowt done, half the morning gone, and that Chung gets right nasty if you're late for rehearsals. You'd think she'd have more respect for Superior Beings, but not her. Comes of mixing the blood, I reckon. Like chemicals. You've got to be careful or you end up with a hell of a bang.' Then, smacking his lips grossly, he added, 'And that's what she'd be, I dare say. A hell of a bang!'

Was it all in the mind or did he really have immoral longings in him? wondered an intrigued Wield.

'Fancy your chances there, do you, sir?' he prodded.

'Go and wash your mind out, Sergeant,' ordered Dalziel sternly. 'Professional and platonic, that's me and Chung. Never forget, a virtuous woman's price is far above rubies.'

Then, pushing a near fatal finger into Wield's ribs, he added, 'And I'm not sure these days if I could even afford Ruby!'

And shaking with mirth at his own high wit, he headed for the car.

CHAPTER FIVE

Crimper's Knoll was a pleasant place to be on a fine summer morning. It was a pleasure Philip Swain planned to share with perhaps half a dozen house-holders at about two hundred thousand pounds apiece. But there was more than money involved here. This would be his showcase. After this people would start thinking of Swain and Stringer as creators as well as constructors. Such was his excitement at the project that though detailed plans were still to be drawn up and he had not yet obtained even outline planning permission, he couldn't wait to set his mark on the ground. 'We'll need an access road,' he told his partner. 'A man doesn't need planning permission to give himself access to his own land. I've got all my life to shape my behind to an office chair. This is one job I'm going to start myself!'

But the JCB had rested like a sleeping mastodon in the lee of the Knoll ever since its arrival more than an hour earlier, and the two men sat almost as still on a grey rock, looking westward over the sun-flooded central Yorkshire plain.

Stringer broke the long silence.

'You've been a good mate to me, Phil,' he said.

'And I'll not say owt to harm you, rest assured.'

'You'll lie, you mean?' said Swain. 'I thought the whole point was to stop lying.'

'Another little 'un in a good cause won't harm me. But the big one . . .'

'That was in a good cause too. A better cause,' insisted Swain. 'For your own daughter, your grandson

'Mebbe it were for them, part of it. But mostly it were for me. I see that now.'

'And what's opened your eyes? That fat policeman? A strange instrument of virtue if ever I saw one!'

'Aye, he's a mad bad bugger, right enough,' agreed Stringer. 'But God's not choosy. It's the Devil who sends his agents in fancy wrapping. And no matter who sent him, one thing's certain, he'll get there in the end. So I'm not being brave or virtuous. I just want to be the one who tells our Shirley.'

'Arnie, you're wrong,' insisted Swain. 'Sit it out. Keep quiet and there's no way Dalziel can . . .'

'Nay, my mind's made up,' said Stringer, rising. 'I know you're only thinking of me, but believe me, Phil, this will be the best for me too. I'll mebbe be able to sleep quiet in my bed again.'

Swain rose too.

'If that's the way you want it, Arnie,' he said.

'It is.'

'Then I'll see you get the best help money can buy. Meanwhile you're still a partner in this business, so let's get some work done, shall we?'

It was getting on for noon and in the less than pastoral surroundings of the police canteen before Wield caught up with Pascoe.

'It's been hell,' said Pascoe. 'We were just going to ship them off to Leeds when Medwin's doting parents turned up with a very nasty solicitor. Seems young Jason didn't turn eighteen till March the twentieth, and the brief got very stroppy about his rights as a minor if he was questioned about offences committed before that date. He had a point.'

'Shit,' said Wield, angry with himself. 'I should have spotted that. It was recognizing him that threw me.'

'Not to worry. I got it sorted,' said Pascoe.

'Thanks. And did you have time to . . . ?'

'Ask your supplementary? What else are chief inspectors for but to clean up after sergeants? Now let me see.' He produced a notebook and thumbed through it. 'You wanted to know if he noticed a vehicle slowing down as he was enjoying himself beating you up. Yes, he did. And it might have been a car or it could have been a van or maybe even a pick-up. And it might have been black or blue or brown or burgundy, and it may have stopped and someone could have got into it, but by this time he was being so cooperative, I reckon he'd have said it was a snow-white stretch limo with Father Christmas in the back if I'd pressed him. Odd. I'd not have put him down as the cooperative type.'

'Mr Dalziel had a heart to heart with him,’ said Wield.

Pascoe grimaced understanding, and grimaced again as he sipped his coffee which occupied the grey area between emetic and enuretic.

'So what you're positing,' he said, 'is maybe someone else was following Waterson too? And you fancy Swain. Any reason other than the fact that the Super would like to fit him up for everything since the Princes in the Tower?'

'Not really. But he did know the meeting was arranged. Mrs Waterson told him.'

'But not where.'

'He could have followed her to start with.'

'Why not just go into the Sally then and speak to Waterson?'

'Because he wanted somewhere more private. Or perhaps he wanted to find out where Waterson was hiding out. Or it could even be he spotted me tailing Waterson and held back. Then when I got attacked, he saw his chance to get to him before I did, drove up and told him to hop in if he didn't want to have his collar felt.'

'And then?'

'Paid him off mebbe. Gave him enough for him and the girl to make themselves scarce.'

'Must've been a hell of a pay-off for them to afford to vanish so completely,' said Pascoe. 'And a pay-off for what? And if Swain owed him money, why not approach him direct to get paid instead of hiding out till he's so broke he's got to touch his wife for a few bob? And why . . .'

Wield was saved from further catechismal punishment by the intervention of Sergeant Broomfield.

'Thought I'd find CID busy down here,' he said. 'Look, I just got this report of an accident. Normally I'd send one of my lads to sort out details but when I saw it was on Philip Swain's land . . .'

Pascoe took the sheet of paper.

'Good God,' he said. 'This sounds nasty.'

'They say it's critical,' said Broomfield grimly.

'What's up? Has Swain been hurt?' asked Wield.

'Not Swain. Arnie Stringer. The JCB went over on him. Thanks, I'll take care of this.'

He passed the paper to Wield.

'Not very lucky, the Swains, are they?' said the sergeant.

'Luckier than the Stringers by all accounts,' said Pascoe. 'Mr Dalziel needs to be told. He's rehearsing, you say?'

'That's right.'

A slow smile split Pascoe's face.

'Tell you what, Wieldy. You get yourself down to the Infirmary and see what's going off there. While I personally will assault the battlements of heaven!'

The cathedral precincts were thronged with small groups of people whom Pascoe at first took for sightseers on a guided tour. But soon he realized that the focal figure in each group was not a travel courier but one of Chung's company busily rehearsing a section of a crowd. He recalled Chung saying, 'You've no idea how much work it takes to get people to look and act like themselves!'

He also spotted Canon Horncastle standing in the dark shadow cast by the Great Tower, his black cloth blending in so closely with the shade that his thin white face looked like some marble gargoyle peering out with malicious disapproval at the activity around. Pascoe waved, but the Canon either did not see or did not care to acknowledge him, and he pressed on to the ruins of the abbey.

Here he found the Greatest Story Ever Told had stopped for a tea-break. Dorothy Horncastle was dispensing mugs of the stuff from a large copper urn, and close by in the midst of a crowd of acolytes stood Chung. She was talking with her usual total animation but when she saw Pascoe approaching, she fell silent and watched him as if he were the person in the world she most wanted to see, making everyone else watch him too.

'I feel like I should be carrying a message from Marathon,' he said, rather embarrassed as she drew him aside.

'And you're not?'

'Not for you,' he grinned, his embarrassment ebbing as he began to glow in the focal heat of her complete attention. 'And I'm not sure if we've won or lost.'

'Either way it's always good to see you, Pete. Was it Ellie you wanted? She was here, sticking her little mike in my face. I thought it was only a little background piece the Post wanted but she's going at it like it's the full biography! I hate to think what shock-horror revelations she's going to make. Maybe I should appoint you as my editorial representative in the Pascoe household?'

'No, thanks. I'd rather run a marathon. Is my other boss around?'

'What? Oh, Andy. Yeah. Behold.'

She pointed. It was such a gracefully sensuous gesture that Pascoe had to force his attention from its execution to its direction.

There sitting on a broken pillar a little removed from all the activity was Dalziel. He had his spectacles on and he was busy conning his part, his heavy lips moving as he read the lines.

'I didn't know God was short-sighted,' said Pascoe.

'Shit, I thought everybody knew that!' said Chung. 'Watch how you go with him. His mind's not on the job this morning and I've had to give him a kick or two. He's about ready to start chucking thunderbolts.'

The picture of Chung kicking Dalziel was so delightful that Pascoe laughed as he reluctantly moved away. Meeting Chung always made him feel good.

Meeting Dalziel on the other hand wasn't so invariably pleasant.

'I'm sorry to interrupt,' he said.

'I doubt it,' snarled Dalziel, not looking up. 'But it can likely be arranged. What do you want? Forgotten how to wipe your nose?'

If not a thunderbolt, it was certainly a very torrid blast.

'Things going well, I hope, sir?' said Pascoe with unctuous solicitude.

Now Dalziel looked up.

'No,' he said. 'They're not, as mebbe yon Chung's told you already. You two look very matey. I hope you're behaving yourself, lad. Man with a wife and kiddie should look for his naughties with a discreet widow in another town.'

The old sod's jealous, thought Pascoe with a shame-making pang of triumphal delight.

'I'm sorry you're having trouble,' he said. 'Is it the lines?'

'No, it's not just the lines. I can make up the lines. It's the whole bloody daft business! How the hell I got myself into it in the first place I'll never know.'

Pascoe made his face a blank and said, 'It'll be all right on the night, I'm sure. But there was something I thought you would like to know about Swain...’

'Swain! That bugger. It's him that's been on my mind all morning. Here's me playing God and I can't even nail one miserable bloody sinner. What's he done now?'

'Nothing that I know of, but there has been an accident.'

He gave what details he could. Dalziel rose, stuffing his script into his pocket.

‘There's altogether too many accidents happen around that sod,' he said, his eyes gleaming. 'It's time I arranged a few of my own.'

'I know you want to keep him in the frame for his wife's death . . .'

'The frame I want to keep him in's got bars on it and a sign on the door saying "not wanted on voyage".'

'Andy, where are you going? We're ready to start again.'

It was Chung blocking their path. Now this is true elemental drama, thought Pascoe. The irresistible force and the immovable object.

'Sorry, luv. This is urgent. Deathbed deposition, likely. And as it's not Lazarus, I'd best get a move on.'

'For Christ sake, Andy! Can't Pete here handle it? You've got any number of highly qualified staff but I've got only one God!'

She was gorgeously angry, and using a joke to keep it under control.

'Some things are too important to be left to the help,' said Dalziel portentously. 'Anyroad, God is everywhere, isn't that what the Bible says? So really I'm not going at all, am I?'

It was all rather disappointing. Suddenly the immovable object stepped aside and the irresistible force swept on.

'Sorry,' said Pascoe with a ruefully apologetic smile.

'For what? He was no use to us today anyway.

‘Perhaps I should have gone for you after all, Pete,' said Chung.

It was, he hoped, another controlling joke, but he didn't stay to find out.

Wield was waiting for them at the main entrance to the Infirmary.

'They're still working on him,' he said. 'I've spoken to Swain. He's so cut up it's hard to make sense of him, but what seems to have happened is, he was working the JCB on the steepest bit of Crimper's Knoll when it began to slide. Stringer was down the slope a ways. When he realized what was happening he tried to get out of the way but the ground was still slippery from the overnight rain, and he lost his footing and the JCB went over him. Mrs Stringer and the daughter are up in the waiting-room on the surgery ward.'

'How're they?' asked Pascoe.

'Holding on,' said Wield. 'It's Swain who looks like he's falling apart.'

'That's how I like 'em,' said Dalziel, rubbing his hands. 'Wieldy, you've got somewhere I can talk to him?'

'Sister lent me an office. He's still in there.'

'Right. Show me. Peter, you've got a nice sympathetic smile. You go and keep the Stringers company.'

'I doubt if sympathetic smiles are what they want right now,' said Pascoe.

'Jesus,' said Dalziel. 'I'm not asking you to pay asocial call. Go and talk to them and see if they know anything!'

'What about?'

'If I knew that, I wouldn't have to go down on my hands and knees to get you to find out, would I?'

Both men looked at Wield. Both shook their heads sadly inviting support. Wield arranged the Alpine rugosities of his face into what he hoped was a Swiss neutrality and quickly turned away.

Swain did indeed look to be deeply distressed. Dalziel, who considered he had a fair nose for bullshit, was surprised to detect the scent of genuine emotion, but he comforted himself with the thought that even a cold cunt like Swain might be expected to be temporarily taken aback after running a JCB over his mate.

'Any news?' demanded Swain as the Superintendent entered the office.

'About what?' asked Dalziel. 'Oh, you mean about Stringer. No, I think they're still trying to reassemble the pieces. You brought everything back, did you? Marvellous what they can stitch back on if they get it while it's still hot.'

The builder's emotional turmoil coalesced for a moment into a glance of pure hatred as he demanded, 'What the hell do you want here, Dalziel?'

'Accident. Culpable negligence maybe. That's police business, wouldn't you say? But we know that's not the whole of it, or even the half, don’t we, Mr Swain? We both know what I'm really after is nailing you for topping your missus. Nay, lad. You sit still. No need to get excited. This is just a friendly chat between chums. Yes, we are chums in a way. It's shared intimacies that bind friendships, and there's nowt much more intimate than watching a man blow his wife's head off, is there? All right, screwing her, maybe, but I've never been keen on watching that sort of thing. It either turns you on or it turns you off, and either way's not much help to a busy milkman. So come on, Phil! Between mates, why'd you run your digger over poor old Arnie? I mean, it couldn't be to save Moscow Farm again! You'll have paid off Muncaster Securities by now, I expect. And anyroad, poor old Arnie won't be leaving you a wagonload of dollars, will he? Or had you been forging his signature too perhaps? But what to, for God's sake? By the look of him, if you stuffed every penny he'd got into the poor box, it'd still rattle. Nay, this is all too deep for me. This'll take some plumbing and you know what it's like getting a plumber these days. So I'll need your help, Phil. Tell you what. Why don't we sneak off somewhere and have a pint and you can get it all off your chest, then I'll put you down and you can rest peaceful in your bed till slopping-out time? What do you say?'

It was an avalanche of a speech, meant to sweep Swain off his feet while he was still emotionally off balance. But Eden Thackeray had been right about Swain's temperament. However flawed his long-term judgements, when it came to here and now, he was a downhill racer.

Shaking his head in disbelief, he said, 'You really are mad, Dalziel, it's not just an act. You're right off your trolley.'

'No need to talk like that, lad,' said Dalziel. 'What's up? Can't you take a joke? Is this all the thanks I get for trying to cheer you up while you wait to see if you've killed your mate or not?'

At last he got through, for suddenly Swain was on his feet. But whether his rage had impetus enough to carry through a physical attack was not to be proved for at the moment of truth the door opened and Wield appeared.

He looked at the scene disinterestedly and said, 'Sorry to butt in, sir, but they've brought Mr Stringer back from the theatre.'

'Let's hope he enjoyed the show. How is he?'

'They wrap it up, sir, but as far as I can make out, it's touch and go whether he wakes up before he snuffs it.'

'Bad as that? Hardly seems worth the bother. On the other hand, a man's last words should always be listened to with respect, wouldn't you agree, Mr Swain?'

Swain did not reply but pushed past the two policemen and disappeared down the corridor.

'Any luck there, sir?'

'Hard to say. No visible damage but if you keep pounding away at the ribs, you're bound to sap a bit of their strength. Couple of hours somewhere with no windows and a thick wall and I reckon he'd cave in. But I dare say Mr Pascoe's missus would be sticking Amnesiacs International onto us before I could get a result. Peter, what the hell are you doing here?'

'Didn't Wieldy tell you?' said Pascoe, who was standing peering out of a window into the green and pleasant Infirmary gardens. 'Stringer's in the recovery room and they've let his wife and daughter sit by his bed.'

'And that's where you should be too, lad. Front row stalls! I bet Swain's trying to book his ticket.'

'I saw him a moment ago. He looks terrible, really upset.'

'Aye. I believe he really is,’ said Dalziel. 'Wouldn't you be?'

'If I thought I'd killed a friend? Yes, of course I would.'

'Oh aye? Well, that's one way of looking at it.'

'I can't think of any other,' said Pascoe.

'You can't?' said Dalziel. 'How about if you thought you'd killed an enemy and found out maybe you'd done a botched job? How would you feel then, Detective Chief Inspector?'

CHAPTER SIX

Arnie Stringer opened his eyes for the last time at three o'clock in the afternoon. Though he lay in a sunlit room, for a few moments everything seemed grey and fuzzy. Then like a holiday slide coming into focus, he saw things sharp and clear, his wife and his daughter, dark-eyed and pale; his friend and partner, dry-lipped with worry; and a half-familiar youngish man, his eyes screwed up in mute apology.

It occurred to Stringer that if this were a holiday slide it had been a lousy holiday. His jokes were rare enough for him to want to share this one, but he was aware that he had life-force enough left for only a very few words. His mind seemed to be compensating for his bodily weakness by working at the speed of light and he had already rehearsed a dozen sage and serious family valedictions when it came to him who the stranger was.

Staring straight at Pascoe, he said slowly and distinctly, 'Phil not to blame. God's will. Only helping a friend. Good friend to me.'

And that was it. Time for one last look of . . . affection? exhortation? regret? ... at his wife and daughter, then he let himself slip to his reward, the exact nature of which had always been something of a puzzle to him. He did not doubt it would contain an opportunity for chapel folk to say a big I-told-you-so to the church folk across the way, but the rest was . . . the rest was . . . mystery . . .

A nurse, needing to confirm what needed no confirmation, summoned a doctor. It was Marwood. He made to draw the sheet over the dead man's face but Mrs Stringer said, 'No, he couldn't thole being covered up.'

Marwood nodded and moved away. Pascoe said, 'Mrs Stringer, Shirley, I'm sorry. He was a good man.' Mrs Stringer said tearfully, 'Thank you, he were,' but Shirley only returned his gaze blankly. He went after Marwood and found him outside the door.

'All roads lead you lot to the Infirmary, it seems,' said the doctor.

'Too many of them,' said Pascoe. 'How's Mrs Waterson by the way?'

'Looking like she ought to be one of her own patients,' said Marwood. 'You making any progress, or is that too much to ask?'

'No.'

'No, it's not? Or no progress?'

'Both, I fear,' said Pascoe.

'At least you're honest.'

'A good quality in a policeman and in a doctor too, wouldn't you say?'

'Depends on the patient. And on the suspect, I'd guess. Be healthy.'

Pascoe watched him walk away. He had sensed an ambiguity in the man's inquiry into progress in the hunt for Waterson. It figured that a man in love with a woman whose husband was missing might have mixed feelings about his reappearance. Yet earlier Marwood had been keen to the point of snouting to see the police get their hands on Waterson.

Suddenly Pascoe thought of Wield and the car which had slowed down as he was being beaten up by Jason Medwin. He had been very sceptical of the sergeant's attempts to implicate Swain, but now it occurred to him that there had been someone else who knew of the Sally rendezvous that evening.

Marwood.

He had rung Wield with the tip-off. What if then he had gone along himself to see the fun? And instead of the expected arrest, he had seen Wield diverted and Waterson on the point of getting away, so he had acted himself and offered Waterson a lift and . . .

And what? Here the hypothesis petered out. Marwood had come on duty by the time Wield got taken to the Infirmary, so that left very little time for . . . anything.

But how much time did it take for . . . anything? Especially for a doctor?

And here was a classic explanation of that ambiguity he had sensed.

A man, a woman, and a body. Only if the body is found will the woman feel free to give herself to the man. But if the body is found and something in the manner of death points at the man, then he loses both the woman and his liberty.

'Mr Pascoe!'

It was Swain, obviously addressing him for the second or third time.

'I'm sorry. I was miles away.'

'So I gathered. I would like some information. What is the procedure for laying a complaint against a member of the police force?'

Pascoe was jerked back to full alertness. Swain, he observed, seemed to have made a rapid recovery from the trauma of Stringer's death and looked quite his old self again.

'Depends what you have in mind, sir,' said Pascoe.

'What I have in mind is to do whatever is necessary to prevent that creature Dalziel from harassing and maligning me.'

'I'm sure the Superintendent has no intention of causing you offence,' lied Pascoe. 'I know he can be a little heavy-handed at times. It's really just a matter of style . .’

'Telling me I murdered my wife and deliberately turned the JCB over on Stringer, that's style? You heard what Arnie said? I hope you made a note of it. It was an accident, a tragic accident. But what's the use of talking to you? Another five stone and fifteen years and you'll just be the same as Dalziel. I'll leave it to my lawyer. Once he gets to work, you won't be able to close ranks tight enough to hide that fat bastard!'

He turned and strode away. For the first time Pascoe noticed that Shirley Appleyard had come out into the corridor and was standing a few feet away.

'Is it right what he said, that Mr Dalziel reckons he might have deliberately killed Dad?' she said.

'I don't honestly think so,' said Pascoe. 'Mr Dalziel sometimes likes to stir things up, that's all. Besides, what your father said at the end seems to make it clear it was an accident.'

'I suppose so. Pity he couldn't have managed a few words for his family, though,' she said with a surface irony that didn't altogether conceal real pain.

'How's your mother?' asked Pascoe.

'She wants to sit there a bit longer. But I've got to shoot off now and see to my boy. A neighbour's looking after him. At least I'll see a bit more of him now.'

'Why? I mean, your job . . .'

'I'll not stay. I only took it in the first place 'cos Dad fixed it up and I couldn't bear for him to go on about me being a layabout like he did when Tony told him to stuff his job. But I've never liked Mr Swain much, and anyroad with Dad gone and all that money in the bank, he's going to be wanting something a bit more cut-glass than me answering the phone, isn't he?'

'I don't know,' said Pascoe. 'Only a fool bothers with cut-glass when he's got immortal diamond.'

It was a line which could have sounded emptily corny, but the grave pleasure with which Shirley Appleyard accepted it made the risk worthwhile.

'Thanks,' she said. 'I'll mebbe see you.'

He watched her walking away. Life had tested her hard during her nineteen brief years. He hoped it wasn't a test to destruction.

'Make a complaint?' said Dalziel. 'But why'd he ask you?'

'Because I was there, I suppose,' said Pascoe.

'He knows you're on my team and he knows the first thing you're going to do is warn me,' said Dalziel reflectively. 'And he could have said all that to my face, couldn't he, and achieved the same effect? So it must have been you in particular he wanted to talk to. But why?'

'I think you're reading too much into it, sir. He was just very angry. Incidentally, was what he said true? Did you accuse him of those things?'

'In a manner of speaking,' said Dalziel with the long-suffering expression of one used to misinterpretation.

'In what manner of speaking do you tell a man he's murdered not only his wife but his business partner?' wondered Pascoe.

'In a bloody uncompromising manner,’ growled Dalziel.

'But how can you be so sure, sir?' demanded Pascoe. 'Until we can talk to Waterson and Beverley King, we're stuck with Waterson's statement, and as for Stringer, there's no motive or evidence to suggest anything but an accident, and Stringer's last words confirm this.'

'Mebbe. Bit odd he felt he had to confirm it. Wouldn't you say?'

'He opened his eyes, saw me and Swain side by side, put two and two together and wanted to get things straight. Human nature, when you're dying.'

'You reckon?' said Dalziel, shaking his head. 'Funny view of human nature they sold you at that college, Peter. If I were you, I'd write and ask for a refund. What was it he said again?'

'He said it wasn't Swain's fault, how many times do I have to tell you,' said Pascoe, driven to petulance.

'No, the exact words. First rule of detective work, lad. Always be precise.'

Pascoe took a deep breath, closed his eyes and recited, 'Phil not to blame. God's will. Only helping a friend. Good friend to me.'

'That's it? You're sure?'

'Yes, I'm sure.'

'Then why did you say all he said was that it wasn't Swain's fault?'

'Because that's what he did say!' exclaimed Pascoe indignantly. 'That was the gist.'

'The gist.' Dalziel chewed on the word. 'Aye, the gist. Mebbe that's what Swain wanted you to remember, just the gist! Mebbe that's why he grabbed you and made all that commotion about getting my wrist slapped so you'd come back here full of his pathetic threats and with no better bloody recollection of what Stringer actually said than the sodding bloody gist!'

Dalziel struck his desktop so hard that his telephone jumped inches in the air with a little squeak of alarm and a pile of papers fluttered out of his in-tray on to Pascoe's lap.

'But what else did he say besides it wasn't Swain's fault?' asked Pascoe, clutching the errant mail. A familiar typeface caught his eye and he tried to shuffle it to the top.

'He said, helping a friend, right? How was running a JCB over Stringer helping a friend?'

'He was referring to the job . . .'

'They were business partners! If Marks went out with Spencer to stock shelves, you'd not call that helping a friend, would you?'

'Probably not,' said Pascoe. 'Sir, have you looked at your mail yet?'

'No! When have I had time to look at mail, doing every other bugger's job?' said Dalziel irritably. 'Like yours. You're supposed to be the clever sod with words, aren't you? Well, you've not been so clever here, lad. Helping a friend . . . I'll tell you what it means to me, shall I? I think it means there was something Swain did to help Stringer out, and it was a bit dodgy, and when Arnie realized he were popping his clogs, he wanted to be sure his mate didn't get lumbered . . . Are you listening to me, Chief Inspector?'

'Yes, sir. Sorry. It's just that there's a letter here from the Dark Lady.'

'Not another! It's barely a week since the last. I wish she'd put up or shut up!'

'She was helpful last time, sir,' reminded Pascoe.

'I'd have heard about Thackeray soon enough,' said Dalziel ungraciously. 'What's she say this time? Knows who Jack the Ripper was, does she?'

'Nothing so dramatic,' said Pascoe, troubled. 'But you said Tony Appleyard came back up here in February, and you were wondering how it might be that Swain helped a friend

He held out the letter. Impatiently Dalziel snatched it, scanned it quickly then read it again more slowly.

'Christ, it's a bit cryptic, isn't it?'

'Yes. Rings a bell though . . . beneath these pavements . . .'

'I don't mean the fancy bloody words! I mean, which bloody pavements?'

Pascoe rose and went to the window and looked down. He heard himself saying, 'If Marks went out with Spencer to plant potatoes, he might call that helping a friend.'

Instantly he regretted what might later be classified as persuasion, but to his relief, Dalziel was still shaking his head.

'No! I'd need to be dafter than that mad lass of thine! I'd need a lot more to persuade me, let alone Dan Trimble . . .'

The telephone rang. He picked it up and grunted, 'Yes?' and listened.

Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he said to Pascoe, 'It's George Broomfield. He says Swain's just turned up. Wants to see Trimble but he's out feeding his face at one of them civic lunches that don't finish till tea-time. Swain doesn't seem bothered, though. Says he'll wait.'

'Come to complain?' speculated Pascoe.

'Or to check up,' said Dalziel. With sudden decision he spoke into the phone. 'George, where is he? Right, I want you to do something for me. Ring the Council Works Department and ask if we can borrow a couple of pneumatic drills straightaway. And George, use the phone on the desk and speak up loud and clear like it's a bad line. That's the idea.'

He replaced the receiver.

'What . . . ?' began Pascoe but Dalziel laid his forefinger to his lips.

'Silent prayer,' he said. 'Mebbe God'll send us a sign.'

He folded his arms on the bow-front of his belly.

A minute passed. The phone rang again.

'Yes,' rapped Dalziel.

A slow smile oozed over his lips as he listened, then he said, 'Of course. It's open house up here. Fetch him right up.'

He relapsed once more into a Buddha-like repose.

Two minutes passed. There was a tap at the door.

'Come in,' he said gently.

The door was opened by Sergeant Broomfield who said, 'Mr Swain to see you, sir.'

He stood aside and Swain stepped in. He was elegantly dressed in grey slacks and a royal blue blazer, but his hair was ruffled and his face was pale.

'Superintendent. Mr Pascoe,’ he said.

'Mr Swain,' said Dalziel genially. 'Didn't expect to see you again so soon. What can we do for you?'

Swain took another step forward, waited till Broomfield had pulled the door shut behind him, then said in a voice almost too low to be heard, 'I couldn't keep away. I've come here to confess.'

part seven

Angel: Ilka creature, both old and young; Believe I bid you that you rise; Body and soul with you ye bring, And come before the high justice. For I am sent from heaven king To call you to this great assize.

The York Cycle:

‘The Last Judgment'

May 16th

Dear Mr Dalziel,

It's St Brendan's day. Funny that Ireland which produces so much of the mindless violence which has helped me to despair also produced so many saints. The Navigator they call him, because he travelled around so much. Thinking of him reminded me of another watery story I once read, about a poet, Shelley I think, who went out in a rowing-boat with a friend and her young children. Suddenly his eyes lit up and he .said, 'Now let us together solve the great mystery!' Seeing that he was very close to tipping the boat over, the poor terrified woman managed to say sharply, 'No, thank you, not now. I should like my dinner first and so should the children.' And Shelley rowed them back to the shore instead.

Me, I've run out of smart answers, and when there's nothing left inside to cope with the greater nothingness outside, I reckon that's the time to start rocking the boat!

I don't know if what I told you last time was any use. Probably not. It would have been nice to help you solve your little mystery before I solved my Great One. But I don't suppose it matters much to you. Win some, lose some, there's always another one round the corner. Anyway, here's a farewell thought so obvious, you've probably got it painted on your office wall. If I was looking for someone with no talent for hiding, and he couldn't be found in the places he was likely to hide, I'd start looking in the places he was likely to have been hidden. In times of stress we all turn to what we know. A sailor would turn to the sea, a farmer to the earth; and a builder . . . well, we're only lightly covered in buttoned cloth and beneath these pavements are shells, bones and silence.

Good luck with your searching. And you're right not to waste time on me. I'm not hidden, only lost.

CHAPTER ONE

They took Philip Swain down to the car park. He led the way into the very first garage to have its foundations dug early in February. Here in one corner he drew an oblong on the concrete floor with a piece of chalk.

'You're very precise,' said Pascoe.

'It's not something a man's likely to forget,' said Swain.

As they came out of the garage a council truck pulled into the car park.

'The drills,' said Dalziel with satisfaction. 'They've been quick for a change. Let's get them to work.'

'Sir, mightn't it be best to wait for Mr Trimble?' suggested Pascoe, back in his role of moderating influence.

'What for?' demanded Dalziel, whose euphoria when Swain first appeared had been replaced by a kind of irritated watchfulness as the nature of the man's 'confession' became clear. 'Wieldy's a tidy sort of fellow. He'll keep the mess down, won't you, lad? Come on, sir. Let's get back inside and put a bit of fat on this tale of thine.'

By the time they reached the interview room, they could hear the drills at work.

'Now, sir, in your own time,' said Dalziel. 'You've been cautioned, remember, and Constable Seymour here will be taking notes. So go ahead.'

'I want to start by apologizing,' said Swain quietly. 'I know I've acted very stupidly. All I can say in my defence is I did it for my friend, but even then I wouldn't have become involved if I'd thought that a serious crime had been committed. Arnie told me it was an accident, and he was a man I trusted beyond reserve.'

'The facts, sir,' urged Dalziel.

'Of course. Arnie came to me that Saturday night or early Sunday morning. It was the first weekend in February, I can't recall the exact date. I've never seen a man so distressed. What had happened was he'd heard a noise outside his cottage and went down to find his son-in-law trying to force a window. Obviously he wanted to get in and make contact with Shirley without disturbing her parents. Arnie said he was in a disgusting condition, stinking of drink and vomit. Not only that, he looked so wasted and unwell that Arnie feared it was more than just drink. I'm afraid that Arnie's attitude to things like AIDS was rather fundamentalist. He regarded it as a judgment of God and he did not doubt his son-in-law deserved to be heavily judged.'

'To the point of death, you mean?' said Dalziel.

'If God willed. But not at Arnie's hand, you must believe that. Appleyard took off when he saw Arnie. He made for the farm and Arnie caught up with him by the old barn. He pushed him inside and told him to get away from Yorkshire and never show his face here again. And when he thought he'd made his point, he turned away to go back to the cottage. Now I'm not saying he wouldn't have given the lad a good shaking while this was going on, but nothing more. Only, when he turned away, the boy who must have been almost demented flung himself on Arnie and tried to strangle him from behind. Arnie staggered round trying to shake him off, and finally he got rid of him by throwing him over his head. Unfortunately the boy fell onto an old spike harrow that had been lying around with a lot of other junk for years. One of the spikes went clean through his throat, and when Arnie dragged him clear he was dead. I'm sure a post-mortem will confirm all this.'

'It would have confirmed it then,' grunted Dalziel. 'Why'd he not call the police, this pillar of the chapel? Why didn't you call the police for that matter?'

'It wasn't that he didn't recognize his duty, it was just that he couldn't face the thought of what Shirley would think and say.'

'And you?'

'He was my partner and my friend. I believed him absolutely when he said it was an accident. So when he suggested hiding the body, I went along with it.'

'He suggested hiding the body here?'

'No,' admitted Swain. 'He wanted to dig a hole in one of my fields and bury it. I told him that was stupid. It was almost certain to be found. We'd just started work on your garages and even though it went against his grain, I'd persuaded Arnie to work Sundays to catch the mild weather. It'd just be the two of us, we couldn't afford to be paying our labourers overtime, so it was an ideal opportunity for hiding the body. And that's what we did. Next day we excavated the foundations a couple of feet deeper in that corner than we needed. Then Arnie kept watch while I got the body out of the pick-up and covered it with concrete.'

'You did the dirty work, then?' said Pascoe.

'Arnie couldn't face it,' said Swain. 'You cannot begin to believe the turmoil the poor chap was in. As time went by, it got a little better because I persuaded him that if God really disapproved of what he'd done, then He'd find a way of bringing it out. I did what I could to help by having the old barn cleared out, but there was nothing I could do about the most poignant reminders - Shirley and his little grandson.'

'But he still kept quiet,' said Dalziel. 'Waiting for God to do his confessing for him, was that it?'

'Indeed. And odd though it may seem, I think he'd begun to regard you as the Almighty's instrument, Superintendent. When you spoke to him this morning about the boy coming back here, he was really shaken up. I think he came close to making a clean breast of it.'

'And how would you have felt about that, Mr Swain?'

'Like I said just now, glad that it was out. I've had troubles of my own. Now I seem to be getting them behind me and it will be grand to clear the decks absolutely. But I'd give anything for it not to have happened like this. The memory of the digger sliding towards poor Arnie will never leave me. The only thing that eases the burden slightly is something I couldn't say before. In those last few moments I could see his face, and I'm not certain how much of an effort he was really making to get out of the way.'

He said this with the utmost seriousness. How else, indeed, would he say it? But Pascoe waited for the incredulous guffaw from Dalziel. Instead the fat man murmured softly, 'Well, well, another suicide, eh?'

'Not conscious, of course,' said Swain. 'That would have been impossible for a man of Arnie's beliefs. But a slackening of the will to live. That's what a secret like this can do to a man, Superintendent. That's why I decided I owed it to myself as well as Arnie's memory to bring this whole business out into the open.'

At some point after his arrival the initiative seemed to have been firmly claimed by Swain. And at some point while he had been talking the drills had stopped.

The door opened and Wield looked in.

'Sir,' he said, 'I think we're there.'

Dalziel said, 'Constable Seymour here will start knocking your statement into shape, sir. Excuse me.'

On the way downstairs he said fiercely, 'For fuck's sake, Peter, give me a hand in there! We're losing the slippery sod and you just sit there smiling like a curate at a christening.'

In the garage he stooped over the hole. Swain's chalk marks had been very precise. It always surprised Dalziel to see what a small space the human body could fit into, especially when folded into a foetal position. He frowned severely at the young man as though willing him to speak.

Then he said, 'All right. Everyone out. Photos first, then Forensic.'

'All informed, sir,' said Wield.

'Someone will have to tell the girl,' said Pascoe, as they went into the welcome sunshine.

'What? Oh aye. For identification. Look who's here. Man his size should use a moped.'

The Chief Constable was climbing out of a big Rover. He was resplendent in full fig, and the ratepayers' generosity was still written in his face. But the message changed like a teletext screen as he took in Dalziel, and the Roads Department truck, and the two men coming out of the garage with pneumatic drills.

Dalziel approached and Trimble said, 'Andrew, am I sure I want to hear this?'

'Nowt to worry about,' said Dalziel. 'Just an unexpected visitor.'

Quickly he filled Trimble in on the course of events. The Chief Constable groaned gently when he heard about the body but otherwise he listened in silence, asked a couple of pertinent questions when Dalziel had finished, then said, 'Let's hope he's telling the truth and Forensic confirm it. A manslaughter victim in our own backyard's marginally preferable to a murder victim.'

Pascoe said to Dalziel, 'Sir, did you want me to inform Mrs Appleyard?'

He intended only a gentle reminder that people were more important than public relations, but somehow it came out like an ex cathedra rebuke. Dalziel didn't respond. He seemed to have drifted off into some unimaginable inner world. But Trimble took the point well.

'Of course. The young wife. And she's lost her father today. This will be very hard for her. Whoever tells her, I want an experienced WPC present, and the counselling services alerted. But we mustn't jump the gun. Andrew!'

Dalziel rejoined them with a start.

'Sir?'

'I was just saying we should keep the wraps on this till we're absolutely sure what we've got here. And that's for the relatives' sake as well as our own.'

This was for Pascoe's benefit. Reassured by the Chief's reaction to his earlier intervention, he could now admit a smidgeon of sympathy for Trimble's distaste for the anticipated newspaper mockery. It wasn't all that long ago that a dead Italian had been found in a car in this same park, and Pascoe could still recall the yards of wearisome waggery churned out by everyone from the yellow press to the red satirists.

'Aye, you're right,' said Dalziel vaguely.

There was something on his mind, something he was not altogether confident of bringing into the open. Pascoe didn't like this. Dalziel might not always be right, but he was rarely uncertain.

Trimble had sensed it too and he said gently, 'Andrew, I once had toothache and broke my favourite toy engine on my birthday. Since then I've been disaster-proof. What else is on your mind?'

Dalziel said, 'Greg Waterson, sir.'

'Meaning?'

'It's two months almost since he was last seen. We've looked everywhere. Not just us. The Drug Squad. And they really look.'

'So?'

'So think about it, sir. If you're looking for someone with no talent for hiding, and he can't be found in the places he seems likely to hide, doesn't it make sense to start looking in the places someone else is likely to have hidden him?'

Pascoe had to admire the way he used the Dark Lady's phrases as though struck fresh in his personal mint. And he had to admire even more the way in which Trimble digested the implications of his CID chief's remarks without spewing forth rage.

'You're sure you want to do this, Andrew?' was all he said mildly.

'Aye. I'm sure.'

Trimble sighed. He's as worried about Dalziel's obsession with Swain as I am, thought Pascoe. But he's got to let him prove himself right or wrong.

'And which part of my lovely car park do you propose destroying now?'

Dalziel pointed towards the gatehouse.

'That's the last bit done,' he said. 'The bit they were working at when Waterson did his vanishing trick.'

'Right,' said Trimble with sudden decision. 'Go ahead. But I'm not having us on public display. I want that section of the street shut off. Put out some story about a gas leak, anything. And, Andrew, try to look a little happier. The sight of anything less than utter certainty on that face of yours gives me acid indigestion.'

He strode smartly into the building.

'He's all right for a dwarf,' said Dalziel. 'Right, lad. You heard what the man said. I'll leave you to get that sorted. Wieldy, you come with me. Let's see if we can give young Seymour a hand with Mr Swain's statement.'

He glanced at his watch.

'And I want the work to commence in exactly thirty minutes, right?'

'Why so precise?' inquired Pascoe. 'Because I want to make sure I'm looking straight into Mr Philip bloody Swain's eyes when he hears the drills start up again!'

CHAPTER TWO

It was not often that Andrew Dalziel admitted a tactical error, but as he sat in the interview room and listened to Sergeant Wield reading out the statement prior to Swain's signing it, it occurred to him that a clever dog didn't do the same trick twice.

He'd provoked a response from Swain by letting him overhear his request for the pneumatic drills. This time, might it not have been cleverer to get the slippery sod out of earshot rather than alerting him too soon to the continued search?

Wield's voice droned on.'. . . and I realize I was both committing and compounding a felony by aiding Arnie Stringer to conceal his son-in-law's body . . .'

Dalziel glanced at his watch. A minute to go. He'd left it too late. Swain was watching him. Perhaps he'd already alerted that sharp mind. He let his gaze lock with Swain's. There was no resistance, no effort to break free. The moment seemed timeless. But time had not stopped. Three storeys below in the car park, the drills suddenly chattered into life, and there was an exchange along their eye beams as telergetic as any ever experienced by enraptured lovers.

. . and I am prepared to accept the full legal consequences of my error of judgement,’ concluded Wield. That's it, sir. Would you care to sign?'

Swain broke the eye contact and bowed his head as though in prayer.

'No,’ he said softly. 'Not yet. I'm sorry, but the slate has got to be wiped completely clean, hasn't it? I know, de mortuis, and all that. But it's the living I have to think of. That poor woman. I hope to God I may be wrong, but I've no way of checking this thing out for myself. Only you can do that, Mr Dalziel.'

'Do what?' growled Dalziel. He knew now he'd been wrong. Don't play people at their own games. Clever buggers didn't play clever buggers with other clever buggers. Now he was speaking lines Swain had cued from him, but he didn't know how not to respond.

'Look for firm evidence of what I only suspect and fear.'

'Which is?'

'That Arnie Stringer might have killed Greg Waterson!'

'What?' Dalziel had been expecting nifty footwork but this took his breath away. Tactics forgotten, he spoke from the heart.

'You'd be better off flogging condoms to cardinals than trying to sell that one, Swain!'

Philip Swain nodded earnestly and said, 'Yes, I can see how hard it must be for you to grasp such an idea, Superintendent, but listen to what I've got to say before you pass final judgement. Arnie Stringer was always very loyal to me, and after I helped him with his son-in-law, he clearly felt deeply in my debt, emotionally I mean. When this tragic business of Gail's death occurred, he was desperate to do anything he could to console me. He blamed Greg Waterson entirely and made no secret of what he reckoned a man like that deserved. I found myself in the odd position of actually defending the man who'd seduced my wife and created the situation which led to her tragic death. But Arnie was a black-and-white man, and though he shut up, I should have realized he hadn't changed his mind when I asked him to follow Mrs Waterson that night.'

'Which night was this?' inquired Dalziel, yawning unconvincingly.

'The night she was meeting Greg. She told me he'd rung, you probably know that, and I was very keen to talk to him

'Why was that, then?' interrupted Dalziel.

'To get him to come forward, of course,' said Swain. 'I didn't know then that you already had a statement from Greg completely exonerating me. I know you have a difficult job to do, Superintendent, but I still feel that letting me suffer so long was an unnecessary cruelty.'

Dalziel closed his eyes for a moment in prayer, or perhaps pain.

'So you asked Arnie to follow Mrs Waterson?' he said. 'Why not go yourself?'

'She knew me by sight, and of course Greg knew me too. Being the kind of person he was, if he spotted me, I suspected he'd have taken off as fast as he could. I just wanted to find out where he was living so I could approach him privately and have a talk. So I asked Arnie if he could find out by following Mrs Waterson and he agreed.'

'What kind of vehicle did he use?' interposed Wield, ignoring Dalziel's malevolent glance.

'I don't know. The pick-up, I expect. Anyway I didn't see him that same evening. I had an appointment up near Darlington and as things worked out, I didn't get back till late.'

He paused and took a drink from the cup of cold coffee before him. Wield waited for Dalziel to demand details of this Darlington appointment, but the fat man stayed quiet till Swain resumed.

'Next morning when I got down here - that job was getting pretty near the end then, you'll remember - I found Arnie had made a really early start. I asked him what had happened the previous night. He said he'd followed Mrs Waterson to a pub, the Pilgrim's Salvation. He'd waited outside and seen her come out by herself. Then he'd hung around till closing time, watching for Waterson, but he must have missed him.'

'He didn't go in the pub?' said Dalziel.

'He said not. He wasn't a man who approved of public houses,' said Swain. 'So it made sense.

Only, well, even for Arnie he was rather brusque and off-hand about the whole business.'

'And that made you suspect he wasn't telling you the truth,' sneered Dalziel.

'It wasn't as clear-cut as that,' said Swain. 'But I remember just before I went off to America, I said to Arnie that I wasn't looking forward to it and he said it'd be all right, I'd be back in no time with everything sorted out, and I said no, nothing could be finally sorted out till Greg Waterson turned up, and he said if that was all I was worrying about, I should rest easy as he doubted if I'd be bothered by that bastard again. His words came back to me on the plane and I started wondering ... all kinds of things. But I soon forgot about them in California, there was far too much else to occupy my mind and I hardly gave the business another thought. Till this morning. God! Was it only this morning? It seems an age ago.'

That's because you go all round the houses telling a tale,' growled Dalziel.

'I'm sorry,' said Swain, unruffled. 'This morning, as I've told you, Arnie's mind was much occupied by his son-in-law. We sat and talked about it. Then we did some work but I could see he wasn't concentrating. And I said to him from the cab, "For heaven's sake, Arnie. Stop moping. All right, make a clean breast if you must and let the law take its course. But don't take more on yourself than you deserve. All you've done is conceal a terrible accident. That's all it was.

An accident!" And he replied more to himself than me, "Aye, that's what that one was. But not that other fornicator!" Then before I could ask him what he meant, he went back to working, and I did too, and not long after ... oh God, perhaps neither of us had our minds fully on what we should have been doing. I'll never forgive myself!'

His voice had broken momentarily.

Dalziel belched and said, 'I still don't see what put Waterson in your mind.'

'Don't you see? It was what he said before he died. "Not Phil's fault. God's will. Helping a friend. Good friend to me." I thought at first he was referring to the accident. Then later I thought it must be referring to Appleyard. But how could anyone imagine that was my fault? And finally it struck me. What if poor Arnie, feeling himself deeply indebted to me, and hating Waterson not just because of what he'd done to me, but because he was involved in filth like drugs and casual sex, had felt himself to be doing the will of God by putting him out of the way?'

He looked at the two policemen urgently, as though begging them to contradict his dreadful suspicion.

Dalziel said, 'Oh aye? And what do you think he might have done with the body?'

'I've no idea,' said Swain. 'But you have to look for it, Superintendent. I beg that you will spare no effort in looking for it.'

And outside the sound of the pneumatic drills ceased.

It was Waterson without a doubt, almost perfectly preserved. He had been buried beneath the concrete behind the gatehouse. Unfortunately for the appearance of the car park, the drillers had started at the other side and worked round, so there was a trench some twelve feet in length.

Dan Trimble regarded this defacing scar sadly.

'I suppose it could have been worse,' he said.

'It will be,' said Dalziel laconically.

'What?'

'We've not found the girl yet. Beverley King.'

'You think she's in here too?'

'Where else? She were on that boat with Waterson and she's not been seen for God knows how long. He'd not leave her alive when he killed this poor sod, would he?'

'Stringer? Andrew, are you sure? From what you say, he might well think he was the instrument of God in dealing with Waterson, but he'd have to be stark staring mad to include the girl.'

'Stringer? Who's talking about Stringer?' demanded Dalziel. 'You don't think I swallowed that load of crap, do you? No, it's that bastard up there I'm after. Oh God, he thinks he's so clever. Correction, he is clever. Credit where it's due. He thinks fast, like a rat in a corner. He heard the drills start up again and he guessed what I was after. So quick as a flash, before he's faced with this poor sod's body and asked for an explanation, he gives one!'

Trimble was unimpressed.

'That's one way of looking at it,' he said. 'The other is that he's telling the truth. I want both possibilities thoroughly investigated. I gather Swain says he went up to Darlington on business the night Waterson was seen at the Sally. Have you checked this?'

'What's the rush when I know what we'll find?' retorted Dalziel. 'It'll be a good story. But there won't be any good witnesses.'

'Mr Pascoe, I wonder if you'd care to check the Superintendent's prognosis?' murmured Trimble. 'But even if it's accurate, it still proves nothing.'

'Bev King's body'll prove something,' asserted Dalziel. 'And it shouldn't take us long to find. They must've been put in close together.'

'You'd better be right, Andy,' said Trimble, trying to lighten the tone. 'It's my heart those drills are digging into, you realize that?'

'Then they'll need to be right sharp,' replied Dalziel.

By the time Pascoe reached the interview room, the drills were back at their work but Swain showed no sign of reaction to the new outburst of noise.

The next ten minutes saw a lot of points being marked up to Dalziel. Swain's story was that he had driven north to look at an old house shortly to be demolished, with a view to buying the bricks and some fixtures. The contractor hadn't turned up and on phoning him at home, Swain had discovered one of them had got the wrong date. The man had been unable to join Swain that night, so he had taken a look around by himself, then had a drink and a sandwich at a pub in Darlington called the Crown or something royal. When he came out, he found he had a flat tyre. He had changed it with some difficulty and finally got home after midnight.

'So apart perhaps from a barmaid in a possibly regal pub, you've got no one who can support your story,' said Pascoe.

'The demolition contractor can confirm my phone call,' said Swain. 'And I dare say someone saw me changing my wheel in the car park. But why all this interest in my whereabouts, Mr Pascoe?'

'Routine, sir.'

'Come on! I'm not an idiot.' He regarded Pascoe reflectively, then suspicion rounded his eyes and his mouth as he exclaimed, 'Oh my God! Those bloody drills . . . have you found. . . not Waterson? Oh Arnie, Arnie. Once he got an idea in his mind . . . And you think I helped him again? Come on, Chief Inspector! I've admitted my part in helping him hide one body, but I assure you I didn't make a habit of it! I am right, aren't I? You have found Waterson?'

Pascoe nodded, never taking his eyes off the man's face.

'Damn, damn, damn! I told you that was what I feared, but I still hoped I'd been wrong about Arnie. Couldn't he see it was in my interest for Waterson to turn up alive and well so he could clear up Gail's death absolutely, once and for all?'

He spoke with a passionate earnestness Pascoe could not fault.

He stood up abruptly and went to tell Dalziel he'd earned ten out of ten for his prognosis.

But in the car park he found the fat man's credit as a clairvoyant was fast running out. A Somme of new trenches serpentined away from Waterson's grave and it was clear that the area which might reasonably have been concreted at the same time was almost exhausted. Trimble's face had smoothed to an emotionless mask more revealing than tic or grimace, and the drillers, sensitive to vibrations stronger than those of their machines, paused and looked inquiringly at Dalziel.

'Keep going,' he said harshly. 'She's here. Peter, how'd you get on?'

Pascoe retailed what Swain had said, loyally stressing the accuracy of Dalziel's prediction. Trimble was not impressed.

'There's still nothing to link Swain with Waterson's death,' he said. 'Not even a good motive. Why on earth should he want to murder a man whose testimony cleared him of any suspicion of complicity in his wife's death?'

'Man who trains fleas needs a big thumb,' said Dalziel.

'I'm sorry?'

'Mr Waterson was a very volatile character,’ said Pascoe, feeling that Dalziel's gnomic utterance required some slight exegesis. 'I think the Super means that, like a photographic negative, he needed to be fixed at a very precise point to preserve the desired result.'

Trimble said, 'I think I'll go inside before I'm tempted to ask any more questions.'

As they watched him walk away, Dalziel said, 'What the fuck were you on about!'

'Same as you, I think.'

'In that case, book me in to see Pottle!'

By six o'clock Pascoe was beginning to wonder if a trip to the psychiatrist mightn't be such a bad idea for Dalziel.

'Sir,' he said diffidently. 'I'm sure you appreciate you're well back into the area that was completed in February?'

'So what?'

'Well, Waterson was last seen on March the first, wasn't he?'

'I know that.'

'So if your theory is the girl was killed at the same time, then wherever she is she can't be . . . there.'

He gestured to where the last bit of concrete was being ripped up in front of the new garages.

'Who said she was killed at the same time?' said Dalziel.

'Well, I just assumed

'Leave assumption to the Virgin Mary,' snapped Dalziel. 'When's the last sight there was of this lass?'

'She moved from Bulmer's Wharf on February the third. She last visited her parents on February the fourteenth. The farmer at Badger Farm reckons there was someone round the boat for most of February ...'

'That peasant! Bugger's too tight to buy a calendar let alone a pair of specs!' interrupted Dalziel.

'Nevertheless. Look, if she is buried here, she must have been killed by either Swain or Stringer. And as you've got back beyond the March level already, she must have been killed in the second half of February. Why, for God's sake? Why?'

'I don't know why,' grated Dalziel. 'All I know is that sod killed his missus, and in my book he's guilty of everything else that happened round here till some cleverer sod than me proves him innocent!'

He was close to running amok, thought Pascoe. He looked desperately for some brake he could apply.

'Then logically you intend digging up everything that was concreted over since Valentine's Day?'

'If that's what it takes,' said Dalziel.

'Even if it means going inside some of the new inspection garages? Mr Trimble's not going to like it.'

'You leave Desperate Dan to me,' said Dalziel. 'He may do the Floral Dance, but it's me who plays the fiddle.'

But at eight o'clock the music came to an abrupt end.

An hour earlier, Swain, who had been remarkably laid back about the whole protracted business, finally summoned his lawyer. Trimble conferred with the man for a while, then came down to talk to his head of CID. He didn't talk long. The drills had gouged random inspection holes in a good sixty per cent of the garage floors. When Dalziel reluctantly admitted they were into concrete laid at least a week before the last reported sighting of Beverley King, Trimble said, 'That's it, Andy.'

'But . . .'

'No buts. Work stops now. If I hear those drills again, you're suspended. You'd better believe me.'

He strode away. Five minutes later he reappeared in the silent car park with Swain and his solicitor, a bat-faced man with a switched-on memo-cassette in his hand. Trimble was at his most man-of-the-world conciliatory, but Swain didn't look as if he needed his feathers smoothed.

'Please,' he said. 'Don't forget, I'm here because I've committed an offence and I know I shall have to answer for it. I can well understand Mr Dalziel's keenness to make sure there were no more unpleasant surprises in store. No, no need of a lift. I came in my own car. Fortunately I didn't leave it in here.'

He looked around the devastated car park and smiled in Dalziel's direction. Pascoe felt the fat man's tension. Please don't say anything actionable, he prayed, not with Trimble and this mechanized scion of Dodson and Fogg in earshot.

Trimble must have felt the danger too. He said sharply, 'Mr Dalziel, I'd like to see you in my office in ten minutes, please.'

'Sir!' barked Dalziel, then turned on his heel like a dismissed soldier and marched away. Pascoe smiled a conciliatory smile at Swain and followed. He caught up with his boss in the first garage, staring gloomily into the hole from which Tony Appleyard had been lifted.

'I had him, Peter,' he said. 'I had him by the short and curlies! What went wrong? Three bloody corpses, and still the bastard's walking away with a million quid in the bank and Desperate Dan dusting off his jacket like an Eyetie barber! What in the name of God went wrong?'

This appeal to the heavens touched Pascoe beyond mere rhetoric. This was Gotterdammerung, this was old Saturn in his branch-charmed forest acknowledging that the time of the Titans was past.

He said, 'Perhaps nothing went wrong, sir. Perhaps Swain's been telling the truth all along, in which case everything's gone right, hasn't it?'

It was, he acknowledged later, an attempt at comfort on a par with assuring Mrs Lincoln she'd have hated the rest of the show. Dalziel's face glowed like a nuclear pile and a hand like a mechanical shovel seized Pascoe's arm. Perhaps foolishly, he opted for rational argument rather than kneeing the fat man in the crotch. Urgently he said, 'Swain's cooperated all down the line, you've got to admit that. All right, he changed his statement a bit, but Waterson's backed him up. And he volunteered all that info about Appleyard's death, and he brought us straight to the spot...’

The nuclear glow faded and the grip on his arm relaxed enough for his arteries to resume a limited service.

'Aye, he did too. And he even drew us a diagram, didn't he? Whose chalk did he use, Peter?'

'Sorry?'

'The chalk he marked the spot with! Were you the clever little boy scout who came all prepared?'

'No, sir. All I recall is Swain drawing the outline and saying we should drill here.'

'And he was spot on, wasn't he? And if it weren't your chalk, and it weren't my chalk, then it must've been his chalk, mustn't it?'

'I suppose so. Perhaps builders carry chalk around with them,' suggested Pascoe, uncertain why Dalziel was labouring the point. 'Tool of the trade.'

'Mebbe. In his overalls. In his working gear. But Swain had got changed since we saw him at the hospital. He was in one of them fancy blazers with the bullet-proof badges. Not the kind of thing a man of taste wants a cloud of chalk dust billowing out of every time he blows his nose!'

'Sir, I don't see that it matters. Main thing is that he did show us exactly where Appleyard was buried. Think of the mess we could have made of Mr Trimble's car park if Swain had been vague!'

It was less provocative than his earlier attempt at comfort but not much more effective.

'Mebbe I should write a thank-you note,' growled Dalziel.

Pascoe was saved from having to answer by the appearance of Sergeant Broomfield in the doorway.

'Mr Swain gone, has he?' he asked.

'If you hurry, you might still catch the Chief kissing his arse across the road in the public car park,' said Dalziel.

Broomfield turned away, but Dalziel called him back.

'What's up? Why do you want him?' he demanded.

'Nowt really. He left his pen, that's all. Looks a bit pricey and I didn't want him thinking it'd got lifted while he were here.'

'Careless bugger. Hold on, George, don't rush off. Peter, you're a clever sod, what's it the head bangers say about leaving things?'

'What? Oh, you mean that you don't leave things by accident really, but because you want to come back to the place you leave them? Of course, that's only a simplified version of -'

'It'll do for a simplified copper,' said Dalziel.

'Now why should Swain want an excuse to come back here?'

'I don't think that anyone says that every act of forgetfulness fulfils some subconscious purpose -'

'Who's talking subconscious?' snarled Dalziel. 'That bastard'd be wide awake sleepwalking. An excuse to come back tonight. Why? Only one thing. To make certain we'd not started drilling again! George, those drillers, are they still here?'

'In the canteen, I think.'

'Get down there. I want them back out here in two minutes flat.'

'But Mr Swain's pen -'

'Give it here,' said Dalziel. 'I'll see he gets it. He'll need it to sign his next bloody statement! Now get a move on!'

Shaking his head, the sergeant left.

Pascoe said, 'Sir! are you sure you really want to do this? Remember, we've got it worked out that this garage was completed by the eighth of February. There's no sign the floor was touched till we started digging today. Beverley King was alive and well on the thirteenth, we know that for certain. It doesn't make any kind of sense . . .'

'You reckon? What doesn't make sense to me, lad, is that yon bugger hates my guts, yet he comes along here all cooperative. He doesn't just say, "It's in there some where," he brings us right inside and sketches out the exact spot with a stick of chalk he just happens to have about his person. He sits upstairs all day with hardly a murmur. And when he goes off, he leaves summat behind so he can come back later and put his mind at rest that he's got away with it.'

'Got away with what?' exploded Pascoe.

'Fuck knows! But he hasn't!' snarled Dalziel. 'Where's them drills?'

He stepped out of the door and stepped back inside immediately. Over his shoulder, Pascoe saw Trimble picking his way across the devastated yard.

He vanished inside. It must have been a close-cut thing, for a couple of minutes later Broomfield emerged with the puzzled drillers.

'Mr Trimble didn't see you?' confirmed Dalziel.

'No. Doesn't he know . . . ?'

'Mind your own business,' snarled Dalziel. 'Right, lads, sorry to keep you so late, but here's what I want you to do. Start drilling here and work across the floor. And do me a favour, keep it quiet as you can.'

The drillers exchanged glances.

'Sorry,' one of them said. 'There's only two levels with these things. That's off and bloody noisy.'

'All right,' growled Dalziel. 'If you can't be quiet, at least be quick.'

And once again the drills rattled into life.

'I give him two minutes,' shouted Pascoe.

'Three,' said Dalziel. 'He'll take a minute to believe it. I'll try to cut him off. You keep these buggers hard at it.'

He strode towards the entrance to the station but he had underestimated Trimble's reaction time and he met the man on the threshold. The incredulity was certainly there, however.

'Andy, what's going on? What's that noise?'

'What noise, sir?' said Dalziel cupping his ear.

'That noise! It's the drills, isn't it?' shouted Trimble in anger, and also perhaps slightly in fear that the sound existed solely in his mind.

'Oh, that noise,' said Dalziel dismissively.

And as though his words were a command, the drills fell instantly still.

Dalziel smiled benevolently at the Chief Constable. It could be a simultaneous technical hitch but the odds must be heavily against that? The silence stretched on and on till Trimble said impatiently, 'Well?'

'You mean the drills, sir?' said Dalziel with a hint of reproach. 'That's what I was coming to tell you about. Come and take a look.'

At what? he wondered as he strode confidently across the car park, hands deep in his jacket pockets to hide the tightly crossed fingers.

Pascoe appeared at the garage door. He gave a slight confirmatory nod, but it was the bewildered expression on his face which Dalziel found most reassuring, and he let his fingers disentangle as he waved Trimble into the garage ahead of him.

Now there was a second, smaller hole in the concrete floor. It had been dead reckoning with Swain. Only eighteen inches away from his boundary chalk mark, and there gleaming in the harsh light of a bare bulb was a sinuous tress of bright blonde hair.

'It's not possible,’ said Trimble.

'Isn't it, sir? What?' said Dalziel.

'It can't be Beverley King. Can it?'

'No, sir,' said Dalziel with the pleasant condescension of re-established authority. 'I think this time you may be right.'

'Then who?'

There was a noise behind them. They turned. Standing in the doorway was Philip Swain.

'Hello, sir,' said Dalziel. 'Come to pick up your pen, have you?'

The man looked at him blankly, then said in a faraway voice, 'I had to come back . . . one last secret, then it's all over . . . life can begin again

'Gosh,' said Dalziel. 'Not something else to tell us? Not another uncoerced and purely voluntary statement? I'm thinking of publishing a collected edition!'

But Swain was not to be thrown from his part, if part it were. Slowly he advanced till he could see into the hole. When he could make out the blonde tress, he let out a little cry of shock or of pain.

Then he dropped to his knees, flung back his head, and shrieked, 'Gail! Gail! Gail!

CHAPTER THREE

It should have been Dalziel’s greatest triumph, and for a little while that's how it came over, marred only by the need of explaining to Chung that he'd jumped the gun by consigning her Lucifer to the nether regions a fortnight before the Mysteries opened.

'Bail?' he said in answer to her question. 'I'd love to help, luv, but there's no way a magistrate would wear bail, not in a serious case like this.'

When he said this, he was at least half sincere, but within a very short space of time it became apparent to all concerned that it was mainly the sheer bulk of Dalziel’s objections that stood between Swain and a limited freedom. Challenged by Chung, he growled, Makes no odds. You don't think I could act with that bugger now, do you? If he was back the cast, I’d be out. I'm saving you a problem, keeping him inside '

'Don't do me any favours, Andy,’ said Chung steadily. 'I've made harder choices than that.'

Abashment was a new experience for Andrew Dalziel, but he felt it now.

But abashment was no part of his reaction when Dan Trimble brought up the case.

'Andrew, I'm a little worried. You've given the magistrates' court the impression that the charges against Swain will be so serious that turning him loose would be like sending Jack the Ripper back into Whitechapel. I presume this means you're confident you can overturn his statement...’

'Statement!' exclaimed Dalziel. 'That thing ought to be short-listed for the Booker!'

'You think so? Then perhaps you can separate the fact from fiction for me, with supportive evidence, of course. I have a copy here. Let's go through it, shall we?'

He began reading, pausing now and then for Dalziel to intervene. But during the early part of the statement which consisted of a description of the arrival of Arnie Stringer with news of his son-in-law's death, the fat man listened in silence. Only when Swain laid claim to motives of loyalty and friendship for agreeing to help did he let out a derisive snort.

'You dispute his motives?' said Trimble.

'Aye, do I! This loyalty and friendship didn't stop him running a JCB over the bugger to shut him up, did it?'

'You have proof of that allegation? Eye-witnesses? Forensic evidence?'

'No! But it stands to reason ...'

'No, it doesn't, Andrew. To continue. "My wife, Gail, had gone to bed early as she was leaving on her trip to see her sick mother in the States the following morning. I should say now that though I admit we had had our differences about the future, there was the very real possibility of a compromise, and I certainly believed her visit to the States was going to be temporary. Arnie's arrival had woken her and after I'd calmed Arnie down and sent him home, she came into the room and told me she'd heard most of what we'd said. She couldn't believe that I was really going to help conceal Appleyard's death. If she'd talked purely in terms of right and wrong, I might have listened, but it soon became clear that this tragic accident seemed to her to provide the perfect excuse for me to break my partnership agreement with Arnie, whom she had never liked. I tried to explain my feelings, but she just grew progressively angrier, ending up almost hysterically demanding that I should leave with her the following day and fly to California, ready to take up the Delgado job offer. I said that though I'd by no means finally made my decision about the job, her proposal was manifestly impossible, but by now she was past reason and into hysteria. I slapped her face to try to get her to recover control but it just made her worse. She rushed at me, I stepped aside, I didn't mean to trip her, but she stumbled over my foot, and next thing she was lying across the hearth quite still. The side of her head had struck the old stone hearth. There was scarcely any blood, but she was quite clearly dead. I remember her once saying that in her childhood, her American doctor had warned her mother she had an abnormally thin skull and needed to be kept clear of the rough and tumble of the playground. I know I should have rung 999 but I wasn't thinking straight . . ." Yes, Andy?'

'That story's so old it's got grey hairs,' exclaimed Dalziel. 'If I had a penny for every time I've heard some punter tell me his missus slipped accidentally and banged her head on the hearth, I'd be better off than you!'

Trimble drew another paper from the pile on his desk.

'The post-mortem report states that Mrs Swain died from a blow to the side of her head not incompatible with the claim that she struck it against the corner of an upraised hearth. There was no sign of any other violence. And it was confirmed that she did have a very thin skull which might have been a contributory factor. Contra-evidence, please?'

'Forensic's checked out the hearth, found nowt,' said Dalziel.

'There is a cleaning woman who confirms she washed and polished the hearth at least twice a week,' said Trimble. 'Anything else? No? Then let's go on. ". . . thinking straight. All I could think was that if I summoned an ambulance and the police, Arnie was bound to hear the sirens, and in his state, he'd be certain I'd betrayed him, and that might tip him right over the edge. I sat in that room and I thought and thought, and in my confusion there seemed no other way out of my predicament but to do with Gail what I had undertaken to do with Appleyard. And that is what I did. It was stupid, it had tragic consequences, and I regret it with all my heart. But when someone you love dearly has died in a tragic accident, and when at the same time a man of the quality of Arnie Stringer has put his whole life and happiness in your hands, it is hard to think straight. So in the end, I wrapped Gail up in a blanket and hid her body in the pick-up, and next day on the site, I dug the hole while Arnie mixed the concrete. We were working on the section behind the coroner's offices which were empty on a Sunday, and no one from the Police HQ showed any interest in us. Nevertheless I told Arnie to stand watch while I buried Appleyard and naturally I used the opportunity to bury Gail too. I nearly stopped then and told Arnie I couldn't go on, but Gail was dead and perhaps mistakenly I felt my higher duty was to the living, to the needs of my old friend. So I said a simple prayer and laid her to rest." Andrew, you're making strange noises again. Surely whatever else you think of Swain, you have to give him some credit for wanting to help a friend in need?'

Dalziel exploded, 'Jesus, sir! Have you not twigged yet? Slippery sod like Swain only ever tells the truth when it happens to support his lies! My guess is his missus was long dead when Arnie turned up, mebbe for as much as a couple of days, though if he'd just done her in that night, he must have come close to shitting himself when Stringer started banging on his door! You don't really think he was going to let her take off to the States, do you? And get a quick divorce and dump him out of her will? No, she were dead, and he were still wondering how best to proceed when Arnie turns up with just the same problem. Solving that helps him solve his own!'

Trimble said, 'Let me be quite clear. Are you alleging that Swain had all the subsequent business with Waterson and Beverley King worked out before he killed his wife?'

'No way!' said Dalziel dismissively. 'Swain couldn't plan a school picnic. He just reacts fast to events, that's the trick of him. Thing that puzzles most people about him is how he could settle to being a small-time builder. But ask yourself, what are small-time builders like? They come round, scratch their heads, size up a job, scribble on the back of an envelope, give you a price. They turn up late 'cos some other bugger has asked them to fix a roof or put in a window. They're always coming across unexpected snags because they can never see more than a couple of moves ahead. But they're bloody ingenious at sorting out the snags when they arise, because that's their talent, that's how they survive. They're never going to build you the Taj Mahal, but they can offer a price on a new set of garages that'll get a mean bloody finance committee's mouth watering. Take away Swain's fancy blazers and posh accent and what have you got? A dodgy small-time builder, smart enough to stay one step ahead of the game, but too short-sighted to make the jump into the big-time.'

'Swain's come close to making it,’ objected Trimble.

'No, sir. Topping your missus doesn't rate as business acumen,' said Dalziel in a kindly tone. 'Anyroad, with his family's track record, he'd likely have got through his wife's money in a twelvemonth, so I reckon we're doing him a favour by putting him away.'

'Andy, you haven't yet said anything which fills me with confidence that we are going to put him away, not for long anyway. No, don't say anything. I realize the most serious part of this odd affair is still to come. Where was I? Oh yes. "In the days immediately following, I was surprised to find I was able to continue with no apparent after-effects. I have since been advised by medical experts that this process of going through the motions of a normal working life is quite usual in cases of severe shock. It took another shock to show me how unbalanced my mental state really was, and unfortunately that revelation, instead of leading me to seek professional aid, merely pushed me into yet another monstrous misjudgement.

'"It began three or four days later when I called on Greg Waterson to ask what he intended to do about his unpaid bill. The business had serious cash-flow problems. Gail had signed some cheques to pay our more pressing bills . . ."'

'Forgeries!'

'Proof?'

There was none. Naturally none of the payees (including Thackeray) was interested in making a complaint, the account had been wound up and the funds transferred to Swain, and the bank claimed it would be almost impossible to produce the cancelled cheques even if a genuine plaintiff were found.

‘I’ll get proof,' said Dalziel.

'Perhaps,' said Trimble, frowning. 'Let's press on. ". . . bills, but we still needed every penny that was owed us. Waterson reluctantly invited me in, but as I entered the living-room, all thought of money was driven out of my mind. A woman was standing in front of the fireplace with her back to me. She was tall and slim with long blonde hair, and for a second I was sure it was Gail! Then she turned and facially there was no resemblance at all. But the damage had been done. Curiously she didn't seem to register my shock and left the room almost immediately, pushing by me with a brusqueness which in other circumstances I might have thought rude. But Waterson noticed. He asked if I was all right. In reaction I immediately became untypically aggressive in my demands for instant payment of the five thousand pounds he owed the firm. He went into a rigmarole of evasion, but finally under pressure he admitted he didn't have the money. It was as if the flood-gates had opened, for with no further prompting from me, he went on to tell me that he was being blackmailed by the woman I had seen. He said they were having an affair and he'd been foolish enough to supply her with some drugs. Subsequently she had pestered him to get her more and he'd obliged, but eventually he had drawn the line, as it was both expensive and dangerous. Then she had turned nasty, demanding he supplied either the drugs or the money to buy them, on threat that if he didn't she would turn for help to the authorities and expose him as a major supplier. There was some story too of a large consignment which had been lost. I told him he wasn't the only one with money troubles, he made some remark about my rich American wife, and I reacted at first by being very angry, but gradually my anger turned to grief, and suddenly, with no conscious decision, I found myself telling this comparative stranger everything! The trigger, I am sure, had been the sight of the woman I mistook for Gail, but my mental and emotional state must have been like a volcano, which was bound to burst out eventually. Greg Waterson, whatever his other faults, had a most charming and sympathetic manner. I was in desperate need of someone to talk to, and he made the perfect listener. When I explained how I'd felt when I saw the woman I now know to have been Beverley King, he said yes, he'd noticed my reaction and wondered about it. I think it was now that the mad idea began to form in his mind.

'"We had a drink and I began to recover a little. I began to talk about going to the police and making a clean breast of everything. In fact it seemed to me as I grew a little more rational that in telling the story to a stranger, I had taken an irreversible step in that direction. But Waterson urged me to think hard about it. He painted a dark picture of the likely official reaction, of a long and nasty investigation, of the high probability of a murder charge. This made me hesitate, but the greatest impediment to confession was my knowledge that I couldn't tell the police my story without implicating poor Arnie.

"'And now Waterson, seeing that I was luke-warm in my resolve, began to explore what other explanation I might give for Gail's disappearance. The police would certainly soon discover she'd never got back to America, and immediately they would focus all their interest on me. Also, he pointed out, even if I did convince them I knew nothing of her whereabouts, it could be years before a court would presume her dead, by which time my business could have failed and I might even have been forced to give up Moscow Farm. What I really needed, he said, was some way of getting her death recognized immediately, without implicating myself in it to the extent of possibly invalidating her will.

'"And it was now he came out quite baldly with this incredible proposition; that we should contrive to kill Beverley King in such a way that I could get away with identifying her body as Gail's! This way he would be free of her blackmailing threats, she would become a missing person with no prospect of the police ever finding her, and I would be officially a widower with access to my wife's estate." What was that, Andy?'

'I just said, oh, the clever bugger,' repeated Dalziel with reluctant admiration.

'Waterson?'

'No! Swain. Swapping it all round like that.'

'You believe it was his idea?'

'Of course it was his bloody idea!' exclaimed Dalziel. 'It had dawned on him he might have been a bit hasty in concreting his missus under our garages. True, he could forge a few cheques, but without her official death, the big spondulicks were well out of his reach. Then he sees this long-legged blonde, hears Waterson's hard-luck I'm-being-blackmailed story, and bingo! He sees his way through.'

'But would he put so much reliance on a man he hardly knew, a man who by all accounts rates as a Grade A twit?'

'Aye, but not on the surface,' said Dalziel. 'Waterson liked to come across as really cool, to talk big. That's what got him into bother all the time. It was only when the shit hit the fan that he started falling to pieces. And then it was too late for Swain to back away. He just had to adjust to circumstances as best he could.'

Trimble frowned doubtfully and said, 'Evidence? I asked for evidence.'

'Evidence? It stands to reason it was Swain’s plan. It was Swain who had most to gain, wasn't it? Swain who could lay his hands on a Colt Python and Swain who knew what a mess it made of a face from seeing what it had done to his brother. It was Swain who had the clothes and jewellery and bits and pieces to back up their tale. It was Swain who would be identifying the body. It all stinks of Philip bloody Swain!'

'Olfactory evidence is rarely admissible,’ murmured Trimble with a smile that Dalziel did not return. 'Let's move on to his account of the actual shooting. Here we are. They go up to the bedroom together. Waterson has the gun. The girl is on the bed, very drunk. The plan is for Waterson to shoot her at close quarters. "As I saw Waterson lift the gun I knew I couldn't go through with it. It was as if I'd been living in a sort of unreal cinematic world created by the shock and pain of Gail's death, a world in which normal reactions and behaviour didn't apply. Now all at once the mists cleared, the distortions straightened out, and I saw what a monstrous thing it was that Waterson had planned. I rushed at him to divert his aim but he was surprisingly strong and pushed me away. I stumbled, almost fell. Then the gun went off. I dived forward and this time managed to wrestle the gun free from his hand, but it was too late. The poor girl was slumped over the bed with blood and bone everywhere. And I was plunged even deeper into that nether world of shock, so deep indeed that I can remember hardly anything of the next few hours, and not much of the next few days. When I started to surface a little, I realized that some basic impulse for self-protection had made me stick to the story that this was Gail, though I took upon myself far more of the guilt for her death than was actually mine. When I heard that Waterson had disappeared, I understood why. He must have been convinced I was going to reveal the whole truth, and that in fact was my intention. But I felt I owed it to him to talk with him first. Perhaps he wouldn't have pulled the trigger if I hadn't tried to interfere. I knew from my own dreadful experience how accidents can look and feel like acts of murder, and I could not condemn without a hearing. I only wish I could have got to the poor chap before Arnie Stringer so tragically repaid his debt of friendship!

'"My only desire now is to do all I can to clear up this whole ghastly business and put it behind me. After I left the Station earlier today, I realized I could never rest easy again until the whole truth was known, which was why I returned voluntarily to show where Gail was buried. My life is in ruins. I can only pray that eventually I shall find the strength to start rebuilding it." End of statement.'

'Can't be, sir,' said Dalziel. 'You've missed out the swelling music! Jesus wept, it's worse than Gone with the Wind!'

'All right, Andrew,' said Trimble patiently. 'What do you think happened?'

'What I bloody well saw!' snarled the fat man.

'At least, most on it. What I reckon they agreed was that Waterson should pull the trigger. Swain had done his bit of murder and he wasn't about to go into partnership with someone who wouldn't put himself on an equal footing. Waterson'd agree to anything in advance. Full of bullshit, that one, and Swain still hadn't sussed him out. Then comes the moment and Waterson bottles out. Swain's gone too far to turn back now and he says he'll do it himself. Waterson grabs at the gun, Swain pushes him away, sticks the gun under that poor spaced-out lass's chin, and blows her face away. And that's it for Waterson. He goes catatonic and that's how I find 'em when I come steaming to the rescue.'

'And how do you explain Swain's first statement?'

'He had to think quick. No way as far as he could see that Waterson was going to stick to their original story. In fact it seems likely the little shit is going to cough the lot, so he gives a modified version, with himself involved in a struggle in which the gun might have gone off accidentally, as a fail-safe in case we start talking murder. At the same time he's still hoping he can get to Waterson before he coughs and try to minimize the damage. He underestimated Greg's powers of recovery! Goes to bed a quivering wreck, has a good night's sleep, and he's superstud again. So he sets out to repair matters by more or less writing the statement he'd agreed to give in the first place.

A bit longer, and he might have changed his mind. But first his wife comes in to see him and he can't resist making himself the star in a big drama in her eyes. Then Sergeant Wield turns up and he hands over his statement, all blase man of the world again. Which lasts till Wield is daft enough to leave him by himself.'

'Why did he take off then?'

'Because he got to thinking that not only was he in for a nasty grilling from us, but Swain would be none too pleased with him either. Also there was the drugs business. Ordinary trouble Waterson seems to have met by screaming and shouting. Real trouble, and he runs like buggery. So off he goes and hides on the lass's boat, best place he could have chosen as it turned out, but I doubt if he were that clever. It was just that there was nowhere else! But his luck ran out the day he rang his wife. Swain followed her to the Sally and was hanging around outside waiting for him when he realized that Sergeant Wield was there too. But Wield got mixed up with that gang of yobboes and Swain took his chance and picked up Greg. It'd be all sweetness and light till he established exactly what Greg had told us, then bang! Another one for his favourite boneyard. Now Waterson couldn't change his story, which left only Arnie Stringer, and once he started getting twinges of conscience 'cause I was sniffing around, that was him for the chop too. End of story.'

'And a very good story it is,' said Trimble. 'And sitting here listening to it, I'm inclined to go along with you, Andy. The trouble is that Philip Swain tells a good story too. And he's going to have psychiatrists and doctors and lawyers and character witnesses to support it. What are we going to have to support yours, Andy?'

'You've got what I tell you! You've got whatever those useless sods in Forensic can dig up! You've got the evidence of your own common bloody sense! You've got my own witness statement!'

Trimble shook his head sadly.

'If it were my decision,' he said, 'there'd be no question. But we merely feed what we have into the judiciary. That's as it should be. It must be left to the legal mind to decide what charges can confidently be brought. You don't disagree with that, do you?'

Dalziel was sitting very still.

'What are you trying to say?' he asked. 'Come on. Spit it out!'

Trimble said, 'Please. I'm not a suspect, Andy.'

'You're making me bloody suspicious, I tell you that for nowt,' said Dalziel. 'What's going off here?'

'I think you've guessed. Swain is at present remanded in custody until Thursday, June the second, Corpus Christi day, I believe. You must have been concerned that your Thespian pursuits might have had to be interrupted by an appearance in court, but you can rest easy. You shan't be required. Unless something even more dramatic than your appearance in a nightshirt on a trolley happens before then, we shall be withdrawing our objections to bail.'

'In a murder case? We can't!'

'Not in a murder case,' agreed Trimble. 'Only, there doesn't seem to be a case for murder here, Andy. At least that's the opinion of the Prosecutor's office. Swain is willing to cooperate on a whole range of lesser charges. The feeling is they'd rather get him on something definite than be made ridiculous by having a murder case thrown out on grounds of insufficient evidence. Andy, I'm sorry. Look, sit down, let's talk it through, over a drink . . .'

But Dalziel was gone beyond even the conjurative powers, hitherto infallible, of a full bottle of Glenmorangie.

CHAPTER FOUR

It is a curious facet of human nature that while success often inspires resentment, failure can rekindle faith.

Up till now, even after the excavation of the car park, Pascoe had been unable to share his boss's certainty in Swain's total guilt. But immediately Dalziel stormed into his office with news of what he perhaps unfairly categorized as Trimble's treachery, Pascoe found himself overwhelmed by an equal and unqualified indignation.

'I'd back him against a bunch of dried-up lawyers any day,' he told Wield later.

'You're not overcompensating a bit, are you?' wondered Wield.

'Because I had some reservations before?'

'Because you thought he were off his chump!' said Wield.

'Surely you can't still think Swain's not guilty?' said Pascoe, defensively aggressive.

'He's guilty of something, that's clear.'

'But not murder?'

'Look, you've got one arrangement of the known facts, that's the boss's. You've got another, that's Swain's. What's to choose between them? Benefit of the doubt, that's what it all comes down to.'

'Perhaps. But I'd like to help the Super, that's all.'

'So what are you going to do?'

It was a good question. It was not easy to give it a good answer.

'Well,' said Pascoe slowly, 'at least I can do what I've been moaning he's not been bothered to do with this Dark Lady business. I can take what he says seriously for a change.'

He started that evening by gathering copies of all the statements, and various reports on the Swain affair together and taking them home. Ellie was at a meeting of her Bat Group so he was able to spread himself across the dining-room table in an attempt at spotting an unnoticed dimension via visual cross-referencing. But after a couple of hours all he had was a feeling, obviously shared by the Prosecutor, that if Swain put on a good show in court (and even Dalziel admitted his nimbleness as a counter-puncher) there was no way of getting him for murder. Perhaps all that that meant was he was indeed innocent of murder . . . Pascoe pushed away the negative thought. He'd promised himself he would use Dalziel's certainty as his guiding light here. But it was beginning to feel like a candle in a blizzard.

When Ellie came home, he was still staring blankly at the papers. She expressed no curiosity about them and he offered no explanation. Their polite neutrality about each other's work was beginning to harden into a trade barrier.

'Good meeting?' he asked.

'Yes, it was. We're updating our survey of types and locations in the district. You might keep your ears open at work. I wouldn't be surprised to hear Fat Andy's got a few vampires in his cellar.'

'Come to think of it,' he said, his memory stirred by his recent reading, 'there were some bats hibernating in this old barn out at Moscow Farm, Philip Swain's place. Pipistrelles, someone said.'

'What? You never mentioned them. Don't you know you're required by law to notify the authorities?'

'Am I? Sorry. Anyway this was back in February, so they've probably taken off by now.'

The revelation that his acquaintance with these disturbing creatures went back for months merely added to Ellie's irritation. Fortunately a noise from Rose's room diverted her before Pascoe could excuse himself into more trouble. Alone again, his attention returned to the Swain papers. In his physical arrangement, those relating to the killing of Beverley King in Hambleton Road were placed at the centre, while those to do with the death of Tony Appleyard were pushed to the edge.

But now the bat connection brought the barn where the boy had died into the forefront of his thoughts. It occurred to him that everybody accepted the Swain version of the youth's death, or rather the Swain version of the Stringer version. And why not? It fitted with both projections of Swain - as a loyal friend or as a quick-thinking bastard. That was the trouble with almost everything they had. It was as consistent with Swain's story as with Dalziel's theory.

But had the consistency test itself been applied consistently?

Only one way to find out.

He rearranged the papers in as strict a chronological order as possible, said to himself, 'Swain is a loving husband and a loyal friend,' and began reading.

After a while Ellie looked in, then withdrew, and he heard the television come on in the lounge.

Half an hour later she looked in again.

'Not finished yet?' she asked.

'I've finished being a loving husband,' he said. 'Now I'm going to be a right bastard.'

'Oh, sorry, I blinked. There, I missed it,' she said. 'I'm off to bed.'

'I'll be up in half an hour or so.'

'Which one of you? 'Night.'

He smiled after her, then returned to his papers.

Forty minutes later he read through his notes.

And there it was. Not much; in fact almost totally insignificant. Except that when it was all you had, it had to signify.

He glanced at his watch. Too late to disturb anyone. Except a wife. Wives were not anyone.

She opened one eye as he entered the room, then closed it again. He squeezed her shoulder gently till she reopened it.

'Do I have to guess which one it is?' she asked sleepily.

'Neither. It's a benighted male in search of female illumination. Wake up, my sweet, and tell me all about our little friends, the bats.'

The following morning he was up early. By eight o'clock he was passing through a creaking doorway beneath a vandalized legend which read JOE SWINDLES - CRAP MERCHANT. In a miasmic office a stout white-haired man was smoking a small cheroot, eating a fried egg sandwich and reading the Sun. He looked up with the ill-tempered expression of one who does not care to have his matutinal pleasures interrupted, then smiled yolkily as he recognized his visitor.

'Mr Pascoe. This is a nice surprise. Haven't seen you in ages. I've been feeling right neglected. What can it mean, I ask myself? Have I given offence? Or has he simply left me for another?'

'I expect it means, Joe, that either you've got honester or I've got slower,' said Pascoe.

'Well, you might have got slower, Mr Pascoe. Happens to the best of us. But if I got any honester, they'd have had to pick me for God in these Mysteries instead of that lovely Mr Dalziel. How is the dear old chap, by the way? Must be getting close to retirement now?'

Pascoe smiled. It was Joe Swindles's alcoholic ambition to get Dalziel into his crusher before he died to repay him for what he considered to be various injustices perpetrated over the years.

'I'll pass on your regards,' he said. 'Now, Joe, I want a favour.'

Swindles listened as Pascoe explained, then he scratched his venerable pate and said, 'In February, you say? Now that's asking a lot, Mr Pascoe. That could take a lot of looking for, and then it'd most likely have gone in the crusher.'

Pascoe was not impressed. One thing he had learned about Joe Swindles was that he had an almost supernaturally accurate knowledge of the contents of his scrap yard. All he was doing now was negotiating.

'I know your time's valuable, Joe,' said Pascoe. 'So I'll give you a fiver a minute. That's a fiver for every minute less than five it takes to find them.'

It cost him twenty pounds. He looked at the rusting heap of agricultural machinery and tools removed from the barn at Moscow Farm and wondered if he was doing a wise thing.

'Why'd you hang on to them, Joe?' he asked.

'Agricultural archaeology,' Swindles replied promptly. 'There's money in it already. This stuff's not old enough yet, but a few more years and one of these country museums'll be paying a pretty penny for this junk.’

‘Is that what you call a spike harrow?' said Pascoe pointing.

'Either that, or a hell of a hairbrush,' said Swindles.

Pascoe examined the implement in silence for a few minutes. Then he said, 'I'll need to borrow it, Joe.'

'Just the harrow?'

'No. Best take the lot. You'll get it back.'

'Bloody right I will!' Swindles thought for a moment then said, 'You'll need someone to lift it wherever you want it taken.'

'Are you volunteering?'

'I'd have to charge my usual rates. Discount for cash.'

Pascoe laughed.

'Joe, he said, 'if Mrs Thatcher knew about you, she'd make you a lord.'

He was still chuckling as Swindles unloaded the scrap on to the paved area in front of the police laboratories.

Gentry, the Head of the Forensic Examination Unit, did not share his amusement. He extended a skeletal finger towards the heap of rusting rubbish and said harshly, 'What is that?'

Pascoe, knowing from experience that there was no way to charm him into cooperation, replied crisply, 'Evidence in the case of Anthony Appleyard. Here's a copy of the path, report. You'll see it says he died as a result of his windpipe being pierced by a metal spike. Here's a copy of the relevant section of a witness statement which claims the metal spike was one of those on that harrow. Would you check it out?'

'But this was three months ago and this thing has obviously been standing out in the open.'

'Yes. You've already done an examination of Appleyard's clothing. Also of the clothing of Gail Swain. I'd like some further work done on both of these.'

'Are you saying there are inaccuracies?' demanded Gentry.

'I'm inviting you to be more precise than your first brief required,' said Pascoe. 'Particularly in the area of staining on the outer garments.'

'You have authorization for this?' interrupted Gentry harshly.

'I can get Mr Trimble's signature in the hour if that's what it takes to make you do your job,' said Pascoe.

'I don't think that is called for!'

Unsure whether the man was referring to the signature or the slur, Pascoe said, 'Then I'll expect to hear from you,' and left. Such brusqueness did not come naturally to him, but it was the only way to deal with Dr Death.

Not that there weren't other sharper stings to be wary of.

'Where the hell have you been?' demanded Dalziel as he entered his office. 'Mooning around after yon dotty tart, I'll be bound.'

'If you mean the disturbed woman who has made the mistake of looking to you for help, no, I haven't,' snapped Pascoe.