'Perhaps because that's her name, Andrew,' said Thackeray kindly. 'Yes, he married into the family, albeit a cadet branch. He and Gail met when the Americans ferried a group of their new staff out to head office in Los Angeles on a re-orientation course. They fell in love. No doubt the family looked him over, decided there was no harm in adding a bit of family loyalty to the financial ties binding Atlas Tayler to them, and gave their approval. So it was back here after the honeymoon and onward and upward in his executive career. Meanwhile, back at Moscow Farm, his father had died and brother Tom was making a real pig's ear of running things. It was hard to lose money when the EEC were practically paying farmers to grow less, but Tom was the worst kind of Swain.'
'I doubt it,' growled Dalziel.
'For heaven's sake, Andrew, I'm telling you all this so you will understand what a decent and reliable citizen my client is,' snapped Thackeray.
'Oh aye? I thought you were just spinning things out till the bottle was empty,' said Dalziel. 'Also, it doesn't say much for the family lawyer letting all these Swains get so deep in trouble.'
'I'm very conscious of that. But there's a secretive streak about them when it comes to money matters,' said the lawyer, frowning. 'I doubt if even Philip knew just how bad things were with the farm, though I know he'd been putting what funds he could afford at Tom's disposal for some time. But finally it all got too much for the poor man and one day he went into the barn and blew his brains out. That's why even you should realize what a devastating effect this new tragedy will have had upon my client.'
'Aye, it must be a bit rough,' said Dalziel with spurious sympathy. 'So that's how Phil got his hands on Moscow, was it?'
'Yes, but it was an inheritance more troublesome than covetable. Everything that could be mortgaged was, and all the buildings had fallen into a sad state of disrepair. There was no way that Philip's salary could take care of things, but happily his wife had a not inconsiderable dot and was sufficiently taken by the notion of family roots to pour out dollars with a liberal hand till Moscow Farm became a place fit for a Californian to live in. I suspect that was the happiest time of their marriage. She got a real kick out of interior decorating, by plastic card of course, while he enjoyed himself even more by planning and helping with the restructuring.'
'What about farming?'
'His practical bent didn't extend to things that mooed or needed planting. But he hung onto the land. A wise move, when you see what has happened since between the village and the town. To this government, a Green Belt is a martial arts qualification needed for survival in the Cabinet. Once the land to the east is all gone, there'll be planning permission for the asking on Moscow's acres to the west, and prices will rocket.'
'Right,' said Dalziel. 'So we've got Philip Swain with a good job, his family home all refurbished, and lots of valuable development land in the foreseeable future. How come he ends up as a small builder with cash-flow problems?'
Thackeray sipped his whisky and wondered why Dalziel was being so blatant. The phone rang on the fat man's desk. He picked it up, listened, said, 'You're sure? Shit. All right, stick him in two. I'll be down shortly.'
'Bad news?'
'Depends how you look at it. So what happened when Delgado decided to back out of Britain?' Dalziel asked.
'You recall that?'
'Aye. Five hundred lost jobs was still making headlines two years ago,' growled Dalziel. 'And wasn't there a lot of flak about a Yankee con-trick?'
'Indeed. Delgado's certainly played their cards very close to the chest. Right up to the announcement of closure, everyone thought they were in fact planning to expand their UK investment instead of relocating it in the cheaper pastures of Spain. There were rumours of a takeover bid for a company in Milton Keynes. Of course it could never be proved that Delgado's started them deliberately, but certainly they were up and away before the unions knew what had hit them.'
'But not Swain?'
'No. Philip took his redundancy money like the rest of them. He had the usual Swain longing to be master of Moscow and his own life. Like a good Thatcherite, he decided to create his own small business. He chose building, partly because he believed he'd discovered a constructive talent in himself while putting the farm to rights. And partly because of Arnold Stringer.'
'That's the big gingery chap who's Swain's foreman?'
'Swain's partner,' corrected Thackeray. 'Also his childhood playmate. There have been Stringers in Currthwaite as long as Swains, peasant stock as opposed to gentlemen farmers, of course, and chapel rather than church, but such divisions were never urged upon the young. Indeed, according to local folklore, a Swain cuckoo has from time to time slipped into the Stringer nest. Whatever the truth, the two boys went happily to the village school together. Later of course their paths diverged. Stringer was a farm worker at Moscow at fifteen, decided there was no future in it when he got married at eighteen, took a job on a building site, and eventually set up on his own in a small way. And that's how he stayed. It's clear he wasn't cut out to be one of Mrs T's success stories. He still lives in one of the few Moscow farm cottages still standing and it was natural that when Philip took over he should push the basic re-building work his way. It was equally natural that when Philip started looking for an entree into the construction business, he should opt for energizing his old schoolmate's firm. Stringer's trade expertise, Swain's social contacts, it was potentially a winning combination.'
'You approved?' said Dalziel.
'I felt there were worse ways for him to invest his lump sum,' said Thackeray carefully. 'He is a Swain, after all, and I was fearful he might just pour his redundancy pay-off down some empty gold mine.'
'And since then?' said Dalziel refilling their glasses.
'Since then, what?'
'Well, this winning combination hasn't exactly been bothering Wimpey's, has it? As far as I can make out, doing our car park and garages is the biggest job they've ever had. And like I say, my lad, Pascoe, reckons there's not a lot of money in the bank. Though likely things'll be different now his missus has been sent off?'
'Andrew,' said the lawyer warningly.
'Just thinking aloud,' said Dalziel. 'Another thing strikes me. Situated like he was, married into the family and all, he must have been a right useless wanker for Delgado's to turn him off like a factory hand.'
'That is where you're wrong,' said Thackeray. 'I happen to know that Swain was offered a top executive post with an excellent salary at head office in Los Angeles.'
'But he couldn't bear to leave sunny Currthwaite, is that it?'
'Partly, yes,' said the lawyer seriously. 'But there was something else which may help you understand the quality of the man. Because they did not trust his native loyalties, Philip was not made privy to Delgado's plans. When news of the closure came out, he was enraged.'
'Was he now? Aye, he struck me as a good actor too.'
'This was no act, believe me,' urged Thackeray. 'You ask the unions involved. There's not one of them will hear a bad word against Swain.'
'So you're telling me Swain jacked in his sinecure with Delgado's as an act of solidarity with his downtrodden comrades?' said Dalziel.
'Andrew, I'm not telling you anything,' said Thackeray, suddenly aware how far he'd let himself be led in discussing his client's background. 'I'm merely passing the time of day till whatever obstacle lies in the way of my immediate interview with my client is removed. With another kind of officer I might by now have grown suspicious. But if one member of the Gentlemen's Club cannot trust another, what is the world coming to? Incidentally, talking of the Gents, I gather you have not yet taken up your allocation of Ball tickets, so I have brought them along. They are in great demand so any you do not want for your own guests will be easily disposable. It's twenty-five pounds the double ticket, so that will be two hundred and fifty pounds.'
'Christ,' said Dalziel. 'When we were lads, you could go to a good hop, with a guaranteed jump after, if it weren't raining, all for o
ne and six. And she paid for her own.'
'That was a long time ago, long enough for the present good cause to seem not unattractive, perhaps. Think of it as an investment.'
Dalziel glared at him balefully as he wrote a cheque. The Gents were sponsoring the Mayor's Spring Charity Ball which this year was in aid of the local Hospice Appeal fund. He tossed the cheque over the table and said, 'I'll just go and see what's holding things up.'
'Take your time,' said Thackeray, reaching for the Islay.
Dalziel went down to No. 2 interview room feeling irritated. Things weren't going smoothly. First of all the police doctor's late arrival had necessitated keeping Thackeray occupied, a tactic which had so far cost him two hundred and fifty pounds and a deal of malt. Then had come Pascoe's message that Moscow Farm was clean. And finally he'd just been told on the phone that the doctor could find no signs of addiction, physical or psychological, on Swain.
The builder was looking weary but still in control. Dalziel, aware of Thackeray's imminence, came straight to the point.
'How long had your wife been a drug addict, Mr Swain?'
Swain made no effort at shock or indignation but shook his head and said, 'So this is what this has all been about?'
'You knew about her habit, then?'
'She was my wife, for God's sake. How couldn't I know? All right, she had a problem but she'd kicked it.'
'That's not what the pathologist says.'
'You mean she was snorting again? No, I didn't know.'
'Snorting? No, lad, not snorting. She'd got more perforations than a sheet of stamps,' exaggerated Dalziel.
His reaction was startling. He stared at Dalziel incredulously and cried, 'You what? Injecting, you mean? Oh Christ! The bastard!'
And as he spoke these words he smashed his left fist hard into his right palm, you could see the knuckle prints. This was genuine beyond histrionics. But who was he thumping? wondered Dalziel.
'This bastard, who is he?' he asked gently. 'Do you mean Waterson?'
'What? No. Of course not. He's not the type. There's no way it could be him.' He didn't sound very convincing.
'Supplying the drugs, you mean?'
'Yes. That's the bastard I want.'
'Oh aye? Bit late for revenge, isn't it? I mean, she’s snuffed it now, with a bit of help from her friends.'
Swain looked at him with real hatred.
'Where's my lawyer?' he demanded. 'Why haven't I seen my lawyer?'
'Because last night you didn't want to disturb his beauty sleep,' said Dalziel. 'Who was your wife's doctor, Mr Swain? Perhaps he knows more about her problems than you seem to.'
Swain didn't rise to this bait but said, 'Dr Herbert, same as me. But she never went near him. He'd have said. Nothing unprofessional, but we've known each other a long time.'
'Nod and a wink, eh?' said Dalziel, nodding and winking most grotesquely. 'But she must have seen someone when she broke her leg.'
'Sorry. Can't help you,' said Swain.
'You mean your wife breaks her leg and you don't know who's treating her? Christ, it's a wonder she didn't blow your head off!'
Swain took a deep breath.
'I don't have to stand this, Dalziel,' he said quietly. 'I realize if you get me to take a swing at you, then you'd really have something to hit me with. Well, I won't give you that satisfaction. I want to see my lawyer. Now!'
Dalziel said, 'Your wife's dead, Mr Swain. Why should I need owt else to hit you with? I'll get Mr Thackeray now. I reckon you need him.'
At the door he paused and said, 'You never did finish telling me about that doctor
Swain sighed and said, 'She had a skiing accident in Vermont. I wasn't there. But I'm sure, being Americans, there'll be records. If it's important.'
'Important?' said Dalziel. 'Can't imagine where you got that idea.'
He went back to his room. Thackeray rose as he entered.
'He's all yours,' said Dalziel. 'Might be a bit upset. We've just been talking about his wife's drug habit.'
If he'd expected any shock/horror response from the lawyer, he was disappointed.
Thackeray sighed and said, 'Andrew, I know how much your job means to you, but I hope you will not let it obscure your basic humanitarianism. No one expects you to wear kid gloves, but it would help us all if during the course of your investigation you remembered that my client has suffered a deep and grievous loss.'
Dalziel scratched his thigh, picked up the malt whisky bottle, held it up to the light.
'Looks like he's not the only one,' he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Rangemaster at the Mid-Yorks Gun Club was properly macho, his shag of curly black hair echoed in designer stubble along the jaw and in designer thatch at the open neck of his lumberjack's shirt. Below, he tapered to narrow hips and a pair of faded jeans so unambiguously tight, it was clear he was carrying no concealed weapons. He affected a mid-Atlantic baritone which occasionally let him down, or rather up, into a Geordie squeak. His name was Mitchell but he invited them to join everyone in calling him Mitch.
'Tell me, Mr Mitchell,' said Pascoe, 'is Rangemaster a usual title for someone in your position?'
'Don't know that it is,' he answered. 'Sounds good though, don't it?'
'Do it? Perhaps you could give us a job description?'
His fears that he might have got hold of some fantasizing handyman were allayed as Mitchell gave him an outline of the club's set-up and his role in it. He was in fact the resident steward, coach and adviser on all matters pertaining to arms, qualified by a five-year stint in the Army (nudges and winks towards the SAS) followed by a one-year polymanagement course. He had a half share in the club, the other half belonging to a local businessman who was a shooting enthusiast. By the time he'd finished talking, it was clear that perhaps eighty per cent of his self-presentation was a sales ploy, which left twenty per cent as self-image.
But image and accent vanished together when told of Gail Swain's death.
'Oh no. Man, that's really terrible,' he said, sitting down. 'She were a real canny lass. Gail dead! I canna believe it.'
'It's true, I'm afraid,' said Pascoe.
'How'd it happen? What was it? An accident?'
'It seems possible,’ he said carefully. 'What I'm here about is her guns. She kept them here, I believe.'
'Oh yes. All the time. Well, nearly. There might have been an odd time when she took one home, if she'd been away at a competition, say. But why're you interested ... it wasn't a shooting accident, was it?'
'I'm afraid a gun was involved,' said Pascoe. 'What weapons did she own?'
'She had a Beretta .25, a Hammerli match target pistol, a Colt Python and a Harrington and Richardson Sidekick,' he replied without hesitation.
'Quite an armoury. And where would these be kept?'
For answer Mitchell took them through into another room and pointed at a metal door.
'You won't find anything like that outside a bank,’ he said proudly. 'No one gets in here, I tell you.'
He unlocked the door to reveal a range of padlocked gun cabinets.
'I'm glad to hear it,' said Pascoe, who privately saw no reason why gun enthusiasts shouldn't try out both their accuracy and their fantasies with spring-loaded weapons that fired ping-pong balls. 'And how do the members get hold of their weapons?'
'They tell me what they want and I fetch them out,' said Mitchell.
'How often did Mrs Swain use the club?'
'She used to be a real regular but not so much lately.'
'And Mr Swain?'
'He wasn't a member, but he sometimes came to functions with his wife. He knew a lot of people, of course. The Swains are an old local family.'
'That matters?'
'We're very democratic, but the old country families who've been used to guns from early on are our founder members, so to speak. I'd say it mattered to Gail, being a Swain.'
'Did she have any special friends?'
'Not in the club
. She was a bit of a loner, really. I know she liked to do the right things for someone in her position, sit on committees, that sort of thing, but maybe she didn't feel certain enough how things worked to risk getting too close to anyone. It can't be easy being a rich Yank round here.'
There was no trace of irony in his voice.
'But her husband didn't feel it incumbent on him to join?'
'Oh no. He's one on his own too. But there have been Swains in the club, I mean real Swains. His brother Tom . . . but you'll know about him.'
Pascoe nodded with the air of a man who knows everything. Seymour, he noted approvingly, had vanished. His amiable smile beneath a shock of unruly red hair was a delicate picklock of confidences, especially female. If there was tittle to be tattled, Seymour was your man.
He said, 'And which of Mrs Swain's weapons are still here?'
Mitchell said, 'None. She took them all away last time I saw her.'
'And you let her?' said Pascoe. 'You didn't express surprise? You said yourself the only time she ever took a weapon home was when she was shooting away in a competition. How often would that be?'
'Didn't apply any longer in Gail's case,' said Mitchell. 'She hadn't done any competition shooting in nearly two years. But obviously she wanted them this time because she was going home. Her mother's ill.'
'She must have made other visits to the States. Long visits. Last year, for instance,' said Pascoe, recollecting Swain's statement. 'Didn't her father die?'
'Yes. She was away for a couple of months.'
'And did she take any of her guns then?'
'No. Perhaps this time she wanted to do some shooting over there. Not much opportunity at a funeral, is there? OK, she could easily get replacements in the States. It's like buying bars of chocolate over there. But you get into a special relationship with your own pieces. And of course the Hammerli was specially tailored to her hand.'
Pascoe had a feeling that Mitchell could have told him more, but whether it would have been pertinent, whether indeed it would have been factual or merely idle gossip, he couldn't guess. At the moment a too aggressive interrogation would merely serve to feed that gossip.
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