'I hope he gets a football up his . . . nose,' said Dalziel.
'Poor man! How's he harmed you?' she asked, then added thoughtfully, 'But if he really trains with them, it could be chancy. He looked a bit hearty to me.'
Dalziel mused upon this as they reached the kitchens where the ovens proved a complete failure. Dalziel seated on an old wooden chair watched with amusement as Bonnie, festooned with sausages, moved around trying to get them to work.
'Useless things!' she exploded.
'Is the power switched through?' asked Dalziel.
'Yes. I think so. At least, Bertie said it was. The dishwasher certainly works.'
'Shall I take a look?' asked Dalziel, heaving himself upright.
'No. Never bother. I'll tell Bertie. He's the only one who understands these things. God, I'm whacked!'
She slumped into the chair vacated by Dalziel who turned from his examination of the first oven with a comment on his lips which died when he saw her. Her head was bowed forward and her arms rested slackly over her knees as though they had been carelessly deposited there for collection later. One leg was crooked under the chair, the other stretched straight out. The whole composition was ugly, awkward, a study in defeat. When Dalziel approached and she looked up, the pores of her face seemed to have opened; the fine Edwardian strength he had admired before was eroded by an admission of age and weariness into a puffy substanceless outline. She was, Dalziel realized, more his contemporary than he had imagined.
And at the same time he realized she was letting him see her like this out of choice. There was strength enough there still to have taken her back to the party and set wildly coursing whatever passes for blood beneath a corduroy suit.
'I don't think these sausages are going to get cooked,' he said.
'No, I don't think they are,' she said.
It had been the beginning of an explanation but he let it rest as the oblique comment she obviously took it for.
'Why don't you lie down?' he said.
'I should like that,' she answered. 'Will you lie down with me?'
'Aye, will I,' he said.
They lay together fully dressed for nearly an hour while Bonnie dozed and Dalziel counted the chrysanthemums on her William Morris wallpaper, wondering if this was going to be one of those queer Platonic relationships he heartily disbelieved in. Finally he gave her a bit of a shake and set about confirming his disbelief.
Bonnie was agreeable enough, her body and mind soft and yielding in a half sleep. But Dalziel was no subtle wooer with diplomas in the arts of pleasure. The only prelude to penetration he had ever bothered with in his married life was four or five pints of bitter and now the brutal directness of his approach shocked Bonnie wide awake.
'Why not take a run to get up a bit of speed?' she demanded.
'What's the matter?' asked Dalziel.
'Well, for a start, get your clothes off. All your clothes.'
Grimly he undressed at one side of the bed while Bonnie stripped at the other.
'Now let's begin at the beginning,' said Bonnie.
Five minutes later she pinched his flabby left buttock viciously and said 'For God's sake, don't be so impatient. There's two of us to consider.'
'We'll have to take turn about,' gasped Dalziel.
Bonnie shook with laughter and the movement removed any chance of restraint on Dalziel's part. When he'd done and recognized that there was no mockery in her laughter he joined in.
'I've never laughed on the job before,' he said finally.
'Why not? It's a funny business,' said Bonnie. 'What was that you said about turn about?'
Evening was well advanced when they rose and the house was quiet.
'Perhaps they've all gone,' said Dalziel.
'They're more likely to be too drunk to speak,' said Bonnie. 'Or they're in the kitchen guzzling sausages.'
Dalziel felt guilty. After the welter of confused emotion which had immersed him during the past couple of hours, it was almost a relief to isolate and recognize a simple reaction. It was a conditioned reflex rather than an emotion; policemen were bred to put the investigation of crime before their personal pleasure and he had been false to his breeding.
'I doubt they'll have cooked those sausages,' he said.
'Why's that?' she asked, tugging a comb through her thick brown hair which, unfastened, had tumbled in surprising profusion over her shoulders.
'Come downstairs and I'll show you,' he said grimly.
Puzzled Bonnie finished her tidying up and let herself be led to the kitchens once more. They met no one en route and the basket of sausages remained untouched where they had left it.
'It's a bit like the Mary Celeste said Bonnie.
'No mystery,' grunted Dalziel. 'They'll all be stoned out of their minds.'
He took a coin from his pocket and rapidly unscrewed the control panel of one of the ovens.
'Take a look in here,' he invited. 'What do you see?'
Bonnie peered in cautiously.
'Nothing much,' she admitted.
'Right,' said Dalziel. 'Now what should you see is what makes these things work. Magnetrons, they're called. Don't ask me how I know.'
'Where are they?' wondered Bonnie making her way round the kitchen inspecting every oven. 'What a stupid thing! You'd think Bertie would have checked when they installed them.'
'He probably did,' said Dalziel. 'I think you've been robbed.'
'Robbed?' She laughed. 'Don't be silly. Why should anyone steal whatever you said?'
'Some people'd steal owt for a bob or two,' said Dalziel. 'Don't mistake. Everything's sellable. But I'm feared this is just an extra.'
'Extra?'
'Aye. Where's the drink store?'
'Oh Jesus!' she cried, catching his drift now. 'There's a cellar . . . we've got all our opening stock in there. Conrad got it in just before our credit gave up the ghost completely.'
They clattered down a narrow flight of stairs which led to an open door.
'Damn Charley!' snapped the woman. 'He had strict instructions to lock up behind him.'
'Don't blame the lad,' said Dalziel. 'I doubt if it's worth locking.'
At first glance all looked well. The crates of spirits, aperitifs, wine and liqueurs were all stacked in militarily neat array. But a few moments' investigation revealed the worst. Only the nearest bottles were full. Behind the front rank, all the liquor had been decanted, and in the nether crates there were no bottles at all.
'Charley got some of the empties in his mixed dozen,' said Dalziel. 'I thought it was just another bit of daftness then.'
Bonnie who after an explosion of blasphemous obscenity had got hold of herself very well demanded, 'What made you think differently. The ovens?'
'Aye.And one other thing.'
They went back up the stairs, Dalziel leading now. He strode belligerently to Mrs Greave's room and without knocking, kicked the door open so that it rattled against the wall and went inside. When Bonnie caught up, he had opened every cupboard door and drawer in the place. They were uniformly empty.
'You mean you think that Mrs Greave . . .' said Bonnie incredulously. 'But why? She's Pappy's daughter.'
Dalziel laughed, a short humourless bark very different from the deep guffaws he had emitted in the intimacy of the bedroom.
'If you believe that, you'll believe anything.'
'But how do you know? How can you be sure it's her?'
'I know a slag when I see one,' said Dalziel brutally. 'When her type and your property go missing at the same time, then don't waste your time praying for guidance.'
'If you worked this out before, you haven't exactly struck while the iron was hot,' said Bonnie reprovingly.
'No. Well, something got in the way,' muttered Dalziel. 'I'm sorry.'
'Don't be,' she said, smiling. 'Well, what now? I suppose I'd better phone the police.'
Dalziel scratched the back of his neck and looked at her assessingly. The thought had already occurred to him
that she might know he was a policeman. If so, she was playing it very cool for reasons which were far from clear (and, his constabulary mind whispered to him, perhaps just as far from virtuous). Those same reasons, the brutal whisper continued, may have got him into her bed. He'd been a detective too long to be surprised by what some women would do in the cause of injustice. No, it wouldn't surprise him. But what was surprising him was the realization of just how much it would hurt him.
'That'd be best,' he said. 'Though I doubt you've had your booze. It's probably been long gone.'
And someone had thought it worthwhile postponing the moment of discovery by first of all ringing the builders and telling them that Fielding was near on bankrupt, then ringing Spinx and telling him not to pay out the insurance money. And, he recalled, the anonymous caller had known there was a policeman in the house. That put it even more firmly at Mrs Greave's door. This kind of sixth sense was two-way traffic.
By the time they re-entered the main entrance hall, he'd decided that it was worth trying to remain anonymous for as long as possible.
'I'll ring the cops,' he said. 'You go and see if you can find Papworth and see what light he can throw.'
But his ruse to get a quiet word with Sergeant Cross was unsuccessful. A door opened and Bertie appeared, flushed violet with drink. Surprisingly this seemed to have made him more affable.
'Dalziel!' he said. 'Come in and have a drink. On me. You mustn't take my words to heart, mustn't sulk. You're too big for sulking. Your hulk has too much bulk for you to sulk. How's that? Herrie'd get fifty dollars for that and you know how much the old sod would give us? Bugger all. That's all. What's your poison?'
'I shouldn't bother,' said Bonnie sharply. 'There's likely to be quite a drink shortage round here shortly.'
'What do you mean?' demanded her son, swaying.
'I mean we've been robbed. Mrs Greave, it appears, has been steadily removing all our drink stock and anything else she could lay her hands on. Including the working parts of your precious ovens. And now she's taken off.'
Bertie stood amazed. His colour remained the same, perhaps deepened slightly, but affability drained visibly from his face.
'Oh, the cow, the stupid cow! I'll kill the bitch!'
He smashed the fist of his right hand into his left palm. Dalziel caught Bonnie's eye and raised his eyebrows. She did not respond but looked away.
'All right, Dalziel,' said Bertie. 'What now?'
'There's only one thing to do,' interrupted his mother firmly. 'We must ring the police.'
'We must ring the police,' echoed Bertie mockingly. ‘What’s the matter, Mother dear? Have his hidden charms enthralled you? I'll ring the police, never fear.'
He approached close enough for Dalziel to smell the gin on his breath.
'Dring dring,' he said. 'Dring dring. Is anyone there? I'd like to speak to a big, fat, ugly Detective Superintendent, please. You recognize the description? Good. Well, what happens next, please sir, Mr Dalziel?'
Dalziel looked from the youth to his mother. She made no effort to look surprised but shrugged her shoulders minutely. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, carefully, like a man decanting a rare wine against the light of a candle.
'What happens next?' he repeated stepping forward so that Bertie had to move back quickly to avoid being knocked over. 'Well, first of all, sonny, you start talking polite to me or I might just level off your spotty ugly face so that it'd take emulsion. Then next after that, we'll start really digging into just what makes this place tick, shall we?'
11
Hello Sailor
Dalziel sat in the old man's sitting-room and drank brandy. He had no authority to investigate crime on this patch, he assured Fielding. But the truth was he had been so discomfited and irritated by Sergeant Cross's reproachful expression that the choice had been between escape and expulsion. The sergeant had not openly said that Dalziel had withheld information, but his suspicions clearly roused by the fat man's visit to Orburn that day must have seemed confirmed when Dalziel told him that Annie Greave (or Annie Grimshaw, or Open Annie) was well known to Liverpool CID.
'I telephoned them just on the off-chance she was using her proper name,' he explained. 'Not much imagination, these pros.'
'Ah,' said Cross.
The only immediate potential source of information about Mrs Greave was Papworth and he too had disappeared. His room, however, showed no signs of a hurried or permanent leave-taking and it seemed safe to assume he would return.
'You mustn't blame Bonnie,' said Fielding suddenly. He occupied the same chair in which he had received the Gumbelow award and Dalziel wondered if he had moved out of it since then. Apart from the debris of glasses and bottles which littered the room, the only other sign of the afternoon's junketings was Arkwright, the sound engineer, who slept with his head pillowed on and his arms still clasped protectively around his recorder. From time to time a bubbly and rather musical baritone snore emerged from his mouth.
Whether the others had gone or were also to be found unconscious round the premises, Dalziel did not know.
'Blame her for what?' he grunted.
'Going through your pockets,' said Fielding. 'It is after all a sensible thing to do when hanging up a suit to dry.'
'What was she doing in my wallet?' demanded Dalziel. 'Ironing my money? And why didn't you lot say you knew I was a policeman?'
Fielding shrugged.
'Why didn't you tell us?'
'Why should I?'
'Why indeed? But it doesn't create an atmosphere of confidence having someone in your house under false pretence.'
Dalziel refilled his glass with a brusqueness which in another man might have resulted in spillage.
'I pretended nowt.'
'Come, come,' said Fielding mildly. 'This morning Bertie and Lou went to Bonnie with some story about the possibility of your putting money into the restaurant. They were very put out when she told them who you were.'
'Oh. They didn't know till then?' said Dalziel thoughtfully.'
'No.'
'And you?'
'Bonnie told me this morning too. She's a very discreet woman.'
Dalziel considered the implications. It was a comfort to know there hadn't been a general conspiracy, with everyone watching the big thick policeman blundering around. It was also good to know that whatever asexual motives Bonnie might have had for going to bed with him, the hope of more money for the business wasn't one of them. But this still left some disturbing possibilities. A detective grew accustomed to attempts to use sex either as a means of buying him off or compromising him. It didn't happen every night or every week or even every month. But it happened. Dalziel didn't want this to be the truth, but his self-image argued against him. He had never considered himself a lady's man, but he had had his moments, and until a few months ago would have been complacent enough to accept that a big, burly, balding middle-aged detective superintendent might set some female hearts astir. Now there was too much darkness in his nights for the overspill not to cloud all but the brightest day, and his diminished concept of what he was hardly admitted the generation of love at first sight, or even enthusiastic lust.
Which left one more question. Why? What was he being bought off from, or more simply perhaps, distracted from.
He leaned forward and peered at the old man.
'Got your envelope safe?' he asked.
Hereward winked and tapped his stomach indicating, Dalziel surmised, either that he had stuffed it down his undervest or else eaten it.
'Why were you so bothered about taking it?' continued Dalziel.
Fielding looked at him cunningly.
'Pride,' he said. 'Literary pride.'
'Piss off,' said Dalziel easily. 'You wouldn't let pride get between you and all that brandy.'
'All right,' said Fielding. 'Ambition then.'
'Ambition?'
'Yes. This year I shall equal Browning. Another three will take me up to Wordsworth. And if
I can hang on another three, I'll be past Tennyson.'
Dalziel laughed.
'Good-living bastards these poets, were they? So you want to be a hundred? Hey, you know what the Queen's Telegram says?'
'No. What?'
'Drop dead you silly old bugger.'
Fielding found this so amusing that he choked on his drink and for a moment Dalziel thought he was going to anticipate his sovereign's alleged command. But the cause of the upset also proved a remedy and after a moment he returned to his line of questioning.
'So what were the magic words I uttered that made you change your mind?'
'Nothing really,' said Fielding. 'I just wanted to be reassured that you would make your presence felt, which you have done with admirable timing. To be worth several thousand pounds in a household of relative paupers is no comfortable thing, Dalziel. You understand?'
'No,' said Dalziel. 'Not unless you're implying one of this lot'd try to knock you off. You're not saying that, are you?'
'Of course I'm saying that,' snapped Fielding. 'What do you want - a bibliography and index?'
'When people start talking about murder threats I want owt that'll stand up as evidence,' retorted Dalziel. 'Come on now. This is a serious allegation. What do you know?'
'I know that I am an old man,' said Fielding slowly, 'and in the eyes of many I have lived my life and run my race. I know that an old man is susceptible to heat and cold, to accidents, heart attacks, broken limbs, dizziness and dyspepsia. I shall not die, I think, from daggers or bullets or strange exotic poisonings. But die I shall and, as with many of the old, I suspect, I fear that a less than divine shoehorn will be used to ease me into my grave.'
Dalziel drank his brandy, shaking his head and marvelling inwardly at this strange and loving submission to the monstrous tyranny of words.
'Well,' he grunted, 'no bugger in this house'll kill you now, not while I'm around.'
'A champion!' said Bertie from the doorway. 'Sound the trumpet three times and Dalziel will gallop to the rescue!'
Dalziel 04 An April Shroud Page 12