Dalziel 11 Bones and Silence

by Reginald Hill

  He said, 'A man needs to be busy himself to be deceived, Mr Swain.'

  'My work did keep me occupied, yes.'

  'I mean . . . you know . . . busy.'

  Dalziel made a pumping motion with his forearm and said, 'Sauce for the goose, eh? Of course, it's different for a man.'

  He gave his vilest leer. He had little hope of coaxing a confidence from the man but he might bludgeon a brag. If (and why not?) Swain were having a bit on the side, that would strengthen his motivation, and it might be worth giving this not improbable she a good shaking to see what came out of her. Between the sheets was the non-Catholic's confessional.

  'Is it? How the hell would you know?'

  Swain was answering his words not his thoughts, but it was just as offensive. Oh, I shall have you, my lad, promised Dalziel.

  He changed tack and said, very serious, 'All I'm saying, sir, is, if there is a lady, better to tell us now rather than risk us stumbling on her unawares and mebbe causing embarrassment. I can promise maximum discretion. We'd just want to see her for purposes of elimination. Like you wanted to see Mrs Swain at Hambleton Road. For purposes of elimination.'

  He spoke with the sweet reasonableness of a hard left politician proposing revolution, and vastly enjoyed the millisec in which Swain reacted to tone before registering content.

  For another longer moment he thought he had triggered the expected explosion but from somewhere deep down in himself Swain drew up reserves of control.

  'Thackeray warned me about you,’ he said. 'But he didn't tell me the half. Well, I'll tell you what, Mr Dalziel. You provoke away all you like. I've got nothing to hide. The only games I'll play with you will be on Eileen Chung's stage. I suppose that was your clever little idea too? Well, I'm calling your bluff, Dalziel. It may please your ego to play God to my Lucifer, but wrap you up though Chung might, it'll be plain to everyone you're still a fat slob!'

  There it was. The anger burning through.

  'And you, Mr Swain?' said Dalziel softly. 'What'll people see in you?'

  Swain laughed, back in charge.

  'All the mirth that is made is marked in me!' he said. 'You see, I've started learning my lines already. I hope you can keep up, Superintendent. Now, good day.'

  'Good day to you too,' said Dalziel pleasantly. 'And thanks for your time.'

  He left the room, closing the door firmly behind him. He had noticed an extension phone on a table in the sitting-room. He went to the wall phone in the hall and gently lifted the receiver. Swain was dialling. The number was ringing. He waited.

  A woman's voice spoke and for a second he felt a frisson of self-congratulatory delight. Then the words registered.

  'Thackeray, Amberson, Mellor and Thackeray, can I help you?'

  Shit,' said Dalziel, replacing the receiver. Like so many things, it worked more often on the television screen than it did in life.

  He left but not by the front door. Pascoe had reported something about a secretary who had an office out back. Who knows? Perhaps Swain was conventional enough to be banging his secretary. Or perhaps she was nosey enough to listen in to his telephone calls.

  Outside he ran nimbly up the steps leading to the office, paused to get his breath, then entered with a suddenness intended to be impressive.

  The girl behind the desk glanced up from her book but gave little sign of being impressed. Her silence forced him to speak.

  'Mrs Appleyard?' he said. 'Detective-Superintendent Dalziel.'

  'Yes?'

  'You don't seem surprised.'

  'You've told me who I am and who you are, both of which I knew. What's to be surprised over?'

  Dalziel examined this and found it pleasingly pragmatic.

  'Mind if I ask you a few questions?' he said.

  She returned her attention to her book without replying.

  Dalziel scratched his armpit and wondered how best to proceed.

  'Mr Swain a good boss, is he?' he essayed.

  'He's all right,' she said without looking up.

  'How'd he get on with his missus?'

  She put her book down and examined him in a way which made him feel on sale. She was a plain, ordinary-looking girl but her cool brown eyes had a disconcerting steadiness.

  'You want me to help you. Why?'

  'Well, it's everyone's duty to help the police, isn't it? I mean, how else can we fight crime?'

  Even to his own ears his platitudes lacked conviction.

  She said, 'That's not what I meant. Why should I help you?'

  The pronouns were emphasized. He considered his answer carefully. He had the feeling there were several wrong answers but only one right one.

  He said, 'Because mebbe I could help you.'

  This seemed to amuse her momentarily, then she became serious again.

  'You reckon? All right, I want to find my husband.'

  Straight down to bargaining, thought Dalziel admiringly. With him not even knowing whether she had owt to bargain with!

  He said, 'Lost him, have you?'

  She explained briefly, clearly, like Wield making a report.

  'His name's Tony Appleyard. We got married three years back when we found I were pregnant. Then he got made redundant and after a while he got so fed up, he went down south to look for work. He were a fitter by trade but he ended up in London, Brent it were, labouring on the lump till he got something better. He wrote and sent money when he could, at first anyway. He was living in this place with a lot of other men, lodging-house he called it but it sounded like a doss house. I used to write regular, but his answers got less and less frequent. Christmas I thought he might come back but there was only a card for the kiddie. I got so I was thinking of going down there to see for myself, but Dad said he'd go. He went in the middle of January. At the house they told him Tony had moved out a week before and not left a forwarding address. I've been in touch with the police down there and up here, the uniformed lot, I mean. They all said it was nowt to do with them. What a grown man did was up to him as long as it wasn't a crime and leaving your wife and kid evidently isn't. But I reckon they could find him if they wanted. If you wanted.'

  Dalziel said gently, 'Why do you want to find him, love? Court order for maintenance won't do much good unless he's got a regular job.'

  'Mebbe that's why he's moved on,' said the woman. 'Mebbe he's shacking up with someone else. Don't worry, I've thought of every possibility. And mebbe it's just all got too much for him and he's on the road feeling as down and desperate as I do sometimes. I need to know, Mr Dalziel, so I can work out what's best to do. Will you help?'

  Dalziel considered. Scratching his corrugated neck he said, 'Chief Inspector Pascoe spoke with you the other day. Why'd you not ask him?'

  She half-smiled and said, 'He were more interested in what I was reading. I read to get away from things. You look to me more interested in the things I'm getting away from.'

  Dalziel smiled back.

  'I shouldn't underestimate Mr Pascoe,' he said. But he felt flattered all the same.

  'All right,' he said. 'You're on. No promises but it shouldn't be difficult. I may need to ask your dad about his trip down there in case he can help.'

  He saw her expression and laughed. 'Doesn't much like the lad, does he? Not to worry. I won't let on about our arrangement. I'll say it's a social security inquiry or some such thing. Now, what can you tell me?'

  'You ask the questions, I'll answer,' she said.

  'Fair enough. How do you reckon Mr and Mrs Swain got on?'

  She considered then said, 'All right. At first anyway.'

  'At first?'

  'When I first came to work here after Mr Swain had come in with Dad. I don't think it had dawned on her then how serious he was about running his own business, I mean.'

  'And when it did?'

  'She got more and more irritated. They had rows, mainly about going to America and money. I could hear them yelling in the house. She thought the business was useless. He said his roots we
re here, there was no way he was going to give up Moscow Farm to work for a gang of crooks like Delgado.'

  'And she didn't show any sympathy?'

  'No. She said the way he was going he'd have to give it up anyway when he went bankrupt. She said her family weren't crooks, just good efficient businessmen. She asked him where he got off criticizing her family when all that his had ever been good for was losing money and blowing their brains out.'

  'And what did Mr Swain say to that?'

  'He said, very quiet, that they'd always been able to get the farm back at no matter what cost. Well, he'd got it back and he wasn't going to let it go.'

  'Tell me, lass,' said Dalziel in his friendliest tone. 'If he said this very quiet and they were in the house and you were out here, how come you managed to hear?'

  'The outside bog freezes up in winter so sometimes I've got to go inside,' she said, meeting his gaze steadily.

  'Fair enough. Do you know a man called Waterson, luv?'

  'I wouldn't say I know him. He was a customer.'

  'What did you make of him?'

  'Fancied himself.'

  'Did you fancy him?'

  'No way.'

  'Why not?'

  She considered. 'For a start I could tell he didn't fancy me.'

  That makes a difference?'

  'Dealing with them that does is bad enough without chasing after them as don't,’ she said grimly.

  Dalziel grinned. He liked her more and more.

  'What about Mrs Swain. Did he fancy her?'

  'I told Mr Pascoe that,' she said. 'He tried it on, but I thought she gave him the brush-off.'

  'Would it surprise you if she'd taken up with him later?'

  'No. I didn't know her well enough to be surprised.'

  This was reasonable but not very helpful. Dalziel picked up another line and asked, 'How did Mr Swain get on with Mr Waterson?'

  'Not very well.'

  He waited for her to expand, but after a few moments she returned her gaze to her book. It was unnerving. She'd made a bargain to answer his questions, but they had to be asked first.

  'How do you know?' he asked.

  'I saw them quarrelling in the yard.'

  'Could you hear what they were saying?' he asked, looking out of the window.

  'No. Anyway, after a bit they went into the house.'

  He hesitated, baffled. Every end a blank. What were Swain and Waterson rowing about? Had Swain begun to suspect something earlier than he claimed? And what different light could it throw on the events at Hambleton Road if he had?

  He must have somehow contrived to look pathetic, for she took pity on him and said in an exasperated tone, 'Do you not want to know what it was about?'

  'You said you couldn't hear.'

  'I didn't need to. It was about Mr Waterson's account. It hadn't been settled despite me sending reminders. The last one threatened the court.'

  'Was it for much?'

  'Enough. Mr Swain were having trouble with his overdraft and needed every penny he could get.'

  'So how did it end up?'

  'They went into the house and Mr Waterson gave Mr Swain a cheque.'

  'How do you know?'

  'Because Mr Swain came out to me later and handed over the cheque and told me to pay it into the business account.'

  There it was. Not a jealous confrontation but a business squabble. All he had to do was ask.

  He said, 'So Mr Swain were really strapped for cash till he got this cheque?'

  She laughed, full-throated, musical, a sound to draw a man's eyes back after they'd registered and dismissed the square features, the lifeless hair.

  'He were still strapped,' she said. 'It came back a week later. Returned to drawer. No funds.'

  'It bounced? What happened then?'

  She said, 'I gave it to Mr Swain. He said he'd see to it.'

  'And did he?'

  'Not that I know of. There was nowt in our last statement.'

  It could mean a lot, it could mean nowt. Dalziel stored it away and glanced at his watch. He'd been here too long. If Swain caught him now he might get suspicious of this lovely lass and that'd be a shame. Who knows what other answers she might be able to give if Dalziel could only work out the questions?

  He said, 'I'll be off now, luv, but I'll be in touch.'

  He meant with more questions but when she replied, 'How long?' he saw she didn't. A bargain was a bargain. He thought and said, 'Week at the outside. If you're sure. Sometimes no news is good news.'

  'You reckon?' she said, picking up her book once more. This time he glimpsed its title. Anna Karenina. Dalziel's reading was not extensive. Fiction-wise, it was restricted almost entirely to Bulwer Lytton's Last Days of Pompeii which he'd stolen from his honeymoon hotel and read circularly as if it were Finnegans Wake. But Anna Karenina he knew because of the Garbo movie. He'd been more concerned with copping a feel from the buxom lass by his side than watching the elegant shadow on the screen, but he did remember it hadn't been a bundle of laughs.

  He said, 'Careful you don't read your brain into train oil, like my old mam always used to say.'

  She didn't look up but said, 'Mine says I'll read my life away. I say, why not?'

  'There's no answer to that,' said Dalziel as he left.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The station seemed full of solicitors on Dalziel's return, all crying police brutality. A headcount revealed that in fact there were only two, but they had enough sound and fury for a Labour Party Conference. Having ascertained that he was not the object of their wrath and that they had no connection with Messrs Thackeray, etc., Dalziel let himself be filled in by Sergeant Broomfield.

  Upstairs in CID he found Pascoe eagerly awaiting his return.

  'What's going on, Peter?' the fat man demanded. 'Here's me desperate to establish good community relations and you can't even take a witness statement without assault and battery.'

  Pascoe didn't even bother to smile but said impatiently, 'I've just had the lab report on the veterinary samples I recovered from Harry Park. Four of the flea powder cartons contained heroin. That's two thousand grams.'

  'What? Why didn't you say, lad? Let's go and kick shit out of the bugger!'

  'Talking of shit, we searched Govan's shop and guess what we found down among the lentils?'

  'Better and better. What have you done?'

  'Everything, I think. Photos, prints, etc. are being faxed everywhere. Drug Squad, Customs have all been put in the picture. Everyone's moving at a hundred miles an hour trying to get as far back along Park's trail as possible before news spreads that we've picked him up.'

  'And Park himself?'

  'Quiet as the grave. He's scared. And not of us.'

  'We'll see about that,' said Dalziel, reaching for the phone.

  'Sir,' said Pascoe warningly. 'I really think this one's out of our hands. We've just been asked to keep him on ice till the Drug Squad decides how to play it.'

  'He's in our cell, isn't he?' said Dalziel. 'All I want to ask him about is our friend, Waterson. Case in hand, possible unlawful killing, no one can complain about that. And you can fill me in while they're bringing him up.'

  Pascoe gave a succinct account of everything that had happened that day and ten minutes later they were sitting opposite Harold Park in an interview room.

  Pascoe was expecting Dalziel to attempt to be more frightening than the masters Park so clearly feared, and he wondered uneasily how far the fat man would go. But Dalziel, not for the first time, surprised him.

  'Harold Park, isn't it?' he said, smiling. 'How are they treating you, Harry? Have you had something to eat? Coffee? Tea? Smoke?'

  'Thanks,' said Park, accepting a cigarette.

  'Only tobacco, I'm afraid,' said Dalziel as he lit it.

  'That's all I take.'

  'Oh, you don't practise what you push, then?' laughed Dalziel. 'Wise man. But you do have a problem, though, I can see that. Drugs are big money and big money has long arms and i
f you start grassing, one of them long arms can reach right inside the nick and tear your balls off, right? I'm sympathetic. That's why I'm not going to ask you to say anything at all about your set-up. There's others coming as'll do that, but not me. All I want from you is one little minnow, and it's nowt to do with drugs. Just tell me all about Gregory Waterson.'

  'Waterson? Why's everyone interested in that wanker?' said Park with what sounded like genuine curiosity. Then sudden suspicion darkened his face. 'Was it him who put you on to me?'

  'Don't be stupid,' sighed Dalziel. 'I - could lie and say yes so that you'd get mad and spill all you know about him, but that's not the way I play, Harry. Mr Pascoe here was genuine when he came round to ask you about Waterson. It was just bad luck the way things worked out. If Mr Govan had kept his van in better nick . . .'

  'That Scotch idiot! I'll see he gets his.'

  'Your privilege, Harry. Meanwhile: Mr Waterson . . .?'

  'And what do I get out of it?'

  'My gratitude, Harry. That's worth a million to anyone in your shoes. It'll be me who'll be there in court when you're asking for bail, remember that, Harry,' Dalziel lied easily.

  'Bail? They'd never give me bail,' said Park. But there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

  'They might, if the police weren't all that convincing in opposing it,' said Dalziel, tapping the side of his nose significantly.

  Pascoe groaned inwardly at this combination of shaky morality and awful acting. Park considered, shrugged and said, 'All right. I'll tell you what I know. But only you.' He cast an unfriendly eye on Pascoe. 'I'm not making any admissions, you understand that? This has all been a complete misunderstanding.'

  'Of course it has,' said Dalziel unctuously. 'Mr Pascoe, why not take a little walk, see if you can rustle up some tea for me and Mr Park. With doughnuts. I like a doughnut and Mr Park I'm sure has a lot in common with me.'

  Pascoe left, not without relief. Ten minutes later he returned, bearing a tray with two cups of tea and a plateful of doughnuts. Dalziel took one and bit massively. Sugar glistened on his lips and raspberry jam trickled down his chin.