Dalziel 11 Bones and Silence

by Reginald Hill

  '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 sai
d, '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?'