'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 do
n'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?'
Dalziel 11 Bones and Silence Page 24