'But . . .'
'No buts. Work stops now. If I hear those drills again, you're suspended. You'd better believe me.'
He strode away. Five minutes later he reappeared in the silent car park with Swain and his solicitor, a bat-faced man with a switched-on memo-cassette in his hand. Trimble was at his most man-of-the-world conciliatory, but Swain didn't look as if he needed his feathers smoothed.
'Please,' he said. 'Don't forget, I'm here because I've committed an offence and I know I shall have to answer for it. I can well understand Mr Dalziel's keenness to make sure there were no more unpleasant surprises in store. No, no need of a lift. I came in my own car. Fortunately I didn't leave it in here.'
He looked around the devastated car park and smiled in Dalziel's direction. Pascoe felt the fat man's tension. Please don't say anything actionable, he prayed, not with Trimble and this mechanized scion of Dodson and Fogg in earshot.
Trimble must have felt the danger too. He said sharply, 'Mr Dalziel, I'd like to see you in my office in ten minutes, please.'
'Sir!' barked Dalziel, then turned on his heel like a dismissed soldier and marched away. Pascoe smiled a conciliatory smile at Swain and followed. He caught up with his boss in the first garage, staring gloomily into the hole from which Tony Appleyard had been lifted.
'I had him, Peter,' he said. 'I had him by the short and curlies! What went wrong? Three bloody corpses, and still the bastard's walking away with a million quid in the bank and Desperate Dan dusting off his jacket like an Eyetie barber! What in the name of God went wrong?'
This appeal to the heavens touched Pascoe beyond mere rhetoric. This was Gotterdammerung, this was old Saturn in his branch-charmed forest acknowledging that the time of the Titans was past.
He said, 'Perhaps nothing went wrong, sir. Perhaps Swain's been telling the truth all along, in which case everything's gone right, hasn't it?'
It was, he acknowledged later, an attempt at comfort on a par with assuring Mrs Lincoln she'd have hated the rest of the show. Dalziel's face glowed like a nuclear pile and a hand like a mechanical shovel seized Pascoe's arm. Perhaps foolishly, he opted for rational argument rather than kneeing the fat man in the crotch. Urgently he said, 'Swain's cooperated all down the line, you've got to admit that. All right, he changed his statement a bit, but Waterson's backed him up. And he volunteered all that info about Appleyard's death, and he brought us straight to the spot...’
The nuclear glow faded and the grip on his arm relaxed enough for his arteries to resume a limited service.
'Aye, he did too. And he even drew us a diagram, didn't he? Whose chalk did he use, Peter?'
'Sorry?'
'The chalk he marked the spot with! Were you the clever little boy scout who came all prepared?'
'No, sir. All I recall is Swain drawing the outline and saying we should drill here.'
'And he was spot on, wasn't he? And if it weren't your chalk, and it weren't my chalk, then it must've been his chalk, mustn't it?'
'I suppose so. Perhaps builders carry chalk around with them,' suggested Pascoe, uncertain why Dalziel was labouring the point. 'Tool of the trade.'
'Mebbe. In his overalls. In his working gear. But Swain had got changed since we saw him at the hospital. He was in one of them fancy blazers with the bullet-proof badges. Not the kind of thing a man of taste wants a cloud of chalk dust billowing out of every time he blows his nose!'
'Sir, I don't see that it matters. Main thing is that he did show us exactly where Appleyard was buried. Think of the mess we could have made of Mr Trimble's car park if Swain had been vague!'
It was less provocative than his earlier attempt at comfort but not much more effective.
'Mebbe I should write a thank-you note,' growled Dalziel.
Pascoe was saved from having to answer by the appearance of Sergeant Broomfield in the doorway.
'Mr Swain gone, has he?' he asked.
'If you hurry, you might still catch the Chief kissing his arse across the road in the public car park,' said Dalziel.
Broomfield turned away, but Dalziel called him back.
'What's up? Why do you want him?' he demanded.
'Nowt really. He left his pen, that's all. Looks a bit pricey and I didn't want him thinking it'd got lifted while he were here.'
'Careless bugger. Hold on, George, don't rush off. Peter, you're a clever sod, what's it the head bangers say about leaving things?'
'What? Oh, you mean that you don't leave things by accident really, but because you want to come back to the place you leave them? Of course, that's only a simplified version of -'
'It'll do for a simplified copper,' said Dalziel.
'Now why should Swain want an excuse to come back here?'
'I don't think that anyone says that every act of forgetfulness fulfils some subconscious purpose -'
'Who's talking subconscious?' snarled Dalziel. 'That bastard'd be wide awake sleepwalking. An excuse to come back tonight. Why? Only one thing. To make certain we'd not started drilling again! George, those drillers, are they still here?'
'In the canteen, I think.'
'Get down there. I want them back out here in two minutes flat.'
'But Mr Swain's pen -'
'Give it here,' said Dalziel. 'I'll see he gets it. He'll need it to sign his next bloody statement! Now get a move on!'
Shaking his head, the sergeant left.
Pascoe said, 'Sir! are you sure you really want to do this? Remember, we've got it worked out that this garage was completed by the eighth of February. There's no sign the floor was touched till we started digging today. Beverley King was alive and well on the thirteenth, we know that for certain. It doesn't make any kind of sense . . .'
'You reckon? What doesn't make sense to me, lad, is that yon bugger hates my guts, yet he comes along here all cooperative. He doesn't just say, "It's in there some where," he brings us right inside and sketches out the exact spot with a stick of chalk he just happens to have about his person. He sits upstairs all day with hardly a murmur. And when he goes off, he leaves summat behind so he can come back later and put his mind at rest that he's got away with it.'
'Got away with what?' exploded Pascoe.
'Fuck knows! But he hasn't!' snarled Dalziel. 'Where's them drills?'
He stepped out of the door and stepped back inside immediately. Over his shoulder, Pascoe saw Trimble picking his way across the devastated yard.
He vanished inside. It must have been a close-cut thing, for a couple of minutes later Broomfield emerged with the puzzled drillers.
'Mr Trimble didn't see you?' confirmed Dalziel.
'No. Doesn't he know . . . ?'
'Mind your own business,' snarled Dalziel. 'Right, lads, sorry to keep you so late, but here's what I want you to do. Start drilling here and work across the floor. And do me a favour, keep it quiet as you can.'
The drillers exchanged glances.
'Sorry,' one of them said. 'There's only two levels with these things. That's off and bloody noisy.'
'All right,' growled Dalziel. 'If you can't be quiet, at least be quick.'
And once again the drills rattled into life.
'I give him two minutes,' shouted Pascoe.
'Three,' said Dalziel. 'He'll take a minute to believe it. I'll try to cut him off. You keep these buggers hard at it.'
He strode towards the entrance to the station but he had underestimated Trimble's reaction time and he met the man on the threshold. The incredulity was certainly there, however.
'Andy, what's going on? What's that noise?'
'What noise, sir?' said Dalziel cupping his ear.
'That noise! It's the drills, isn't it?' shouted Trimble in anger, and also perhaps slightly in fear that the sound existed solely in his mind.
'Oh, that noise,' said Dalziel dismissively.
And as though his words were a command, the drills fell instantly still.
Dalziel smiled benevolently at the Chief Constable. It could be a sim
ultaneous technical hitch but the odds must be heavily against that? The silence stretched on and on till Trimble said impatiently, 'Well?'
'You mean the drills, sir?' said Dalziel with a hint of reproach. 'That's what I was coming to tell you about. Come and take a look.'
At what? he wondered as he strode confidently across the car park, hands deep in his jacket pockets to hide the tightly crossed fingers.
Pascoe appeared at the garage door. He gave a slight confirmatory nod, but it was the bewildered expression on his face which Dalziel found most reassuring, and he let his fingers disentangle as he waved Trimble into the garage ahead of him.
Now there was a second, smaller hole in the concrete floor. It had been dead reckoning with Swain. Only eighteen inches away from his boundary chalk mark, and there gleaming in the harsh light of a bare bulb was a sinuous tress of bright blonde hair.
'It's not possible,’ said Trimble.
'Isn't it, sir? What?' said Dalziel.
'It can't be Beverley King. Can it?'
'No, sir,' said Dalziel with the pleasant condescension of re-established authority. 'I think this time you may be right.'
'Then who?'
There was a noise behind them. They turned. Standing in the doorway was Philip Swain.
'Hello, sir,' said Dalziel. 'Come to pick up your pen, have you?'
The man looked at him blankly, then said in a faraway voice, 'I had to come back . . . one last secret, then it's all over . . . life can begin again
'Gosh,' said Dalziel. 'Not something else to tell us? Not another uncoerced and purely voluntary statement? I'm thinking of publishing a collected edition!'
But Swain was not to be thrown from his part, if part it were. Slowly he advanced till he could see into the hole. When he could make out the blonde tress, he let out a little cry of shock or of pain.
Then he dropped to his knees, flung back his head, and shrieked, 'Gail! Gail! Gail!
CHAPTER THREE
It should have been Dalziel’s greatest triumph, and for a little while that's how it came over, marred only by the need of explaining to Chung that he'd jumped the gun by consigning her Lucifer to the nether regions a fortnight before the Mysteries opened.
'Bail?' he said in answer to her question. 'I'd love to help, luv, but there's no way a magistrate would wear bail, not in a serious case like this.'
When he said this, he was at least half sincere, but within a very short space of time it became apparent to all concerned that it was mainly the sheer bulk of Dalziel’s objections that stood between Swain and a limited freedom. Challenged by Chung, he growled, Makes no odds. You don't think I could act with that bugger now, do you? If he was back the cast, I’d be out. I'm saving you a problem, keeping him inside '
'Don't do me any favours, Andy,’ said Chung steadily. 'I've made harder choices than that.'
Abashment was a new experience for Andrew Dalziel, but he felt it now.
But abashment was no part of his reaction when Dan Trimble brought up the case.
'Andrew, I'm a little worried. You've given the magistrates' court the impression that the charges against Swain will be so serious that turning him loose would be like sending Jack the Ripper back into Whitechapel. I presume this means you're confident you can overturn his statement...’
'Statement!' exclaimed Dalziel. 'That thing ought to be short-listed for the Booker!'
'You think so? Then perhaps you can separate the fact from fiction for me, with supportive evidence, of course. I have a copy here. Let's go through it, shall we?'
He began reading, pausing now and then for Dalziel to intervene. But during the early part of the statement which consisted of a description of the arrival of Arnie Stringer with news of his son-in-law's death, the fat man listened in silence. Only when Swain laid claim to motives of loyalty and friendship for agreeing to help did he let out a derisive snort.
'You dispute his motives?' said Trimble.
'Aye, do I! This loyalty and friendship didn't stop him running a JCB over the bugger to shut him up, did it?'
'You have proof of that allegation? Eye-witnesses? Forensic evidence?'
'No! But it stands to reason ...'
'No, it doesn't, Andrew. To continue. "My wife, Gail, had gone to bed early as she was leaving on her trip to see her sick mother in the States the following morning. I should say now that though I admit we had had our differences about the future, there was the very real possibility of a compromise, and I certainly believed her visit to the States was going to be temporary. Arnie's arrival had woken her and after I'd calmed Arnie down and sent him home, she came into the room and told me she'd heard most of what we'd said. She couldn't believe that I was really going to help conceal Appleyard's death. If she'd talked purely in terms of right and wrong, I might have listened, but it soon became clear that this tragic accident seemed to her to provide the perfect excuse for me to break my partnership agreement with Arnie, whom she had never liked. I tried to explain my feelings, but she just grew progressively angrier, ending up almost hysterically demanding that I should leave with her the following day and fly to California, ready to take up the Delgado job offer. I said that though I'd by no means finally made my decision about the job, her proposal was manifestly impossible, but by now she was past reason and into hysteria. I slapped her face to try to get her to recover control but it just made her worse. She rushed at me, I stepped aside, I didn't mean to trip her, but she stumbled over my foot, and next thing she was lying across the hearth quite still. The side of her head had struck the old stone hearth. There was scarcely any blood, but she was quite clearly dead. I remember her once saying that in her childhood, her American doctor had warned her mother she had an abnormally thin skull and needed to be kept clear of the rough and tumble of the playground. I know I should have rung 999 but I wasn't thinking straight . . ." Yes, Andy?'
'That story's so old it's got grey hairs,' exclaimed Dalziel. 'If I had a penny for every time I've heard some punter tell me his missus slipped accidentally and banged her head on the hearth, I'd be better off than you!'
Trimble drew another paper from the pile on his desk.
'The post-mortem report states that Mrs Swain died from a blow to the side of her head not incompatible with the claim that she struck it against the corner of an upraised hearth. There was no sign of any other violence. And it was confirmed that she did have a very thin skull which might have been a contributory factor. Contra-evidence, please?'
'Forensic's checked out the hearth, found nowt,' said Dalziel.
'There is a cleaning woman who confirms she washed and polished the hearth at least twice a week,' said Trimble. 'Anything else? No? Then let's go on. ". . . thinking straight. All I could think was that if I summoned an ambulance and the police, Arnie was bound to hear the sirens, and in his state, he'd be certain I'd betrayed him, and that might tip him right over the edge. I sat in that room and I thought and thought, and in my confusion there seemed no other way out of my predicament but to do with Gail what I had undertaken to do with Appleyard. And that is what I did. It was stupid, it had tragic consequences, and I regret it with all my heart. But when someone you love dearly has died in a tragic accident, and when at the same time a man of the quality of Arnie Stringer has put his whole life and happiness in your hands, it is hard to think straight. So in the end, I wrapped Gail up in a blanket and hid her body in the pick-up, and next day on the site, I dug the hole while Arnie mixed the concrete. We were working on the section behind the coroner's offices which were empty on a Sunday, and no one from the Police HQ showed any interest in us. Nevertheless I told Arnie to stand watch while I buried Appleyard and naturally I used the opportunity to bury Gail too. I nearly stopped then and told Arnie I couldn't go on, but Gail was dead and perhaps mistakenly I felt my higher duty was to the living, to the needs of my old friend. So I said a simple prayer and laid her to rest." Andrew, you're making strange noises again. Surely whatever else you think of Swain, you have to giv
e him some credit for wanting to help a friend in need?'
Dalziel exploded, 'Jesus, sir! Have you not twigged yet? Slippery sod like Swain only ever tells the truth when it happens to support his lies! My guess is his missus was long dead when Arnie turned up, mebbe for as much as a couple of days, though if he'd just done her in that night, he must have come close to shitting himself when Stringer started banging on his door! You don't really think he was going to let her take off to the States, do you? And get a quick divorce and dump him out of her will? No, she were dead, and he were still wondering how best to proceed when Arnie turns up with just the same problem. Solving that helps him solve his own!'
Trimble said, 'Let me be quite clear. Are you alleging that Swain had all the subsequent business with Waterson and Beverley King worked out before he killed his wife?'
'No way!' said Dalziel dismissively. 'Swain couldn't plan a school picnic. He just reacts fast to events, that's the trick of him. Thing that puzzles most people about him is how he could settle to being a small-time builder. But ask yourself, what are small-time builders like? They come round, scratch their heads, size up a job, scribble on the back of an envelope, give you a price. They turn up late 'cos some other bugger has asked them to fix a roof or put in a window. They're always coming across unexpected snags because they can never see more than a couple of moves ahead. But they're bloody ingenious at sorting out the snags when they arise, because that's their talent, that's how they survive. They're never going to build you the Taj Mahal, but they can offer a price on a new set of garages that'll get a mean bloody finance committee's mouth watering. Take away Swain's fancy blazers and posh accent and what have you got? A dodgy small-time builder, smart enough to stay one step ahead of the game, but too short-sighted to make the jump into the big-time.'
'Swain's come close to making it,’ objected Trimble.
'No, sir. Topping your missus doesn't rate as business acumen,' said Dalziel in a kindly tone. 'Anyroad, with his family's track record, he'd likely have got through his wife's money in a twelvemonth, so I reckon we're doing him a favour by putting him away.'
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