'Andy, you haven't yet said anything which fills me with confidence that we are going to put him away, not for long anyway. No, don't say anything. I realize the most serious part of this odd affair is still to come. Where was I? Oh yes. "In the days immediately following, I was surprised to find I was able to continue with no apparent after-effects. I have since been advised by medical experts that this process of going through the motions of a normal working life is quite usual in cases of severe shock. It took another shock to show me how unbalanced my mental state really was, and unfortunately that revelation, instead of leading me to seek professional aid, merely pushed me into yet another monstrous misjudgement.
'"It began three or four days later when I called on Greg Waterson to ask what he intended to do about his unpaid bill. The business had serious cash-flow problems. Gail had signed some cheques to pay our more pressing bills . . ."'
'Forgeries!'
'Proof?'
There was none. Naturally none of the payees (including Thackeray) was interested in making a complaint, the account had been wound up and the funds transferred to Swain, and the bank claimed it would be almost impossible to produce the cancelled cheques even if a genuine plaintiff were found.
‘I’ll get proof,' said Dalziel.
'Perhaps,' said Trimble, frowning. 'Let's press on. ". . . bills, but we still needed every penny that was owed us. Waterson reluctantly invited me in, but as I entered the living-room, all thought of money was driven out of my mind. A woman was standing in front of the fireplace with her back to me. She was tall and slim with long blonde hair, and for a second I was sure it was Gail! Then she turned and facially there was no resemblance at all. But the damage had been done. Curiously she didn't seem to register my shock and left the room almost immediately, pushing by me with a brusqueness which in other circumstances I might have thought rude. But Waterson noticed. He asked if I was all right. In reaction I immediately became untypically aggressive in my demands for instant payment of the five thousand pounds he owed the firm. He went into a rigmarole of evasion, but finally under pressure he admitted he didn't have the money. It was as if the flood-gates had opened, for with no further prompting from me, he went on to tell me that he was being blackmailed by the woman I had seen. He said they were having an affair and he'd been foolish enough to supply her with some drugs. Subsequently she had pestered him to get her more and he'd obliged, but eventually he had drawn the line, as it was both expensive and dangerous. Then she had turned nasty, demanding he supplied either the drugs or the money to buy them, on threat that if he didn't she would turn for help to the authorities and expose him as a major supplier. There was some story too of a large consignment which had been lost. I told him he wasn't the only one with money troubles, he made some remark about my rich American wife, and I reacted at first by being very angry, but gradually my anger turned to grief, and suddenly, with no conscious decision, I found myself telling this comparative stranger everything! The trigger, I am sure, had been the sight of the woman I mistook for Gail, but my mental and emotional state must have been like a volcano, which was bound to burst out eventually. Greg Waterson, whatever his other faults, had a most charming and sympathetic manner. I was in desperate need of someone to talk to, and he made the perfect listener. When I explained how I'd felt when I saw the woman I now know to have been Beverley King, he said yes, he'd noticed my reaction and wondered about it. I think it was now that the mad idea began to form in his mind.
'"We had a drink and I began to recover a little. I began to talk about going to the police and making a clean breast of everything. In fact it seemed to me as I grew a little more rational that in telling the story to a stranger, I had taken an irreversible step in that direction. But Waterson urged me to think hard about it. He painted a dark picture of the likely official reaction, of a long and nasty investigation, of the high probability of a murder charge. This made me hesitate, but the greatest impediment to confession was my knowledge that I couldn't tell the police my story without implicating poor Arnie.
"'And now Waterson, seeing that I was luke-warm in my resolve, began to explore what other explanation I might give for Gail's disappearance. The police would certainly soon discover she'd never got back to America, and immediately they would focus all their interest on me. Also, he pointed out, even if I did convince them I knew nothing of her whereabouts, it could be years before a court would presume her dead, by which time my business could have failed and I might even have been forced to give up Moscow Farm. What I really needed, he said, was some way of getting her death recognized immediately, without implicating myself in it to the extent of possibly invalidating her will.
'"And it was now he came out quite baldly with this incredible proposition; that we should contrive to kill Beverley King in such a way that I could get away with identifying her body as Gail's! This way he would be free of her blackmailing threats, she would become a missing person with no prospect of the police ever finding her, and I would be officially a widower with access to my wife's estate." What was that, Andy?'
'I just said, oh, the clever bugger,' repeated Dalziel with reluctant admiration.
'Waterson?'
'No! Swain. Swapping it all round like that.'
'You believe it was his idea?'
'Of course it was his bloody idea!' exclaimed Dalziel. 'It had dawned on him he might have been a bit hasty in concreting his missus under our garages. True, he could forge a few cheques, but without her official death, the big spondulicks were well out of his reach. Then he sees this long-legged blonde, hears Waterson's hard-luck I'm-being-blackmailed story, and bingo! He sees his way through.'
'But would he put so much reliance on a man he hardly knew, a man who by all accounts rates as a Grade A twit?'
'Aye, but not on the surface,' said Dalziel. 'Waterson liked to come across as really cool, to talk big. That's what got him into bother all the time. It was only when the shit hit the fan that he started falling to pieces. And then it was too late for Swain to back away. He just had to adjust to circumstances as best he could.'
Trimble frowned doubtfully and said, 'Evidence? I asked for evidence.'
'Evidence? It stands to reason it was Swain’s plan. It was Swain who had most to gain, wasn't it? Swain who could lay his hands on a Colt Python and Swain who knew what a mess it made of a face from seeing what it had done to his brother. It was Swain who had the clothes and jewellery and bits and pieces to back up their tale. It was Swain who would be identifying the body. It all stinks of Philip bloody Swain!'
'Olfactory evidence is rarely admissible,’ murmured Trimble with a smile that Dalziel did not return. 'Let's move on to his account of the actual shooting. Here we are. They go up to the bedroom together. Waterson has the gun. The girl is on the bed, very drunk. The plan is for Waterson to shoot her at close quarters. "As I saw Waterson lift the gun I knew I couldn't go through with it. It was as if I'd been living in a sort of unreal cinematic world created by the shock and pain of Gail's death, a world in which normal reactions and behaviour didn't apply. Now all at once the mists cleared, the distortions straightened out, and I saw what a monstrous thing it was that Waterson had planned. I rushed at him to divert his aim but he was surprisingly strong and pushed me away. I stumbled, almost fell. Then the gun went off. I dived forward and this time managed to wrestle the gun free from his hand, but it was too late. The poor girl was slumped over the bed with blood and bone everywhere. And I was plunged even deeper into that nether world of shock, so deep indeed that I can remember hardly anything of the next few hours, and not much of the next few days. When I started to surface a little, I realized that some basic impulse for self-protection had made me stick to the story that this was Gail, though I took upon myself far more of the guilt for her death than was actually mine. When I heard that Waterson had disappeared, I understood why. He must have been convinced I was going to reveal the whole truth, and that in fact was my intention. But I felt I owed it to him to tal
k with him first. Perhaps he wouldn't have pulled the trigger if I hadn't tried to interfere. I knew from my own dreadful experience how accidents can look and feel like acts of murder, and I could not condemn without a hearing. I only wish I could have got to the poor chap before Arnie Stringer so tragically repaid his debt of friendship!
'"My only desire now is to do all I can to clear up this whole ghastly business and put it behind me. After I left the Station earlier today, I realized I could never rest easy again until the whole truth was known, which was why I returned voluntarily to show where Gail was buried. My life is in ruins. I can only pray that eventually I shall find the strength to start rebuilding it." End of statement.'
'Can't be, sir,' said Dalziel. 'You've missed out the swelling music! Jesus wept, it's worse than Gone with the Wind!'
'All right, Andrew,' said Trimble patiently. 'What do you think happened?'
'What I bloody well saw!' snarled the fat man.
'At least, most on it. What I reckon they agreed was that Waterson should pull the trigger. Swain had done his bit of murder and he wasn't about to go into partnership with someone who wouldn't put himself on an equal footing. Waterson'd agree to anything in advance. Full of bullshit, that one, and Swain still hadn't sussed him out. Then comes the moment and Waterson bottles out. Swain's gone too far to turn back now and he says he'll do it himself. Waterson grabs at the gun, Swain pushes him away, sticks the gun under that poor spaced-out lass's chin, and blows her face away. And that's it for Waterson. He goes catatonic and that's how I find 'em when I come steaming to the rescue.'
'And how do you explain Swain's first statement?'
'He had to think quick. No way as far as he could see that Waterson was going to stick to their original story. In fact it seems likely the little shit is going to cough the lot, so he gives a modified version, with himself involved in a struggle in which the gun might have gone off accidentally, as a fail-safe in case we start talking murder. At the same time he's still hoping he can get to Waterson before he coughs and try to minimize the damage. He underestimated Greg's powers of recovery! Goes to bed a quivering wreck, has a good night's sleep, and he's superstud again. So he sets out to repair matters by more or less writing the statement he'd agreed to give in the first place.
A bit longer, and he might have changed his mind. But first his wife comes in to see him and he can't resist making himself the star in a big drama in her eyes. Then Sergeant Wield turns up and he hands over his statement, all blase man of the world again. Which lasts till Wield is daft enough to leave him by himself.'
'Why did he take off then?'
'Because he got to thinking that not only was he in for a nasty grilling from us, but Swain would be none too pleased with him either. Also there was the drugs business. Ordinary trouble Waterson seems to have met by screaming and shouting. Real trouble, and he runs like buggery. So off he goes and hides on the lass's boat, best place he could have chosen as it turned out, but I doubt if he were that clever. It was just that there was nowhere else! But his luck ran out the day he rang his wife. Swain followed her to the Sally and was hanging around outside waiting for him when he realized that Sergeant Wield was there too. But Wield got mixed up with that gang of yobboes and Swain took his chance and picked up Greg. It'd be all sweetness and light till he established exactly what Greg had told us, then bang! Another one for his favourite boneyard. Now Waterson couldn't change his story, which left only Arnie Stringer, and once he started getting twinges of conscience 'cause I was sniffing around, that was him for the chop too. End of story.'
'And a very good story it is,' said Trimble. 'And sitting here listening to it, I'm inclined to go along with you, Andy. The trouble is that Philip Swain tells a good story too. And he's going to have psychiatrists and doctors and lawyers and character witnesses to support it. What are we going to have to support yours, Andy?'
'You've got what I tell you! You've got whatever those useless sods in Forensic can dig up! You've got the evidence of your own common bloody sense! You've got my own witness statement!'
Trimble shook his head sadly.
'If it were my decision,' he said, 'there'd be no question. But we merely feed what we have into the judiciary. That's as it should be. It must be left to the legal mind to decide what charges can confidently be brought. You don't disagree with that, do you?'
Dalziel was sitting very still.
'What are you trying to say?' he asked. 'Come on. Spit it out!'
Trimble said, 'Please. I'm not a suspect, Andy.'
'You're making me bloody suspicious, I tell you that for nowt,' said Dalziel. 'What's going off here?'
'I think you've guessed. Swain is at present remanded in custody until Thursday, June the second, Corpus Christi day, I believe. You must have been concerned that your Thespian pursuits might have had to be interrupted by an appearance in court, but you can rest easy. You shan't be required. Unless something even more dramatic than your appearance in a nightshirt on a trolley happens before then, we shall be withdrawing our objections to bail.'
'In a murder case? We can't!'
'Not in a murder case,' agreed Trimble. 'Only, there doesn't seem to be a case for murder here, Andy. At least that's the opinion of the Prosecutor's office. Swain is willing to cooperate on a whole range of lesser charges. The feeling is they'd rather get him on something definite than be made ridiculous by having a murder case thrown out on grounds of insufficient evidence. Andy, I'm sorry. Look, sit down, let's talk it through, over a drink . . .'
But Dalziel was gone beyond even the conjurative powers, hitherto infallible, of a full bottle of Glenmorangie.
CHAPTER FOUR
It is a curious facet of human nature that while success often inspires resentment, failure can rekindle faith.
Up till now, even after the excavation of the car park, Pascoe had been unable to share his boss's certainty in Swain's total guilt. But immediately Dalziel stormed into his office with news of what he perhaps unfairly categorized as Trimble's treachery, Pascoe found himself overwhelmed by an equal and unqualified indignation.
'I'd back him against a bunch of dried-up lawyers any day,' he told Wield later.
'You're not overcompensating a bit, are you?' wondered Wield.
'Because I had some reservations before?'
'Because you thought he were off his chump!' said Wield.
'Surely you can't still think Swain's not guilty?' said Pascoe, defensively aggressive.
'He's guilty of something, that's clear.'
'But not murder?'
'Look, you've got one arrangement of the known facts, that's the boss's. You've got another, that's Swain's. What's to choose between them? Benefit of the doubt, that's what it all comes down to.'
'Perhaps. But I'd like to help the Super, that's all.'
'So what are you going to do?'
It was a good question. It was not easy to give it a good answer.
'Well,' said Pascoe slowly, 'at least I can do what I've been moaning he's not been bothered to do with this Dark Lady business. I can take what he says seriously for a change.'
He started that evening by gathering copies of all the statements, and various reports on the Swain affair together and taking them home. Ellie was at a meeting of her Bat Group so he was able to spread himself across the dining-room table in an attempt at spotting an unnoticed dimension via visual cross-referencing. But after a couple of hours all he had was a feeling, obviously shared by the Prosecutor, that if Swain put on a good show in court (and even Dalziel admitted his nimbleness as a counter-puncher) there was no way of getting him for murder. Perhaps all that that meant was he was indeed innocent of murder . . . Pascoe pushed away the negative thought. He'd promised himself he would use Dalziel's certainty as his guiding light here. But it was beginning to feel like a candle in a blizzard.
When Ellie came home, he was still staring blankly at the papers. She expressed no curiosity about them and he offered no explanation. Their poli
te neutrality about each other's work was beginning to harden into a trade barrier.
'Good meeting?' he asked.
'Yes, it was. We're updating our survey of types and locations in the district. You might keep your ears open at work. I wouldn't be surprised to hear Fat Andy's got a few vampires in his cellar.'
'Come to think of it,' he said, his memory stirred by his recent reading, 'there were some bats hibernating in this old barn out at Moscow Farm, Philip Swain's place. Pipistrelles, someone said.'
'What? You never mentioned them. Don't you know you're required by law to notify the authorities?'
'Am I? Sorry. Anyway this was back in February, so they've probably taken off by now.'
The revelation that his acquaintance with these disturbing creatures went back for months merely added to Ellie's irritation. Fortunately a noise from Rose's room diverted her before Pascoe could excuse himself into more trouble. Alone again, his attention returned to the Swain papers. In his physical arrangement, those relating to the killing of Beverley King in Hambleton Road were placed at the centre, while those to do with the death of Tony Appleyard were pushed to the edge.
But now the bat connection brought the barn where the boy had died into the forefront of his thoughts. It occurred to him that everybody accepted the Swain version of the youth's death, or rather the Swain version of the Stringer version. And why not? It fitted with both projections of Swain - as a loyal friend or as a quick-thinking bastard. That was the trouble with almost everything they had. It was as consistent with Swain's story as with Dalziel's theory.
But had the consistency test itself been applied consistently?
Only one way to find out.
He rearranged the papers in as strict a chronological order as possible, said to himself, 'Swain is a loving husband and a loyal friend,' and began reading.
Dalziel 11 Bones and Silence Page 31