Kitabı oku: «Bones and Silence», sayfa 2

CHAPTER ONE

Peter Pascoe’s return to work was not the triumphal progress of his fantasies. First he found his parking spot occupied by a heap of sand. For a fraction of time too short to be measured but long enough to excoriate a nerve or two, he read a symbolic message here. But his mind had already registered that the whole of this side of the car park was rendered unusable by a scatter of breeze blocks, hard core, cement bags, and a concrete mixer.

Behind him a horn peeped impatiently. It was an old blue pick-up, squatting low on its axles. Pascoe got out of his car and viewed the scene before him. Once there had been a wall here separating the police car park from the old garden which had somehow clung on behind the neighbouring coroner’s court. There’d been a tiny lawn, a tangle of shrubbery, and a weary chestnut which used to lean over the wall and drop sticky exudations on any vehicle rash enough to park beneath. Now all was gone and out of a desert of new concrete reared a range of unfinished buildings.

The pick-up’s peep became a blast. Pascoe walked towards it. The window wound down and a ginger head, grizzling at the tips, emerged above a legend reading SWAIN & STRINGER Builders, Moscow Farm, Currthwaite. Tel. 33809.

‘Come on,’ said the ginger pate, ‘some of us have got work to do.’

‘Is that right? I’m Inspector Pascoe. It’s Mr Swain, is it?’

‘No, it’s not,’ said the man, manifestly unimpressed by Pascoe’s rank. ‘I’m Arnie Stringer.’

‘What’s going on here, Mr Stringer?’

‘New inspection garages. Where’ve you been?’ demanded the man.

‘Away,’ said Pascoe. ‘Not the best time of year to be working outside.’

It had been unseasonably mild for a couple of weeks but there was still a nip in the air.

‘If bobbies with nowt better to do don’t hold us back talking, we’ll mebbe get finished afore the snow comes.’

Mr Stringer was obviously a graduate of the same charm school as Dalziel.

It was nice to be back.

Retreating to the public car park, Pascoe entered via the main door like any ordinary citizen. The desk area was deserted except for a single figure who observed Pascoe’s entry with nervous alarm. Pascoe sighed deeply. While he hadn’t really expected the Chief Constable to greet him with the Police Medal as journalists jostled and colleagues clapped, he couldn’t help feeling that three months’ absence to mend a leg shattered in pursuit of duty and a murderous miner deserved a welcome livelier than this.

‘Hello, Hector,’ he said.

Police Constable Hector was one of Mid-Yorkshire’s most reliable men. He always got it wrong. He had been everything by turns – beat bobby, community cop, schools’ liaison officer, collator’s clerk – and nothing long. Now here he was on the desk.

‘Morning, sir,’ said Hector with a facial spasm possibly aimed at bright alertness, but probably a simple reaction to the taste of the felt-tipped pen which he licked as he spoke. ‘How can we help you?’

Pascoe looked despairingly into that slack, purple-stained mouth and wondered once more about his pension rights. In the first few weeks of convalescence he had talked seriously about retirement, partly because at that stage he didn’t believe the surgeon’s prognosis of almost complete recovery, but also because it seemed to him in those long grey hospital nights that his very marriage depended on getting out of the police. He even reached the stage where he started broaching the matter to Ellie, not as a marriage-saver, of course, but as a natural consequence of his injury. She had listened with a calmness he took for approval till one day she had cut across his babble of green civilian fields with, ‘I never slept with him, you know that, don’t you?’

It was not a moment for looking blank and asking, ‘Who?’

‘I never thought you did,’ he said.

‘Oh. Why?’ She sounded piqued.

‘Because you’d have told me.’

She considered this, then replied, ‘Yes, I would, wouldn’t I? It’s a grave disadvantage in a relationship, you know, not being trusted to lie.’

They were talking about a young miner who had been killed in the accident which crippled Pascoe and with whom Ellie had had a close and complex relationship.

‘But that’s not the point anyway,’ said Pascoe. ‘We ended up on different sides. I don’t want that.’

‘I don’t think we did,’ she said. ‘On different flanks of the same side, perhaps. But not different sides.’

‘That’s almost worse,’ he said. ‘I can’t even see you face to face.’

‘You want me face to face, then stop whingeing about pensions and start working on that leg.’

Dalziel had come visiting shortly after.

‘Ellie tells me you’re thinking of retiring,’ he said.

‘Does she?’

‘Don’t look so bloody betrayed else they’ll give you an enema! She doesn’t want you to.’

‘She said that to you?’

Dalziel filled his mouth with a bunch of grapes. Was this what Bacchus had really looked like? AA ought to get a picture.

‘Of course she bloody didn’t,’ said Dalziel juicily. ‘But she’d not have mentioned it else, stands to reason. Got any chocolates?’

‘No. About Ellie, I thought …’ He tailed off, not wanting a heart to heart with Dalziel. About many things, yes, but not about his marriage.

‘You thought she’d be dying to get you out of the Force? Bloody right, she’d love it! But not because of her. She wants you to see the light for yourself, lad. They all do. It’s not enough for them to be loved, they’ve got to be bloody right as well! Your mates too mean to bring you chocolates, is that it?’

‘They’re fattening,’ said Pascoe, loyal to Ellie’s embargo.

‘Pity. I like chocolate. So drop this daft idea, eh? Get the years in first. And you’ve got that promotion coming up, they’re just dragging their feet till they’re sure you won’t be dragging yours. Now I’d best be off and finger a few collars. Oh, I nearly forgot. Brought you a bottle of Lucozade.’

He winked as he put it on the bedside locker. The first bottle he’d left, Pascoe had taken at face value and nearly choked when a long swig had revealed pure Scotch.

This time he drank slowly, reflectively. But the only decision he reached after another grey night was that on your back was no place for making decisions.

Now here he was on his feet, thinking that on your back might not be such a bad place after all.

‘Constable Hector,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I work here. DI Pascoe, remember?’

In Hector’s memory a minute was a long time, three months an eternity.

He’s going to ask for identification, thought Pascoe. But happily at that moment, Sergeant Broomfield, chief custodian of the desk, appeared.

‘Mr Pascoe, good to see you back,’ he said, offering his hand.

‘Thanks, George,’ said Pascoe with almost tearful gratitude. ‘I thought I might have been forgotten.’

‘No chance. Hey, have you heard about Mr Dalziel, though? Got himself a killer, single-handed, last night. He says that round here they’re so certain of getting caught, they’ve taken to inviting CID to be present! He doesn’t get any better!’

Chuckling, the sergeant retired to the nether regions while Pascoe, conscious still of Hector’s baffled gaze, made his way upstairs. He had brought his stick, deciding after some debate that it was foolish to abandon it before he felt ready. But as he climbed the stairs he realized he was exaggerating its use. The reason was not far to seek. I’m reminding people I’m a wounded hero! he told himself in amazement. Because there wasn’t a reception committee, and because Fat Andy has somehow contrived to upstage me, I’m flaunting my scars.

Disgusted, he shouldered the stick and tried to run lightly up the last couple of stairs, slipped and almost fell. A strong hand grasped his arm and supported him.

‘I expect you’d like another three months away from here,’ said Detective-Sergeant Wield. ‘But there’s got to be easier ways. Welcome home.’

Wield had the kind of face which must have thronged the eastern gate of Paradise after the eviction, but in those harsh features Pascoe read real concern and welcome.

‘Thanks, Wieldy. I was just trying to prove how fit I am.’

‘Well, if you fancy a miracle cure, come and touch God’s robe. You heard about his little coup last night?’

‘I got a hint from Broomfield.’

‘You’ll get more than a hint up here.’

Dalziel was on the phone but he waved them in expansively.

‘Couldn’t take the risk of hanging about, sir,’ he was saying. ‘He might have been away or we could’ve ended up with one of them hostage situations, tying up men and traffic with reporters and the SAS crawling all over the place!’

He made them both sound like rodents.

‘Thank you, sir. Ten o’clock? That’ll suit me fine. And I’ll make sure them buggers carry on working regardless!’

He replaced the receiver.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘I gather congratulations are in order.’

‘I believe they are,’ said Dalziel complacently. ‘Though Desperate Dan’s got mixed feelings. Doesn’t know whether to pat my back or stab it. Either way he’ll need a box to stand on!’

He was referring to Dan Trimble, Chief Constable, who, though small by police standards, was not a dwarf.

‘Mixed feelings? Why?’

‘Being out of practice at detective work, lad, you likely didn’t notice it’s like a bomb site down there.’ Dalziel had risen and was looking out of his window. ‘That’s Dan’s personal project. Part of his grand modernization plan. Rumour is he set the coroner up with a rent boy to get him to part with his garden. And he probably had to flog his own ring to get those tight bastards at County Hall to allocate the money. Trouble is, if the work’s not finished in March, the money is! That’s why Dan was all set to give me a kiss and a police medal till he heard who it was I’d nicked.’

‘And who was it, sir?’ asked Pascoe.

‘Swain. Philip Swain. Chap whose building firm’s doing the work down there. Or not as the case may be.’

He opened the window, leaned out and shouted, ‘Hey! What are you buggers on? A slow motion replay? If King Cheops had had you lot, we’d be looking at the first bungalow pyramid.’

He closed the window and said, ‘Got to keep ’em at it. At least till I’ve got my hands on Dan’s congratulation Glenmorangie. He wants to see you too, Peter. Nine-thirty sharp.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Pascoe, hope and unease stirring simultaneously.

‘That’s right. By God, it’s good to see you back! We’ve been snowed under these last few weeks. I’ve dumped a few things on your desk just to ease you back in again.’

Pascoe’s heart sank. Dalziel’s few was anyone else’s avalanche.

‘What exactly did happen last night,’ he asked by way of diversion.

‘Nowt much. I happened to see this chap, Swain, blowing his wife’s head off next door, so I went in and disarmed him and brought ’em both back here …’

‘Both? You brought the body as well?’

‘Don’t be daft. There were this other chap there, name of Waterson, it’s his house. He were scared shitless, could hardly move or talk. The quack took one look at him, shot him full of something and got him admitted to the Infirmary. Me and Swain had a little chat, he told a lot of lies, and an hour later I was enjoying the sleep of the just. That’s how neat and tidy we’ve been doing things since you’ve been away, lad, but no doubt now you’re back, you’ll start complicating things again.’

‘I’ll try not to, but I’m still a bit vague as to what precisely happened. This fellow Swain …’

‘Nasty bit of work. Just the type to top his missus,’ said Dalziel.

‘You’ve had other dealings with him?’

‘No. Only ever seen him twice before but some people you can sum up in a second,’ said Dalziel solemnly. ‘I gave him plenty of rope and he’s just about hanged himself, I reckon. Take a look at his statement and you’ll see what I mean.’

He pushed a photocopied sheet across the desk and Pascoe began to read.

I make this statement of my own free will. I have been told I need not say anything unless I wish to do so, and that whatever I say may be given in evidence. Signed: Philip Swain.

My name is Philip Keith Swain. I live at Moscow Farm, Currthwaite, Mid-Yorkshire. I am a partner in the firm of Building Contractors known as Swain and Stringer, working from the same address. I am thirty-eight years old.

A short while ago my company was engaged by Gregory Waterson of 18 Hambleton Road to convert his loft into a draughtsman’s studio. During the course of this work, he visited my premises on several occasions. These visits brought him into contact with my wife, Gail. I saw that they had become very friendly but any suspicions I might have had that the relationship went further I put out of my mind for two reasons. The first was that I simply did not want to risk a confrontation with Gail. For some time she had been behaving in an increasingly irrational fashion, bouts of deep depression alternating with moods of almost manic liveliness. When she was down, she talked sometimes of killing herself, more specifically of blowing her head off. I wanted her to see a doctor but, being American by birth, she had always refused to have anything to do with English doctors whom she regarded as mediaeval in both equipment and attitude. She did however promise to see an American doctor as soon as she returned to the States. And this was the other reason I made no comment about Waterson. I knew Gail was going back to California in the near future.

Early last summer her father had died. She was very close to him and I think it was from this date that her bouts of depression set in. The news that her mother’s health had gone into a rapid decline since Gail had returned to England after her father’s funeral made matters worse. I think she had blamed her mother for her father’s death and had not been careful to conceal her feelings, and now she was feeling guilty herself. These are necessarily amateur observations. All I knew for certain was that her mental state was far from stable, but everything pointed to nothing but good coming from her return to Los Angeles with the opportunity this would afford for sorting things out with her mother and also for consulting her family physician.

She was due to leave on Sunday February 8th. I had offered to drive her down to Heathrow, but despite the mild weather, she said she was worried about bad road conditions and she would go by train. She refused my offer to accompany her, saying she knew how much work I had on my plate, and then, when I persisted, demanding angrily if I didn’t think her capable of making a simple train journey alone. At this point I desisted and in fact went to work on the Sunday morning to take advantage of the continuing good weather, and thus did not even see her out of the house. I was therefore relieved when she rang me the following day, ostensibly from Los Angeles, to say she’d arrived safely.

I heard nothing further from her but a woman rang up a couple of times and asked to speak to her. When I told her Gail was out of the country, she made a sort of disbelieving sound and rang off. Then earlier tonight she rang again. I’m certain it was the same woman, she sounded young, with a Yorkshire accent though not very strong. She asked me if I still believed Gail was in America. I said yes, of course. And she went on to say that I was wrong and if I wanted to see Gail I ought to go round to 18 Hambleton Road. Then she rang off.

I immediately rang Gail’s mother in LA. I got through to the housekeeper-cum-nurse that Mrs Delgado, my mother-in-law, had taken on since her illness. She said Gail had never arrived but had sent a cable to say she was stopping off to see some friends on the East Coast and would get in touch as soon as she knew when she’d definitely arrive. No one was surprised as Gail was notoriously impulsive. I made light of the matter and advised the nurse not to mention my call to Mrs Delgado as I didn’t want her to worry. But I myself was very worried and the only thing I could think of to do was go round to Hambleton Road.

I arrived at 10.30. There were lights on but Mr Waterson took a long time to answer the door. When he saw who it was, at first he looked shocked. Then he said, ‘You know, don’t you?’ And as soon as he said that, I did.

The odd thing was I didn’t get angry, perhaps because I got the feeling he was almost relieved to see me. He said, ‘You’d better come in.’ I said, ‘Where is she?’ He said, ‘She’s upstairs. But don’t go rushing up there. She’s in a very strange mood.’ I asked what he meant and he said she had been drinking heavily and was talking about killing herself. I said something like, ‘So she’s putting you through that hoop too? Tough luck.’ And he said, ‘You mean you’ve seen her like this before? That’s a relief. But that gun scared the shit out of me. Is it really loaded?’

Now this mention of a gun did really upset me. I knew Gail had guns, of course, but I thought they were safely locked up at the Mid-Yorks Gun Club where she was a member. When Waterson saw my reaction, he began to look really worried again. That was an odd thing. We should have been at each other’s throats, I suppose. Instead we were, temporarily at least, united by our concern for Gail.

We went up together. Perhaps this was a mistake, for when Gail saw us, she began laughing and she gabbled something about all the useless men in her life sticking together, and the only good one she’d ever known being dead. She was drunk and naked, sitting on the bed. She had this revolver in her hands. I asked her to give it to me. She laughed again and held it with the muzzle pressed against her chin. I told her not to be silly. It wasn’t the wisest thing to say, but I couldn’t think of anything else. And she just laughed higher and higher and I thought I saw her finger tightening on the trigger. And that’s when I jumped forward to grab at the gun.

What happened then I can’t say precisely, except that the gun went off and then I was standing there holding it, and Gail was lying with her head blown to pieces across the bed, and some time after, I don’t know how long, Mr Dalziel came into the room.

This dreadful accident has devastated my life. I loved my wife. I am sure that it was her dreadful feelings of guilt and unhappiness after her father’s death that drove her to seek solace in infidelity. And I know that despite everything, we could have worked things out.

Signed: Philip Swain.

‘Well,’ said Dalziel. ‘What do you reckon to that?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Pascoe slowly. ‘It’s … odd.’

‘Of course it’s bloody odd. Fairy tales usually are! What he still hasn’t twigged is I saw him with the gun in his hand before I heard the shot. Once we get Mr Gregory Waterson’s version, it’ll be two to one, and then I’ll make the bugger squirm!’

This simple scenario did little to assuage Pascoe’s sense of oddness. But he didn’t want to seem to be muddying Dalziel’s triumph so he held his peace and tried for a congratulatory smile. It lacked conviction, however, for Dalziel said, ‘You’ve not changed, have you, lad? In fact, all them weeks lying in bed playing with yourself have likely set you back. What you need is some good solid meat to get your stomach settled. I’ve got just the thing. Football hooligans.’

He regarded Pascoe complacently and received in return a look of surprise. The big clubs in West and South Yorkshire had their share of maniac supporters, but City, Mid-Yorkshire’s only league side, rattling around the lower divisions for years, rarely attracted serious home-grown trouble.

‘I’ve not read about any bother,’ said Pascoe. ‘And anyway crowd control’s uniformed’s business.’

‘Murder isn’t,’ said Dalziel grimly. ‘Saturday before last, young lad vanished travelling back to Peterborough from a visit to his girlfriend in London. They found him next morning with a broken neck at the bottom of an embankment near Huntingdon.’

‘Sad, but what’s it to do with us?’

‘Hold your horses. City were playing in North London that day and it seems there were a lot of complaints about bevvied-up City supporters on the train the dead lad would have caught from King’s Cross.’

‘But you said he’d been visiting his girl, not attending a match. Why should he get picked on?’

‘Colour of his eyes’d be provocation enough for some of these morons,’ declared Dalziel. ‘But it was more likely the colour of his scarf. Royal blue, which some bright spark in Cambridgeshire spotted was the colour of City’s opponents that afternoon. Could be nowt, but there’s been one or two hints lately that our local loonies are keen to get organized like the big boys, so this could be a good excuse to bang a few heads together before they get properly started, right?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Pascoe reluctantly. It didn’t sound a very attractive assignment. He glanced at Wield in search of sympathy, but Dalziel took it as an attempt to pass the buck.

‘No use trying to delegate, lad. The sergeant here’s going to be busy. How’s your bedside manner, Wieldy? Christ, the sight of you coming through the door would get me back on my feet pretty damn quick! Why don’t you get yourself off down to the Infirmary and take this shrinking violet Waterson’s statement so that I can spoil Mr lying bastard Swain’s lunch? No, better still, I’ll leave it till after lunch and give him indigestion. No reason why we should miss opening time at the Black Bull, is there? Not when it’s celebration drinks all round!’

‘You mean you’re in the chair because of this collar?’ asked Pascoe, trying not to sound surprised.

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Dalziel, who was not notorious for treating his staff. ‘I’ll let Desperate Dan supply the booze for that. No, it’s you who’ll be in the chair. Peter, unless you crap on the Chief’s carpet when he calls you in.’

Wield caught on before Pascoe and shook his hand, grinning broadly and saying, ‘Well done, sir!’ Dalziel followed suit.

‘One thing but,’ he said. ‘When you give Ellie the glad tidings, point out it’ll be a couple of years before it makes any difference to your pension. Now sod off and start earning your Chief Inspector’s pay!’