Bones and Silence

‘Was that what it was?’ said Swain. ‘I’ve no interest in guns.’

‘So you’d never seen this one before?’

‘Never.’

‘Is that so? You did know she was a member of a gun club, didn’t you?’ said Dalziel.

‘Of course I did.’

‘And you never noticed any of her weapons about the house? They have to be kept under lock and key, Mr Swain, in a proper cabinet. You mean to tell me that a pro builder like you never noticed this interesting extension to your wife’s wardrobe?’

Dalziel’s sneers were as subtle as birdshit down a windscreen. Swain said wearily, ‘The guns weren’t kept in the house, except on the odd occasion she’d been shooting in some competition at another club and needed to store one overnight. That’s the only reason we had the secure cabinet put in. Otherwise they were kept in the club armoury.’

Dalziel looked nonplussed for a moment.

‘When was the last time she had a gun at home, then?’ he asked.

‘A couple of years ago, I’d say,’ said Swain. ‘She gave up competition shooting, you see, so there was never any reason to remove them from the club.’

‘And you aren’t a member of this club?’

‘No. I told you. I hate guns, ever since … well, I’ve always hated them. And I was right, wasn’t I?’

His voice rose to something not far short of a shout. Dalziel regarded him speculatively for a while, then he turned on a sympathetic smile, his face lighting up like the Ministry of Love.

‘I’m glad you feel like that about guns, Mr Swain. My sentiments entirely. I gather there’s a very different attitude to gun-ownership in the States.’

He made the States sound like somewhere beyond Alpha Centauri.

‘I believe so,’ said Swain. He put his hand to his brow as if to massage a headache. Then he asked in a low voice, ‘Has my mother-in-law, Mrs Delgado, been told?’

‘I expect so,’ said Dalziel negligently. ‘Leastways we told the Los Angeles police. She’s sick, you say?’

‘Yes. She’s pretty well bedridden now. The most optimistic prognosis is a year, perhaps eighteen months.’

‘So your missus would be planning a long trip mebbe.’

‘It was open-ended. Naturally, if the end looked imminent, Gail would have stayed.’

‘So that’s why she took most of her clothes?’

‘What? Oh yes, of course. You’ve been poking around the house.’

‘Not me personally. One of my officers. Routine. But he did say it looked like there’d been a good clear-out.’

‘If you’d ever seen what Gail packed for a weekend in the country, you’d not be surprised at that, Superintendent,’ said Swain sadly.

‘Oh aye, I know what you mean,’ said Dalziel with a rueful shake of his head to express male solidarity. ‘How long do you reckon she’d have stayed in Hambleton Road, Mr Swain?’

‘How the hell should I know? You’d better ask Waterson that.’

‘I shall. Make a note to ask Mr Waterson when you see him, Sergeant Wield,’ said Dalziel.

Pascoe felt Wield wince beneath his totem-pole impassivity. The Sergeant had set all the systems at top pressure to track down Waterson, but so far there’d been no trace. Wield had spoken briefly to the wife before leaving the hospital. She had denied any knowledge of her husband’s intentions or whereabouts, and agreed to make herself available for a longer interview at the end of her shift.

Dalziel leaned forward and said, ‘Talking of Waterson, what do you reckon to him, Mr Swain? Setting aside the fact he were knocking off your wife.’

Swain looked at him in amazement and Pascoe tensed his muscles to intervene. Then Swain shook his head and said, ‘I’d heard about you, Dalziel, but no one got close to the reality.’

Dalziel looked modestly pleased and said, ‘Well, like they say, only God can make a tree. So? Waterson?’

‘I don’t know. He seemed all right. Lively. Pretty bright. Not a good payer, but who is these days?’

‘I hope you’ll not have any bother when you finish our car park and garages,’ said Dalziel righteously. ‘Had to twist his arm a bit, did you?’

‘I had to bill him a few times and give him a couple of phone calls.’

‘No solicitor’s letters delivered by a pair of brickies with a German Shepherd?’

‘You’ve been attending too many trials,’ said Swain. ‘If anything, I went more than usually easy with Waterson. I felt some sympathy with him. He was like me a couple of years back, trying to set up by himself after he’d been made redundant, and I know how careful you’ve got to be with the money then. Also I gather his wife left him. There’s ironic for you! I felt sorry for the bastard because his wife had left him and she probably did it because she found he was screwing around with mine!’

‘Mebbe so. You met her, did you?’

‘Mrs Waterson? Only once. The day the job started. I got the distinct impression that was the first she knew of it. I never saw her again but I’m not around all the time. Arnie Stringer, my partner, usually takes care of on-site supervision.’

‘Does he now? Now that is good news, Mr Swain.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nowt, except it’s a comfort to know your men will be able to get on with our garages while we’ve got you banged up in here,’ said Dalziel cheerfully.

It was not the worst of his provocations but it was the one that hit the button. Swain shot to his feet and shouted, ‘You great lump of blubber, I’ve had enough of this. I don’t have to sit here listening to your loutish maunderings. Can’t you get it into your thick skull, she was my wife, and she’s dead, and I blame myself … she’s dead, and I blame …’

As rapidly as he had risen, he slumped in his chair again, pressed his face into his hands and his whole body went into a spasm of almost silent sobbing.

Dalziel viewed the scene with the detachment of a first-night critic, belched, stood up and said, ‘I don’t know about you lot, but my belly feels like me throat’s been slit. Lunch.’

Outside he said, ‘He’s good. Best free show since Crippen broke down at his wife’s funeral.’

‘That’s a bit hard,’ protested Pascoe. ‘He’s got good cause to be upset.’

‘You mean, because I’m on to his nasty game?’ growled Dalziel.

Pascoe grimaced and said, ‘Look, sir, with this statement of Waterson’s in the files … I know there’s a bit of difference, but with two of them on more or less the same lines …’

‘Aye, it is odd, that,’ said Dalziel deliberately misunderstanding. ‘Wieldy, you’ve had the rare privilege of seeing both these buggers while they’re compos mentis. How do you read it? Any chance of ’em being a pair of poofs cooking up this Irish stew between ’em?’

Was the question more or less offensive for being addressed to a gay? And did it make any difference that Wield had received a measure of protection from Dalziel when others were ready to ladle on the persecution with generous hand?