Bones and Silence

‘Oh? Why’s that?’

‘Business weren’t good. Once this job for you lot’s done, there’s nowt else on the books. So it could be she reckoned the whole thing would have folded by then.’

‘But she had money, didn’t she?’ prompted Pascoe.

‘Oh aye, but not to pour into this sort of thing.’ She gestured at the yard. ‘She were generous enough by all accounts with things like art and music, wildlife and restoration funds, you know, all the posh sort of things where you meet the top people. I don’t think she’d have been sorry to stop being a builder’s wife.’

‘Well, she’s managed that,’ said Pascoe. ‘Did she strike you as a moody kind of person: you know, on top of the world sometimes, then down in the dumps a bit later?’

His effort to put the question casually failed completely.

‘Drugs, you mean,’ said the girl. ‘Is that what you’re looking for?’

Pascoe thought of reading the Riot Act, of lying through his teeth, then decided that neither of these courses was going to get him anywhere.

‘Would it surprise you?’ he asked.

‘Why should it?’ she asked. ‘People’ll do owt for a bit of pleasure these days. But Mrs Swain, I’d not have said she was more up and down than most, though with her money, she’d be able to afford a steady enough supply for it not to show, wouldn’t she?’

It was a reasonable answer. The more he talked to this girl, the more he felt the need for a sharp mental reprimand. On first sight he’d been ready to categorize her as being as lumpy mentally as she looked physically. Now he realized he’d been very wrong on both counts.

He said, ‘From what you say, Mrs Swain wouldn’t have much to do with the day-to-day running of the business?’

‘Nowt at all.’

He went on, ‘Might she bump into any of your customers, though?’

‘Not in a big room she wouldn’t. There were never that many.’

Pascoe laughed out loud and this natural response was far more effective than his earlier hackneyed attempt at charm, for the girl gave him her first smile.

‘A Mr Gregory Waterson, for instance?’ he went on. ‘Do you know if she ever met him?’

‘Him who had the studio conversion? Oh yes, she met him.’

‘You saw them together?’

‘He came here a couple of times about the job. Once neither Mr Swain nor Dad were around, but he met Mrs Swain in the yard and went into the house with her.’

‘Oh?’

‘Not what you’re thinking,’ she said. ‘Not that I reckon he didn’t try his hand.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I’d been roughing out some figures for him and I went to the house myself to give him them and I got the impression he’d been coming on strong and Mrs Swain had told him where to get off.’

‘I see. Did you get the impression he’d persist?’

‘Oh aye. Thought he were God’s gift.’

‘But you didn’t agree with his estimate?’

She shrugged. ‘Funny kind of gift for God to make, I’d say.’

‘But a matter of taste perhaps? Would Mrs Swain perhaps be more interested than she let herself show at first?’

‘How should I know that?’ she asked scornfully.

‘Sorry,’ repeated Pascoe. ‘But as an observer, how would you say things were generally between the Swains?’

Again she shrugged.

‘It was a marriage,’ she said. ‘Anything’s possible.’

Pascoe laughed and said, ‘That’s a touch cynical, isn’t it? If you don’t believe in the power of true love, I think you’ve got the wrong book.’

She picked up her discarded Jane Eyre.

‘You mean it ends happy?’ she said. She sounded disappointed.

‘Afraid so. You’ll need to try men for unhappy endings,’ said Pascoe with gentle mockery. ‘Try Tess of the d’Urbervilles. Or Anna Karenina. Now they’re really miserable!’

He grinned as he spoke and was rewarded with a second faint smile.

‘What’s the rest of this building used for?’ he asked.

‘Down below, you mean? That was the old byre and stables, I think. Now it’s used for garages and to store stuff they don’t like to leave out in the wet.’

‘Is it open? I’d like to take a look.’

‘It’ll be locked. Dad doesn’t trust anybody.’

She picked up a bunch of keys, rose and led the way down the outside stair. She was right. All the doors were padlocked. She stood and watched as Pascoe poked around in a desultory fashion. He had little hope that he was going to find a barrowful of dope out here, and if it were hidden by the thimbleful, it would take a trained dog to sniff it out.

Finished, he walked out into the yard again.

‘Same kind of stuff over there?’ he asked, looking at the barn on the far side.

‘No. That’s empty.’

‘Better have a glance all the same.’

Again she was right. The stone floor was swept clean. He looked up into the rafters, screwing his eyes up against the darkness. He thought he saw a movement. There were certainly patches of darker darkness against the dull grey of the slates.

‘Bats,’ said the girl.

‘What?’