Bones and Silence

Dalziel went down to No. 2 interview room feeling irritated. Things weren’t going smoothly. First of all the police doctor’s late arrival had necessitated keeping Thackeray occupied, a tactic which had so far cost him two hundred and fifty pounds and a deal of malt. Then had come Pascoe’s message that Moscow Farm was clean. And finally he’d just been told on the phone that the doctor could find no signs of addiction, physical or psychological, on Swain.

The builder was looking weary but still in control. Dalziel, aware of Thackeray’s imminence, came straight to the point.

‘How long had your wife been a drug addict, Mr Swain?’

Swain made no effort at shock or indignation but shook his head and said, ‘So this is what this has all been about?’

‘You knew about her habit, then?’

‘She was my wife, for God’s sake. How couldn’t I know? All right, she had a problem but she’d kicked it.’

‘That’s not what the pathologist says.’

‘You mean she was snorting again? No, I didn’t know.’

‘Snorting? No, lad, not snorting. She’d got more perforations than a sheet of stamps,’ exaggerated Dalziel.

His reaction was startling. He stared at Dalziel incredulously and cried, ‘You what? Injecting, you mean? Oh Christ! The bastard!’

And as he spoke these words he smashed his left fist hard into his right palm, you could see the knuckle prints. This was genuine beyond histrionics. But who was he thumping? wondered Dalziel.

‘This bastard, who is he?’ he asked gently. ‘Do you mean Waterson?’

‘What? No. Of course not. He’s not the type. There’s no way it could be him.’ He didn’t sound very convincing.

‘Supplying the drugs, you mean?’

‘Yes. That’s the bastard I want.’

‘Oh aye? Bit late for revenge, isn’t it? I mean, she’s snuffed it now, with a bit of help from her friends.’

Swain looked at him with real hatred.

‘Where’s my lawyer?’ he demanded. ‘Why haven’t I seen my lawyer?’

‘Because last night you didn’t want to disturb his beauty sleep,’ said Dalziel. ‘Who was your wife’s doctor, Mr Swain? Perhaps he knows more about her problems than you seem to.’

Swain didn’t rise to this bait but said, ‘Dr Herbert, same as me. But she never went near him. He’d have said. Nothing unprofessional, but we’ve known each other a long time.’

‘Nod and a wink, eh?’ said Dalziel, nodding and winking most grotesquely. ‘But she must have seen someone when she broke her leg.’

‘Sorry. Can’t help you,’ said Swain.

‘You mean your wife breaks her leg and you don’t know who’s treating her? Christ, it’s a wonder she didn’t blow your head off!’

Swain took a deep breath.

‘I don’t have to stand this, Dalziel,’ he said quietly. ‘I realize if you get me to take a swing at you, then you’d really have something to hit me with. Well, I won’t give you that satisfaction. I want to see my lawyer. Now!’

Dalziel said, ‘Your wife’s dead, Mr Swain. Why should I need owt else to hit you with? I’ll get Mr Thackeray now. I reckon you need him.’

At the door he paused and said, ‘You never did finish telling me about that doctor …’

Swain sighed and said, ‘She had a skiing accident in Vermont. I wasn’t there. But I’m sure, being Americans, there’ll be records. If it’s important.’

‘Important?’ said Dalziel. ‘Can’t imagine where you got that idea.’

He went back to his room. Thackeray rose as he entered.

‘He’s all yours,’ said Dalziel. ‘Might be a bit upset. We’ve just been talking about his wife’s drug habit.’

If he’d expected any shock/horror response from the lawyer, he was disappointed.

Thackeray sighed and said, ‘Andrew, I know how much your job means to you, but I hope you will not let it obscure your basic humanitarianism. No one expects you to wear kid gloves, but it would help us all if during the course of your investigation you remembered that my client has suffered a deep and grievous loss.’

Dalziel scratched his thigh, picked up the malt whisky bottle, held it up to the light.

‘Looks like he’s not the only one,’ he said.

CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_c7d8fa5a-e2e5-57c7-8a86-ef0bb7d1ba80)

The Rangemaster at the Mid-Yorks Gun Club was properly macho, his shag of curly black hair echoed in designer stubble along the jaw and in designer thatch at the open neck of his lumberjack’s shirt. Below, he tapered to narrow hips and a pair of faded jeans so unambiguously tight, it was clear he was carrying no concealed weapons. He affected a mid-Atlantic baritone which occasionally let him down, or rather up, into a Geordie squeak. His name was Mitchell but he invited them to join everyone in calling him Mitch.

‘Tell me, Mr Mitchell,’ said Pascoe, ‘is Rangemaster a usual title for someone in your position?’

‘Don’t know that it is,’ he answered. ‘Sounds good though, don’t it?’

‘Do it? Perhaps you could give us a job description?’

His fears that he might have got hold of some fantasizing handyman were allayed as Mitchell gave him an outline of the club’s set-up and his role in it. He was in fact the resident steward, coach and adviser on all matters pertaining to arms, qualified by a five-year stint in the Army (nudges and winks towards the SAS) followed by a one-year poly management course. He had a half share in the club, the other half belonging to a local businessman who was a shooting enthusiast. By the time he’d finished talking, it was clear that perhaps eighty per cent of his self-presentation was a sales ploy, which left twenty per cent as self-image.

But image and accent vanished together when told of Gail Swain’s death.

‘Oh no. Man, that’s really terrible,’ he said, sitting down. ‘She were a real canny lass. Gail dead! I canna believe it.’

‘It’s true, I’m afraid,’ said Pascoe.

‘How’d it happen? What was it? An accident?’

‘It seems possible,’ he said carefully. ‘What I’m here about is her guns. She kept them here, I believe.’

‘Oh yes. All the time. Well, nearly. There might have been an odd time when she took one home, if she’d been away at a competition, say. But why’re you interested … it wasn’t a shooting accident, was it?’

‘I’m afraid a gun was involved,’ said Pascoe. ‘What weapons did she own?’

‘She had a Beretta .25, a Hammerli match target pistol, a Colt Python and a Harrington and Richardson Sidekick,’ he replied without hesitation.

‘Quite an armoury. And where would these be kept?’