REGINALD HILL
BONES AND SILENCE
A Dalziel and Pascoe novel
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed
in it are the work of the authors imagination.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by
HarperCollins 1990
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Copyright © Reginald Hill 1990
Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780586211281
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2013 ISBN: 9780007370283
Version 2015-06-19
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Part Two
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Part Three
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Part Four
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part Five
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Part Six
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Part Seven
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Part Eight
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Keep Reading
About the Author
By Reginald Hill
About the Publisher
Epigraph
We insist, it seems, on living. Then again, indifference descends. The roar of the traffic, the passage of undifferentiated faces, this way and that way, drugs me into dreams: rubs features from faces. People might walk through me We are only lightly covered with buttoned cloth; and beneath these pavements are shells, bones and silence.
VIRGINIA WOOLF, The Waves
part one
part one
God: First when I wrought this world so wide,
Wood and wind and waters wan,
Heaven and hell was not to hide,
With herbs and grass thus I began.
In endless bliss to be and bide
And to my likeness made I man,
Lord and sire on ilka side
Of all middle earth I made him then.
A woman also with him wrought I,
All in law to lead their life,
I bade them wax and multiply,
To fulfil this world, without strife.
Sithen have men wrought so woefully
And sin is now reigning so rife,
That me repents and rues forthy
That ever I made either man or wife.
The York Cycle of Mystery Plays: The Building of the Ark
January 1st
Dear Mr Dalziel,
You dont know me. Why should you? Sometimes I think I dont know myself. I was walking through the market place just before Christmas when suddenly I stopped dead. People bumped into me but it didnt matter. You see, I was twelve again, walking across a field near Melrose Abbey, carefully balancing a jug of milk Id just got from the farm, and ahead of me I could see our tent and our car and my father shaving himself in the wing mirror and my mother stooping over the camp stove, and I could smell bacon frying. It was such a good smell I started thinking about the lovely taste that went with it, and I suppose I started to walk a bit quicker. Next thing, I caught my toe in a tussock of grass, stumbled, and the milk went everywhere. I thought it was the end of the world but they just laughed and made a joke of it and gave me a huge plateful of bacon and eggs and tomatoes and mushrooms, and in the end it almost seemed they loved me more for spilling the milk than fetching it safely.
So there I was, standing like an idiot, blocking the pavement, while inside I was twelve again and feeling so loved and protected. And why?
Because I was passing the Market Caff and the extractor fan was blasting the smell of frying bacon into the cool morning air.
So how can I say I know myself when a simple smell can shift me so far in time and space?
But I know you. No, how arrogant that sounds after what Ive just written. What I mean is Ive had you pointed out to me. And Ive listened to what people say about you. And a lot of it, in fact most of it, wasnt very complimentary, but this isnt an abusive letter so I wont offend you by repeating it. But even your worst detractors had to admit you were good at your job and you werent afraid of finding out the truth. Oh, and you didnt suffer fools gladly.
Well, this is one fool you wont have to suffer much of. You see, the reason Im writing to you is Im going to kill myself.
I dont mean straightaway. Some time soon, though, certainly in the next twelve months. Its a sort of New Year Resolution. But in the meantime I want someone to talk to. Clearly anyone I know personally is out of the question. Also doctors, psychiatrists, all the professional helpers. You see, this isnt the famous cry for help. My minds made up. Its just a question of fixing a date. But Ive discovered in myself a strange compulsion to talk about it, to drop hints, to wink and nod. Now thats too dangerous a game to play with friends. What I think I need is a controlled outlet for all my ramblings. And youve been elected.
Im sorry. Its a big burden to lay on anyone. But one other thing which came out of what people say about youis that my letters will be just like any other case. You might find them irritating but you wont lose any sleep over them!
I hope Ive got you right. The last thing I want to do is to cause pain to a stranger especially knowing as I do that the last thing I will do is cause pain to my friends.
Happy New Year!
CHAPTER ONE
I still dont see why she shot herself, said Peter Pascoe obstinately.
Because she was bored. Because she was trapped, said Ellie Pascoe.
Pascoe used his stick to test the consistency of the chaise-longue over the side of which the dead womans magnificently ruined head had dangled thirty minutes earlier. It was as hard as it looked, but his leg was aching and he sat down with a sigh of relief which he turned into a yawn as he felt his wifes sharp eyes upon him. He knew she distrusted his claims to be fit enough to go back to work tomorrow. He would have gone back today only Ellie had pointed out with some acerbity that February 15th was his birthday, and she wasnt about to give the police the chance to ruin this one as they had the last half-dozen.
So it had been another day of rest and a series of birthday treats breakfast in bed, an early gourmet dinner, front row stalls at the Kemble Theatres acclaimed production of Hedda Gabler, all rounded off with after-show drinks on the stage, provided by Eileen Chung, the Kembles Director.
But people dont do such things, Pascoe now asserted with Yorkshire orotundity.
Ellie looked ready to argue but he went on confidentially, I can smell a rotting fish when I see one, lass, and belatedly she recognized his parody of his CID boss, Andy Dalziel.
She began to smile and Pascoe smiled back.
You two look happy, said Eileen Chung, approaching with a new bottle of wine. Which is odd, considering you paid good money to be harrowed.
Oh, were harrowed all right, only Peters worst instincts tell him Hedda was murdered.
And how right you are, Pete, honey, said Chung, easing her seventy-five inches of golden beauty on to the chaise-longue beside him. Thats exactly what I wanted to get across. Let me fill your glass.
Peter glanced round the stage. The rest of the Kemble team seemed to be taking their leave. He began to ease himself up, saying, I think we should be on our way but Chung drew him down again and said, Why the rush?
No rush, he said. Im not back at the rushing stage yet.
Youve got a very distinguished limp, she said. And I just love the stick.
Hes embarrassed by the stick, said Ellie, sitting at his other side so that he felt pleasantly squeezed. I suspect he feels it detracts from his macho image.
Pete. Baby! said Chung, putting her hand on his knee and looking deep into his eyes. Whats a stick but a phallic symbol? You want a bigger one maybe? Ill look in our props cupboard. And think of all the wild, wild men whove been lame. There was Oedipus, now he was a real motherfucker. And Byron. God, even his own sister wasnt safe
Unhappily Peter is both an orphan and an only child, interrupted Ellie.
Aw shit. Pete, Im sorry. I didnt know. But theres plenty of others without the family hang-ups. The Devil, for instance. Now he was lame.