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 didnt notice its like a bomb site down there. Dalziel had risen and was looking out of his window. Thats Dans 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 works not finished in March, the money is! Thats why Dan was all set to give me a kiss and a police medal till he heard who it was Id nicked.
And who was it, sir? asked Pascoe.
Swain. Philip Swain. Chap whose building firms 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, wed be looking at the first bungalow pyramid.
He closed the window and said, Got to keep em at it. At least till Ive got my hands on Dans congratulation Glenmorangie. He wants to see you too, Peter. Nine-thirty sharp.
Oh yes? said Pascoe, hope and unease stirring simultaneously.
Thats right. By God, its good to see you back! Weve been snowed under these last few weeks. Ive dumped a few things on your desk just to ease you back in again.
Pascoes heart sank. Dalziels few was anyone elses avalanche.
What exactly did happen last night, he asked by way of diversion.
Nowt much. I happened to see this chap, Swain, blowing his wifes head off next door, so I went in and disarmed him and brought em both back here
Both? You brought the body as well?
Dont be daft. There were this other chap there, name of Waterson, its 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. Thats how neat and tidy weve been doing things since youve been away, lad, but no doubt now youre back, youll start complicating things again.
Ill try not to, but Im 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.
Youve 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 hes just about hanged himself, I reckon. Take a look at his statement and youll 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 draughtsmans 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 mothers health had gone into a rapid decline since Gail had returned to England after her fathers funeral made matters worse. I think she had blamed her mother for her fathers 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 didnt 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 shed 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. Im 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 Gails 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 shed 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 didnt 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, dont you? And as soon as he said that, I did.
The odd thing was I didnt get angry, perhaps because I got the feeling he was almost relieved to see me. He said, Youd better come in. I said, Where is she? He said, Shes upstairs. But dont go rushing up there. Shes 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 shes putting you through that hoop too? Tough luck. And he said, You mean youve seen her like this before? Thats 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 others 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 shed 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 wasnt the wisest thing to say, but I couldnt think of anything else. And she just laughed higher and higher and I thought I saw her finger tightening on the trigger. And thats when I jumped forward to grab at the gun.
What happened then I cant 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 dont 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 fathers 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 dont know, said Pascoe slowly. Its odd.
Of course its bloody odd. Fairy tales usually are! What he still hasnt twigged is I saw him with the gun in his hand before I heard the shot. Once we get Mr Gregory Watersons version, itll be two to one, and then Ill make the bugger squirm!
This simple scenario did little to assuage Pascoes sense of oddness. But he didnt want to seem to be muddying Dalziels triumph so he held his peace and tried for a congratulatory smile. It lacked conviction, however, for Dalziel said, Youve 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. Ive 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-Yorkshires only league side, rattling around the lower divisions for years, rarely attracted serious home-grown trouble.
Ive not read about any bother, said Pascoe. And anyway crowd controls uniformeds business.
Murder isnt, 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 whats 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 Kings Cross.
But you said hed been visiting his girl, not attending a match. Why should he get picked on?
Colour of his eyesd 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 Citys opponents that afternoon. Could be nowt, but theres 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 didnt 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 heres going to be busy. Hows your bedside manner, Wieldy? Christ, the sight of you coming through the door would get me back on my feet pretty damn quick! Why dont you get yourself off down to the Infirmary and take this shrinking violet Watersons statement so that I can spoil Mr lying bastard Swains lunch? No, better still, Ill 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 its celebration drinks all round!
You mean youre in the chair because of this collar? asked Pascoe, trying not to sound surprised.
Dont be daft, said Dalziel, who was not notorious for treating his staff. Ill let Desperate Dan supply the booze for that. No, its you wholl be in the chair. Peter, unless you crap on the Chiefs 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 itll be a couple of years before it makes any difference to your pension. Now sod off and start earning your Chief Inspectors pay!
CHAPTER TWO
Detective-Sergeant Wield parked his car in the visitors car park and set off up the long pathway to the Infirmary. The oldest of the citys hospitals, it had been built in the days when visitors were regarded as a nuisance even greater than patients and had to prove their fitness by walking a couple of furlongs before they reached the entrance. As recompense, the old red brick glowed in the February sun and a goldheart ivy embraced it as lovingly as any stately home. Also the path ran between flowerbeds white with snowdrops. Spotting a broken stalk, Wield stopped and picked the tiny flower and carefully inserted it in his button-hole.
What a saucy fellow youre becoming! he mocked himself. Youll be advertising for friends in the Police Gazette next.
His lips pursed in an almost inaudible whistling as he strode along but inside he was smiling broadly and singing Bunthornes song from Patience: as you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediaeval hand
His merry mood lasted along the first straight mile of corridor but by the time he reached his destined ward, the sights, sounds and smells of the place had silenced his inner carolling.
There was no one at the sisters desk and he went into the open ward.
Mr Waterson? First door on your left, said a weary nurse who looked as if she should be occupying the bed she was making.
Wield pushed open the door indicated and went in.
It occurred to him instantly that Waterson must have private medical insurance. A nurse in a ward sisters uniform was leaning over him. Their mouths were locked together and his hands were inside her starched blouse, roaming freely. No way did you get this on the National Health.
Wield coughed. The nurse reacted conventionally, doing the full guilty thing surprised bit, jumping backwards while her fingers scrabbled at her blouse buttons and blood flushed her pale and rather beautiful face like peach sauce over vanilla ice. The man, however, grinned amiably and said, Good morning, Doctor.