'Not really,' he said. 'Natural leadership qualities. That one needs a bit of stirring.'
'Mebbe so,' said the girl. 'But don't be too certain about Bertie. Some people develop that kind of complacency as a cover. The world's ruled by calm, smug, self-righteous pigs, and they've all been clever enough to get the top of the dungheap.'
'Cocks,' said Dalziel.
'Eh?' said the girl warily.
'It's cocks on dunghills, not pigs,' he explained. 'I don't expect there's a lot of nature study in Liverpool.'
'You'd be surprised. Hank's right. You are wet. Better get into something dry or you might find yourself spending more time here than you plan.'
'I don't plan to spend any time here,' said Dalziel. 'What about you? Just down for the funeral, are you?'
She shook her head, her straight black hair moving with it and stopping when the negative movement stopped. It was heavy and wiry, perfectly natural and with none of the gloss and bounce the TV commercials projected as the most desirable qualities of the female – and male – coiffure.
'No,' she said. 'Business mainly.'
Dalziel sneezed.
'Business,' he echoed invitingly, but all she answered was, 'You're mad to hang around like that.'
'I suppose I am,' he said. 'I'd best go and see if I can borrow any more clothes from the late lamented. Hey, he didn't die of anything catching, I hope?'
'Not unless having a hole drilled through your chest's catching.'
'What?'
'He fell off a ladder in the Banqueting Hall,' said Mavis. 'You've seen the Banqueting Hall, have you? Well, when the builders stopped coming, Conrad decided to have a go at the do-it-yourself. He was up the ladder with an electric drill trying to fix one of the beams. The ladder slipped. Down he came. Unfortunately he fell on to the drill and it was locked on. Straight through his ribs into the heart. Goodbye, Conrad.'
'That's nasty,' commented Dalziel, more because he felt it was expected of him than because he felt any distress. But it was certainly an interesting way to go.
'Was he by himself?'
'Yes.'
'So no one saw it happen?'
'What do you want? Colour pictures?'
'No. I don't think so. Well, I'd best get dried. It's been nice talking to you, Miss Uniff.'
'Mavis will do. It makes me feel younger.'
'You want to feel younger?' he said, surprised.
'Oh yes,' she answered. 'When I see what age does to you, I want to feel as young as I can possibly get, Mr Dalziel.'
'And what does age do to you?'
'It makes you crazy for money, I think,' she said slowly. 'Like, in the end perhaps that's the only way left to keep on pretending you're young.'
'I've stopped pretending,' grinned Dalziel.
'That's what they all think. But you'll see. You're not rich are you, Mr Dalziel?'
'Does it matter?'
'It might do. If you've got money and you stay in this house much longer, you'll be offered a deal. You might not even notice but you will. Go and get dry now.'
Dalziel lay naked in the dead man's bed under half a dozen blankets. After stripping off his wet clothes and towelling himself down till his flabby and fat-corrugated skin glowed, suddenly a warm nap had seemed best of all things.
He had pondered a long time on the events of the day and decided that though there was enough in this household to make him curious, so far it was curiosity at a personal rather than professional level. There must have been an inquest on Fielding and the usual investigations. It wouldn't require much effort on his part to get an unofficial look at the finding. But he had no intention of doing so. Oh no. This was an interesting interlude, a bit damper but probably a bit more lively than following a guide round some mouldy cathedral or making conversation with some poofy hotel barman. But tomorrow he'd be on his way. If they couldn't do anything about his car, then sod it. He'd hire another and collect his own later.
Relaxed by his resolve, he fell asleep.
When he awoke it was quarter to six and he was starving. He rubbed his eyes, yawned, scratched his groin sensuously and headed for the bathroom.
What kind of nosh did they dish up here? he wondered as he pushed open the door. Old Fielding had made some nasty crack about Mrs Greave, the cook. But it'd have to be very bad to blunt Dalziel's appetite tonight.
The bathroom was full of steam. He paused in the doorway. Someone moved among the wraith of vapour and he had no difficulty in recognizing Mrs Fielding though her head was half covered by a towel and the rest of her body was not covered by anything but a healthy post-hot-bath glow.
'Beg, pardon,' he said, stepping back and closing the door. But he couldn't close out the mental picture of what he had seen and when he sat down on the bed, he realized he had the beginnings of an erection.
He whistled softly as he considered the phenomenon. He was far from being a sexual obsessive. Indeed, since his wife had left him, his sex life had been minimal. Not that opportunity was short. Like any society dedicated to money and male chauvinism, Yorkshire provided the kinds of relief strong men need from the pressures of the day. But a police officer had to be very careful. It was on the surface a very conventional society and scandals were easily kindled. As for paying for it, Dalziel refused on a point of pride rather than principle.
So generally he went without. It wasn't too difficult. With age, lust became an aesthetic tingle rather than a physical shock. It was a long time since desire had manifested itself to him so uncompromisingly as this!
He felt absurdly pleased with himself, as though something valuable had been proven. She was a fine-looking woman, mature, well-fleshed, without the flabbiness which his own once well-muscled body had declined to. He looked down at himself with distaste and his pleasure drained away at the thought that this ton of lard was all that she had had to look at in return. Not many women reacted to the pleasures of visual stimuli in the same way as men, but revulsion at ugliness must be a shared reaction.
There was a tap at the bathroom door and he jumped up, and dragged a blanket off the bed and wound it round him.
'May I come in?' she called.
'Yes,' he answered.
She entered, wearing a dressing-gown and carrying with her a coathanger festooned with his clothes.
'This lot's dry,' she said. 'I've been over them with an iron, so they should be fit to wear.'
'That's kind,' he said stiltedly.
'I brought them an hour ago, but the bedroom door was locked. You must be a distrustful soul, Mr Dalziel. Whereas me, I don't even remember to lock the bathroom.'
She laughed as she spoke, but he took it as a rebuke.
'I'm sorry, Mrs Fielding,' he began.
'For what?' she said. 'I'd be sorry if you were altogether sorry. We'll be eating soon. First come, first served, so I shouldn't hang about.'
She went back through the bathroom and Dalziel followed her a few moments later, making sure the door into the farther bedroom was locked before setting about his ablutions.
She was a kind woman, he thought, and she didn't shock easily. But that was hardly a basis to build erotic fantasies on. She didn't sleep with her husband, that was an interesting point. Could be good. Could be bad. He'd guessed at first it was because the poor sod was sick. But now it seemed he'd died from an accident.
Dalziel opened the cabinet again. One shelf was now entirely clear and all the pill bottles had gone. The process of clearing out in the wake of the departed had begun.
Or perhaps, some ridiculous and hitherto unsuspected romantic area of his imagination suggested, perhaps she had cleared the space for him, anticipating a longer than overnight stay…
These were mere hunger-fantasies, he told himself. He shook them out of his head and began to dress.
