Depression was a sickness, they told him. The previous year he had been worried enough by symptoms of physical illness to visit his doctor and had come away with a series of warnings and prohibitions concerning diet, alcohol, tobacco – the usual nonsense. But paradoxically his efforts to comply had led him inexorably to ask himself why he was bothering; what was so bloody marvellous about this life he was trying to preserve. Such metaphysical speculations were entirely foreign to his make-up and their formulation now was light years from being precise and intellectual. It was just a feeling of hollowness at the centre, a reluctance to awaken from the safe blackness of sleep, a sense of life like a hair floating on dirty bath water, sinking imperceptibly, moment by moment, till a final, spinning gurgling rush carried it away.
So he had taken a holiday. He had never cared much for holidays, but they were better than the happy-pills he knew many people took to preserve their truce with life. He was not one of those nuts who had to keep taking the tablets. A holiday would set him right. And this was it. He forced himself to start thinking about this odd household he had fallen into. These people interested him. Professionally it might be a mistake to get involved, personally it might be a mistake not to. The previous evening had ended with no proposition of any kind from Bonnie. Most likely he had been entirely mistaken to expect one, but it had been a slight disappointment. Christ almighty, what did he expect? The bathroom door opening in the night and the shadowy figure in the diaphanous nightie stealing to his bedside? Kids' fantasies. No, he told himself grimly, if he had any attraction for the Fieldings it was what Mavis had hinted, as a potential investor, and they weren't going to start carving their roast beef for him till they knew what he was worth.
Not that he disapproved of this way of thinking, he told himself as he got out of bed. He liked people who trod carefully. And he liked people who took money seriously. That was what his job was about, mainly. The thought made him smile as he went into the bathroom and suddenly he realized that on this occasion at least his self- prescribed therapy was being successful.
He washed and shaved, making as little noise as possible, conscious of the sleeping woman behind the farther door. He wondered if it were locked, but did not feel able to try it.
He glanced at his watch as he got dressed and saw that it was six-thirty, later than he thought. The gloomy, overcast skies explained his error. Sunrise had been a secret ceremony that morning.
Guests should lie abed till they were certain the household was awake. This was a maxim he had learned long ago, but if he'd obeyed all the rules of polite behaviour he had ever known, he would still be a well-mannered constable. In any case, six-thirty was quite late enough.
He was not the only one stirring, he discovered. His nose told him there was someone in the kitchen making coffee. Uniff, he guessed. He looked a restless sod.
It was Mrs Greave.
'Morning,' he said.
She was wearing her green dressing-gown again and had obviously gone to bed without making any special provision for adjustment to her hair. The beehive now hung askew, giving her head a curious bent appearance as though seen through a funfair mirror.
She didn't reply. Dalziel helped himself to a mug (Bertie's again, he suspected) and poured coffee from the jug she had placed on a tray.
'You're an early bird,' he said after a scalding mouthful. 'And it's a long walk. What's wrong with them shiny new kitchens down there?'
'They're for cooking chickens, hunks of meat, a hundred portions at a time,' she said. 'Want a piece of toast?'
'Thanks,' he said, interested by this sudden thawing. Her dressing-gown was loosely belted and as she bent forward to butter the toast for him, he saw she was wearing nothing underneath.
He took another more careful sip of coffee and said, 'Careful you don't spill something.'
'You needn't look,' she said indifferently passing him the toast.
'Why not? There's no charge, is there?' he said.
'What the hell do you mean?' she snapped angrily.
'Nothing. Nothing. How long have you been here with your father, Mrs Greave?'
She sat down opposite and watched him chew on his toast.
'Six months, maybe seven,' she said.
'Six, maybe seven. I see. This marmalade's good. Do you make it yourself, Mrs Greave?'
'No. ‘Pity. I like home-made stuff. But you've done a bit of cooking in your time. Those sausages last night. Grand! I bet you kept Mr Greave happy.'
'Pardon?'
'Mr Greave. Your husband,' said Dalziel. 'What happened? Died, did he?'
'Yes,' she said.
'I'm sorry. Poor fellow. What was it? Road accident? Coronary? Now Mrs Fielding did mention it last night, but I can't quite recall.'
He looked at her expectantly, his expression sympathetic but hopeful like a person's at a funeral.
'I'd rather not talk about it.'
'Of course not. Then after the unhappy event, Mr Papworth, your dad, found you a place here.'
'They needed a cook-housekeeper. And they'll need help when the restaurant opens.'
'True,' said Dalziel. 'Then you'll be able to use all that lovely shiny equipment. Mind you, things look a bit dicey just now.'
'I don't know anything of that,' she said, rising. 'I'm just the paid help. Excuse me. I'd better go and get dressed.'
She made for the door.
'Don't forget your tray,' called Dalziel.
She stopped, then slowly returned, picked up the tray and left. Someone spoke to her outside the door and a second later Louisa came into the room. She was wearing a short flowered tunic from which her thin white legs forked with, for Dalziel, all the provocative power of a couple of pipe-cleaners. But tastes differed, he was willing to concede, and he suspected she thought she was the sexiest thing since co-education.
'That was pretty nosy,' she said as she headed for the stove.
'You were listening,' he accused.
'I didn't like to butt in,' she said. 'All that about the way she was widowed. It was embarrassing.'
Dalziel laughed derisively.
'What's that mean?' she asked.
'It means I don't think either of you were embarrassed,' he answered.
She left the stove, came to the other side of the table, put her hands on it and leaned towards him.
She'd have to stand on her head and waggle her legs in the air to be interesting, thought Dalziel.
'Who the hell do you think you are to talk to me like that?' she demanded.
'I'm a man you punched on the nose without explanation or apology,' he retorted. 'That gives me rights.'
She decided to postpone confrontation and grinned.
'You want me to say I'm sorry? Well, I suppose I was later. Hitting a stranger's not like hitting someone you know. But since I've met you again, I'm not certain whether I'm sorry or not. And if you talk to me like you talked to Mrs Greave, I might just punch you again.'
'Mrs Greave didn't punch me,' said Dalziel. 'And your kettle's boiling.'
'It's easy to intimidate servants,' she called from the back kitchen. 'If she tells Pappy, you watch out. He's no respecter of persons.'
'Aye. I doubt if he respects Mrs Greave's person much,' grunted Dalziel.
'What do you mean?' said Louisa, returning with a mug of coffee.
'Come on, love,' said Dalziel. 'You're not all blind innocents here, are you? There were two cups on that tray. And a couple of doughnuts as well as toast.'
'So she's got a sweet tooth and she's giving her old dad his breakfast in bed. I like that,' said Louisa.
‘It's not all she's giving him,' said Dalziel. ‘It's plain as the nose on your face. I know a scrubber when I see one.'
'Clearly I haven't had your educational advantages,' said the girl. 'But if what you say is right, and she's Pappy's fancy bit, what's it matter? He's old enough and conventional enough to feel he needs a cover story, that's
