You're too big for sulking. Your hulk has too much bulk for you to sulk. How's that? Herrie'd get fifty dollars for that and you know how much the old sod would give us? Bugger all. That's all. What's your poison?'
'I shouldn't bother,' said Bonnie sharply. 'There's likely to be quite a drink shortage round here shortly.'
'What do you mean?' demanded her son, swaying.
'I mean we've been robbed. Mrs Greave, it appears, has been steadily removing all our drink stock and anything else she could lay her hands on. Including the working parts of your precious ovens. And now she's taken off.'
Bertie stood amazed. His colour remained the same, perhaps deepened slightly, but affability drained visibly from his face.
'Oh, the cow, the stupid cow! I'll kill the bitch!'
He smashed the fist of his right hand into his left palm. Dalziel caught Bonnie's eye and raised his eyebrows. She did not respond but looked away.
'All right, Dalziel,' said Bertie. 'What now?'
'There's only one thing to do,' interrupted his mother firmly. 'We must ring the police.'
'We must ring the police,' echoed Bertie mockingly. ‘What’s the matter, Mother dear? Have his hidden charms enthralled you? I'll ring the police, never fear.'
He approached close enough for Dalziel to smell the gin on his breath.
'Dring dring,' he said. 'Dring dring. Is anyone there? I'd like to speak to a big, fat, ugly Detective Superintendent, please. You recognize the description? Good. Well, what happens next, please sir, Mr Dalziel?'
Dalziel looked from the youth to his mother. She made no effort to look surprised but shrugged her shoulders minutely. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, carefully, like a man decanting a rare wine against the light of a candle.
'What happens next?' he repeated stepping forward so that Bertie had to move back quickly to avoid being knocked over. 'Well, first of all, sonny, you start talking polite to me or I might just level off your spotty ugly face so that it'd take emulsion. Then next after that, we'll start really digging into just what makes this place tick, shall we?'
11
Dalziel sat in the old man's sitting-room and drank brandy. He had no authority to investigate crime on this patch, he assured Fielding. But the truth was he had been so discomfited and irritated by Sergeant Cross's reproachful expression that the choice had been between escape and expulsion. The sergeant had not openly said that Dalziel had withheld information, but his suspicions clearly roused by the fat man's visit to Orburn that day must have seemed confirmed when Dalziel told him that Annie Greave (or Annie Grimshaw, or Open Annie) was well known to Liverpool CID.
'I telephoned them just on the off-chance she was using her proper name,' he explained. 'Not much imagination, these pros.'
'Ah,' said Cross.
The only immediate potential source of information about Mrs Greave was Papworth and he too had disappeared. His room, however, showed no signs of a hurried or permanent leave-taking and it seemed safe to assume he would return.
'You mustn't blame Bonnie,' said Fielding suddenly. He occupied the same chair in which he had received the Gumbelow award and Dalziel wondered if he had moved out of it since then. Apart from the debris of glasses and bottles which littered the room, the only other sign of the afternoon's junketings was Arkwright, the sound engineer, who slept with his head pillowed on and his arms still clasped protectively around his recorder. From time to time a bubbly and rather musical baritone snore emerged from his mouth.
Whether the others had gone or were also to be found unconscious round the premises, Dalziel did not know.
'Blame her for what?' he grunted.
'Going through your pockets,' said Fielding. 'It is after all a sensible thing to do when hanging up a suit to dry.'
'What was she doing in my wallet?' demanded Dalziel. 'Ironing my money? And why didn't you lot say you knew I was a policeman?'
Fielding shrugged.
'Why didn't you tell us?'
'Why should I?'
'Why indeed? But it doesn't create an atmosphere of confidence having someone in your house under false pretence.'
Dalziel refilled his glass with a brusqueness which in another man might have resulted in spillage.
'I pretended nowt.'
'Come, come,' said Fielding mildly. 'This morning Bertie and Lou went to Bonnie with some story about the possibility of your putting money into the restaurant. They were very put out when she told them who you were.'
'Oh. They didn't know till then?' said Dalziel thoughtfully.'
'No.'
'And you?'
'Bonnie told me this morning too. She's a very discreet woman.'
Dalziel considered the implications. It was a comfort to know there hadn't been a general conspiracy, with everyone watching the big thick policeman blundering around. It was also good to know that whatever asexual motives Bonnie might have had for going to bed with him, the hope of more money for the business wasn't one of them. But this still left some disturbing possibilities. A detective grew accustomed to attempts to use sex either as a means of buying him off or compromising him. It didn't happen every night or every week or even every month. But it happened. Dalziel didn't want this to be the truth, but his self-image argued against him. He had never considered himself a lady's man, but he had had his moments, and until a few months ago would have been complacent enough to accept that a big, burly, balding middle-aged detective superintendent might set some female hearts astir. Now there was too much darkness in his nights for the overspill not to cloud all but the brightest day, and his diminished concept of what he was hardly admitted the generation of love at first sight, or even enthusiastic lust.
Which left one more question. Why? What was he being bought off from, or more simply perhaps, distracted from.
He leaned forward and peered at the old man.
'Got your envelope safe?' he asked.
Hereward winked and tapped his stomach indicating, Dalziel surmised, either that he had stuffed it down his undervest or else eaten it.
'Why were you so bothered about taking it?' continued Dalziel.
Fielding looked at him cunningly.
'Pride,' he said. 'Literary pride.'
'Piss off,' said Dalziel easily. 'You wouldn't let pride get between you and all that brandy.'
'All right,' said Fielding. 'Ambition then.'
'Ambition?'
'Yes. This year I shall equal Browning. Another three will take me up to Wordsworth. And if I can hang on another three, I'll be past Tennyson.'
Dalziel laughed.
'Good-living bastards these poets, were they? So you want to be a hundred? Hey, you know what the Queen's Telegram says?'
