He left on this good line. As he approached Herrie's sitting-room he thought he heard the noise of the door clicking to but when he peered in, the room was empty. Cross must have finished, which meant Bonnie would be ready for her talk.
On an impulse he pushed open the door of the next room in the corridor and stepped inside. It was the billiards-room, still heavily curtained, perhaps (though he doubted it) in recognition that Fielding's coffin had lain in here.
He found a light switch and clicked it on. A tent of light fell over the green baize, but enough spilled sideways to reveal a figure standing in the shadows of the old marble fireplace.
Another switch turned on the main light.
'Well, well,' said Dalziel genially. 'The wanderer returns.'
Standing before him with an ancient rucksack slung over one shoulder was Nigel Fielding.
He looked very pale and in need of a good night's sleep.
'Just got back?' enquired Dalziel.
The boy nodded.
'And you thought you'd like a bit of peace and quiet before showing your face? Well, it always takes a bit of nerve to come home. Take the piss a bit, do they, Bertie and Lou?'
'A bit,' said the boy.
'Pay no heed. Look, I'm just off upstairs to see your mam for a moment. I'll tell her you're here if you like. OK?'
'Thanks very much, Mr Dalziel,' said the boy.
A polite lad, thought Dalziel as he went up the stairs. But he didn't look well and it boded no good that he should shut himself up in the darkened billiards-room as soon as he got back.
Bonnie was sitting at her dressing-table applying with great care a rich damask lipstick to her lower lip. It must be sex zone of the day, thought Dalziel.
'Cross gone?' he asked.
'Yes. Did you want to see him?'
'No sweat. I can see him in town. I'm driving your father-in-law to the bank.'
'That's kind of you. What about our talk?'
‘It'll keep, won't it. Anyway there's someone more important than me for you to see.'
'Who's that?'
'Nigel,' he said. 'He's just got back. He's in the billiards-room.'
It is always good to see that one's exit lines are effective and before he left he allowed himself the indulgence of watching the surprise round her lips to a roseate O reminding him of Uniff's cartoon.
He thought of mentioning Nigel's return to the old man, but decided he would certainly have wanted to go straight in and see the boy. Bonnie was entitled to some time alone with him. He'd only been away a couple of days, true, but in Dalziel's estimation it wouldn't be long before he went away and didn't come back for much, much longer. So he drove the ancient Rover down the rutted and pot-holed drive without mentioning the boy.
Fielding was very quiet on the short journey and Dalziel made no attempt to break the silence. In Orburn he parked the car in the ovoid square once more and watched Herrie step smartly through the dignified portals of the bank. For a poet, he had a surprisingly stiff and military bearing, or perhaps it was just his contact with commerce which had effected the change.
Dalziel's first call was the same as on the previous day, the chemist's shop. The girl assistant smiled knowingly when he asked to see the chemist himself. She thinks I want a packet of rubbers, thought Dalziel, and he leered so grossly at her that the smile vanished and she retreated quickly into the dispensary.
'Yes, sir,' said the chemist, a man with a Douglas Fairbanks profile and what looked like a duelling scar down his left cheek. He might have been Rupert of Hentzau in retirement.
Dalziel took him to one side and presented him with a piece of paper. On it he had written PROPANANNAL (?)
'What kind of condition would you take this for? I'm not sure of the spelling.'
'Well,' said the chemist dubiously. 'May I ask why you want to know?'
Dalziel sighed. The less he had to use his police authority at this stage, the better he'd be pleased.
'My old mother,' he said. 'She's very independent but we're desperately worried. You understand?'
'I see,' said the chemist, weakening.
'She's not local,' urged Dalziel.
‘In that case,' said the chemist.
It turned out that the chemist was not a romantic hero in retirement but rather a physician manque. Once he started, even Dalziel, famed throughout Yorkshire for his ability to halt the most garrulous of witnesses in midsyllable, found it hard to drive home the plug. In the end he plucked a packet at random from the nearest shelf, pulled out his wallet and escaped in the caesura produced by the reckoning of change.
But it had been a profitable visit none the less, though he felt no very great sense of triumph as he made his way to the police station.
There was another man closeted with Sergeant Cross this morning. Something about the way in which Cross introduced him as Detective Chief Inspector Balderstone made Dalziel feel that they had just been talking about him prior to his arrival. He wasn't surprised. It would have been strange if Cross's report on the presence in Lake House of a senior police officer had not produced some reactions from above.
Balderstone's attitude was very correct but to start with at least very reserved. He can't make his mind up if I'm a biased witness, impartial observer, or fifth column, thought Dalziel. And he wasn't altogether sure he knew himself.
After ten minutes or so, the atmosphere had thawed considerably.
'Look,' Dalziel had said. 'I'm just there by accident. It's Sergeant Cross's case, for what it is. And what is it? Well, there's two accidental deaths. Curious, but not criminal as far as we can see. A woman and a man have disappeared. It happens all the time. Christ, I'm not where I was planning to be three days ago, so in a sense I've disappeared. And lastly there's been a theft. That's the only crime. Simple theft. And, I tell you straight, it wouldn't surprise me if that didn't get quietly brushed under the carpet soon.'
'I don't understand,' said Balderstone. He was about forty, with the squashed face of a bulldog.
'A mistake,' said Dalziel. 'The booze not ordered, or stored elsewhere. A misunderstanding about the kitchen equipment. Mrs Greave exonerated.'
'Why do you say this, sir?' asked Balderstone.
‘It's just a theory,' said Dalziel. 'That's why I came here this morning. Like I said, it's the sergeant's case. Any information or ideas I've got, well, it's my duty to pass them on. So here I am.'
He looked for a moment staunchly dutiful, like the centrepiece of a First World War music-hall tableau depicting patriotic pride.
A few moments later, after hearing what Dalziel had to say, Cross began to feel that it wasn't so much his rights as the officer in charge of the case that Dalziel was interested in as the facilities at his disposal. This was confirmed when Dalziel delved into his plastic carrier, produced a paper bag and handed it over with the instructions, 'And get your labs to take a look at that.'
Cross opened the bag and peered in.
'Any special instructions, sir?' he asked.
'What do you think?'
Out of the box in the paper bag, Cross lifted a large aerosol can of what was coyly described as an intimate deodorant.
'I don't know what to think, sir.'
Angrily Dalziel snatched it back and put it on the desk top. From the carrier he produced another bag, took from it a cake box, opened it and showed its contents to Balderstone and Cross. It was a dead rat.
'I'd like to know how it died,' said Dalziel.
'That's very interesting,' said Balderstone after listening to Dalziel for some moments after Cross had left the office. 'But what do we have if it all turns out to be true?'
'Bugger all,' said Dalziel. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly eleven-thirty.
'Are you in a hurry, sir?' asked Balderstone.
