set-up. In the end, however, he had to undo a couple of clamps and twist the camera upwards to see what he was looking for. A line of polished brightness in the dull metal of the base-plate.
He made no attempt to return the camera to its former position but wandered around the room whistling tunelessly to himself. He stopped before the old fireplace and knelt down. Something had been burnt here recently. He let the ashes flutter through his fingers, then with a grunt of effort pushed himself upright.
Next he made for the open shelf unit which stood between the windows. There were four large buff envelopes on one of the shelves, three with photographs in them, the fourth empty. He examined the prints in each envelope with interest. Most of the pictures in the first seemed to have been taken in and around Lake House. In some of them a man appeared whom he did not know, but there were sufficient of Hereward Fielding's features in the smiling self-confident face to make him sure this was the dear departed Conrad.
The second envelope contained shots of the funeral, the coffin being mounted on the punt, the watery cortege, misty and ghostlike in the rain-soaked atmosphere; and then one of a solid but sinister figure standing at the end of a half-submerged bridge and gazing impassively over a waste of waters. It was quite a shock to recognize himself.
Pictures taken at the funeral came next. No wonder the poor sodding vicar had got annoyed! The variety of shots and angles indicated that Uniff must have been hopping around like a blue-arsed flea. Dalziel laughed quietly at the thought and looked in the next envelope.
The mood changed though the sequence was maintained. Tillotson falling into the water; Dalziel, full of wrath, preventing him from getting back into the punt; Dalziel examining his dripping suitcase. The man had a flair, there was no denying it, thought Dalziel sourly. Then came the shots taken at the Gumbelow presentation. As a record of the progressive effects of alcohol, they were superb. But their interest to Dalziel was of another kind. He examined them closely and when he had finished was still not quite sure what he had seen.
Finally he picked up the fourth envelope and checked to make sure it was empty. It was. But when he turned to go, the room no longer was.
Mavis Uniff stood by the door watching him curiously. She was so still that she gave the impression that she might have been there all along and Dalziel had to re-run his actions on first entering to convince himself she hadn't been.
'Hello,' he said. 'I was looking for your brother.'
'He's down by the lake,' she said. 'Can I help?'
'No. Nothing really. He showed me some photographs this morning.' he held up the empty envelope.
'Yes. The ones of me.'
'Oh no,' said Dalziel. 'These were – well…'
'Me,' she said calmly, in close-up.'
'Jesus Christ,' said Dalziel. 'You mean you've got a tattoo?'
'No. But we use transfers. The skin-mags like a gimmick. That's all it is, Mr Dalziel. A commercial proposition. Nothing incestuous.'
Dalziel looked at her and shook his head.
'Shocked, Mr Dalziel?' she said. She was as impassive as ever, but observing him very closely.
'Hardly. Surprised a bit. Where are the photos?'
'Burnt,' she said, pointing to the fireplace.
'Why's that?'
'Hank got worried, thought you might remember your civic duty and speak to the local police. It didn't seem worth having a confrontation about a few pictures, not when he can replace them any time. So to be safe, he burnt them.'
'I told him they didn't bother me,' said Dalziel.
'Yes, I know. Seems you changed your mind.'
She turned and left. By the time Dalziel reached the door, turned out the light and stepped into the corridor, she had disappeared.
Quickly he ran downstairs and into Herrie's sitting-room where the telephone was. Balderstone and Cross were planning to leave for Lake House in another fifteen minutes.
'Make it a bit longer,' suggested Dalziel. 'I've got things to do. Oh, and there's something else you can find out for me.'
Before he went back upstairs he looked out of the window. Bertie, Uniff, Papworth and Mavis were standing in a little group, talking earnestly together. Tillotson was sitting alone in the duck punt gazing over the still-swollen waters of the lake.
Grinning broadly, Dalziel climbed the stairs once more and knocked on Bonnie's door. There was a long pause, then, 'Come in,' she called.
She was sitting in front of her dressing-table as if she had not moved since he left her there that morning.
'Sorry I'm late,' he said.
She smiled at him, a cautious tentative smile, not the full beam.
'All alone?' he said.
'Till we get some things sorted,' she said.
'I'm all for that.'
He took his jacket off and laid it on the bed.
'Do you mind?' he asked.
She looked at his broad khaki braces with wry amusement and shook her head.
'Right,' he said, sitting on the bed and beginning a complicated two-handed scratch down the line of his braces. 'Sort away.'
'Andy,' she said. 'There's something going on here I don't know about.'
Dalziel grunted in disbelief.
'They must be doing it underground then,' he said. She ignored him.
'I'll tell you what I know if you tell me what you know.'
'Do we spin a coin for first off?' he asked.
'No. If you agree, I'll trust you,' she answered. 'I'll start.'
Dalziel held two fingers up, like a gun.
'On your mark,' he said. 'Bang.'
‘It's hard to know where to begin,' she said, it's all so mixed up. Listen. This theft business. I suppose you know all the stuffs been accounted for? Well, they wanted you out of the way this morning to sort things out.'
'Who's they!'
'I'm not sure. Bertie certainly. Herrie said he wanted to go into town to arrange about the money and naturally I offered to take him. But Bertie said no. It had to be you. He rang the garage later, you know, and asked them to deliver your car. He wants rid of you altogether.'
'I'd noticed,' said Dalziel. He arranged the pillows as a back rest and stretched himself out on the bed. The brandy fumes were rubbing like a cat against the inside of his eyeballs and sleep would be easy.
'But why, Andy? I can't get any sense out of him.'
'Perhaps he doesn't like my after-shave lotion,' yawned Dalziel.
'No! I mean what's going on? Has there or has there not been a robbery? Where's Mrs Greave?'
'Questions, questions,' murmured Dalziel, his eyes half closed. 'You've told me nowt and already you're asking questions. Tell me this, why'd the old man change his mind?'
'I don't know. Family loyalty; God knows. Herrie's mind doesn't work like other people's.'
'Oh aye. He's a poet. Some folk used to think that was a defence in law. Like being daft. It's a lot like being daft, isn't it? I mean, if you're wise enough not to put cash into a half-baked business scheme when it's got some faint chance of succeeding, you've got to be daft to put it in just after a robbery's removed most of the visible assets. Don't you agree?'
'Why the hell didn't you ask Herrie yourself?' demanded Bonnie. 'You're his big mate at the moment.'
'Oh, I did, I did,' said Dalziel. 'But he's very close. Talks a lot but says nowt. That's what comes of being a poet. Tell you what I think, though.'
'What?'
