'Never hit a man when he's down,' advised Dalziel. 'Not unless you can hit him so hard, he'll stay down. Stand if you want, but don't go away.'
'Why are you doing this, Andy?' asked Bonnie.
'Because he's got as much right as you have to know what his dad was up to. Frankly I don't think either of you find it too hard to believe. He sounds a likely lad, does old Conrad. But it's better you hear about it now, straight, than that you get it through some roundabout questioning later on.'
'Questioning? Who from?' asked Bonnie. 'You mean that the police can still do something about it, even though nothing happened?'
'Mebbe,' said Dalziel grimly. 'There's a thing called conspiracy. Hard to prove if people keep their mouths shut. Me, I reckon that Bertie's got sense enough to try to cut his losses and actually make a go of the business. I think that's the other reason Herrie has decided to invest his money. I don't know how much he knew, but he must have had a shrewd idea of what his son was like. But then so must you.'
He eyed Bonnie thoughtfully for a moment before going on.
'Anyway, now the only way of protecting the investment and protecting your and Nigel's interests is to make a go of things, I don't know if it's possible but it looks as if they're going to have a try. I just want to be sure there aren't any fires around here in a couple of months time when everybody's forgotten I ever existed. Well, that's it.'
He made to rise from the bed, but Bonnie restrained him.
'You run along, Nigel,' she said to her son. 'There are one or two things Mr Dalziel and I have to talk about.'
The boy rose and left without speaking.
'He looks as if he could do with two good nights' sleep,' commented Dalziel.
'Couldn't we all?' said Bonnie. 'Andy, why are you doing this?'
'Doing what? I'm doing nowt except having a private chat.'
'Private chat nothing! You know damn well Bertie will screw everything you've said out of Nigel in ten minutes flat. And if he didn't talk, well, I'd have to.'
'That's honest,' said Dalziel. He eased his braces off his shoulders, settled back on the pillow and inserting his hand into his shirt began to scratch his belly. Impatiently she snatched his hand away. He opened one eye and looked at her. With a sigh she leaned forward so that her head rested on his chest, pulled his shirt out of his waist- band and began to scratch for him.
'Oh Andy,' she said. 'What are you up to?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well you're a policeman, and I think you believe in it. But you seem to be giving us a warning.'
'I'm on holiday,' he said. 'A little bit to the left. That's grand.'
'Well,' she said dubiously. 'I suppose there's a bit of the Sydney Cartons even in the nastiest, most cynical of us.'
'Of the what?'
'Oh, do stop pretending to be pig-ignorant! Yes, I suppose one generous, unselfish act might squeeze even you into heaven.'
'I'm at it all the time,' protested Dalziel. 'Farther down please. Ah!'
She kneaded away at his flesh with strong fingers.
'Oh Andy,' she said. 'I need someone to trust and rely on. I really do. I'm tired of trying to hold things together single-handed.'
Dalziel reached over her shoulder and cupped her right breast in his broad palm.
'Why don't you take two hands to it?' he asked.
Forty-five minutes later after a perfunctory tap on the door, Tillotson burst in and halted, red with embarrassment, when he saw the two heads on the pillow.
'What is it, Charley?' asked Bonnie in an exasperated tone.
'I'm sorry,' said Tillotson, retreating, it's just that the police are here again. They want to see everyone. They say that Mrs Greave is dead.'
He left and Bonnie poked Dalziel hard with her forefinger.
'You knew about this?'
'Aye,' he said, sitting up and yawning.
She watched him in silence as he got out of bed and began to dress.
'Listen, love,' he said as he peered in the mirror and dragged her silver-backed brush through his greying and retreating stubble, ‘It's no good lying there looking suspicious. My shoulders are no good as public leaning posts. I either carry you or I drop you. Partnership means doing things my way.'
She laughed at this, realized he hadn't intended a joke, frowned, then flung back the sheets and jumped out of bed.
The brush paused in mid-stroke as Dalziel regarded her in the mirror.
'All right,' she said. 'You're the boss. Lead on, Sydney. Even if we are travelling by tumbril.'
16
After a brief preliminary consultation Dalziel kept very much in the background as Balderstone and Cross worked their way steadily through everyone in the household taking statements about the events of the previous day with particular reference to conversations with and last sightings of Annie Greave.
Papworth excited particular interest, of course, but even old Hereward was fed with black coffee and interviewed in his own bed. Dalziel meanwhile wandered outside to see how Gibb and his men were getting on. The progress they had made was not perceptible to the inexpert eye, but the little builder assured him that all was proceeding to schedule.
Dalziel continued his perambulation, returning eventually to the front of the house where he stood looking out over the lake. It really wasn't much of a lake, he realized, now that the sinking of the flood waters was making its normal limits much more clear. Not your Windermere or your Loch Lomond. But it might be a useful adjunct to the restaurant if you knew how to exploit it. A floating bar perhaps. Or gondolas.
He laughed to himself. It would be easy to start thinking in the nutty fashion of the Lake Housers.
Suddenly a dull explosion shattered his thoughts. Birds screamed and rose from the trees and the lake. But a couple did not rise and lay instead staining the water with dye as bright as their bills. From behind the small island which Dalziel had examined for signs of Nigel only two days ago emerged the duck punt. The gun in the bows was still smoking and Tillotson waved triumphantly when he saw he had a spectator.
'Great,' said a voice behind Dalziel. 'Roast duck stuffed with lead for supper.'
'The buggers'll sink before he reaches them,' said Dalziel.
'You were looking for me earlier,' said Uniff.
'Not really,' said Dalziel. 'I was just poking round your room.'
'Hey, man,' said Uniff, grinning through his tangled beard. 'You're too honest to be honest. What'd you find?'
'Tell you what I didn't find. I didn't find a serial number on your camera and I didn't find those dirty pictures you showed me.'
'Dirty? Those weren't dirty! Man, I could show you pictures that would blow your mind!'
'I doubt it. Your sister said she posed for 'em. She's a liar.'
Suddenly Uniff drew himself upright, placed his left hand on his hip and thrust the other forward as if holding a sword.
'Call my sister a liar, sir? Zounds, you besmirch our family honour. On guard!'
The change of accent was very good, rather better on the whole than his American.
'I got Sergeant Cross to check with Epping,' said Dalziel. 'Annie Greave had that tattoo on her inner
