Dalziel was sitting very still.
'What are you trying to say?' he asked. 'Come on. Spit it out!'
Trimble said, 'Please. I'm not a suspect, Andy.'
'You're making me bloody suspicious, I tell you that for nowt,' said Dalziel. 'What's going off here?'
'I think you've guessed. Swain is at present remanded in custody until Thursday, June the second, Corpus Christi day, I believe. You must have been concerned that your Thespian pursuits might have had to be interrupted by an appearance in court, but you can rest easy. You shan't be required. Unless something even more dramatic than your appearance in a nightshirt on a trolley happens before then, we shall be withdrawing our objections to bail.'
'In a murder case? We can't!'
'Not in a murder case,' agreed Trimble. 'Only, there doesn't seem to be a case for murder here, Andy. At least that's the opinion of the Prosecutor's office. Swain is willing to cooperate on a whole range of lesser charges. The feeling is they'd rather get him on something definite than be made ridiculous by having a murder case thrown out on grounds of insufficient evidence. Andy, I'm sorry. Look, sit down, let's talk it through, over a drink . . .'
But Dalziel was gone beyond even the conjurative powers, hitherto infallible, of a full bottle of Glenmorangie.
CHAPTER FOUR
It is a curious facet of human nature that while success often inspires resentment, failure can rekindle faith.
Up till now, even after the excavation of the car park, Pascoe had been unable to share his boss's certainty in Swain's total guilt. But immediately Dalziel stormed into his office with news of what he perhaps unfairly categorized as Trimble's treachery, Pascoe found himself overwhelmed by an equal and unqualified indignation.
'I'd back him against a bunch of dried-up lawyers any day,' he told Wield later.
'You're not overcompensating a bit, are you?' wondered Wield.
'Because I had some reservations before?'
'Because you thought he were off his chump!' said Wield.
'Surely you can't still think Swain's not guilty?' said Pascoe, defensively aggressive.
'He's guilty of something, that's clear.'
'But not murder?'
'Look, you've got one arrangement of the known facts, that's the boss's. You've got another, that's Swain's. What's to choose between them? Benefit of the doubt, that's what it all comes down to.'
'Perhaps. But I'd like to help the Super, that's all.'
'So what are you going to do?'
It was a good question. It was not easy to give it a good answer.
'Well,' said Pascoe slowly, 'at least I can do what I've been moaning he's not been bothered to do with this Dark Lady business. I can take what he says seriously for a change.'
He started that evening by gathering copies of all the statements, and various reports on the Swain affair together and taking them home. Ellie was at a meeting of her Bat Group so he was able to spread himself across the dining-room table in an attempt at spotting an unnoticed dimension via visual cross-referencing. But after a couple of hours all he had was a feeling, obviously shared by the Prosecutor, that if Swain put on a good show in court (and even Dalziel admitted his nimbleness as a counter-puncher) there was no way of getting him for murder. Perhaps all that that meant was he was indeed innocent of murder . . . Pascoe pushed away the negative thought. He'd promised himself he would use Dalziel's certainty as his guiding light here. But it was beginning to feel like a candle in a blizzard.
When Ellie came home, he was still staring blankly at the papers. She expressed no curiosity about them and he offered no explanation. Their polite neutrality about each other's work was beginning to harden into a trade barrier.
'Good meeting?' he asked.
'Yes, it was. We're updating our survey of types and locations in the district. You might keep your ears open at work. I wouldn't be surprised to hear Fat Andy's got a few vampires in his cellar.'
'Come to think of it,' he said, his memory stirred by his recent reading, 'there were some bats hibernating in this old barn out at Moscow Farm, Philip Swain's place. Pipistrelles, someone said.'
'What? You never mentioned them. Don't you know you're required by law to notify the authorities?'
'Am I? Sorry. Anyway this was back in February, so they've probably taken off by now.'
The revelation that his acquaintance with these disturbing creatures went back for months merely added to Ellie's irritation. Fortunately a noise from Rose's room diverted her before Pascoe could excuse himself into more trouble. Alone again, his attention returned to the Swain papers. In his physical arrangement, those relating to the killing of Beverley King in Hambleton Road were placed at the centre, while those to do with the death of Tony Appleyard were pushed to the edge.
But now the bat connection brought the barn where the boy had died into the forefront of his thoughts. It occurred to him that everybody accepted the Swain version of the youth's death, or rather the Swain version of the Stringer version. And why not? It fitted with both projections of Swain - as a loyal friend or as a quick-thinking bastard. That was the trouble with almost everything they had. It was as consistent with Swain's story as with Dalziel's theory.
But had the consistency test itself been applied consistently?
Only one way to find out.
He rearranged the papers in as strict a chronological order as possible, said to himself, 'Swain is a loving husband and a loyal friend,' and began reading.
