Bones and Silence

'Well done! I've no doubt Chung will be trying all the other techniques and some we haven't thought of besides. But for him to be told not to do it, the people who tell him have got to know he's been asked, right?'

'This is all too clever for me. And how come Chung knew what buttons to press so quickly anyway . . . Oh no! Ellie, you haven't got yourself involved as psychological adviser as well as PR person, have you?'

She blushed beautifully. Normally he was a great admirer of his wife's blushes but admiration and trepidation were poor partners. If Dalziel were even to begin to suspect the collective guilt of the Pascoe household . . . The phone rang before he could launch into remonstrance. He picked it up nervously, certain it was going to be Dalziel. Instead he heard Wield's voice.

'Sorry to bother you, only there's been some trouble at the Rose and Crown in Bradgate. You know there's a floodlit match tonight? Well, some visitors got into a barney with some of City's supporters. Landlord tried to intervene and he's ended up in hospital. Thought you should know.'

It was a kindness. Normally the Sergeant wouldn't have bothered Pascoe with a pub brawl, but Dalziel had been making ever more abrasive noises about the lack of visible progress on the football hooligan front, and it would be well to be word-perfect on this incident.

'I'll wander down there,' said Pascoe. 'Super around, is he?'

'No. I gather Mr Trimble asked him to drop in for a chat earlier and he came out with a face like fat. Pulled the handle off the door when he shut it behind him, I hear tell. Any idea what's upset him?'

'I hope not, Wieldy,' said Pascoe fervently. 'I sincerely hope not!'

By the time Dalziel reached the Kemble, he was cooling down. Retaliation was after all the better part of rage. A wild swing could move a lot of air, but it took a carefully planted boot in the balls to bring tears to the eyes.

Nor was it simply a matter of personal esteem and self-satisfaction. Dan Trimble wasn't a bad sort of fellow, friendly, bright, and not ungenerous with his Glenmorangie. Mid-Yorkshire could have done a lot worse. But a Chief Constable had to understand that while he might indeed among constables be a chief, when it came to detective- superintendents, he was at best second among equals.

The man's first error had been to tell him bluntly that it was time he tied up the Swain case. He was being pressurized by Eden Thackeray, by the coroner's office, by the Press, and even by the Delgado Corporation's American lawyers who were concerned (a) to have the body released for interment in the family vault and (b) to have the circumstances of death cleared up so that the process of dealing with Gail Swain's will could be commenced, particularly as this involved a substantial block of Delgado shares recently inherited from her father.

‘I’ll be blunt, Andy,' said Trimble. 'I've given you plenty of rope, but it doesn't look as if you can hang Swain with it, does it? We have his statement and Waterson's statement which concur on the main issues -'

'Once I get my hands on Waterson, I'll change all that!' interrupted Dalziel.

Trimble looked at him doubtfully, then said, 'How close are you to finding him?'

'Very close,' lied Dalziel.

'I hope you're not bullshitting me, Andy,' said Trimble quietly. 'I like to back my men, but I'm getting bad vibrations here. Everything points to a verdict of suicide. The way I see it, the most serious charge on offer will be harassment against you if you don't wrap this thing up quickly. So be warned!'

That had been bad enough but worse had followed. Clearly relieved at having got the professional unpleasantness out of the way, and perhaps already congratulating himself on how easily he'd got his famous Yorkshire bear to do the Cornish Floral Dance, Trimble poured the whisky and said with a smile, 'Changing the subject, I had to laugh at lunch today. Someone said he'd heard that one of my officers was to play God in these Mysteries. I told him there was room for only one God in the Mid-Yorkshire Force, and like cleanliness, he was next to it! He assured me he'd had this on good authority, and I assured him on even better authority that if any of my officers proposed to bring the Force into disrepute by letting himself be wheeled round town on a carnival float in his nightgown, I'd be the first to know!'

Dalziel regarded him blankly, but behind the cold granite slab of his forehead bubbled a thermal spring of thought. He'd met Chung's invitation to be God with the great guffaw of derision it deserved, but she hadn't been put out, merely smiling and making a joke, and pouring more whisky with such a generous hand that he'd left her with the promise that he'd think about it.

Well, he'd thought, and guffawed again, and was seeing her this evening to drink more of her Scotch, and assure her firmly but suggestively that his ambitions were earthy rather than divine.

But now all of a sudden he was feeling there was something going off here that he didn't quite grasp.

He said, 'What you mean, sir, is, if someone wanted to do summat like that, you reckon you could ban him?'

'I'd hope it would never come to that, but oh yes, Andrew, never doubt it. I could and I would!'

So there he was, professionally and personally put in his place. He'd almost crushed his tumbler into a crystal ball and shown Trimble his future in it. But a wise man does bad by stealth, and so he had fled the field, leaving the Cornish pixie to his suppositious triumph.

A tumblerful of Chung's Highland Park took the last of the heat from his head, and when the sinuous Eurasian said, 'You seem a bit down, Andy. Anything bothering you?' he was able to laugh and reply, 'Nowt I can't sort out.'

A few moments later, however, rather to his surprise, he found himself telling her all about Trimble's interference in the Swain case, though he was careful to avoid any mention of names. It was a futile discretion, however, for after only a few sentences, Chung interrupted with, 'Hey, this is Phil Swain you're talking about, right? But I thought he must be right in the clear. I mean, he was at my party! I must say I was surprised to see him after what happened to his poor wife, she was on our Arts Committee.'

'You knew her well?' asked Dalziel, alert for new information.

'No, hardly at all. This great interest she's supposed to have had didn't show in practice. She only attended every second meeting. I reckon her membership was cosmetic, but fair do's, she was always ready to lead the way when we were touting for cash.'

'That must have pleased her husband,' sneered Dalziel. 'Did you ever hear her talk about him?'