Bones and Silence

'You've noticed that, have you? Well, thank God we promoted you. Man as sharp as that deserves to go right to the top!'

The unfairness of Dalziel's picking on an easy target after his recent mauling by Thackeray did not surprise Pascoe, but it stung him.

'But there's no reason why it should be seen as a sinister oddness,' he continued briskly. 'In fact, it's all far too daft for planning. Couldn't it be that what we've got here is quite simply what both Swain and Waterson say - and what with very little adjustment you partially witnessed - a suicide, or at worst a tragic accident?'

'You think I'm getting obsessed, is that it?'

'No,' lied Pascoe. 'In fact, very likely you're thinking on these lines already. Like Mr Thackeray said, you wouldn't have agreed to taking part in Chung's Mysteries with Swain if you'd still been after him. Would you?'

'Mebbe not,' said Dalziel. 'I'm not sure, lad, and that's the truth of it. Every bugger seems to know more than me and be two or three steps ahead of me just now. Almost like we've got a mole.'

Oh God, thought Pascoe, thinking of his part and Ellie's part in feeding Dalziel to Chung. But more worrying even than this was the sight of his notoriously invulnerable chief in doubt and disarray.

As if sensing Pascoe's concern, Dalziel tried for a confident smile and said, 'But not to worry, eh? I'm to be God Allbloodymighty, and by God, one way or another I'll send Swain down to hell and make old Eden jump out of his dusty briefs before I'm done with him.'

It wasn't bad as a cry of defiance, but it seemed to Pascoe that he'd got his lines wrong. It wasn't God but the fallen angels who went in for cries of defiance which might rise to, but could never disturb, the real Allbloodymighty sitting on his crystal throne.

CHAPTER THREE

Perhaps the great secret of Dennis Seymour's likeability was that he didn't work at it. He was Juan rather than Giovanni, his charm was intuitive not calculated, and its rewards came more as surprises than triumphs.

Having committed himself to his beautiful Bernadette, he was genuinely reluctant to put himself in the way of other offers. Not that he ever sought them, but it was incredible what a sympathetic interrogation could lead to. Recently a 'friend' in the Force had hinted to Bernadette that her fiance was CID's sexual stormtrooper and this hadn't gone down too well, so Seymour adopted his coldest, most official manner when he called on Pamela Waterson.

To start with she replied in kind, indeed was almost hostile; Seymour wouldn't have minded if she'd stayed this way, but he couldn't help being genuinely sympathetic when she told him she was too tired to put up with much questioning, and she couldn't help responding to his genuine sympathy. After fifteen minutes they were sitting on a sofa, drinking coffee and capping each other's awful-job anecdotes.

'What really gets up my nose is being me,' she said finally after a long recital of plaints.

'Sorry?'

'What I mean is, I don't have to put up with all this crap. Overworked, understaffed, poorly paid, lousy facilities, being told I'm a selfless angel when I do my job, and a selfish shit when I moan about it; I could walk away from all this, you know. Head for the private sector tomorrow, get everything I want. Or go abroad and get twice as much as I need. Only, because I'm me, I won't do it, I can't do it. It's crazy, isn't it? Like sitting in a prison cell with only two ways out, a door to comfortable freedom or a window with a thousand-foot drop to bare rock, and knowing you can never take the door.'

'You're sure about that?' said Seymour.

'Of course I'm sure! I've just said it, haven't I?' she said angrily.

'No, what I mean is, there's usually more than two ways out of things.'

'Is that so? Name me another two,' she challenged.

'All right,' grinned Seymour. 'What would happen if you threw a bedpan at the Chief Health Officer?'

'I'd get sacked.'

'That's one. And what would happen if you got pregnant?'

'At the moment I think they'd call the poor little blighter Jesus,' she said sadly.

'It'd make two whatever they called him. Do you fancy a family, luv?'

'I took it for granted when I got married,' she said. 'I'm a Catholic, you see. Not good, but still Catholic. He had other ideas. I took the easy line and went along. No, that's not fair. I went along because that's what I wanted then. Now I wish . . . but it's too late . . .'

'It's definitely over between you then? You'll get divorced?'

She shook her head. 'No divorce,' she said. 'I'm still that much of a Catholic. But yes, it's definitely over. Oh, I still fancy him, I suppose. That funny-looking fellow who came the first time likely told you he caught us cuddling. Not that it meant anything. There's nothing so comfortable as a cuddle when you're tired and depressed.'

She glanced at Seymour thoughtfully as she spoke and he took a long draught of air from his empty coffee cup.

'You see,' she resumed, 'I didn't leave him because I found out he was different after we married. Rather, it was because he was more like himself than I realized.'

'Eh?' said Seymour.

She smiled and said, 'Does sound daft, doesn't it? What I mean is, before we married, I knew he talked big but got easily scared; I knew he was crazy about natural blondes with long legs. But none of it mattered. Knowing how frightened he got just seemed to make us closer, and I believed I could steer him clear of situations which might make him blow up. As for blondes with long legs, well, I was one, wasn't I? So what happened? Nothing, except that I found that to prove how unscared he was, he could get himself involved in stupid things. And I couldn't be around all the time to stop him blowing up. And his love of willowy blondes didn't stop with me. Like I say, I can't put the blame on not knowing what he was like!'

'What kind of stupid things did he get himself involved in?' wondered Seymour.