Bones and Silence

for grabbing at straws, for plucking their own salvation out of other people's disaster.

Sod all the contradictions and contra-evidence! Sod pious Pascoe and his clever little experiments! In Dalziel's book of certainties Swain had killed his wife, and Dalziel had as good as seen him do it! The flood of self-doubt had parted and he was safely through it, but there was still a long trek to the Promised Land.

He said, 'A man needs to be busy himself to be deceived, Mr Swain.'

'My work did keep me occupied, yes.'

'I mean . . . you know . . . busy.'

Dalziel made a pumping motion with his forearm and said, 'Sauce for the goose, eh? Of course, it's different for a man.'

He gave his vilest leer. He had little hope of coaxing a confidence from the man but he might bludgeon a brag. If (and why not?) Swain were having a bit on the side, that would strengthen his motivation, and it might be worth giving this not improbable she a good shaking to see what came out of her. Between the sheets was the non-Catholic's confessional.

'Is it? How the hell would you know?'

Swain was answering his words not his thoughts, but it was just as offensive. Oh, I shall have you, my lad, promised Dalziel.

He changed tack and said, very serious, 'All I'm saying, sir, is, if there is a lady, better to tell us now rather than risk us stumbling on her unawares and mebbe causing embarrassment. I can promise maximum discretion. We'd just want to see her for purposes of elimination. Like you wanted to see Mrs Swain at Hambleton Road. For purposes of elimination.'

He spoke with the sweet reasonableness of a hard left politician proposing revolution, and vastly enjoyed the millisec in which Swain reacted to tone before registering content.

For another longer moment he thought he had triggered the expected explosion but from somewhere deep down in himself Swain drew up reserves of control.

'Thackeray warned me about you,’ he said. 'But he didn't tell me the half. Well, I'll tell you what, Mr Dalziel. You provoke away all you like. I've got nothing to hide. The only games I'll play with you will be on Eileen Chung's stage. I suppose that was your clever little idea too? Well, I'm calling your bluff, Dalziel. It may please your ego to play God to my Lucifer, but wrap you up though Chung might, it'll be plain to everyone you're still a fat slob!'

There it was. The anger burning through.

'And you, Mr Swain?' said Dalziel softly. 'What'll people see in you?'

Swain laughed, back in charge.

'All the mirth that is made is marked in me!' he said. 'You see, I've started learning my lines already. I hope you can keep up, Superintendent. Now, good day.'

'Good day to you too,' said Dalziel pleasantly. 'And thanks for your time.'

He left the room, closing the door firmly behind him. He had noticed an extension phone on a table in the sitting-room. He went to the wall phone in the hall and gently lifted the receiver. Swain was dialling. The number was ringing. He waited.

A woman's voice spoke and for a second he felt a frisson of self-congratulatory delight. Then the words registered.

'Thackeray, Amberson, Mellor and Thackeray, can I help you?'

Shit,' said Dalziel, replacing the receiver. Like so many things, it worked more often on the television screen than it did in life.

He left but not by the front door. Pascoe had reported something about a secretary who had an office out back. Who knows? Perhaps Swain was conventional enough to be banging his secretary. Or perhaps she was nosey enough to listen in to his telephone calls.

Outside he ran nimbly up the steps leading to the office, paused to get his breath, then entered with a suddenness intended to be impressive.

The girl behind the desk glanced up from her book but gave little sign of being impressed. Her silence forced him to speak.

'Mrs Appleyard?' he said. 'Detective-Superintendent Dalziel.'

'Yes?'

'You don't seem surprised.'

'You've told me who I am and who you are, both of which I knew. What's to be surprised over?'

Dalziel examined this and found it pleasingly pragmatic.

'Mind if I ask you a few questions?' he said.

She returned her attention to her book without replying.

Dalziel scratched his armpit and wondered how best to proceed.

'Mr Swain a good boss, is he?' he essayed.

'He's all right,' she said without looking up.

'How'd he get on with his missus?'

She put her book down and examined him in a way which made him feel on sale. She was a plain, ordinary- looking girl but her cool brown eyes had a disconcerting steadiness.