'Well, if you fancy a miracle cure, come and touch God's robe. You heard about his little coup last night?'
'I got a hint from Broomfield.'
'You'll get more than a hint up here.'
Dalziel was on the phone but he waved them in expansively.
'Couldn't take the risk of hanging about, sir,' he was saying. 'He might have been away or we could've ended up with one of them hostage situations, tying up men and traffic with reporters and the SAS crawling all over the place!'
He made them both sound like rodents.
'Thank you, sir. Ten o'clock? That'll suit me fine. And I'll make sure them buggers carry on working regardless!'
He replaced the receiver.
'Good morning, sir,' said Pascoe. 'I gather congratulations are in order.'
'I believe they are,' said Dalziel complacently. 'Though Desperate Dan's got mixed feelings. Doesn't know whether to pat my back or stab it. Either way he'll need a box to stand on!'
He was referring to Dan Trimble, Chief Constable, who, though small by police standards, was not a dwarf.
'Mixed feelings? Why?'
'Being out of practice at detective work, lad, you likely didn't notice it's like a bomb site down there.' Dalziel had risen and was looking out of his window. 'That's Dan's personal project. Part of his grand modernization plan. Rumour is he set the coroner up with a rent boy to get him to part with his garden. And he probably had to flog his own ring to get those tight bastards at County Hall to allocate the money. Trouble is, if the work's not finished in March, the money is! That's why Dan was all set to give me a kiss and a police medal till he heard who it was I'd nicked.'
'And who was it, sir?' asked Pascoe.
'Swain. Philip Swain. Chap whose building firm's doing the work down there. Or not as the case may be.'
He opened the window, leaned out and shouted, 'Hey! What are you buggers on? A slow motion replay? If King Cheops had had you lot, we'd be looking at the first bungalow pyramid.'
He closed the window and said, 'Got to keep 'em at it. At least till I've got my hands on Dan's congratulation Glenmorangie. He wants to see you too, Peter. Nine-thirty sharp.'
'Oh yes?' said Pascoe, hope and unease stirring simultaneously.
'That's right. By God, it's good to see you back! We've been snowed under these last few weeks. I've dumped a few things on your desk just to ease you back in again.'
Pascoe's heart sank. Dalziel's few was anyone else's avalanche.
'What exactly did happen last night,’ he asked by way of diversion.
'Nowt much. I happened to see this chap, Swain, blowing his wife's head off next door, so I went in and disarmed him and brought 'em both back here . . .'
'Both? You brought the body as well?'
'Don't be daft. There were this other chap there, name of Waterson, it's his house. He were scared shitless, could hardly move or talk. The quack took one look at him, shot him full of something and got him admitted to the Infirmary. Me and Swain had a little chat, he told a lot of lies, and an hour later I was enjoying the sleep of the just. That's how neat and tidy we've been doing things since you've been away, lad, but no doubt now you're back, you'll start complicating things again.'
'I'll try not to, but I'm still a bit vague as to what precisely happened. This fellow Swain . . .'
'Nasty bit of work. Just the type to top his missus,' said Dalziel.
'You've had other dealings with him?'
'No. Only ever seen him twice before but some people you can sum up in a second,’ said Dalziel solemnly. 'I gave him plenty of rope and he's just about hanged himself, I reckon. Take a look at his statement and you'll see what I mean.'
He pushed a photocopied sheet across the desk and Pascoe began to read.
I make this statement of my own free will. I have been told I need not say anything unless I wish to do so, and that whatever I say may be given in evidence. Signed: Philip Swain.
My name is Philip Keith Swain. I live at Moscow Farm, Currthwaite, Mid-Yorkshire. I am a partner in the firm of Building Contractors known as Swain and Stringer, working from the same address. I am thirty-eight years old.
A short while ago my company was engaged by Gregory Waterson of 18 Hambleton Road to convert his loft into a draughtsman's studio. During the course of this work, he visited my premises on several occasions. These visits brought him into contact with my wife, Gail. I saw that they had become very friendly but any suspicions I might have had that the relationship went further I put out of my mind for two reasons. The first was that I simply did not want to risk a confrontation with Gail. For some time she had been behaving in an increasingly irrational fashion, bouts of deep depression alternating with moods of almost manic liveliness. When she was down, she talked sometimes of killing herself, more specifically of blowing her head off. I wanted her to see a doctor but, being American by birth, she had always refused to have anything to do with English doctors whom she regarded as mediaeval in both equipment and attitude. She did however promise to see an American doctor as soon as she returned to the States. And this was the other reason I made no comment about Waterson. I knew Gail was going back to California in the near future.
Early last summer her father had died. She was very close to him and I think it was from this date that her bouts of depression set in. The news that her mother's health had gone into a rapid decline since Gail had returned to England after her father's funeral made matters worse. I think she had blamed her mother for her father's death and had not been careful to conceal her feelings, and now she was feeling guilty herself. These are necessarily
