judged, Swain's presence in the cast had been a positive incentive to someone of Dalziel's character. But Trimble's warning about harassment had inhibited him more than he cared to admit, and now, to add injury to inhibition, the jury at the re-convened inquest on Gail Swain had brought in a verdict of death by misadventure. Swain had left the court with words of sympathy ringing in his ears, while Dalziel's had been filled with the flea-like buzz of pained reproof.
He had brought much of it on himself by refusing to desist from his efforts to blow clouds of suspicion Swain's way, thus obliging Eden Thackeray to waft them aside with reluctant ease.
'You had been
It turned out that Thackeray knew exactly where he'd been, how much he'd supped, and, their friendship notwithstanding, would bring witnesses to prove it if necessary. When the old solicitor somehow contrived to get him to admit he was being sick into a bucket when he first noticed Gail Swain at the window, his credibility was completely ruined and the coroner's summing up had come close to a recommendation that his conduct of the case be investigated by his superiors.
'Shouldn't you be in California?' he said to Swain now.
'I'm flying out with the coffin at the weekend.'
'Well, I hope it all goes off all right.'
'Thank you,' said Swain, surprised. 'Yes, it's going to be an extremely fraught experience. Not helped, of course, by the delay.'
'What? Oh aye. You're talking about the funeral. I meant the really important thing, your talks with them Delgado lawyers. I reckon they'd have made me mayor of LA if I'd pinned a murder charge on you!'
Swain came close to anger, then opted for amusement.
'That's better, Superintendent,' he said. 'I thought for a moment you were going soft. But thanks for your good wishes all the same. If they're sincere.'
'They're sincere enough,' said Dalziel. 'I want you back here in my reach as soon as possible.'
'How touching. And why is that?'
Dalziel smiled like a polar bear.
'Because of the Mysteries, of course,' he said. 'Because your understudy's crap, and Chung reckons you're the very best Devil she's ever directed.'
He was telling the truth. Swain was excellent m his part and Chung had been very annoyed to learn he was likely to be away for as long as a week.
'I'm flattered,' he said, smiling. 'And I do hope you've managed to reach your heaven by the time I return.'
'I'll get there in the end,' said Dalziel. 'I usually do. Don't forget your lines while you're away. I'll be listening carefully.'
'Andy, are you going to get your ass up here or not?' yelled Chung.
'All right, I'm coming,' said Dalziel. And began the long ascent.
Back at the station later, he parked his car in the refurbished car park which was like a constant mocking reminder of his failure. In his office he rummaged through his mail and groaned as he came across another letter from what Pascoe called the Dark Lady. As if conjured by his thought, Pascoe came into the room.
'Stopped knocking, have we?'
'Sorry, sir. Thought you were still at your theatricals. I was going to drop this on your desk.'
'Tell me about it. I'm pig sick of reading words just now.'
'I just had a call from Leeds Central. As you know, they've had real trouble with their football yobs. But because they're highly organized over there, that's meant they're vulnerable to infiltration and the Leeds undercover operation's had one or two excellent results.'
'Send the buggers a medal, then. What's this got to do with us?'
'The word is that during the last couple of seasons some of our City supporters, short of any real action over here, got themselves into the Leeds gang for their jollies. But now they're dividing themselves between the two because they've got big ambitions to make a name for themselves as the City mob. Just first names so far, which isn't much help, but as soon as they can get some real detail, they'll let us know. Promising, eh?'
'Yes, must be nice to get other buggers to do your work for you,' said Dalziel sourly. 'I wish I could manage it. I seem to recollect asking some idle sod to get this joker sorted.'
He tossed the latest letter across to Pascoe who read it with a troubled look on his face.
'Doesn't sound like a joker to me,' he said.
'No? Then get her off my back! Christ, you've had long enough!'
This from a man who found the Dark Lady's plight an irritation too trivial to waste his own precious time on was too unjust for argument. Pascoe rang Pottle and got invited to have a drink in the University Staff Club. The psychiatrist read the letter twice.
'She's very confused,' he said.
Pascoe, with a guest's sensitivity, suppressed the mock amazement which rose to his lips by taking a long pull at his spritzer. Pottle regarded him with a slight smile which suggested he had noted the suppression.
'That may seem obvious,' he went on. 'But what I detect is a confusion beyond the basic mental and spiritual turmoil which has brought her to the point of suicide. It's all to do with this understanding of her own motives which hovers between the conscious and the subconscious. Despite her disclaimer, she began to suspect her use of Dalziel as a sounding-board was also an appeal for discovery, so she ended the correspondence after letter two. Then her need to 'talk' grew so strong she had to start again to protect herself from discovery! After another two letters, the pattern repeats itself, and she resolves to stop once more, though this time without announcing it.'
