Bones and Silence

Pascoe interrupted, 'Not out of fear of being tracked down so much as fear that that's what she really wanted?'

'More or less,' said Pottle. 'Several weeks pass. And finally an awareness that she is rapidly approaching the point of no return brings with it a desire to be prevented so strong that she has re-opened the correspondence. Such fascinating ambiguities! She claims to be distressed lest Dalziel had passed the case to a more feeling subordinate. An inspired guess or actual knowledge? Subconsciously, of course, she is probably simply miffed that the Great Detective as she calls him isn't taking her seriously. Happily, you are.'

He regarded the detective sympathetically and poured another inch of Muscadet into his glass, not hiding his disapproval as Pascoe topped it up with soda.

'I'm driving,' said Pascoe. In fact he quite liked the combination and didn't think anyway that the Staff Club's Muscadet was worth getting religious over.

'Last time you said she was probably as likely to give clues for policemen as psychiatrists,' he went on. 'Does it still look that way?'

'I believe so. But they may not be all that obvious.'

'Policemen aren't allowed to ignore the obvious,' said Pascoe. 'I've already asked Mr Dalziel for a list of his partners at the ball. That should eliminate half a dozen.'

'So many? I should have thought one veleta would have sent him reeling to the bar,' said Pottle, who had suffered much abuse from Dalziel over the years. 'Yes, that was certainly a very obvious clue, reducing your suspects by about fifty thousand at a stroke. And she's started talking about methods at last. Jumping under a train. Possibly just a tease. Never take what she says too literally. But clues there are, and there'll be more before the end.'

'She'll write again.'

'Oh yes. No doubt about it. The closer she gets, the more nods and winks she'll give. But you'll need to be sharp. Don't expect a name and address!'

'It'd make life a lot easier,’ said Pascoe.

‘That's what we'd all like,’ said Pottle gently. 'Including your Dark Lady.'

As Pascoe drove back to Headquarters, he brooded on what Pottle had said. He recognized in himself the growth of an obsession, but he did not know or perhaps did not want to know how to combat it. It was all right for Pottle to tell him to be a detective, but he didn't feel like a detective, more like a medium striving to make contact with a lost soul and having to work through some not totally sympathetic spirit guide! These intermediaries often figured as Red Indians, or Chinamen. He'd got Dalziel.

He picked up his car radio mike and intoned, 'Is there anybody there?'

'Say again, over,' crackled the radio.

Hastily he replaced the mike. A chief inspector was too senior to be wild, too junior to be eccentric. It was the sober middle age of a police career. But even the middle-aged were allowed their obsessions and if you had one, there was only one thing to do - ride it till either you fell off or it dropped from under you.

Outside his room, he bumped into Dalziel and said rather aggressively, 'You won't forget that list of your dancing partners, will you, sir?'

Dalziel didn't reply but opened the door and ushered Pascoe inside, then overtook him and sat at his desk.

'This is your in-tray, lad,' he said kindly. 'And this sheet of paper here is the list I promised. And these sheets here are the complete guest list. So if you take this list from this one, you'll find you've got close on two hundred names, one of which might belong to this daft tart who's wasting so much of your highly expensive time.'

'At least it's a life I'm trying to save, not just my self-esteem,' retorted Pascoe, allowing himself to be stung.

'Meaning?' said Dalziel.

Pascoe was already regretting his outburst but he knew better than to back down.

'Meaning we still seem to be spending a lot of time and energy chasing around after Gregory Waterson so you can try to re-open the Swain case.'

'I'm not denying it,' said Dalziel equably. 'But he is a criminal suspect, isn't he?'

'All right. But Tony Appleyard's not a criminal, is he?' said Pascoe obstinately. 'And we seem to have got half the police in north London and all the DHSS looking for him.'

'It's about time them buggers had something useful to do,' said Dalziel. 'Anyroad, I made a promise, lad.'

'To Shirley Appleyard, you mean? But you've said yourself she's not pressurizing you.'

'That's right. I wasn't sure from the start why she really wanted to see him. Stick a knife in him, mebbe. Anyroad, yes, she seems to have lost interest. Last time I told her I'd heard nowt, she just shrugged and said, I shouldn't bother any more. It's not worth it. Likely he's dead.'

'And why are you still bothering?' asked Pascoe, rancour erased by genuine interest.

'Because it's worth it to me,' grunted Dalziel. 'One, I'll break my own promises, not wait till someone gives me permission. And two, I want to know. He might be a useless specimen but he's from off my patch, and he went south to work, not to die, if that's what's happened to him. I wouldn't put it past them cockneys. Here's a dead 'un, not one of ours, another bloody northerner, when's the next load of rubbish going out to the tip? It's time they knew they've got me to answer to!'

This was the nearest thing to a radical political statement Pascoe had ever heard from the Superintendent. It wasn't going to usher in the Socialist Millennium, but shouted loud enough, it might cause a little unease in Thatcherland.

'Look, sir,' he said. 'I'm sorry if I sounded off a bit . . .'

'Never apologize, never explain,' said Dalziel, rising. 'Just do your job, and never forget the golden rule.'