Bones and Silence

'Cost you a fortune,' said Arnie Stringer lugubriously.

'Arnie, I've got a fortune,' said Swain.

'All settled, is it?'

‘I said so when I rang, didn't I? It took a bit longer than I thought, but once it dawned it was cash I wanted, not Delgado voting shares, we did a deal.'

'Aye, I don't doubt them Yankee lawyers are as tricky as us own. Thackeray rang to check when you'd be back. Says he'll be out to see you. Money's toasted cheese to them rattons.'

'We need a good lawyer now,' said Swain reprovingly. 'Come on, Arnie. Where's the car? I can't wait to get back to Moscow. Christ, how I'm sick of air-conditioning and muzak!'

The two men said little more till they were out of Manchester and on the motorway, climbing high up into the Pennines. Swain wound down the window and breathed in deep as he gazed out over the bleak moorland stretching away on either side.

'That's good,' he said.

'Good? It's ninety per cent diesel,' said Stringer. 'You'll get fresher air in a multi-storey car park.'

Swain regarded his partner speculatively. There was a streak of sardonic humour in the man which sometimes made Swain believe the stories of their common ancestry. But his Nonconformist conscience was pure Stringer.

'What's up, Arnie?' he asked. 'You've been a real misery, even by your low standards.'

'Nowt's up. I'd have told you else, wouldn't I?'

'I know you would. But there's something . . .'

They were at the top now. Behind them, Lancashire. Ahead, Yorkshire. The morning sun was bright in their eyes. Stringer had pulled down the visor to keep it out, but Swain was happy to relax with its warmth on his face.

'It's our Shirley,’ said Stringer abruptly.

'What? She's not still on about that husband of hers, is she?'

'Not so much now, but she were. We had a big row about it. I told her again I'd tried looking for him, but there was no finding them as don't want found. We got a bit heated. She seems to have settled down since, but she let on it was her as set that fat bastard looking for him. Social Security inquiry! God, he's cunning.'

'I never doubted that. But what's in it for him?' wondered Swain. 'He dishes out favours like Nero on a bad day. He's probably only going through the motions. So stop worrying.'

'It's Shirley I worry about.'

'Yes, I know that, Arnie. But you said she seemed more settled now.'

'Settled? Aye, but sometimes it's more than settled. Resigned, maybe. Or just plain given up. I think maybe it's not knowing where she's at.'

'Well, Arnie, I can see you're upset, but there's nothing you can do about it. Absolutely nothing. You mustn't risk hurting Shirley. Or that lovely grandson of yours. God gave you the strength to bear things, but he didn't give everyone that strength. It'll all come out all right in the end. Divine providence. That will take care of things, won't it?'

Swain spoke earnestly, his eyes fixed on the driver's silhouetted face.

'Yes,' said Stringer. 'I suppose it will.'

'Right, then. Let's get home,' said Philip Swain.

As they dropped down into Yorkshire, Swain grew more and more relaxed and Stringer increasingly morose. When they climbed out of the car in the yard at Moscow Farm, it could have been the driver who'd made the long trip from the States and the passenger who had spent the night in his own bed.

Eden Thackeray who had been sitting in his Saab listening to a tape of The Yeomen of the Guard clearly thought so.

'You're looking well, Philip,' he said as they shook hands. 'So well, I assume your trip was successful, financially speaking?'

'Oh yes,' said Swain. 'I think even you will have to agree that Swain and Stringer are at last on a sound footing. But why are you sitting out here? Shirley's got a key.'

He glanced at the office window.

'Shirley, Mrs Appleyard, did offer to let me into the house, but I demurred. I don't think our musical tastes coincide.'

Swain frowned slightly at the excuse, then said, 'Well, come in now. Thanks, Arnie. We'll talk later.'

Stringer accepted his dismissal blankly and made for the office.

Swain led the lawyer into the house, his face glowing with visible delight in being home once more.

'What'll you drink?' he said.

'It's a little early. A glass of Perrier perhaps to toast your safe return.'

Swain pulled a face but he poured himself the same.

'So what's new here?' he asked.

'Not much. The police still haven't traced Mr Waterson or Miss King.'