someone could have got into it, but by this time he was being so cooperative, I reckon he'd have said it was a snow-white stretch limo with Father Christmas in the back if I'd pressed him. Odd. I'd not have put him down as the cooperative type.'
'Mr Dalziel had a heart to heart with him,’ said Wield.
Pascoe grimaced understanding, and grimaced again as he sipped his coffee which occupied the grey area between emetic and enuretic.
'So what you're positing,' he said, 'is maybe someone else was following Waterson too? And you fancy Swain. Any reason other than the fact that the Super would like to fit him up for everything since the Princes in the Tower?'
'Not really. But he did know the meeting was arranged. Mrs Waterson told him.'
'But not where.'
'He could have followed her to start with.'
'Why not just go into the Sally then and speak to Waterson?'
'Because he wanted somewhere more private. Or perhaps he wanted to find out where Waterson was hiding out. Or it could even be he spotted me tailing Waterson and held back. Then when I got attacked, he saw his chance to get to him before I did, drove up and told him to hop in if he didn't want to have his collar felt.'
'And then?'
'Paid him off mebbe. Gave him enough for him and the girl to make themselves scarce.'
'Must've been a hell of a pay-off for them to afford to vanish so completely,' said Pascoe. 'And a pay-off for what? And if Swain owed him money, why not approach him direct to get paid instead of hiding out till he's so broke he's got to touch his wife for a few bob? And why . . .'
Wield was saved from further catechismal punishment by the intervention of Sergeant Broomfield.
'Thought I'd find CID busy down here,' he said. 'Look, I just got this report of an accident. Normally I'd send one of my lads to sort out details but when I saw it was on Philip Swain's land . . .'
Pascoe took the sheet of paper.
'Good God,' he said. 'This sounds nasty.'
'They say it's critical,' said Broomfield grimly.
'What's up? Has Swain been hurt?' asked Wield.
'Not Swain. Arnie Stringer. The JCB went over on him. Thanks, I'll take care of this.'
He passed the paper to Wield.
'Not very lucky, the Swains, are they?' said the sergeant.
'Luckier than the Stringers by all accounts,' said Pascoe. 'Mr Dalziel needs to be told. He's rehearsing, you say?'
'That's right.'
A slow smile split Pascoe's face.
'Tell you what, Wieldy. You get yourself down to the Infirmary and see what's going off there. While I personally will assault the battlements of heaven!'
The cathedral precincts were thronged with small groups of people whom Pascoe at first took for sightseers on a guided tour. But soon he realized that the focal figure in each group was not a travel courier but one of Chung's company busily rehearsing a section of a crowd. He recalled Chung saying, 'You've no idea how much work it takes to get people to look and act like themselves!'
He also spotted Canon Horncastle standing in the dark shadow cast by the Great Tower, his black cloth blending in so closely with the shade that his thin white face looked like some marble gargoyle peering out with malicious disapproval at the activity around. Pascoe waved, but the Canon either did not see or did not care to acknowledge him, and he pressed on to the ruins of the abbey.
Here he found the Greatest Story Ever Told had stopped for a tea-break. Dorothy Horncastle was dispensing mugs of the stuff from a large copper urn, and close by in the midst of a crowd of acolytes stood Chung. She was talking with her usual total animation but when she saw Pascoe approaching, she fell silent and watched him as if he were the person in the world she most wanted to see, making everyone else watch him too.
'I feel like I should be carrying a message from Marathon,' he said, rather embarrassed as she drew him aside.
'And you're not?'
'Not for you,' he grinned, his embarrassment ebbing as he began to glow in the focal heat of her complete attention. 'And I'm not sure if we've won or lost.'
'Either way it's always good to see you, Pete. Was it Ellie you wanted? She was here, sticking her little mike in my face. I thought it was only a little background piece the
'No, thanks. I'd rather run a marathon. Is my other boss around?'
'What? Oh, Andy. Yeah. Behold.'
She pointed. It was such a gracefully sensuous gesture that Pascoe had to force his attention from its execution to its direction.
There sitting on a broken pillar a little removed from all the activity was Dalziel. He had his spectacles on and he was busy conning his part, his heavy lips moving as he read the lines.
