'If I knew that, I wouldn't have to go down on my hands and knees to get you to find out, would I?'
Both men looked at Wield. Both shook their heads sadly inviting support. Wield arranged the Alpine rugosities of his face into what he hoped was a Swiss neutrality and quickly turned away.
Swain did indeed look to be deeply distressed. Dalziel, who considered he had a fair nose for bullshit, was surprised to detect the scent of genuine emotion, but he comforted himself with the thought that even a cold cunt like Swain might be expected to be temporarily taken aback after running a JCB over his mate.
'Any news?' demanded Swain as the Superintendent entered the office.
'About what?' asked Dalziel. 'Oh, you mean about Stringer. No, I think they're still trying to reassemble the pieces. You brought everything back, did you? Marvellous what they can stitch back on if they get it while it's still hot.'
The builder's emotional turmoil coalesced for a moment into a glance of pure hatred as he demanded, 'What the hell do you want here, Dalziel?'
'Accident. Culpable negligence maybe. That's police business, wouldn't you say? But we know that's not the whole of it, or even the half, don’t we, Mr Swain? We both know what I'm really after is nailing you for topping your missus. Nay, lad. You sit still. No need to get excited. This is just a friendly chat between chums. Yes, we are chums in a way. It's shared intimacies that bind friendships, and there's nowt much more intimate than watching a man blow his wife's head off, is there? All right, screwing her, maybe, but I've never been keen on watching that sort of thing. It either turns you on or it turns you off, and either way's not much help to a busy milkman. So come on, Phil! Between mates, why'd you run your digger over poor old Arnie? I mean, it couldn't be to save Moscow Farm again! You'll have paid off Muncaster Securities by now, I expect. And anyroad, poor old Arnie won't be leaving you a wagonload of dollars, will he? Or had you been forging his signature too perhaps? But what to, for God's sake? By the look of him, if you stuffed every penny he'd got into the poor box, it'd still rattle. Nay, this is all too deep for me. This'll take some plumbing and you know what it's like getting a plumber these days. So I'll need your help, Phil. Tell you what. Why don't we sneak off somewhere and have a pint and you can get it all off your chest, then I'll put you down and you can rest peaceful in your bed till slopping-out time? What do you say?'
It was an avalanche of a speech, meant to sweep Swain off his feet while he was still emotionally off balance. But Eden Thackeray had been right about Swain's temperament. However flawed his long-term judgements, when it came to here and now, he was a downhill racer.
Shaking his head in disbelief, he said, 'You really are mad, Dalziel, it's not just an act. You're right off your trolley.'
'No need to talk like that, lad,' said Dalziel. 'What's up? Can't you take a joke? Is this all the thanks I get for trying to cheer you up while you wait to see if you've killed your mate or not?'
At last he got through, for suddenly Swain was on his feet. But whether his rage had impetus enough to carry through a physical attack was not to be proved for at the moment of truth the door opened and Wield appeared.
He looked at the scene disinterestedly and said, 'Sorry to butt in, sir, but they've brought Mr Stringer back from the theatre.'
'Let's hope he enjoyed the show. How is he?'
'They wrap it up, sir, but as far as I can make out, it's touch and go whether he wakes up before he snuffs it.'
'Bad as that? Hardly seems worth the bother. On the other hand, a man's last words should always be listened to with respect, wouldn't you agree, Mr Swain?'
Swain did not reply but pushed past the two policemen and disappeared down the corridor.
'Any luck there, sir?'
'Hard to say. No visible damage but if you keep pounding away at the ribs, you're bound to sap a bit of their strength. Couple of hours somewhere with no windows and a thick wall and I reckon he'd cave in. But I dare say Mr Pascoe's missus would be sticking Amnesiacs International onto us before I could get a result. Peter, what the hell are you doing here?'
'Didn't Wieldy tell you?' said Pascoe, who was standing peering out of a window into the green and pleasant Infirmary gardens. 'Stringer's in the recovery room and they've let his wife and daughter sit by his bed.'
'And that's where you should be too, lad. Front row stalls! I bet Swain's trying to book his ticket.'
'I saw him a moment ago. He looks terrible, really upset.'
'Aye. I believe he really is,’ said Dalziel. 'Wouldn't you be?'
'If I thought I'd killed a friend? Yes, of course I would.'
'Oh aye? Well, that's one way of looking at it.'
'I can't think of any other,' said Pascoe.
'You can't?' said Dalziel. 'How about if you thought you'd killed an enemy and found out maybe you'd done a botched job? How would you feel then, Detective Chief Inspector?'
CHAPTER SIX
Arnie Stringer opened his eyes for the last time at three o'clock in the afternoon. Though he lay in a sunlit room, for a few moments everything seemed grey and fuzzy. Then like a holiday slide coming into focus, he saw things sharp and clear, his wife and his daughter, dark-eyed and pale; his friend and partner, dry-lipped with worry; and a half-familiar youngish man, his eyes screwed up in mute apology.
It occurred to Stringer that if this were a holiday slide it had been a lousy holiday. His jokes were rare enough for him to want to share this one, but he was aware that he had life-force enough left for only a very few words. His mind seemed to be compensating for his bodily weakness by working at the speed of light and he had already rehearsed a dozen sage and serious family valedictions when it came to him who the stranger was.
Staring straight at Pascoe, he said slowly and distinctly, 'Phil not to blame. God's will. Only helping a friend. Good friend to me.'
And that was it. Time for one last look of . . . affection? exhortation? regret? ... at his wife and daughter, then he let himself slip to his reward, the exact nature of which had always been something of a puzzle to him. He did not doubt it would contain an opportunity for chapel folk to say a big I-told-you-so to the church folk across the way,
