Bones and Silence

'Yes. Rings a bell though . . . beneath these pavements . . .'

'I don't mean the fancy bloody words! I mean, which bloody pavements?'

Pascoe rose and went to the window and looked down. He heard himself saying, 'If Marks went out with Spencer to plant potatoes, he might call that helping a friend.'

Instantly he regretted what might later be classified as persuasion, but to his relief, Dalziel was still shaking his head.

'No! I'd need to be dafter than that mad lass of thine! I'd need a lot more to persuade me, let alone Dan Trimble . . .'

The telephone rang. He picked it up and grunted, 'Yes?' and listened.

Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he said to Pascoe, 'It's George Broomfield. He says Swain's just turned up. Wants to see Trimble but he's out feeding his face at one of them civic lunches that don't finish till tea-time. Swain doesn't seem bothered, though. Says he'll wait.'

'Come to complain?' speculated Pascoe.

'Or to check up,' said Dalziel. With sudden decision he spoke into the phone. 'George, where is he? Right, I want you to do something for me. Ring the Council Works Department and ask if we can borrow a couple of pneumatic drills straightaway. And George, use the phone on the desk and speak up loud and clear like it's a bad line. That's the idea.'

He replaced the receiver.

'What . . . ?' began Pascoe but Dalziel laid his forefinger to his lips.

'Silent prayer,' he said. 'Mebbe God'll send us a sign.'

He folded his arms on the bow-front of his belly.

A minute passed. The phone rang again.

'Yes,' rapped Dalziel.

A slow smile oozed over his lips as he listened, then he said, 'Of course. It's open house up here. Fetch him right up.'

He relapsed once more into a Buddha-like repose.

Two minutes passed. There was a tap at the door.

'Come in,' he said gently.

The door was opened by Sergeant Broomfield who said, 'Mr Swain to see you, sir.'

He stood aside and Swain stepped in. He was elegantly dressed in grey slacks and a royal blue blazer, but his hair was ruffled and his face was pale.

'Superintendent. Mr Pascoe,’ he said.

'Mr Swain,' said Dalziel genially. 'Didn't expect to see you again so soon. What can we do for you?'

Swain took another step forward, waited till Broomfield had pulled the door shut behind him, then said in a voice almost too low to be heard, 'I couldn't keep away. I've come here to confess.'

part seven

Angel: Ilka creature, both old and young; Believe I bid you that you rise; Body and soul with you ye bring, And come before the high justice. For I am sent from heaven king To call you to this great assize.

The York Cycle:

‘The Last Judgment'

 

May 16th

Dear Mr Dalziel,

It's St Brendan's day. Funny that Ireland which produces so much of the mindless violence which has helped me to despair also produced so many saints. The Navigator they call him, because he travelled around so much. Thinking of him reminded me of another watery story I once read, about a poet, Shelley I think, who went out in a rowing-boat with a friend and her young children. Suddenly his eyes lit up and he .said, 'Now let us together solve the great mystery!' Seeing that he was very close to tipping the boat over, the poor terrified woman managed to say sharply, 'No, thank you, not now. I should like my dinner first and so should the children.' And Shelley rowed them back to the shore instead.

Me, I've run out of smart answers, and when there's nothing left inside to cope with the greater nothingness outside, I reckon that's the time to start rocking the boat!

I don't know if what I told you last time was any use. Probably not. It would have been nice to help you solve your little mystery before I solved my Great One. But I don't suppose it matters much to you. Win some, lose some, there's always another one round the corner. Anyway, here's a farewell thought so obvious, you've probably got it painted on your office wall. If I was looking for someone with no talent for hiding, and he couldn't be found in the places he was likely to hide, I'd start looking in the places he was likely to have been hidden. In times of stress we all turn to what we know. A sailor would turn to the sea, a farmer to the earth; and a builder . . . well, we're only lightly covered in buttoned cloth and beneath these pavements are shells, bones and silence.

Good luck with your searching. And you're right not to waste time on me. I'm not hidden, only lost.

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

They took Philip Swain down to the car park. He led the way into the very first garage to have its foundations dug early in February. Here in one corner he drew an oblong on the concrete floor with a piece of chalk.