Bones and Silence

my wheel in the car park. But why all this interest in my whereabouts, Mr Pascoe?'

'Routine, sir.'

'Come on! I'm not an idiot.' He regarded Pascoe reflectively, then suspicion rounded his eyes and his mouth as he exclaimed, 'Oh my God! Those bloody drills . . . have you found. . . not Waterson? Oh Arnie, Arnie. Once he got an idea in his mind . . . And you think I helped him again? Come on, Chief Inspector! I've admitted my part in helping him hide one body, but I assure you I didn't make a habit of it! I am right, aren't I? You have found Waterson?'

Pascoe nodded, never taking his eyes off the man's face.

'Damn, damn, damn! I told you that was what I feared, but I still hoped I'd been wrong about Arnie. Couldn't he see it was in my interest for Waterson to turn up alive and well so he could clear up Gail's death absolutely, once and for all?'

He spoke with a passionate earnestness Pascoe could not fault.

He stood up abruptly and went to tell Dalziel he'd earned ten out of ten for his prognosis.

But in the car park he found the fat man's credit as a clairvoyant was fast running out. A Somme of new trenches serpentined away from Waterson's grave and it was clear that the area which might reasonably have been concreted at the same time was almost exhausted. Trimble's face had smoothed to an emotionless mask more revealing than tic or grimace, and the drillers, sensitive to vibrations stronger than those of their machines, paused and looked inquiringly at Dalziel.

'Keep going,' he said harshly. 'She's here. Peter, how'd you get on?'

Pascoe retailed what Swain had said, loyally stressing the accuracy of Dalziel's prediction. Trimble was not impressed.

'There's still nothing to link Swain with Waterson's death,' he said. 'Not even a good motive. Why on earth should he want to murder a man whose testimony cleared him of any suspicion of complicity in his wife's death?'

'Man who trains fleas needs a big thumb,' said Dalziel.

'I'm sorry?'

'Mr Waterson was a very volatile character,’ said Pascoe, feeling that Dalziel's gnomic utterance required some slight exegesis. 'I think the Super means that, like a photographic negative, he needed to be fixed at a very precise point to preserve the desired result.'

Trimble said, 'I think I'll go inside before I'm tempted to ask any more questions.'

As they watched him walk away, Dalziel said, 'What the fuck were you on about!'

'Same as you, I think.'

'In that case, book me in to see Pottle!'

By six o'clock Pascoe was beginning to wonder if a trip to the psychiatrist mightn't be such a bad idea for Dalziel.

'Sir,' he said diffidently. 'I'm sure you appreciate you're well back into the area that was completed in February?'

'So what?'

'Well, Waterson was last seen on March the first, wasn't he?'

'I know that.'

'So if your theory is the girl was killed at the same time, then wherever she is she can't be . . . there.'

He gestured to where the last bit of concrete was being ripped up in front of the new garages.

'Who said she was killed at the same time?' said Dalziel.

'Well, I just assumed

'Leave assumption to the Virgin Mary,' snapped Dalziel. 'When's the last sight there was of this lass?'

'She moved from Bulmer's Wharf on February the third. She last visited her parents on February the fourteenth. The farmer at Badger Farm reckons there was someone round the boat for most of February ...'

'That peasant! Bugger's too tight to buy a calendar let alone a pair of specs!' interrupted Dalziel.

'Nevertheless. Look, if she is buried here, she must have been killed by either Swain or Stringer. And as you've got back beyond the March level already, she must have been killed in the second half of February. Why, for God's sake? Why?'

'I don't know why,' grated Dalziel. 'All I know is that sod killed his missus, and in my book he's guilty of everything else that happened round here till some cleverer sod than me proves him innocent!'

He was close to running amok, thought Pascoe. He looked desperately for some brake he could apply.

'Then logically you intend digging up everything that was concreted over since Valentine's Day?'

'If that's what it takes,' said Dalziel.

'Even if it means going inside some of the new inspection garages? Mr Trimble's not going to like it.'

'You leave Desperate Dan to me,' said Dalziel. 'He may do the Floral Dance, but it's me who plays the fiddle.'

But at eight o'clock the music came to an abrupt end.

An hour earlier, Swain, who had been remarkably laid back about the whole protracted business, finally summoned his lawyer. Trimble conferred with the man for a while, then came down to talk to his head of CID. He didn't talk long. The drills had gouged random inspection holes in a good sixty per cent of the garage floors. When Dalziel reluctantly admitted they were into concrete laid at least a week before the last reported sighting of Beverley King, Trimble said, 'That's it, Andy.'