An April Shroud (17 page)

Dalziel shrugged indifferently.

'Your case, Sergeant. You ask what you want to know. Me, I'm just a tourist. Well, I won't keep you from your chickens. A tip-off, is it?'

Cross nodded.

'There's been a lot about and I've been told this battery's to be cleared out this week. I'll give it one more night.'

'It'll be tomorrow,' said Dalziel maliciously. 'Good hunting.'

He returned to the sitting-room. Louisa and Mavis had joined the others, but there was no sign of Bonnie. The two girls were looking down at Arkwright.

'Is he the sole survivor?' asked Dalziel.

Louisa nodded.

'The others left shortly before you and Bonnie reappeared,' she said. 'I think they got hungry. Also Herrie made it clear that he was fed up of listening to Abbott and Costello.'

'It wasn't very kind of Penitent to abandon
him
,' said Dalziel indicating the snoring Negro.

'What shall we do with him?' asked Tillotson. 'We can't just let him lie there all night.'

'Are you going to give him your bed then?' mocked Bertie.

'Stick him in Mrs Greave's room,' said Dalziel. 'She won't be back.'

'And of course the servants' quarters are the proper place for a black man,' said Bertie. He looked healthier now and his nastiness was returning.

'A bed's a bed,' said Dalziel, refusing to be drawn.

'A liberal policeman! But suppose it was your sister's bed, Dalziel. What then?'

'Personally,' said Dalziel, 'I wouldn't envy a randy billy goat getting into my sister's bed. Come on, sunshine. Charley boy, give us a hand.'

Together he and Tillotson lifted Arkwright from his tape-recorder and carried him, feet trailing, down the corridor to Mrs Greave's room where they dumped him on the bed, removed his tie and shoes and covered him with a patchwork quilt. Then at Tillotson's suggestion, they retired to the kitchen where the young man brewed a pot of coffee at the expense of only one cup and a few minor burns.

Dalziel glanced at his watch. It was still early, just a quarter past nine, but he found himself yawning.

'Tired?' said Tillotson sympathetically, pouring the coffee.

'A bit,' said Dalziel. 'It's been a hard day. Or a day of surprises, and that's always hard. You don't care much for surprises when you're getting on.'

'I don't like surprises either,' said Tillotson sadly.

'No? Well, you're young enough to take things in your stride anyway. How much cash have you got in this business?'

'A few hundred,' said Tillotson. 'Not much, but all I possess.'

'That's enough. All you possess is quite enough,' said Dalziel 'What's your standing?'

'I'm sorry?'

'I mean, what's the deal? Is it shares? Or a partnership agreement? What kind of investment have you made?'

'Does it matter?' asked Tillotson.

Dalziel rolled his eyes and scratched the skin around his Adam's apple.

'Look,' he said, 'love's one thing but business is another. Of course it matters. One way you can just lose your investment if the thing folds. Another way, though, you can be held partly responsible if the thing goes bankrupt which might mean you having to find more cash. You follow? It depends what you signed.'

'Oh, I didn't sign anything,' said Tillotson. 'I just made out a cheque to Conrad, Mr Fielding that is.'

'That was,' said Dalziel. 'Well, so much for the fatherly advice. If you're ever in the market for a used car, give us a ring.'

Shaking his bull-like head, he drank his coffee. It was truly awful but something in Tillotson touched off a non-habitual response of kindness and he said nothing. They talked in a desultory fashion for nearly half an hour before Dalziel yawned again and said he would take a turn in the fresh air before heading for bed.

After checking that Papworth had still not returned he left the house and strolled down to the water's edge to smoke a cigarette and think. The flood level had perceptibly dropped, for the wooden slats of the landing-stage were now quite clear of the surface. He took a couple of tentative paces along the stage, then halted for the treads were not only still greasy from their long submersion, but in addition he felt them give under his considerable bulk. Indeed, at the end of the landing-stage there was a gap, just perceptible in the dim light, where the treads seemed to have fallen away altogether.

The waters of the swollen lake stretched away before him, stirred by a light wind so that small waves slapped against the recovered row-boat and the duck punt. They were moored together by the landing-stage, and occasionally in their rising and falling touched with a dull noise like distant artillery. Above, the cloud cover was broken now and the clustered stars shone through the uneven rents. Dalziel regarded them for a while, then looked away. There was something too much of the tribunal about the unblinking clarity of their regard to ease his mind. He had once promised a recalcitrant suspect justice if he co-operated.
Any cunt can get justice,
the man had answered.
Me. I want mercy.
He had got seven years. If, speculated Dalziel, instead of putting 'em away in prison, they could transfer the years from the criminal's life to the arresting officer's, I'd be nigh on bloody immortal!

All those years, his mind ran on. All those years for all those men. And for all those men guarding them. And for all those men chasing them and catching them and prosecuting them and condemning them. There were more stars, so they said, than could be counted. And in the end unless something strange and unbelievable happened to mankind, all those years too would add up beyond the reckoning of any human mind.

His mind was running on like a tuppenny novel. Such speculations were not for detective superintendents of the old school no matter how many sleepless nights they had had and no matter how many women proved to be as unreliable as the first. Eyes to the ground finds you sixpences. Cautiously but steadfastly he advanced along the landing-stage till he reached the gap left by the missing treads. In fact they weren't missing, but broken, their jagged edges sunk into the water.

Dalziel didn't move but stood quite still peering through the gap. There was just enough light to make out the surface of the water, dully shining and touched with little swirls of rainbow. The wind gusted, the small waves slapped, the boats came together. And rising to the surface as though drawn by a line from Dalziel's unblinking stare came a face.

Dalziel regarded it without surprise. Ever since he first looked on these floods he had been waiting for a body. The face began to sink again but he thrust his hands quickly into the chill water, grasped the sodden collar and hauled the upper part of the torso clear of the lake.

The features had not been long enough immersed for identification to be difficult. It was Spinx, the insurance investigator.

'Hello sailor,' said Dalziel.

12

A View in the Morning

'All right, so it's accidental death!' said Cross.

'I didn't say that,' said Dalziel.

'Well, what do you say, sir?'

'You've had as good a look at the scene as I have. Those boards
were
rotten; there's a mark on his head where he
could
have banged it against the main support as he fell and there's traces of what
might
be blood on the edge of the support. You'll just have to wait for the p.m. and the lab reports.'

'I know all that,' said Cross. 'But it's a question of what I
do now.
I mean, there's all these other features . . .'

'Such as?'

'Well, the Greave woman for instance. And Mr Fielding's death so recently. Lots of odd things, sir. I'm asking for your advice.'

'My advice,' said Dalziel, 'is to do what you would have done if I hadn't been here. Personally, and this isn't advice, just me thinking out loud, I'd put a tarpaulin over one end of that landing-stage and a copper at the other and bugger off back to my chickens.'

Cross looked at him undecided, then the telephone rang inside the house. A moment later Bonnie appeared at the front door and said, 'Sergeant Cross, it's for you.'

Cross went inside. Dalziel lit a cigarette absently. It was about the twentieth he had lit absently in the past couple of hours. He was becoming quite adept at doing absently those things which he ought not to be doing at all.

‘It's been a hell of a day,' said Bonnie wearily.

'Yes,' he answered.

'We could stop the best bit being spoiled,' she said after a pause.

'Oh. How's that?'

'I don't know, just by not letting it, I suppose. I saw your face earlier, Andy. You seem to think that for some reason I went to bed with you because you're a policeman. I mean, just think about it! What kind of reason would that be?'

'Not much of a reason,' he agreed.

'Well then.'

'Listen, love,' he said brutally. 'You put your husband in the earth yesterday. That's it,
yesterday.
And you met me yesterday. And you climbed into bed with me today. Now, whether you did it to keep yourself warm or whether you did it to stop me getting warm, I don't know. But I'm old enough, and wise enough, and I'm fat enough to know you didn't do it for my bonny blue eyes and my fascinating conversation.'

He hadn't meant to get angry but by the time he finished he felt anger creeping into his speech.

He threw his unfinished cigarette to the ground and screwed his heel viciously on the red cinder. When he looked at Bonnie again, to his surprise she was regarding him with a half smile on her face.

'I don't know why I did it,' she said. 'But one thing I do know. All my men have started by being able to make me laugh.'

'Mebbe so,' said Dalziel. 'But none of 'em found much to laugh about at the finish, did they?'

The front door opened and Cross reappeared.

'Bugger it!' he said.

'Sergeant
,' said Dalziel sternly in his best low church voice.

'Sorry, Mrs Fielding,' apologized Cross to Bonnie whose smile broadened. 'Well, sir. I needn't worry about those chickens any longer. They've gone. The whole bloody lot! Sorry.'

'I'll leave you to swear in peace,' said Bonnie. 'Herrie's gone to bed so if you want to use the sitting-room, you won't be assaulted.'

She went inside.

'Nice woman,' said Cross diffidently. 'Pity about all this.'

'Yes,' said Dalziel. 'Well, what's it to be?'

Cross shrugged.

‘It looks like an accident and I hope it's an accident. Either way, it'll keep till morning.' He yawned prodigiously. 'One thing, with those chickens gone, I might get some sleep this night.'

'I'll fix you up with something to give you sweet dreams,' said Dalziel, ushering Cross into the house. 'I could do with a nightcap myself.'

It wasn't true. He had drunk enough that day and there was nothing more drink could do for him. But anything which put another activity between now and bed was welcome.

It was nearly two hours before Cross managed to drag himself away. After he had gone Dalziel sat alone in the half-lit room and whistled an idiosyncratic version of Sousa's 'Washington Post' as, for the want of anything better to do, he thumbed through the books on Fielding's table. They were the old man's works.

Dalziel ignored the poetry but examined the fly-leaf and the prelims. First editions with autograph, they might be worth a few quid. He was as far from being a bibliophile as a man can get who has received the corrosive imprint of a Western European education, but it was his business to know what was worth stealing, what not. He weighed the books in his broad palm. Little enough for a life's work, he thought. Some uncharacteristic dramatic impulse made him hold out his other palm, empty.

Carefully he replaced the books. They held no attraction for him, either as objects or vehicles. Pascoe would care for them, he thought. Or Ellie. His new wife. With whom he was now cosily cocooned in some hotel bed. Inspector Peter Pascoe with a new wife by his side and all before him. Pascoe, who was as different from himself as chalk from cheese, who would go further than Dalziel's daftest dreams had even taken him, but who could also come to this, sitting alone in a darkling room full of drink and fear.

'Bugger this!' said Dalziel standing up. 'I'm going weird!'

He switched off the reading lamp which dropped a cone of light on to the table and stood for a moment to let his eyes grow accustomed to the dark. As he opened the door into the hall he heard the noise of a car on the gravel drive outside and froze. A moment later the front door clicked open and someone entered. Dalziel retreated into the sitting-room and waited. The hall light went on and through the still open door Dalziel saw Uniff, wearing a belted suede jacket and carrying a black briefcase. His beard and his manner, controlled but stealthy, added to the overall impression he gave of a Balkan anarchist, up to no good. He closed and bolted the front door, looked round as though to get his bearings, switched off the light and began a careful ascent of the stairs.

Dalziel gave him five minutes, during which time he turned his formidably experienced detective's brain to the puzzles of this household and advanced not a jot. Then he too tiptoed cautiously up the stairs. As he opened his bedroom door with equal care, he suddenly realized that there existed in his mind a hitherto unformulated expectation that Bonnie would be waiting for him. But the room was empty and he was able to smile cynically at his own ambivalence. Quickly he undressed and went into the bathroom. He did not switch on the light but looked in some perplexity at the door to Bonnie's room. Was it open or locked? Which did he want, and either way what would he do?

Nothing was the answer. He would of course do nothing. But still he wondered, and his hand was actually on the door knob when he heard the voices. They were speaking so low that even with an ear pressed hard against the woodwork, there was no chance of picking out words. But he could make out that there were two voices - a man's and a woman's.