Bones and silence, p.6
Bones and Silence, page 6
‘Nothing known about Swain,’ said Wield. ‘But Waterson lost his driving licence last week.’
‘Oh, great,’ mocked Dalziel. ‘That changes everything, that does.’
‘What did he do, Wieldy?’ asked Pascoe defensively.
‘Nowt really. He’d totted up penalty points pretty regularly for motor offences, but a couple of weeks back he got flashed because one of his rear lights was on the blink and he took off like a jet. They picked him up later all apologetic, thought he’d probably be drunk, but he was well inside the limit. So they did him for speeding and that put him over the top.’
‘For crying out loud!’ said Dalziel in exasperation. ‘Can’t either of you contribute owt useful? Peter, what do you reckon to these two?’
‘I’ve not met Waterson,’ Pascoe pointed out. ‘But he sounds … wayward.’
‘Wayward, eh?’ said Dalziel. ‘I’ll make a note. And Swain? Does he sound wayward too?’
‘No, but he sounds a very odd kind of small-time builder.’
‘What? Too educated, you mean? You’d best not let yourself be heard talking like that at home else you’ll be washing your mouth out with carbolic. But I know what you mean. He’s a very odd kind of fellow all round. Has to be if he thinks he can get the better of me! But we’re wasting good drinking time. We’ll have to postpone your celebration, but …’
‘There’s still an hour,’ said Pascoe.
‘Aye, but Wieldy here won’t be with us, will you, Sergeant? He’s got another hospital appointment, if he doesn’t manage to lose this one too. You and me though, Peter, we’ll have a jar and go over these two statements with a fine-tooth comb.’
‘Three statements,’ said Pascoe, crossing his fingers and trying to cross his toes.
‘Three? What do you mean – three?’
Wield took a small step towards the window as if contemplating hurling himself through it when hostilities broke out.
‘There’s Swain’s,’ Dalziel went on. ‘And there’s Waterson’s. What other bugger’s made a statement that needs looking at?’
Pascoe wondered if the window were wide enough for a double defenestration.
He took a deep breath and thought that no matter what they paid chief inspectors, it wasn’t enough.
‘Yours,’ he said. ‘Sir.’
CHAPTER FIVE
The nurses’ annexe at the Infirmary was a nineteen-sixties purpose-built block situated about a furlong from the main building and linked to it by what had once been a pleasant tree-lined walk. Pleasant, that is, in summer and daylight. A series of late-night assaults a decade before had made protection more important than pleasance, and now the pathway was flanked by more lamp standards than trees and corridored in high tensile steel link-fencing.
Wield found Pamela Waterson’s room on the third floor. When she opened the door she regarded him blankly for a second, then said, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ and turned away.
He followed her into the room where she flopped wearily into a chair. Her long blonde hair was loose now, its bright tresses about her face accentuating the dark shadows under her eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I can see you’re very tired.’
‘You don’t have to be a detective to work that out,’ she answered bitterly. ‘I was tired when I came off my last shift two hours late because my relief had a car accident. Then I only managed an hour’s sleep before I was due on again –’
‘Why was that?’ interrupted Wield.
‘Nothing special,’ she said, lighting her third cigarette since his arrival. ‘Life goes on, all the ordinary tedious things that take a few minutes when you’re on top of them. Shopping, paying bills, washing, ironing –’
‘Do you have a family, Mrs Waterson?’ he interrupted again.
‘Do I look like I have a family?’ she said, gesturing around.
Presumably she simply meant that a bedsitter in a nurses’ block was not a place to bring up a family, but Wield seized the opportunity for an open examination of the room.
There was little to be learned from the mainly institutional furniture. On the wall above the bed there was a little wooden crucifix; on another wall above a small bookcase hung a charcoal sketch of a female head whose laughing vitality delayed identification with the weary woman before him. He let his gaze fall to the books. Pascoe laid great store on books as revealers of personality. Mrs Waterson’s choice ran mainly to biography and her taste was wide. There were a couple of Royals, Charles and Earl Mountbatten; several showbiz, including Monroe, Garland, the Beatles and Olivier; one political, Lloyd George; and a scattering of literary, ranging from Byron and Shelley through Emily Brontë and Oscar Wilde to Sylvia Plath and Simone de Beauvoir.
Looking for the meaning of her own life in other people’s patterns was the way Pascoe would probably see it. Dalziel on the other hand would say, ‘Sod the books! Poke about behind them, see what she’s hiding!’
Wield knew all about hiding, knew also that we hide far less than we think. For years he had hidden his true sexual identity behind the dustjacket of a straight, middle-of-the-road, unemotional cop. But when he finally decided to come out, no delicate glowing butterfly emerged. He was still the same old lumpy green caterpillar nibbling systematically at the leaf till the holes joined up and he could see clear to the other side.
He returned now to his nibbling and pointed at the crucifix.
‘You’re a Catholic, are you, Mrs Waterson?’
‘What? Oh, I see. And that means I should be producing every year like a brood mare?’
‘I didn’t say that. But there could be kids who stayed with their dad or went to gran when the bust-up happened.’
‘Well, there weren’t. And what do you know about my bust-up? Who’ve you been talking to? Some tittle-tattle at the hospital? God, if they worked as hard as I do, they’d have no time to gossip!’
She spoke with a fervour which brought colour to her wan cheeks. Wield, who had been trying to apportion the turmoil he discerned here between concern for her work and other causes possibly linked to his investigation, pushed a large emotional counter towards the job.
‘Do you like being a nurse?’ he asked with deliberate fatuity.
‘Like? You mean, is it a vocation? Or, do I go around the wards singing?’
‘Bit of both, I suppose. I mean, you must be good at it. How old are you, twenty-six, twenty-seven? And you’re a ward sister already.’
She laughed and lit another cigarette.
‘I’m twenty-four, Sergeant, and when I came here three years ago, they said I looked sixteen. And as for being a sister, I’m that because these days nurses are coming in in dribs and leaving in droves. Me, I reckon I didn’t have half the experience necessary for it, and sometimes when I’m alone on the ward in the middle of the night and it’s all quiet except for the odd groan and fart, and I can hardly keep my eyes open, I get to thinking that if something happens, some life or death emergency, I’m the one who’ll be making the decisions till they rouse some poor bloody doctor who can probably hardly keep his eyes open either. Then I start shaking, partly with fear and partly with anger, at the sheer unfairness of expecting me to do the job at all.’
How relevant was all this? wondered Wield. It might have something to do with the case in terms of the break-up of the Waterson marriage. Or it might be a deliberate tactic of diversion. But this he doubted. There was too much genuine passion not to mention desperation for this outburst to be tactical.
It was time to get back to the point.
‘So,’ he said, ‘when you came on shift today you were told your husband had been admitted.’
‘Not straight away,’ she said. ‘Not for a couple of hours. It was Dr Marwood who told me.’
‘What was your reaction?’
‘Well, I wanted to know if he was all right, naturally. And when Ellison … Dr Marwood said it was just some kind of nervous tension and he’d been sedated but seemed fine this morning, I got worried in case it had something to do with me.’
‘Would that have surprised you?’
She thought about this, then said, ‘Yes, it would. He could get very emotional, Greg, you know, fly off the handle, have a fit of what they’d call hysterics in a woman. But it was always at something specific. Often it was completely illogical, but there had to be something, not just sitting at home brooding about things that had happened. And in any case, I doubt if he did much brooding about what had happened to us.’
‘What had happened to you, Mrs Waterson?’ asked Wield.
‘I don’t see that that has anything to do with you,’ she retorted. ‘Look, what you’re here for is to find if I can help you track down Greg, right? Well, I can’t. I walked out on him three weeks ago and till this morning I’d not seen him since.’
‘Mrs Waterson, when I arrived this morning, you didn’t look like, well, like a woman separated from her husband.’
‘Because I was letting him kiss me and feel me up?’
‘That’s right.’
She smiled and drew on her cigarette, both with visible effort.
‘Sergeant, I went to see him in my break. I was exhausted. You can’t imagine what a relief it was to talk to someone who wasn’t talking to me professionally. And when he got hold of me, well, at least he wasn’t grabbing at me to complain about a pain or ask for a bedpan. It was nice and soothing when he started stroking me, like a massage. Oh yes, when you arrived I probably looked as if I was ready to get into bed with him, and I was. But not to make love, just to sleep … sleep … sleep …’
She leaned back and closed her eyes. Wield felt very sorry for her but not so sorry that he was going to return to Dalziel with questions unasked.
He said, ‘What did you and your husband talk about this morning?’
She opened her eyes with difficulty and looked at him blankly.
‘What did he say about the reasons for him being there?’ he pressed.
‘What makes you think he said anything?’ she evaded.
‘Well, so far you’ve not asked me a single question about it, luv,’ he said. ‘And that sounds like a lack of curiosity which could be a record.’
‘You’re not daft,’ she said wearily. ‘All right. He told me everything. He’d written it all down. Did he not show it to you? Why’d that fat bobby, Dalziel, not come himself?’
That fat bobby. Wield liked it. But Waterson hadn’t mentioned Dalziel in his written statement. Significant?
‘Do you know Mr Dalziel?’ he asked.
‘I’ve seen him, naturally. He doesn’t bother much with curtains. And everyone roundabout talks about him. He’s what you call a character, I suppose.’
‘I suppose he is,’ said Wield. ‘Did you believe your husband’s statement, Mrs Waterson?’
‘Of course, no problem. Things fall apart around him, always have done. Give him a pencil and he’ll draw you a near-on perfect circle. But I’ve known him cut his finger spreading butter and he can break a cup just stirring his tea. Put him and a gun in the same room and someone’s almost bound to get hurt. Story of his life.’
She yawned widely. He wasn’t going to be able to keep this interview going much longer. There were more ways of escape than decamping.
‘Did you know he was having an affair with Mrs Swain?’ he asked.
‘Not specifically,’ she said, standing up and moving slowly towards the narrow bed which occupied one corner of the room. ‘But I know all about her, all that matters, I mean.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means she’d be slim, with long legs, good figure, blonde hair. Names don’t matter. I sometimes doubt if Greg knows their names. He’s like a little boy in a sweet shop. He just points at the lemon popsicles, and because he’s such a charming little boy, he usually gets what he’s pointing at.’
As she spoke, she loosened her skirt, stepped out of it, and began to unbutton her blouse. There was nothing seductive or suggestive in the action even if Wield had been seducible or suggestible in that direction. She was on automatic pilot, preparing for crashdown. Wield did notice, however, that she fitted her husband’s blueprint very well.
‘Was it because of the women you left him?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Not just the women.’
‘What, then?’ he asked, wondering if sleep or her answer would break the tape first. It was a close-run thing.
‘… it was like … going home … to another shift … and it was always … Saturday night … on casualty …’ she said. Then she slipped onto the bed with one arm still in her blouse and was instantly asleep.
Wield stood looking at her for a while. His two exemplars came into his mind. First he did what Pascoe would have done, eased her arm out of the blouse sleeve and folded the duvet gently over her body.
Then he did what Dalziel would have done and started to search the room.
CHAPTER SIX
Down at the Black Bull, Dalziel was trying to change the subject.
‘Did you have a look at them letters?’ he interrupted.
‘Which letters?’ said Pascoe.
‘From that barmy woman. I put ’em on your desk. Surely you’ve had time to read a couple of letters?’
Pascoe sighed, recalling the small alp of files which had reared out of his in-tray that morning. In fact he had read the letters, if only for their relative lack of bulk.
‘Yes, I saw them. Very interesting. Now about your statement …’
Having grasped the nettle, and also having paid for the first two rounds despite the official postponement of his celebration, Pascoe was determined not to let go.
‘I just said what I saw, lad.’
‘Which was Swain holding the gun. Then Water-son making a grab for him. Then the gun went off?’
‘I heard the gun going off, didn’t see it,’ corrected Dalziel. ‘Now, about them letters, I’d like your opinion, you being such a clever sod.’
‘Yes, sir. You’re sure about the sequence?’
‘Of course I’m bloody sure!’
‘Then Waterson must be covering up for Swain?’
‘See? I was right. You are a clever sod,’ said Dalziel, finishing his second pint. ‘All we’ve got to do is find the bugger, kick some sense into him, and I get to stay flavour of the month. Now, these letters …’
Pascoe gave up. For the time being.
‘What’s your interest, sir?’ he asked. ‘She says she’ll not be writing again.’
‘She’ll write again, never fear,’ growled Dalziel. ‘Then she’ll top herself, and I don’t want any bugger saying we did bugger-all. So get something down on paper, pass the buck to social services, the Samaritans, anyone so long as we look squeaky clean to the coroner. Here come our hot pies. I’ll have another pint to wash the taste away when you’re ready.’
‘I thought it was a rise in salary I was getting,’ said Pascoe, nursing his half full glass. ‘I didn’t realize it was an entertainment allowance.’
Dalziel thought this so funny he choked on his pie and, his own glass being empty, he finished Pascoe’s.
‘That’s better,’ he gasped. ‘And I see you’re ready now, so how about them drinks?’
It’s pinpricks not principles that engender treason. As Pascoe put the foaming pint before his chief he said casually, ‘Talking of free booze, there’ll be some going on Sunday evening if you’re interested. A little reception at the Kemble in connection with these Mystery Plays they’re putting on in the summer. Ellie’s a mate of Eileen Chung’s and she said they’re keen to have some police liaison. These theatricals pour the plonk like there’s no tomorrow and I don’t see why those blighters in traffic should enjoy all the freebies, so I’ve fixed for us to get invited.’
‘Good thinking, lad. They can come in later and do the work! Chung, eh? I’ve seen her and I’ve heard a lot about her but we’ve never actually met. I’d like that. I think the arts deserve every thinking citizen’s support.’
He squinted over his glass to catch Pascoe’s reaction, then he added, ‘And I’ve always been partial to a bit of dusky chuff,’ and laughed so much he started coughing again.
Back at the station the laughter stopped when Dalziel found the full post-mortem report on Gail Swain on his desk. It confirmed the cause of death as massive brain damage from the .357 Magnum cartridge which had been recovered from Waterson’s converted attic after bursting its way through from the bedroom below. Blood alcohol was present at the level of 155 milligrams per 100 millilitres, which meant, as Dalziel observed, that she was well pissed. Remains of what the pathologist designated as an exotic meal, probably Chinese or Indian, were found in her stomach. She was a heavy smoker, had had her appendix removed, had sustained a fracture of her left tibia not less than three years before, had had no children, and had had sex a couple of hours before her death.
She was also a heroin user.
Dalziel threw back his head and bellowed, ‘Seymour!’
Thirty seconds later a broad-shouldered redhead peered anxiously through the door. Detective-Constable Dennis Seymour’s ear was not refined enough to distinguish furioso from simple fortissimo so he always anticipated the worst.
‘Had a good poke around Swain’s house, did you?’ said Dalziel.
‘Yes, sir. Report’s on your desk, sir.’
‘I’ve read it. It’s not a bad report far as it goes. But I couldn’t see owt in it about drugs.’
‘Drugs?’ Seymour’s good-looking face went rigid with alarm. ‘I wasn’t told to look for drugs, sir.’
‘You weren’t told to look for Barbary apes either, but I dare say if you’d found a pair fornicating on the kitchen floor, you might have mentioned them!’
‘What I meant, sir, was I saw no sign of drugs.’
‘Oh aye? Checked every bottle in the bathroom cabinet, did we? Stuck your finger in every tin and jar in the kitchen and had a lick?’
Seymour shook his head. He looked so contrite that Dalziel, who was not above admitting an injustice once it had served its turn, said, ‘Not your fault, lad. You weren’t told. Though the way to get on is to do things you’re not told, as long as they’re not things you’ve been told not to, except if you know for sure they need doing. Ask Mr Pascoe to step in here a moment, will you?’
