Bones & Silence (15 page)

He stood up and winced. His leg tended to stiffen up if he forgot to keep it moving.

Pottle said, 'How is it, being back in harness?'

Pascoe had been treated at the Central and Pottle had visited his sick-bed on a couple of occasions.

'I'm not sure yet. Sometimes it's like I've never been away. Then the leg creaks. Or the mind.'

'You came close to death,' said Pottle. 'You shouldn't forget it.'

'I doubt if I'll do that,' said Pascoe wryly.

'I mean, don't try to forget it. For your own sake. Also, it could help you helping others. This Dark Lady of yours, for instance. You may know more about her kind of darkness than you imagine.'

Pascoe frowned at this uncomfortable thought.

He said, 'I do wonder, have we got a right to interfere?'

'Perhaps not,' said Pottle. 'But when someone challenges you to a game, you've got a right to play. And if you've got a right to play, you've got a right to win!'

CHAPTER THREE

There is a pleasure in keeping a secret, and an equal if opposite pleasure in passing one on. But there are few things more annoying than to find that the secret you have nursed in your bosom beyond reach of nudge or wink is common currency.

As Pascoe left the station that evening, George Broomfield fell into step beside him and said, 'Is it right then he's going to do it?'

He rolled his eyes expressively upwards. The mime was ambiguous but there was a quality or perhaps quantity of
he
which identified the man beyond reasonable doubt.

'A desk job, you mean? They'd have to nail him to it!' laughed Pascoe.

'No. I mean God. Haven't you heard the rumour? They say he's to be God in these Mysteries!'

Broomfield spoke with the hopeful incredulity of a curate who's just heard his bishop's been nicked in a brothel.

'Where'd you hear that?' asked Pascoe in amazement. It was only the previous Sunday that he'd lured Dalziel within Lorelei distance of Chung.

'It's all over. I got it from this lass who works in Mr Trimble's office. I was sure you'd have heard, being so close.'

'Sorry, George. Can't help you. Excuse me, there's someone over there I want a word with.'

He walked away, annoyed at what he'd heard and annoyed also that his abruptness might have fuelled the rumour. There was no real reason why he should speak with the young woman who'd just come out of the road leading to the still unusable official car park, but he had to go through the motions in case Broomfield was watching.

'Hello, Mrs Appleyard,' he said. 'How did Jane Eyre end up?'

'Like a guide dog, fetching and carrying for master. I thought you said it had a happy ending!'

'It's been a long time since I read it,' evaded Pascoe. 'I saw you at the Kemble the other night.'

'You were there? That figures. What do they say? Where there's booze there's bobbies.'

This slur provoked Pascoe to an untypical discourtesy.

'I hadn't got you down as a Bible-puncher,' he said.

'No? You know a lot about me, do you?'

'Only what you've volunteered. And I understood you to hint that you weren't in sympathy with your father's fundamentalism.'

'Is that what I said?' She paused as if examining the justice of his claim, then nodded and went on, 'Well, likely I did, cos I'm not.'

'Then why . . . ?'

'Because I couldn't let Mam go along alone. She believes the same as him. Leastways, she's long since given up trying to think any other way. But she's not built to go shouting the odds in public, she'd much rather sit quiet at home and be a bother to no one. I can't stop her going when he gives the command, but I can go along with her to make sure he doesn't push her too far.'

'I see. And the banner?'

'Oh, that. Mam was right, I were always good at that sort of thing. Could have gone to art school if . . . well, anyroad, I knew if I didn't do something half decent, Dad would likely turn up with a raggedy bit of hardboard with STUFF THE POPE scrawled on it in whitewash!'

Pascoe laughed, then asked, 'Did your father accept Chung's invitation?'

'Yes, he did. I went too. He'd have dragged Mam along else.'

This time her claim to the protection motive didn't ring quite true.

'And what happened?'

'She were great,' said the girl with simple admiration. 'She sat him down and just talked about these Mysteries, how there was nothing papish about them, how in fact they were the way ordinary folk took religion away from the priests and put it in their own language. She talked really straight, she didn't try to make him look ignorant or owt like that, and when he spoke, she really listened like what he said was important. She were really great.'

Pascoe smiled inwardly. No need to tell him what tunes the enchantress played.

'And did she have anything to say to you?' he asked.

'A bit. Dad had to get back here, and we chatted on a while longer. She asked if I'd like to do a poster for the Mysteries. I said I might.'

'Would your father approve?' he asked provocatively.

'What's that got to do with it? Anyroad, he went off happy enough,' she said with the scorn one convert often feels for another. 'And I'd best be off now. I just came to deliver the lads' wages and I've got a lot of shopping to do while Dad dishes them out.'

Pascoe frowned. 'Do they get paid in cash?'

'When they're not being paid in promises. What's it to you anyway?' she added aggressively as if compensating for her indiscretion.

'Young women picking up wage money from a bank make easy targets,' said Pascoe. 'What did you mean, promise?'

'Nowt. There was a cash-flow problem, but it's been sorted.'

Pascoe decided it was time for a little blunt poking, Dalziel-fashion.

'Because of Mrs Swain's death, you mean? But it'll be a while yet before her will can be proved.'

'Mebbe so. But the bank must reckon it's going to be OK.'

'And what do you reckon, Mrs Appleyard?' he asked.

'Nowt to do with me,’ she said indifferently. 'But he's walking around loose, isn't he, so it doesn't seem like you're going to charge him with anything serious.'

She was looking over his shoulder as she spoke and all her previous animation had left her face. Pascoe turned and saw that Stringer and Swain had come together out of the car park and were standing deep in conversation. Swain patted Stringer apparently reassuringly on the arm and walked away. Stringer watched him go, then turned to re-enter the car park. Only now did he spot his daughter.

He came towards them.

"Evening, Mr Stringer,' said Pascoe.

He got a nod in reply, then the man said to the girl, 'You ready, then? Let's be off. Can't expect your mam to take care of the boy all night too.'

So there was a child. And the husband?

She said, 'I told you. I've got some shopping to do.'

'Have you not done it yet? God, it must be grand being able to waste your life chatting at street corners.'

His hard blue-eyed stare left no doubt he included Pascoe in this censure.

His daughter said, 'I'll not be a minute,' and set off along the pavement.

'I gather I'll soon be able to have my parking spot back,' said Pascoe pleasantly.

'What? Oh aye. We're near on done.'

'And after that? Got anything lined up while the weather lasts?'

For some reason this seemed to irritate Stringer.

'I'm not a bloody brickie on the lump!' he said. 'I'm a partner.'

'Even so, you still need work to make profits.'

'We'll get by. What's it to do wi' you, anyroad?'

'Just polite sympathetic interest, Mr Stringer.'

'Police nosiness, you mean. And you can stuff your sympathy. I've always taken care of me own without any help.'

'I'm sure. You must be proud of your grandson. How old is he now?'

'Near on two,' said Stringer. 'He's a fair enough kiddie.'

Pascoe guessed this was as near a boast as the man could get.

'Takes after his grandad, does he?' he said, hoping to encourage the thaw. He certainly got instant heat.

'He'd better not take after his dad, that's for sure!'

'I'm sorry? His father ... is he ... ?'

'Is he what?' demanded Stringer.

'I don't know. Dead perhaps?'

'Dead? What the hell makes you say that?' said Stringer angrily.

'Mr Stringer,' said Pascoe acidly. 'Clearly you feel there is something undesirable about your son-in-law. If you care to explain what, perhaps I will be able to avoid giving you offence.'

Rather to his surprise, his appeal got a positive response, even if it was rather oblique.

'It's a sick world we live in,' said Stringer with the intonation of authority rather than opinion.

'It's certainly a curate's egg-shaped world,' agreed Pascoe. 'But in what particular respect do you detect this sickness?'

'Everything! If it wasn't so sick, why should God have sent things like Aids and drugs to punish the wicked?'

Pascoe groaned inwardly. He'd forgotten Stringer was something of a religious nut, and religious nuttiness was his one conversational no-go area.

'As punishments, they seem to get doled out pretty indiscriminately,' he suggested. 'But I suppose we all have our work to do, even God. I certainly have. Good night, Mr Stringer.'

But he was not to escape so easily. The builder grabbed his arm and said, 'You asked about my son-in-law, mister. Do you not want an answer?'

'No, really, I'm sorry. It's none of my business

'Aye, you're right there. But I'll tell you anyway,' said Stringer. 'And it'll mebbe stop you bothering other folk with nosey questions. This Tony Appleyard, he put my lass in the club three years back. I'd never heard of him till then. She were still at school, a really bright lass, she could have made something of herself, then this nasty little sod . . . Well, it had to be sorted. He wanted her to have an abortion, but that's murder in my book. And in hers too, I'm glad to say. So I had a quiet word with him. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. You come from a country family like me, you know that there's plenty of marriages start with getting caught, not getting wed, and most on 'em turn out all right in the end. They didn't want to get wed, mark you. Said it didn't matter these days, but I said it mattered to me and it mattered to God. And it'll matter to the kiddie when it gets older. So they got wed.'

He paused. Pascoe said, 'And did it work out?'

'Don't make me laugh!' instructed the man unnecessarily. 'That feckless bugger? A fitter he called himself. Fit for sod-all, that's what he were! He worked at Atlas Tayler's but he got laid off when the Yanks pulled out. I could have fixed him up with a labouring job in the firm, but oh no, he wanted his trade, he said. And in the end he set off south looking for work. Well, he found something, by all reports, making good money, at least good enough for him to live the life of Riley by himself with no thought of sending owt back for his wife and kiddie.'

'You mean he's not come back to see them?' said Pascoe.

'Come back? Why should a useless bastard like that come back unless it were to bring more trouble with him?' exclaimed Stringer. 'I even went looking for him not long back, but he must have got wind of it, for he'd moved on without any forwarding address. Well, I tell you, he'll not have moved far enough for me!'

'And what about Shirley?' asked Pascoe, taken aback by the force of the man's emotion. 'What does she feel about all this? How's it affected her?'

'If you'd known her a few years back, you'd not need to ask that,' said Stringer. 'Here, take a look.'

From his wallet he took a colour snapshot. It was a picture of Stringer and a girl of twelve or thirteen, sitting together at a small folding table under a striped canvas awning. They were both smiling widely at the camera. The girl wasn't beautiful, but she was fresh-faced, vital, carefree, and it took a long hard stare to discern in this child the lineaments of Shirley Appleyard.

Her father was much more recognizable, but the passing of those years had stamped a mark of pain and anger and bafflement on his features too.

'Lovely girl,' said Pascoe.

He didn't mean it to sound past tense, but that's how Stringer heard it.

'Yes, she were,' he said, half to himself. 'Lovely girl. Everyone said so. And she reckoned there was no one like her dad. Went everywhere with me, told me everything. Then it all started to change. Like milk going sour. Gradual at first, everything looks the same . . . but in the end, it's not to be hid! You got any kids, mister?'

'One. A girl.'

'Then you'll likely understand.'

Understand what? wondered Pascoe as he drove home. Stringer did not strike him as a man for whom a trouble shared was a trouble halved. But as he read Rosie her bedtime story, he found himself speculating how he would feel about anyone who mucked up his daughter's life, and he did not find much comfort in the speculation.

He went downstairs to find Ellie at the dining-room table surrounded by the files and papers she'd started gathering as a result of her election as Chung's unpaid PRO. They exchanged smiles, then he wandered into the lounge and poured himself a drink. He knew there was a chat show on the television he usually liked to watch but he couldn't be bothered to switch it on tonight. Suddenly Ellie slipped on to the arm of his chair and rested her elbow on his shoulder.

'You look glum,' she said. 'Something bothering you?'

'No. Just life.'

'In that case, stop worrying. In the end it cures itself, they tell me.'

'That's on the National Health,' he said. 'Some people go private and jump the queue.'

'I'm sorry? What's this? My mystery for tonight?'

'No. There's this woman, Gail Swain, blew her head off. At least that's how it looks to me. And there's this other woman who's been writing to Dalziel saying she's going to kill herself.'

'Good lord. You never mentioned this before.'

'No. Well, she stopped and it seemed to be all over, then she just started again,' he said lamely.

'I see. Why Dalziel? And if Dalziel, how you?'