The transfer of the weapon released the younger man's tongue. He screamed, 'She's dead! She's dead! It's your fault, you bastard! You killed her!'
'Oh God,' said Swain. 'She was trying to kill herself... I had to stop her, Waterson . . . the gun went off. . . Waterson, you saw what happened. . . are you sure she's dead?'
Dalziel glanced at the man called Waterson, but cataplexy seemed to have reasserted its hold. He turned his attention to the woman. She had been shot at very close range. The gun he judged had been held under her chin. It was a powerful weapon, no doubt about that. The bullet had destroyed much of her face, removed the top of her head and still had force enough to blow a considerable hole in the ceiling. The last oozings of blood and brains dripped quietly from her long blonde hair to the carpeted floor.
'Oh yes,' said Dalziel. 'She's dead all right.'
Interestingly his stomach was feeling much calmer now. Could it be the running that had done it? Mebbe he should take up jogging. On second thoughts, it would be simpler just to avoid mineral water in future.
'What happens now, Superintendent?' asked Swain in a low voice.
Dalziel turned back to him and studied his pale narrow face. It occurred to him he didn't like the man, that on the couple of occasions he'd noticed him around the car park with his ginger-polled partner, he'd felt they were a right matching pair of Doctor Fells.
There are few things more pleasant than the coincidence of prejudice and duty.
'Impatient are we, sunshine?' he said amicably. 'What happens now is, you're nicked!'
part two
Adam: Alas what have I done? For shame! Ill counsel, woe worth thee! Ah Eve, thou art to blame; To this enticed thou me.
The York Cycle:
'The Fall of Man'
February 14th
Dear Mr Dalziel,
I want to say I'm sorry. I was wrong to try to involve a stranger in my problems, even someone whose job it is to track down wrongdoers. So please accept this apology and forget I ever wrote.
In case you're wondering, this doesn't mean I've changed my mind, only that next time I feel in need of an untroubled and untroubling confidant, I'll ring the Speaking Clock! That might not be such a bad idea either. Time's the great enemy. You look back and you can just about see the last time you were happy. And you look ahead and you can't even imagine the next time. You try to see the point of it all in a world so full of self-inflicted pain, and all you can see are the pointless moments piling up behind you. Perhaps counting them is the point. Perhaps the best thing I can do with time is to sit listening to the Speaking Clock, counting off the seconds till I reach the magic number where the counting finally stops.
I'm growing morbid and I don't want to leave you with a nasty taste, though I'm sure a pint of beer would wash it away. I'm writing this on St Valentine's Day, the feast of lovers. You probably won't get it till St Julianna's day. All I know about her was she specialized in being a virgin and had a long chat with the Devil! Which do you prefer? Silly question. You may be a bit different from other men but you can't be all that different! So forget Julianna. And forget me too.
Your valedictory Valentine
CHAPTER ONE
Peter Pascoe's return to work was not the triumphal progress of his fantasies. First he found his parking spot occupied by a heap of sand. For a fraction of time too short to be measured but long enough to excoriate a nerve or two, he read a symbolic message here. But his mind had already registered that the whole of this side of the car park was rendered unusable by a scatter of breeze blocks, hard core, cement bags, and a concrete mixer.
Behind him a horn peeped impatiently. It was an old blue pick-up, squatting low on its axles. Pascoe got out of his car and viewed the scene before him. Once there had been a wall here separating the police car park from the old garden which had somehow clung on behind the neighbouring coroner's court. There'd been a tiny lawn, a tangle of shrubbery, and a weary chestnut which used to lean over the wall and drop sticky exudations on any vehicle rash enough to park beneath. Now all was gone and out of a desert of new concrete reared a range of unfinished buildings.
The pick-up's peep became a blast. Pascoe walked towards it. The window wound down and a gingerhead, grizzling at the tips, emerged above a legend reading SWAIN & STRINGER Builders, Moscow Farm, Currthwaite. Tel. 33809.
'Come on,' said the ginger pate, 'some of us have got work to do.'
'Is that right? I'm Inspector Pascoe. It's Mr Swain, is it?'
'No, it's not,' said the man, manifestly unimpressed by Pascoe's rank. 'I'm Arnie Stringer.'
'What's going on here, Mr Stringer?'
'New inspection garages. Where've you been?' demanded the man.
'Away,' said Pascoe. 'Not the best time of year to be working outside.'
It had been unseasonably mild for a couple of weeks but there was still a nip in the air.
'If bobbies with nowt better to do don't hold us back talking, we'll mebbe get finished afore the snow comes.'
Mr Stringer was obviously a graduate of the same charm school as Dalziel.
It was nice to be back.
Retreating to the public car park, Pascoe entered via the main door like any ordinary citizen. The desk area was deserted except for a single figure who observed Pascoe's entry with nervous alarm. Pascoe sighed deeply. While he hadn't really expected the Chief Constable to greet him with the Police Medal as journalists jostled and colleagues clapped, he couldn't help feeling that three months' absence to mend a leg shattered in pursuit of duty and a murderous miner deserved a welcome livelier than this.
'Hello, Hector,’ he said.
Police Constable Hector was one of Mid-Yorkshire's most reliable men. He always got it wrong. He had been everything by turns - beat bobby, community cop, schools' liaison officer, collator's clerk - and nothing long. Now here he was on the desk.
'Morning, sir,' said Hector with a facial spasm possibly aimed at bright alertness, but probably a simple reaction to the taste of the felt-tipped pen which he licked as he spoke. 'How can we help you?'
Pascoe looked despairingly into that slack, purple-stained mouth and wondered once more about his pension rights. In the first few weeks of convalescence he had talked seriously about retirement, partly because at that stage he didn't believe the surgeon's prognosis of almost complete recovery, but also because it seemed to him in those long grey hospital nights that his very marriage depended on getting out of the police. He even reached the stage where he started broaching the matter to Ellie, not as a marriage-saver, of course, but as a natural consequence of his injury. She had listened with a calmness he took for approval till one day she had cut across his babble of green civilian fields with, 'I never slept with him, you know that, don't you?'
It was not a moment for looking blank and asking, 'Who?'
'I never thought you did,’ he said.
'Oh. Why?' She sounded piqued.
'Because you'd have told me.'
She considered this, then replied, 'Yes, I would, wouldn't I? It's a grave disadvantage in a relationship, you know, not being trusted to lie.'
They were talking about a young miner who had been killed in the accident which crippled Pascoe and with whom Ellie had had a close and complex relationship.
'But that's not the point anyway,' said Pascoe. 'We ended up on different sides. I don't want that.'
'I don't think we did,' she said. 'On different flanks of the same side, perhaps. But not different sides.'
'That's almost worse,' he said. 'I can't even see you face to face.'