When Ellie came home, he was still staring blankly at the papers. She expressed no curiosity about them and he offered no explanation. Their polite neutrality about each other's work was beginning to harden into a trade barrier.
'Good meeting?' he asked.
'Yes, it was. We're updating our survey of types and locations in the district. You might keep your ears open at work. I wouldn't be surprised to hear Fat Andy's got a few vampires in his cellar.'
'Come to think of it,' he said, his memory stirred by his recent reading, 'there were some bats hibernating in this old barn out at Moscow Farm, Philip Swain's place. Pipistrelles, someone said.'
'What? You never mentioned them. Don't you know you're required by law to notify the authorities?'
'Am I? Sorry. Anyway this was back in February, so they've probably taken off by now.'
The revelation that his acquaintance with these disturbing creatures went back for months merely added to Ellie's irritation. Fortunately a noise from Rose's room diverted her before Pascoe could excuse himself into more trouble. Alone again, his attention returned to the Swain papers. In his physical arrangement, those relating to the killing of Beverley King in Hambleton Road were placed at the centre, while those to do with the death of Tony Appleyard were pushed to the edge.
But now the bat connection brought the barn where the boy had died into the forefront of his thoughts. It occurred to him that everybody accepted the Swain version of the youth's death, or rather the Swain version of the Stringer version. And why not? It fitted with both projections of Swain - as a loyal friend or as a quick-thinking bastard. That was the trouble with almost everything they had. It was as consistent with Swain's story as with Dalziel's theory.
But had the consistency test itself been applied consistently?
Only one way to find out.
He rearranged the papers in as strict a chronological order as possible, said to himself, 'Swain is a loving husband and a loyal friend,' and began reading.
After a while Ellie looked in, then withdrew, and he heard the television come on in the lounge.
Half an hour later she looked in again.
'Not finished yet?' she asked.
'I've finished being a loving husband,' he said. 'Now I'm going to be a right bastard.'
'Oh, sorry, I blinked. There, I missed it,' she said. 'I'm off to bed.'
'I'll be up in half an hour or so.'
'Which one of you? 'Night.'
He smiled after her, then returned to his papers.
Forty minutes later he read through his notes.
And there it was. Not much; in fact almost totally insignificant. Except that when it was all you had, it had to signify.
He glanced at his watch. Too late to disturb anyone. Except a wife. Wives were not anyone.
She opened one eye as he entered the room, then closed it again. He squeezed her shoulder gently till she reopened it.
'Do I have to guess which one it is?' she asked sleepily.
'Neither. It's a benighted male in search of female illumination. Wake up, my sweet, and tell me all about our little friends, the bats.'
The following morning he was up early. By eight o'clock he was passing through a creaking doorway beneath a vandalized legend which read JOE SWINDLES - CRAP MERCHANT. In a miasmic office a stout white-haired man was smoking a small cheroot, eating a fried egg sandwich and reading the Sun. He looked up with the ill-tempered expression of one who does not care to have his matutinal pleasures interrupted, then smiled yolkily as he recognized his visitor.
'Mr Pascoe. This is a nice surprise. Haven't seen you in ages. I've been feeling right neglected. What can it mean, I ask myself? Have I given offence? Or has he simply left me for another?'
'I expect it means, Joe, that either you've got honester or I've got slower,' said Pascoe.
'Well, you might have got slower, Mr Pascoe. Happens to the best of us. But if I got any honester, they'd have had to pick me for God in these Mysteries instead of that lovely Mr Dalziel. How is the dear old chap, by the way? Must be getting close to retirement now?'
Pascoe smiled. It was Joe Swindles's alcoholic ambition to get Dalziel into his crusher before he died to repay him for what he considered to be various injustices perpetrated over the years.
'I'll pass on your regards,' he said. 'Now, Joe, I want a favour.'
Swindles listened as Pascoe explained, then he scratched his venerable pate and said, 'In February, you say? Now that's asking a lot, Mr Pascoe. That could take a lot of looking for, and then it'd most likely have gone in the crusher.'
Pascoe was not impressed. One thing he had learned about Joe Swindles was that he had an almost supernaturally accurate knowledge of the contents of his scrap yard. All he was doing now was negotiating.
'I know your time's valuable, Joe,' said Pascoe. 'So I'll give you a fiver a minute. That's a fiver for every minute less than five it takes to find them.'
It cost him twenty pounds. He looked at the rusting heap of agricultural machinery and tools removed from the barn at Moscow Farm and wondered if he was doing a wise thing.
'Why'd you hang on to them, Joe?' he asked.
'Agricultural archaeology,' Swindles replied promptly. 'There's money in it already. This stuff's not old enough yet, but a few more years and one of these country museums'll be paying a pretty penny for this junk.’
‘Is that what you call a spike harrow?' said Pascoe pointing.
'Either that, or a hell of a hairbrush,' said Swindles.
Pascoe examined the implement in silence for a few minutes. Then he said, 'I'll need to borrow it, Joe.'
'Just the harrow?'
'No. Best take the lot. You'll get it back.'
'Bloody right I will!' Swindles thought for a moment then said, 'You'll need someone to lift it wherever you want it taken.'
'Are you volunteering?'
'I'd have to charge my usual rates. Discount for cash.'
Pascoe laughed.
'Joe, he said, 'if Mrs Thatcher knew about you, she'd make you a lord.'
He was still chuckling as Swindles unloaded the scrap on to the paved area in front of the police laboratories.
Gentry, the Head of the Forensic Examination Unit, did not share his amusement. He extended a skeletal finger towards the heap of rusting rubbish and said harshly, 'What is that?'
Pascoe, knowing from experience that there was no way to charm him into cooperation, replied crisply, 'Evidence in the case of Anthony Appleyard. Here's a copy of the path, report. You'll see it says he died as a result of his windpipe being pierced by a metal spike. Here's a copy of the relevant section of a witness statement which claims the metal spike was one of those on that harrow. Would you check it out?'
'But this was three months ago and this thing has obviously been standing out in the open.'
'Yes. You've already done an examination of Appleyard's clothing. Also of the clothing of Gail Swain. I'd like some further work done on both of these.'
'Are you saying there are inaccuracies?' demanded Gentry.
'I'm inviting you to be more precise than your first brief required,' said Pascoe. 'Particularly in the area of staining on the outer garments.'
'You have authorization for this?' interrupted Gentry harshly.
'I can get Mr Trimble's signature in the hour if that's what it takes to make you do your job,' said Pascoe.
'I don't think that is called for!'
Unsure whether the man was referring to the signature or the slur, Pascoe said, 'Then I'll expect to hear from you,' and left. Such brusqueness did not come naturally to him, but it was the only way to deal with Dr Death.