Bones and Silence

Not that there weren't other sharper stings to be wary of.

'Where the hell have you been?' demanded Dalziel as he entered his office. 'Mooning around after yon dotty tart, I'll be bound.'

'If you mean the disturbed woman who has made the mistake of looking to you for help, no, I haven't,' snapped Pascoe.

'Bloody hell,' said Dalziel. 'What's up with you? Time of the month, is it, lad? Try to leave your hang-ups at home, eh? It's not fair on them you work with.'

These reasoned reproaches coming from a man who since his last talk with Trimble had been ready to boil babies was almost too much.

'Looking for something, are you, sir?' said Pascoe banging shut the drawers and cupboards which the fat man had clearly been going through.

'Bit of a tension headache. Thought you might have an aspirin. But it doesn't matter,' said Dalziel long-sufferingly. 'It's all this acting business on top of running this madhouse. I must have been doolally to get involved.'

'How's it going with your new Lucifer?' asked Pascoe, deciding that conciliation was the better part of valour.

'He's all right. You know something? I miss Swain in the part! It made it all realler somehow. Now it's nowt but pantomime. Desperate Dan was right. I should never have got involved.'

'Not to worry, sir. It'll all be over soon.'

'Christ, lad, you sound like a nun in a hospice,' said Dalziel. 'I need cheering up. I'll let you buy me a pint later to make up for being so rude to me.'

'I thought you had a headache,' objected Pascoe.

'That's what I tell all the girls,' said Dalziel.

Alone, Pascoe realized that he really did have a headache. In fact, on and off, he'd had one for some time now. It sometimes felt as if there was too much in there trying to get out. Or too much outside trying to get in.

Some time he was going to have to sit down quietly and spread his life out over a table as he'd spread the Swain case last night. But not yet. He couldn't approach his own actions in two roles and find only one inconsistency. No, the roles were as myriad as minutes in a day, and the inconsistencies . . . well, how many pins could you stick in the bum of an angel?

He tried to smile at his own joke, failed, stood up, winced as his bad leg had a relapse, closed his eyes, saw the dark mine in which he'd suffered his injury, felt the rotten ceiling sagging low towards him, saw it was crawling with millions of squeaking slithering bats..’

'Are you all right?'

It was Wield, his craggy face anxious.

'Yes. Fine. Really, I'm fine. Could do with a bit more sleep, that's all. I was burrow ing away at the Swain case last night.'

'Oh aye? Any amazing revelations?'

'You never know, Wieldy,' said Pascoe, managing a smile. 'Let me tell you about it.'

The sergeant listened in silence and when Pascoe was done all he said was, 'Well, best of luck. But I wouldn't draw my savings from the building society to invest in it!'

'Thanks a lot,' said Pascoe, disappointed. 'Let's just wait and see, shall we?'

Twenty-four hours later he was still waiting. He was resolved not to ring Gentry and give him the chance to be acid about CID's notorious impatience. Also, whatever else he felt about the man, he trusted his professionalism implicitly.

Finally a message came. Would he care to step round to the laboratories? He went. He looked. He listened.

When Gentry had finished, Pascoe said with sincere feeling, 'I can't thank you enough. You've done wonders.'

'We've done our job,' said Gentry. 'We can only work on what we're given, what we're told.'

But there was something which might have been a flush of pleasure beneath the parchment skin.

Dalziel was out rehearsing and Pascoe had to wait till that afternoon before he could see him. He was sitting behind the Superintendent's desk when the fat man walked into his room. He stopped short in the doorway when he saw his Chief Inspector smiling at him from his own chair with a broken-shafted pitchfork in his hand.

'Bloody hell, you've finally flipped,' said Dalziel. 'Think you're Britannia, do you?'

'No, sir. I've just come to wish you happy birthday.'

'It's not my birthday.'

'You'll think it is by the time I'm finished,’ said Pascoe.

He talked. Dalziel listened. There was no doubt about the intensity of his listening, but no other emotion showed on his face.

'And what started you on this tack?' Dalziel asked sombrely when the story was finished.

'Like I said, Swain's either a right bastard or a loyal friend. A right bastard wouldn't have helped Stringer in the first place unless circumstances forced him. And if he was a right bastard when he helped Arnie, that meant it wasn't Arnie he was covering up for when he had the barn cleared out. Simple, really, when you think about it.'

'If it's that simple, I won't be grateful,' growled Dalziel. 'But what I meant was, what decided you to turn your massive intellect to proving me right when for months you've been going around behind my back telling any bugger that would listen that I was wrong?'

Blow, blow, thou winter wind! thought Pascoe.

He said, 'Because I wanted you to be right. Who needs a fallible God?'

Dalziel advanced; a great threatening hand thrust forward. Pascoe half rose in trepidation, then his own hand was enclosed and shaken till it lost all sensible contact with his wrist, and Dalziel intoned, 'This day's work is done ilka deal, And all this work likes me right well, And bainly I give it my blessing.'

'Sorry?' said Pascoe.

'Sorry? Being God means never having to say you're sorry! All that I ever said should be, Is now fulfilled through prophecy, Therefore now is it time to me To make an ending of man's folly! Play it through for me again, lad. Play it again!'

part eight

 

 Devil: For it is written, as well is kenned, How God shall angels to thee send, And they shall keep thee in their hend Whereso thou goes, That thou shall on no stones descend To hurt thy toes.

And since thou may without wothe Fall and do thyself no scathe, Tumble down to ease us both Here to my feet;And but thou do I will be wroth, That I thee hete.

The York Cycle:

'The Temptation'

 

May 29th

Dear Andy,

I've thought of you as Andy for a long time, only I was brought up to respect authority and it seemed better to keep this particular correspondence on a formal footing. But this is the last, so I think I can safely drop all that formal respect stuff, don't you?

So tomorrow's your big day, the day you finally get to play God. It's been in all the papers and I'm looking forward to reading all about you in the Post's souvenir edition tomorrow morning. Through the town you'll go, riding high, looking down on the ordinary folk and seeing everything. I've never doubted that God does see everything, but that just makes it worse, doesn't it? For seeing's not the same as caring, and priests and terrorists both favour black.

I'm sorry. I mustn't ramble. It's just that I'm rather nervous. You see, I've decided tomorrow's my big day too. Don't worry. I'll hang around long enough to look out as you ride by in triumph. I wouldn't miss that, not for all the world, tower and town, forest and field! Then I'll slip quietly away and leave you in peace.

I'm not sure if you'll be reading this before or after the event. No post today, or tomorrow either, being a holiday, so I'll drop it in by hand. Are you the conscientious kind, I wonder, who'll look in to check things over, even on a Bank Holiday when you're on leave? I doubt it somehow! Not that it makes any difference as I'm not about to sign myself. That's for you to guess, though by this time tomorrow, you should have a clue even you can't miss!