Authors: Reginald Hill
'Why not? Hell, there's got to come a time for every artist when he exposes himself to the average bum in the street.'
'You try exposing yourself to me,' said Dalziel, 'you'll make a pretty picture yourself.'
Uniff laughed heartily.
'I like you, Andy baby,' he said. 'Christ, man, how do you stick it in here with this load of phoneys?'
His gesture seemed pretty well all-inclusive.
'Are they phoneys?' asked Dalziel.
'Can't you tell?'
'I don't know what the real thing looks like, so it's a bit hard,' said Dalziel.
Nor could he see any reason why anyone should want to
pretend
to be what he saw around him. In particular, you'd have to be bloody revolting to make it worthwhile
pretending
to be a conceited, blubber-lipped, purple- cheeked, perfumed ponce in a corrugated suit.
'Andrew,' said Bonnie. 'Have you met Eric Butt?'
His pleasure at hearing her use his Christian name almost overcame his distaste for Butt. The journalist smiled briefly at him and returned his attention to Bonnie.
'Next time you're in town,' he said, 'give me a ring. We can lunch together. Fellow I know has just taken over a little French place in Hampstead. Not for the
hoi polloi,
you know, but you'd love it.'
'How sweet,' said Bonnie. 'I was thinking of taking all the children up next week. Perhaps we could meet there. Would Tuesday suit you?'
Butt emptied his glass and came up smiling.
'Sorry,' he said. 'Better to ring. I'm off to Brazil tomorrow and I'll be there over a week. It's a great thing, did you read about it? There was a bit in the
Observer
supplement last week. I'm doing a piece on the Brazilian football team and they've agreed for me to stay and train with them. It's a bit unique, actually. The Brazilian Ambassador fixed it, likes my stuff, felt I would do a good job. I wouldn't miss it for worlds. Ever been to Brazil, darling?'
'No,' said Bonnie. 'Andrew though has been around a lot, perhaps he could give you a few traveller's tips.'
She turned away to greet Tillotson who had returned with an armful of bottles.
Dalziel moved close to Butt and sniffed.
'The trouble with corduroy,' he said, 'is that it doesn't half smell if you piss on it.'
'Oh damn the woman,' said Bonnie crossly. 'It's not her night off. I'd better go and look in the larder myself. Andrew, see that everyone's got plenty to drink, will you?'
'What's up?' asked Dalziel.
'I couldn't find Mrs Greave anywhere,' said Tillotson. 'Her door was locked.'
'Did you look in Pappy's room?'
'No. Why should I?' said Tillotson.
Dalziel smiled and plucked a couple of spirit bottles out of the box. The smile died on his face and was replaced by an exasperated grimace. One of the bottles was quite empty. Was there nothing Charley could do without making a balls-up? He checked through the box and found three other empties. That still left eight which was plenty to be going on with, even for this lot.
He looked around the room. Arkwright was asleep on his tape-recorder. Nikki was trying to take a self-portrait with her camera, at the same time as, unawares, she was being photographed by Uniff. Bertie and Mavis were in close confabulation in a corner. They looked at him as he stared towards them, then hastily looked away. Penitent was talking to Louisa, probably offering to make her a star on
The Archers.
And the trio of Hereward and the two Americans still held the centre of the stage. Bergmann was gabbling away at a pace just short of incomprehensibility while Flower nodded his head sagely and drawled, 'Melville's a shit. Mailer's a shit. Hawthorne's a shit. Longfellow . . . well, Longfellow . . . well, Longfellow's a shit also.'
Seizing one of the full bottles of scotch, Dalziel went to help Bonnie.
He found her in the kitchen looking in disgust at a table covered with sausages.
'That's all there is,' she said. 'I thought we ate enough sausages last night to deplete local stocks for fifty miles around.'
'Perhaps she got them in a sale,' said Dalziel. 'Have a drink.'
He poured a tumblerful which she sipped like cold tea.
'What shall I do?' she asked.
It was a comfort to be consulted. A woman could be too competent.
'Stick 'em between two slices of bread and call 'em frankfurters,' said Dalziel. 'These Americans eat nothing else.'
'Fine,' said Bonnie. 'What about cooking them? It'll take hours.'
'Not,' said Dalziel, 'if you use one of those nice new ovens you've got out back.'
'You're a genius,' said Bonnie seriously. 'And we might even unearth Mrs Greave while we're out there.'
They had another large scotch apiece to celebrate the decision. Then the sausages were swept off the table into a large round basket and they set off for the Banqueting Hall kitchens like Red Riding Hood and the Wolf. The image put Dalziel in mind of Butt.
'That fellow Butt,' he said. 'You handled him nicely.'
'Thank you kindly,' she said. 'Though I reckon I lacked your finesse.'
'What? Oh you heard that,' said Dalziel sheepishly. She laughed.
'You don't exactly whisper, Andy. May I call you Andy? No, I've met your Butts before. Always off to Brazil, meeting exciting people, but usually ready to fit you in for a quick roll between jets.'
'I hope he gets a football up his . . . nose,' said Dalziel.
'Poor man! How's he harmed you?' she asked, then added thoughtfully, 'But if he really trains with them, it could be chancy. He looked a bit hearty to me.'
Dalziel mused upon this as they reached the kitchens where the ovens proved a complete failure. Dalziel seated on an old wooden chair watched with amusement as Bonnie, festooned with sausages, moved around trying to get them to work.
'Useless things!' she exploded.
'Is the power switched through?' asked Dalziel.
'Yes. I think so. At least, Bertie said it was. The dishwasher certainly works.'
'Shall I take a look?' asked Dalziel, heaving himself upright.
'No. Never bother. I'll tell Bertie. He's the only one who understands these things. God, I'm whacked!'
She slumped into the chair vacated by Dalziel who turned from his examination of the first oven with a comment on his lips which died when he saw her. Her head was bowed forward and her arms rested slackly over her knees as though they had been carelessly deposited there for collection later. One leg was crooked under the chair, the other stretched straight out. The whole composition was ugly, awkward, a study in defeat. When Dalziel approached and she looked up, the pores of her face seemed to have opened; the fine Edwardian strength he had admired before was eroded by an admission of age and weariness into a puffy substanceless outline. She was, Dalziel realized, more his contemporary than he had imagined.
And at the same time he realized she was letting him see her like this out of choice. There was strength enough there still to have taken her back to the party and set wildly coursing whatever passes for blood beneath a corduroy suit.
'I don't think these sausages are going to get cooked,' he said.
'No, I don't think they are,' she said.
It had been the beginning of an explanation but he let it rest as the oblique comment she obviously took it for.
'Why don't you lie down?' he said.
'I should like that,' she answered. 'Will you lie down with me?'
'Aye, will I,' he said.
They lay together fully dressed for nearly an hour while Bonnie dozed and Dalziel counted the chrysanthemums on her William Morris wallpaper, wondering if this was going to be one of those queer Platonic relationships he heartily disbelieved in. Finally he gave her a bit of a shake and set about confirming his disbelief.
Bonnie was agreeable enough, her body and mind soft and yielding in a half sleep. But Dalziel was no subtle wooer with diplomas in the arts of pleasure. The only prelude to penetration he had ever bothered with in his married life was four or five pints of bitter and now the brutal directness of his approach shocked Bonnie wide awake.
'Why not take a run to get up a bit of speed?' she demanded.
'What's the matter?' asked Dalziel.
'Well, for a start, get your clothes off. All your clothes.'
Grimly he undressed at one side of the bed while Bonnie stripped at the other.
'Now let's begin at the beginning,' said Bonnie.
Five minutes later she pinched his flabby left buttock viciously and said 'For God's sake, don't be so impatient. There's two of us to consider.'
'We'll have to take turn about,' gasped Dalziel.
Bonnie shook with laughter and the movement removed any chance of restraint on Dalziel's part. When he'd done and recognized that there was no mockery in her laughter he joined in.
'I've never laughed on the job before,' he said finally.
'Why not? It's a funny business,' said Bonnie. 'What was that you said about turn about?'
Evening was well advanced when they rose and the house was quiet.
'Perhaps they've all gone,' said Dalziel.
'They're more likely to be too drunk to speak,' said Bonnie. 'Or they're in the kitchen guzzling sausages.'
Dalziel felt guilty. After the welter of confused emotion which had immersed him during the past couple of hours, it was almost a relief to isolate and recognize a simple reaction. It was a conditioned reflex rather than an emotion; policemen were bred to put the investigation of crime before their personal pleasure and he had been false to his breeding.
'I doubt they'll have cooked those sausages,' he said.
'Why's that?' she asked, tugging a comb through her thick brown hair which, unfastened, had tumbled in surprising profusion over her shoulders.
'Come downstairs and I'll show you,' he said grimly.
Puzzled Bonnie finished her tidying up and let herself be led to the kitchens once more. They met no one en route and the basket of sausages remained untouched where they had left it.
'It's a bit like the
Mary Celeste
said Bonnie.
'No mystery,' grunted Dalziel. 'They'll all be stoned out of their minds.'
He took a coin from his pocket and rapidly unscrewed the control panel of one of the ovens.
'Take a look in here,' he invited. 'What do you see?'
Bonnie peered in cautiously.
'Nothing much,' she admitted.
'Right,' said Dalziel. 'Now what should you see is what makes these things work. Magnetrons, they're called. Don't ask me how I know.'
'Where are they?' wondered Bonnie making her way round the kitchen inspecting every oven. 'What a stupid thing! You'd think Bertie would have checked when they installed them.'
'He probably did,' said Dalziel. 'I think you've been robbed.'
'Robbed?' She laughed. 'Don't be silly. Why should anyone steal whatever you said?'
'Some people'd steal owt for a bob or two,' said Dalziel. 'Don't mistake. Everything's sellable. But I'm feared this is just an extra.'
'Extra?'
'Aye. Where's the drink store?'
'Oh Jesus!' she cried, catching his drift now. 'There's a cellar . . . we've got all our opening stock in there. Conrad got it in just before our credit gave up the ghost completely.'
They clattered down a narrow flight of stairs which led to an open door.
'Damn Charley!' snapped the woman. 'He had strict instructions to lock up behind him.'
'Don't blame the lad,' said Dalziel. 'I doubt if it's worth locking.'
At first glance all looked well. The crates of spirits, aperitifs, wine and liqueurs were all stacked in militarily neat array. But a few moments' investigation revealed the worst. Only the nearest bottles were full. Behind the front rank, all the liquor had been decanted, and in the nether crates there were no bottles at all.
'Charley got some of the empties in his mixed dozen,' said Dalziel. 'I thought it was just another bit of daftness then.'
Bonnie who after an explosion of blasphemous obscenity had got hold of herself very well demanded, 'What made you think differently. The ovens?'
'Aye.And one other thing.'
They went back up the stairs, Dalziel leading now. He strode belligerently to Mrs Greave's room and without knocking, kicked the door open so that it rattled against the wall and went inside. When Bonnie caught up, he had opened every cupboard door and drawer in the place. They were uniformly empty.
'You mean you think that Mrs Greave . . .' said Bonnie incredulously. 'But why? She's Pappy's daughter.'
Dalziel laughed, a short humourless bark very different from the deep guffaws he had emitted in the intimacy of the bedroom.
'If you believe that, you'll believe anything.'
'But how do you know? How can you be sure it's her?'
'I know a slag when I see one,' said Dalziel brutally. 'When her type and your property go missing at the same time, then don't waste your time praying for guidance.'
'If you worked this out before, you haven't exactly struck while the iron was hot,' said Bonnie reprovingly.
'No. Well, something got in the way,' muttered Dalziel. 'I'm sorry.'
'Don't be,' she said, smiling. 'Well, what now? I suppose I'd better phone the police.'
Dalziel scratched the back of his neck and looked at her assessingly. The thought had already occurred to him that she might know he was a policeman. If so, she was playing it very cool for reasons which were far from clear (and, his constabulary mind whispered to him, perhaps just as far from virtuous). Those same reasons, the brutal whisper continued, may have got him into her bed. He'd been a detective too long to be surprised by what some women would do in the cause of injustice. No, it wouldn't surprise him. But what
was
surprising him was the realization of just how much it would hurt him.
'That'd be best,' he said. 'Though I doubt you've had your booze. It's probably been long gone.'
And someone had thought it worthwhile postponing the moment of discovery by first of all ringing the builders and telling them that Fielding was near on bankrupt, then ringing Spinx and telling him not to pay out the insurance money. And, he recalled, the anonymous caller had known there was a policeman in the house. That put it even more firmly at Mrs Greave's door. This kind of sixth sense was two-way traffic.