Authors: Reginald Hill
'Why the hell didn't you ask Herrie yourself?' demanded Bonnie. 'You're his big mate at the moment.'
'Oh, I did, I did,' said Dalziel. 'But he's very close. Talks a lot but says nowt. That's what comes of being a poet. Tell you what I think, though.'
'What?'
'Come and sit beside me,' said Dalziel, patting the bed. 'Don't want to risk being overheard.'
Bonnie glanced uneasily round the room then brought her chair close to the bedside.
'This'll do,' she said in a low voice. 'You ought to get one thing straight in your mind, Andy. I bed down for pleasure, nothing else.'
'Me too,' said Dalziel. 'Here's what I think. I think Herrie must have known that the stolen stuff was going to be returned. And he must have known because someone told him last night. You had a long chat with someone in here last night.'
'So you listen at bedroom doors too!' she said scornfully.
'Only for pleasure,' he said. 'Nothing else. Anyway I heard nowt, just voices.
Did
you tell him?'
'How could I tell him what I didn't know?' she demanded.
'All right. So Herrie came to tell you he'd changed his mind, which means someone else had been talking to him already. What made him change his mind? Two things, I think. One selfish. The poor old sod's shit-scared of dying. He wraps it up in words, but that's the bottom of it. Which is interesting, eh? He thinks there's someone in this house capable of knocking him off.'
'And the other thing?'
Dalziel's eyes were fully closed now. Repose did nothing for his face.
'Unselfish. I've got this lad works for me in Yorkshire. Bright. Got degrees and things. I listen to what he says, pick the pearls out of the pig-crap. He'd say that most people doing something selfish like to find some unselfish reason for doing it. Not that you're going to change your crime figures much by saying things like that! No, but sometimes . . . anyway, what's old Hereward got to be unselfish about? I tell you; one thing only that I've observed.'
'What's that?'
'Nigel.'
Dalziel opened one eye and squinted at Bonnie.
'Why don't you fetch him in?'
He closed his eye again, heard Bonnie rise and walk across the room, heard the bathroom door open.
When he opened his eyes again, Nigel was standing at the foot of the bed.
'Where's the grapes, son?' asked Dalziel.
'What?'
'You're standing there like a reluctant relative on a sick visit. For Christ's sake, make yourself comfortable.'
The boy came round the bed and sat in the chair vacated by his mother. Bonnie pushed Dalziel's feet aside and sat at the foot of the bed. She opened her mouth to speak but Dalziel shushed her.
'I'll do the talking,' he said. 'You listen. Both of you. I'll be brief. Don't interrupt. This whole project was never a serious attempt to get a restaurant going. At least not on your dad's part, Nigel. I mean, think about it! A medieval Banqueting Hall! Did you ever hear of owt so daft! So what was going on? I'll tell you. Bertie came home from Liverpool one fine day with a bright scheme for burning this place down and picking up the insurance. Only, it had to be a bit more complicated than that. To really collect you need something worth insuring, not just a tatty old house.
'He'd got a taste for this when he was in Liverpool and he was dealing with Uniff's bit of fire trouble. They recognized fellow spirits and came to an arrangement by which Uniff claimed for ten times more stuff than got damaged. It was so easy, they reckoned they could make a good living out of it.
'So they work out this scheme. It's ingenious. Launch what looks like a genuine business venture, so you're insuring not only a building which has rocketed in value since it got refurbished, but also the business itself. I haven't seen the policy yet, but I gather they're covered for six months' loss of estimated profits. Plus, of course, a little bonus. You're covered for all fittings, furnishings, stock etc. But why burn it? Why can't it, like Uniffs equipment, just be moved elsewhere? Resold later? I wondered why anyone should want to store all that junk I found. But I soon caught on. If you're going to claim for expensive reproduction furniture and hangings, not to mention costumes, you need lots of ash of the right kind. It's a grand scheme. Really grand.'
Dalziel shook his head in reluctant admiration. Bonnie let out an incredulous sigh.
'I don't believe it,' she said. 'I don't believe it.'
Dalziel put on his favourite-uncle look and reached across to pat her knee with one hand while with the other he squeezed Nigel's arm reassuringly.
'I know it's hard,' he said. 'I'm sorry. They didn't tell you; knew it would be no good. You wouldn't have gone for anything like that. Aye, the criminal mind recognizes honesty when it sees it.'
Bonnie looked at him sharply but his expression matched his tone of vibrant sincerity.
'No, I reckon that in on the deal were Bertie and his father, the Uniffs, and Mrs Greave and Papworth, of course.'
'Why Mrs Greave?'
'Obvious. You wanted to take on someone who'd look after the skivvying behind the scenes. They couldn't risk you getting hold of some nice ordinary kitchen manager who'd spot something funny was going on right off. So they brought in Mrs Greave. As Papworth's recently widowed daughter, she wouldn't be asked for references, that kind of thing. And she was very useful to have around. No doubt she and Papworth were going to start things burning while the rest of you were giving each other nice alibis a good distance away. A big fire like this, you see, they'd look very closely at it. That's where your husband came in.'
'How?'
'Well the REME's one branch of the Army where they let officers know things. With his electrical know-how, it must have seemed a good idea to have some kind of electrical fault causing the fire. Now in an old place like that, especially an old stables, you must have had a lot of rats. Stands to reason. Right then. A big hungry rat comes along, sees some nice new wire, decides to have a chew. What happens? It sinks its teeth in, gets electrocuted and sets up a short. I won't get technical, because I know bugger all about it, but it's possible. It has happened. A little glow becomes a big fire. When the fire-investigation officer has a look, what does he find? Well, the charred remains of a rat for one thing. And if there's enough left to do any tests on, he finds it's been electrocuted. Problem solved. Insurance coughs up. Everyone's happy.'
'How do you know all this, Andy?' asked Bonnie quietly.
'I'm guessing. But it seems likely unless Mrs Greave kept frozen rats in your fridge to make pies with. Frozen
electrocuted
rats.'
'What happened to Mrs Greave.'
'Simple,' said Dalziel cheerfully. 'She spotted me right off. Didn't need to search my pockets. Her kind know a bobby when they see one. So she got cold feet in the end and took off. She was scared that Bertie and Uniff might still go ahead even with me around. She wanted no part of it, so off she went to sell her wares down Lime Street again.'
Nigel shifted in his chair and Dalziel looked at him thoughtfully.
'Of course, if you suspected some of this, it might explain why you decided to run away, lad,' he said. 'You're a puzzle to me, I must admit.'
'I just wanted to be by myself,' said the boy unconvincingly.
'Like Garbo,' guffawed Dalziel. The boy flushed and began to stand but the big hand caught hold of his arm again, not reassuringly this time, but like a clamp.
'Sit still, lad. Visiting time's not up yet. I've not finished my story. You see, everything was fixed to go ahead. All that was needed was to get at the wiring and plant the rat. So first they got the workmen out of the way. Someone, the Uniff girl I think, rang Gibb and said there was no money in the kitty. Gibb remarked how badly Conrad conducted the interview, not his usual persuasive self at all. You see, he wanted the workmen out of the way so he could work at his leisure. And also having Gibb off the job gave him the excuse for carrying on himself so that no one i.e. you, or Herrie, or Louisa or even Charley Tillotson, would be surprised to find him up a ladder with a drill. But then he did something very silly which spoilt everything.'
'Yes,' said Bonnie.
'He had his accident and got killed. Jesus! I bet that upset everybody. Careful, son!'
He spoke sharply to Nigel who had forced himself upright and glowered threateningly down at the recumbent policeman.
'Never hit a man when he's down,' advised Dalziel. 'Not unless you can hit him so hard, he'll stay down. Stand if you want, but don't go away.'
'Why are you doing this, Andy?' asked Bonnie.
'Because he's got as much right as you have to know what his dad was up to. Frankly I don't think either of you find it too hard to believe. He sounds a likely lad, does old Conrad. But it's better you hear about it now, straight, than that you get it through some roundabout questioning later on.'
'Questioning? Who from?' asked Bonnie. 'You mean that the police can still do something about it, even though nothing happened?'
'Mebbe,' said Dalziel grimly. 'There's a thing called conspiracy. Hard to prove if people keep their mouths shut. Me, I reckon that Bertie's got sense enough to try to cut his losses and actually make a go of the business. I think that's the other reason Herrie has decided to invest his money. I don't know how much he knew, but he must have had a shrewd idea of what his son was like. But then so must you.'
He eyed Bonnie thoughtfully for a moment before going on.
'Anyway, now the only way of protecting the investment and protecting your and Nigel's interests is to make a go of things, I don't know if it's possible but it looks as if they're going to have a try. I just want to be sure there aren't any fires around here in a couple of months time when everybody's forgotten I ever existed. Well, that's it.'
He made to rise from the bed, but Bonnie restrained him.
'You run along, Nigel,' she said to her son. 'There are one or two things Mr Dalziel and I have to talk about.'
The boy rose and left without speaking.
'He looks as if he could do with two good nights' sleep,' commented Dalziel.
'Couldn't we all?' said Bonnie. 'Andy, why are you doing this?'
'Doing what? I'm doing nowt except having a private chat.'
'Private chat nothing! You know damn well Bertie will screw everything you've said out of Nigel in ten minutes flat. And if he didn't talk, well, I'd have to.'
'That's honest,' said Dalziel. He eased his braces off his shoulders, settled back on the pillow and inserting his hand into his shirt began to scratch his belly. Impatiently she snatched his hand away. He opened one eye and looked at her. With a sigh she leaned forward so that her head rested on his chest, pulled his shirt out of his waist-band and began to scratch for him.
'Oh Andy,' she said. 'What are you up to?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well you're a policeman, and I think you believe in it. But you seem to be giving us a warning.'
'I'm on holiday,' he said. 'A little bit to the left. That's grand.'
'Well,' she said dubiously. 'I suppose there's a bit of the Sydney Cartons even in the nastiest, most cynical of us.'
'Of the what?'
'Oh, do stop pretending to be pig-ignorant! Yes, I suppose one generous, unselfish act might squeeze even you into heaven.'
'I'm at it all the time,' protested Dalziel. 'Farther down please. Ah!'
She kneaded away at his flesh with strong fingers.
'Oh Andy,' she said. 'I need someone to trust and rely on. I really do. I'm tired of trying to hold things together single-handed.'
Dalziel reached over her shoulder and cupped her right breast in his broad palm.
'Why don't you take two hands to it?' he asked.
Forty-five minutes later after a perfunctory tap on the door, Tillotson burst in and halted, red with embarrassment, when he saw the two heads on the pillow.
'What is it, Charley?' asked Bonnie in an exasperated tone.
'I'm sorry,' said Tillotson, retreating, it's just that the police are here again. They want to see everyone. They say that Mrs Greave is dead.'
He left and Bonnie poked Dalziel hard with her forefinger.
'You knew about this?'
'Aye,' he said, sitting up and yawning.
She watched him in silence as he got out of bed and began to dress.
'Listen, love,' he said as he peered in the mirror and dragged her silver-backed brush through his greying and retreating stubble, ‘It's no good lying there looking suspicious. My shoulders are no good as public leaning posts. I either carry you or I drop you. Partnership means doing things my way.'
She laughed at this, realized he hadn't intended a joke, frowned, then flung back the sheets and jumped out of bed.
The brush paused in mid-stroke as Dalziel regarded her in the mirror.
'All right,' she said. 'You're the boss. Lead on, Sydney. Even if we are travelling by tumbril.'
16
Dead Ducks
After a brief preliminary consultation Dalziel kept very much in the background as Balderstone and Cross worked their way steadily through everyone in the household taking statements about the events of the previous day with particular reference to conversations with and last sightings of Annie Greave.
Papworth excited particular interest, of course, but even old Hereward was fed with black coffee and interviewed in his own bed. Dalziel meanwhile wandered outside to see how Gibb and his men were getting on. The progress they had made was not perceptible to the inexpert eye, but the little builder assured him that all was proceeding to schedule.
Dalziel continued his perambulation, returning eventually to the front of the house where he stood looking out over the lake. It really wasn't much of a lake, he realized, now that the sinking of the flood waters was making its normal limits much more clear. Not your Windermere or your Loch Lomond. But it might be a useful adjunct to the restaurant if you knew how to exploit it. A floating bar perhaps. Or gondolas.