Bones & Silence (11 page)

He went back to his room. Thackeray rose as he entered.

'He's all yours,' said Dalziel. 'Might be a bit upset. We've just been talking about his wife's drug habit.'

If he'd expected any shock/horror response from the lawyer, he was disappointed.

Thackeray sighed and said, 'Andrew, I know how much your job means to you, but I hope you will not let it obscure your basic humanitarianism. No one expects you to wear kid gloves, but it would help us all if during the course of your investigation you remembered that my client has suffered a deep and grievous loss.'

Dalziel scratched his thigh, picked up the malt whisky bottle, held it up to the light.

'Looks like he's not the only one,' he said.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

The Rangemaster at the Mid-Yorks Gun Club was properly macho, his shag of curly black hair echoed in designer stubble along the jaw and in designer thatch at the open neck of his lumberjack's shirt. Below, he tapered to narrow hips and a pair of faded jeans so unambiguously tight, it was clear he was carrying no concealed weapons. He affected a mid-Atlantic baritone which occasionally let him down, or rather up, into a Geordie squeak. His name was Mitchell but he invited them to join everyone in calling him Mitch.

'Tell me, Mr Mitchell,' said Pascoe, 'is Rangemaster a usual title for someone in your position?'

'Don't know that it is,' he answered. 'Sounds good though, don't it?'

'Do it? Perhaps you could give us a job description?'

His fears that he might have got hold of some fantasizing handyman were allayed as Mitchell gave him an outline of the club's set-up and his role in it. He was in fact the resident steward, coach and adviser on all matters pertaining to arms, qualified by a five-year stint in the Army (nudges and winks towards the SAS) followed by a one-year polymanagement course. He had a half share in the club, the other half belonging to a local businessman who was a shooting enthusiast. By the time he'd finished talking, it was clear that perhaps eighty per cent of his self-presentation was a sales ploy, which left twenty per cent as self-image.

But image and accent vanished together when told of Gail Swain's death.

'Oh no. Man, that's really terrible,' he said, sitting down. 'She were a real canny lass. Gail dead! I canna believe it.'

'It's true, I'm afraid,' said Pascoe.

'How'd it happen? What was it? An accident?'

'It seems possible,’ he said carefully. 'What I'm here about is her guns. She kept them here, I believe.'

'Oh yes. All the time. Well, nearly. There might have been an odd time when she took one home, if she'd been away at a competition, say. But why're you interested ... it wasn't a shooting accident, was it?'

'I'm afraid a gun
was
involved,' said Pascoe. 'What weapons did she own?'

'She had a Beretta .25, a Hammerli match target pistol, a Colt Python and a Harrington and Richardson Sidekick,' he replied without hesitation.

'Quite an armoury. And where would these be kept?'

For answer Mitchell took them through into another room and pointed at a metal door.

'You won't find anything like that outside a bank,’ he said proudly. 'No one gets in here, I tell you.'

He unlocked the door to reveal a range of padlocked gun cabinets.

'I'm glad to hear it,' said Pascoe, who privately saw no reason why gun enthusiasts shouldn't try out both their accuracy and their fantasies with spring-loaded weapons that fired ping-pong balls. 'And how do the members get hold of their weapons?'

'They tell me what they want and I fetch them out,' said Mitchell.

'How often did Mrs Swain use the club?'

'She used to be a real regular but not so much lately.'

'And Mr Swain?'

'He wasn't a member, but he sometimes came to functions with his wife. He knew a lot of people, of course. The Swains are an old local family.'

'That matters?'

'We're very democratic, but the old country families who've been used to guns from early on are our founder members, so to speak. I'd say it mattered to Gail, being a Swain.'

'Did she have any special friends?'

'Not in the club. She was a bit of a loner, really. I know she liked to do the right things for someone in her position, sit on committees, that sort of thing, but maybe she didn't feel certain enough how things worked to risk getting too close to anyone. It can't be easy being a rich Yank round here.'

There was no trace of irony in his voice.

'But her husband didn't feel it incumbent on him to join?'

'Oh no. He's one on his own too. But there have been Swains in the club, I mean real Swains. His brother Tom . . . but you'll know about him.'

Pascoe nodded with the air of a man who knows everything. Seymour, he noted approvingly, had vanished. His amiable smile beneath a shock of unruly red hair was a delicate picklock of confidences, especially female. If there was tittle to be tattled, Seymour was your man.

He said, 'And which of Mrs Swain's weapons are still here?'

Mitchell said, 'None. She took them all away last time I saw her.'

'And you let her?' said Pascoe. 'You didn't express surprise? You said yourself the only time she ever took a weapon home was when she was shooting away in a competition. How often would that be?'

'Didn't apply any longer in Gail's case,' said Mitchell. 'She hadn't done any competition shooting in nearly two years. But obviously she wanted them this time because she was going home. Her mother's ill.'

'She must have made other visits to the States. Long visits. Last year, for instance,' said Pascoe, recollecting Swain's statement. 'Didn't her father die?'

'Yes. She was away for a couple of months.'

'And did she take any of her guns then?'

'No. Perhaps this time she wanted to do some shooting over there. Not much opportunity at a funeral, is there? OK, she could easily get replacements in the States. It's like buying bars of chocolate over there. But you get into a special relationship with your own pieces. And of course the Hammerli was specially tailored to her hand.'

Pascoe had a feeling that Mitchell could have told him more, but whether it would have been pertinent, whether indeed it would have been factual or merely idle gossip, he couldn't guess. At the moment a too aggressive interrogation would merely serve to feed that gossip.

'One more question,' said Pascoe. 'If Mrs Swain wanted to carry one of her weapons around with her - because she felt in need of personal protection, say - which would she be most likely to have chosen?'

'The Beretta probably, or the Sidekick,' Mitchell answered promptly.

'Why?'

'Well, she wouldn't choose the Python, not unless she was planning to blow somebody away. It's big and it's heavy and it takes the .357 Magnum cartridge which is a danger to people in the next room if you happen to miss. The Hammerli on the other hand is a specialized weapon, OK for punching holes in a target but not much else. It takes one .22 rimfire cartridge at a time and it's got a hair trigger, not the kind of thing you carry in your pocket. Why do you ask?'

'The curiosity of an idle mind,' smiled Pascoe.

He took a last look at the array of dully gleaming guns in their padlocked cabinets.

'See anything you fancy?' inquired Mitchell. 'We've always room for law officers at the MYGC.'

'I was just wondering how many rifles make a good ploughshare,' said Pascoe. And went in search of Seymour.

He found the redhead in conclave with a wizened woman of indeterminate years. The wide amiable smile had vanished but not before it had been all too effective if Pascoe read truly the desperate grimace which greeted his appearance.

With difficulty breaking free from a grip like the mummy's hand, Seymour stood up, took a brief farewell, and followed his chief out to the car park.

'Bernadette would not like it,' said Pascoe judiciously.

'Bernadette wouldn't believe it,' said Seymour. 'I'm not sure I do.'

'What did she say to you?'

'I said, why was the place so empty. I expected to hear people banging away all over the shop. And she said they didn't open till evenings on a Tuesday, but as for banging away, we could soon alter that if I liked

'Seymour, you'll die of an over-active double entendre one of these days,' sighed Pascoe. 'But I'm not interested in your foreplay. I meant, what did she say that might interest us?'

'Her name's Mrs Martin. Babs to her friends. She's in charge of the kitchen,' said Seymour. 'There's a hatch from the kitchen into the members' lounge. I doubt if there's much said in there that she doesn't hear.'

They got into Pascoe's car. He started the engine and pointed it back towards the centre of town.

'And?' he said.

'Mrs Swain was always around till about eighteen months ago. Since then she's dropped out of all team and social events and when she did come, it was purely to fire off a few rounds and usually at the quietest time of the day.'

'Damn. Mitchell said she'd dropped out of the competition team and I forgot to ask him why,' said Pascoe, annoyed.

'No need to ask Mitchell when you've got Babs,' said Seymour. 'It seems that after Swain started his own building firm, he was so keen to make a go of it, he wasn't averse to canvassing old chums for jobs. Meaning anything from grouting a gazebo to getting them to use their influence to swing a small council contract his way. Babs says from what she overheard it was the general opinion that Gail Swain was highly embarrassed by this. Before, she'd come across as the high-powered Californian jet-setter injecting a bit of glam into a staid old Yorkshire family. Now she was just the wife of a small builder pestering his mates for hand-outs.'

'And did his mates mind?'

'From what Babs says, they rather admired Swain for his cheek. As for his wife, they were mainly amused to see her taken down a peg. Evidently she was a better shot than most of them and didn't mind letting them know.'

'So she decided to duck out rather than brazen it out? Well, well. I think we should offer your friend Babs a job in CID!'

They drove on in silence for a while.

'Sir,' said Seymour. 'Does any of this really matter? I mean, we know what happened, more or less. And we know how it happened, more or less.'

'The little more, and how much it is,' said Pascoe. 'The little less, and what worlds away.'

'Pardon?' said Seymour, thinking he sometimes preferred Dalziel's brutal directness to Pascoe's gentle obliquities. And when they had the Super's preferred guilty candidate banged up in the cells, that was quite enough to satisfy an ambitious young constable who could see no promotion points in proving Dalziel wrong.

But all that changed when they reached the station.

As they pulled into the car park, a metallic blue BMW pulled out. Both cars halted to give the other right of way and in the front seat of the BMW Pascoe recognized Eden Thackeray driving and by his side Philip Swain.

Thackeray waved, both in recognition and thanks, then drove on.

'Christ,' said Seymour, twisting in his seat. 'That was Swain. He's getting away!'

'Aided and abetted by one of the town's leading lawyers?' said Pascoe. 'Or do you think Swain has a gun made out of moulded bread dough and stained with boot blacking pressed into his side? In which case, Dennis, which would you prefer - to undertake the high speed car chase or to rush inside and untie Mr Dalziel?'

'My mother used to say something sarcastic about sarcasm,' muttered Seymour.

'Mine too,' laughed Pascoe. 'So let's both go in and untie the Super, shall we?'

part three

God:
Of all the mights I have made most next after me,

I make thee as master and mirror of my might;

I bield thee here bainly, in bliss for to be,

I name thee for Lucifer, as bearer of light.

The York Cycle:

 
'The Creation'

February 19th

Dear Mr Dalziel,

So I've changed my mind again! There's so much in the world I'd like to change but my mind's the only bit I can get at. I mean I've changed my mind about writing to you, not about killing myself. That's the only sure thing in my life. If I didn't have that to look forward to, I think I'd just curl up and die. (Joke.)

You must be thinking I'm really unstable, chopping and changing like this. The trouble is things have been happening fast, things to stretch me out, and I got to thinking: I don't need to put up with this; why not do it now? I came very close, believe me. But I want it to be something properly planned, a choice, not a whim.

Afterwards, though, I found myself desperate to talk to someone. I came close several times. A friendly word, a sympathetic smile, and I was ready to confide all! But in my mind, I kept on hearing your voice calling my name, which of course you don't know, and I knew I had to get back to you. You see, others would want to stop me, but all you'll be interested in is whether I'm proposing to commit a crime. Well, I'm not. It used to be a crime, but not any more. So you've got no reason to waste public money in using your famous expertise to find me. With you I'm quite safe. It's like having my personal confessor. Except I don't want absolution, just an unshockable ear! Incidentally, as far as I know, no saint has bagged this day so I dedicate it to you, though you may need to pull off a miracle to satisfy the powers that be that you've earned it!   Here endeth today's confession.

CHAPTER
ONE

'Peter, for God's sake!' gasped Ellie Pascoe as they ran their third amber. 'Are you trying to kill us?'

'We're late,' said Pascoe.

'For picking up Fat Andy? What's to hurry? And I don't see why you said you'd pick him up anyway.'