Reginald Hill - An April Shroud

'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.