Reginald Hill - An April Shroud

'Ah,' said Cross.

The only immediate potential source of information about Mrs Greave was Papworth and he too had disappeared. His room, however, showed no signs of a hurried or permanent leave-taking and it seemed safe to assume he would return.

'You mustn't blame Bonnie,' said Fielding suddenly. He occupied the same chair in which he had received the Gumbelow award and Dalziel wondered if he had moved out of it since then. Apart from the debris of glasses and bottles which littered the room, the only other sign of the afternoon's junketings was Arkwright, the sound engineer, who slept with his head pillowed on and his arms still clasped protectively around his recorder. From time to time a bubbly and rather musical baritone snore emerged from his mouth.

Whether the others had gone or were also to be found unconscious round the premises, Dalziel did not know.

'Blame her for what?' he grunted.

'Going through your pockets,' said Fielding. 'It is after all a sensible thing to do when hanging up a suit to dry.'

'What was she doing in my wallet?' demanded Dalziel. 'Ironing my money? And why didn't you lot say you knew I was a policeman?'

Fielding shrugged.

'Why didn't you tell us?'

'Why should I?'

'Why indeed? But it doesn't create an atmosphere of confidence having someone in your house under false pretence.'

Dalziel refilled his glass with a brusqueness which in another man might have resulted in spillage.

'I pretended nowt.'

'Come, come,' said Fielding mildly. 'This morning Bertie and Lou went to Bonnie with some story about the possibility of your putting money into the restaurant. They were very put out when she told them who you were.'

'Oh. They didn't know till then?' said Dalziel thoughtfully.'

'No.'

'And you?'

'Bonnie told me this morning too. She's a very discreet woman.'

Dalziel considered the implications. It was a comfort to know there hadn't been a general conspiracy, with everyone watching the big thick policeman blundering around. It was also good to know that whatever asexual motives Bonnie might have had for going to bed with him, the hope of more money for the business wasn't one of them. But this still left some disturbing possibilities. A detective grew accustomed to attempts to use sex either as a means of buying him off or compromising him. It didn't happen every night or every week or even every month. But it happened. Dalziel didn't want this to be the truth, but his self-image argued against him. He had never considered himself a lady's man, but he had had his moments, and until a few months ago would have been complacent enough to accept that a big, burly, balding middle-aged detective superintendent might set some female hearts astir. Now there was too much darkness in his nights for the overspill not to cloud all but the brightest day, and his diminished concept of what he was hardly admitted the generation of love at first sight, or even enthusiastic lust.

Which left one more question. Why? What was he being bought off from, or more simply perhaps, distracted from.

He leaned forward and peered at the old man.

'Got your envelope safe?' he asked.

Hereward winked and tapped his stomach indicating, Dalziel surmised, either that he had stuffed it down his undervest or else eaten it.

'Why were you so bothered about taking it?' continued Dalziel.

Fielding looked at him cunningly.

'Pride,' he said. 'Literary pride.'

'Piss off,' said Dalziel easily. 'You wouldn't let pride get between you and all that brandy.'

'All right,' said Fielding. 'Ambition then.'

'Ambition?'

'Yes. This year I shall equal Browning. Another three will take me up to Wordsworth. And if I can hang on another three, I'll be past Tennyson.'

Dalziel laughed.

'Good-living bastards these poets, were they? So you want to be a hundred? Hey, you know what the Queen's Telegram says?'

'No. What?'

'Drop dead you silly old bugger.'

Fielding found this so amusing that he choked on his drink and for a moment Dalziel thought he was going to anticipate his sovereign's alleged command. But the cause of the upset also proved a remedy and after a moment he returned to his line of questioning.

'So what were the magic words I uttered that made you change your mind?'

'Nothing really,' said Fielding. 'I just wanted to be reassured that you would make your presence felt, which you have done with admirable timing. To be worth several thousand pounds in a household of relative paupers is no comfortable thing, Dalziel. You understand?'

'No,' said Dalziel. 'Not unless you're implying one of this lot'd try to knock you off. You're not saying that, are you?'

'Of course I'm saying that,' snapped Fielding. 'What do you want – a bibliography and index?'

'When people start talking about murder threats I want owt that'll stand up as evidence,' retorted Dalziel. 'Come on now. This is a serious allegation. What do you know?'

'I know that I am an old man,' said Fielding slowly, 'and in the eyes of many I have lived my life and run my race. I know that an old man is susceptible to heat and cold, to accidents, heart attacks, broken limbs, dizziness and dyspepsia. I shall not die, I think, from daggers or bullets or strange exotic poisonings. But die I shall and, as with many of the old, I suspect, I fear that a less than divine shoehorn will be used to ease me into my grave.'

Dalziel drank his brandy, shaking his head and marvelling inwardly at this strange and loving submission to the monstrous tyranny of words.

'Well,' he grunted, 'no bugger in this house'll kill you now, not while I'm around.'

'A champion!' said Bertie from the doorway. 'Sound the trumpet three times and Dalziel will gallop to the rescue!'

'What's happening out there, Bertie?' demanded Fielding. 'And spare us your tedious wit in the telling.'

'Nothing much,' said the stout youth, flopping into a chair. He seemed to have recovered both his sobriety and his temper. From the paleness round his eyes Dalziel judged that he had been sick.

'Sergeant Cross has been asking everyone questions,' said Tillotson, who had followed Bertie into the room. 'But he seems to have finished now. Is it true that you're a policeman too, Mr Dalziel?'

Dalziel regarded him kindly. Here was the last person anyone ever told anything. Tillotson and his kind would be carrying on normally days after Last Trump had summoned everyone else to the Judgement Throne.

'That's right,' he said.

'Really? Sir George Cheesman who used to be Chief Constable of Worcester is my godfather. Do you know him?'

'No,' said Dalziel. 'But I used to have a budgie that whistled the "Eton Boating Song". What are you lot going to do now?'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean you were in bad enough trouble with this restaurant business before. Now with your booze gone and your ovens knackered, you are right up the creek.'

'Which pleases you, does it?' asked Bertie.

'No. Not at all,' said Dalziel.

'We're covered against theft by insurance, surely?' said Tillotson.

Dalziel and Bertie laughed in unison.

'What's so funny?' asked Tillotson.

'After you,' said Bertie to Dalziel.

'Well, firstly no insurance company's going to rush to pay out on any claim coming from this household at the moment. Especially not if it's Anchor.'

'And secondly,' said Bertie. 'I doubt if my late lamented father ever bothered to insure the new equipment and so on. I asked him about it once, but got told in no uncertain terms that financial arrangements were his pigeon.'

'Oh,' said Tillotson. He looked very taken aback.

'Worried about your investment?' asked Bertie. 'Don't be, Charley. Just stiffen that upper lip and wave goodbye.'

There was a tap on the door and Cross came in.