Reginald Hill - An April Shroud

He headed for the kitchen fast. Tillotson and Louisa were drinking coffee together. They weren't speaking to each other but the atmosphere between them was manifestly more cordial than ever before in Dalziel's limited experience. When he had a moment, he must find out why she'd punched the poor sod on the nose that night.

'Morning,' he said brightly.

'Hi,' said Louisa. 'Fancy a cup?'

This was real cordiality.

'No time, thanks all the same. I'm running Herrie to town. Like to come?'

They exchanged glances.

'No thanks,' said Louisa.

'Things to do,' said Tillotson.

'Great news about the restaurant,' said Dalziel.

'Yes, isn't it,' said Tillotson brightly. 'With a bit of luck we can still open on time. I always knew it would be all right.'

Unimpressed by this unlikely claim to clairvoyance, Louisa said nothing but pulled her lower lip forward so that the moist inner flesh showed. It was quite sexy, thought Dalziel. If you were as skinny as she was, he supposed you had to do your best with whatever protuberances you could lay your hands on.

'Grand,' said Dalziel. 'Excuse me.'

He went into the back kitchen and returned a moment later with something in a plastic carrier bag.

'Taking a picnic?' asked Louisa.

'Just a nibble,' said Dalziel. 'Sure you won't come?'

'Sure. Any news about Mrs Greave?' asked Louisa.

'No. You'll have to do your own dinner,' said Dalziel. 'Perhaps the great white hunter here will shoot a couple of flying fish. You owe me for a cleaning job, Charley.'

Tillotson was full of apologies when he finally grasped Dalziel's meaning. Louisa was unsympathetic.

'Messing about in boats is messy,' she said firmly.

'It seemed safer than the landing-stage,' commented Dalziel.

'Poor old Sphincter,' sighed Tillotson.

'Yes?' nodded Dalziel.

'Nothing,' said Tillotson, puzzled. 'Just poor old Sphincter.'

'A sad loss,' said Dalziel. 'Especially to Anchor Insurance. They'll have to send someone else to investigate you.'

He left on this good line. As he approached Herrie's sitting-room he thought he heard the noise of the door clicking to but when he peered in, the room was empty. Cross must have finished, which meant Bonnie would be ready for her talk.

On an impulse he pushed open the door of the next room in the corridor and stepped inside. It was the billiards-room, still heavily curtained, perhaps (though he doubted it) in recognition that Fielding's coffin had lain in here.

He found a light switch and clicked it on. A tent of light fell over the green baize, but enough spilled sideways to reveal a figure standing in the shadows of the old marble fireplace.

Another switch turned on the main light.

'Well, well,' said Dalziel genially. 'The wanderer returns.'

Standing before him with an ancient rucksack slung over one shoulder was Nigel Fielding.

He looked very pale and in need of a good night's sleep.

'Just got back?' enquired Dalziel.

The boy nodded.

'And you thought you'd like a bit of peace and quiet before showing your face? Well, it always takes a bit of nerve to come home. Take the piss a bit, do they, Bertie and Lou?'

'A bit,' said the boy.

'Pay no heed. Look, I'm just off upstairs to see your mam for a moment. I'll tell her you're here if you like. OK?'

'Thanks very much, Mr Dalziel,' said the boy.

A polite lad, thought Dalziel as he went up the stairs. But he didn't look well and it boded no good that he should shut himself up in the darkened billiards-room as soon as he got back.

Bonnie was sitting at her dressing-table applying with great care a rich damask lipstick to her lower lip. It must be sex zone of the day, thought Dalziel.

'Cross gone?' he asked.

'Yes. Did you want to see him?'

'No sweat. I can see him in town. I'm driving your father-in-law to the bank.'

'That's kind of you. What about our talk?'

‘It'll keep, won't it. Anyway there's someone more important than me for you to see.'

'Who's that?'

'Nigel,' he said. 'He's just got back. He's in the billiards-room.'

It is always good to see that one's exit lines are effective and before he left he allowed himself the indulgence of watching the surprise round her lips to a roseate O reminding him of Uniff's cartoon.

He thought of mentioning Nigel's return to the old man, but decided he would certainly have wanted to go straight in and see the boy. Bonnie was entitled to some time alone with him. He'd only been away a couple of days, true, but in Dalziel's estimation it wouldn't be long before he went away and didn't come back for much, much longer. So he drove the ancient Rover down the rutted and pot-holed drive without mentioning the boy.

Fielding was very quiet on the short journey and Dalziel made no attempt to break the silence. In Orburn he parked the car in the ovoid square once more and watched Herrie step smartly through the dignified portals of the bank. For a poet, he had a surprisingly stiff and military bearing, or perhaps it was just his contact with commerce which had effected the change.

Dalziel's first call was the same as on the previous day, the chemist's shop. The girl assistant smiled knowingly when he asked to see the chemist himself. She thinks I want a packet of rubbers, thought Dalziel, and he leered so grossly at her that the smile vanished and she retreated quickly into the dispensary.

'Yes, sir,' said the chemist, a man with a Douglas Fairbanks profile and what looked like a duelling scar down his left cheek. He might have been Rupert of Hentzau in retirement.

Dalziel took him to one side and presented him with a piece of paper. On it he had written PROPANANNAL(?)

'What kind of condition would you take this for? I'm not sure of the spelling.'

'Well,' said the chemist dubiously. 'May I ask why you want to know?'

Dalziel sighed. The less he had to use his police authority at this stage, the better he'd be pleased.

'My old mother,' he said. 'She's very independent but we're desperately worried. You understand?'

'I see,' said the chemist, weakening.

'She's not local,' urged Dalziel.

‘In that case,' said the chemist.

It turned out that the chemist was not a romantic hero in retirement but rather a physician manque. Once he started, even Dalziel, famed throughout Yorkshire for his ability to halt the most garrulous of witnesses in midsyllable, found it hard to drive home the plug. In the end he plucked a packet at random from the nearest shelf, pulled out his wallet and escaped in the caesura produced by the reckoning of change.

But it had been a profitable visit none the less, though he felt no very great sense of triumph as he made his way to the police station.

There was another man closeted with Sergeant Cross this morning. Something about the way in which Cross introduced him as Detective Chief Inspector Balderstone made Dalziel feel that they had just been talking about him prior to his arrival. He wasn't surprised. It would have been strange if Cross's report on the presence in Lake House of a senior police officer had not produced some reactions from above.

Balderstone's attitude was very correct but to start with at least very reserved. He can't make his mind up if I'm a biased witness, impartial observer, or fifth column, thought Dalziel. And he wasn't altogether sure he knew himself.

After ten minutes or so, the atmosphere had thawed considerably.

'Look,' Dalziel had said. 'I'm just there by accident. It's Sergeant Cross's case, for what it is. And what is it? Well, there's two accidental deaths. Curious, but not criminal as far as we can see. A woman and a man have disappeared. It happens all the time. Christ, I'm not where I was planning to be three days ago, so in a sense I've disappeared. And lastly there's been a theft. That's the only crime. Simple theft. And, I tell you straight, it wouldn't surprise me if that didn't get quietly brushed under the carpet soon.'