Reginald Hill - An April Shroud

But inside the building they encountered Dalziel once more. He looked anxious and uncertain, expressions which Pascoe had observed on his face as rarely as smiles on an undertaker's.

'Balderstone just rang,' he said without preliminaries. 'The plane arrived, but no Butt.'

'What?' exclaimed Cross.

'He was taken ill at the airport, it seems. Ambulance took him to hospital in Rio.'

'Very convenient,' observed Cross. 'That seems to wrap it up, I'd say. It looks as if we'll have to do it the hard way from now on in. I don't suppose they'll be asking for volunteers to spend a couple of days in Rio chatting him up, will they, sir?'

Dalziel didn't answer but turned away and disappeared towards the kitchens. Cross shrugged at Pascoe and the two men re-entered the Banqueting Hall.

'Thought you'd got lost,' observed Ellie's father.

'There was a queue for the loo,' lied Pascoe as he attempted to squeeze back on to the bench beside the townswoman whose thighs seemed to have settled and spread like wedges of ripe Brie.

'You missed the Sir Toby's Syllabub,' observed Ellie.

'I don't think I did, really,' said Pascoe.

They had now reached the stage in the evening when the historical was at war with the nostalgic – a war it could not hope to win. The bearded photographer had reappeared armed with a guitar and though the mead-sodden audience were happy enough to listen to one verse of 'Drink to Me Only', further than that they would not go. The guitarist read their mood and gauged their taste perfectly, and soon the composition rafters were ringing with such fine medieval songs as 'Bless 'em All', 'She'll Be Coming Round The Mountain', and 'The Rose of Tralee'.

After some thirty minutes of this, during which time the tables were cleared completely (a pre-empting of the souvenir hunters in which Pascoe thought he detected Dalziel's hand), the guitarist announced that coffee was available and the bar would be open until ten-thirty. Clearly authenticity stopped at the licensing authorities.

Ellie and Pascoe sat fast while all around them their fellow diners scrambled for the exit.

'They'll be able to charge a quid a drink from now till closing time,' observed Pascoe. 'That should please Dalziel.'

'Why?'

'He's a shareholder.'

Quickly he passed on all he had learned that night. Ellie whistled speculatively when he finished.

'What's she like?' she asked.

'Who?'

'This woman, Bonnie Fielding is it?'

'I don't know, do I? I've only seen her distantly. Your dad thinks she overcharges.'

'Let's hope she doesn't overcharge big Andy,' said Ellie. 'Come on, let's take a look.'

'He can look after himself, you know,' said Pascoe, rising to follow her.

'Huh!' she snorted.

'What's that mean?' he asked as they squeezed through the crowd towards the bar.

'It means that the way he was babbling on at our wedding reception, he was ripe for plucking. He no longer deems his soul immortal. I've seen the symptoms developing. You getting married was the last straw.'

'Bollocks!'

'Well, one of them,' emended Ellie in the face of this forceful argument. 'I don't mean he fancies you. And I don't think he objects to me like he used to. But he's unsettled. I mean, wasn't it a bit odd that he should take his first holiday in God knows how long at the same time as your honeymoon?'

'No wonder you can't flog your novel!' said Pascoe.

They had finally reached the bar at which all hands seemed to be manning the pumps, or rather taps, optics and bottle openers. Dalziel was among them. Pascoe watched his technique for a while with interest. He poured the drinks with swift efficiency then charged eighty pence for a round of two, one pound forty for three, one ninety for four and three pounds for anything over. It seemed to be generally acceptable. Pascoe studied the list of prices, took from his pocket the exact amount required for two scotches, ordered them from an old man in a black doublet and passed over the money.

'That's Hereward Fielding,' whispered Ellie.

'Who?'

'The poet. I knew he lived locally, but I didn't link him with this lot.'

Somewhere behind the bar, a phone rang. The big woman who Pascoe supposed was Bonnie Fielding retreated to answer it.

'It's for you, Andy,' she called a moment later.

Dalziel was a long time on the phone and though the bar service went on as efficiently as ever, Pascoe sensed an awareness among the servers of what was going on in the background. Finally Dalziel reappeared and beckoned to Bonnie and the two disappeared from sight.

'Let's try to find somewhere less crowded,' suggested Ellie.

Again Pascoe followed her, but he protested when she opened a door marked ' Staff and led him through.

'Friends of the proprietor,' she grinned.

'Can't you read?' demanded a most unfriendly voice. A stout youth had appeared at the other end of the corridor they were in and was glowering at them.

'We're friends of Mr Dalziel,' said Ellie firmly.

'Are you? Well, I'm sorry, but we don't let our staff socialize during business hours,' said the youth pompously.

'You're Bertie Fielding?' asked Pascoe.

'Yes. Why do you ask?'

'No reason. Someone described you to me, that's all.'

Fat and nasty had been Cross's words. To another auditor he might have used the same words of Dalziel, thought Pascoe.

'You might tell Mr Dalziel I'd like to see him,' continued Pascoe, resolved not to retreat before this creature. 'Inspector Pascoe.'

'Not another!' groaned Bertie. 'What do you do? Breed from mud?'

But he went all the same and a moment later Dalziel emerged from the bar. He shook Ellie's hand formally.

'Nice to see you,' he said.

'Hi,' she answered.

'Come on through,' said Dalziel. 'I'll be glad to take the weight off my feet.'

They followed him into the main house. He moved around, observed Pascoe, with the familiarity of the inmate.

'We'll go in here,' said Dalziel. 'It's the old boy's sitting-room, but every bugger uses it.'

'Cosy,' said Ellie. 'You seem to be enjoying your holiday.'

'Aye,' he grunted looking at her ironically. 'He'll have told you everything, I suppose?'

'I wouldn't know that,' said Ellie. 'He may be holding something back.'

'He's daft if he doesn't,' said Dalziel. 'The practice'll come in useful later.'

'If I may interrupt this curiously oblique conversation,' said Pascoe. 'Look, sir, is this private business or a case? I mean, I don't want to stick my nose in…'

'Why not?'

'Because if it's private, it's private, and I've no right to interfere,' said Pascoe steadily. 'Unless requested, of course. But if it's a case…'

'Cross gave you a run-down, didn't he?' said Dalziel. 'How'd it look to you?'

'It looked like you were dancing on a tightrope, sir,' said Pascoe. 'With a high wind blowing up.'

'Did it? Well, I'll tell you what, Inspector, I'll just put you right in the picture, you and your missus both, and we'll see what the combined might of two university educations can make of it.'

Dalziel lit a cigarette. He looked, thought Pascoe, a bit like Cardinal Wolsey might have looked in a private moment, worn down by, rather than relaxed from, the cares of office.

'There's a possibility that this man Butt may have given Annie Greave a lift from Lake House, fallen out with her somewhere along the road home, killed her and dumped her body in Epping Forest. We mustn't discount this.'

'But you don't believe it?' said Pascoe.

'I wouldn't say that,' Dalziel answered. 'There's another possibility though. Only one other, really. Annie Greave was killed here and hidden in the boot of Butt's car. Butt didn't find her till he was nearly home. He stopped for a drink and a sandwich just before closing time at a pub just off the A1 at Baldock. They back-tracked him there. Perhaps he opened the boot for some reason when he came out of the pub. There was Annie's body. Now he'd be very bothered. I mean, Christ, who wouldn't? But he'd be particularly bothered. First he was half-cut. He'd got stoned here to start with. I bet he hadn't got much idea how he'd driven to Baldock! So he didn't fancy talking to the police in that state.