Reginald Hill - Bones and Silence

He thrust a single sheet of foolscap bearing the Local Health Authority’s letter-head into Wield’s hand.

The woman meanwhile had reassembled herself into the pattern of a brisk efficient ward sister.

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’ll look in later.’

‘Nice, isn’t she?’ said Waterson complacently as the nurse left.

Wield examined the man neutrally. He was approaching thirty, perhaps had even passed it. Nature had tossed youthful good looks into his cradle, and nurture in the form of an artistic hairdresser, an aesthetic dentist and possibly an expensive dermatologist, had made sure the gift wasn’t wasted.

‘The sister is an old friend?’ he ventured. Waterson smiled. There was charm here too.

‘Wash your mind out, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘That was no sister, that was my wife!’

Deciding this was a conundrum best postponed, Wield looked at the statement. It consisted of a single very long paragraph written in a minute but beautiful hand. It wasn’t easy to read but one thing was very quickly clear. It was a lot closer to Swain’s version of events than to Dalziel’s!

Wield began to read it through a second time.

Gail Swain and I became lovers about a month ago. It was difficult to see as much of each other as we would have liked, so when Gail came up with a plan for us to have a longer period together I was delighted. She was going back to America on a visit to see her mother and she rearranged things so that she wouldn’t need to get there till much later than she’d told her husband. I wanted to fix up a hotel somewhere but she said no, she would come to me as soon as she could and she preferred to stay with me in town. I think the idea of stopping so close to her home excited her in some way. She turned up at my house in Hambleton Road last Thursday. I know she had allegedly left for America on the Sunday but what she had been doing in the meantime she never said. She was in a rather strange mood when she arrived and though things went well enough at first, by the time the weekend was over I was seriously worried. She never left the house but stayed inside all the time, drinking heavily, watching television, playing records, and talking wildly. Sexually she made increasingly bizarre demands upon me, not I felt for her own physical satisfaction so much as my humiliation. When I suggested she ought to be thinking about leaving, she became abusive and said things like, they would need to carry her out of there for all the neighbours to see. Last night she was the worst I had seen her. When I tried to reason with her, she produced this gun and said something about this being the only thing that spoke any sense. I know nothing about guns so I had no idea if it was real or loaded or anything. She aimed it at me and said it would be nice to have some company when she went. Just then the doorbell went and when I went downstairs to answer it, I found it was Philip Swain, her husband. I was naturally taken aback but also in a strange way I was quite relieved to have someone else to share the responsibility with. It just all came spilling out how worried I was and it must have got across as genuine, for instead of throwing a jealous fit, he came upstairs to see for himself. As soon as she saw us together, she became quite hysterical. She was laughing madly and screaming abuse and waving the gun, first at us, then at herself. I went towards her to pacify her and she put the gun under her chin and said if I came any closer she would kill herself. I was still uncertain whether the gun was real or not but I could see that she was in such a state she was likely to press the trigger unawares so I made a dive at her. Next thing the gun went off and there was blood and flesh and bone everywhere. I’m afraid I just collapsed and after that everything was a blur until I awoke this morning and found myself in the Infirmary. I can see now that Gail was a highly disturbed woman and was always capable of doing damage to herself or others. But I blame myself entirely for what happened last night. If I had acted differently and called for professional help instead of trying to disarm her myself, perhaps none of this would have happened.

Signed: Gregory Waterson.

After his second reading, Wield stood in silence for a while.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Waterson. ‘Not the right format? Get it typed up any which way you like, Sergeant, and I’ll sign it.’

Gathering his wits, Wield said, ‘No, sir, it’s fine. Will you excuse me?’

He went out. A ward sister had appeared at the desk, a stout woman with a smile of great sweetness which switched on as he approached and identified himself.

‘I met Mrs Waterson a moment ago,’ he said. ‘Is she not on this ward?’

‘No. Women’s surgery. Did you want her?’

‘No. At least not now. I’d like a telephone, if I could.’

‘In my office, just down there.’

‘Thanks. Any idea when Mr Waterson will be discharged?’

‘You’ll need to ask Dr Marwood. Shall I get him? He’s just down the ward.’

‘Yes, please.’

He went into the tiny office and dialled. He identified himself to the switchboard operator and asked to be put through to Dalziel. A moment later Pascoe answered the phone.

‘That you, Wieldy? Look, the Super’s in with the Chief. Anything I can do to help?’

Quickly Wield filled him in.

‘Oh dear,’ said Pascoe. ‘No wonder you sounded relieved to get me .’

‘It’s not quite the same story as Swain’s,’ said Wield, in search of a silver lining.

‘No. But it’s a bloody sight closer to it than Fat Andy’s version,’ said Pascoe.

‘You don’t think he could have got it wrong?’

‘Are you going to tell him that?’

‘I’m only a sergeant. Chief Inspectors get the danger money,’ said Wield. ‘Went all right, did it, your big moment? Corks popping and such?’

‘I got a cup of instant coffee. Is Waterson fit enough to come down here for a bit of close questioning?’

‘He looks in rude health to me but I’m just going to check with the doctor.’

As Wield replaced the receiver, the door opened and a black man in a white coat came in. He was in his late twenties, with a hairline further back and a waistline further forward than they ought to be.

‘Marwood,’ he said. ‘You the one wanting to know if Waterson’s fit to go? The answer’s yes. Sooner the better.’

This sounded like something more than a medical opinion.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Wield. ‘Were you on when he was admitted?’

‘No, but I’ve seen the notes. Shock; sedation. Well, the sedation’s worn off. Never lasts long with his type. Same with shock, I’d say.’

‘His type?’

‘Volatile,’ said the doctor. ‘At least that’s one way of putting it.’

Wield said, ‘Do you know Mr Waterson, sir? I mean, not just as a patient?’

‘We’ve met. His wife works here.’

‘And it was through her …?’

‘Staff parties, that sort of thing. He turned up a couple of times.’

‘And how did he strike you?’ asked Wield.

‘Did I take to him, you mean? No way! He struck me as an opinionated little shit, and crypto-racist with it. I wasn’t surprised when she left him.’

‘Left him?’

‘You didn’t know?’ Marwood laughed. ‘If I try to operate without knowing my patient’s a haemophiliac, I get struck off. But you guys just muddle through and no one gives a damn! What’s he done anyway?’

‘Just helping us, sir,’ said Wield, wondering how Marwood would have reacted to the scene he had interrupted minutes earlier. ‘How long have they been separated?’

‘Not long. She moved into a room in our nurses’ annexe. Excuse me.’

A bleeper had started up in his pocket. He switched it off and picked up the phone.