Reginald Hill: Bones and Silence

A Dalziel and Pascoe novel

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed

in it are the work of the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollins 1990

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Reginald Hill 1990

Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780586211281

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2013 ISBN: 9780007370283

Version 2015-06-19

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Part Two

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Part Three

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Part Four

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part Five

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Part Six

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Part Seven

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Part Eight

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Keep Reading

About the Author

By Reginald Hill

About the Publisher

We insist, it seems, on living. Then again, indifference descends. The roar of the traffic, the passage of undifferentiated faces, this way and that way, drugs me into dreams: rubs features from faces. People might walk through me … We are only lightly covered with buttoned cloth; and beneath these pavements are shells, bones and silence.

VIRGINIA WOOLF, The Waves

God : First when I wrought this world so wide,

Wood and wind and waters wan,

Heaven and hell was not to hide,

With herbs and grass thus I began.

In endless bliss to be and bide

And to my likeness made I man,

Lord and sire on ilka side

Of all middle earth I made him then.

A woman also with him wrought I,

All in law to lead their life,

I bade them wax and multiply,

To fulfil this world, without strife.

Sithen have men wrought so woefully

And sin is now reigning so rife,

That me repents and rues forthy

That ever I made either man or wife.

The York Cycle of Mystery Plays : ‘The Building of the Ark’

January 1st

Dear Mr Dalziel ,

You don’t know me. Why should you? Sometimes I think I don’t know myself. I was walking through the market place just before Christmas when suddenly I stopped dead. People bumped into me but it didn’t matter. You see, I was twelve again, walking across a field near Melrose Abbey, carefully balancing a jug of milk I’d just got from the farm, and ahead of me I could see our tent and our car and my father shaving himself in the wing mirror and my mother stooping over the camp stove, and I could smell bacon frying. It was such a good smell I started thinking about the lovely taste that went with it, and I suppose I started to walk a bit quicker. Next thing, I caught my toe in a tussock of grass, stumbled, and the milk went everywhere. I thought it was the end of the world but they just laughed and made a joke of it and gave me a huge plateful of bacon and eggs and tomatoes and mushrooms, and in the end it almost seemed they loved me more for spilling the milk than fetching it safely .

So there I was, standing like an idiot, blocking the pavement, while inside I was twelve again and feeling so loved and protected. And why?

Because I was passing the Market Caff and the extractor fan was blasting the smell of frying bacon into the cool morning air .

So how can I say I know myself when a simple smell can shift me so far in time and space?

But I know you. No, how arrogant that sounds after what I’ve just written. What I mean is I’ve had you pointed out to me. And I’ve listened to what people say about you. And a lot of it, in fact most of it, wasn’t very complimentary, but this isn’t an abusive letter so I won’t offend you by repeating it. But even your worst detractors had to admit you were good at your job and you weren’t afraid of finding out the truth. Oh, and you didn’t suffer fools gladly .

Well, this is one fool you won’t have to suffer much of. You see, the reason I’m writing to you is I’m going to kill myself .

I don’t mean straightaway. Some time soon, though, certainly in the next twelve months. It’s a sort of New Year Resolution. But in the meantime I want someone to talk to. Clearly anyone I know personally is out of the question. Also doctors, psychiatrists, all the professional helpers. You see, this isn’t the famous cry for help. My mind’s made up. It’s just a question of fixing a date. But I’ve discovered in myself a strange compulsion to talk about it, to drop hints, to wink and nod. Now that’s too dangerous a game to play with friends. What I think I need is a controlled outlet for all my ramblings. And you’ve been elected .

I’m sorry. It’s a big burden to lay on anyone. But one other thing which came out of what people say about youis that my letters will be just like any other case. You might find them irritating but you won’t lose any sleep over them!

I hope I’ve got you right. The last thing I want to do is to cause pain to a stranger – especially knowing as I do that the last thing I will do is cause pain to my friends .

Happy New Year!

‘I still don’t see why she shot herself,’ said Peter Pascoe obstinately.

‘Because she was bored. Because she was trapped,’ said Ellie Pascoe.

Pascoe used his stick to test the consistency of the chaise-longue over the side of which the dead woman’s magnificently ruined head had dangled thirty minutes earlier. It was as hard as it looked, but his leg was aching and he sat down with a sigh of relief which he turned into a yawn as he felt his wife’s sharp eyes upon him. He knew she distrusted his claims to be fit enough to go back to work tomorrow. He would have gone back today only Ellie had pointed out with some acerbity that February 15th was his birthday, and she wasn’t about to give the police the chance to ruin this one as they had the last half-dozen.