right useless wanker for Delgado’s to turn him off like a factory hand.’
‘That is where you’re wrong,’ said Thackeray. ‘I happen to know that Swain was offered a top executive post with an excellent salary at head office in Los Angeles.’
‘But he couldn’t bear to leave sunny Currthwaite, is that it?’
‘Partly, yes,’ said the lawyer seriously. ‘But there was something else which may help you understand the quality of the man. Because they did not trust his native loyalties, Philip was not made privy to Delgado’s plans. When news of the closure came out, he was enraged.’
‘Was he now? Aye, he struck me as a good actor too.’
‘This was no act, believe me,’ urged Thackeray. ‘You ask the unions involved. There’s not one of them will hear a bad word against Swain.’
‘So you’re telling me Swain jacked in his sinecure with Delgado’s as an act of solidarity with his downtrodden comrades?’ said Dalziel.
‘Andrew, I’m not telling you anything,’ said Thackeray, suddenly aware how far he’d let himself be led in discussing his client’s background. ‘I’m merely passing the time of day till whatever obstacle lies in the way of my immediate interview with my client is removed. With another kind of officer I might by now have grown suspicious. But if one member of the Gentlemen’s Club cannot trust another, what is the world coming to? Incidentally, talking of the Gents, I gather you have not yet taken up your allocation of Ball tickets, so I have brought them along. They are in great demand so any you do not want for your own guests will be easily disposable. It’s twenty-five pounds the double ticket, so that will be two hundred and fifty pounds.’
‘Christ,’ said Dalziel. ‘When we were lads, you could go to a good hop, with a guaranteed jump after, if it weren’t raining, all for one and six. And she paid for her own.’
‘That was a long time ago, long enough for the present good cause to seem not unattractive, perhaps. Think of it as an investment.’
Dalziel glared at him balefully as he wrote a cheque. The Gents were sponsoring the Mayor’s Spring Charity Ball which this year was in aid of the local Hospice Appeal fund. He tossed the cheque over the table and said, ‘I’ll just go and see what’s holding things up.’
‘Take your time,’ said Thackeray, reaching for the Islay.
Dalziel went down to No. 2 interview room feeling irritated. Things weren’t going smoothly. First of all the police doctor’s late arrival had necessitated keeping Thackeray occupied, a tactic which had so far cost him two hundred and fifty pounds and a deal of malt. Then had come Pascoe’s message that Moscow Farm was clean. And finally he’d just been told on the phone that the doctor could find no signs of addiction, physical or psychological, on Swain.
The builder was looking weary but still in control. Dalziel, aware of Thackeray’s imminence, came straight to the point.
‘How long had your wife been a drug addict, Mr Swain?’
Swain made no effort at shock or indignation but shook his head and said, ‘So this is what this has all been about?’
‘You knew about her habit, then?’
‘She was my wife, for God’s sake. How couldn’t I know? All right, she had a problem but she’d kicked it.’
‘That’s not what the pathologist says.’
‘You mean she was snorting again? No, I didn’t know.’
‘Snorting? No, lad, not snorting. She’d got more perforations than a sheet of stamps,’ exaggerated Dalziel.
His reaction was startling. He stared at Dalziel incredulously and cried, ‘You what? Injecting, you mean? Oh Christ! The bastard!’
And as he spoke these words he smashed his left fist hard into his right palm, you could see the knuckle prints. This was genuine beyond histrionics. But who was he thumping? wondered Dalziel.
‘This bastard, who is he?’ he asked gently. ‘Do you mean Waterson?’
‘What? No. Of course not. He’s not the type. There’s no way it could be him.’ He didn’t sound very convincing.
‘Supplying the drugs, you mean?’
‘Yes. That’s the bastard I want.’
‘Oh aye? Bit late for revenge, isn’t it? I mean, she’s snuffed it now, with a bit of help from her friends.’
Swain looked at him with real hatred.
‘Where’s my lawyer?’ he demanded. ‘Why haven’t I seen my lawyer?’
‘Because last night you didn’t want to disturb his beauty sleep,’ said Dalziel. ‘Who was your wife’s doctor, Mr Swain? Perhaps he knows more about her problems than you seem to.’
Swain didn’t rise to this bait but said, ‘Dr Herbert, same as me. But she never went near him. He’d have said. Nothing unprofessional, but we’ve known each other a long time.’
‘Nod and a wink, eh?’ said Dalziel, nodding and winking most grotesquely. ‘But she must have seen someone when she broke her leg.’
‘Sorry. Can’t help you,’ said Swain.
‘You mean your wife breaks her leg and you don’t know who’s treating her? Christ, it’s a wonder she didn’t blow your head off!’
Swain took a deep breath.
‘I don’t have to stand this, Dalziel,’ he said quietly. ‘I realize if you get me to take a swing at you, then you’d really have something to hit me with. Well, I won’t give you that satisfaction. I want to see my lawyer. Now!’
Dalziel said, ‘Your wife’s dead, Mr Swain. Why should I need owt else to hit you with? I’ll get Mr Thackeray now. I reckon you need him.’
At the door he paused and said, ‘You never did finish telling me about that doctor …’
Swain sighed and said, ‘She had a skiing accident in Vermont. I wasn’t there. But I’m sure, being Americans, there’ll be records. If it’s important.’
‘Important?’ said Dalziel. ‘Can’t imagine where you got that idea.’
He went back to his room. Thackeray rose as he entered.
‘He’s all yours,’ said Dalziel. ‘Might be a bit upset. We’ve just been talking about his wife’s drug habit.’
If he’d expected any shock/horror response from the lawyer, he was disappointed.
Thackeray sighed and said, ‘Andrew, I know how much your job means to you, but I hope you will not let it obscure your basic humanitarianism. No one expects you to wear kid gloves, but it would help us all if during the course of your investigation you remembered that my client has suffered a deep and grievous loss.’
Dalziel scratched his thigh, picked up the malt whisky bottle, held it up to the light.
‘Looks like he’s not the only one,’ he said.
The Rangemaster at the Mid-Yorks Gun Club was properly macho, his shag of curly black hair echoed in designer stubble along the jaw and in designer thatch at the open neck of his lumberjack’s shirt. Below, he tapered to narrow hips and a pair of faded jeans so unambiguously tight, it was clear he was carrying no concealed weapons. He affected a mid-Atlantic baritone which occasionally let him down, or rather up, into a Geordie squeak. His name was Mitchell but he invited them to join everyone in calling him Mitch.
‘Tell me, Mr Mitchell,’ said Pascoe, ‘is Rangemaster a usual title for someone