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Overview
Superintendent Andrew Dalziel, while drunk, has witnessed a woman being fatally shot—but her husband claims it was an accident, and everyone seems to be buying his story. His partner, Pascoe, meanwhile, is looking into chatty letters from an anonymous sender who says her resolution for the new year is to commit suicide.
In the midst of all this, Dalziel is participating in a locally produced medieval mystery play—and has been cast in the role of God. Playing opposite him, as Lucifer, is the very man he suspects of murder . . .
“Hill’s most ambitious Dalziel/Pascoe novel yet—and one whose humor, keenness, and insight place him securely in the company of Ruth Rendell and P. D. James.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review
“If further evidence were needed, this latest mystery confirms Hill’s place among top British writers who produce solid stories of detection that succeed as first-rate novels exploring human character. . . . A powerful ending.” —Publishers Weekly
“No other genre author . . . writes with such feeling and understanding of silently unhappy women as does Mr. Hill in his tender character portraits of the town wives and daughters.” —The New York Times Book Review
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504059299 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | MysteriousPress.com/Open Road |
| Publication date: | 10/29/2019 |
| Series: | Dalziel and Pascoe Series , #11 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 525 |
| Sales rank: | 274,568 |
| File size: | 5 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
'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.
So it had been another day of rest and a series of birthday treats – breakfast in bed, an early gourmet dinner, front row stalls at the Kemble Theatre's acclaimed production of Hedda Gabler, all rounded off with after-show drinks on the stage, provided by Eileen Chung, the Kemble's Director.
'But people don't do such things,' Pascoe now asserted with Yorkshire orotundity.
Ellie looked ready to argue but he went on confidentially, 'I can smell a rotting fish when I see one, lass,' and belatedly she recognized his parody of his CID boss, Andy Dalziel.
She began to smile and Pascoe smiled back.
'You two look happy,' said Eileen Chung, approaching with a new bottle of wine. 'Which is odd, considering you paid good money to be harrowed.'
'Oh, we're harrowed all right, only Peter's worst instincts tell him Hedda was murdered.'
'And how right you are, Pete, honey,' said Chung, easing her seventy- five inches of golden beauty on to the chaise-longue beside him. 'That's exactly what I wanted to get across. Let me fill your glass.'
Peter glanced round the stage. The rest of the Kemble team seemed to be taking their leave. He began to ease himself up, saying, 'I think we should be on our way ...' but Chung drew him down again and said, 'Why the rush?'
'No rush,' he said. 'I'm not back at the rushing stage yet.'
'You've got a very distinguished limp,' she said. 'And I just love the stick.'
'He's embarrassed by the stick,' said Ellie, sitting at his other side so that he felt pleasantly squeezed. 'I suspect he feels it detracts from his macho image.'
'Pete. Baby!' said Chung, putting her hand on his knee and looking deep into his eyes. 'What's a stick but a phallic symbol? You want a bigger one maybe? I'll look in our props cupboard. And think of all the wild, wild men who've been lame. There was Oedipus, now he was a real motherfucker. And Byron. God, even his own sister wasn't safe –'
'Unhappily Peter is both an orphan and an only child,' interrupted Ellie.
'Aw shit. Pete, I'm sorry. I didn't know. But there's plenty of others without the family hangups. The Devil, for instance. Now he was lame.'
And Peter Pascoe, up to this moment more than content to accept this heavy-handed ribbing as a fair price for the privilege of being sandwiched between Ellie whom he loved, and Chung whom he lusted after, knew that he was betrayed.
He began to rise but Chung was already on her feet, her face alight with a let's-do-the-show-in-the-barn glow.
'The Devil,' she throbbed. 'Now there's an idea. Pete, honey, give me a profile. Fan-tastic. And with the limp, per-fection! Ellie, you know him best. Could he do it? Or could he do it?'
'He's got many diabolic qualities,' admitted Ellie.
This had gone far enough. There were some advantages to having a stick. He brought it down savagely on Hedda Gabler's coffee table, which he could do with a clear conscience as it belonged to him. Chung collected props like old Queen Mary collected antiques – she admired them into gifts. But she wasn't going to make a gift out of him.
Ellie was much to blame, but not as much as himself. He'd forgotten the golden rule – any friend of Ellie's was guilty until proven innocent, and probably longer. He'd been as suspicious as Ellie had been enthusiastic when the newly appointed Director of the Civil Theatre had clarioned her commitment to socially significant drama. But her beauty and charisma had made a rapid conquest of him. Her paymasters, the Borough Council, were less easy targets. Their stuff was brass not flesh and there was much concern lest they had taken a lefty viper to their righteous bosoms. But when her Private Lives (transplanted to Skegness and Huddersfield) had been a box office success surpassed only by her Gondoliers of the Grand Union Canal, the city fathers, realizing their clouds of doubt had brass linings, had relaxed and drifted with the cash-flow.
But it was her latest project aimed at God as well as Mammon which should have set his storm warning flashing.
Chung had proposed a huge outdoor production of the Mediaeval Mysteries. It was to be an eclectic version, though with a jingoistic concentration on the York and Wakefield cycles, it would run for seven days in early summer, and all the Powers that Were looked upon the project and saw that it was good. The clergy approved because it would make religion 'relevant', the Chamber of Commerce because it would pack the town with tourists, the Community Leaders because it would revitalize cultural identity by employing vast numbers of locals as performers, and the City Council because the locals wouldn't expect to be paid. Some mutterings about idolatry and blasphemy came from a few inerrantist outposts, but these were drowned in the great surge of approval.
At first it was assumed that Chung would cast her resident company in the main speaking parts, perhaps importing a middling magnitude telly star to give some commercial clout to Jesus, but here she took everyone by surprise.
'No way,' she told Ellie. 'My gang are going to be planted deep in the crowd scenes. That's where you need the professional stiffening in this kind of caper. Stars I can create!' So the great hunt had started. Every amateur thespian in the area started sending press-cuttings to the Kemble. Aged Jack Points, stripling King Lears, Lady Macbeths of the Dales, infant prodigies, Freds 'n' Gingers, Olivier lookalikes, Gielgud soundalikes, Monroe mouealikes, Streep stripalikes, the good, the bad, and the unbelievable were ready to stride and strut, fume and fret, leap and lounge, mouth and mumble, emote and expire before Chung's most seeing eye.
But for the most of them, their rehearsals were in vain. Chung saw to it that all their cuttings were returned with thanks, for she knew how precious are the records of praise, but the accompanying message was, why don't you go and get lost in the crowd scenes? For Chung had not been wasting her short time in this city. She was gregarious, went everywhere, forgot nothing. Those who met her were charmed, shocked, intrigued, revolted, amused, amazed, entranced, entramelled, but never indifferent. And though many would have loved it, few realized they had already been on Chung's casting couch. By the time she broached the Mysteries project, her mental cast list was almost complete.
Her intimates had been invited to help in snaring the more unwilling victims. Pascoe had been vastly amused when Ellie let drop some hilarious hints of Chung's remorseless quest, never for one moment suspecting that he might be himself a target!
But now his defences were fully aroused. He swung his stick at the coffee table again.
'No!' he cried. 'I won't do it!'
The women looked at each other with barely concealed amusement.
'Do what, honey?' asked Chung with solicitous innocence.
It was time to be clear beyond even the muddying powers of these practised pond-stirrers.
He said slowly, 'I am not going to be the Devil in your Mysteries. Not now. Not ever. No way.'
He examined his statement carefully. It seemed pretty limpid.
Now the women were looking at each other in amazement.
'But, Peter, of course you're not! Where did you get that idea from?' said Chung with the wide-eyed surprise of one who suspects this is no longer Kansas.
'Peter, for heaven's sake, what's got into you?' demanded Ellie with the exasperation of a wife being shown up in front of her friends.
It was time for continued firmness. He heard himself saying, 'But you were talking about my limp ... and the Devil being lame ... and me fitting the part ...'
'Just a gag. Pete. What do you take me for? Hell, with luck, by the time the show goes on you'll hardly be limping at all. I mean, you're going back to work tomorrow, aren't you? Do you think I'd take the piss out of anyone who was really disabled? Besides, you're far too nice and amiable. The man I've got in mind looks as proud and prickly as Lucifer, not your type at all!'
He had a feeling that, though not yet quite sure what the wrong was, he was sinking deeper and deeper in it. But that didn't matter. He needed to be absolutely clear that this was no set-up.
'And you definitely do not want me now, nor ever will want me, to perform an acting role in this or any of your dramatic productions?'
'Pete, I swear it, hand on heart.'
She performed the oath very solemnly, then observing the direction of his gaze, squeezed her left breast voluptuously and laughed.
'Happy now, Pete?' she asked.
'Chung, I'm sorry, it's this long convalescence all plastered up. You know, like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window, you start getting paranoiac.'
'I forgive, I forgive.' Then she added in alarm, 'Hey, but you're not backing off altogether! Pete, you promised the first thing you did when you got back to work would be to get yourself seconded to my "Mysteries" committee to make sure we get full cooperation with traffic and parking and security, all that shit!'
'Of course I will,' said Pascoe expansively. 'Anything I can do to help, short of acting – well short of acting – you know you've only got to ask.'
'Anything, eh?' said Chung reflectively. A tiny grin twitched Ellie's lips, like a Venetian gnat landing in your Campari soda. And it occurred to Pascoe that in Rear Window James Stewart hadn't been paranoiac, he'd been the one who saw things clearly.
'Anything within my ...' he began. But it was like a trainee para opting for ground crew after he'd stepped out of the plane.
'There is one small problem you're well placed to help me with,' said Chung.
'What's that?' he asked, not because he wanted to, but because the script demanded it.
'It's nothing, really. It's just that, you know this party I'm having next Sunday, sort of combined thank-you and publicity launch for the Mystery project?'
Pascoe, who knew about it because Ellie had told him they were going, nodded.
'Well, the thing is, Pete, I sent an invite to your boss, the famous Superintendent Dalziel. It's about time the two biggest names in town got together. Only he hasn't replied.'
'He's not that keen on formal social occasions,' said Pascoe, who knew that the constable who sorted Dalziel's mail had strict instructions to file all invitations that smelled of civic tedium or arty-farty ennui in a large plastic rubbish bag.
'Well, OK, but I'd really like him to be here, Pete. Could you possibly use your influence to get him to come?'
There was something fishy here. No one could be that keen to get Dalziel to a drinks party. It was like a farmer wanting to lure a fox into his hen coop.
'Why?' said Pascoe, suspecting it might be wiser to throw a faint and get carried out rather than pursue the matter further. 'Why do you want Dalziel? There's more to this than just a social gesture, isn't there?'
'You're too sharp for me, Pete,' said Chung admiringly. 'You're dead right. Thing is, I want to audition him. You see, honey, with all I've heard about him from you, and from Ellie, and from everyone, I think Andy Dalziel might be just about perfect for God!'
And Pascoe had to sit down again suddenly or else he might just have fainted anyway.
CHAPTER 2At roughly the same time as this annunciation of his projected apotheosis, Detective-Superintendent Andrew Dalziel was being sick into a bucket.
Between retchings, his mind sought first causes. He counted, and quickly discounted, the six pints of bitter chased by six double whiskies in the Black Bull; scrutinized closely but finally acquitted the Toad-in-the- Hole and Spotted Dick washed down with a bottle of Beaujolais in the Borough Club for Professional Gentlemen; and finally indicted, examined, and condemned a glass of mineral water accepted unthinkingly when one of the pickled onions served with his cheese had gone down the wrong way.
It had probably been French. If so, that put his judgement beyond appeal. They boasted on their bottle that the stuff was untreated, this from a nation whose treated water could fell a healthy horse.
The retching seemed to have stopped. It occurred to him that unless he had also consumed two pairs of socks and a string vest at the Gents, the bucket had not been empty. He raised his eyes and looked around the kitchen. He hadn't switched on the light, but even in darkness it looked in dire need of redecoration. This was the house he'd moved into when he got married and never found time or energy to move out of. On that very kitchen table he'd found his wife's last letter. It said Your dinner is keeping warm in the oven. He'd been mildly surprised to discover it was a ham salad. But it wasn't till next morning, when an insistent knocking roused him from the spare bed which he occupied with reluctant altruism whenever he got home later than 3.00 A.M., that he began to suspect something was wrong. Insistent knockings were a wife's responsibility. He found her bed unslept in, descended, found downstairs equally empty, opened the door and was presented with a telegram. It had been unambiguous in its statement of cause and effect, but it had been its form as much as its content which had convinced Dalziel this was the end. She'd found it easier to let strangers read these words than say them to his face!
Everyone had assumed he would sell the house and find a flat, but inertia had compounded cussedness and he'd never bothered. So now as his gaze slipped to the uncurtained window, it was a totally familiar view that he looked out upon – a small backyard which not even moonlight could beautify, bounded by a brick wall in need of pointing, containing a wooden gate in need of painting, which let into the back lane running between Dalziel's street and the rear entrances of a street of similar housing whose frequent chimneys castellated the steely night sky.
Only there was something different to look at tonight. A bedroom light went on in the house immediately behind his. A few moments later the curtains were flung aside and a naked woman stood framed in the square of golden light. Dalziel watched with interest. If this were hallucination, the Frogs might be on to something after all. Then as if to prove her reality, the woman pushed the window open and leaned out into the night, taking deep breaths of wintry air which made her small but far from negligible breasts rise and subside most entertainingly.
It seemed to Dalziel that as she'd been courteous enough to remove one barrier of glass, he could hardly do less than dispose of the other.
He moved swiftly to the back door, opened it gently, and stepped out into the night. But his speed was vain. Movement had broken the spell and the gorgeous vision was fled.
'Serves me bloody right,' growled Dalziel to himself. 'Acting like a kid that's never clapped eyes on a tit before.'
He turned away to re-enter his house but something made him turn again almost immediately. Suddenly from soft porn it was all action movie on the golden screen ... a man moving ... something in his hand ... another man ... a sound as explosive as a cough too long suppressed during a pianissimo ... and without conscious thought, Dalziel was off and running, cursing with increasing fervour and foulness as he crashed from one pile of household detritus to another.
His gate was unlocked. The gate of the house behind wasn't, but he went through it as though it was. He was too close now to see up into the first- floor room. It occurred to him as he charged towards the kitchen door that he might be about to meet a gunman equally anxious to get out. On the other hand there might be people inside as yet unshot, whom his approach could keep that way. Not that the debate was anything but abstract, as if an incendiary dropped on Dresden should somehow start considering the morality of tactical bombing as it fell.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Bones and Silence"
by .
Copyright © 1990 Estate of Reginald Hill.
Excerpted by permission of MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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