Bones and Silence. Reginald Hill

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       CHAPTER TWO

      Detective-Sergeant Wield parked his car in the visitors’ car park and set off up the long pathway to the Infirmary. The oldest of the city’s hospitals, it had been built in the days when visitors were regarded as a nuisance even greater than patients and had to prove their fitness by walking a couple of furlongs before they reached the entrance. As recompense, the old red brick glowed in the February sun and a goldheart ivy embraced it as lovingly as any stately home. Also the path ran between flowerbeds white with snowdrops. Spotting a broken stalk, Wield stopped and picked the tiny flower and carefully inserted it in his button-hole.

      What a saucy fellow you’re becoming! he mocked himself. You’ll be advertising for friends in the Police Gazette next.

      His lips pursed in an almost inaudible whistling as he strode along but inside he was smiling broadly and singing Bunthorne’s song from Patience: ‘… as you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediaeval hand …’

      His merry mood lasted along the first straight mile of corridor but by the time he reached his destined ward, the sights, sounds and smells of the place had silenced his inner carolling.

      There was no one at the sister’s desk and he went into the open ward.

      ‘Mr Waterson? First door on your left,’ said a weary nurse who looked as if she should be occupying the bed she was making.

      Wield pushed open the door indicated and went in.

      It occurred to him instantly that Waterson must have private medical insurance. A nurse in a ward sister’s uniform was leaning over him. Their mouths were locked together and his hands were inside her starched blouse, roaming freely. No way did you get this on the National Health.

      Wield coughed. The nurse reacted conventionally, doing the full guilty thing surprised bit, jumping backwards while her fingers scrabbled at her blouse buttons and blood flushed her pale and rather beautiful face like peach sauce over vanilla ice. The man, however, grinned amiably and said, ‘Good morning, Doctor.’

      ‘It is Mr Waterson, isn’t it?’ said Wield doubtfully.

      ‘That’s right.’

      Wield produced his warrant card.

      ‘Good lord. It’s the fuzz, dear. I expect you’ve come for a statement? It’s all ready. They wake you at sparrow fart in these places, you know, so I’ve had hours to compose.’

      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, СКАЧАТЬ