bit of woodland round a pond and go over it with a couple of dogs and a frogman. What's the country like round there?'
'Like country,' said Pascoe dubiously. 'Wearton's a cluster of houses, pub and a*church in a bit of a valley, so I suppose there are plenty of woods and ponds thereabouts. But if it's that specific, Swithenbank would hardly have mentioned it to me, would he?'
'Mebbe not. Or mebbe he'd get a kick. Playing with a thick copper.'
'I didn't get that impression,' said Pascoe carefully.
Dalziel laughed, a Force Eight blast.
'More likely with me, eh? But he'd soon spot you're a clever bugger, the way you get your apostrophes in the right place. So if he has killed his missus and if this Ulalume poem does point in the right direction, he'd keep his mouth shut. Right? Unless he was bright enough to think we might have got a few calls ourselves.'
'Which we didn't,' said Pascoe. 'Just the letter.'
'And the ear-ring,' said Dalziel. 'Remind me again, lad. How'd we first get mixed up in this business?'
Pascoe opened the thin file he was carrying and glanced at the first sheet of paper in it.
'October twenty-fourth last year,' he said. 'Request for assistance from Enfield - that's where Swithenbank lives. Says he'd reported his wife missing on the fifteenth. They hadn't been able to get any kind of line on her movements after the last time Swithenbank claimed to have seen her. Like him, she comes from Wearton, so would we mind checking in case she'd done the classic thing and bolted for home. We checked. Parents both dead, but her brother Arthur still lives in the village. He's got a bit of a smallholding. He hadn't seen her since her last visit with Swithenbank, two months earlier. Nor had anyone else.'
'Or they weren't saying,' said Dalziel.
'Perhaps. There was no reason to be suspicious at the time. Routine enquiry. That was it as far as we were concerned. A month later Enfield came back at us. Were we quite sure there was no trace? They wrapped it up, of course, but that's what it came to. They hadn't been able to get a single line on Mrs Swithenbank and when someone disappears as completely as that, you start to get really suspicious. But if you're wise, you double check before you let your suspicions show too clearly.'
'Who'd done the checking in Wearton?' asked Dalziel.
'We just left it to the local lad first time round,' said Pascoe. 'This time I sent Sergeant Wield down. Same result. All quiet after that till this week when the ear-ring turned up.'
'How've they been earning their pay in Enfield this past year?' asked Dalziel.
'Saving the sum of things from the sound of it,' said Pascoe. 'But in between the bullion robberies and the international dope rings, they managed to lean heavily enough on Swithenbank for him to drum up a tame solicitor to lean back.'
'Any motive?'
Pascoe shrugged.
'The marriage wasn't idyllic, so the gossip went, but no worse than a thousand others. She might have been having a bit on the side, her girl-friends guessed, but couldn't or wouldn't point the finger. He wasn't averse to the odd close encounter at a party, but again no one was naming names.'
'That's marriage Enfield-style, is it?' said Dalziel, shaking his head. He made Enfold sound like Gomorrah.
'Give us his tale again,' continued Dalziel.
'Friday, fourteenth October, Swithenbank arrives at his office at the usual time. Nothing out of the ordinary during the morning except that his secretary told Willie Dove, Inspector Dove that is, who was doing the questioning, that he seemed a bit moody that morning.'
'How moody? / shouldn't have cut off her head like that - that moody?'
'The secretary just put it down to the fact that his favourite assistant was leaving that day.'
'Favourite? Woman?' said Dalziel eagerly.
'Fellow. No, it wasn't the fact that he was leaving, more why he was leaving that had got to Swithenbank, it seems. This chap was putting it all behind him, going off to somewhere primitive like the
'Like country,' said Pascoe dubiously. 'Wearton's a cluster of houses, pub and a*church in a bit of a valley, so I suppose there are plenty of woods and ponds thereabouts. But if it's that specific, Swithenbank would hardly have mentioned it to me, would he?'
'Mebbe not. Or mebbe he'd get a kick. Playing with a thick copper.'
'I didn't get that impression,' said Pascoe carefully.
Dalziel laughed, a Force Eight blast.
'More likely with me, eh? But he'd soon spot you're a clever bugger, the way you get your apostrophes in the right place. So if he has killed his missus and if this Ulalume poem does point in the right direction, he'd keep his mouth shut. Right? Unless he was bright enough to think we might have got a few calls ourselves.'
'Which we didn't,' said Pascoe. 'Just the letter.'
'And the ear-ring,' said Dalziel. 'Remind me again, lad. How'd we first get mixed up in this business?'
Pascoe opened the thin file he was carrying and glanced at the first sheet of paper in it.
'October twenty-fourth last year,' he said. 'Request for assistance from Enfield - that's where Swithenbank lives. Says he'd reported his wife missing on the fifteenth. They hadn't been able to get any kind of line on her movements after the last time Swithenbank claimed to have seen her. Like him, she comes from Wearton, so would we mind checking in case she'd done the classic thing and bolted for home. We checked. Parents both dead, but her brother Arthur still lives in the village. He's got a bit of a smallholding. He hadn't seen her since her last visit with Swithenbank, two months earlier. Nor had anyone else.'
'Or they weren't saying,' said Dalziel.
'Perhaps. There was no reason to be suspicious at the time. Routine enquiry. That was it as far as we were concerned. A month later Enfield came back at us. Were we quite sure there was no trace? They wrapped it up, of course, but that's what it came to. They hadn't been able to get a single line on Mrs Swithenbank and when someone disappears as completely as that, you start to get really suspicious. But if you're wise, you double check before you let your suspicions show too clearly.'
'Who'd done the checking in Wearton?' asked Dalziel.
'We just left it to the local lad first time round,' said Pascoe. 'This time I sent Sergeant Wield down. Same result. All quiet after that till this week when the ear-ring turned up.'
'How've they been earning their pay in Enfield this past year?' asked Dalziel.
'Saving the sum of things from the sound of it,' said Pascoe. 'But in between the bullion robberies and the international dope rings, they managed to lean heavily enough on Swithenbank for him to drum up a tame solicitor to lean back.'
'Any motive?'
Pascoe shrugged.
'The marriage wasn't idyllic, so the gossip went, but no worse than a thousand others. She might have been having a bit on the side, her girl-friends guessed, but couldn't or wouldn't point the finger. He wasn't averse to the odd close encounter at a party, but again no one was naming names.'
'That's marriage Enfield-style, is it?' said Dalziel, shaking his head. He made Enfold sound like Gomorrah.
'Give us his tale again,' continued Dalziel.
'Friday, fourteenth October, Swithenbank arrives at his office at the usual time. Nothing out of the ordinary during the morning except that his secretary told Willie Dove, Inspector Dove that is, who was doing the questioning, that he seemed a bit moody that morning.'
'How moody? / shouldn't have cut off her head like that - that moody?'
'The secretary just put it down to the fact that his favourite assistant was leaving that day.'
'Favourite? Woman?' said Dalziel eagerly.
'Fellow. No, it wasn't the fact that he was leaving, more why he was leaving that had got to Swithenbank, it seems. This chap was putting it all behind him, going off to somewhere primitive like the
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