A Killing kindness

Chapter 25

Greenall said, 'We were happy enough, not deliriously happy, but when does that ever last past the first few months? I was probably more content than Mary. Well, I'd done more, achieved more, relatively speaking. Whenever I felt dissatisfied I just had to look back to when I was a scruffy half-educated kid running round the back streets of Derby. God knows how I even got qualified enough to get into the RAF at the lowest level. But I did. And I did well. I learn fast. Barely ten years later I was commissioned, I was married to Mary. And of course, above all, I was flying.'

He smiled to himself, like a man who remembers glory.

Pascoe said casually, 'This is interesting. You needn't say anything you realize that? It may be used as evidence. I'll keep a record of it unless you prefer to write it yourself.'

It was a pretty feeble version of the correct procedure. And he ought to get Greenall to sign a declaration saying that he had been cautioned and still wanted to make a statement and have someone else write it down for him. But his instinct told him that he must take the minimum risk of fracturing this fragile mood. For a moment he thought he'd gone too far already but after a brief pause the man continued as though Pascoe had not spoken.

'I'd met Mary when I was stationed on Cyprus. She was teaching at the military school there. We liked each other from the first. Marriage might have come eventually, but when she found she was pregnant, it had to come at once. That might have been the trouble. Rushing things is never good. I know that now. But Alison was born and we were happy. Very happy. Once Alison got to school age, though, Mary got restless. She wanted to work again. I didn't like it too much and with me moving around from time to time, it wasn't all that easy anyway. But she insisted on it and when, twice within the space of four or five years, she had to give it up, you'd have thought she was the breadwinner and I was earning the pin-money.'

He shook his head at the incredibility of the thought.

'The second time was when I was posted to Hanover. She even suggested it might be better for Alison's schooling if she and the girl stayed in England for a while. I didn't think it was Alison she was really thinking of. Anyway, she came. And a few months later it looked as if things were turning right for her. One of the teachers at the local British School in Linden fell seriously ill. Mary was ideal for the post. On the spot, fully qualified, with just the right kind of experience. Things seemed to get back together for us for a while after that. There'd been a lot of rowing. She'd even managed to get the girl turned against me. Well, I expect there were faults on both sides. But now, for a time, everything seemed OK.'

He sighed deeply.

'Are you sure you won't have a drink?' he asked suddenly.

'No, thanks. But if you want one…'

'No,' he said emphatically. 'I can take it or leave it. She met Dinwoodie there, you know. He was deputy head, or some such thing. There was also some kind of drama group he was involved in and soon Mary was mixed up in it too. I got a bit concerned about how much of her time it was taking up, but I didn't want to rock the boat, things seemed to be going so well. So I didn't say much. But other people were saying things. Not directly to me. But after a bit you begin to notice silences, intonations. So I started going along myself. I couldn't do it regularly, but I thought if I took an interest, made myself useful with lights and so on… well, I don't know what I thought. Mary wasn't all that enthusiastic, but she didn't seem to mind. They were rehearsing for some local festival; Shakespeare. The Krauts love Shakespeare, God knows why. I didn't want to appear pig-ignorant, so I set out to read a bit myself. They were just doing scenes. Mary and Dinwoodie were doing a bit from Hamlet, the scene when he tells Gertrude what a whore she's been, then kills old Polonius behind the curtain. I read that play through a dozen times. I reckon I knew as much about it as anyone in that damned drama group. I just wanted to impress, you understand. I wasn't really suspicious, not any more. If they'd been doing a scene from Romeo and Juliet perhaps, but somehow with Mary acting as his mother, it didn't seem that there was anything to worry about. Stupid, really, isn't it?'

Pascoe nodded, not quite sure what he was acquiescing to.

'Even when I caught them at it, I didn't do anything rash. I told myself it was just a once-off thing, quickly over. I wasn't going to let her get away with it, of course. She deserved to be punished. I made that quite clear to her. I thought I might send the girl back to England to boarding-school, get her out of the way later. Meanwhile, though, I wanted to keep a low profile. I thought of the scandal it would cause in the mess, I could see all my hard work to get on over the years coming to nothing and, in any case, it was nearly the end of the school year and I knew that Dinwoodie's contract was up and he was returning to the UK. So I let things slide for a while. And the end of term came. And Dinwoodie went. And I came home from a few days on an exercise and found that Mary had disappeared and Alison with her. And after that, well, things went into a spin.'

As he talked now, first hesitations, then often lengthy gaps, began to appear in his speech, but Pascoe was able to fill it in from his long telephone conversation with an RAF records officer who had been extremely cooperative when the Choker case was mentioned.

Greenall had at first attempted to cover up, pretending that his wife and child had gone back to England for a holiday, though clearly not another person at the school or on the station believed this. He himself had returned to the UK on a fortnight's leave which he overstayed when his efforts to track them down were unavailing. This was the first stage in the long downhill slide his career now began to take. It didn't all happen at once. There were plunges and recoveries. He received a letter from his wife, explaining her motives, wanting to put everything on a civilized level. They met in a London hotel lounge to talk things over. The meeting ended with him striking her across the face and rushing across to the reception desk where a young girl, just arrived with her parents, was terrified to be embraced by this demented stranger and dragged towards the door.

That was the last contact for some time. Mary clearly decided, probably for a combination of religious and personal reasons, that disappearance was a better bet than any remedy of the law. Perhaps to keep their heads down, perhaps because the mid-seventies was a very bad time for expatriate teachers to try to filter back into the home system, they decided to abandon education for cultivation and went into the Garden Centre business. Certainly if they maintained any contact with the RAF world at all, reports of Greenall's condition would not have encouraged them to let him know their whereabouts. Drink and a growing oddness of behaviour patterns had resulted in first the loss of his flying status, then, after a period of breakdown, discharge on medical grounds.

All this over a period of nearly three years.

'So,' said Greenall, 'I woke up one morning and found I was back in civvy street. No wife, no daughter, no commission, no career. And no flying. I had to get that back to start with. Do you understand? Down here even when I was on the crest of the wave, I always felt there was something, I don't know, sort of pulling me back to where I started. Up there, it was different. Still is. Up there I was… am…'

'King of infinite space?' offered Pascoe.

'Yes. Right. That's it. King of infinite space. So I did an instructor's course. Just basic stuff. Work on trainers, that kind of thing. I knew I would never get back in the big boys again, but this way at least I got my feet off the ground. And there was work in it. I got a job down at a flying club in Surrey. Twice the size of this. I really enjoyed it, all of it, even the ground staff side.'

His speech, mirroring his mental recovery, had begun to flow freely again. Pottle would explain this, thought Pascoe. And probably advise me to listen carefully for the return of disjunction.

'And did you see your wife again in this time?'

'Neither saw nor heard from her,' said Greenall. 'When I got myself together, I started looking. I played your game, detective that is. Not an easy business, is it? I went to the address on that one letter, but it was a boarding-house, no forwarding address. I tried local schools, then the Department of Education. They couldn't or wouldn't help. No, it wasn't easy.'

'Police?' suggested Pascoe. 'Did you try them?'

'Why?' said Greenall, surprised. 'It had nothing to do with the police. In the end, I stopped trying. I didn't give up, you understand. Just settled to play a waiting game. I knew that somehow, one day, something… well, I was right. There in the paper, just a paragraph. Tragic accident. Man chewed to death by machine at Agricultural Show. Mr Peter Dinwoodie. Leaving wife, Mary; daughter, Alison. Pure chance. But more than chance. The paper I saw it in was months out of date. I'd rented a small cottage. There was a coal fire. I used newspaper to light it and during the summer the papers just piled up. I'd missed the item when it first appeared, last summer. But one cold January morning this year I was making spills of paper to use as kindling, and there it was. Pure chance? I didn't think so.

'I was better at detective work this time. I thought about it for a week or two. All I had was one paragraph. Agricultural Show. So I came up to Yorkshire and started a search via the press. It was very easy. There were more details in the Yorkshire Post. I got the town and the name of the Garden Centre. Linden. That made me almost certain. But I had a look through back numbers of the local evening paper when I got here, and there was a photograph. Dinwoodie. I should have felt triumphant but I didn't. Sick almost. I nearly headed back south there and then. But I'd come this far… this far…

'That night I went out to the Garden Centre.

'Mary was alone. She was surprised to see me, but not too surprised. We sat and talked. I told her about myself, put her at her ease, told her I bore no grudges. It got late. Alison wasn't home. Mary said perhaps I should come back the next day, but I was getting a bit concerned. She was barely seventeen, a child still. I didn't like the idea that she was being kept out till all hours. Then we heard a car. I looked out of the window. I could see her in the passenger seat. She and the driver were in a pretty tight clinch you know, hands everywhere. I wanted to go out, but Mary wouldn't let me. A bit later Alison came in. God, what a change! I mean, all right, it was six years since I'd seen her, but she was still my girl, still just a child. But the clothes she had on, the hair-do, the make-up! And on her hand, on her left hand, a ring. She didn't notice me at first, she was so excited, waving this ring at her mother, saying she was engaged.

'I had to say something. I didn't want to spoil our reunion, but I had to say something. She was quiet at first, much more surprised than Mary. Pleased to see me, I thought, but also accusing. As if it had all been my fault. And wilful. Like her mother. She said she wanted to get married soon. Married? What did she know of life? A child. She said this boy was down here doing some kind of agricultural course. They'd met at the show where Dinwoodie had been killed. Irony. Even dying, he did me a bad turn. Soon he'd be finished, going back up to the Borders somewhere, and he wanted Alison to go with him. I said it was absurd. Legally she was still my daughter. I had my rights still. They let them choose for themselves when they're eighteen now. Stupid, isn't it? But there was still a year to go. And there was no way she was going to get my permission!'

But she didn't need it, thought Pascoe. One parent's agreement was enough now. Christ, why didn't people check what the latest state of the law was?

'Well, there was a row, of course,' resumed Greenall. 'Alison flew out of the room. Mary, however, seemed to be much more sensible about the situation. We talked and in the end I went away, satisfied that an understanding had been reached. It was far too early to talk about a reconciliation, but at least I felt we understood each other. How wrong can you be?'

Pascoe's pen was flying over the sheets of his notebook, yet he was making a great effort to keep it legible. This was an iron to strike while hot. This was not going to be a statement which would easily bear the delays of careful typing. Greenall's signature at the bottom of each handwritten page was going to be the first consideration.

‘I couldn't get back for nearly a fortnight, and then just an overnight stay. Alison wasn't there. Staying with friends, said Mary. A long-standing commitment. I accepted it. Why not? We all had our own lives, we weren't a family again. Not yet. But I had hopes. I'd seen an advert in one of the journals. They wanted a secretary/instructor at the local Aero Club. It wasn't – isn't – a patch on the place I was at in Surrey and the job was much more of a general dogsbody from the sound of it, but I thought it might be worth a look. I said nothing to Mary, but I sent off for details.

'Then next time I came, there was no one at the house. There'd been heavy snow, you recall. It was a foot deep or more. The Garden Centre was closed, of course. And the house was empty. I went back to Surrey, not knowing what to do. I was worried sick. I'd not told a soul anything about this, so I couldn't even talk things over with anyone. I was in a dream for a couple of days. Then the phone rang. I'd given Mary my number and it was her. I knew it was her before I picked it up, and I knew it was bad news. Well, she was almost matter of fact about it. Against my will, against my rights, she'd encouraged Alison to run off with this boy.

They'd been married in Scotland. And now they were dead.

'I don't know what I said. I don't know how long she listened. She was to blame, I knew that. Yet I could understand how utterly her life must have been destroyed. And Alison's death was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. Yet in a way it might be a sort of blessing, it seemed, for when I thought of all the agony and disillusion being married so young must have piled up for her, or being married at all for that matter, in a way this quick, sudden death…'

He took a deep breath.

'I thought of Hamlet again, suddenly, the first time in six years. What women could be, what they let themselves be, what they make of us… I tried to get in touch with Mary again. I wanted to explain, reprove, convince, I wanted to show her what she was, make her recognize – well, I wanted all kinds of things. But she wasn't there. And when I came up again, the Centre was still piled high with snow and she still wasn't there.

'So I applied for the job here. Don't ask me why. Just to be close, I suppose. To be ready. I got it, of course. In March I started. I kept away from Shafton. I guessed that Mary might be frightened of seeing me. If she came back and found there'd been someone around asking after her, she might take off again. But once or twice a week I'd ring the house in the evening, just to see if there was an answer. There never was. Meanwhile I got down to the job of putting this place on its feet. It was hard work, but I enjoy hard work. And I get on with people. I like people, Mr Pascoe. I like them a lot. That's why it's been so… hard.'

He passed his hand over his face.

Pascoe said gently, 'And did your wife answer the phone, Mr Greenall? Did you see her again before…’

'Before the Cheshire Cheese, you mean? No, I didn't. She had been back a couple of weeks, I gather. But either she wasn't in, or didn't answer when I rang. So it was quite unexpected. I like to keep fit, Mr Pascoe. A stroll last thing at night and a run first thing in the morning, that's my regime. I don't need more than five hours' sleep. I'd have been good in the Battle of Britain. God, what days those must have been!

'It was quiet here that night, I recall. So I went for my walk a bit earlier than usual and it wasn't quite closing time as I passed the Cheese. I suddenly had a fancy for a half of beer so I went in. I looked through the lounge-bar door to see how crowded it was, and there she was, Mary. A bit pale, a bit thinner, but with a glass in her hand, laughing, with a gang of people.

'I didn't go in. I went out to the edge of the car park and waited. People started to come out. Cars revved up and took off. Soon there was only a handful left. Then Mary came out with some people. They all shouted goodnight. The others all got into one car and drove off. Mary came over to a mini parked quite close to where I was standing. For a moment the car park was empty of people. I called her name as she reached the car. She said Who's that? puzzled, not frightened. It's me, Austin, I said. She came towards me, into the shadows under the trees just off the edge of the car park. She asked me what I wanted. To talk, I said. Someone else came out of the pub. I took her hand and drew her a little further away beneath the trees. She didn't resist. I said, I want to talk about us. And about Alison. And she said, so quiet I could hardly hear her, I've been so frightened and so unhappy, and she leaned against me. Somehow all the things I intended to say seemed irrelevant. Somehow there was nothing to be said at all.'

He paused again. The flow had been constant, thought Pascoe, with none of the anticipated disjointed incoherence as the crisis moment was reached.

He said, 'So you killed her.'

'Yes,' he said in a voice faintly surprised, as though at a quite unnecessary question. 'There was nothing else for her, you see. It's quick. I studied the manuals during my combat training. Then I carried her out of the way a bit and laid her down and made her look as peaceful as I could. I didn't want anyone to think that she'd been savagely attacked and molested, you know what I mean.'

‘And then?'

‘And then I walked home. It was a fine night, very clear, very still. Perfect for night flying, I remember thinking. I saw some navigation lights moving very high. Something big and fast. I envied the pilot a little. But I felt very much at peace. I thought it was all over, of course.'

'But it wasn't?'

'Oh no. You don't get experiences like I'd been through out of your system overnight. Ever since Alison's death, I'd been noticing girls. Kids, I mean. Standing at bus stops on wet mornings, going to work in some steamy office with loud-mouthed men. So young, so forlorn. You know what I mean. It really broke my heart to see them. We don't let them be kids long enough. We force them to grow up, and there's nothing there when they get there, and they have to change and turn into… well, that's how I felt. I'd started the disco nights at the Club. We had them in Surrey and I remembered how the kids used to enjoy them, just being kids if you follow me. There was no harm in it, despite what the fuddy-duddies like Middlefield said. And they brought in a bit of cash. We needed all the cash we could get if we were to make something decent out of this place. Oh I've got plans, Inspector, such plans… I had plans…

'Anyway, there was this youngster at the discos. I'd seen her a couple of times, I didn't know her name but she was so full of life and fun. Then suddenly she was there one Friday night, flashing an engagement ring. Her boy-friend was a soldier, serving in Belfast. They were to be married on his next leave. I thought of married life in the services. I thought of me and Mary. I thought of Alison. And I felt sick.'

'This was June McCarthy?' interposed Pascoe.

'Yes. I found out later. She wasn't there the next night. She had to go to work.'

'You knew this?' said Pascoe. 'You planned what happened?'

'Oh no,' said Greenall, shocked. 'No plan. It was fate. I hadn't been able to get her out of my mind, but I knew nothing about her. On the Sunday morning I went out for my usual run. Just after five. It's the best time of the day in summer. I felt so strong, I went further than usual. I usually stick to the airport and to the river, but on a Sunday the streets are so quiet, it's pleasant just to run along the pavement for a change. I ended up in Pump Street. To tell the truth I was a bit lost. And as I jogged past the allotments, I saw a girl there, kneeling down. She looked familiar. I went up to her. She gave quite a start when I spoke. What she was doing, I found out, was "borrowing" some sprigs of mint for the roast lamb she'd be cooking for her dad later in the day. She got quite chatty when she realized who I was, told me how busy they were at the canning plant in the fruit season, shifts every night, but she didn't mind as she was saving hard to get married. I'd recognized her by then, of course. The soldier's fiancee. She looked about thirteen, kneeling there with the mint. I couldn't bear the thought of it. Being spoilt so young. So I put her to rest.'

'You killed her? You strangled her?'

Greenall didn't reply. It was not an uneasy or guilty silence, rather a contemplative one, as though he were carefully examining the proposition.

'Yes,' he said just as Pascoe opened his mouth to prod again. 'Killed her. Strangled her. Saved her.'

'From what?'

'Disappointment. Disillusionment. Dismay. I felt nothing but love and pity. The girl in the bank was the same. I saw her that afternoon. She'd often served me since I took this job on. Only this time, I saw the ring. She saw me looking at it and smiled. You know, proudly. A child. I felt sick but I said "Congratulations". She said, "Thank you, Mr Greenall," and I left. But I knew I'd see her again.'

'You planned it, you mean?' asked Pascoe once more.

'Oh no. Nothing like that, though I had the feeling there was a plan. But it wasn't mine. No, about half-six the evening rush was over. It's always the same in summer when it's fine. Out of work, down to the Club, can't wait to get into the air. Well, who's to blame them? I went for a stroll, out through the boundary fence, across the waste ground till I reached the path along the river. It was a lovely evening but I didn't see a soul. It's a bit out of the way and eventually it brings you back to the main road just on the edge of the Industrial Estate. And if you follow that you get into Millhill.'

'Yes, I know,' said Pascoe impatiently.

'There she was,' said Greenall. 'It had to be planned. She was standing where the buses that come through the estate turn. There was no one else there. I said hello. She was annoyed, I could see. She told me she'd been having her hair done after work quite near the bank, had come out, just missed her bus, knew there wouldn't be another for twenty-five minutes, so thought that she'd be better off taking the ten-minute walk here and catching the estate bus. But it had just pulled off as she arrived. There wouldn't be another of those for at least half an hour. There was all kinds of shopping she had to do in the town centre. I gathered that on Thursdays a lot of the big shops stay open till eight o'clock, but it was now quarter to seven. So I offered her a lift. I explained it meant walking back to the Aero Club, but we could still get there and be in the town centre before the next bus arrived. She said OK and off we set.

'She chattered away. She was having a proper wedding, she said. That was one of the places she wanted to go this evening. She'd made up her mind about her wedding gown and she was going to put the money down. There were other things to get, too. She didn't want a long engagement, she said. There would be too much aggro at home from her father. He didn't understand.

'I understood,' said Greenall. 'Suddenly she stopped and looked up and said. "Are those your gliders? Aren't they beautiful? Like huge birds. It must be lovely to fly, but I don't think my Tommy would fancy it. It's all cars with him." That was when I took her throat. She fell backwards, hardly resisting, just staring at me in surprise. I thought she must have died very quickly, but when I let her go, suddenly she jerked and twisted, more a convulsion than anything. We were right at the edge of the river bank, and next thing she was over and in. At the very same moment I heard voices. Children. I knew we were close to the encampment and guessed it would be the gypsy kids. I hated to leave her, but there was nothing else to do. She was deep under the water. I turned and went on my way.'

'You must have expected an outcry immediately,' said Pascoe.

'I suppose so. I never really thought about it,' said Greenall. 'I just got back to the Club, went on as normal. And when I read in the Evening Post the next day about the girl being found in the canal, I was puzzled but somehow not surprised. And I was worried in case people wouldn't understand. So I phoned the paper again.'

'I meant to ask, why did you phone the first time?'

'Just to explain in a way,' said Greenall. 'Just so that it would be understood that these killings weren't meaningless. It seemed important.'

'And Hamlet?'

'It seemed apt. It just came to mind.'

'Why not just go to see the reporters, talk to them, tell your story?' wondered Pascoe ingenuously.

'But that would have meant giving myself up!' exclaimed Greenall. 'I wasn't ready for that.'

'No,' said Pascoe. 'You were quite determined not to be caught. As Pauline Stanhope could testify. If she were alive.'

'Yes,' said Greenall. 'Yes. Her. And the man, Wildgoose; it happened so quickly… both of them… a pilot's trained to make quick decisions you see… but afterwards time isn't so quick.. . not when you think…’

Now his narration once more lost its complacent, reasonable rhythm. Now once more the hesitation and uncertainties became apparent. Pottle had been right. It was here he felt the guilt, here where he had killed to protect himself rather than, as his delusion asserted, to protect the girls. His justification was the immediacy of the need. He had seen the transcript of the seance tape, read in the paper that the medium was Madame Rashid at the Charter Park Fair, driven there instantly with no plan, gone into the tent, asked Pauline if she were Madame Rashid, punched her in the belly and killed her. Now self-preservation had at last made him cunning. Seeing the B ACK S OON sign, he had put it on the chair and pushed it through the flap before removing and putting on the gypsy skirt, shawl and headscarf.

'You also laid the girl out like the others. And made a phone-call,' observed Pascoe.

'Yes, I thought it might confuse things… and I felt I should say something… I wasn't happy… and then it turned out she wasn't the woman at all… Christ. I felt ill.'

'But you didn't try to do anything about the real Madame Rashid after that, did you?' queried Pascoe.

Greenall shook his head almost indignantly.

'I couldn't… not plan it… not cold-bloodedly…'

Dalziel's going to love this, thought Pascoe.

Greenall recovered some of his composure to talk about Andrea Valentine whom he had overheard boasting to her friends at the disco that as soon as Wildgoose got rid of his wife, he was going to marry her.

'Did you follow them back to Danby Row?' asked Pascoe.

'No. I cleared up here and then went later. I had no plan, you understand. Just to look.'

'How did you know where to go?'

'I rang for their taxi,' said Greenall. 'Wildgoose gave me the address.'

That simple. No wonder he felt that he was merely an instrument of some benevolent and protective force. His path must have seemed to be smoothed out before him all the way.

He had driven by the house, round the block, spotted the back lane, found the rear entrance to number 73 and stepped inside just in time to meet Wildgoose coming out. The man had grabbed him. Brokenly, Greenall disclaimed any wish to hurt him.

'But he saw my face… it was dark but not that dark… I could see he recognized me… so I had to… again…'

Distressed though he was by this unlooked-for killing, it did not deter him from his main purpose. He went up to the house. There was still a light on in the kitchen. He tapped at the back door. 'Who's there?' asked the girl but was so sure that it must be Wildgoose returning for some reason that a muttered 'It's me,' had her turning the key.

'And then you killed her,' said Pascoe. 'But why? I mean she couldn't be going to get married, could she? Not when you'd just killed the man she was going to marry!'

Greenall hid his face in his hands.

'Don't you think I haven't thought of that?' he said. 'Even as she died, I thought of it. But I had to kill the man, you see. He knew me. I had to kill him.'

He spoke pleadingly as if seeking approval, or absolution. Pascoe was very willing to give him whatever he sought as long as he got his signature at the bottom of every page of the statement he was scribbling.

'Yes, I see that,' he said. 'I quite see that.'

'Do you? Do you really?' asked Greenall.

'I do,' assured Pascoe. 'I really do. Then you took the body to your car?'

The maniac's luck had held. No one had interrupted him. The idea of burying Wildgoose in the rose field of the Garden Centre had seemed like a triumph of logical thinking. He had driven past it from time to time since his wife's death and observed that it was no longer open. It was ideal.

'I didn't want him found. I thought he might get blamed, you see. It was going wrong. There was too much killing, too much unnecessary killing. I thought if you were looking for Wildgoose I might get a bit of peace and quiet to do some thinking in.'

Pascoe regarded the small, slight man who returned his gaze trustingly and hopefully.

'I think we might arrange that, sir,' he said gently. 'What I would like you to do now is…'

There was a perfunctory tap at the door and it burst open to reveal Sergeant Wield.

'Mr Pascoe,' he began.

'Later,' said Pascoe trying to combine the casual and the imperious in his tone.

'I'm sorry, sir, but…'

'I said later, Sergeant!' snapped Pascoe, abandoning his attempt at the casual.

But Wield stood his ground. 'We tried to ring, sir, but there was no answer,' he said. 'It's your wife.'

'What about her?' said Pascoe, standing up now and facing the sergeant. Wield's features, he noticed with a tightening of the heart, were softened to a recognizable anxiety.

'She's had to go to hospital, sir. They rang not long after you'd left. Like I say, we tried to telephone here…’

'What's happened to her?' demanded Pascoe.

'I don't know, sir. But I knew how worried you'd been, so I thought I'd better…'

Pascoe glance from the sergeant to Greenall who was looking musingly out of the window, as though none of this had impinged upon him. Perhaps it hadn't. Perhaps Perhaps… but this was no time to be perhapsing around here. Not with Ellie… oh Christ!

'Excuse me, Mr Greenall,' he said and pushed Wield through the door, closing it behind them.

'Listen,' he said, putting the notebook into the sergeant's hand's. 'It's him. It's all there. Get him to read it. Get him to sign it. Every last bloody page. That first. That most certainly first. No pressing. No taking him down town. Do you follow me?'

'Yes, sir,' said Wield. 'And then?'

'Get his name on that and then you can put him in irons for all I care,' snapped Pascoe. 'Do it. I'm off.'

'I hope Mrs Pascoe's OK,' called Wield after him but he doubted if the inspector heard.

Slowly he turned and quietly opened the door.

'Hello, Mr Greenall,’ he said.