Exit lines

Chapter 13

'Turn up the lights. I don't want to go home in the dark.'

'Out at Paradise Hall! And what the hell were you doing at Paradise Hall?'

It was unfortunate. Sammy Ruddlesdin, thwarted in his attempt to get hold of Pascoe to question him about the Deeks case, had rung up the DCC to 'confirm some facts' about the Westerman accident. It had clearly just been a fishing expedition, but during the course of it the DCC had rather pompously suggested that he was surprised to find the Press so interested in a road accident when a particularly unpleasant murder was being investigated. If it was such an important case, Ruddlesdin had wondered, why didn't the DCC summon his head of CID back from his sudden and local holiday? Nevertheless, he continued without pausing for an answer, the Press would be extremely interested in talking to the albeit rather junior officer in charge of the Deeks case, if only someone among his minions could be found who actually knew where he was.

Wield had been inhibited in his attempts to forewarn Pascoe by the presence of the DCC three feet behind him in the caravan.

It was not Pascoe's purpose to reveal that Dalziel had been present at Paradise Hall also, but the DCC, with a nose for evasion that would have done credit to the fat man himself, asked the question direct and Pascoe was not so stupid as to offer the lie direct. He did however essay the response obscure. ‘Well, in a manner of speaking, quite unofficially of course, and only coincidentally with Mr Headingley and myself, rather as I was there coincidentally and unofficially with Mr Headingley, during my official refreshment break that is, and quite legitimately and understandably in pursuit of, or rather in order to retrieve or recover, if he had left it there, his hat.'

'His hat!'

The monosyllable made it difficult for the DCC wholly to emulate the incredulous glissando of Dame Edith Evans's a handbag! but he won the palm for volume, and Sergeant Wield, banished to the pavement for the duration of the interview, stepped back a pace from the door at which he was eavesdropping right into the unwelcoming and unwelcome arms of Constable Hector. Behind him, smiling with the contentment of a man who has enjoyed his full entitlement of lunch-break, was the red-haired Seymour.

'Where the hell have you been?' snarled Wield, adding ferocity to features already stamped with all the lineaments of fear. Seymour stopped smiling and said rather sulkily, 'On that job you said Mr Pascoe wanted done.'

'That was years ago!' growled Wield. 'I want an explanation. Come on! Speak out.'

Behind him the caravan door-handle turned.

'For Christ's sake, keep your mouth shut!' urged the Sergeant.

Seymour raised his bushy red eyebrows in surprise at this conflict of instruction. Hector merely retained his usual expression of a man not certain between steps which way his knees bent.

The DCC emerged.

'And what's this?' he said. 'A street rally?'

He stepped down and found himself having to look up at Hector despite the constable's efforts at total testudinal retraction. The sight did not improve the ACC's temper.

'And what have you been doing?' he demanded. ‘Enjoying a five course lunch at The White Rose, is that it?'

'No, sir,' protested Hector, bridling at the unjustness of the accusation. 'Looking for stones, sir.'

'Stone's, is it? Not Ward's or Tetley'sl Not John Smith's or Sam's ? Only Stone's will do you, is that it?'

Not being a man much given to either wit or beer, Hector missed the point of the joke which was, in fairness, much disguised by the violence of its delivery.

'No, sir, it was for Mr Pascoe, sir,' stuttered Hector.

'Then it's not Stone's you should be after, son,' said the DCC. 'It's your Moet et Chandon, it's your fine champagne.'

And, much to Wield's relief, the DCC, recognizing a good exit line, strode away to his car under the suspicious glower of Tracey Spillings who stood, arms folded and noise-framed, in her puce doorway.

'Wait here!' ordered Wield.

He entered the caravan. Pascoe was sitting at the worktop staring fixedly at the telephone.

'All right, sir?' inquired Wield.

'Sergeant, you don't happen to know the Samaritans' number, do you?' said Pascoe. 'I think I need help.'

'Yes, sir,' said Wield. 'Sir, Seymour's outside. And Hector. Just back from that job you sent them on.'

'Oh Jesus!' said Pascoe, roused by alarm. 'They didn't say anything to DCC, did they?'

'No, sir,' reassured Wield.'Nothing important. Shall I wheel 'em in?'

'No!' said Pascoe firmly. 'It's the Deeks, the whole Deeks and nothing but the Deeks from now on in. What's new?'

He listened with a growing sense of the injustice of life to Wield's assurance that nothing whatever which required his attention, much less his attendance, had occurred in the two hours since they had last talked.

'You'd think I'd been playing hookey for weeks,' he protested. 'Weeks!'

'Yes, sir,' said Wield. 'What now, sir?'

'Now? Carry on with house to house, pulling in likely lads, chatting to furtive Freds in greasy mass to see if there's any whispers. But it looks like amateur night to me, Sergeant. I don't think information received's going to be much help to us on this one.'

'Not unless something's been nicked and sold,' said Wield.

'It doesn't seem likely but we won't know for certain till Mrs Frostick takes a look,' said Pascoe gloomily. This had been another point the DCC had taken him to task for. According to him, Mrs Frostick should have been brought round to the house today, in handcuffs if necessary, to check her father's belongings.

'That bastard Ruddlesdin,' he said savagely. 'I've got a mind to. ..'

'Yes, sir?' prompted Wield.

'Cancel my subscription to the Evening Post,'' concluded Pascoe. 'All right, Sergeant. Let's go through everything we've got one more time just to make sure nothing's escaped our eagle eyes.'

'Yes, sir. And Seymour, sir?'

'Oh, all right. Wheel him in. But not Hector! He'd have to unscrew in the middle like a billiard cue to fit in here!'

He listened to Seymour's report with growing relief that the DCC hadn't questioned the man further. No, there'd been no sign of a stone near the spot indicated by Mr Cox, but the recreation ground was full of kids who might easily have picked up and chucked away any lump of brick they spotted, or alternatively Mr Cox's sense of location might have been out by fifty yards, say, and PC Hector had managed to collect a bagful of stones from other areas. None of them showed any sign of skin or blood, but it had rained very hard that night. Did the Inspector want them all sent to Forensic for examination?

Pascoe postponed decision on that and listened to Seymour's expurgated adventures at Castleton Court.

'So Mrs Campbell saw him on Friday morning and Mrs Escott was with him for a good chunk of the afternoon? Now if I remember right, he had his pension book on him with about thirty quid in it. Was that right?'

'Sorry, sir, I don't know,' said Seymour guiltily. 'I did call in at the station after lunch, but they said his things were still at the hospital. Mr Cruikshank wanted to know what I wanted with them. I just waffled on, but I noticed he had a chat with Hector. Did you want me to go to the hospital?'

Pascoe thought. It was a question of demarcation. Accidental death; uniformed's affair, and the next of kin would collect clothes and personal possessions from the hospital. Any suspicion of crime and all the belongings would be with Forensic getting a good going-over. Trouble was, the suspicion of crime was his alone, and so unsupported by any evidence that he didn't feel able to throw what weight he had behind it, especially not after his recent encounter with the DCC.

He said, 'No, don't bother. I expect it's just what it seems. Parrinder feels a bit better late on Friday afternoon, decides to have a walk out, picks up his pension, treats himself to a half bottle of rum to help his cold, slips on the way home, breaks his hip and lies there till he's almost dead, poor devil.'

He still felt far from satisfied. It was the kind of dissatisfaction he would have liked to plonk down before Dalziel whose keen eye and sensitive nose could often focus straight on the source of any doubt.

'Is there anything more you'd want me to do about Parrinder then, sir?' asked Seymour.

'Not just now,' said Pascoe decisively. 'I've probably been wasting your time already. Sorry.'

Seymour had never before had a senior officer apologize to him for wasting his time, though in his own estimation occasion had not been lacking. Like a child reluctant to relinquish a golden moment, he moved away slowly and even found an excuse to pause, saying, 'Oh, by the way, sir. He said something before he died. He said, Polly.'

'Polly?'

'That's right, sir.'

'Polly. Any friends called Polly? Anyone at Castleton Court? Or a relative perhaps?'

'Not that I've discovered,' said Seymour. 'According to Cox, the fellow who found him, he seemed to be saying it to his dog.'

'Whose dog?'

'Cox's. It's a Great Dane built like a horse. It's called Hammy. It was the dog as found the old chap, evidently.'

'Hammy? A great Dane? Perhaps by the same token Polly is short for Polonius!'

The attempt at a joke seemed as far beyond Seymour as doubtless time, interests and circumstances had placed it beyond Parrinder. With a verbal pat on the shoulder for a job well done, Pascoe dismissed him and rededicated all his attention to the killer of Robert Deeks.

It was dedication singularly unrewarded and when he finally headed for home at nine P.M. all he had to show for a long hard day was a headache and a touch of nervous dyspepsia. From time to time during the day he had found himself looking forward to getting back to a warm, well-lit house with the prospect of supper and a stiff drink and Ellie's tension-dissolving acidity on the subject of police investigations and Rose's round apple-cheeked face, faintly puzzled in repose, as though she had fallen asleep pondering the purpose of existence. Then he would recall that Ellie and Rose were down at Orburn visiting her parents.

Even with the background central heating, the house felt chill and unwelcoming. He put a frozen casserole in the oven, poured himself a Scotch and went to the telephone.

'Hello, love. I hoped it would be you,' said Ellie.

'That's flattering.'

'Yes, I wanted cheering up,' she went on, unconsciously pre-empting his own need. 'I'm really worried about Dad, Peter. He's looking very frail and he's getting so vague, repeating conversations he had with you half an hour ago, that sort of thing. And sometimes he thinks Rose is me!'

'Well, he is knocking on a bit,' said Pascoe. 'And we can all repeat ourselves. I do it all the time! What's your mother say to all this?'

'Oh, you know Mum. She likes to kid herself everything's just as it's always been. She must know something's wrong, but she just hopes it'll go away.'

Pascoe smiled. The mild-mannered, sweet-natured Mrs Soper was as unlike her daughter as could be and their relationship was based on exasperated affection bred of mutual incomprehension.

'Has he been to the doctor?' asked Pascoe.

'Only incidentally, to renew his old prescription. Mum says she mentioned his vagueness to the doc, but all he could say was it was old age and not to worry!'

Ellie sounded very angry and to Pascoe's concern for her and for his parents-in-law was suddenly and irresistibly added a pang of purely selfish dismay as he foretasted what was coming next.

'Peter, I think I really ought to stay on till Monday and see the doctor myself. In fact I rang him up this afternoon when Mum was out of the way – you know what she’s like about bothering doctors at weekends; the great gods will be angry if disturbed! – but all I got was some other idiot who was on call and not feeling very helpful. Well, I suppose you can't blame him…'

'But you did anyway!' said Pascoe, laughing.

'Only slightly,' said Ellie with a responsive lightening of tone which was good to hear. 'Anyway, I'm afraid it's another night in a cold empty bed for you. At least I hope it's cold and empty.'

'I don't know. I haven't looked yet,' said Pascoe. 'Ellie, what about college?'

Ellie lectured in what was now called an Institute of Higher Education. This incorporated the remnants of the college where Pascoe had re-met his former university friend during an investigation some years earlier. The college had started as a tiny teachers' training establishment in the 'fifties, blossomed in size and variety of course during the expansive 'sixties and early 'seventies, then been hit by the decline of both economy and birthrate during the later 'seventies and early 'eighties. Now the delightful rural site had been abandoned, the high-flying academic courses phased out, and the remnants of staff and students sucked into this resoundingly named but hollow centred institute based on the former technical college in the city centre. Clogs to barefoot in one generation was how the cynics described it. Ellie had returned there after maternity leave in September and was far from happy with conditions, courses and many of her colleagues. To be made redundant with a moderate settlement would have been easy and she was certainly tempted. But, as she had put it to Pascoe, 'The bastards are so obviously keen to be shot of me that I may just stay on for ever!'

Now she said dismissively, 'I've got nothing important till the afternoon and I'll have to cancel that. Peter, I think this has made up my mind about college for me.

Suddenly it all seems so inconsequential. I'm neither valued nor valuable there. I think I'll tell them to stuff it. After all, a wife's place is in the home, isn't it?'

'Good lord!' exclaimed Pascoe. 'You've been seeing Andy Dalziel behind my back, haven't you!'

They talked a little longer. Ellie asked after Pascoe's day and he replied noncommittally, even though he suspected she would regard his decision not to off-load his own depression at this juncture as typical masculine egotistic role-playing.

Still, even without the relief and even with the addition of Ellie's depressive news about her father's condition and her delayed return, he derived much ease of spirit simply from talking to her.

It didn't last long. The phone rang again as he replaced it.

It was Sammy Ruddlesdin. Having avoided him by design at lunch-time, Pascoe had managed to avoid him more or less by accident for the rest of the day.

'Inspector Pascoe!' he said. 'You know, I never thought of trying to get you at home before this. Perhaps I should have started here!'

'I'm just back, and I'm just about worn out,' said Pascoe. 'So make it quick. I doubt if there's anything I can add about the Deeks case to what's appeared in your evening edition, except perhaps balance.'

This was sharper than he'd intended after the DCC's admonitions, but he did have strong feelings about being pestered in his own home, even though tonight it felt more unhomelike than he'd ever known.

'Thanks, but it's not Deeks; well, not primarily,' said Ruddlesdin. 'In fact, it's hardly a professional matter at all. More personal curiosity, that's all. I believe you and Inspector Headingley went along to The Towers and spoke with Mrs Warsop today?'

'Look,' said Pascoe. 'I really can't say anything about that. I just drove George Headingley there, that's all.'

'But you were present during the interview?'

'Sammy, if you care to come and see me in the morning, before or after church, as you will, I'll be glad to talk about the Deeks murder investigation. Shall we say ten o'clock?'

'Hold on just a moment, please,' pleaded Ruddlesdin. 'All I wanted to learn from you is the magic words.'

'Sorry?'

'The magic words that you or George Headingley used to change Mrs Warsop's mind. The close sesame! In other words, why is it that last night when I spoke to her she was adamant that she'd seen Mr Dalziel driving away from Paradise Hall, and yet by this evening when I spoke to her again, she was suddenly doubtful. The weather was foul, the visibility poor, the distance great, and perhaps after all it wasn't Dalziel who got into the driving seat. Now why should this be, Mr Pascoe? As a humble seeker after knowledge, I should really like to know why!'