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Chapter 24

'Pluck up thy spirits, man, and do not be afraid to do thine office.'

At seven o'clock the following morning Pascoe was roused by the telephone. When he answered it, the familiar foghorn at the other end made him think for a moment that all was as it had been and he was merely receiving another urgent summons to another urgent case. 'Peter,' said Dalziel. 'You still in bed, you lazy bugger?' 'Where else?' he yawned.

'You alone?'

'Ellie's still not back,' he answered regretfully.

'Oh aye. But are you alone?'

'Ha ha,' said Pascoe, waking up now. 'Sir, to what do I owe the. ..'

'Peter, I hear you're piling a bit of trouble on Paradise Hall.'

'Do you? Now, how on earth…'

'Forget it, Peter.'

'What?'

'Forget it.'

'But…'

'Peter, I'm still in charge, aren't I? I mean, they haven't made you commissioner and me the tea-boy, have they?'

'No, of course…'

'Then forget it. That's an order. All right?' Pascoe was amazed. He said, 'As a subordinate, I suppose it's all right though I'll need to think about it. As a friend..’

‘A friend. You want for us to talk as friends?' said Dalziel.

' Yes, sir. If you'll make the effort, then I will.'

'All right,' said Dalziel. 'Then please forget it.'

The phone went dead.

It rang an hour later just as he was getting ready to leave. This time it was Ellie.

'I rang last night,' she said.

'I'm sorry. I was a bit late.'

'Too late to ring me?'

'No. Well, yes. I didn't want to disturb you.'

The truth was he'd had a drink when he got home, switched on the ten o'clock news and awakened in the armchair with a crick in his neck, a nasty taste in his mouth and the TV switch-off tone in his ears.

'How is everything?' he asked.

'Pretty bloody,' she said in a worryingly flat voice. 'He went off last evening, just disappeared. I found him outside the library. It was quarter to nine. He said he was waiting for it to open at nine.'

'Poor old devil,' said Pascoe, genuinely distressed at his father-in-law's confusion, but also with a slight sense of comedy. This vanished rapidly with Ellie's next remark.

'Peter,' she said hopelessly. 'I don't know what to do.'

This was truly horrifying, more shocking far than the vagaries of senility. With a sudden flash of insight, he appreciated that Ellie was to his personal life what Dalziel was to his professional, a bulwark of certainty, often wrong, it was true, and frequently in need of diplomatic redirection, but always high on self-assurance and low on self-doubt.

She went on, 'He's not going to get any better, I can see that now. And as he gets worse, he's going to need more and more looking after and I'm not sure Mum can cope. She just seems to want to sit and play with Rose all day and pretend that nothing's happening. Peter, what am I going to do?'

Well, here's your chance, boy, here's your big moment, thought Pascoe. The perfect soap-opera situation: the modern, independent, feminist wife is at last forced to appeal to the big strong man in her life for strength and guidance; he is silent, but even his silence is reassuring; the hunter-provider, fleet of foot and rational of thought, is about to pronounce.

He said, 'Christ knows. I mean, it's pretty much of a mess, isn't it? I mean, I can see what…'

He took a deep breath, exhaled, blowing the remnants of hunter-provider out of his system, and said, 'Why don't I pop down and suss things out on the spot, so to speak?'

'Peter, could you? That'd be bloody marvellous! When?'

Heady with rapturously-applauded decision and suddenly filled with a huge need to see Ellie again, he said carelessly, 'This afternoon? Why not? I'll stay overnight, but I'll have to be up at the crack to get back here for slopping-out time.'

They spent a few more minutes promising an exchange of delights which left Pascoe feeling weak with desire and he needed another two cups of caponizing coffee before he felt able to go to work.

Getting away after lunch proved easier than mature reflection on the way to the station had suggested it might be. Like nearly all working detectives, he had no shortage of back-time; what was rare was the front-time to take it up in. Today, despite his two murders (the death of 'Tap' Parrinder now being acknowledged officially as a likely unlawful killing) there occurred one of those lulls in which everything possible to do was being, or had been, done and nothing remained but to wait hopefully for a break and catch up with the paperwork.

There was also a pleasing absence of brass about the place, and with Sergeant Wield and George Headingley happy to watch the shop for him, Pascoe felt no pangs of conscience at baling out after lunch in the CID's usual city haunt, The Black Bull.

He bought Wield and Headingley a third pint, contenting himself with a pre-driving tomato juice, and told them of his visit to The Towers and Paradise Hall the previous evening. He also told them of Dalziel's injunction, which he had obeyed though not without misgivings.

Wield interrupted his story during his description of Doreen Warsop and her companion at the restaurant.

'You're not saying that being lesbian means she's more likely to be a crook?' he said mildly.

'Well, no,' said Pascoe. 'I didn't mean to imply that.'

'It sounded like you were offering it as supportive evidence, that was all,' said Wield.

'Not intended, except in so far as treating her friends to expensive meals for which she didn't have to pay is supportive,' said Pascoe, rather irritated by what felt like an attack on his liberal convictions.

Wield nodded his acceptance. Such gentle forays as this were the nearest he ever came in his professional life to declaring his own homosexuality. When he first joined the Force, there had been no debate about concealment. But time and times had changed things, and now, though he did not delude himself that coming out would not still harm his own career, he felt a growing dissatisfaction with the path of secrecy he had chosen, and now these minor skirmishes tended to feel like acts of cowardice rather than courage.

When Pascoe finished his account, there was silence. He neither invited nor desired them to comment on Dalziel's intervention. His reasons for telling them he freely acknowledged; should it ever come to an inquiry, it might stand him in good stead to produce albeit second-hand support for his contention that he was obeying legitimate orders. He felt something of the same kind of self-revulsion in this as Wield was feeling after his little defence of Mrs Warsop. But he also had a career to consider and a wife and family to provide for. His loyalty to Dalziel was strong but there were loyalties which had to be stronger.

Seymour came into the pub as he was leaving. Rather to Pascoe's surprise, he said he had just come from the hospital.

'I don't think Mrs Escott can really have anything useful to tell us,' Pascoe said gently.

The young constable flushed and said, 'I just wanted to see how she was, sir.'

Pascoe thought: Of course, he talked to her first, and he found her. He feels guilty.

His own guilt had rapidly been overtaken by a tide of other emotions closer to home. Compassion was a small flame, needing care and attention and protection from the wind. Perhaps the professional carers' first object was to preserve what they sensed as precious in themselves.

What should a policeman's first object be, then? To remain honest, perhaps. But being compassionate helped.

He said, 'Quite right, Dennis. Well done. How is the old lady?'

Seymour said, 'Just the same. Out of danger from the pills she took, but still in shock from the experience and Dr Sowden says that can be just as dangerous.'

'Sowden?' Pascoe smiled. 'Well, she's in good hands. Keep me posted, lad.'

Lad! he thought as he left. I'm beginning to talk to them as if I were Dalziel!

Seymour bought himself a pint and a pie and sat some distance from Wield and Headingley. Relations in the CID under Dalziel were easy and open, which meant that detective-constables could with no offence given or taken be told to sod off if their company was not desired. At the present moment, the Sergeant and Inspector were cautiously analysing what Pascoe had just told them about Dalziel's intervention, a conversation they would certainly not have continued in Seymour's presence. But it was his own depression as much as his diplomatic sensors that made the young detective sit apart.

His previous night's date had not gone well. The gloom of discovering Mrs Escott and getting her to the hospital and hanging around till she had been pumped out was still on him. He had begged off going dancing, attempting an explanation which sounded self-indulgently prima-donna-ish even to his own ears. Bernadette had been sympathetic enough but made it quite clear as she brought the evening to an early though friendly close that their short acquaintance did not include access to her shoulders for crying on, still less any other part of her anatomy for any other purpose.

He couldn't blame her. He knew what a dull companion he had been and he hadn't even bothered to suggest another date, being so certain of her negative response. Today he should have been off duty but he had gloomed around all morning, visited the hospital when he might simply have phoned, and drifted by instinct into The Black Bull, where he felt quite unable now to distinguish between feeling sorry for Mrs Escott and feeling sorry for himself.

'What's up with you, then? Too much beer last night?'

It was Wield, who had sat unnoticed on the chair opposite. Headingley was disappearing through the door.

'No, not really, Sarge,' he said.

'You did well yesterday,' said Wield. 'Mr Pascoe was very pleased with you.'

'Was he?' said Seymour, brightening up a little.

'I just said so,' said Wield. 'If you want to hear it again, you should have got it on tape. Isn't this your rest day?'

'Yes, Sarge.'

'Well, at least you're getting a bit of rest,' approved Wield. 'Not like most of 'em, moonlighting away like mad. You had any more thoughts?'

'About what?'

'About why a man with three hundred quid in his pocket should suddenly decide to get out of his taxi in a sleet storm and walk the rest of the way home?'

'Well, I did think about it a bit,' said Seymour. 'I don't know. Mebbe someone was following him, someone who saw him pick up his winnings, and he was trying to shake 'em off, or something.'

Wield considered this.

'You watch a lot of television, do you, Seymour?' he inquired.

'If you can think of anything better, Sarge, I'm listening,' Seymour was stung to retort.

Wield shook his head.

'Not yet, but I'm working at it. Well, I'd best be getting back. We're checking up on everyone we can trace who was in the betting shop on Friday afternoon. It's a weary business.'

'I'll give a hand if you like, Sarge,' volunteered Seymour.

The sergeant smiled wintrily.

'I don't know what this police force is coming to,' he said. 'Mr Pascoe gives himself half a day off and you give yourself half a day on. But I'll not come between a martyr and his crown. You want to help, you'll be very welcome. On one condition.'

'What's that, Sarge?'

'Contact that girl of yours and find out whether it's still on or you've parted for ever. There's enough misery in the world without me having to look it in the face all afternoon!'

Coming from Wield, whose face even in the fullness of joy was not a sight to dwell on, this might have seemed an unjust reproach. But Seymour, whose nature was not a brooding one, took it as a spur to action.

There was a telephone in the entrance hall of the pub. He rang, asked for the restaurant, got the dragon, requested that Miss McCrystal should be brought to the phone. She demurred. He became official, told her that the case was a serious one and a piece of clarification from Miss McCrystal essential.

'Hello?' said Bernadette. 'You'll get me shot!'

'I'm sorry. Look, I just wanted to say, sorry I was such a drag last night.'

'That's true. So you were,' she said not very encouragingly. 'How's the old lady?'

'Sorry?'

'You've been to see her, I hope?' said Bernadette threateningly.

'Well, yes. I went to the hospital this morning. She's not very well, I'm afraid.'

'The poor old soul. Right, listen now, my old lady's glowering like the heart of a peat. Is it about tonight you're ringing?'

'Well, yes…'

'Then you're in luck. Wednesday's old-time night at the Eldorado. I'll see you outside at eight. Can you manage that?'

'Well, yes..

'And you'll need a tie. You've got a tie, have you?'

'Yes, somewhere…'

'Then eight it is. Goodbye now, Chief Inspector.'

She put the phone down. Wield watched Seymour return into the bar and did not need more than the young man's expressive face to tell him all was well. He tested his own memory and knew that such joy as this he had never known. Love there had been, and on occasion high delight, but always qualified by the demands of secrecy and, in his conventional and restrictive youth, the taint of guilt.

'Will you have another beer, Sarge?' said Seymour, eager to spread his joy.

'Some other time, lad,' said Wield. 'There's work to be done. We'll have it later. Pleasure's best if you've had to wait, right?'

Which could be the story of my life; with a bit of luck; he thought as they left the pub together.

Pascoe and Ellie too had to wait for their pleasure. Even with the early hours kept in the Soper household, it seemed an eternity from their first embrace until they were at last alone in the narrow confines of Ellie's childhood bed. Neither of them complained about the narrowness, though Ellie was concerned for various reasons about the speed and violence of her husband's orgasm.

'Hey,' she said. 'It's a good job I caught you, wasn't it? Another day away, and God knows what you'd have been up to! Who's been tickling your fancy these past few days, then?'

It did not seem a ripe moment to mention, even jocularly, the consumptive queen of Paradise Hall, so Pascoe murmured, 'I missed you.'

'Almost,' she agreed. 'But you'll get another chance in the repechage. There is going to be a repechage, isn't there?'

'We try to please,' said Pascoe.

They lay in silence for a while and thoughts of the outside world and its time drifted back into Pascoe's mind. From his point of view it had been a delightful day. Besides Ellie's unconcealed joy at seeing him, there had been Rose's delighted gurgles of recognition. As for his parents-in-law, they had seemed much the same as always. In fact, on the same principle which soothes away toothache at the dentist's or engine squeaks at the garage, Mr Soper had been alert and cogent all evening. Ellie had scarcely referred to the situation, being in the unenviable position of wanting Pascoe to see for himself while at the same time not really wanting anything to happen for him to see.

'Penny for them,' said Ellie.

'Is that your best offer?' evaded Pascoe.

Before Ellie could press him further, there came a knock at the door.

'Ellie! Ellie!' called Mrs Soper's voice.

'Jesus!'

Ellie snapped the light on and headed for the door, grabbing the coverlet for cover en route. Pascoe followed, slipping into his dressing-gown.

'What's up, Mum?'

'He's gone,' said Mrs Soper.

'Gone. Oh Christ. Peter, get the car out. How long ago, Mum?'

'No, it's all right, you don't need the car, I think he's just gone down into the garden. He said he heard a noise and thought that someone was trying to break into the greenhouse.'

'Right,' said Pascoe, relieved that it was perhaps after all a case for the police rather than medical investigation. 'I'll get down there and take a look.'

'What at?' demanded Ellie. 'He hasn't got a green-house. It's twenty-five years since he had a greenhouse.'

This changed matters slightly, but the principle of rapid descent held good. Pascoe ran quickly down the stairs, through the kitchen and out of the back door. The cold night wind struck his thinly covered flesh like a water cannon, making him gasp. He could see a figure moving around at the bottom of the garden and he headed towards it, hoping the old man had had the time and sense to put on more clothes than he had.

Behind him he heard Ellie say sharply, 'Mother, you stay there.' He went quickly forward. Archie Soper, his father-in-law, was standing still now, peering intensely into a small patch of shrubbery. He had an old raincoat draped around his body and was carrying a walking-stick in his right hand.

'Archie,' said Pascoe. 'For God's sake…'

The old man turned with surprising agility. His face showed no recognition.

'There you are!' he cried. And swung the stick at Pascoe's head.

He managed to duck and raise his arm to ward off the blow, but only at the expense of taking a painful crack on the elbow. But now Ellie was here, crying 'Dad! Dad!' and putting her arms around the old man whose ferocity dissolved into confusion as he let himself be led back towards the house.

Inside the kitchen, Ellie bustled around, checking that her father was all right, putting the kettle on, disappearing into the lounge to stoke up the fire, returning to say that it was much warmer in there and helping her father out of the kitchen with a command over her shoulder to bring the tea through with lots of sugar as soon as it was ready.

Madge Soper had stood around making vague reassuring noises at her husband during all this and now she obediently began to warm the teapot. Her behaviour seemed at first sight to confirm Ellie's assertion that she could no longer cope. This had surprised Pascoe. She was nearly ten years younger than her husband and had always seemed a perfectly competent if rather self-effacing person.

He touched his elbow and winced.

Mrs Soper noticed and came across to him.

'Oh Peter, did he get you with that stick? Let's have a look. He didn't mean it, he just gets confused. All those years since the greenhouse blew down and now he remembers it! It's not cut. There's nothing broken, is there?'

Pascoe pulled down his sleeve. There was going to be a bruise, but nothing worse.

'Has he attacked anyone before?' he asked.

'Oh no! I mean, he was looking for a burglar, wasn't he? And he saw you. He wouldn't recognize you, you see. I mean, if it'd been me, he'd have recognized me. I was around when he had the greenhouse, after all. You weren't.'

'Where's that tea?' came Ellie's voice from the lounge. 'Do get a move on!'

Pascoe and Madge Soper smiled at each other.

'She's really in charge, isn't she?' said Pascoe.

'Yes, she is,' said Mrs Soper. 'She was always the same from a girl. Not bossy, you know, but she knew her own mind. But I needn't tell you any of this, Peter! And I'm not complaining. She's been a tremendous help these past few days. I'm afraid I've just sat back and let her get on with it while I've looked after little Rose! But I'm glad she came so she could see for herself how things were. Ellie's never been a girl for taking things on trust. She's always had to see for herself. I warned the doctor she'd want to see him and he said he didn't mind. He's very good.'

'You warned him?'

'Yes. I mean, he'd told me everything there was to know about Archie and how he'd go on, but Ellie needed to hear for herself.'

Pascoe looked at her thoughtfully and said, 'How long's Archie been like this, Madge?'

'Oh a long time,' she said vaguely. 'It's getting worse slowly, and it won't get better. But it's funny what you get used to, isn't it? And most of the time, he's still his old self. Well, that's what he is, isn't it? His old self. Himself, but old, I mean. It happens to us all, one way or another, Peter.'

‘Well, all I can say is, he's in very good hands,' said Pascoe.

'We both are, Peter,' she said gently. 'Him and me. We both are.'

Pascoe had nothing to say. He put his arms gently round his mother-in-law and drew her close.

From the lounge came another cry.

'Have you two gone to China for that tea?'

Pascoe and Madge smiled at each other.

'Better get to work,' said Pascoe, 'or your evening off will be stopped.'

Later, as he and Ellie lay once more in bed, she said, 'What were you and Mum doing in the kitchen?'

'Talking about you, what else?'

'About me? Not Dad?' she said indignantly.

'Archie too. But there's not much need for Madge to talk about Archie. She knows all about him, after all. Mind you, by the same token, there wasn't much need to talk about you either.'

'That sounds pretty reductive,' said Ellie.

'I don't think it was meant to be,' said Pascoe. 'But we've got to be careful not to reduce people by cramming them in the limits of our understanding, haven't we?'

Ellie mused on this and in the musing, both she and her husband were overtaken by drowsiness and brought to the edge of sleep.

Then Pascoe awoke with a start.

'Jesus Christ!' he said.

'What?'

'I've just thought of something.'

'Not before time,' she grunted, rolling towards him.

It was not what he'd had in mind but a few moments later his mind had room for little else. 'Oh God, I'll never get up in the morning,' he murmured.

'Never mind. Be brave and do your very best,' whispered Ellie.