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Chapter 25

'I am dying like a poisoned rat in a hole. I am what I am! I am what I am!"

'Yes, I'm sure,' said Dalziel. 'I've checked with Customs and with the Squad. Aye, I was careful, what do you think? You're all right tomorrow, that's definite. Yes, I'm looking forward to that. Grand!'

He replaced the receiver and turned round.

Standing in the open doorway of his office were Pascoe and Wield.

'Well, look who's here!' he said. 'Bill and Ben, the Flowerpot Men! Eavesdropping in pairs now, is it?'

'Sorry, sir,' said Pascoe. 'I didn't realize you were in.'

'Well, I am, but just passing through. What do you want?'

'I was after the "fence" file. Sergeant Wield thought you had it last.'

'Did he? Well, he knows more than I do,' said Dalziel, pulling open desk drawers in a desultory fashion. 'What'd I be doing with it, any road? Oh.'

He paused, reached in, pulled out a tattered string-bound cardboard file, looked accusingly at Wield.

'Who put this in here?' he demanded.

Pascoe took the file and said, 'Thank you, sir.'

'What do you want it for anyway?'

'Just to refresh my mind on Edwin Sutton, Antiques,' said Pascoe.

‘Oh, him. Started on the knock ten years back. Soon got sick of working for the shop dealers, so became one himself. No previous, but got done two years ago for having a few bits of silver from Lord Boldon's house that'd been done a couple of weeks before. Managed to persuade some moronic magistrate that it was all a case of genuine error! Since when, a close eye has been kept, but he's boxed clever and prospered. He's got two or three outlets now and Christ knows how many inlets. Why?'

'The medals stolen at the Welfare Lane killing may have turned up,' explained Pascoe. 'Sutton just rang to say that one of his assistants had bought some yesterday and when he, that's Sutton, spotted them this morning, he remembered the list we circulated and thought he'd better give us a call. The name rang a bell. I thought there'd been some trouble there once.'

'And you were right, as always, Peter,' complimented Dalziel. 'So Sutton's playing the honest citizen, is he? I wonder what's got into him.'

'Perhaps honesty, sir?' suggested Pascoe. 'Perhaps something happened to him on the road to Damascus.'

'Oh aye?' said Dalziel. 'It'd need to be a long fucking road, and the first thing I'd do is breathalyse the bastard. Any other leads?'

'No, sir,' said Pascoe.

'Well then, you'd best be off. Oh, by the way, Peter.'

Pascoe turned back, Wield kept on going.

Dalziel said, 'That Warsop woman. What do you reckon?'

'I reckon she's been fiddling the household accounts at The Towers for years. Much easier to do it with goods than with money. She pushes her budget to the limit, buying everything that her books show so that they'll stand up to the annual audit, but then she pushes as much of the stuff as she can to Abbiss. This means stretching things at The Towers, though we'll probably find there's a bit of swapping goes on. For instance, she buys good meat. Abbiss buys scrag end. They swap. At Paradise Hall they get gourmet's delights, at The Towers they get gristle. Warsop and Abbiss split the difference. Do the same with everything, soap, linen, crockery and cutlery even, and it all mounts up.'

'Aye,' said Dalziel, nodding. 'Clever.'

It was hard to tell whether he was commenting on Mrs Warsop's dishonesty or Pascoe's hypothesis.

'I haven't pursued the matter, sir, as per your instructions,' Pascoe said formally. 'Though I did mention it, and your instructions, to George Headingley and Sergeant Wield.'

'Covering yourself, lad?' said Dalziel. 'Well, well. I've taught you a trick or two, you can't deny that.'

'No, sir, I can't,' said Pascoe.

He stood and waited. Dalziel looked at him reflectively and scratched his Adam's apple, deep buried in the massy column of his neck.

'You got something to say to me, Peter?' inquired the fat man gently.

'No, sir,' said Pascoe. 'Except, well, look, are you in some kind of trouble?'

'What kind of trouble would that be?' inquired Dalziel. 'Any road any troubles of mine aren't your concern, lad. Not so long as you keep yourself covered. Right?'

If it was meant as a reproach, nothing in Dalziel's tone or demeanour showed it.

Pascoe said, 'If I need any more instructions, where shall I find you?'

Dalziel said, 'Who knows, lad? I'm on holiday, remember. Except this afternoon. If you want me this afternoon, you'll find me down at the coroner's court. I've got to give evidence at an inquest, remember?'

Seymour had been much happier this morning. Last night had gone well even though his Terpsichorean prowess had suffered under scrutiny, particularly in the tango where a tendency to self-parody was bitingly criticized.

'You're not mocking it because you think it's funny,' she analysed. 'You're mocking it because you think you're funny doing it. And you're not so far wrong, at that, but that's mainly because you think you are. Now if you'll just let yourself go and stop imagining the whole world's got you in its sights, you'll do fine. And while I'm putting you to rights, your reverse turn leaves a little bit to be desired. It's only in the swimming baths that they do the tumble turn; on the dance floor it's just a little matter of shifting your weight, are you sure you're not still wearing your copper's boots?'

Normally Seymour would not have accepted such affronts from anyone under the rank of detective-inspector, but as all Bernadette's criticism ended up in demonstration which involved him in once more putting his arms round this slim, warm body, he found himself submitting to his humbling with as good a grace as any religious novice.

His euphoria, however, had not survived long. Pascoe had summoned him soon after his arrival and given him as odd a set of instructions as he'd ever received.

And this was why he was now in Jane Escott's flat, poking around and looking for anything that might come under the famous general heading of 'blunt instrument'.

In fact there proved to be remarkably little. Blunt instruments are not so plentiful as criminal fictions would have the public believe. But he had found the one specific item mentioned by Pascoe and as he hefted it in his hand, an appreciation of the trend of Pascoe's thought began to seep unpleasantly into his mind.

It was a pouch handbag on a long strap for carrying over the shoulder. It was full of loose change and very heavy. And on one side the soft brown leather held a small, faint, darker stain.

Not even Charley Frostick had been able to be exact in his description of his grandfather's medals, but the ones Edwin Sutton showed to Pascoe matched the imprecise details pretty closely.

Edwin Sutton was a rough diamond whom prosperity, expensive clothes and a toupee too perfect to pass for real had not been able to smooth. Invited to dine at the Palace, he would have been down on one knee in no time, not out of patriotism but examining the table bottom and making deprecating comments prior to trying an offer.

At least, such was Pascoe's assessment. But his main attention was concentrated on Paul Moody, the assistant who had purchased the medals. Moody was a personable young man, quite well-spoken, and reasonably knowledgeable. His honesty was harder to judge. Did a man in Sutton's position hire people for their honesty or their crookedness? From which did he have more to fear?

But the question was irrelevant in the present circumstances. Moody was merely a witness who, honest or not, was under orders to cooperate.

'Ordinary sort of fellow,' he said. 'About twenty-five. Medium height. Stocky. Light brown hair, a bit of a moustache. He was wearing one of those lumberjack jackets, sort of green tartan. He said the medals had been his uncle's. I didn't pay much heed. I mean, it's not like something really valuable when you need to establish ownership and all that, is it?'

Sutton nodded approval.

'But when I saw them this morning, I remembered the circular, Inspector,' said Sutton. 'You're a bad boy, Paul, you should've remembered the circular too. Perhaps you'll pay more heed another time.'

'Yes, Mr Sutton.'

'How did he talk?' asked Pascoe.

'He didn't say much,' said Moody. 'And most of that was monosyllables. Accent? Ordinary. Like most people round here.'

'When you made him your offer, what did he say?'

'He said, Is that all? and I said I couldn't do any better and I didn't think anyone else would, but he was entitled to try. And he said no, he'd take it.'

'And how much was it?'

'Five pounds,' said Moody.

Five pounds. The price of Bob Deeks's death. What Hitler's Panzers had not been able to do, some mindless thug had achieved for the sum of five pounds.

It wasn't much, and it was a very small sum indeed for Edwin Sutton to pay to buy himself into the CID's good books. This was clearly his motivation. At this price good citizenship came very cheap. Pascoe looked at his smiling face with concealed revulsion.

'I hope this helps you clear up this awful business, Inspector,' said the dealer. 'It's a terrible world, isn't it? Terrible.'

'Yes. Thank you for your help. Much appreciated,' said Pascoe.

'No more than my duty. That's what I always tell the youngster here. You meet with some dicey characters in our line of business, it's part of the game, isn't it! But when in doubt, call for the Law. Always cooperate with the Law and you can't go far wrong. Isn't that what I tell you, Paul?'

'Indeed it is, sir,' replied the young man.

'I'm glad to hear it,' said Pascoe. 'Mr Moody, could you call in at the Central Police Station at, say, two o'clock to look at some photos and help with an Identikit picture? I'm sure Mr Sutton, being so civically minded, won't mind filling in for you for an hour or so!'

On his way back to the station he was very silent in the car.

'What now, sir?' asked Wield.

Pascoe yawned. He'd got back on time this morning, but only with a double effort of will, the first to wake up and the second, having woken up, to drag himself away from the sleep-soft warmth of Ellie's body.

'We'd better show the medals to the Frosticks, I suppose.'

Wield glanced at his watch.

'I'd leave it till later, sir. The funeral's today. They'll be getting ready, then afterwards there'll be the family back at the house, that sort of thing.'

'Yes, of course,' said Pascoe.

Bob Deeks's funeral. Philip Westerman's inquest. And with luck (though could you call the invocation of another tragedy luck?) the solution of 'Tap' Parrinder's death.

He said, 'I didn't much care for Edwin Sutton.'

'No, sir.'

'I don't believe in his conversion to the good citizen. What say you, Sergeant?'

'It doesn't seem likely, sir,' agreed Wield.

'No. People don't change much on the whole. Not by choice. Sometimes when they can't help it, perhaps, but even then, deep down, they'll be the same. Wouldn't you say, Sergeant?'

'I'd say so,' said Wield. 'Except that circumstances…'

'Yes?'

'Well, mebbe we don't always know what other people really are. Or even ourselves, not till circumstances force us to know. Or admit.'

Pascoe brooded on this for a moment, then shook his head in irritation. Dalziel was right – too much brooding and you grew hair on your mind! This metaphysical sensibility which fused thought and feeling was of little use to a working cop. Thought and action was the only possible union even if it had to be a shotgun wedding.

He said savagely. 'Do me a favour, Sergeant. When Moody comes in to look at the pics, try to find out from him when Sutton will next be away, preferably far away, on a buying trip.'

'Sir?'

'And then we'll go in, remind anyone who objects of Sutton's publicly declared eagerness to help the Law, and turn his fucking shop inside out!'

The day which had dawned bright as Pascoe drove north from Lincolnshire had turned sullen by noon and by mid-afternoon the wind gusting down from over the Pennines was driving flurries of snow to sprinkle the moorland plain. Bob Deeks's mourners had a cold time of it as the keening blasts saw to it that there was not a dry eye to be found about the graveside.

Afterwards Charley dropped behind his parents as they returned to the cars and spoke with Mrs Gregory, whose usual careworn appearance was not materially affected by the weather.

'Andrea all right, is she?' asked the young soldier.

'Yes, Charley. I think so,' said the woman. 'She's moved to her new job, she's living in, you knew that? She would've been here today, Charley, pay her respects and all that, but it'd be awkward, her just starting, and they have different people coming most weekends, important people from the sound of it, and they have to clear up after the last lot and get ready for the next. I'm sorry about you and her, Charley, I always thought how nice it'd be, when the pair of you were little, but, well, it's not to be, and mebbe after all it's for the best.'

'Mebbe,' Charley agreed.

When they reached the car, he didn't get in.

'Come on, Charley,' said his father. 'Let's get this heater going before we all freeze to death!'

'You go on,' said Charley. 'I fancy a bit of a walk.’

‘Charley!' protested Mrs Frostick. 'You'll catch your death.'

'I'm in the right spot then,' said her son. 'No, I'll be all right, Mam. I just don't fancy all them cups of tea and people chatting and all that. I'll have a bit of a blow and see you later.'

He shut the door on further argument.

'Alan, can't you make him come?' demanded Mrs Frostick of her husband.

But he looked not without pride at his son's retreating figure and said, 'Let the lad be, Dolly. He's lost a lot these past few days. But he'll be all right. Give him time, he'll be all right.

Dalziel and Arnold Charlesworth came out of the coroner's court together and met the icy blasts with the indifference of strong men, which was more than could be said for the thin figure of Sammy Ruddlesdin who came panting up behind them.

'Happy with the verdict?' he yelled into the wind.

'Happy? A man's dead. How should that make me happy?' said Charlesworth.

'I meant, do you think it was a fair verdict?'

'Death by misadventure,' said Dalziel. 'That's what they said. And that's what it was.'

'And will the police be taking any further action, Mr Dalziel?' yelled Ruddlesdin.

'Who against?'

'Against the driver.' He paused, perhaps significantly, perhaps just to catch his breath. 'Against Mr Charlesworth.'

'Not for me to say, Mr Ruddlesdin,' said Dalziel. 'But you heard what was established. Mr Charlesworth hadn't been drinking, wasn't speeding, and was driving on the correct side of the road. Coroner said that no blame could be attached. You did hear that?'

'Yes, I heard it.'

'Right, then. Now why don't you sod off, Sammy, before them drips from your nose freeze to your toe-caps?'

The two big men walked away together.

'He still doesn't believe you, Andy,' said Charlesworth.

'When the Press starts trusting me, then I'll know I'm in trouble,' said Dalziel. 'Here, talking of trouble, what did you say to young Seymour to put him on to Merton Street? You must be slipping. I thought you'd just check it out yourself.'

'I gave him the address,' said Charlesworth calmly.

'You what?'

'You heard, Andy.'

'I heard, but I didn't believe. Why?'

'Christ knows. Mebbe I liked the lad. Mebbe I'm turning honest. You know me as well as anyone, Andy. You know that since our Tommy died, I've not found much to get excited about. Mebbe I'm after something new.'

Then he smiled faintly.

'And any road, that greedy bugger Don's been ripping me off for as much as gets saved in tax. It's not worth the candle, Andy. With a bit of luck, it'll frighten a lot of the other do-it-yourself clowns off and us honest bookies will be able to turn an honest copper.'

'I'm not sure I like your choice of phrase,' said Dalziel.

'Beggars can't be choosers. Fancy a warmer at my place?'

'You still have some?'

'Why not? I didn't give it up for all the world, Andy. It was just that Tommy used to tell me it was as bad as the stuff he was on, and when I surfaced after his death I remembered, and I just stopped wanting it after that. Now, well, if ever I want it again, I'll take it.'

'Christ, if it's like this tomorrow, you'll want it,' said

Dalziel, looking up at the lines of snow streaming horizontally beneath the lowering grey cloud. 'Will we be expected to go out in this?'

'You're no sportsman, are you, Andy? Good shooting weather this, sorts the men out from the boys. More important is, will the weather be too bad for all those important people to fly in?'

Dalziel shrugged.

'One thing I've learnt, being in regular employment. Pay's the same whatever the hours.'

'Is that so? I wouldn't know, being in the risk business,' said Charlesworth.

'Risk? Bookies take risks like the Queen Mother takes snuff,' mocked Dalziel. 'Not often and behind locked doors. Let's get to that drink before I freeze up, Arnie. There's bits of me I've only seen in a mirror these past few years and I don't want our first face-to-face to be with them lying on a pavement!'

And the snow swirled madly in the light of Pascoe's headlamps as he parked his car as close as possible to the hospital door early that evening. A sign told him that this space was reserved for consultants. He recalled that Sherlock Holmes had called himself a consulting detective. What was good enough for Sherlock was good enough for him.

Seymour was waiting for him in the entrance. He carried with him the lab report on Mrs Escott's bag. It had come in while Pascoe was out at the Frostick house. Charley had still not returned from his post-funeral walk, but Mrs Frostick had given a positive identification of the medals. Suspecting that his evening might be busy and knowing from experience how easily the time could slip away, Pascoe had headed for home to have his first hot meal of the day and ring Ellie.

He had been very tentative in his hints that Mrs Soper's passivity might be as much due to her daughter's energetic authoritarianism as to her own incapacity, but he knew that Ellie was very sharp to sniff out meanings.

He also knew that she was reluctant to accept alternative judgments until she had pragmatically tested them, but, once having made the test, she was scrupulously honest in reporting her findings.

'Hi,' she said. 'You got back all right?'

'Just about. It was the thought of the headlines that kept me going. Policeman arrested for driving under the influence of sexual exhaustion.''

'Oh yes. And Unsatisfied wife gives evidence!'

'That's not what you said this morning!' he protested.

'That was this morning. Still, I've just got to wait till Saturday.'

'Saturday?' he said neutrally.

'Yes, Saturday. Rose was a bit fractious this morning, so I took her firmly under my wing and kept at a safe observing distance from Mum and Dad. He was generally OK, but when he showed a slight tendency to want to mow the lawn, she took him very firmly in hand. I had a talk with her at tea-time. She says she's been very glad of the rest and will be delighted if any time in the future I feel like spelling her. Also if she feels she can't cope, she'll be in touch with the speed of light. I believe her. In fact I think I got a faint whiff of not-being-too-sorry-to- see-the-back-of me.'

'I can't believe it,' he said.

'You smug swine,' said Ellie. 'Look, the problem's not going to go away, you do understand that, don't you, you-who-understand-everything? And it'll get worse.'

'It's life we're talking about, isn't it?' said Pascoe, with a pessimism which was meant to be comic but didn't entirely come off.

The phone had rung again as soon as he replaced the receiver. It was Wield with news of the lab report.

'I'll meet you at the hospital,' Pascoe had replied. Then, changing his mind, had added, 'No. Send Seymour with it. Familiar faces might help.'

And faces didn't come much more unfamiliar than Wield's, he thought unkindly as he replaced the telephone.

He read the report quickly as they made their way up to the ward. There they met Dr Sowden.

'My God,' said Pascoe. 'Do you run this place single-handed?'

'It sometimes feels like it,' said Sowden. 'What is it this time? Come to pay me off?'

'Pay you off?' said Pascoe in puzzlement.

'I read about the inquest in the evening paper. You will note I didn't go along in person.'

'Doctor,' said Pascoe. 'If you feel you had something to say, you should've gone along and said it. What happened anyway?'

Sowden looked abashed.

'You don't know? Your fat friend got off. No, sorry, that's not the way to put it. Death by misadventure, with no one querying that Charlesworth was the driver.'

'Wrong, Doctor,' said Pascoe softly. 'A great deal of querying has been done.'

'But not publicly?'

'Publicity you want? Next time someone complains you've stitched a glove inside him, let's hear you demand publicity. Even if you come out innocent, you don't come out clean.'

Pascoe spoke with a vehemence which sprang from doubt rather than certainty. Sowden seemed to accept his argument, if rather grudgingly, but his antagonism was re-awoken when Pascoe explained his present purposes.

'Let me get this straight,' he said. 'You're saying that the old gent who died from exposure and shock after he broke his hip was attacked – well, you've tried that before, Inspector. I must give you credit for sticking to your guns! But this latest, that he was attacked by a seventy-five-year-old woman, his neighbour and friend, who left him there to die! This is something else.'

'Read that,' said Pascoe, handing over the lab report.

Sowden scanned it. Briefly it stated that on the side of Mrs Escott's bag there were faint traces of human blood and tissue.

'So what does that prove? That she'd cut herself at some time, most probably. It happens. It happens a lot more frequently than old ladies turning to mugging, I should think.'

'Not mugging,' said Pascoe. 'She thought she was being mugged. She was terrified of being out after dark. At the same time she'd started rambling, losing her grip on time and place. Only intermittently at this stage before returning to complete normality, except for some memory lapses. Her friends were worried about her. The old worry greatly about their own. Who else understands the problems like they do? So imagine what "Tap" Parrinder felt when, being driven home in a taxi with a full belly and three hundred pounds' worth of winnings in his pocket, suddenly as they pass the Alderman Woodhouse Recreation Ground, he glimpses his friend Jane Escott going in.'

'Of course!' said Seymour. 'That's why he jumped out so suddenly!'

'Yes. He runs after her. Perhaps she hears him and starts running away in terror. He catches up, seizes her shoulder. She turns, swinging with her shoulder-bag heavy with all her hoarded change, catching him on the temple. He goes down and she goes on running, running, not stopping till she is safely at home, taken there by instinct, getting undressed, going to bed with her heart still pounding, and finally falling asleep to awake on Saturday morning with all memory of the Friday gone, and Thursday substituted in its stead.'

'You have a persuasive narrative style,' said Sowden. 'You should try fiction.'

'No,' said Pascoe. 'Fiction's full of bright, perceptive, open-minded young doctors. I couldn't screw myself up to that pitch of invention.'

'You will permit me to criticize your thesis medically, I take it?' said Sowden with heavy sarcasm.

'Why? You're not a geriatrician, are you?' said Pascoe. 'From what I can make out, the old are either dead or dying by the time they reach your hands. Look, it's possible. I've checked it. I talked with your Mr Blunt earlier today.'

This introduction of the respected head of geriatrics clearly impressed Sowden.

Pascoe pressed home his advantage. 'Her mind had even more reason to repress the memory as she learned about Tap's death. She couldn't permit herself to associate the two things, could she? And it was only when my questioning forced her to recognize the missing day that she realized what she'd done and decided to crash out. I'd no idea, of course. All I wanted was to clear the decks about Parrinder's movements and her evidence conflicted with the rest.'

'It's still only a theory,' said Sowden stubbornly.

'And will remain so until I talk to Mrs Escott,' said Pascoe. 'Is that possible?'

The young doctor slowly nodded.

'You can talk to her. For a moment anyway. I doubt if she'll reply. Poor woman.'

'Thanks,' said Pascoe.

'Hold on, though!' said Sowden suddenly. 'You said that Mr Parrinder was carrying a lot of money? And that went missing? Now Mrs Escott might just turn out to have struck out at him in her terror and panic, but you're not telling me she robbed him too!'

Seymour said, 'Yes, sir. I was wondering about that, sir. I mean, it doesn't seem likely, does it?'

'No,' said Pascoe. 'What does seem likely is that a man on the dole with a wife, kids, and a seven-foot dog that must cost a tenner a week at least to feed, might be sorely tempted if an old envelope full of ten-pound notes suddenly appeared at his feet. I suggest when we finish here, it might be worthwhile having another chat with your Mr Cox, Seymour.'

Pascoe was horrified to see the change in Mrs Escott. She had looked her age before, but in a healthy, well-nourished fashion. Now she looked like age itself, with hollow cheeks, thread-like lips and eyes sunk almost out of sight into the funnels of their sockets.

'Mrs Escott,' said Pascoe softly. 'I'm Inspector Pascoe who came to talk to you about Tap. Mr Seymour's with me. You'll remember him, I think. He saw you too about Mr Parrinder. Listen, Mrs Escott, what I want to say is we know what happened, and we know it was an accident, and there's nothing to worry about, nothing at all. We all know what happened and nobody blames you. Believe me, Mrs Escott. Nobody blames you.'

There was no response either of sound or movement. Pascoe looked up and caught Sowden's eye. It was good to see that the doctor's face was sympathetic, but it was sympathy based on the expectation of utter failure.

Well, perhaps it would have to be one of those cases where the likelihood of an explanation was strong enough for the case to be shelved, but not certain enough for it to be closed.

'It's all right, Mrs Escott,' he said gently. 'We're going now. Good night. Sleep well.'

As he straightened, she spoke in a voice distant and strange but perfectly clear, like the piping of a bird in some lonely spot.

'Nothing…' she said. 'All nothing… dreams… awful dreams… the rain… footsteps… hitting him. Tap's face.. . hitting him… then running… like a girl again… but not happy like a girl…'

Suddenly she seemed to gain strength and for the first time there was expression on her face and the voice was traceable to the moving mouth.

'Awful dreams,' she said loudly. 'But true. Have they always been true? All of them, always? It's not… it's not… it's not.. .'

And then she was gone again. Gone where? Back to the world of the awful dreams? Pascoe wondered.

He walked away from the bed and out of the ward. Sowden caught him up and put his hand on his arm.

'Don't forget that drink some time,' he said. 'We can't keep on meeting like this.'

'Can't we?' said Pascoe, then took a deep breath and managed a smile.

'I won't forget,' he said.