Exit Lines (17 page)

'Well, perhaps he collected his winnings, set off home, decided he'd treat himself to a meal and jumped on a bus and went into town,' said Wield tentatively.

Pascoe shook his head, then spoke with sudden decision.

'This is all detail,' he said. 'It'll get sorted eventually. The main thing is, at least we've something to go on. If Parrinder had a bundle of notes in an old brown envelope when he left the restaurant, where are they now?'

'So you think we can be certain this was a mugging?' said Wield doubtfully. 'Why just take the envelope? What was wrong with the money in his pension book?'

'Perhaps whoever did it just knew for certain about the envelope,' said Pascoe. 'You get some pretty odd people hanging around betting shops. Seeing an old guy going out with a big win would be very tempting to some of them. But let's tread slowly. Seymour, you're obviously at home among the bookies. If someone had a win on a roll-up bet on those three horses, it'll be recorded somewhere. Start with the local one near Castleton Court, but I've got no real hopes there. I want you to do the rounds till you find out where it was,
if
it was. Come the heavy if they drag their feet. They've all got something to hide! Once we get confirmation that Parrinder
did
have a little bank-roll, then we can get a proper official investigation under way! Off you go lad. And don't hang about this time, keep away from the colleens.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. And you have a good day too, sir,' said Seymour as he left.

'Cheeky bugger,' observed Wield.

'But he has the makings,' said Pascoe. 'He definitely has the makings. The future of the Force is in good hands if we train the Seymours up right.'

'Yes, sir,' said Wield.

From where Andy Dalziel was sitting, the future of the Force did not seem to be in quite so good a shape. He was outside Haycroft Grange high up in the passenger seat of Kassell's Range Rover and he could see the lanky figure of PC Hector under the archway of the stable wing where the estate offices were, waiting with the other beaters to collect his day's pay.

Dalziel had refused Pledger's invitation to come into the house for a parting drink. There had been things to talk over with Kassell and there was more privacy out here. But Kassell had been summoned to take a phone call and Dalziel was wishing that he'd accepted Pledger's offer after all.

The truck with its bright cargo of dead pheasants was being unloaded by the stable block. There were getting on for a hundred of them, but only one of them was Dalziel's personal responsibility. He was not a man who cared to do things badly and the degree to which age and hard living seemed to have impaired his coordination of muscle and eye had taken him aback.

A green van bumped into the courtyard. Kassell came out of the house and spoke briefly with the new arrival, a short, squat man in a tweed suit patterned violently in brown and yellow checks. Then Kassell helped himself to a couple of birds from the truck and walked back to his own vehicle.

'Sorry about that,' he said as he climbed in. 'You should've gone inside and sampled Willy's brandy.'

'Plenty of time for that,' said Dalziel. 'What's this?'

Kassell had reached into the back of the Range Rover, got hold of a plastic carrier into which he put the brace of birds before dropping it onto Dalziel's lap.

'To the victor the spoils,' he said. 'All the guns are entitled to a couple at the end of the day.'

'But I only hit one of the bloody things!' protested Dalziel. 'And what the fuck am I meant to do with them anyway?'

'That's up to you. But one thing I learned in the Army was that a perk is a perk. Never turn down a buckshee!'

'What happens to the rest?' said Dalziel.

'We sell 'em,' said Kassell. 'That chap in the explosive suit is Vernon Briggs, game dealer. He claims his firm's motto is
Game for Owt.
He's not unamusing, though he thinks of himself as a bit of a character, which is rather a bore. He pays about a quid a bird and they end up on your plate at places like Paradise Hall at ten times the price.'

'I thought that consumptive lass shot her own,' said Dalziel.

'Mrs Abbiss? Yes, she's a fair shot. We've had her out here from time to time. I intend no
double entendre.
The lady's not for touching, much to the disappointment of some of our foreign guests. Fortunately we usually contrive to keep them happy in other directions.'

'How's that?'

'Oh, they tend to be rather seignorial in their attitude to serving wenches, so we have to make sure that we have the right kind of stuff.'

'Old and ugly you mean?' said Dalziel.

Kassell laughed and said, 'You're very whimsical, Andy. Interestingly, my phone call was from a new recruit. That girl who waited on us, or do I mean on whom we waited, on Friday night.'

'The one who looked like a reject from a punk band?' said Dalziel. 'Jesus!'

'You didn't seem to find her unattractive yourself if I remember right,' grinned Kassell. 'I've noticed her before. She has a certain something. And she was so clearly discontented with her lot on Friday that I had a word with her on the way out.'

'That's why you hung back, was it?' said Dalziel. 'I thought you were fixing yourself a soldier's hello. I didn't realize you were a talent scout.'

'Pimp,
did you think of saying? No, I don't believe you did. If you had, you'd have said it, wouldn't you?'

'Oh aye,' said Dalziel. 'And is she hired, then?'

'Yes. She hesitated at the possible isolation. I assured her that transport was provided on days off to get the staff to town and back. So we have a new maid. Yes, talent scout, I like that. Always on the lookout for talent.'

'Like me,' said Dalziel.

'Yes, I'm glad I spotted you. With Arnie's help, of course. To get back to what we were talking about, you're perfectly satisfied with our arrangement?'

'For the time being,' said Dalziel cautiously.

'Subject to review, you mean? Well, we can't ask fairer than that. If you won't go to Willy's brandy, let's at least wet our deal with his equally excellent Scotch.'

He produced a silver-plated flask from the door-pocket, unscrewed the cup which doubled as a stopper and poured the contents into it.

'There's only enough for one,' protested Dalziel.

'You have it,' urged Kassell. 'You've got further to go than me.'

'To get to the next drink, you mean?'

'That too.'

The two men looked at each other in silence for a moment.

'Cheers,' said Dalziel. And drank.

Chapter 19

'Je m'en vais chercher un grand peut-etre.'

Tuesday was a day of short tempers.

Dalziel had at last received the DCC's urgent summons. The two men were closeted together for over an hour. Dalziel emerged shaking his head angrily as though pushed to the edge of even
his
superhuman tolerance, and when George Headingley tapped cautiously at the DCC's door five minutes later, the scream of
Come in!
echoed round the station like a sergeant-major's
Shun!
across a parade ground.

Dalziel meanwhile had kicked open the door of Pascoe's office like a man leading a raid, but for once found his assistant in a mood to match his own.

'Come in, do,' growled Pascoe. 'That's the door sorted. What'd you like to demolish next? The window? Or the desk? Sir.'

'What the hell's up with you?' demanded Dalziel.

'Nothing.'

'Is it the Deeks killing? Pull in half a dozen kids off the streets and kick it out of them. They'll likely know something.'

'No, it's not that,' said Pascoe. 'Though we're getting nowhere there either. It's this other business.’

He explained to Dalziel about Parrinder. The truth was that after the discoveries of the previous day he had been rather over-jubilant in assuring Inspector Cruikshank that the famous Pascoe hunch had been correct and the Parrinder 'accident' could almost certainly now be regarded as a mugging. The trouble was that, since then, Seymour had not been able to trace a single sighting of Parrinder at any betting shop nor to get anyone to admit having paid out on a roll-up involving those three horses. Even the pay-outs on single bets on
Polly Styrene
offered few possibilities, the customers either being known, or their descriptions not fitting.

'So you started crowing before you'd got to the top of the midden,' said Dalziel, not without satisfaction. 'And now you're thinking mebbe there never was an envelope full of money to be stolen, mebbe Seymour's Irish waitress was dazzled by the sight of the poor old devil's pension money!'

'Something like that.'

'Well, better make absolutely sure before you start eating Cruikshank's humble pie. You want information, always go to experts. Let's see what we can do.'

He picked up the phone and dialled.

When it was answered he said. 'Arnie there? Tell him it's Andy. Just plain Andy, that's right, you can remember that, can you, love? Well done! Hello? Arnie? Yes, it's me. Listen, one of my boys is interested to know if an old lad called Parrinder collected last Friday on a roll-up on . . . what were them horses called?'

Pascoe told him. The information was relayed.

'Aye, that's all we've got. You'll check around? Grand! About twelve o'clock; no, someone will call at your flat, that'll be best. Can't have you seen hobnobbing with the fuzz too much, can we? Yesterday? Oh aye. Bloody marvellous. I only hit one of the bloody things and it wasn't the one I was aiming at. But I got two given. Listen, Arnie, like to buy a pair of pheasants? What? ...You too!'

He replaced the receiver.

'There you are,' he said. 'Midday at Arnie Charlesworth's flat. If there's owt to know, he'll know it.'

'Well, thank you, sir,' said Pascoe uncertainly.

'Nothing wrong, lad?' said Dalziel softly. 'You don't object to visiting Arnie, do you? I mean he's not persona non grata or owt, is he?'

'No, nothing like that,' lied Pascoe. 'I was just thinking, I can't make midday myself. Charley Frostick, that's Deeks's grandson, is arriving from Germany then and I want to be there to talk to him. But I'll send Seymour. He's been dealing with the Parrinder business mainly and making not a bad job of it.'

'Aye, he's not bad,' agreed Dalziel. 'And could be Arnie'd prefer a youngster. But you'll have to start paddling your own feet in this puddle sooner or later, Peter. Detection's like copulation, you can't manage it properly once removed. Now, important business. Your Ellie's a dab hand with a pheasant if I remember right. I've got two of the buggers. Two quid apiece. Or I'll take three for the pair. How's that? An offer you can't refuse, else Ellie'll skin you alive when I tell her.'

'I don't think so, sir,' said Pascoe.

'No? Oh, I've got it,' cried Dalziel. 'She's not come back yet! No wonder you're in such a miserable bloody mood!'

Pascoe grinned sheepishly, acknowledging there was some truth in this. Ellie had received no comfort at all from her visit to the doctor. The ageing process was impossible to reverse, difficult even to delay. The only direction was down. Her father had underlined this pessimistic prognosis by slipping into the past again and setting off for the work he'd retired from years earlier. Ellie had resolved to stay on longer.

'I can't just leave Mum,' she said. 'I've got to be sure she can cope.'

Past observation had suggested to Pascoe that Mrs Soper was able to cope very well with most things, not least a bossy daughter. Wisely he kept this observation to himself. But he was far from happy, though he was not about to discuss just how far with Andy Dalziel.

Sergeant Wield, quietly at work among the files in the corner, removed the pressure by addressing the fat man.

'Sir,' he said. 'About them pheasants. I'll take them, if you like.'

'Wield, I always knew you were a man with a nose for a bargain,' said Dalziel. 'They're yours. I've got them in the car. Four pound, we said.' He held out a huge hand.

Wield produced his wallet and said, 'Three pound the pair, I think it was, sir.'

'Three?
Oh, that was a special discount for Inspectors whose hunches are all falling apart.'

Wield did not move; his fingers had withdrawn three pound notes from his wallet and he regarded Dalziel's hand unblinkingly.

'Christ,' said the fat man. 'I'd best take the money before he tells me what he's seeing there.'

He whisked the notes out of Wield's fingers.

'I'll leave them at the desk downstairs,' he said. 'Now I'm off. I've got things to do even if you buggers haven't!'

After he had left, Pascoe sat in thought for a while. The fat man was right. He'd interested himself in this Parrinder business without making the slightest direct contact with the case after his first casual view of the body at the hospital. Delegation is the better part of seniority, maybe; but it could be the worst part of detection.

He glanced at his watch.

Charley Frostick was due home from Germany at twelve o'clock. Pascoe had little real hope that the young soldier could help him, but he was planning to see him anyway. Give him half an hour to say hello. And that would give Pascoe plenty of time to call at Castleton Court and take a look at Tap Parrinder's background and neighbours for himself. He instructed Wield to get hold of Seymour and send him round to see Charlesworth.

'He's the only one who understands the language as far as I can see,' he said.

On his way out he bumped into George Headingley.

'How's it going, George?' he asked.

'I'm not sure,' was the reply. 'You seen the fat man this morning?'

'Briefly.'

'How was he?'

'Much the same as ever.A bit bad-tempered till he conned Wield into buying two dead pheasants. Why?'

'I've just been in with the DCC,' said Headingley. 'He's told me to wind up this accident investigation. He says he'll be taking care of things personally from now on.'

'Oh,' said Pascoe, taken aback. 'And what do you make of that?'

'I don't know. Except that junior officers aren't allowed to investigate senior officers, are they? I mean, not properly
investigate.
I reckon something's changed, Peter. I reckon Andy Dalziel must be in very serious trouble, and I doubt if it's just poaching!'

Mrs Jane Escott at first looked blank when Pascoe on introducing himself mentioned DC Seymour. Then her eyes lit up and she said, 'Of course. How silly of me. The young man with the red hair!'

'That's him,' said Pascoe.

'And you're his boss, are you? I hope it's not about pulling the alarm cord. It was an accident. Anyone could have done that,' she said earnestly.

'No,' said Pascoe, puzzled, but determined not to be diverted. 'It's about your neighbour, Mr Parrinder.'

'Oh yes. Poor Tap. Do they know when the funeral will be yet?' she asked, her eyes filling with tears.

'No, not yet.May I come in, Mrs Escott?'

'What am I thinking of? Please do. Would you like a cup of tea?'

'No, thanks,' said Pascoe, following her into the neat living-room which had the heating turned up to what he found was a rather uncomfortable level.

He sat down in an armchair in front of a low coffee table. Scattered across the table was a heap of loose change with perhaps a dozen piles of coins stacked alongside it, according to denomination. On the floor by the table was a pouch handbag of old soft leather.

'I'm sorry about this,' said Mrs Escott. 'I don't know how, but I always end up with so much change these days.'

'Me too,' said Pascoe. 'It wears holes in my pockets. It's the paper money I can't keep hold of.'

She opened the handbag and started to sweep the money into it.

'No, don't,' said Pascoe. 'You were counting it up. You'll have to start all over again.'

'It doesn't matter,' she said, completing the job and letting the bag drop to the floor with a dull thud. 'Now, please, Inspector. How can I help you with poor Tap?'

Pascoe took her over her story again.

'And he was watching the racing on television?' he asked.

'That's right,' she said.

'You'd watched races with Mr Parrinder, Tap, before?' Pascoe continued.

'Sometimes,' she said.

'And did he get excited when he watched? I mean, was he bothered about who won?'

'Of course he was!' she said sharply. 'There's not much point otherwise.'

'Even when he hadn't got a bet on?'

'Oh yes. He'd pick the horse he would have backed and shout at that one. Of course, it was even more exciting if he had some money on.'

'You were there from two till nearly half past three,' he said. 'So you'd see the two-ten and the two forty-five races.'

'I expect so. I didn't pay too much attention.'

'Did he have any money on those?'

'No.' She was quite definite.

'You're sure?' he pressed. 'Even though you didn't pay much attention?'

'I paid a lot of attention to Tap,' she reproved. 'The horses he was shouting for didn't even get a place, I recall, and he said what a good thing it was he hadn't been able to get out and make a bet.'

Pascoe concealed his disappointment and said, 'He always went out to make a bet, did he?'

'Oh yes.'

'Never telephoned?'

'I don't think so. He always talked about the betting shop. I've never been in one myself and he used to laugh when I told him I had this picture of a sort of old-fashioned general store with assistants wearing white coats.'

She laughed at her own silliness and Pascoe laughed with her.

'Well, thank you very much, Mrs Escott,' he said, rising.

'Have I been any help, Inspector?' she asked earnestly.

'Yes, very much,' he said, with all the false sincerity of a man who has just seen the last remnants of a promising theory knocked down.

'I'm so glad. Sometimes I forget things. It's just old age, Mr Pascoe,' she said sorrowfully. 'But it can be so annoying.'

'Your memory seems fine to me. Just one last test. You can't remember the names of the horses he was shouting for on Friday, can you?'

His mind was toying with the absurd idea that Parrinder might have wished to keep his real selections secret from Mrs Escott and picked some rank outsider for his pretended support, though why he might have wanted to do this was as yet beyond even hypothesis. He had brought Parrinder's paper with him and he took it out now, ready to prompt Mrs Escott if necessary by reading the runners.

But it wasn't necessary. Her eyes lit up and she said triumphantly, 'Yes, I can. The first one was a horse called
Willie Wagtail.
It was such a funny name it stuck in my mind. In the second race it was
Glaramara.''

'Well done,' said Pascoe, looking down the list to check the betting forecasts.

He looked again. He went through the card for the whole afternoon. There were no such horses running that day.

But as his eye ranged over the racing page, it did pick up the name of
Glaramara.
He still had to search to locate it, but there it was, in the small print of the also-rans after the result of the 2.40 at Wincanton on Thursday afternoon.
Willie Wagtail
was an also-ran in the previous race on the same day.

He looked at the old lady's smiling, happy face ‘and said gently, 'Yes, that's very good, Mrs Escott. Thank you. By the way, you don't happen to remember what the weather was like that afternoon when you watched television with Mr Parrinder, do you?'

'Why, yes,' she said, looking puzzled. 'Friday, you mean? It was bright but blowy. I remember saying to Tap that the sun looked warm enough from inside but there'd be precious little warmth in it if you went out. But he did go out, didn't he? And there was no need, no need at all. Especially not in the dark. It's so frightening these days if you’re old, Mr Pascoe. All these muggings you hear about. I try never to be out after dark. Why did Tap go, Mr Pascoe? Why did he go?'

Pascoe folded the newspaper and put it in his pocket. His theory was coming back together, but he felt little joy in it.

'I don't know, Mrs Escott,' he said quietly. 'Thank you again for all your help. Thank you very much indeed.'

When Pascoe arrived at the Frostick house on Nethertown Road he was greeted by much the same sounds as had sped him on his way on Sunday. The argument died down as he rang the doorbell. An anxious-looking Mrs Frostick opened the door and ushered him into the living-room where he found Mr Frostick, red-faced and clench-fisted, glaring at a limb-entangled couple in an armchair. The tangle consisted of a young man in private soldier's uniform whom Pascoe took to be Charley Frostick, with Andrea Gregory, in or out of a mini-skirt, coiled sinuously about his person. There was, Pascoe felt, more of provocation than passion in her pose. It was aimed at fuelling the wrath of Frostick Senior rather than the desires of Frostick Junior, who was looking both physically and mentally rather uncomfortable under the girl's embrace.