Exit Lines (25 page)

Chapter 27

'It will end as it began, it came with a lass and it will go with a lass.'

Once more Pascoe arrived in the kitchens of Paradise Hall while a meal was in full swing.

'Oh no!' cried Abbiss. 'Not you again. And this time you've brought the public hangman!'

Wield did not change expression. Why should he, thought Pascoe, when the one he wore normally did so very well?

It was interesting to see that Abbiss seemed to have recovered completely from the trauma of Pascoe's last visit. He must have received promises of immunity which were very potent. Oh, Dalziel, Dalziel, what are you playing at?

Pascoe said, 'Last time we talked, you said that one of your complaints against your former employee, Andrea Gregory, was that she brought a soldier back to her room. You also said you caught them
in flagrante delicto
early one morning.'

'Ah, you liked that picture, did you, Inspector?' mocked Abbiss. 'Want an action re-run, is that it?'

'When was this, sir?' asked Pascoe patiently.

Perhaps it was the courtesy of the 'sir' that did it, but Abbiss began to take things seriously.

'When? I'm not sure precisely. Last week some time.'

'Last week? Not a few weeks ago?'

'Oh no. Not long before I gave her the push.’

Pascoe felt angry with himself. He had made assumptions, which as Dalziel put it, was posh for making cock-ups. The mention of a soldier had automatically made him think of Charley Frostick and he hadn't seen any reason to check on dates.

He said, 'And it was definitely a soldier?'

'Oh yes,' said Abbiss. 'Fully kitted out from beret to boots, with the minor modification that his pants were pushed down over his buttocks, the better to apply himself to little Miss Andrea who was wearing her nightie round her neck.'

'Could this have been the man, sir?' inquired Pascoe, handing over the Photofit picture.

'Maybe,' said Abbiss doubtfully. 'I mean, it doesn't really look like anybody, does it? I
think
he had a moustache. On the other hand if you gave me a picture of his backside, I could give you a positive identification straight away! There was a rather interesting bite-mark on his left buttock, I seem to recall.'

It conjured up for Pascoe a picture of a very unusual identity parade. But in fact he hardly had enough to go on to ask for a normal identity parade. The point was that Andrea Gregory had been putting it about a bit, and she had shown a kind of loyalty to Charley by putting it about among the large number of lonely soldiers who at any one moment were inmates of Eltervale Camp.

Just how significant did this make the print on the vinyl floor of Bob Deeks's bathroom which might have been from an Army boot? And could those stab marks on his neck and shoulders possibly have been made by a bayonet?

There was little to go on, but too much to ignore. Andrea herself was the best source of information, but he could imagine those painted lips closing to a thin red line when asked to betray herself.

'Come now, Inspector,' said Abbiss. 'Don't look so baffled. Surely there can't be all that many NCO's of the British Army with teeth marks on their left buttocks. Is it yourself you want him for, or is he a present for a friend?'

'An NCO?' said Pascoe. 'You're sure he was an NCO?'

'Oh yes. There was a stripe on his arm. Just the one, that makes him a lance-corporal, doesn't it?'

'That's right. Anything else about him? Colour of hair, build, anything at all?'

'I don't really know. Good athletic action, I'd say. Brownish hair. Like I say, I think he had a moustache. Oh, and there was one rather odd thing - those webbing belts they wear. Well, his was white.'

Into Pascoe's mind there leapt a picture of a ramrod-straight man with a mousy moustache and watchful eyes, whose friendship with Charley Frostick had perhaps led him to cover up the young man's nocturnal ramblings.

Lance Corporal Gillott of the Mid-Yorkies' regimental police.

'Thank you, sir,' he said, turning on his heel and leaving the kitchen.

There was a public phone in the hallway. He rang the station and got Seymour.

'Pick Moody up and bring him out to Paradise Hall,' he ordered. 'Don't take no for an answer.'

He rejoined Wield.

'Let me buy you a drink while we're waiting, Sergeant,' he said, leading him into the bar where Stella Abbiss was serving a customer. 'And if you're hungry, they do a nice cold game pie.'

The woman heard him and turned her big dark eyes on him with something in them which might almost have been contempt. She thinks I've been fixed! thought Pascoe. And while she might have understood passion, she reckons nothing to greed.

'You're out of luck today, Inspector,' she said in her low deep voice. 'For you, game pie is definitely off.'

Moody sat sulkily in the front seat of Pascoe's car as he drove towards Eltervale Barracks. He had not been pleased, as he put it, to be dragged away from his work, but Pascoe was in no mood to be conciliatory.

It was his intention, however, to tread carefully in his dealings with the military and not to risk provoking any of that protective closing of ranks by which army units traditionally protected their own. It was his intention to talk first with the camp CO and then to arrange for Moody to see Lance-Corporal Gillott while he himself remained unobserved.

It didn't work out quite like that.

As they approached the camp gates, a trio of men in fatigues and carrying spades came doubling out. Presumably they were a work detail of men under arrest. And escorting them was the upright, poker-faced figure of Lance-Corporal Gillott.

'That's him!' cried Moody. 'That's the man I bought the medals from.'

He wound down the window in his excitement. Gillott did a classic Ealing Comedy double-take, then with a reaction speedy enough to impress the most demanding of training instructors, he grabbed a spade off one of the prisoners and hurled it at Pascoe's car.

The windscreen crazed. Moody shrieked, Pascoe slammed on the brake and the car, though already slowing, spun on the road surface still treacherous from the previous day's sleet and snow, scattering the working party in panic.

And Gillott was away down the road, head back, knees pumping high, wisely (so he must have thought) not heading back into the trap of the camp with its high soldier-proof perimeter fence.

What he was heading towards was Seymour's car which drew in to the side of the road. Seymour made to get out, but Wield in the passenger seat restrained him. And as the sprinting corporal drew level with the car, the sergeant leaned across and flung open the driver's door. There was a fearsome impact and the door slammed shut with a violence that set the inmates' eardrums vibrating.

'Now you can get out and pick him up,' said Wield. 'Good arrest, son. It'll look well on your record. And it'll be something to impress that little Irish girl of yours with next time you go dancing. Might make her forget the pain.'

Gillott was incredibly verbose for one who had appeared so taciturn. It was stopping him talking that was difficult, but with Moody's identification and the discovery of Bob Deeks's pocket watch hidden in his locker, he saw little hope in silence. Not even his bruised ribs inhibited the flow, the main current of which was directed at washing as much blame towards Andrea Gregory as possible.

'It was her idea. She said he was an animal. She said all old people were animals. She said they were crazy, smelly and nasty. She said she'd want to be put down before she got like that. We'd been drinking. I'd been driving the sergeant-major to the station in town and I had his car. I thought: Sod going back straight away. No one'll miss me. So I gave Andrea a ring. I'd been stuffing her rotten ever since that wet boyfriend of hers went to join the battalion. We went for a drive. She brought a bottle of Scotch along from the restaurant. We stopped and had a drink and a fuck and some more drink. I said if I had enough money I'd buy myself out of the Army. She said she knew where there was a few hundred lying around for the taking. I said where? She said at Charley's grandad's. She said that when they got engaged Charley had left her outside the back of his grandad's. He went in and came out not long after with a century in cash. He bought her that flashy ring. She said she knew where the back key was kept hid. What she didn't know was where the money was hid and he wouldn't tell us. We looked everywhere. The old man just kept on looking at my uniform and saying "Charley" all the time. It got on my wick. Was there some money, eh? Was there really some money? Or was it all for nothing?'

Pascoe had come as close as he ever had to striking a prisoner at this point.

He said as much to Wield as they sped towards Haycroft Grange to pick up Andrea Gregory. Wield had offered to take his car as Pascoe's was temporarily out of commission but Pascoe had said, 'No. Full panoply of the law, I think. I don't want the Sir William Pledgers of this world thinking that we can be relied on to be nice and discreet for their sake.' Thus he and Wield were sitting in the comfortable back seat of a large white squad car with the Mid-Yorkshire insignia emblazoned proudly on the sides.

'Christ, they took risks, didn't they?' said Wield.

'They were both half-cut from the sound of it,' said Pascoe. 'But with that din coming from Mrs Spillings's house, and the other side empty, they weren't in much danger of being overheard. And Andrea had her wits about her enough to realize that using the outside key might be a giveaway. She spotted the duplicate key on the kitchen table. According to Gillott, it was her idea to stick one of the keys in the inside of the lock and smash the window to make it look as if someone had broken in.'

'But she put the wrong key back in the shed.'

'Yes. I should have spotted the implications of that sooner, but there's been a lot of distraction these past few days.'

The two men fell silent. Dusk was beginning to settle over the undulating landscape, flecked white with snow which the wind had blown into the folds and pleats of the heathered moor. The uniformed driver was consulting a road map and driving with one hand.

'You're not lost, are you, Pearson?' asked Wield.

'No, sir. It's just that we turn off somewhere along here down an unclassified road and I don't want to miss it.'

'How about up there, at the top of the rise, where the green van's turning?'

'Yes, that'll likely be it,' agreed the driver.

They turned off the B-road on to a narrower but still well-metalled track which meandered down into a riverless valley. Distantly they glimpsed the chimneys of Haycroft Grange against the snowy hillside opposite. The green van ahead was either in difficulty or the driver did not trust his brakes as the road steepened.

'For God's sake,' said Pascoe impatiently as their speed dropped to under twenty. 'Can't you get past him, Pearson?'

Wield glanced at the Inspector, thinking he had rarely seen his temper so ragged. The Sergeant's instinct rather than his detective powers sought out the reason. It occurred to him that Pascoe, despite his comparative youthfulness and liberal modernism of outlook, would have done very nicely as an English gent in one of Wield's much loved Rider Haggard novels. His belief in the equality of women still turned to disappointment at the discovery that they could equal men in baseness as well as achievement. And his loyalty to Andy Dalziel must be very much at odds with his strict code of fair play and honesty.

Plus, of course, the fact that he was clearly missing his wife and daughter.

Pearson replied defensively. 'The road's a bit narrow, sir.'

They were nearing the bottom of the valley where the road straightened out for almost a hundred yards before beginning to wind up the opposing hillside.

'Give him the bell then,' ordered Pascoe. 'It's like a bloody funeral procession!'

Obediently the driver pressed a switch. Next moment the pastoral peace was fragmented by the pulsating screech of the siren, and on the roof flashing blades of light scythed the darkling air.

The green van pulled over to the narrow verge and stopped. Pearson sent the police car accelerating by, then reached forward to switch off the lights and siren, but Pascoe stopped him.

'Leave it,' he said. 'I like a bit of
son et lumiere.
It's a not unfitting way to let those gun-happy buggers up there know we're coming, wouldn't you say, Sergeant?'

But Wield did not reply. He was much more interested in looking back and wondering why the driver of the green van had changed his mind and turned round and was now heading back up the hill.

Chapter 28

'Ut puto deus fio.'

'That sounds like your lot, Dalziel,' said Sir William Pledger. 'Didn't realize you were bringing some friends.'

He laughed and his guests joined in, even those who did not understand or did not appreciate the joke. Among the latter was Major Barney Kassell, who regarded Dalziel with grave suspicion.

The fat man shrugged and said indifferently, 'Me neither.'

The shooting party had just returned from the moors and, still muddy and tweedy, were taking a hot toddy with their host in the gun-room before retiring to hot baths and fresh linen. Kassell went to the window which overlooked the courtyard of the Grange where the beaters were collecting their pay and the day's bag of pheasants, more richly plumed than a tombful of dead pharaohs, were awaiting their collector.

'Excuse me,' said Kassell. 'I'll just pop down and see that all's well, shall I?'

Pledger nodded and Kassell left. Dalziel looked as if he might be about to follow, but the Dutch judge who was expounding his pet theory of penal reform gripped him firmly by the elbow and the fat man, who was in an uncharacteristic state of uncertainty, let his mind be made up for him. He retrieved something of his self-esteem, however, by emptying his glass so positively that the punk-haired maid with tits like ostrich eggs, recently transferred from Paradise Hall, broke away from the French banker who seemed to think she was his personal property and came straight to him.

'Another of the same, love,' said Dalziel. The girl obliged. The judge seemed to be distracted by her imminence and lost his thread and Dalziel took the opportunity to turn away and look into the courtyard. Arnie Charlesworth was already at the window. He glanced at Dalziel and raised an interrogative eyebrow. Dalziel shook his head.

Down in the courtyard, Pascoe and Wield had got out of the police car. Kassell was talking to the Inspector, angrily at first it seemed, and then rather more calmly, while Wield stood stolidly by and regarded the colourful array of dead pheasants awaiting the arrival of the game dealer. Across by the stables, collecting their afternoon's wages, were the beaters. Two or three of them who were off-duty policemen had pulled their hats down hard over their brows at the sound of the approaching siren, and one at least, long, thin and sunken-headed, had started like a guilty thing surprised, and slipped out of sight round a corner.

A telephone rang. After a moment, a servant came into the gun-room and spoke to Pledger, who by this time was standing with all the rest peering down at the scene outside.

'Dalziel, it's for you,' said Sir William. 'You sure you don't know anything about this, old chap?'

Dalziel didn't reply but made his way to the door. He was interested to note that the sexy maid had taken the opportunity of all those turned backs to pour herself a healthy slug of the toddy. He grinned at her in passing. If abashment were felt, the indifferent mask of her face did not show it.

Outside he picked up the phone and identified himself.

He listened for a while, said, 'Jesus fucking Christ, ‘listened again, and said, 'Yes, why not? Not much point in doing owt else, is there?' And banged the phone down.

Back in the gun-room he said, 'Excuse me, Sir William, but mebbe you'd better come with me.'

'Come with you? Why? Is something wrong?' asked Pledger.

But Dalziel had already turned away and was marching towards the front door of the house.

There he met Pascoe, Wield and Kassell coming up the steps. The two policemen halted in surprise.

Kassell said, 'It's all right, Andy. Seems our new maid's got herself in a bit of bother.'

'Maid?' said Dalziel. 'You pair of midsummer night dreams have come here about the maid?'

His voice scoured the base of incredulity.

'She's wanted for questioning, sir,' replied Pascoe defiantly. 'Sorry to disturb you and your friends, but it's a serious matter. Suspicion of being an accessory to murder.'

'Murder?'

'Yes, sir.The Deeks case.'

'Bloody hell,' said Dalziel savagely. 'You don't half pick your moments, Inspector.'

'It's all right, Andy,' repeated Kassell. 'They'll be away in a couple of minutes. Nothing to worry about, Sir William. Just a spot of bother concerning one of the domestics.'

Pledger and most of his guests had come out of the door behind Dalziel. Pascoe let his eyes drift up to them. The only one he recognized was Arnie Charlesworth, quietly watchful, with a shotgun in the crook of his arm. Probably, thought Pascoe, he was just about the poorest in this group of rich, powerful men who got their kicks out of destroying helpless half-tame birds. Except for Dalziel, of course. Dalziel was the poorest, or ought to be. What the hell was he playing at?

'Is that right, Dalziel?' said Pledger, an edge of anger in his voice. 'Is all this noise and drama just so that they can arrest one of the maids? For God's sake, man, don't they teach you fellows anything about discretion? I'll be talking to Tommy Winter when he gets back, I assure you.'

'Your privilege, sir,' said Dalziel. 'I think you'll find the Chief Constable knows about most of it. Not the maid, no one bothered to tell even
me
about the maid.'

Pascoe found himself beyond all reason or justice being glowered at accusingly.

'What then?' demanded Pledger. 'If not the maid, what?'

Dalziel didn't respond but looked beyond the trio on the steps towards the approach road. Along it a little convoy was approaching. It consisted of two cars and a van.

'Sir William,' said Dalziel formally. 'I have reason to believe that a private aeroplane belonging to Van Bellen International has been used to smuggle quantities of heroin into the country.'

'You what?' cried Pledger, looking round at his guests. 'Do you know what you're saying?'

'Oh aye,' said Dalziel. 'Question is, do you? On the whole, I reckon not. But Major Kassell here does, isn't that right, Barney?'

'You bastard,' said Kassell softly. 'You bastard.'

He wasn't talking to Dalziel, Pascoe realized with surprise. His gaze was fixed on the indifferent features of Arnie Charlesworth.

The convoy had come to a halt and half a dozen men and a black labrador debouched. One of them, a grey-haired man with a sad face, came to the foot of the steps and looked interrogatively at Dalziel.

'Don't even ask,' said Dalziel. 'You wouldn't believe it. But now you're here, you'd better improve the shining hour. It'll be somewhere among the pheasants most likely. If Rin Tin Tin doesn't find it, you'll have to get your fingers bloody. Sir William, why don't you and your guests go back in the warm? This shouldn't take long.'

'By what authority are you doing all this?' demanded Pledger.

'Look,' said Dalziel. 'I've got a warrant here, want to look? I didn't expect to have to use it - ' another baleful glance at Pascoe - 'but it entitles me to pull this bloody mansion of yours apart brick by brick if I have to. Now you can ring the DCC, or you can even ring old Tommy in Barbados, if you like, and they'll tell you the same.'

'It won't be the police I ring,' said Pledger threateningly as he retreated, followed by all the other guests except for Charlesworth.

'Sergeant Wield, think you can handle this lass single-handed? There's a Frog banker in there you're going to make very unhappy. I'd like a word with Mr Pascoe here.'

Wield glanced at Pascoe, who nodded. The Sergeant made his way into the house.

'What's going off, sir?' demanded Pascoe, looking towards the stable block where the newcomers, now wearing rubber gloves, were busy among the dead pheasants with pocket knives.

Dalziel glanced towards Kassell.

'Keep an eye on the Major, will you Arnie?'

Charlesworth shifted his shotgun on his arm.

'Pleasure, Andy,' he said quietly.

Dalziel took Pascoe's arm and moved him down the steps.

'I'll tell you what should've been going off,' said Dalziel. 'There should've been a man called Vernon Briggs who's a game dealer driving happily towards town with that little lot of birds in his van. I believe you passed the van on the road? Well, he was so shit scared at being overtaken by a cop car with its hooter going full blast that he turned about and set off home like a peppered rabbit. Can't blame him, can you? I mean, if you're on your way to pick up a kilo of heroin, you don't hang around when you see the filth, do you?'

'Well, I'm sorry, but how was I to know?' protested Pascoe. 'And just a kilo you say? Christ, with this performance, I would have expected at least a ton. Who are they, anyway? Customs and Excise?'

'Mainly, with some of our drugs squad lads,' said Dalziel. 'And don't be snooty about a kilo, lad, it'd set you and me up for life, I tell you. Any road, you're missing the point. There's this ring operating out of Holland. That's the biggest European market, but they're developing their UK outlets. But last winter you'll recall they lost a couple of large consignments, a couple of hundredweights or thereabouts. They've changed tactics since then, going for a lot smaller runs. This is one of them, but the drugs boys don't just want to stop this line, they wanted to follow it through to the central distribution point. The word is it's somewhere in Yorkshire; Leeds maybe, or Sheffield. Vernon Briggs was going to be the lead-in. No longer! No doubt alarm bells are ringing all along the route as he doesn't turn up.'

'I really am sorry, sir,' said Pascoe, his indignation fading.

'Don't let it worry you,' said Dalziel, belching gently. 'These fancy schemes usually turn into cock-ups. Too much pussy-footing around. Me, I was for going in feet first and kicking it out of them.'

'Them?'

'Kassell, mainly. I doubt if Sir William knows anything. But I wouldn't put my pension on it. They were buddies out in Hong Kong, so he knows Barney's not your lily-white. Still, who is these days? Except the Chief Constable! First sniff that Pledger might be involved and he was off across the Atlantic. Called it a tactical withdrawal. Didn't want to risk arousing suspicion by refusing invites to shoot. Certainly didn't want the embarrassment of being around when the balloon went up. So off he goes. Top level decision is not to tell the DCC anything. Stupid, really. He's thick but not that thick. I had to fill him in myself the other day. You should've heard him! It's all this need-to-know crap, I told him. They read too many spy stories!

'Me? Through Arnie Charlesworth. There's a big file on Kassell. Arnie was in it as an associate - just that, no suspicion that he knew owt about the racket. And when someone spotted Arnie's lad had been shot full of junk when he crashed his car, they got the bright idea he might be willing to help if approached right. They wanted an inside man, close to Kassell, see? Then some other spark, doing a deep check on Arnie, discovered him and me went a long way back. George Asquith on the Drug Squad knew me. They contacted me to ask about Arnie first off, then gradually this other bright idea evolved, for me to get close to Kassell via Arnie who'd let on I was bendable and had done him a few favours with Customs and Excise. Anyone who's got an "in" on Customs and on police operations at the same time was like a tit in a monastery to Kassell. I thought it was a load of bollocks myself, but it went like a dream. That accident last week put the seal on it. Kassell's convinced there was a cover-up there; in fact he thinks he helped with it.'

'And there wasn't?' said Pascoe. 'You weren't driving?'

'Only as far as the road,' Dalziel said. 'Then Arnie made me change over. He's not so tired of life he wants to end up like his lad, dead in a road smash! Ironic, when you think what happened later. That Warsop woman was a bit of a bonus, really. Convinced Kassell I was bent. You can sort her and Abbiss out now, by the way.'

'Is Abbiss mixed up in this?' asked Pascoe.

'I doubt it. But he did know Kassell well enough to appeal to him when you started leaning. And Barney asked me to lean on you. Likes doing favours, does Barney. Never know when you may need to call them in.'

'Yes. Well I'm glad you weren't driving,' said Pascoe.

'Peter!' said Dalziel in mock dismay. 'You never doubted me, did you, lad? I bet there were cocks crowing twice all over the station last weekend!'

The analogy did not have to be pursued very far to break down, thought Pascoe. It was striking him that the hunt for the hidden heroin was taking rather a long time. The searchers seemed to be going over the pheasants for a second time and the drug-sniffing dog was cocking its leg against a stone mounting-post with the indifference of one who has given up for the day.

'You're sure there was a consignment this week, sir?' he asked.

'Evidently they thought so at the continental end,' said Dalziel. 'Me, all I had to do was assure Kassell that the coast was clear, no special Customs or police activity at the airport.'

'Perhaps he was just testing you out,' suggested Pascoe brightly.

He wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

'Mebbe. If so, you're in real trouble, Peter,' said Dalziel seriously. 'It's one thing cocking this lot up if we find the stuff. But if we don't, well, questions in the House'll be the last of your worries.'

'Hold on!' protested Pascoe. 'None of this is down to me . . .'

'If you hadn't come in here on the bell with lights flashing, Vernon Briggs wouldn't have run scared, and those lads there who were set to follow him wouldn't have had to make a quick decision whether to grab him or let him go.'

'They made the wrong decision then, didn't they?'

'No. They made the only possible decision,' said Dalziel. 'Not to worry, lad. There's worse things than a career in traffic control. Leastways you only get hit by trucks there!'

The greying man with a sad face approached once more. He shook his head and said, 'Nothing there, Andy.'

'No,' said Dalziel. 'Well, I'm glad it wasn't my idea, Freddie.'

Dalziel was off-loading responsibility like a trainee stripper shedding clothes, thought Pascoe bitterly.

'What do we do now? The house?'

The two men turned to look at the building.