Dalziel 08 Exit Lines

by Reginald Hill

  Across the bed surrounded by a scatter of pill bottles lay Jane Escott. Her eyes were wide open and staring, but it was not possible to tell if she were alive or dead.

  Chapter 23

  'There is treachery, O Ahaziah.'

  Approached at night through an avenue of skeletal trees which Walt Disney might have designed, The Towers was a sinister sight, more suited to the incisive antics of venereal vampirism than to the careful cradling of reposing age. Their crenellated teeth snatching at a wild November moon, the ungainly asymmetric structures which gave the house its name impressed Pascoe with that sense of foreboding frequently enjoyed by heroines of Gothic romance as they approached some three-volume test of their nerve and their virtue.

  All it needed, thought Pascoe, was for the old brass-studded oaken front door to creak open at his approach and a corpse-like figure to glide forward and beckon him in.

  He set his foot on the doorstep. The door swung slowly open with a small but indisputable creak and there indeed was a figure, if not corpse-like, at least at an advanced stage of rehearsal of that condition.

  It glided forward and spoke.

  'Are you the undertaker's man?' it asked in a querulous tone. "Cos if so, you're not wanted. She's got better.'

  'Thank you, Mr Wilson,' said Miss Day's patient and kindly voice. 'I'll look after this. Oh hello. It's Mr Pascoe, isn't it?'

  'That's right,' said Pascoe, shaking the matron's hand and looking after the retreating Mr Wilson who in the light of the hallway now appeared as simply a white-haired old gent with a glissading style of ambulation caused by a dilapidated pair of carpet slippers. ‘What was all that about?' he asked.

  'Mr Wilson? Oh, one of our ladies was taken ill. A bad bout of indigestion was all it was, but she looked very poorly for a while. Another of our lady guests has a distant cousin in the undertaking business and at the slightest sign of decline, she's off to the telephone, presumably to assure the poor man that if he turns up here with a coffin, there'll be work for him to do!'

  'And Mr Wilson?'

  'He hates her. He's convinced that she's been in his room at night measuring him up.'

  She laughed and Pascoe joined in.

  'Don't get the impression we're all as odd as that, Mr Pascoe,' she said. 'Most of them here are just plain, straightforward people, whatever that means! But they're all at the time of life when the cracks begin to show. Usually it doesn't matter. Sometimes, though, it can be very painful.'

  'Yes, I know,' said Pascoe soberly, thinking of Mrs Escott.

  The news of her attempted suicide had been one of the things which had delayed his visit here. When Seymour had rung in from the hospital, he had felt incredibly guilty. It was irrational, he knew. He and Ellie had often discussed the putative right of individuals to determine when they died and though he was not quite so emphatic about it as Ellie, they generally agreed that such a right existed. So Mrs Escott, becoming aware that senility was creeping up on her, had decided to exit with dignity. Only, she hadn't exited. And Pascoe was left with the memory of the apparently content and cogent woman he had spoken to, happily unaware till his interference that she had managed to forget a whole day.

  'I'm sorry to call so late,' he began.

  Miss Day interrupted him with some exasperation.

  'It's only eight-thirty, Mr Pascoe. We don't sound lightsout at nine, you know. This is neither a hospital, nor a nursery, nor an army barracks!'

  'Sorry, sorry,' said Pascoe. 'What I really meant was that I hope old Mrs Spillings hasn't been creating because her things didn't turn up earlier.'

  He held up the bag which Tracey Spillings had given him.

  'No, not a word. She's settled in front of the telly and hasn't moved. Thanks, I'll see she gets it. Was that all, Mr Pascoe? You're just a messenger boy?'

  'From each according to his ability, Miss Day,' murmured Pascoe.

  'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I didn't mean to be rude. I know from old experience that when Tracey's around, people find themselves doing odd things!'

  'Yes, she does rather take over, doesn't she?' grinned Pascoe. 'But while I'm here, I'd quite like a word with Mrs Warsop, if she's around.'

  'Sorry, you've just missed her. She went out about half an hour ago. Can I help?'

  Something about the way in which she made this offer caught Pascoe's attention. Years of playing the rapier to Dalziel's bludgeon in the interrogation room had developed in him a keen ear for the nuances of response. Often there was a rigid barrier between what a witness was willing to volunteer and what he was willing to reveal under questioning. The interviewer had to be alert to these tonal signals which said ask me this and I shall reply, but if you keep silent, so shall I.

  He said, 'Is there somewhere we can talk for a moment?'

  She led him into an office made homely by chintzy curtains, Constable reproductions, and a pair of wing-chairs set round a coffee table. It all smacked of a conscious care to put any of the residents who visited her here at their ease, a theory empirically confirmed when he sat down and found that the cushion was several inches higher than expected to facilitate sitting and rising for old limbs.

  He guessed that Mrs Warsop's office would be designed on different lines.

  'Miss Day,' he said, 'how long have you been doing this job?'

  'At The Towers?Nearly a year now. I've been with the social service department a lot longer of course, since I left school in fact, if you count training periods. I was running one of the residential homes in town before this job fell vacant.'

  'Were you asked to come here or did you apply?' wondered Pascoe, letting his instinct direct the questioning.

  'Oh, I asked. It surprised some people, but I think it's a good thing to move around in any field, don't you? I know that you've got to stay in one job long enough to be able to do it right, but if you stay too long you risk becoming complacent, don't you agree?'

  She spoke earnestly. Pascoe nodded, certain he was on the right track.

  'Your predecessor here, had she been here a long time?'

  'Miss Collins? Oh yes. Donkey's years! Much longer and she'd have been older than some of the residents!' she laughed.

  'And Mrs Warsop?'

  'Seven or eight years,' said Miss Day. 'I think she'd been bursar at some girls' boarding-school before, so in some ways it must have been a change for her too.'

  'So you had to slot in with many old and well-established routines, I suppose?' said Pascoe.

  'Yes. Well, you don't go rushing in like a mad thing, do you? You take your time, change what needs to be changed gradually.'

  'Quite right,' approved Pascoe. 'You are in overall charge, are you? Or do you and Mrs Warsop rank equal in respect of your different areas?'

  'No. On paper I'm in charge. But after eight years Mrs Warsop is naturally rather possessive of her side of things.'

  'Possessive,' said Pascoe. 'Or protective, perhaps?'

  'Protective?'

  'Defensive. Miss Day, you and I are both public servants and both sensible of the need to tread carefully.' Pascoe hesitated, then plunged. 'Let me ask you a hypothetical question. If there were anything not quite right in the financial management of The Towers, would you be certain of your ability to detect it?'

  The woman gave this careful thought.

  'Sooner or later, yes,' she said. 'But probably later. And always at the risk of giving sufficient warning for any mismanagement to be halted and the tracks leading to it obliterated. I'll be honest, Mr Pascoe. I've got big plans or at least big hopes. I want to be helping to shape policy about our whole approach to caring for the elderly before I finish. So I've got to move carefully until I'm sure. And I'm far from sure. Look, can I be completely frank?'

  Pascoe nodded. Words might be dangerous.

  'I don't much like Mrs Warsop. I know it. I don't know why. I don't think it's anything to do with her being, well, gay, though that seems a silly word for her, but lesbian sounds sort of critical, I always feel. Anyway,
I don't think that's it, though it might be part of it. There's none of us quite as liberal as we like to think, is there?'

  'No,' said Pascoe, interested at this unsolicited (though as yet unsupported) confirmation of part of Andrea Gregory's Parthian malice.

  'But that's irrelevant to her job here, of course. Though it might have been a bit of a strain in a girls' boarding-school. Miaow! Excuse me, Mr Pascoe. But when you’re like me, biggish, pushy, and unmarried in your late thirties, you get used to people regarding you as butch. Whereas once you get the Mrstag, even if it's just a label left over from an eighteen-month marriage and a relieved divorce, society offers sympathy and assistance. All right. So men see you as an easy target, but at least they don't see you as a dangerous competitor!'

  'To return to Mrs Warsop,' said Pascoe gently, feeling the time had come for a nudge before Betty Day talked herself out of talking. 'What you're saying is, you suspect a fiddle, but also suspect your own motives in suspecting. Right?'

  She looked at him steadily for a moment and then nodded her head.

  'You've hit it precisely,' she said. 'And you, Inspector. What's your interest in all this?'

  'Just interest, so far,' he said. 'A long way from a formal investigation. A vague allegation, a supportive circumstance, and now your own gut-feeling, if you'll excuse the phrase. There's a long way to go, Miss Day. So, for starters, why not tell me about this possible fiddle?'

  The approach to Paradise Hall was by no means as Gothic as that to The Towers but the white face and shadowed eyes of Stella Abbiss would not have been out of place in a Transylvanian castle.

  She had seen him hesitating at the dining-room door and after a short delay while she finished serving a table, she came to join him.

  'I don't expect you want to eat,' she said.

  Pascoe sniffed the rich odours drifting from the kitchen.

  'Alas,' he said. 'A light purse develops simple tastes. A loaf of bread. A flask of wine.'

  She frowned and said, 'Is it me or Jeremy you want?'

  Pascoe did not reply. His eyes had moved away from that face, so sensual with suffering, into the dining-room. It was half full, not bad for so early in the week, he guessed. But what really took his attention was the presence of Doreen Warsop. She was seated at a table for two in front of one of the windows. Her companion was a young woman with frizzy blonde hair who was indulging in the disgusting habit of smoking between courses. Not that she'd had much of a course if the pile of food on her plate was to be completely abandoned. Probably eight or nine quid's worth there, assessed Pascoe. There were probably hungry people in Chinese takeaways who'd be glad of it. He got the impression that Mrs Warsop, who was persevering with her pheasant with truffles, did not take kindly to having smoke puffed in her face.

  He said, 'He's in the kitchen, is he?'

  'Yes. Very busy. Like me.'

  There were in fact two girls serving, one of them looking suspiciously young. Pascoe tried to recollect the law on children's working hours, but quickly abandoned the attempt. His purpose here was vague and delicate enough already without risking unnecessary diversion.

  'Right, I'll go through,' he said.

  'Is it a raid?' demanded Jeremy Abbiss as Pascoe entered the kitchen. 'Pray God it's a raid and I can abandon this devil's kitchen for a simple monastic cell!'

  'What's up? Have you got the zabaglione gang in again?'

  'What? Oh. You remembered! No, in fact, things would be fine, only our idiot girl from the village is being assisted by her even less gifted sister. She keeps getting lost between here and the further tables!'

  'Worse than the girl you fired, is she?' asked Pascoe idly.

  'Infinitely, though it grieves me to say it. At least dear Miss Andrea had all her marbles, it was just her morals and motivation that were in doubt.'

  'Morals? You were concerned for her essential purity, no doubt?'

  'No!' laughed Abbiss, chopping a tomato with incredible speed. 'I do not set myself up as an arbiter of private pleasures, though I must say I draw a line at some things. There was this bloody soldier she used to bring back, spent all night here sometimes; well, that was pretty cheeky, but when I came down early one morning and caught him taking a final soldier's farewell across the reception desk, I felt that things were getting out of hand! When I remonstrated he didn't even stop, just told me over his shoulder to get lost! I mean, really!'

  Pascoe grinned at the thought of young Charley's youthful energy. He probably had to run all the way back to camp too, in an exhausted state! Still, a sergeant-major's wrath is straw to the fire in the blood.

  'But it wasn't the screwing, as long as she didn't do it in the dining-room and frighten the customers; it was the way things tended to fade away around her. Half a bottle of Scotch here, a couple of quid there, nothing startling, nothing provable. And she acted as if she wasn't really employed here at all, but just doing a favour by helping out. Enough's enough. At last we quarrelled beyond repair.'

  The infant idiot came in, allowed Abbiss to present her with a bowl of salad, then looked around hopefully for the door.

  Abbiss ushered her out, rolling his eyes upward in mute appeal.

  'So, tell me, Mr Pascoe,' he resumed. 'Why have you come to see me? More questions about your fat friend?'

  'Indirectly,' said Pascoe. 'You remember last time we talked, I mentioned Mrs Warsop.'

  'Who?' asked Abbiss, now at work on a cucumber.

  There was, Pascoe noted, coincident with Mrs Warsop's name, a slice a couple of millimetres thicker than the others.

  Encouraged, he pressed on.

  'The bursar at The Towers. I'm sure you know her. In fact she's dining here tonight. Shall I perhaps call her in?'

  'I don't think we need disturb the customers,' said Abbiss primly. 'What about her anyway?'

  'At first she was certain she'd observed Mr Dalziel driving his car away. Later she became unsure.'

  'A woman's privilege.'

  'I tend to seek less sexist explanations,' said Pascoe.

  'Such as?'

  'Perhaps someone persuaded her to change her mind.'

  'Good lord. You mean the portly gent bribed her?' said Abbiss in mock amazement.

  'I doubt it,' said Pascoe.

  'Because he's a policeman and water doesn't flow uphill?'

  'Because Mr Dalziel is not by nature a briber,' said Pascoe calmly. 'As for Mrs Warsop, she doesn't look like a lady who's short of money. Eating here twice in five days, for instance. It is only twice, is it?'

  The door from the dining-room opened and Stella Abbiss came in. She had a trayful of plates in her hands. She set it down by the sink and made no move to go out again.

  'Precisely what are you trying to say, Inspector?' asked Abbiss. His face had lost a bit of colour. Another half-hour teasing this man and I could make them a matching pair, thought Pascoe. But now he was convinced of the truth, he was tired of the game. There would be specialists to work through records and accounts and unravel the woof and warp of the fraud. He felt almost sorry for Abbiss. It probably didn't amount to all that much, though any saving must be tempting when margins were narrow.

  On the other hand, it was his sad experience that fiddling was zymotic; it would be no surprise to learn that every area of Abbiss's business dealings had been tainted.

  'It is my considered opinion,' said Pascoe carefully, 'that you suggested to Mrs Warsop that it might not be a very clever idea for her to get in bad with the police by pursuing her claim that Superintendent Dalziel was driving the car. She admits she did not know that Mr Dalziel was a policeman until after she had spoken to the Press. Suddenly your hotel must have seemed very full of the Law, Mr Abbiss. The quickest way to get rid of them must have seemed to be to get Mr Dalziel off the hook. Hence your advice. But why should you be worried and why should Mrs Warsop be advised by you? Could it be that the pair of you have a business relationship you would prefer not to come under the risk of scrutiny? Could this be why she gets
to eat here so regularly and is able to sign her bill?'

  'She gets an account like anybody else,' protested Abbiss.

  'In which case your records will show this, as will her own cheque-stubs and bank statement.'

  'But often she pays by cash anyway,' tried Abbiss desperately.

  'You mean she often pays her restaurant bill by cash? How often?'

  'For Christ's sake, how am I expected to remember something like that?'

  'Well, we'll just have to consult your staff about that, shan't we?' said Pascoe. 'See what their memories are like!'

  Suddenly Abbiss's expression changed to one of shocked enlightenment, his chopping knife rose in the air and came hissing down on a capsicum which it clove apart with such violence that the halves shot off the table. One hit the floor. The other, Pascoe caught in an instinctive reaction.

  'It's that little cow, isn't it? That's why you were so bloody interested in talking about her! It's really coming to something when a slut like that who gets the push for dishonesty should be allowed to blacken other people's names! The poxy little whore, if I ever get my hands on her . . .'

  It was interesting to detect a definite strain of Merseyside emerging in Abbiss's speech under emotional pressure.

  Pascoe put the capsicum half on the table.

  'Good night, Mr Abbiss,' he said courteously.

  He went to the dining-room door and peered out. He was uncertain yet whether he ought to talk to Mrs Warsop too at this juncture. As he looked, the frizzy-haired girl who was listening with a bored expression to what looked like a lengthy remonstration from her companion suddenly stubbed her cigarette out in the other's pheasant, rose and left the dining-room. After an agitated moment, Mrs Warsop followed her.

  That made up Pascoe's mind. A wise cop didn't get involved in domestics if he could help it.

  Stella Abbiss followed him to the front door.

  'What happens?' she asked.

  He looked at her and shrugged.

  'Out of my hands,' he said.

  'Does it have to be?'

  She spoke flatly but there was no possibility of ambiguity.