Dalziel 08 Exit Lines

by Reginald Hill

  He touched his elbow and winced.

  Mrs Soper noticed and came across to him.

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

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

  'Has he attacked anyone before?' he asked.

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

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

  Pascoe and Madge Soper smiled at each other.

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

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

  'You warned him?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

  From the lounge came another cry.

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

  Pascoe and Madge smiled at each other.

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

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

  'Talking about you, what else?'

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

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

  'That sounds pretty reductive,' said Ellie.

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

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

  Then Pascoe awoke with a start.

  'Jesus Christ!' he said.

  'What?'

  'I've just thought of something.'

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

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

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

  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 n
eed 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.