Exit Lines

by Reginald Hill

  ‘Best reason on earth for going abroad!’ interrupted Frostick. ‘Lad of his age engaged! Stupid. And to that scheming trollop! He’s a good lad, our Charley, Inspector. He wasn’t content to sit around on his arse collecting the dole like some. He did something about it, and he’ll make a real go of things, if he’s let!’

  Frostick’s voice was triumphant. Clearly the wider the gap between Charley and the toils of Andrea Gregory, the better he would be pleased.

  But on the sofa Mrs Frostick was weeping quietly and steadily, not only, Pascoe guessed, for a dead father, but also for a lost son.

  Chapter 8

  ‘Well, I have had a happy life.’

  Detective-Constable Dennis Seymour and Police-Constable Tony Hector had little in common except size and a sense of grievance. Seymour was five inches shorter than Hector, but compensated with breadth of shoulder and depth of chest. Not too privately, he reckoned Hector was something of a twit and part of his grievance at being diverted from the Welfare Lane inquiry lay in having to suffer such a companion. But Sergeant Wield had been adamant. Mr Pascoe wanted this done and Seymour had better make a job of it.

  Hector’s sense of grievance went deeper, partly because he felt he had a personal stake in the Welfare Lane murder, and partly because he could not altogether grasp what they were meant to be doing on the Alderman Woodhouse Recreation Ground.

  ‘We’re looking for a stone or a bit of hard wood, something that, if you fell and hit your head on it, would break the skin and leave a dent,’ said Seymour patiently. He had bright red hair and an underlying Celtic volatility of temper which he knew might prove a hindrance to advancement if he did not keep it firmly underlaid.

  ‘Couldn’t this old fellow just’ve banged his head on the ground when he fell?’ objected Hector.

  ‘The ground was soft, it had been raining,’ said Seymour, stamping his foot into the muddy grass which the November sun’s puny heat had not begun to dry.

  ‘It’s going to be a hell of a job finding something like that, just the two of us,’ grumbled Hector, looking glumly out across the broad open space which included three football pitches and a children’s play area.

  ‘Not finding it’s the important thing,’ said Seymour smartly. And this is where he lost Hector, to whom the easiest way of not finding something seemed to be not to look for it very hard.

  Convinced at last that looking was essential, he said, ‘Wouldn’t it be better if we had some idea of where to look before we started?’

  He was right, of course, for Seymour had made the error of driving directly to the Recreation Ground instead of diverting first to talk with the man who’d discovered Mr Parrinder. He regarded Hector with new eyes, and made the discovery that being not quite so stupid as he looked increased rather than diluted the fellow’s unlikability. At least before he had been reliable.

  ‘You start looking,’ he said. ‘If you find anything, bag it and mark the spot. I’ll go and talk to the fellow who found him.’

  The witness was called Donald Cox. He turned out to be a small, voluble, middle-aged man with worried eyes and a rather insinuating manner who lived with his wife, four children and a Great Dane in a basic semi about half a mile from the Alderman Woodhouse Recreation Ground. Or perhaps, thought Seymour, it would be more accurate to say that the Great Dane occupied the house and the Cox family fitted round it as best they could.

  ‘He needs his exercise, don’t you, Hammy?’ said Cox proudly. ‘Only reason I was out. He’d missed his afternoon walk, I usually take him morning, afternoon and evening, three times a day, well, I’ve got the time now, haven’t I, since they closed the works and put us all on the dole. I wish I could claim for Hammy here, you’d think they’d make an allowance, wouldn’t you, he’s like one of the family, and it was very nasty all afternoon so I thought, I’ll just wait till later, it might fair up, but it just got worse and worse. Not a night to put a dog out in, they say, but this dog’s got to go whatever the weather, if a day goes by without he’s put at least five miles on the clock, there’s no peace. He’ll run up and down the stairs till three in the morning if that’s the only way he can get his exercise, won’t you, Hammy? Round and round the recreation ground he goes, round and round, by Christ I wish I had his energy. Don’t worry, lad! He’s got a lovely nature!’

  It was Hammy’s lovely nature, in fact, which was bothering Seymour as the dog attempted to demonstrate its affection by scrambling on his lap.

  ‘If you could just show me where you found Mr Parrinder,’ he said, trying in vain to rise.

  ‘Pleasure. Hammy’d love a run out, wouldn’t you, boy? You’ve brought your car, have you? Well, he likes a ride too, though you’ll have to have your windows open, can’t bear to be shut in a confined space.’

  It was a chilly and chilling return journey to the recreation ground. The dog occupied the whole of the back seat with its head protruding from one window and its tail wagging out of the other. An amiable fog-horn bark into the ear of an overtaking motorcyclist nearly caused an accident.

  ‘It’s the white helmet,’ said Cox complacently. ‘He thinks it’s a bone.’

  Between the barking and the apologetic waves at the other road-users, Seymour managed a few questions. No, there’d definitely been no one else in sight on the recreation ground. Only idiots and Great Dane owners were out on such a night. Mind you, it had been very dark. In fact, Cox would likely not have seen the prostrate man if it hadn’t been for Hammy finding him. No, the man hadn’t been calling out, looked too far gone for that, poor sod. But yes, he had said something, just as Cox arrived to see what it was Hammy was looking at.

  ‘And what did he say?’ inquired Seymour.

  ‘I’m not sure. It sounded like, mebbe, Polly,’ said Cox. ‘That’s the nearest I can get to it. Polly. And seemed to sort of laugh, though what there was for him to be laughing at, I don’t know. Delirious, I should think. But he certainly seemed to be dying happy, so you can’t knock it, can you?’

  ‘Did you touch him at all?’

  ‘I tried to lift him up, but I could see he was unconscious and his leg was sprawled out underneath him at a funny sort of angle, and I guessed he’d broken something. So I thought it best to go for help. What’s all this about, but? I thought the poor old devil had just had a fall and hurt himself. It was treacherous, the surface, what with the sleet and everything. I nearly went over a couple of times myself and Hammy’s legs were going all ways!’

  ‘Oh, it’s just routine,’ said Seymour.

  The entrance to the recreation ground was just a wide gap in the wire-netting fence flanked with a small forest of bye-laws ranging from Official Vehicles Only to All Dogs Must Be Kept On Leash. Parking by the latter sign, and noting that either Cox couldn’t read or didn’t count Hammy as a dog, Seymour went in and looked for Hector. A schoolboy football match had started on one of the pitches and Seymour saw with mingled amusement and exasperation that Hector’s search pattern, which consisted of walking in a straight line across the whole breadth of the recreation ground, was at the moment taking him along the touch line, much to the annoyance of the proudly spectating dads. From time to time Hector bent down to pick up a stone or other substantial piece of debris which he put in a plastic sack. He then marked the spot by digging a hole with his heel. Presumably this next traverse would take him on to the pitch itself. It was a confrontation almost worth waiting for, but when Cox pointed confidently towards one of the other pitches not in use, Seymour, for the sake of the reputation of the Force rather than on humanitarian grounds, waved his arm and shouted till he caught the lanky constable’s attention and beckoned him to join them.

  ‘You’re certain this is where he was lying?’ he asked Cox, who was now indicating a specific square yard of ground indistinguishable from any other.

  ‘The very spot,’ said Cox with complete conviction. ‘Look, I walked round from the entrance and I got as far as that goalpost there, and I leaned up against it and tried to l
ight a fag, but it wasn’t any use in that wind. Then I saw Hammy galloping towards me and suddenly he stopped and started getting interested in this sort of bundle on the ground, so I went to have a look.’

  Examination of the goalpost revealed half a dozen confirmatory matchsticks at its base.

  ‘All right,’ said Seymour. ‘Let’s take a look.’

  He turned to address his invitation to Hector and was delighted to see that Hammy, having at last found a human he could really look up to, was standing with his forelegs on Hector’s shoulders so that he could lick his new friend’s terrified face. Hector retreated, Hammy advanced, the pair spun round together in a parody of a waltz, till finally the constable’s legs slid away from under him and he crashed heavily to the ground.

  ‘That’s one way of looking for this stone,’ agreed Seymour. ‘But what I think Mr Pascoe had in mind was using our eyes.’

  He began systematically to search the area round the spot indicated by Cox, spiralling further and further out. From time to time he spotted a stone, but none that looked of a possible size or to have any signs of recent contact with broken skin. Still, it had been raining hard overnight and the microscope might see something he couldn’t, so he popped each stone into a plastic bag and charted its position conscientiously. Finally he decided he’d gone far enough and returned to where Cox was standing by the goalpost smoking a cigarette, watching his dog make playful assaults on Hector’s legs.

  ‘Thanks for your cooperation, sir,’ he said to Cox. ‘Would you mind if I left you to find your own way home? I’m going across the ground, see, to where Mr Parrinder lives, out the other way. That’s why he’d be walking this way, it must have been a regular short cut for him.’

  ‘Braver man than me,’ grunted Cox. ‘I wouldn’t come this way in the dark, not without Hammy. No, you get on, Officer. Hammy needs all the exercise he can get. We’ll walk back in a moment, though he’ll be sorry to part company with your mate here!’

  It didn’t look as if the parting would be equally sorrowful on both sides. But Seymour, not without malice, said, ‘No need for that just yet, sir. Constable Hector, would you cast around a bit longer, see if there’s anything else you can find. I’ll pick you up on my way back. Goodbye, Mr Cox. ‘Bye, Hammy.’

  He strode away jauntily. Perhaps after all there might be more in this for him than wandering up and down Welfare Lane doing house-to-house inquiries. The word was old Dalziel was having a spot of bother. Tough on the old sod, but it had only been a matter of time before his behaviour caught up with him. With Dalziel edged out, there could be a nice bit of upgrading all round, and who was better equipped to be a sergeant than Detective-Constable Dennis Seymour?

  He flung his arms wide in a spontaneous gesture of self-congratulation, and Hammy, who had come running after him reluctant to lose even one of his new friends, mistook the gesture for invitation and drove himself upwards, bringing his huge forepaws down against Seymour’s shoulders and sending the amazed detective-constable crashing full length on the muddy ground.

  Chapter 9

  ‘Dying is a very dull, dreary affair. And my advice to you is to have nothing whatever to do with it.’

  Welfare Lane when Pascoe arrived at noon was remarkably free of sightseers even for what was basically a pretty unfashionable murder. Indeed, apart from a couple of shopping-laden women trudging along the pavement, the only person in sight was the constable outside No. 25.

  The reason soon became clear. As he parked his car behind the police caravan outside Deeks’s house, the puce portal of No. 27 burst open and Mrs Tracey Spillings swept out on a wave of Dallas.

  ‘All right, sunshine!’ she bellowed. ‘On your way! Oh, it’s only you.’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Pascoe. ‘I’m sorry, did you want this parking spot …?’

  ‘What’d I do with a parking spot?’ she demanded, adding with a significant glance up and down the street and an increase in voice projection which Pavarotti would have envied, ‘Not that there’s not plenty round here as drives in limousines to draw their dole.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Pascoe, thinking that anything short of a chariot of fire would scarcely be a fit vehicle for Mrs Spillings. ‘Then why did you…’

  ‘I’m not having folk hanging round here gawking,’ she said fiercely. ‘Sick, some people are, and with nothing better to do. He’s worse than useless–’ indicating the uniformed constable who studied the rooftops opposite, perhaps in the hope of snipers – ‘but I’ve sent ‘em packing, no bother.’

  No, thought Pascoe. He didn’t imagine there had been any bother!

  ‘I’d like to have a word if I may,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we could…’

  He hesitated, glancing at the almost visible din emanating from the Spillings household.

  ‘We’ll go in your caravan,’ said Mrs Spillings. ‘You’ll not be able to hear yourself think in here. She’s been bad this morning. Worse she gets, louder she likes it. She reckons when she can’t hear no more, she’ll be dead. Mam, I’ll just be five minutes!’

  The last sentence ripped like a torpedo through the oncoming waves of sound. Pulling the puce door to, Mrs Spillings set out towards the caravan which dipped alarmingly as she placed a surprisingly small and rather delicately shaped foot on the step.

  Inside, Sergeant Wield was working his way through a sheaf of statements and reports. His rugged face expressed no surprise at the sight of the woman.

  ‘Door to door,’ he said to Pascoe. ‘Nothing. You had any luck, sir?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Pascoe. ‘Mrs Spillings, you knew Mr Deeks well, did you?’

  ‘Pretty well. We moved into 27 when I got wed twenty-five years ago. Dolly Deeks got married from that house two years later. Her mam died four or five years back and the old man had been on his own since then. So you could say I knew him pretty well.’

  ‘Did you ever know him to keep a lot of money in his house?’

  She thought for a moment then said, ‘Aye. Once. I recall Dolly getting right upset because she found a lot lying around. She’s a quiet soul, Dolly, but she really gave him what for that day!’

  ‘Yes, she told me about it,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘She’s all right, is she? Out of that hospital? That’s no place for a well woman. Not much use for a sick ‘un either, from all accounts.’

  ‘Yes. She’s at home. She’ll be coming here tomorrow. To get back to the money, did he still keep any in the house? More important perhaps, did he have any reputation locally for keeping large sums about the place?’

  She saw what he meant at once.

  ‘No, he weren’t thought of as the local miser or owt like that. Though there’s no accounting for the daft ideas some buggers get into their heads! As for still keeping money in the house, I don’t know. I recollect him telling me he’d loaned young Charley – that’s his grandson – the money to buy that lass of his an engagement ring, but whether it were cash he had or whether he had to draw it out special, I don’t know.’

  ‘But he discussed his finances with you?’ said Pascoe.

  Tracey Spillings laughed and said, ‘Not old Bob. He were very close! But this were different. Charley’s the apple of his eye, but he would never sub him after he left school. If you can’t live on your dole money, he’d say, get a job. He paid no heed to all this unemployment. There’s always jobs for them as wants them, he said. They’re always after likely lads in the Forces, or even the police.’

  Pascoe ignored the implied order of merit and said, ‘It doesn’t sound as if he’d have been very happy to dish out money so Charley could get engaged, then?’

  ‘Normally, he wouldn’t. Specially as he didn’t much like the lass. But Charley timed it nicely, I gather. Told his grandad he’d signed on with the Mid-Yorkies, and then touched him straight after. That’s how I got to know about the money. Old Bob mentioned the loan when he was telling me about Charley joining up. He were that pleased, even though he knew how much he’d miss
the lad.’

  ‘And the lad himself. He was fond of his grandad too?’ said Pascoe. ‘He’ll be upset to hear what’s happened.’

  ‘Oh aye. He liked the old boy and I’ve no doubt he’ll be upset,’ said Mrs Spillings. ‘But you know how it is with young ‘uns. You never get back what you give.’

  ‘Your mother seems to be getting a pretty good bargain,’ smiled Pascoe.

  ‘You reckon? There’s times I could gladly kill her. That’s not a right way to feel about your own mam, is it?’

  Slightly taken aback by this frank admission, Pascoe found he had no reply. But Wield, without looking up from his records, said, ‘I dare say when you were a squawking baby in the middle of the night, there were times she could gladly have killed you, Mrs Spillings.’

  The woman considered this, then a wide grin opened up her face, letting out a lively, pretty, perhaps even slim young girl for a moment.

  ‘Mebbe you’re right there, sunshine,’ she said. ‘Mebbe it does even out in the end! I’d best get back and see to her. If ever you feel like a cup of tea, don’t knock, I’ll not hear you. Just come on in.’

  She left.

  Pascoe said, ‘Interesting woman.’

  ‘Interesting, aye,’ said Wield. ‘What was all that about Charley?’

  Pascoe explained, adding thoughtfully, ‘But I’ll maybe just give them a ring at Eltervale Camp just to make sure he’s gone.’

  ‘You’re getting cynical, sir,’ observed Wield. ‘By the way, Mr Headingley rang. Said he’d be having a bit of lunch at The Duke of York if you’re interested.’

  ‘What’s he think I’m on, my holidays?’ snorted Pascoe. ‘I haven’t time to drive all that way out just to socialize.’

  ‘Didn’t get that impression, sir,’ said Wield neutrally. ‘Thought he might be after having a chat about Mr Dalziel’s spot of bother. Not that he said owt, you understand.’