Exit Lines

by Reginald Hill

  ‘That is certainly what you’re doing,’ said Pascoe. ‘Creating. In every sense.’

  Suddenly Abbiss smiled and relaxed.

  ‘Well, I have to get rid of it. Thanks for listening. Does me good.’

  Yes, thought Pascoe. I think it does. He had observed with interest how the genuine naked indignation which had marked the beginning of the outburst had rapidly had its energies diverted to a shaping of the narrative itself. A Wilde of Wharfedale, A Coward of Cleckheaton! Not bad.

  ‘Now, what can I do for you?’

  Pascoe explained. Obviously his wife had already warned him of this constabulary invasion and its probable purpose, for the man expressed no surprise, but answered swiftly and with the appearance of frankness.

  ‘Yes, your man Dalziel was a bit pissed. No wonder! He drinks like a man with a hollow leg, doesn’t he? But he didn’t get too obnoxious, at least not by the standards we’ve got to live down to round here. Even sober, most of our customers talk at ten decibels. Two kinds of noise we get here. Either it’s the defiant bellow of self-made brass, like that little gang hopefully choking on the yellow Eyetie stuff, or the arrogant bray of inherited wealth. No, you’ve got to make a lot of noise before you get reprimanded at Paradise Hall.’

  ‘Especially, I suppose, if you’re a policeman and you’re with Arnie Charlesworth,’ said Pascoe slyly.

  ‘Mr Charlesworth is a valued, and valuable customer,’ admitted Abbiss. ‘As is Major Kassell who made up the party. As I hope will be Superintendent Dalziel now he has discovered us. But, in answer to your unsubtle insinuation, I had no idea I was feeding the fuzz last night until that jerk-off journalist greased his way in here this morning.’

  ‘What about your other customers? We might want to talk to some of them, especially any who left at the same time as Mr Charlesworth.’

  ‘I can’t say I noticed who left just then,’ said Abbiss. ‘We were, happily, very busy last night.’

  ‘Not even Mrs Warsop?’

  ‘Mrs Warsop?’ he said in a puzzled voice.

  ‘Mrs Doreen Warsop, bursar down at The Towers. She was dining here last night and left at the same time as Mr Charlesworth.’

  ‘Really? Well, I can’t be expected to remember everyone’s name and all their comings and goings,’ he said. ‘As I say, we were very busy. Our girl who comes in was in a state of pre-menstrual tension or some such thing which borders on idiocy, and our girl who lived in until a couple of hours ago was clearly determined on farewell sabotage. So last night in particular I hardly had time to notice a face. The diners were just human wallpaper, Inspector. Just human wallpaper!’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Pascoe kindly. ‘You’ve got regulars. You’ve got people actually signing their bills! You’re telling me you don’t know where to send their accounts? And any casuals who ring up to book, you mean to say you don’t ask for a telephone number just so we can get in touch to let you know of any significant changes in our menu, sir. Or do you go so far as asking new boys to send a deposit? Keeping a table for non-showers must be damned expensive when you’re working to tight profit margins.’

  ‘Don’t let my shabby appearance fool you,’ said Abbiss. ‘We’re doing all right. And yes, of course I could put you in touch with most of my customers. Only, quite frankly, I don’t believe I want to. Can you think of anything more likely to frighten my regulars away than the thought that they’re under surveillance? Good lord, I had a chap in here last week, was declared bankrupt in the afternoon and celebrated with two hundred quid’s worth of booze and nosh for him and his loved ones the same night!’

  ‘The sight of your name in the paper for impeding the police might have an even more powerful deterrent effect,’ said Pascoe.

  Abbiss smiled and shook his head. He was, Pascoe had concluded with rueful regret, far from being the archly gay restaurateur so beloved of straight diners. That was an act for the customers. Stella Abbiss, whatever else she needed, did not need rescuing from a mismatch.

  ‘No,’ said Abbiss. ‘That would be splendid free advertising, giving the world my address and telling them how loyal I was to my patrons. In any case, Inspector, I’d need legal advice, but it does seem to me at a glance that you’re on a rather sticky wicket. I mean, what reason can you give for wanting these names?’

  ‘We want to interview witnesses,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Witnesses of what? To what? Has a crime been committed? Certainly not here. Where then? Along the road? The accident? Mr Charlesworth, I believe, says he was driving. I can certainly vouch for Mr Charlesworth’s sobriety, as can my wife. In any case, I believe he took a breathalyser test.’

  ‘You’re well informed.’

  ‘You can thank the insinuating Mr Ruddlesdin for that,’ said Abbiss. ‘So what can the state of Mr Dalziel’s health have to do with anything? Perhaps I should consult further with Mr Ruddlesdin.’

  Oh dear, thought Pascoe. Threats, and not altogether idle. He glanced at his watch. Jesus! He ought to be back at Welfare Lane by now. And he should have rung in. As far as Wield knew, he was either at Eltervale Camp or in The Duke of York.

  Abbiss suddenly smiled as if scenting a weakening resolve, and said, ‘Look, Inspector, surely we’re on the same side in this. We all want a good press, don’t we?’

  On the whole, Pascoe preferred the threats. But the decision how to play this wasn’t really his.

  He said, ‘Well, I think my colleague, Mr Headingley, will probably want to take this matter further, Mr Abbiss, but it’s up to him.’

  He took the spoon out of the zabaglione pan and licked it.

  ‘Good,’ he approved. ‘I must come round and try it some day. But only if it’s on the menu!’

  ‘For you, sweetie,’ said Abbiss, falling back into his camp role, ‘on, off, it’s always on. We can’t have our prettier policemen going short, can we?’

  Pascoe returned to the bar, waving at Stella Abbiss en route. Headingley had succumbed and was half way through a second pint while Dalziel was finishing his third. Pascoe also noticed that his portion of game pie had disappeared and had little doubt of its destination.

  He said, ‘I’ll leave you to it, George. I’ve really got to get back.’

  ‘Hey, but my car’s back at The Duke of York,’ said Headingley in alarm.

  ‘That’s your problem,’ said Pascoe with some irritation.

  Dalziel finished his pint and said, ‘No problem. You finish your business here, George, while I have another pint. Then I’ll drive you back to The Duke. No need to look worried – it’s not the car in the smash-up. I’ve borrowed one from the pool while they’re looking over mine.’

  This information seemed to contain little for Headingley’s comfort and he looked at Pascoe like a man betrayed.

  Dalziel said, ‘You take care now, Peter.’

  His tone was light and friendly. But Pascoe somehow felt the words were even more accusatory than Headingley’s gaze and he left more irritated than ever at finding added to his already large burden of problems a quite unjustified weight of guilt.

  Chapter 13

  ‘Turn up the lights. I don’t want to go home in the dark.’

  ‘Out at Paradise Hall! And what the hell were you doing at Paradise Hall?’

  It was unfortunate. Sammy Ruddlesdin, thwarted in his attempt to get hold of Pascoe to question him about the Deeks case, had rung up the DCC to ‘confirm some facts’ about the Westerman accident. It had clearly just been a fishing expedition, but during the course of it the DCC had rather pompously suggested that he was surprised to find the Press so interested in a road accident when a particularly unpleasant murder was being investigated. If it was such an important case, Ruddlesdin had wondered, why didn’t the DCC summon his head of CID back from his sudden and local holiday? Nevertheless, he continued without pausing for an answer, the Press would be extremely interested in talking to the albeit rather junior officer in charge of the Deeks case, if only someone among his minions could be found who
actually knew where he was.

  Wield had been inhibited in his attempts to forewarn Pascoe by the presence of the DCC three feet behind him in the caravan.

  It was not Pascoe’s purpose to reveal that Dalziel had been present at Paradise Hall also, but the DCC, with a nose for evasion that would have done credit to the fat man himself, asked the question direct and Pascoe was not so stupid as to offer the lie direct. He did however essay the response obscure.

  ‘Well, in a manner of speaking, quite unofficially of course, and only coincidentally with Mr Headingley and myself, rather as I was there coincidentally and unofficially with Mr Headingley, during my official refreshment break that is, and quite legitimately and understandably in pursuit of, or rather in order to retrieve or recover, if he had left it there, his hat.’

  ‘His hat!’

  The monosyllable made it difficult for the DCC wholly to emulate the incredulous glissando of Dame Edith Evans’s a handbag! but he won the palm for volume, and Sergeant Wield, banished to the pavement for the duration of the interview, stepped back a pace from the door at which he was eavesdropping right into the unwelcoming and unwelcome arms of Constable Hector. Behind him, smiling with the contentment of a man who has enjoyed his full entitlement of lunch-break, was the red-haired Seymour.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ snarled Wield, adding ferocity to features already stamped with all the lineaments of fear. Seymour stopped smiling and said rather sulkily, ‘On that job you said Mr Pascoe wanted done.’

  ‘That was years ago!’ growled Wield. ‘I want an explanation. Come on! Speak out.’

  Behind him the caravan door-handle turned.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, keep your mouth shut!’ urged the Sergeant.

  Seymour raised his bushy red eyebrows in surprise at this conflict of instruction. Hector merely retained his usual expression of a man not certain between steps which way his knees bent.

  The DCC emerged.

  ‘And what’s this?’ he said. ‘A street rally?’

  He stepped down and found himself having to look up at Hector despite the constable’s efforts at total testudinal retraction. The sight did not improve the DCC’s temper.

  ‘And what have you been doing?’ he demanded. ‘Enjoying a five course lunch at The White Rose, is that it?’

  ‘No, sir,’ protested Hector, bridling at the unjustness of the accusation. ‘Looking for stones, sir.’

  ‘Stone’s, is it? Not Ward’s or Tetley’s? Not John Smith’s or Sam’s? Only Stone’s will do you, is that it?’

  Not being a man much given to either wit or beer, Hector missed the point of the joke which was, in fairness, much disguised by the violence of its delivery.

  ‘No, sir, it was for Mr Pascoe, sir,’ stuttered Hector.

  ‘Then it’s not Stone’s you should be after, son,’ said the DCC. ‘It’s your Moët et Chandon, it’s your fine champagne.’

  And, much to Wield’s relief, the DCC, recognizing a good exit line, strode away to his car under the suspicious glower of Tracey Spillings who stood, arms folded and noise-framed, in her puce doorway.

  ‘Wait here!’ ordered Wield.

  He entered the caravan. Pascoe was sitting at the worktop staring fixedly at the telephone.

  ‘All right, sir?’ inquired Wield.

  ‘Sergeant, you don’t happen to know the Samaritans’ number, do you?’ said Pascoe. ‘I think I need help.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Wield. ‘Sir, Seymour’s outside. And Hector. Just back from that job you sent them on.’

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ said Pascoe, roused by alarm. ‘They didn’t say anything to DCC, did they?’

  ‘No, sir,’ reassured Wield. ‘Nothing important. Shall I wheel ‘em in?’

  ‘No!’ said Pascoe firmly. ‘It’s the Deeks, the whole Deeks and nothing but the Deeks from now on in. What’s new?’

  He listened with a growing sense of the injustice of life to Wield’s assurance that nothing whatever which required his attention, much less his attendance, had occurred in the two hours since they had last talked.

  ‘You’d think I’d been playing hookey for weeks,’ he protested. ‘Weeks!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Wield. ‘What now, sir?’

  ‘Now? Carry on with house to house, pulling in likely lads, chatting to furtive Freds in greasy mass to see if there’s any whispers. But it looks like amateur night to me, Sergeant. I don’t think information received’s going to be much help to us on this one.’

  ‘Not unless something’s been nicked and sold,’ said Wield.

  ‘It doesn’t seem likely but we won’t know for certain till Mrs Frostick takes a look,’ said Pascoe gloomily. This had been another point the DCC had taken him to task for. According to him, Mrs Frostick should have been brought round to the house today, in handcuffs if necessary, to check her father’s belongings.

  ‘That bastard Ruddlesdin,’ he said savagely. ‘I’ve got a mind to …’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ prompted Wield.

  ‘Cancel my subscription to the Evening Post,’ concluded Pascoe. ‘All right, Sergeant. Let’s go through everything we’ve got one more time just to make sure nothing’s escaped our eagle eyes.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And Seymour, sir?’

  ‘Oh, all right. Wheel him in. But not Hector! He’d have to unscrew in the middle like a billiard cue to fit in here!’

  He listened to Seymour’s report with growing relief that the DCC hadn’t questioned the man further. No, there’d been no sign of a stone near the spot indicated by Mr Cox, but the recreation ground was full of kids who might easily have picked up and chucked away any lump of brick they spotted, or alternatively Mr Cox’s sense of location might have been out by fifty yards, say, and PC Hector had managed to collect a bagful of stones from other areas. None of them showed any sign of skin or blood, but it had rained very hard that night. Did the Inspector want them all sent to Forensic for examination?

  Pascoe postponed decision on that and listened to Seymour’s expurgated adventures at Castleton Court.

  ‘So Mrs Campbell saw him on Friday morning and Mrs Escott was with him for a good chunk of the afternoon? Now if I remember right, he had his pension book on him with about thirty quid in it. Was that right?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, I don’t know,’ said Seymour guiltily. ‘I did call in at the station after lunch, but they said his things were still at the hospital. Mr Cruikshank wanted to know what I wanted with them. I just waffled on, but I noticed he had a chat with Hector. Did you want me to go to the hospital?’

  Pascoe thought. It was a question of demarcation. Accidental death; uniformed’s affair, and the next of kin would collect clothes and personal possessions from the hospital. Any suspicion of crime and all the belongings would be with Forensic getting a good going-over. Trouble was, the suspicion of crime was his alone, and so unsupported by any evidence that he didn’t feel able to throw what weight he had behind it, especially not after his recent encounter with the DCC.

  He said, ‘No, don’t bother. I expect it’s just what it seems. Parrinder feels a bit better late on Friday afternoon, decides to have a walk out, picks up his pension, treats himself to a half bottle of rum to help his cold, slips on the way home, breaks his hip and lies there till he’s almost dead, poor devil.’

  He still felt far from satisfied. It was the kind of dissatisfaction he would have liked to plonk down before Dalziel whose keen eye and sensitive nose could often focus straight on the source of any doubt.

  ‘Is there anything more you’d want me to do about Parrinder then, sir?’ asked Seymour.

  ‘Not just now,’ said Pascoe decisively. ‘I’ve probably been wasting your time already. Sorry.’

  Seymour had never before had a senior officer apologize to him for wasting his time, though in his own estimation occasion had not been lacking. Like a child reluctant to relinquish a golden moment, he moved away slowly and even found an excuse to pause, saying, ‘Oh, by the way, sir. He said something before he
died. He said, Polly.’

  ‘Polly?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Polly. Any friends called Polly? Anyone at Castleton Court? Or a relative perhaps?’

  ‘Not that I’ve discovered,’ said Seymour. ‘According to Cox, the fellow who found him, he seemed to be saying it to his dog.’

  ‘Whose dog?’

  ‘Cox’s. It’s a Great Dane built like a horse. It’s called Hammy. It was the dog as found the old chap, evidently.’

  ‘Hammy? A great Dane? Perhaps by the same token Polly is short for Polonius!’

  The attempt at a joke seemed as far beyond Seymour as doubtless time, interests and circumstances had placed it beyond Parrinder. With a verbal pat on the shoulder for a job well done, Pascoe dismissed him and rededicated all his attention to the killer of Robert Deeks.

  It was dedication singularly unrewarded and when he finally headed for home at nine P.M. all he had to show for a long hard day was a headache and a touch of nervous dyspepsia. From time to time during the day he had found himself looking forward to getting back to a warm, well-lit house with the prospect of supper and a stiff drink and Ellie’s tension-dissolving acidity on the subject of police investigations and Rose’s round apple-cheeked face, faintly puzzled in repose, as though she had fallen asleep pondering the purpose of existence. Then he would recall that Ellie and Rose were down at Orburn visiting her parents.