Exit Lines

by Reginald Hill

  ‘Oh, is that your game?’ she said, rising. ‘Well, I’d better get myself on duty now or else that old dragon will be giving me a scorching.’

  ‘All right,’ said Seymour. ‘You can start by serving me. What have you got that’ll keep a poor detective-constable on his feet for the rest of the day without turning him into a pauper?’

  ‘Constable, is it?’ she said with a grin. ‘I think you’d better be having the special.’

  ‘What’s that?’ he said.

  ‘Tripe and onions,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if I can wangle you an extra portion of onions!’

  With the extra virtue of one who has been kept virtuous by accident, Pascoe said, ‘You’ve taken your time! Enjoy your lunch?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Some of the witnesses have been difficult to pin down,’ said Seymour.

  Quickly he reported his findings.

  ‘So. A lot of money. But it can’t have been all that much, not at four to one. Not unless he put a lot more on the horse than we imagine.’

  ‘Or he’d rolled it up with the other two,’ said Seymour eagerly.

  ‘Rolled it up?’ said Pascoe, who understood the term only vaguely, not being a racing man.

  ‘Yes. What I mean is, put his money on all three horses to win in a treble. Now Red Vanessa was five to one, so a fiver would give him twenty-five pounds plus his stake on Usherette, two to one, equals sixty plus thirty on Polly Styrene at four to one equals three hundred and sixty plus the stake. Three hundred and ninety pounds. That’s money.’

  Pascoe, impressed by the rapid calculation, quibbled, ‘Yes, but that means he’d have had to have his bet on in advance, doesn’t it?’

  Wield, in whom the mention of a relatively large sum of money had roused a spark of interest, said, ‘But it makes more sense, sir. I was thinking. He was drinking tea and watching television with this Mrs Escott until nearly half past three, you say? It was always going to be a bit of a rush for him to get into town in time to put a bet on the three fifty-five. But if he’d got the money on a roll-up, surely he’d have sat at home and watched the last race on the telly?’

  Pascoe looked at Seymour, who nodded and said, ‘Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged him away.’

  Wield said, ‘So maybe he did just feel his luck running good and go out to put a bet on the last of selections. There’s a betting shop in that parade of shops just beyond Castleton Court, isn’t there? He’d get there in time.’

  Pascoe who, following Dalziel’s hint, had checked the local shops in his street directory, nodded.

  ‘Yes. One of Arnie Charlesworth’s.’

  ‘But there’s no way he could’ve won all that money, Sarge,’ argued Seymour. ‘Not on one bet at four to one.’

  ‘Mebbe a little looks a lot to an Irish waitress,’ said Wield sardonically. ‘There could be hope for you yet.’

  Seymour was disturbed to realize how much of his personal response he must have given away in what he’d thought was a carefully neutral account of Bernadette’s evidence. Pascoe came to his rescue saying, ‘But there’s a sub-post-office in that parade of shops too. Why would he place his bet there, then go into town to collect his pension? There’s even a local off-licence, so he could have got his rum too.’

  ‘Well, perhaps he collected his winnings, set off home, decided he’d treat himself to a meal and jumped on a bus and went into town,’ said Wield tentatively.

  Pascoe shook his head, then spoke with sudden decision.

  ‘This is all detail,’ he said. ‘It’ll get sorted eventually. The main thing is, at least we’ve something to go on. If Parrinder had a bundle of notes in an old brown envelope when he left the restaurant, where are they now?’

  ‘So you think we can be certain this was a mugging?’ said Wield doubtfully. ‘Why just take the envelope? What was wrong with the money in his pension book?’

  ‘Perhaps whoever did it just knew for certain about the envelope,’ said Pascoe. ‘You get some pretty odd people hanging around betting shops. Seeing an old guy going out with a big win would be very tempting to some of them. But let’s tread slowly. Seymour, you’re obviously at home among the bookies. If someone had a win on a roll-up bet on those three horses, it’ll be recorded somewhere. Start with the local one near Castleton Court, but I’ve got no real hopes there. I want you to do the rounds till you find out where it was, if it was. Come the heavy if they drag their feet. They’ve all got something to hide! Once we get confirmation that Parrinder did have a little bank-roll, then we can get a proper official investigation under way! Off you go lad. And don’t hang about this time, keep away from the colleens.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. And you have a good day too, sir,’ said Seymour as he left.

  ‘Cheeky bugger,’ observed Wield.

  ‘But he has the makings,’ said Pascoe. ‘He definitely has the makings. The future of the Force is in good hands if we train the Seymours up right.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Wield.

  From where Andy Dalziel was sitting, the future of the Force did not seem to be in quite so good a shape. He was outside Haycroft Grange high up in the passenger seat of Kassell’s Range Rover and he could see the lanky figure of PC Hector under the archway of the stable wing where the estate offices were, waiting with the other beaters to collect his day’s pay.

  Dalziel had refused Pledger’s invitation to come into the house for a parting drink. There had been things to talk over with Kassell and there was more privacy out here. But Kassell had been summoned to take a phone call and Dalziel was wishing that he’d accepted Pledger’s offer after all.

  The truck with its bright cargo of dead pheasants was being unloaded by the stable block. There were getting on for a hundred of them, but only one of them was Dalziel’s personal responsibility. He was not a man who cared to do things badly and the degree to which age and hard living seemed to have impaired his coordination of muscle and eye had taken him aback.

  A green van bumped into the courtyard. Kassell came out of the house and spoke briefly with the new arrival, a short, squat man in a tweed suit patterned violently in brown and yellow checks. Then Kassell helped himself to a couple of birds from the truck and walked back to his own vehicle.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said as he climbed in. ‘You should’ve gone inside and sampled Willy’s brandy.’

  ‘Plenty of time for that,’ said Dalziel. ‘What’s this?’

  Kassell had reached into the back of the Range Rover, got hold of a plastic carrier into which he put the brace of birds before dropping it onto Dalziel’s lap.

  ‘To the victor the spoils,’ he said. ‘All the guns are entitled to a couple at the end of the day.’

  ‘But I only hit one of the bloody things!’ protested Dalziel. ‘And what the fuck am I meant to do with them anyway?’

  ‘That’s up to you. But one thing I learned in the Army was that a perk is a perk. Never turn down a buckshee!’

  ‘What happens to the rest?’ said Dalziel.

  ‘We sell ‘em,’ said Kassell. ‘That chap in the explosive suit is Vernon Briggs, game dealer. He claims his firm’s motto is Game for Owt. He’s not unamusing, though he thinks of himself as a bit of a character, which is rather a bore. He pays about a quid a bird and they end up on your plate at places like Paradise Hall at ten times the price.’

  ‘I thought that consumptive lass shot her own,’ said Dalziel.

  ‘Mrs Abbiss? Yes, she’s a fair shot. We’ve had her out here from time to time. I intend no double entendre. The lady’s not for touching, much to the disappointment of some of our foreign guests. Fortunately we usually contrive to keep them happy in other directions.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Oh, they tend to be rather seignorial in their attitude to serving wenches, so we have to make sure that we have the right kind of stuff.’

  ‘Old and ugly you mean?’ said Dalziel.

  Kassell laughed and said, ‘You’re very whimsical, Andy. Interestingly, my phon
e call was from a new recruit. That girl who waited on us, or do I mean on whom we waited, on Friday night.’

  ‘The one who looked like a reject from a punk band?’ said Dalziel. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘You didn’t seem to find her unattractive yourself if I remember right,’ grinned Kassell. ‘I’ve noticed her before. She has a certain something. And she was so clearly discontented with her lot on Friday that I had a word with her on the way out.’

  ‘That’s why you hung back, was it?’ said Dalziel. ‘I thought you were fixing yourself a soldier’s hello. I didn’t realize you were a talent scout.’

  ‘Pimp, did you think of saying? No, I don’t believe you did. If you had, you’d have said it, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Dalziel. ‘And is she hired, then?’

  ‘Yes. She hesitated at the possible isolation. I assured her that transport was provided on days off to get the staff to town and back. So we have a new maid. Yes, talent scout, I like that. Always on the lookout for talent.’

  ‘Like me,’ said Dalziel.

  ‘Yes, I’m glad I spotted you. With Arnie’s help, of course. To get back to what we were talking about, you’re perfectly satisfied with our arrangement?’

  ‘For the time being,’ said Dalziel cautiously.

  ‘Subject to review, you mean? Well, we can’t ask fairer than that. If you won’t go to Willy’s brandy, let’s at least wet our deal with his equally excellent Scotch.’

  He produced a silver-plated flask from the doorpocket, unscrewed the cup which doubled as a stopper and poured the contents into it.

  ‘There’s only enough for one,’ protested Dalziel.

  ‘You have it,’ urged Kassell. ‘You’ve got further to go than me.’

  ‘To get to the next drink, you mean?’

  ‘That too.’

  The two men looked at each other in silence for a moment.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Dalziel. And drank.

  Chapter 19

  ‘Je m’en vais chercher un grand peut-être.’

  Tuesday was a day of short tempers.

  Dalziel had at last received the DCC’s urgent summons. The two men were closeted together for over an hour. Dalziel emerged shaking his head angrily as though pushed to the edge of even his superhuman tolerance, and when George Headingley tapped cautiously at the DCC’s door five minutes later, the scream of Come in! echoed round the station like a sergeant-major’s Shun! across a parade ground.

  Dalziel meanwhile had kicked open the door of Pascoe’s office like a man leading a raid, but for once found his assistant in a mood to match his own.

  ‘Come in, do,’ growled Pascoe. ‘That’s the door sorted. What’d you like to demolish next? The window? Or the desk? Sir.’

  ‘What the hell’s up with you?’ demanded Dalziel.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Is it the Deeks killing? Pull in half a dozen kids off the streets and kick it out of them. They’ll likely know something.’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ said Pascoe. ‘Though we’re getting nowhere there either. It’s this other business.’

  He explained to Dalziel about Parrinder. The truth was that after the discoveries of the previous day he had been rather over-jubilant in assuring Inspector Cruikshank that the famous Pascoe hunch had been correct and the Parrinder ‘accident’ could almost certainly now be regarded as a mugging. The trouble was that, since then, Seymour had not been able to trace a single sighting of Parrinder at any betting shop nor to get anyone to admit having paid out on a roll-up involving those three horses. Even the pay-outs on single bets on Polly Styrene offered few possibilities, the customers either being known, or their descriptions not fitting.

  ‘So you started crowing before you’d got to the top of the midden,’ said Dalziel, not without satisfaction. ‘And now you’re thinking mebbe there never was an envelope full of money to be stolen, mebbe Seymour’s Irish waitress was dazzled by the sight of the poor old devil’s pension money!’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well, better make absolutely sure before you start eating Cruikshank’s humble pie. You want information, always go to experts. Let’s see what we can do.’

  He picked up the phone and dialled.

  When it was answered he said. ‘Arnie there? Tell him it’s Andy. Just plain Andy, that’s right, you can remember that, can you, love? Well done! Hello? Arnie? Yes, it’s me. Listen, one of my boys is interested to know if an old lad called Parrinder collected last Friday on a roll-up on … what were them horses called?’

  Pascoe told him. The information was relayed.

  ‘Aye, that’s all we’ve got. You’ll check around? Grand! About twelve o’clock; no, someone will call at your flat, that’ll be best. Can’t have you seen hobnobbing with the fuzz too much, can we? Yesterday? Oh aye. Bloody marvellous. I only hit one of the bloody things and it wasn’t the one I was aiming at. But I got two given. Listen, Arnie, like to buy a pair of pheasants? What? … You too!’

  He replaced the receiver.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Midday at Arnie Charlesworth’s flat. If there’s owt to know, he’ll know it.’

  ‘Well, thank you, sir,’ said Pascoe uncertainly.

  ‘Nothing wrong, lad?’ said Dalziel softly. ‘You don’t object to visiting Arnie, do you? I mean he’s not persona non grata or owt, is he?’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ lied Pascoe. ‘I was just thinking, I can’t make midday myself. Charley Frostick, that’s Deeks’s grandson, is arriving from Germany then and I want to be there to talk to him. But I’ll send Seymour. He’s been dealing with the Parrinder business mainly and making not a bad job of it.’

  ‘Aye, he’s not bad,’ agreed Dalziel. ‘And could be Arnie’d prefer a youngster. But you’ll have to start paddling your own feet in this puddle sooner or later, Peter. Detection’s like copulation, you can’t manage it properly once removed. Now, important business. Your Ellie’s a dab hand with a pheasant if I remember right. I’ve got two of the buggers. Two quid apiece. Or I’ll take three for the pair. How’s that? An offer you can’t refuse, else Ellie’ll skin you alive when I tell her.’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘No? Oh, I’ve got it,’ cried Dalziel. ‘She’s not come back yet! No wonder you’re in such a miserable bloody mood!’

  Pascoe grinned sheepishly, acknowledging there was some truth in this. Ellie had received no comfort at all from her visit to the doctor. The ageing process was impossible to reverse, difficult even to delay. The only direction was down. Her father had underlined this pessimistic prognosis by slipping into the past again and setting off for the work he’d retired from years earlier. Ellie had resolved to stay on longer.

  ‘I can’t just leave Mum,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to be sure she can cope.’

  Past observation had suggested to Pascoe that Mrs Soper was able to cope very well with most things, not least a bossy daughter. Wisely he kept this observation to himself. But he was far from happy, though he was not about to discuss just how far with Andy Dalziel.

  Sergeant Wield, quietly at work among the files in the corner, removed the pressure by addressing the fat man.

  ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘About them pheasants. I’ll take them, if you like.’

  ‘Wield, I always knew you were a man with a nose for a bargain,’ said Dalziel. ‘They’re yours. I’ve got them in the car. Four pound, we said.’ He held out a huge hand.

  Wield produced his wallet and said, ‘Three pound the pair, I think it was, sir.’

  ‘Three? Oh, that was a special discount for Inspectors whose hunches are all falling apart.’

  Wield did not move; his fingers had withdrawn three pound notes from his wallet and he regarded Dalziel’s hand unblinkingly.

  ‘Christ,’ said the fat man. ‘I’d best take the money before he tells me what he’s seeing there.’

  He whisked the notes out of Wield’s fingers.

  ‘I’ll leave them at the desk
downstairs,’ he said. ‘Now I’m off. I’ve got things to do even if you buggers haven’t!’

  After he had left, Pascoe sat in thought for a while. The fat man was right. He’d interested himself in this Parrinder business without making the slightest direct contact with the case after his first casual view of the body at the hospital. Delegation is the better part of seniority, maybe; but it could be the worst part of detection.

  He glanced at his watch.

  Charley Frostick was due home from Germany at twelve o’clock. Pascoe had little real hope that the young soldier could help him, but he was planning to see him anyway. Give him half an hour to say hello. And that would give Pascoe plenty of time to call at Castleton Court and take a look at Tap Parrinder’s background and neighbours for himself. He instructed Wield to get hold of Seymour and send him round to see Charlesworth.

  ‘He’s the only one who understands the language as far as I can see,’ he said.

  On his way out he bumped into George Headingley.

  ‘How’s it going, George?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ was the reply. ‘You seen the fat man this morning?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘How was he?’

  ‘Much the same as ever. A bit bad-tempered till he conned Wield into buying two dead pheasants. Why?’

  ‘I’ve just been in with the DCC,’ said Headingley. ‘He’s told me to wind up this accident investigation. He says he’ll be taking care of things personally from now on.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Pascoe, taken aback. ‘And what do you make of that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Except that junior officers aren’t allowed to investigate senior officers, are they? I mean, not properly investigate. I reckon something’s changed, Peter. I reckon Andy Dalziel must be in very serious trouble, and I doubt if it’s just poaching!’

  Mrs Jane Escott at first looked blank when Pascoe on introducing himself mentioned DC Seymour. Then her eyes lit up and she said, ‘Of course. How silly of me. The young man with the red hair!’