The answer was . . . nothing! The hut was as empty as on the day of its erection. Its function was simply symbolic. But was it a last rude gesture at the whole idea of the suburban garden which Frostick had so manifestly triumphed over? Or was it the last piece in a jigsaw of self-delusion? Did Frostick really believe he had a garden? Or that others would believe he had one? Mystery!
Pascoe at this moment became aware he wasn't alone.
Just beyond the wire fence in the hugely neglected next-door garden, seated on an upturned grass-box almost invisible amid the grass it could never hope to contain, was a man smoking a cigarette. He was in his shirtsleeves, slightly unshaven, and with the haunted look of a fugitive. He regarded Pascoe with the still indifference of a reservation Indian. 'I was looking for the lavatory,' said Pascoe, retreating beneath that haggard gaze.
This had to be Jeff Gregory, hiding here from the family altercation which was distantly audible with the occasional scream of 'Teeny, I want my dinner!' rising above it like the melodic line above the choral patter in a Gilbert and Sullivan song.
'I'd better be on my way,' said Pascoe. 'Goodbye now.'
The man didn't speak.
Pascoe moved swiftly away.
Chapter 15
'Bugger Bognor!'
Detective-Inspector George Headingley was not a man of impulse, nor one who took risks readily.
Let the Pascoes of this world erect airy hypotheses from which to make intuitive leaps; let the Dalziels kick harem doors down and march boldly in, crying 'Stick 'em up!' to the eunuchs. George Headingley would proceed by the book and what wasn't written in the book had better be written and signed by a competent superior. He'd already stepped off this straight and narrow line a couple of times in this current business, most disastrously at the very start when he had spotted Dalziel at the hospital and, instead of heading back to Welfare Lane at the speed of light, allowed himself to become embroiled.
You abandoned a murder case in order to involve yourself with a road accident?he could hear an incredulous voice asking at the Court of Inquiry.
The DCC's approval had been a pleasant thing, he had to admit that. And he had allowed its balmy breath to waft him still further off a strictly official course. But winds could quickly veer, breezes blow up into typhoons.
But what did you imagine you were doing, Inspector? asked the voice in his mind. Investigating a crime? Or covering one up, perhaps?
Following orders, sir, he replied faintly. Whose orders? Did anyone order you to drink four pints of beer with Mr Dalziel at the Paradise Hall Restaurant on Saturday lunch-time? Did anyone order you to interrogate Mrs Doreen Warsop of The Towers in such a way as to make her change her story? Answer, please, Inspector. Answer!
When the DCC had contacted him on Saturday night to ask him what the hell he was playing at, Headingley knew the time had come to get the answer to all these questions firmly on record.
He requested the favour of an interview with the DCC on Sunday morning and this was what he was enjoying as Pascoe drove the Frosticks to Welfare Lane.
'So nothing you said could be taken as covering or inducing Mrs Warsop to alter her story?' said the DCC.
'No, sir.'
'Then why did she alter it?'
'I don't know, sir. I just got a message from her early yesterday evening asking me to contact her. I rang her up and she told me she was concerned that she may have misled me into thinking she was absolutely certain Mr Dalziel had driven out of the car park. Well, she wasn't. It had been very dark and very wet and she'd been a good distance away, et cetera.'
The DCC thought for a moment, then said, 'After this cosy lunch you had at Paradise Hall, Mr Dalziel dropped you back at The Duke of York, you say?'
'Yes, sir.'
'At what time?'
'Half past three, sir.'
'Half past three!' The DCC's tone was precisely that of Headingley's incredulous mental voices. 'And which direction did he drive off in?'
'Sir?'
The DCC said patiently, 'Did he head towards town or turn back along the Paradise Road?'
'I didn't notice, sir,' said Headingley truthfully, but he sensed the continuing doubt in the DCC's gaze.
'Look, sir,' he went on. 'What's the odds? There's two perfectly good witnesses that Mr Dalziel wasn't driving. And one of them's even willing to admit he was driving.'
'How did Charlesworth strike you?' asked the DCC.
'A bit disconnected really,' said Headingley. 'He just states things very flatly as if he's not much bothered if you believe him or not. Mind you, I spoke to him last night after he'd got back from the races. Perhaps he was worn out counting his money! One thing's certain, though. He wasn't drunk. Breathalyser didn't register at all and they confirmed this at Paradise Hall. Nothing but Perrier water all night. Evidently that's all he ever does drinks
'A teetotal bookie,' mused the DCC. 'Perhaps he's too worried to drink!'
He made a note to contact Customs and Excise in the morning to check on their investigation of Charlesworth's alleged betting-tax evasion.
'And of course there's this Major Kassell too,' he said, brightening. 'He seems a reliable kind of chap by all accounts.'
So you've been checking round too, thought Headingley.
'Yes, sir,' he said, and described his encounter with the Major. He'd already given the gist. This time he added the circumstance.
'You say Mr Cruikshank was at the airport?' said the DCC.
'Yes, sir. In case assistance was needed.'
'And was it?'
'No, sir. I checked with Mr Cruikshank later. All clear.'
'No doubt Sir William Pledger would be relieved. And you say that this stand-by at the airport was arranged with Customs via Mr Dalziel?'
'So Mr Cruikshank told me.'
The DCC was silent. He's bothered, thought Headingley. He's not sure if he should have known about this. In fact, he'll be searching his files after I've gone to check if the Chief Constable left him any word about it that he's overlooked! It would be interesting to see how the DCC proceeded. Dalziel's assessment of the man's brain was that it had been fossilized so long that if you opened it up, you'd find dinosaur droppings in it. Headingley did not rate it so low. The DCC was treading a delicate path. To over-react and place Dalziel on suspension while a senior officer from another force investigated would have been stupid. Public accountability was the catchphrase of the moment, but in terms of a policeman's career, internal accountability was what mattered, and no amount of protestation of virtuous intent could compensate for lack of bottle. No, he'd need a lot more evidence of improper conduct before the present gentle investigation of the facts of the matter was formalized.
But it's the poor sod doing the investigation who runs the risks! thought Headingley indignantly. He decided on one last attempt to get things out in the open.
'Look, sir,' he said. 'I'm a plain man, a simple copper, and I like to know what I'm at. What I'm saying, if I get asked, you know, officially, what it is I'm doing, what do I say?'
'For heaven's sake, Headingley,' said the DCC. 'You're doing your job, that's all. It's a simple accident. The driver, who does not deny being the driver, was stone-cold sober. The victim, who cannot give evidence no matter what a tired young doctor alleges he heard, was old, had been drinking, was riding a bicycle in a howling gale on a narrow country road at night. Open and shut. Your function is merely preventive. If the Press, or anyone, should start making waves at the inquest, I want there to be an immediate and informed response, that's all.'
Headingley must have looked so unimpressed by all this that the DCC dropped his irritated tone and added with a real effort at warmth, 'Oh, and George, I shouldn't like to miss this chance of saying how pleased I am that you were the officer on the spot when this unfortunate business blew up. It's not going unremarked, you know, the way you're handling things, rest assured of that.'
A promise?A bribe? Worthless old flannel most likely, thought Headingley
gloomily. But at least it emboldened him to make one last request.
'Sir,' he said. 'One thing. I wonder if, well, what I mean is, while I'm doing this investigation . . .'
'Clarification,' corrected the DCC.
'Clarification,' said Headingley, 'it's not all that helpful, from the point of view of discretion I mean, if, well, if Mr Dalziel's around and I sort of bump into him, like yesterday.'
He finished at a rush.
The DCC smiled sadly, sympathetically, consolingly.
'Yes. I understand,' he said. 'I'll make sure that you won't be troubled by such coincidental meetings again.'
After Headingley had left, he picked up his phone and dialled. It rang for at least a minute with no response but he didn't hang up. Another thirty seconds passed, then a voice bellowed, 'Yes?'
'Andy, is that you?'
'Depends who that is.'
'It's me,' said the DCC.
He spoke at length and in friendly tones about the troubled times, the subversive movement's anti-police propaganda, the prurient and sensational press; he spoke eloquently and persuasively; after a while he became aware of a noise on the line, a sort of distant buzz such as might be made by an electric razor in the room next to the telephone.
He paused and said, 'Andy? Andy? Are you there? Hello? Hello? Superintendent Dalziel?'
'If you're going to shout like that, where's the point in using the phone?' said Dalziel's voice reproachfully. 'What can I do for you, sir?'
'Superintendent, when I told you to take some leave yesterday morning, I suggested perhaps a little frivolously that you might care to sample foreign parts. Now I'm suggesting, not at all frivolously, that a short break out of Yorkshire might do you the world of good. I believe they're enjoying some very pleasant weather on the South Coast at the moment. I think it might do you good. What do you say to Eastbourne, perhaps? Or maybe Bognor Regis?'
A few seconds later, the DCC replaced the phone with the gentleness of a man to whom even the softest click could be the last sound that shattered his vibrating ear-drums. But in his head he could hear a voice quite clearly.
George Headingley would have been amused, or perhaps not, to recognize in this voice that same note of polite incredulity which was the dominating tone of his own mental Board of Inquiry.
He said what? And you did what?
I went to play golf, sir.
The DCC rose from his desk and went to play golf.
Chapter 16
'Mehr Licht!'
Ellie rang again on Sunday night. She sounded rather more cheerful, though she admitted that it was probably on a false basis.
'Mum says the same. Much of the time, most of the time, he's just like he's always been. Then he'll do something odd. Often it's trivial. He'll go and have a bath twice in an hour, quite forgetting that he's been already. Or he'll not bother with having a bath at all and when she pushes him, he looks puzzled and says he's just had one that morning. He forgets whole days. When he remembers them later, as he sometimes does, it really upsets him, you know, to know he's forgotten. From that point of view, I suppose it'll get better as it gets worse.'
'But he's been OK today?'
'Oh yes. Fine, completely like his old self. When I see him like this, I can't help but feel that all he needs is a course of pills to stimulate the old mental juices, you know, some kind of "upper" like we used to take before exams.'
Not me, thought Pascoe. Not you either, if I remember right. It wasn't just old age which found memory a trouble. As the dull plateau of middle age hove over the horizon, the broken landscape of youth got rearranged into more interesting patterns. But he kept his reflections for a better time.
After Ellie had rung off, he was just settling down in front of the television with a bottle of beer and a slice of cold pie when the doorbell rang. His first reaction was irritation. For some reason he was certain it was Sammy Ruddlesdin, despite the fact that he'd seen the journalist that morning and given him as full an account as he could of progress on the Deeks case.
But the shape he saw through the frosted glass of the front door was unmistakable.
'Hello, sir,' he said. 'Is it a raid?'
'Them merry quips'll be your downfall, Peter,' said Dalziel. 'A lesser man might take offence.'
'There's a lot of them about,' said Pascoe, pressing back against the wall to allow the fat man to pass. 'Are you coming in?'
This last was addressed to Dalziel's neck as he progressed into the living-room. By the time Pascoe had joined him, he'd switched the telly off and was sitting in Pascoe's armchair looking speculatively at the beer and pie.
'Care to join me, sir?' said Pascoe.
'Why not?' said Dalziel. 'It won't do any harm. I'm trying this fibre diet everyone's on about, did I tell you? It's grand, you can eat just about anything as long as it's got fibre.'
'Well, this is pretty fibrous, as you'll find,' called Pascoe from the kitchen. 'Chicken 'n' ham, from the supermarket, not the fruits of anyone's gun, I'm afraid.'
He returned with beer and pie.
Dalziel leered at him and said, 'Tickled your fancy that one, didn't she, Peter? Ellie away for long?'
Whether this was deduction or information wasn't clear. Its insinuation was. Pascoe said, 'She'll be back tomorrow. And strange though it may seem, even were her absence longer, I would not be shooting off my gun all over Yorkshire.'
'I'm doing a bit myself,' said Dalziel, sinking his teeth into the pie. For a moment Pascoe thought this was the beginning of some unsavoury amorous confession and the fat man's eyes registered the thought as he washed the chicken 'n' ham down with half a pint of beer.
'Shooting,' he said. 'Bang, bang.'
'You mean shooting . . . things?'
'Aye,' said Dalziel gravely. 'They tell me things are in season.'
'Birds? You're going to go shooting birds!' exclaimed Pascoe, incredulity struggling with indignation.
'I asked about sheep,' said Dalziel regretfully. 'I wondered if they'd let me start with sheep, being only a trainee, so to speak. Something a bit bulky and sort of static. Sheep-shooting's never caught on, they tell me. Stags, yes. But not sheep. You can do all kinds of things with sheep, especially if you've been stuck out on the moors a long time, but you can't shoot them. It has to be birds. I asked about swans then . . .'
Pascoe interrupted this ponderous frivolity.
'But why? It's not your bag, is it? I mean, you're not the..’
'Type?' said Dalziel. 'What you mean, Peter, is I'm not one of your tweedy twits, all upper crust, and brains like these chicken leftovers beneath it. Well, you're right. I'm not. I'm glad you've noticed. But it's not like that any more. It's a popular sport. Pricey but popular. Businessmen, professional people, foreigners, they're all at it. So why not me?'
'Do you want the general objections, or the specific?' asked Pascoe stiffly.
'Well, I doubt if anyone with the stomach for this battery-raised pap can make much of a case against killing birds in the wild,' said Dalziel, swallowing the last of his pie. 'So let's hear the specific. Don't be shy, lad. Speak free.'
'I don't know,' said Pascoe. 'It just doesn't seem the kind of thing you'd want to do, somehow.'
'Why not? The Chief Constable's a dab hand, so they tell me. Mebbe I'm a late developer. Mebbe I've got secret ambitions.'
'And secret funds too, from the sound of it,' said Pascoe.
'Oh, aye? And what's that mean?' said Dalziel softly.
'You said yourself it's pricey,' said Pascoe.
'It is that. Couple of thousand a day, basic, if you're hiring the shooting. That'll be for, say, eight guns, ten at the most. And then you've got the rest on top of it. Accommodation, entertainment, transport, guns, shells. It's a rich man's pleasure, no doubt.'
'So?' said Pascoe.
'So there's some generous rich men about,' said Dalziel. 'Hospitality, that's the name of the game. I'm on my holidays, I get asked to go and try my hand at a shoot, where's the harm
in that?'
'Depends who's inviting.'
'How about Sir William Pledger, that do you? Well, that's who'll be coughing up in the long run, but more directly, it's his general manager, Barney Kassell, who's doing the inviting. And for Christ's sake, lad, make up your mind.'
'About what?' asked Pascoe.
'About your expression. What's it to be - amazement that I got invited or indignation that I accepted? Listen, lad; Sir William Pledger came up from nowt, and he's not forgotten it. It's not your chinless Charlies who get asked to Haycroft Grange. It's people with clout. Frogs, Wops, Krauts, maybe, but they can't help that! And the locals too; they don't get asked because of the schools they went to, but because of what they are. The Chief Constable, like I said; and Arnie Charlesworth. There's a mix for you! People who know how to make people jump or money jump, that's what's on the ticket of entry. People who don't get old worrying if they'll manage on their pension, if it's index-linked or not, if they'll still be able to afford their subscriptions, or if they'll have to give up smoking and drinking and eating and breathing!'
Dalziel was speaking with a ferocious earnestness which filled Pascoe with horror. The fat man had always had that healthy respect for money and power which you'd expect of a Yorkshire-bred Scot, but this expression of admiration for the rich and powerful seemed anything but healthy. His only consolation was a feeling that Dalziel was also slyly watching him, gleefully assessing his reaction.
Suddenly the Superintendent let out a long satisfied belch and said, 'One thing. I hope I don't have to wait as long for a refill at Haycroft Grange.'
'Sorry,' said Pascoe, taking his empty glass. 'Fancy another bit of pie?'
'I don't think so. I could mebbe manage a jam buttie, though.'
'What about your diet?'
'I'm sure a trendy bugger like you'll have a bread-bin full of wholewheat loaves. They don't count.'
Pascoe returned to the kitchen. Dalziel's voice drifted after him.
'What about you, Peter? Owt new on this murder?'
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