Here he was more lucky. The man in charge recalled Parrinder well.
'Old boy, cheerful sort. I said something about the terrible weather and he laughed and said he didn't mind. No, what he said was the going suited him fine, like he was a horse, if you see what I mean. I said it takes all sorts, and he bought a half of rum. I had some of our own brand on offer, but he said no, he'd prefer the very best, bugger the expense!'
'What time was this?' asked Seymour.
'About a quarter past, half past six.'
'You're sure?'
'Real sure. He was just about the only customer I'd had in hours. Friday's usually the big shopping day, but that weather kept them at home till Saturday last week. What's up, anyway? Nothing wrong with the old chap, is there?'
'He had a fall,' said Seymour.
'Poor old devil!'
'Yes,' said Seymour. 'Do you remember how he paid?'
'Yes. He gave me a fiver, I think. That's it. Definitely a fiver.'
'Did he take it out of a wallet? or a purse? or what?'
'I don't rightly know. Well, I didn't see, did I? He sort of half turned away to get his money out. They nearly all do it, the old 'uns. What's yours is your own business; you don't let any bugger see how much money you've got, even if it's next to nowt! Mebbe especially if it's next to nowt!'
Still having plenty of time to kill, Seymour tried a couple of town-centre betting shops to see if anyone remembered an old boy having a winning bet on Polly Styrene the previous Friday and was not surprised to be greeted with indifference verging on impertinence. He did however establish that in the form book Polly Styrene was a horse that revelled in heavy going, as were Red Vanessa and Usherette.
At twelve o'clock he returned to the restaurant. To his delight, Parrinder's waitress turned out to be an extremely attractive Irish girl called Bernadette McCrystal with shoulder-length hair almost as red as his own, who seemed to show a pleasing readiness to be impressed by his official standing. He modestly corrected her when she addressed him as Superintendent and again when she got down to Inspector, but when she then replied, 'Oh, I'm really sorry, I'm just a plain ignorant country girl, Sergeant,' he spotted the gleam in her eye and realized he was being sent up.
Promising himself he would deal with this personal matter in a moment, he showed her the receipt and asked her if she remembered Parrinder.
'I think so,' she said carefully. 'Is there maybe something wrong with the old fellow?'
Suspecting that what she meant was that she was not about to say anything which might get Parrinder into bother, Seymour said gently, 'I'm sorry to say he had an accident, probably not long after leaving here.'
'Oh, I'm sorry to hear it,' the girl said, looking genuinely concerned. 'Was it serious?'
'Very,' said Seymour. 'I'm afraid he's dead.'
She pulled out a chair from one of the lunch tables and sat down heavily. The restaurant manageress glared disapprovingly from the other side of the room. Seymour glared back and sat down opposite the girl.
'He was such a nice old fellow,' she said. 'Full of fun. He said he'd had a bit of luck and was sort of celebrating. That's what's so upsetting, there he was all happy with his bit of luck, whatever it was, then he walked out of here and… what was it that happened? Knocked down in the street, was it?'
'He had a fall,' said Seymour. 'Did he say what he was celebrating?'
'No. He just ordered the Shopper's Special, a pork chop was what he had, then he said he'd have some soup to start with, and a portion of mushrooms, see you can see it's all down here on the bill. Make that a double portion of mushrooms, he said. I'm very partial and as I've had a bit of luck, I might as well treat myself as there's no one else likely to be treating me. And I'll have a pint of ale with it. We don't serve pints, I said. Only halves; the manageress doesn't like to see a pint pot on the table. Bring me two halves then, he said. It's all one, they'll be rejoined together soon enough!'
'What time was this?' asked Seymour.
'Not long after five,' she said. 'He was here about an hour. We weren't very busy, that awful weather kept people at home, I think, so I had a little bit of a talk with him whenever I went past.'
'But he never said where he'd been or anything?'
'No. He asked me about myself mainly, I got the feeling that the old chap was a bit lonely, well, it's a lonely time, old age, if you're on your own, isn't it?'
'I dare say,' said Seymour. 'You didn't notice how he paid, did you?'
'Why, with money, how else would he pay? He wasn't the type to be bothered with cheques or credit cards.'
'And did you see his money?'
'I did, and a lot of it there was,' she said without envy. 'Part of his stroke of good luck, I supposed. He gave me a pound for myself. Sure and the meal didn't come to above a fiver, not even with his extra mushrooms. I told him not to be daft, but he said it would have been worth it just for the seeing of me across the room, let alone the service, so I took it and said thank you and hoped he'd come back soon with his blarney and all.'
Her eyes filled with tears. Seymour said hastily, 'When you say a lot, what do you mean?'
'I don't know. It looked a lot, that was all.'
'Did he have it in a wallet, or what?'
'No, it was in an old envelope, one of those long buff things. There was an elastic band round it, I recall.'
'An envelope? You're sure it wasn't just a few fivers in a pension book?'
'No! I'm not blind, am I? It was a lot of money and it was in an envelope. Why d'you ask? Oh, the old chap was never robbed, was he? No, that'd be a terrible thing, terrible!'
'No,' said Seymour. 'No, well, we don't know. I'll keep you posted if you're interested.'
'I'd like that,' said Bernadette.
'Good. What time do you come off duty?'
'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 phone 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 door-pocket, 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-etre.'
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 ass
istant 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!'
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