Exit Lines

by Reginald Hill

  Then he smiled faintly.

  ‘And any road, that greedy bugger Don’s been ripping me off for as much as gets saved in tax. It’s not worth the candle, Andy. With a bit of luck, it’ll frighten a lot of the other do-it-yourself clowns off and us honest bookies will be able to turn an honest copper.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like your choice of phrase,’ said Dalziel.

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers. Fancy a warmer at my place?’

  ‘You still have some?’

  ‘Why not? I didn’t give it up for all the world, Andy. It was just that Tommy used to tell me it was as bad as the stuff he was on, and when I surfaced after his death I remembered, and I just stopped wanting it after that. Now, well, if ever I want it again, I’ll take it.’

  ‘Christ, if it’s like this tomorrow, you’ll want it,’ said Dalziel, looking up at the lines of snow streaming horizontally beneath the lowering grey cloud. ‘Will we be expected to go out in this?’

  ‘You’re no sportsman, are you, Andy? Good shooting weather this, sorts the men out from the boys. More important is, will the weather be too bad for all those important people to fly in?’

  Dalziel shrugged.

  ‘One thing I’ve learnt, being in regular employment. Pay’s the same whatever the hours.’

  ‘Is that so? I wouldn’t know, being in the risk business,’ said Charlesworth.

  ‘Risk? Bookies take risks like the Queen Mother takes snuff,’ mocked Dalziel. ‘Not often and behind locked doors. Let’s get to that drink before I freeze up, Arnie. There’s bits of me I’ve only seen in a mirror these past few years and I don’t want our first face-to-face to be with them lying on a pavement!’

  And the snow swirled madly in the light of Pascoe’s headlamps as he parked his car as close as possible to the hospital door early that evening. A sign told him that this space was reserved for consultants. He recalled that Sherlock Holmes had called himself a consulting detective. What was good enough for Sherlock was good enough for him.

  Seymour was waiting for him in the entrance. He carried with him the lab report on Mrs Escott’s bag. It had come in while Pascoe was out at the Frostick house. Charley had still not returned from his post-funeral walk, but Mrs Frostick had given a positive identification of the medals. Suspecting that his evening might be busy and knowing from experience how easily the time could slip away, Pascoe had headed for home to have his first hot meal of the day and ring Ellie.

  He had been very tentative in his hints that Mrs Soper’s passivity might be as much due to her daughter’s energetic authoritarianism as to her own incapacity, but he knew that Ellie was very sharp to sniff out meanings.

  He also knew that she was reluctant to accept alternative judgments until she had pragmatically tested them, but, once having made the test, she was scrupulously honest in reporting her findings.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘You got back all right?’

  ‘Just about. It was the thought of the headlines that kept me going. Policeman arrested for driving under the influence of sexual exhaustion.’

  ‘Oh yes. And Unsatisfied wife gives evidence!’

  ‘That’s not what you said this morning!’ he protested.

  ‘That was this morning. Still, I’ve just got to wait till Saturday.’

  ‘Saturday?’ he said neutrally.

  ‘Yes, Saturday. Rose was a bit fractious this morning, so I took her firmly under my wing and kept at a safe observing distance from Mum and Dad. He was generally OK, but when he showed a slight tendency to want to mow the lawn, she took him very firmly in hand. I had a talk with her at tea-time. She says she’s been very glad of the rest and will be delighted if any time in the future I feel like spelling her. Also if she feels she can’t cope, she’ll be in touch with the speed of light. I believe her. In fact I think I got a faint whiff of not-being-too-sorry-to-see-the-back-of me.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said.

  ‘You smug swine,’ said Ellie. ‘Look, the problem’s not going to go away, you do understand that, don’t you, you-who-understand-everything? And it’ll get worse.’

  ‘It’s life we’re talking about, isn’t it?’ said Pascoe, with a pessimism which was meant to be comic but didn’t entirely come off.

  The phone had rung again as soon as he replaced the receiver. It was Wield with news of the lab report.

  ‘I’ll meet you at the hospital,’ Pascoe had replied. Then, changing his mind, had added, ‘No. Send Seymour with it. Familiar faces might help.’

  And faces didn’t come much more unfamiliar than Wield’s, he thought unkindly as he replaced the telephone.

  He read the report quickly as they made their way up to the ward. There they met Dr Sowden.

  ‘My God,’ said Pascoe. ‘Do you run this place single-handed?’

  ‘It sometimes feels like it,’ said Sowden. ‘What is it this time? Come to pay me off?’

  ‘Pay you off?’ said Pascoe in puzzlement.

  ‘I read about the inquest in the evening paper. You will note I didn’t go along in person.’

  ‘Doctor,’ said Pascoe. ‘If you feel you had something to say, you should’ve gone along and said it. What happened anyway?’

  Sowden looked abashed.

  ‘You don’t know? Your fat friend got off. No, sorry, that’s not the way to put it. Death by misadventure, with no one querying that Charlesworth was the driver.’

  ‘Wrong, Doctor,’ said Pascoe softly. ‘A great deal of querying has been done.’

  ‘But not publicly?’

  ‘Publicity you want? Next time someone complains you’ve stitched a glove inside him, let’s hear you demand publicity. Even if you come out innocent, you don’t come out clean.’

  Pascoe spoke with a vehemence which sprang from doubt rather than certainty. Sowden seemed to accept his argument, if rather grudgingly, but his antagonism was re-awoken when Pascoe explained his present purposes.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘You’re saying that the old gent who died from exposure and shock after he broke his hip was attacked – well, you’ve tried that before, Inspector. I must give you credit for sticking to your guns! But this latest, that he was attacked by a seventy-five-year-old woman, his neighbour and friend, who left him there to die! This is something else.’

  ‘Read that,’ said Pascoe, handing over the lab report.

  Sowden scanned it. Briefly it stated that on the side of Mrs Escott’s bag there were faint traces of human blood and tissue.

  ‘So what does that prove? That she’d cut herself at some time, most probably. It happens. It happens a lot more frequently than old ladies turning to mugging, I should think.’

  ‘Not mugging,’ said Pascoe. ‘She thought she was being mugged. She was terrified of being out after dark. At the same time she’d started rambling, losing her grip on time and place. Only intermittently at this stage before returning to complete normality, except for some memory lapses. Her friends were worried about her. The old worry greatly about their own. Who else understands the problems like they do? So imagine what “Tap” Parrinder felt when, being driven home in a taxi with a full belly and three hundred pounds’ worth of winnings in his pocket, suddenly as they pass the Alderman Woodhouse Recreation Ground, he glimpses his friend Jane Escott going in.’

  ‘Of course!’ said Seymour. ‘That’s why he jumped out so suddenly!’

  ‘Yes. He runs after her. Perhaps she hears him and starts running away in terror. He catches up, seizes her shoulder. She turns, swinging with her shoulder-bag heavy with all her hoarded change, catching him on the temple. He goes down and she goes on running, running, not stopping till she is safely at home, taken there by instinct, getting undressed, going to bed with her heart still pounding, and finally falling asleep to awake on Saturday morning with all memory of the Friday gone, and Thursday substituted in its stead.’

  ‘You have a persuasive narrative style,’ said Sowden. ‘You should try fiction.’

  ‘No,�
� said Pascoe. ‘Fiction’s full of bright, perceptive, open-minded young doctors. I couldn’t screw myself up to that pitch of invention.’

  ‘You will permit me to criticize your thesis medically, I take it?’ said Sowden with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘Why? You’re not a geriatrician, are you?’ said Pascoe. ‘From what I can make out, the old are either dead or dying by the time they reach your hands. Look, it’s possible. I’ve checked it. I talked with your Mr Blunt earlier today.’

  This introduction of the respected head of geriatrics clearly impressed Sowden.

  Pascoe pressed home his advantage. ‘Her mind had even more reason to repress the memory as she learned about Tap’s death. She couldn’t permit herself to associate the two things, could she? And it was only when my questioning forced her to recognize the missing day that she realized what she’d done and decided to crash out. I’d no idea, of course. All I wanted was to clear the decks about Parrinder’s movements and her evidence conflicted with the rest.’

  ‘It’s still only a theory,’ said Sowden stubbornly.

  ‘And will remain so until I talk to Mrs Escott,’ said Pascoe. ‘Is that possible?’

  The young doctor slowly nodded.

  ‘You can talk to her. For a moment anyway. I doubt if she’ll reply. Poor woman.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Hold on, though!’ said Sowden suddenly. ‘You said that Mr Parrinder was carrying a lot of money? And that went missing? Now Mrs Escott might just turn out to have struck out at him in her terror and panic, but you’re not telling me she robbed him too!’

  Seymour said, ‘Yes, sir. I was wondering about that, sir. I mean, it doesn’t seem likely, does it?’

  ‘No,’ said Pascoe. ‘What does seem likely is that a man on the dole with a wife, kids, and a seven-foot dog that must cost a tenner a week at least to feed, might be sorely tempted if an old envelope full of ten-pound notes suddenly appeared at his feet. I suggest when we finish here, it might be worthwhile having another chat with your Mr Cox, Seymour.’

  Pascoe was horrified to see the change in Mrs Escott. She had looked her age before, but in a healthy, well-nourished fashion. Now she looked like age itself, with hollow cheeks, thread-like lips and eyes sunk almost out of sight into the funnels of their sockets.

  ‘Mrs Escott,’ said Pascoe softly. ‘I’m Inspector Pascoe who came to talk to you about Tap. Mr Seymour’s with me. You’ll remember him, I think. He saw you too about Mr Parrinder. Listen, Mrs Escott, what I want to say is we know what happened, and we know it was an accident, and there’s nothing to worry about, nothing at all. We all know what happened and nobody blames you. Believe me, Mrs Escott. Nobody blames you.’

  There was no response either of sound or movement. Pascoe looked up and caught Sowden’s eye. It was good to see that the doctor’s face was sympathetic, but it was sympathy based on the expectation of utter failure.

  Well, perhaps it would have to be one of those cases where the likelihood of an explanation was strong enough for the case to be shelved, but not certain enough for it to be closed.

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Escott,’ he said gently. ‘We’re going now. Good night. Sleep well.’

  As he straightened, she spoke in a voice distant and strange but perfectly clear, like the piping of a bird in some lonely spot.

  ‘Nothing …’ she said. ‘All nothing … dreams … awful dreams … the rain … footsteps … hitting him … Tap’s face … hitting him … then running … like a girl again … but not happy like a girl …’

  Suddenly she seemed to gain strength and for the first time there was expression on her face and the voice was traceable to the moving mouth.

  ‘Awful dreams,’ she said loudly. ‘But true. Have they always been true? All of them, always? It’s not … it’s not … it’s not …’

  And then she was gone again. Gone where? Back to the world of the awful dreams? Pascoe wondered.

  He walked away from the bed and out of the ward. Sowden caught him up and put his hand on his arm.

  ‘Don’t forget that drink some time,’ he said. ‘We can’t keep on meeting like this.’

  ‘Can’t we?’ said Pascoe, then took a deep breath and managed a smile.

  ‘I won’t forget,’ he said.

  Chapter 26

  ‘I am about to take my last voyage, a great leap in the dark.’

  The Cessna taxied to a halt at the end of the short runway, the door opened, and steps were wheeled against it, and the passengers began to disembark.

  There were seven of them, five men and two women. Barney Kassell was there to greet them, bare-headed despite the blustering wind which caught at his silky grey hair and streamed it over his brow and eyes to the bridge of his prominent nose.

  He greeted them all by name as they descended, some fairly formally, as with the distinguished Dutch judge and his stout wife, a couple of the men very familiarly.

  ‘Helmuth! Jacques!’ he cried to the last pair out. ‘How nice to see you again.’

  ‘And you. But where is the fine weather Willy promised us?’

  ‘This is it,’ grinned Kassell. ‘You should have seen it yesterday. I began to doubt if you’d make it. I hope you’ve brought your winter boots. There’s a lot of snow lying up on the moor. Jacques, where is your lovely wife?’

  The Frenchman smiled and said in a low voice, ‘Busy with family matters this weekend. I hope that you will be able to help me not to miss her too much, my friend.’

  ‘I think we can promise our usual high standard of service,’ said Kassell. ‘On you go. Usual formalities, won’t take long.’

  The luggage was being unloaded almost as fast as the passengers. Kassell looked up at the aircraft. The pilot had appeared at the door. He smiled down at Kassell and gave a little nod of the head.

  Kassell turned and followed the new arrivals to the clubhouse of the local gliding club, in the doorway of which stood a Customs officer, quietly observing the approaching passengers.

  He remained there till Kassell reached him.

  ‘Just by yourself this week, Mr Downey?’ said Kassell. ‘Not the full treatment like last time?’

  ‘Everyone’s got to take their turn, Major,’ said Downey.

  ‘I know. And quite right too,’ approved Kassell. ‘Sir William was delighted to hear about it. A man with his kind of contacts really hates it if people believe he’s getting preferential treatment! Strange, isn’t it?’

  The formalities were quickly over and the party installed in two Range Rovers.

  ‘Let’s be on our way,’ cried the Frenchman who for a man whose banking interests ‘earned’ him more than he had ever bothered to work out was greedier of ‘freebies’ than any other visitor Kassell had ever welcomed to the Grange. ‘I feel that this is going to be one of the great weekends!’

  ‘If,’ said Mr Cox, ‘I get sent to one of them open prisons, will they let me take Hammy?’

  Mr Cox had not been at home the previous night. A neighbour told Seymour that the whole family was away visiting relatives in Leeds and wouldn’t be back till late, probably after midnight. Pascoe knew as well as any policeman the psychological advantage of an early morning arrest, but he felt that this particular case didn’t warrant it. So Mr Cox got a good night’s sleep and in the morning Pascoe’s consideration was proved to be deserved, for when Cox opened the door to Seymour and Hector (taken along to provide diversion for the dog) he nodded sadly and went upstairs without speaking and returned wearing his coat and carrying a brown envelope.

  ‘It’s all there,’ he said. ‘It had fallen out of his pocket when he fell, I suppose. When I saw all them notes, I just stuck it in my jacket, just for safety. Then when I heard he was dead, I didn’t say owt. And when no one else said owt about any missing money, well, I began to wonder if I hadn’t best hang on to it.’

  Hammy had accompanied them to the station. There had been no debate. Seymour was not about to argue with a dog which even an upright man, n
ot dying and in daylight, might be forgiven for mistaking for a horse.

  Pascoe doubted if it would come to prison for Cox, but it wasn’t up to him.

  ‘Get a statement, put the fear of God into him, then send him home till we need him again,’ he said.

  ‘On bail, you mean?’

  ‘Who needs bail with a dog like that?’ asked Pascoe. ‘Can you imagine him fleeing the country with Hammy in tow?’

  Hector showed surprising stubbornness when Seymour tried to wish the taking of the statement off on him.

  ‘I’m off duty in an hour,’ he said.

  ‘So it probably won’t take that long,’ said Seymour. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with a bit of overtime? You’ve not got anything urgent to do, have you?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ replied Hector surprisingly.

  ‘Oh,’ said Seymour, taken aback. ‘In that case…’

  The one thing about Hector was that you always knew if he was lying. It was something about the way the rather pointed tips of his ears went bright red and he started stammering like a loose sash-window in a high wind. When he told the truth, on the other hand, he merely looked gormless. As now.

  Seymour had finished taking the statement and was seeing Cox and, more importantly, Hammy, safely off the premises when Charley Frostick walked in, looking very smart in his uniform.

  ‘Is that Inspector Pascoe around?’ he demanded of the desk sergeant.

  ‘Could be, colonel,’ answered the elderly sergeant to whom inferiority of rank negated the need for his customary courtesy. ‘What’s your business with him?’

  ‘Private,’ said Charley.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be general,’ quipped the sergeant, grinning broadly in self-applause.

  Seymour intervened.

  ‘It’s Mr Frostick, isn’t it? I’ll look after this, Sarge.’

  On their way upstairs, he ascertained that all Charley wanted to do was have a look at his grandfather’s medals. Pascoe agreed to see the youth straight away and Seymour left them together.