Exit Lines (16 page)

'Hector!' he said. 'It's never you?'

Slowly the figure unfolded itself, stretching to its full length: Constable Hector in a lumberjack's jacket, blue jeans and constabulary boots.

'It's my day off, sir,' he said with tremulous bravado.

'The Force's loss is Sir William's gain,' said Dalziel. 'I've no doubt you're doing a grand job. You've got just the right figure for frightening birds.'

'You mean it's all right, sir?' said Hector hopefully.

'Never quote me on it, lad,' said Dalziel. 'But I suppose it's a form of good police training; advancing courageously on a line of armed men intent on shooting you down.'

He turned away, but Hector, slightly puzzled, said, 'Sir, it's the birds the gentlemen shoot down, not us.'

And Dalziel turned back with an expression of ferocious glee.

'I shouldn't bet on it, lad. Not today, I shouldn't bet on it!'

Chapter 18

'Thy necessity is yet greater than mine.'

'That's right. That's right,' said Provost Sergeant Myers. 'Old ammunition boot went out in the early 'sixties. It's all the one-piece moulded now. Only sods who still use studs are those poncy Guards who like to do a lot of stamping around.'

'So this could be a print from a modern Army boot?' asked Pascoe, hot for certainties.

'Could be a print from a modern fucking art exhibition,' said Myers, looking at the smudgy pattern. 'Here. Take a look at mine, take a look at mine.'

He banged his left foot on to the low trestle-table so that Pascoe could make comparison with his sole.

There had been a sense of
deja vu
when Pascoe was ushered into the guard room. The sergeant was in the same chair by the same glowing stove with Corporal Price and Lance Corporal Gillott apparently drinking the same cups of tea. Pascoe's intention had been to contact the helpful Sergeant Ludlam, but his sense of enclosure, not helped by the suspicious reluctance of the young RP on gate duty to admit him at all, had made him eager to get his business over with as quickly as possible. The trio of NCO's didn't exactly make him welcome but Myers at least seemed disposed to take a professional interest in his query.

'Could be the same,' said Pascoe hopefully. 'Would you mind giving us a print for comparison?'Myers didn't mind and Pascoe, who'd taken the precaution of bringing along a blank sheet of card and some blacking ink, got to work. The sharp outline so produced could by a stretch, or rather by a smudge, have been the same as the pattern indented into Bob Deeks's vinyl, Corporal Price was confident it was, Sergeant Myers was sceptical and Lance-Corporal Gillott refused to be drawn. The debate, such as it was, was interrupted by the arrival of the orderly officer, a young second-lieutenant who seemed inclined to regard Pascoe as the Forlorn Hope of some terrorist raiding party. Pascoe civilly produced his credentials, but finding himself then treated with the condescension a village squire might offer a village bobby, he became Dalzielish and said, 'Look, laddie, it's getting near my lunch-time. I'd really love to stay and share your rusks, but I ought to be getting back to the grown-up world.' The officer withdrew, nonplussed and offended, and Sergeant Myers regarded Pascoe with a new respect.

'Sorry about him,' he offered. 'He's young. Not licked into shape yet. They're not all like that, the officers.'

'I've only met him and Captain Trott,' said Pascoe. 'Though I did come across one of your former officers recently. Major Kassell.'

'Oh yes. The Major,' said Myers.

There was something in the way he spoke that caught Pascoe's attention. Quickly deciding that Myers was the kind of soldier who would clam up if directly invited to gossip about the regiment with an outsider, he opted for provocation.

'You remember him?' he said. 'He seems to have done all right for himself. Of course, he had the sense to get out and make it in civvy street, didn't he?'

He intended merely to be slightly rude about the Army but by chance the button he pressed won him a jackpot.

'The sense to get out? The sense to get out?' said Myers angrily. 'Doesn't take much fucking sense when the choice is to be court-martialled, does it? At least he had the choice, which is more than others did, you want to ask Dave Ludlam about that, oh yes, you want to ask Ludlam!'

'Yes,' said Pascoe, his mind racing. 'The other day, I got a hint; same business, was it?'

'The very same. CSM he was then, would've been RSM by now, no doubt. Well, if you're daft enough to get caught, that's your bad luck, that's what I tell these lads with their hard luck stories, that's your bad luck. But it should be one law for all, wouldn't you say? One law for all.'

'Indeed yes,' said Pascoe cautiously. 'I dare say there was a lot of it going on?'

'Out in Hong Kong?' said Myers incredulously. 'Never known a place like it. Everyone had a fucking racket, from the police down. Keeping out of the rackets was harder than getting in! What's a few more Chinks, anyway? Place bursting at the seams with them, what's a few more? That's how Dave Ludlam saw it. But it's not right that the same thing as turns a CSM into a private and gets him stuck in the glasshouse should leave a major a major and get him a nice cushy billet in civvy street!'

There was no more. Myers's indignation had taken him as far as he was going. Pascoe drove back to town so rapt in speculation that his doubtfully motivated half-plan to stop for a lunch-time drink at Paradise Hall was completely forgotten.

Dennis Seymour was a pragmatist. An ambitious young man, if he could have impressed Pascoe by performing his appointed tasks and returning with his report in half an hour, he would have done so. But when on learning at Starbuck's restaurant where Tap Parrinder had enjoyed his last meal that the waitress who probably served him wouldn't be on duty till noon, he happily accepted this set-back as an excuse to return and eat there. Meanwhile he went down to the off-licence which was situated only a couple of hundred yards away from the store.

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.'