Exit Lines (8 page)

'So what happens?'

'If no one takes 'em in, the authority's got no choice. But you've got to be really hard not to take your old mam or dad in just for a couple of weeks, haven't you? Hello, Mrs Campbell. Here's a nice young bobby for you to dazzle. Always said you were a bobby-dazzler, didn't I?'

Mrs Campbell who had appeared with a shopping basket was a great relief to Seymour. All this talk about senile dementia had filled him with foreboding, and it was a pleasant surprise to see this bright-eyed, handsome woman in an elegant fur coat and a truly remarkable hat which seemed to be composed entirely of orange feathers. She gave him a cup of tea and in the round, confident tones of the middle class expressed her great distress at the sad news about Tap Parrinder.

'Such a nice man.So independent, and good with his hands too. It's so nice to have a man about the place, Mr Seymour, someone you can turn to if you need something lifted or fixed. Mr Tempest, the warden, is very obliging, of course, but he's not the same as a real neighbour, if you know what I mean. I do hope we get a replacement as nice, and preferably another man. We do seem to be rather top-heavy with females, I'm afraid. Not that I'm complaining, Mr Seymour. I never anticipated finishing my days in council accommodation, but to tell you the truth, I've been quite delighted with the class of person I've met in the flats, quite delighted!'

After another cup of tea, Seymour finally got down to extracting firm answers to his questions.

She had last spoken to Parrinder on Friday morning.

'He'd been a little under the weather for the past few days, just a cold, but he hadn't gone out. I called to ask him if he wanted anything from the shops when I went out later as I usually do on Friday. He said no, he was still all right.'

'Still?'

'Yes. I'd looked in from time to time earlier in the week. I offered to collect his pension but he said he might as well let it stand as he had plenty of stuff in his fridge to keep him going.'

'Did he say anything about going out later?' asked Seymour.

'Oh no. I'd have certainly told him what I thought if he'd even hinted it. It was so nasty, even I put off my shopping till Saturday, after all. He was standing looking out of his window as we talked and I remember saying to him I might change my mind and not go till Saturday if it didn't get any better and he said something about yes, but it makes the ground nice and heavy, doesn't it? As if that was a good thing! And then he goes out in it without telling anyone. But he was such an independent man. Independence! It's your greatest fault and your greatest virtue, you men. You have to do things your own way, Mr Seymour. Your own way. There's no denying you!'

She smiled coyly at him and Seymour finished his tea and took his leave, promising to call in again if ever he were passing.

He almost gave the demented Mrs Escott a miss, but he had a fairly strongly developed sense of duty and also knew that those omissions which the sharp eye of Sergeant Wield didn't spot, the milder but no less perceptive gaze of Inspector Pascoe would surely pick up.

Mrs Escott was even more of a relief than Mrs Campbell. Instead of some wild woman of the woods, with mad eyes and unkempt hair, he found himself in the presence of a very ordinary-looking, rather dumpy lady with neat grey hair whose only sign of disturbance was that her soft brown eyes filled with tears when she discovered his mission.

She bustled around making a pot of tea which Seymour didn't really want but guessed was a therapeutic response. He placed himself so that he could see into the tiny kitchen and check that she actually lit the gas. Everything was carried out swiftly and efficiently and the tea tasted fine, no salt instead of sugar, or any other mad substitution. His expression of gratitude must have been slightly overdone for he caught her looking at him as if she suspected
he
was slightly odd, a disconcerting reversal.

She was able to fill in a little more of Parrinder's Friday timetable. She had called in to see him at about two o'clock that afternoon. He was watching some racing on the television and she had made a cup of tea and they had sat together and talked for about an hour. He had made no mention of any plans for going out later, but that didn't surprise her. Not that he was a secretive man, but he was certainly one who made his own decisions independent of anyone else.

'Did he drink a lot?' wondered Seymour.

'Oh no,' she said. 'He liked a drop of rum when he could afford it, but he wasn't what you would call a drinker.'

Seymour made notes. It was beginning to seem possible that Parrinder had met his 'accident' as he was heading across the recreation ground on his way into town later that evening rather than on his return, though the latter was by no means ruled out. It had been ten o'clock when Mr Cox found him. Presumably he had been lying there for some time for the wet and the cold to strike home with such deadly effect. It would have been dark by five o'clock on such a dreary day and very few pedestrians would have been out and about in such a place in such conditions.

'Mr Seymour,' said Mrs Escott in her rather gentle voice which had a great deal of the West Country beneath its patina of Yorkshire vowels and usages. 'All these questions - was Mr Parrinder attacked by someone? When I heard about it this morning, they just said he'd fallen and broken something.'

For a woman whose mind was failing, she was sharp enough to be the first to ask the question direct, thought Seymour.

'We don't know,' he said, adding reassuringly, 'But don't you worry about it. Maybe it was just an accident. That's what I'm trying to find out.'

'That recreation ground,' she said, her eyes filling again. 'It's a dreadful place when it's dark. All those muggings you read about. I won't go near the place, I don't even like it much in daylight either. Poor Tap, poor Tap.'

The double dose of tea had got to Seymour and he asked permission to use the bathroom.

'Yes, of course,' said the woman, directing him, and drying her tears at the same time.

Seymour went in. It was a ground-floor flat and Mrs Escott, not trusting to frosted glass to protect her privacy, also had heavy curtains drawn so that the room was in deep gloom. Seymour reached out, grasped the light cord and pulled.

No light came on, at least not in here, and distantly he heard a double-noted bell begin to clamour an urgent summons.

'Oh shit,' he said.

Chapter 10

'Oh my country! How I love my country!'

George Headingley had had a mixed morning.

He just missed Arnie Charlesworth, learning at his main betting shop that the bookie was on his way to a race meeting at Newcastle.

The DCC had passed Major Kassell's name on to him and he had rung Sir William Pledger's mansion, Haycroft Grange, which was about ten miles out of town, to learn that he'd just missed Kassell too. The good news was that he was coming into town, to the local airport to be precise, to meet a plane.

The plane in question turned out to be a Cessna Utililiner, the property of Van Bellen International, which was bringing some of Sir William's weekend shooting guests from the Continent. The plane had already landed and there seemed to be quite a lot of activity around it as Headingley drove towards the clubhouse of the local gliding club which was the only building on the site with any possible pretensions to being a passenger terminal.

To his surprise, there was a familiar figure standing at the side of the clubhouse, beating his arms against his sides to keep the blood circulating in the cold November air. It was Inspector Ernie Cruikshank, dowager of the uniformed branch, who usually had to be bribed to expose himself to the open air before May was out.

'Ernie, what the hell are you doing here?' asked Headingley,

'Same as you, likely,' said Cruikshank gloomily.

'I hope not,' said Headingley. 'What's going off, then?'

'Don't you know? It's your boss who set it up! Special request from Customs and Excise. For some reason best known to themselves, they're giving yon plane a right going-over and they asked if we could provide a presence in case we were needed. I ask you, bloody Saturday morning too, with them Rovers hooligans piling into town off every train for the match this afternoon, not to mention your precious poof Pascoe helping himself to my lads for his bloody murder inquiry!'

Headingley smiled, guessing that Cruikshank had opted for the outside duty which he felt entailed minimum exposure. The reference to Pascoe was best ignored. Cruikshank made little effort to conceal his opinion that the young DI was a jumped-up, supercilious, intellectual twit.

He pressed for further information and learned that Pledger had got a special dispensation for his company plane to land here during the shooting season.

'Cost him a bit to get it made OK, they reckon,' said Cruikshank. 'Normally it's nowt but gliders here and the odd light plane.'

'Well, that's hardly a
heavy
plane,' said Headingley judiciously, looking at the Cessna.

'Bit bigger than they normally have here,' said Cruikshank with the defensiveness of one whose expertise had just been garnered via a ten-minute chat with an Excise officer.

'And what's all this about a Customs check?'

'Well, seems normally they have a token chap here when Pledger's plane arrives, just to make sure the formalities are observed. It's top people, usually, and you know how them buggers get kid-gloved in this bloody country,' said Cruikshank with a class-bitterness, Marxian in intensity, but which didn't stop him voting Tory. 'This time, but, Customs have had a tip, someone's bringing in a load of naughties. They're all very tight-lipped but it must be something big to make it worth upsetting Pledger and his mates.'

'And you got this detail via Mr Dalziel, you say?' said Headingley.

'Aye. It'll likely come to nowt. He doesn't give away easy collars, that bugger! But uniformed'll do when it's a case of standing round in the bloody cold, wasting time!'

This analysis of Dalziel's priorities was too close to the mark to bear discussion, so Headingley went into the clubhouse in search of Major Kassell.

He spotted him instantly, not because of anything particularly military in his appearance, but because he was clearly mine host on this occasion, making sure that guests were minimally inconvenienced by this unfortunate delay, dispensing coffee and/or alcohol among the half-dozen new arrivals, four men, two women, lounging at their ease in the club room.

Kassell was about forty, a strong face with a prominent nose and deep-set eyes which seemed always on the move and watchful, even as the mobile mouth twisted in a social smile. He had prematurely grey hair, silky and elegantly coiffured, which far from ageing him seemed to set off the liveliness of his features. He registered Headingley's arrival at once, and also that his presence had nothing to do with the current situation.

The Inspector stood quietly by the door, knowing that Kassell would be with him shortly.

When he finally broke free from his hostly duties, Kassell did not speak at once but gestured to Headingley to step outside into the narrow passageway.

Headingley introduced himself and stated his business.

Kassell nodded and said, 'Yes. I'd heard. Dreadful accident. Poor Charlesworth. Must have shaken him up.'

'I dare say, sir. Though it's business as usual this morning.'

Kassell looked at him, bushy grey eyebrows raised in surprise.

'He's hardly going to close down for a week's mourning, is he? How can I help, Inspector?'

'Just routine, sir. Get the facts straight. Did you come out of the restaurant with Mr Charlesworth and Mr Dalziel?'

'No. I was a little behind them, I recall.'

'Oh. Why was that, sir?'

'I can't see that it matters, but I had a brief word with one of the waitresses.'

About what?wondered Headingley. Didn't they say something about men with big noses being extra lecherous?

He let none of this show, but went on. 'So you didn't actually see the other two getting into their car?'

'No, I didn't.'

'So you couldn't say who was driving?' said Headingley.

'Now why should I need to say that?' said Kassell quizzically. 'Though as a matter of fact, I could.'

'Really, sir?How?'

'My car was round the side of the Hall. As I walked to it, their car passed me on its way out of the car park. I gave them a wave.'

'So you did see who was driving?'

Suddenly Kassell was pure military, stirring up long-forgotten, deep-hidden memories in George Headingley who had served with some discomfort and little distinction as a National Serviceman in Korea.

'Of course I did. Do you think I'm blind, man?' snapped the Major.

'And?' pursued Headingley doggedly.

'It was Charlesworth, of course. Who else?'

Peter Pascoe had had no personal experience of military service so Eltervale Camp, the Mid-Yorkshire Infantry's training depot, aroused no strong emotions in him.

The adjutant, summoned from his pre-lunch drink in the officers' mess, looked Pascoe up and down, decided he could pass for a gentleman and invited him to return with him for a peg.

Pascoe declined, apologized for his untimely call, and explained the purpose of his visit.

The adjutant, a pock-faced captain called Trott, said, 'Frostick, you say? Can't say I recall the name. Sergeant Ludlam's your man. He knows everything.'

Ludlam turned out to be the sergeant in charge of the Orderly Room, a round son of Leeds, who looked Pascoe up and down, decided he could pass for an NCO, and returned Trott's compliment after that gentleman had retreated by opining that
he
knew fuck all.

'Frostick, Charles,' he said. 'He's the lad whose grandad's been killed?'

'That's right,' said Pascoe, surprised.

'His father was on to us this morning asking if we could get his CO in Germany to pass the news on,' explained Ludlam. 'I dealt with it. Captain Trott, he don't take much in at weekends. Sad case. He'll likely get compassionate. Now, what do you want to know?'

Feeling rather foolish that he had already learned all he wanted to know, i.e. that Charley Frostick was definitely in Germany, Pascoe said vaguely, 'Oh, just a bit of background. What kind of lad he is, that kind of thing. Routine.'

The Sergeant regarded him shrewdly.

'Routine, eh?' he said. 'There's no such beast for you buggers. Let's see what the files say, shall we?'

The files said that Charley Frostick was a fair soldier, a good shot, reliable and conscientious, possibly NCO material.

'The only black he put up was getting back late a couple of mornings,' he said.

'Mornings?' said Pascoe. 'I thought you soldier boys were all tucked up safe and sound by nine
P.M.?'

'You've got the wrong decade, mister,' said Ludlam. 'During the basic training period, it's very strict and regimental. Once they've passed out, however, they're like the rest of us - as long as you're spick and span on first parade, which in his case'd be seven-thirty
A.M.,
you're OK.'

'You mean he could have been sleeping at home during that time - how long was it?'

'Just a couple of weeks before he went on draft. Could've been sleeping where he wanted,' grinned the Sergeant. 'Tell you who'll know more than me. Sergeant Myers of our regimental police.'

'Well, really, I don't know if I need to bother him,' said Pascoe, glancing at his watch.

'No bother. He'll be down at the guard house. You've got to go past it on your way out, I'll stroll along with you.'

Sergeant Myers and a couple of his minions, all distinguished by their white webbing, were sitting round a heat-pulsating stove, drinking pint mugs of tea. Conversation halted at the sight of Pascoe but Ludlam quickly reassured them he was harmless.

'It's all right, Micky,' he said, grinning. 'It's not the brass. I just thought you might like to meet a real cop.'

Neither Myers nor his colleagues seemed very impressed.

Myers, an ill-tempered-looking man with wire-rimmed spectacles, said, 'One of our lot in trouble, is it?'

'Not the way you think,' said Ludlam. 'Do you remember Charley Frostick, last draft? His grandad was done in last night, you'll be reading about it in the papers likely. The Inspector here's seeing about getting him back on compassionate.'

It didn't sound a likely story, but it was well-intentioned, Pascoe assumed, and he nodded his agreement.

'What happened?' asked Myers.

'He was attacked in his bath,' said Pascoe. 'Presumably in the course of a robbery.'

'Poor old sod. How'd they kill him?'

'Well, he was beaten and stabbed and half drowned,' said Pascoe. 'But in the end I suppose his heart just gave out.'

Myers shook his head,

'Layabouts,' he said savagely. 'Give 'em to us for a few weeks, we'd soon straighten them out.'

Ludlam said, 'You had to straighten young Frostick out, didn't you? Wasn't he getting back at all hours?'

'That's right. He was screwing the arse off some bint worked in a hotel, isn't that right, Corporal Gillott?'

The man addressed, a lance-corporal with a ramrod straight back so that even sitting down he seemed to be at attention, pulled at his ragged brown moustache and said, 'That's what I heard, Sarge.'

'Didn't you never meet her, Norm?' asked the third r.p., a burly full corporal with heavy jowls. 'I thought you was a bit of a mate of Frostick's, letting him sneak in late, and that.'

'What's this? What's this?' demanded Myers sharply. 'I'll have no favourites round here, so you'd best be sure what you're saying, Corporal Price!'

'Only joking, Sarge,' said Price, grinning maliciously at Gillott. 'I saw her once at a camp dance. Painted like a fairground sideshow she was, but I wouldn't have minded rolling my penny down her chute!'

'Less of that, less of that,' ordered Myers. 'Show some respect. Anything else we can do, Inspector?'

Pascoe, always interested in crime and punishment, said, 'What do you get for being late?'

'First offence, couple of days' jankers,' said Myers.

'Which reminds me. Corporal Gillott, isn't it time you was out there, checking on our customers?'

Gillott stood up. Could a man really be as straight as that without some artificial aid? wondered Pascoe.

'What'll I have them doing this afternoon, Sarge?' he asked, each syllable glottally stopped so the words came out like the sound of a typewriter.

'Leaves,' said the sergeant. 'There's leaves all over the fucking place. Come nightfall, I don't want to see a fucking leaf anywhere around this camp.'

'Come nightfall, you can't see anything anywhere,' said Ludlam, laughing.

He and Pascoe followed the lance-corporal out and watched him marching smartly away.

'Well, there's our police for you,' said Ludlam. 'Remind you of your mob, do they? No, don't answer that!'

Pascoe made for his car. He was beginning to feel strangely shut in, the same kind of feeling he had when his work took him into a prison. That was probably unfair. No doubt a monastery would have much the same effect.

He said as he unlocked his door, 'How long have you been in the Army, Sergeant?'

'Me? We'll have been together now for twenty years come next spring,' said Ludlam. 'I haven't made up my mind yet whether to make a career of it!'

Pascoe laughed with the man. It did occur to him to wonder if advancement to sergeant was the best a lively intelligent man could hope for over twenty years in the Army, but it would have been crass to put the question. However, a more general philosophical query did seem in order.

'Twenty years,' he said. 'Before the big unemployment. Tell me, Sergeant, what motivated men to sign on in your day?'

The sergeant leaned down to the open window and with wide-eyed surprise at being asked such an obvious question said, 'Why, patriotism, Inspector. Pure and simple patriotism!'