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  'And what did he say?' inquired Seymour.

  'I'm not sure. It sounded like, mebbe, Polly,' said Cox. 'That's the nearest I can get to it. Polly. And seemed to sort of laugh, though what there was for him to be laughing at, I don't know. Delirious, I should think. But he certainly seemed to be dying happy, so you can't knock it, can you?'

  'Did you touch him at all?'

  'I tried to lift him up, but I could see he was unconscious and his leg was sprawled out underneath him at a funny sort of angle, and I guessed he'd broken something. So I thought it best to go for help. What's all this about, but? I thought the poor old devil had just had a fall and hurt himself. It was treacherous, the surface, what with the sleet and everything. I nearly went over a couple of times myself and Hammy's legs were going all ways!'

  'Oh, it's just routine,' said Seymour.

  The entrance to the recreation ground was just a wide gap in the wire-netting fence flanked with a small forest of bye-laws ranging from Official Vehicles Only to All Dogs Must Be Kept On Leash. Parking by the latter sign, and noting that either Cox couldn't read or didn't count Hammy as a dog, Seymour went in and looked for Hector. A schoolboy football match had started on one of the pitches and Seymour saw with mingled amusement and exasperation that Hector's search pattern, which consisted of walking in a straight line across the whole breadth of the recreation ground, was at the moment taking him along the touch line, much to the annoyance of the proudly spectating dads. From time to time Hector bent down to pick up a stone or other substantial piece of debris which he put in a plastic sack. He then marked the spot by digging a hole with his heel. Presumably this next traverse would take him on to the pitch itself. It was a confrontation almost worth waiting for, but when Cox pointed confidently towards one of the other pitches not in use, Seymour, for the sake of the reputation of the Force rather than on humanitarian grounds, waved his arm and shouted till he caught the lanky constable's attention and beckoned him to join them.

  'You're certain this is where he was lying?' he asked Cox, who was now indicating a specific square yard of ground indistinguishable from any other.

  'The very spot,' said Cox with complete conviction. 'Look, I walked round from the entrance and I got as far as that goalpost there, and I leaned up against it and tried to light a fag, but it wasn't any use in that wind. Then I saw Hammy galloping towards me and suddenly he stopped and started getting interested in this sort of bundle on the ground, so I went to have a look.'

  Examination of the goalpost revealed half a dozen confirmatory matchsticks at its base.

  'All right,' said Seymour. 'Let's take a look.'

  He turned to address his invitation to Hector and was delighted to see that Hammy, having at last found a human he could really look up to, was standing with his forelegs on Hector's shoulders so that he could lick his new friend's terrified face. Hector retreated, Hammy advanced, the pair spun round together in a parody of a waltz, till finally the constable's legs slid away from under him and he crashed heavily to the ground.

  'That's one way of looking for this stone,' agreed Seymour. 'But what I think Mr Pascoe had in mind was using our eyes.'

  He began systematically to search the area round the spot indicated by Cox, spiralling further and further out. From time to time he spotted a stone, but none that looked of a possible size or to have any signs of recent contact with broken skin. Still, it had been raining hard overnight and the microscope might see something he couldn't, so he popped each stone into a plastic bag and charted its position conscientiously. Finally he decided he’d gone far enough and returned to where Cox was standing by the goalpost smoking a cigarette, watching his dog make playful assaults on Hector's legs.

  'Thanks for your cooperation, sir,' he said to Cox. 'Would you mind if I left you to find your own way home? I'm going across the ground, see, to where Mr Parrinder lives, out the other way. That's why he'd be walking this way, it must have been a regular short cut for him.'

  'Braver man than me,' grunted Cox. 'I wouldn't come this way in the dark, not without Hammy. No, you get on, Officer. Hammy needs all the exercise he can get. We'll walk back in a moment, though he'll be sorry to part company with your mate here!'

  It didn't look as if the parting would be equally sorrowful on both sides. But Seymour, not without malice, said, 'No need for that just yet, sir. Constable Hector, would you cast around a bit longer, see if there's anything else you can find. I'll pick you up on my way back. Goodbye, Mr Cox. "Bye, Hammy.'

  He strode away jauntily. Perhaps after all there might be more in this for him than wandering up and down Welfare Lane doing house-to-house inquiries. The word was old Dalziel was having a spot of bother. Tough on the old sod, but it had only been a matter of time before his behaviour caught up with him. With Dalziel edged out, there could be a nice bit of upgrading all round, and who was better equipped to be a sergeant than Detective-Constable Dennis Seymour?

  He flung his arms wide in a spontaneous gesture of self-congratulation, and Hammy, who had come running after him reluctant to lose even one of his new friends, mistook the gesture for invitation and drove himself upwards, bringing his huge forepaws down against Seymour's shoulders and sending the amazed detective-constable crashing full length on the muddy ground.

  Chapter 9

  'Dying is a very dull, dreary affair. And my advice to you is to have nothing whatever to do with it.'

  Welfare Lane when Pascoe arrived at noon was remarkably free of sightseers even for what was basically a pretty unfashionable murder. Indeed, apart from a couple of shopping-laden women trudging along the pavement, the only person in sight was the constable outside No. 25.

  The reason soon became clear. As he parked his car behind the police caravan outside Deeks's house, the puce portal of No. 27 burst open and Mrs Tracey Spillings swept out on a wave of Dallas.

  'All right, sunshine!' she bellowed. 'On your way! Oh, it's only you.'

  'I'm afraid so,' said Pascoe. 'I'm sorry, did you want this parking spot…?'

  'What'd I do with a parking spot?' she demanded, adding with a significant glance up and down the street and an increase in voice projection which Pavarotti would have envied, 'Not that there's not plenty round here as drives in limousines to draw their dole.'

  'Is that so?' said Pascoe, thinking that anything short of a chariot of fire would scarcely be a fit vehicle for Mrs Spillings. 'Then why did you…'

  'I'm not having folk hanging round here gawking,' she said fiercely. 'Sick, some people are, and with nothing better to do. He's worse than useless – ' indicating the uniformed constable who studied the rooftops opposite, perhaps in the hope of snipers – 'but I've sent 'em packing, no bother. ‘No, thought Pascoe. He didn't imagine there had been any bother!

  'I'd like to have a word if I may,' he said. 'Perhaps we could.. .'

  He hesitated, glancing at the almost visible din emanating from the Spillings household.

  'We'll go in your caravan,' said Mrs Spillings. 'You'll not be able to hear yourself think in here. She's been bad this morning. Worse she gets, louder she likes it. She reckons when she can't hear no more, she'll be dead. Mam, I'll just be five minutes!'

  The last sentence ripped like a torpedo through the oncoming waves of sound. Pulling the puce door to, Mrs Spillings set out towards the caravan which dipped alarmingly as she placed a surprisingly small and rather delicately shaped foot on the step.

  Inside, Sergeant Wield was working his way through a sheaf of statements and reports. His rugged face expressed no surprise at the sight of the woman.

  'Door to door,' he said to Pascoe. 'Nothing. You had any luck, sir?'

  'I don't think so,' said Pascoe. 'Mrs Spillings, you knew Mr Deeks well, did you?'

  'Pretty well. We moved into 27 when I got wed twenty-five years ago. Dolly Deeks got married from that house two years later. Her mam died four or five years back and the old man had been on his own since then. So you could say I knew him pretty well.'

&n
bsp; 'Did you ever know him to keep a lot of money in his house?'

  She thought for a moment then said, 'Aye. Once. I recall Dolly getting right upset because she found a lot lying around. She's a quiet soul, Dolly, but she really gave him what for that day!'

  'Yes, she told me about it,' said Pascoe.

  'She's all right, is she? Out of that hospital? That's no place for a well woman. Not much use for a sick 'un either, from all accounts.'

  'Yes. She's at home. She'll be coming here tomorrow. To get back to the money, did he still keep any in the house? More important perhaps, did he have any reputation locally for keeping large sums about the place?'

  She saw what he meant at once.

  'No, he weren't thought of as the local miser or owt like that. Though there's no accounting for the daft ideas some buggers get into their heads! As for still keeping money in the house, I don't know. I recollect him telling me he'd loaned young Charley – that's his grandson – the money to buy that lass of his an engagement ring, but whether it were cash he had or whether he had to draw it out special, I don't know.'

  'But he discussed his finances with you?' said Pascoe.

  Tracey Spillings laughed and said, 'Not old Bob. He were very close! But this were different. Charley's the apple of his eye, but he would never sub him after he left school. If you can't live on your dole money, he'd say, get a job. He paid no heed to all this unemployment. There's always jobs for them as wants them, he said. They're always after likely lads in the Forces, or even the police.'

  Pascoe ignored the implied order of merit and said, 'It doesn't sound as if he'd have been very happy to dish out money so Charley could get engaged, then?'

  'Normally, he wouldn't. Specially as he didn't much like the lass. But Charley timed it nicely, I gather. Told his grandad he'd signed on with the Mid-Yorkies, and then touched him straight after. That's how I got to know about the money. Old Bob mentioned the loan when he was telling me about Charley joining up. He were that pleased, even though he knew how much he'd miss the lad.'

  'And the lad himself. He was fond of his grandad too?' said Pascoe. 'He'll be upset to hear what's happened.'

  'Oh aye. He liked the old boy and I've no doubt he'll be upset,' said Mrs Spillings. 'But you know how it is with young 'uns. You never get back what you give.'

  'Your mother seems to be getting a pretty good bargain,' smiled Pascoe.

  'You reckon? There's times I could gladly kill her. That's not a right way to feel about your own mam, is it?'

  Slightly taken aback by this frank admission, Pascoe found he had no reply. But Wield, without looking up from his records, said, 'I dare say when you were a squawking baby in the middle of the night, there were times she could gladly have killed you, Mrs Spillings.'

  The woman considered this, then a wide grin opened up her face, letting out a lively, pretty, perhaps even slim young girl for a moment.

  'Mebbe you're right there, sunshine,' she said. 'Mebbe it does even out in the end! I'd best get back and see to her. If ever you feel like a cup of tea, don't knock, I'll not hear you. Just come on in.'

  She left.

  Pascoe said, 'Interesting woman.'

  'Interesting, aye,' said Wield. 'What was all that about Charley?'

  Pascoe explained, adding thoughtfully, 'But I'll maybe just give them a ring at Eltervale Camp just to make sure he's gone.'

  'You're getting cynical, sir,' observed Wield. 'By the way, Mr Headingley rang. Said he'd be having a bit of lunch at The Duke of York if you're interested.'

  'What's he think I'm on, my holidays?' snorted Pascoe. 'I haven't time to drive all that way out just to socialize.'

  'Didn't get that impression, sir,' said Wield neutrally. 'Thought he might be after having a chat about Mr Dalziel's spot of bother. Not that he said owt, you understand.'

  There were no secrets in a police station, thought Pascoe. He also thought that he really ought to stay as far away as he could get from this Dalziel business, but did not much like the feeling accompanying the thought.

  'Did you want to speak to the Army now?' said Wield, reaching for the phone. Before he could touch it, it rang. The Sergeant picked it up and listened.

  'No, sir,' he said. 'Not yet. Half an hour unless he's held up. Right.'

  He replaced the receiver and said, 'That was Ruddlesdin. He was hanging around earlier. Mrs Spillings spotted him. He tried to interview her.'

  He smiled at the memory.

  'How the hell does he come to be ringing us here?' wondered Pascoe. 'Oh, and is that me you're expecting in half an hour?'

  'That's right,' said Wield. 'He's keen to talk to you. He's on his way and he'll see you here at twelve-thirty. Unless you're held up.'

  'Yes,' said Pascoe slowly. 'You know Sergeant, perhaps I should call in at Eltervale Camp rather than ring them. The Army tends to be a bit protective about its own.'

  'Yes, sir,' agreed Wield. 'Face to face is best. And you'd have to go quite near The Duke of York, wouldn't you? To reach the camp, I mean.'

  'So I would. Good. You'll know where to get me, then.'

  'Unless Sammy Ruddlesdin asks, I will,' grinned Wield.

  'Sergeant, you're a darling man. By the way, did you send Seymour and Hector off to the recreation ground?'

  'Aye,' said Wield. 'And I've heard nothing since. Hector's likely got lost, and Seymour will have found himself a bird to chat up. What's it all about, sir?'

  He sounded disapproving and Pascoe said airily, 'Could be something or nothing, Sergeant. See you later!'

  As he left, Wield shook his head sadly. Something or nothing! He much admired Pascoe, but there was no getting away from it, sometimes the young inspector did get his head full of daft notions.

  Though in this case, Wield, who was a man of considerable sensitivity beneath his harsh and rugged exterior, wondered how much Pascoe's present 'hunch' wasn't just a mental space-filler, delaying him from admitting just how upset he really was by Dalziel's spot of bother.

  The Sergeant's stomach rumbled. No Duke of York for him, but he had been relying on Seymour's return so that he could slip away for a quick snack. Where was the man? Chatting up a bird, he'd suggested to Pascoe. Wield's inner sensitivity did not extend to forgiving DC's who kept him from his food while they chatted up birds.

  He chewed on the end of his pen and planned reprisal.

  The Sergeant's suspicions about Seymour were to some extent justified, but not in every particular. Women delayed him, but only in the way of duty.

  Castleton Court where the late Thomas Arthur Parrinder had lived was a block of local authority retirement flats, in no way an old people's home, though there was on the site a widower in his early sixties who had undertaken the job of warden, which meant for the most part channelling complaints to the Housing Office and responding to the flashing lights and sounding bells which meant a tenant was in trouble.

  The warden was called Tempest, a thick-set ex-miner who took his new duties as seriously as he'd taken his old. His cheerful face was shadowed as he let Seymour into Parrinder's flat.

  'He were a good lad, Tap. That was what everyone called him, from his initials I suppose, though some says it was because when he was down on his luck with the hosses, he'd be tapping anyone he could for a bob or two. Well, I never knew it; a good lad, spry and lively and right independent. Mebbe a bit too much. Makes a change from them as is never off your back, but there's a happy medium.'

  'What do you mean?' asked Seymour.

  'Well, look at this,' said the Warden. 'See these alarm switches on the wall in every room? They set off the light and the bell outside the door. See how they've got cords reaching down to the floor? Idea is, if anyone has a fall, he can still pull the switch, right? Well, look at this.'

  He opened the bathroom door.

  'See. There's the switch, but where's the cord? They take 'em off! Afraid they might pull it by accident instead of the light cord, see, and I might come rushing in and find them in the bath or on
the pot. It's daft, really, but that's folk for you.'

  Old Deeks could've done with one of those, thought Seymour. But likely he'd have been the same and put it out of action.

  'One old lady,' continued Mr Tempest, leading him back into the small but comfortably appointed living-room, 'set her alarm off once by accident, she were so embarrassed, next thing I knew, she'd taken the fuses out so the bloody thing wouldn't go off at all! Can you beat that, eh?'

  Seymour who was still young enough to feel immortal shook his head in general bewilderment at the vagaries of age and studied the room. Television, two armchairs, low table with transistor radio, glass-fronted cabinet with the remnants of a good tea-set, not much of a reader but a pile of old Dalesman magazines and not so old racing papers by the fireplace.

  'He was a racing man, you say?' he said with the approval of one who shared the interest.

  'Oh yes. Waste of time and money if you ask me,' said Tempest, insensitive to Seymour's enthusiasm. 'Not that he went over the top, I'm not saying that. He always kept it within bounds as far as I could see. I suppose it's a hobby like any other.'

  'Any family?'

  'Daughter in Canada, I think. No one closer, not as comes to see him anyway. His wife died fifteen years ago. He was the only man by himself in this block, the rest is all widows. Gentler sex, they say. I don't know about gentler but they're certainly tougher! I used to have a laugh with him about it. He said it was like most chances in life – came too bloody late!'

  'I know the feeling,' said Seymour with the insincerity of the young. 'Any particular friends?'

  'I don't know about his own mates – certainly he didn't get many visitors. Among the old girls? Oh, there's two or three he's quite thick with. They play cards for pennies and they like a flutter on the gees. Tap'd put it on for them. There's Mrs Campbell in 24, nice woman, full of life, takes care of herself – you know, hair-do's, make- up. Could pass for fifty. I often wondered if Tap had chanced his arm there! Then there's Mrs Escott at 28. She was probably the closest, only, last six months or so, she's started going.'