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  '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!'

  Chapter 11

  'Sack, Sack!… Pray you give me some sack!'

  As Pascoe switched off his engine in The Duke of York car park, the passenger door opened and George Headingley slid in.

  'Thought it was you,' he said. 'I'd just about given you up. Look, I'm on my way to The Towers to see this Warsop woman. Then I thought I'd go on to Paradise Hall. Why don't you come along? In fact, why don't you drive me, seeing as you're sitting there with your engine warm.'

  'I've got work of my own, remember?' protested Pascoe. 'And what about my lunch?'

  'Oh, I'm sure they'll let you at the left-overs at Paradise Hall,' said Headingley. 'And you wouldn't like it in the Duke anyway. They've taken against cops there since last night. I don't know who's been putting ideas in their heads – Ruddlesdin, likely – but they're muttering about drunken policemen already. Come on, let's go!'

  With an exaggerated sigh, Pascoe let in the clutch and drove out of the car park, turning left along the narrow winding country road known locally as the Paradise Road.

  It took its name from the Hall, five miles away, and the Hall, rather disappointingly, took its name not from the naughty antics which local tradition insisted used to go on there, but from the Paradise family who built it in the mid-eighteenth century. The Towers two miles closer was a half-hearted gesture in the direction of Victorian Gothic. Rumour had it that its last private owner, an old lady who died in the mid-'thirties, had been so incensed by a quarrel she'd had with the owners of Paradise Hall that she had willed her own property to the local authority with the intention that it should be used as a lunatic asylum. What she seemed to have in mind was some sort of Yorkshire Bedlam from which shaven-headed madmen would escape from time to time to swarm all over her neighbour's grounds. Happily, provision for the mentally handicapped in the district was already good, and with plans for future development well advanced, The Towers looked like being a white elephant till a legal ruling was obtained which permitted the authority to ignore the specific terms of the will so long as the building was dedicated to the ends of community care in a much more general sense.

  And so it had become what was basically an old people's holiday home, providing short breaks in the countryside for inhabitants of city centre retirement homes and also for old people living with their families who needed somewhere to stay while the family had a break.

  Philip Westerman had been one of the former. He had been coming to The Towers for four years now and was during his stays a popular visitor to The Duke of York.

  Headingley filled Pascoe in on his morning's work, taking his interest for granted. Pascoe who had promised himself not to get involved felt to some extent trapped, but recognized that it was a trap of his own rather than Headingley's setting.

  'So Kassell confirms that Charlesworth was driving," he said hopefully. 'There you are. Nice, respectable witness. Cut and dried.'

  'You'd think so,' said Headingley. 'Only he knew all about the accident without me telling him. Now, the Post doesn’t appear till this afternoon, so who's been talking to whom?'

  Pascoe shot him a glance.

  'You're not suggesting collusion, are you?'

  Headingley shrugged.

  'What's in it for him?' he asked. 'Could've been Ruddlesdin again, though Kassell didn't mention being bothered by the Press.'

  'Anyway, what's your line with this Mrs Warsop?' asked Pascoe.

  'Just listen to her story. Hope she's a bit vague. And try to suggest politely that she really ought to keep her big mouth shut!'

  In fact, it turned out that Mrs Warsop had a rather small mouth with a tendency to purse up as she considered any question closely before offering a well expressed and far from vague answer.

  She was in her late thirties, a small erect woman with black hair bound severely back from a not unattractive face. She reminded Pascoe of the kind of Victorian governess who gets the master of the house in the last chapter.

  She would also make an excellent witness in court, coroner's or Crown.

  She repeated the story she had first told Ruddlesdin the night before. Standing in the entrance of the hotel, waiting for her friend, she had observed Dalziel get into the driving seat of his car and drive it away. She was adamant that it was in fact Dalziel she had seen.

  'I had observed him earlier in the restaurant. He was with two other men whom I do not know personally but who have been pointed out to me on other occasions as Major Kassell from Haycroft Grange, and a bookmaker called Charlesworth whose betting shops seem to clutter up most shopping precincts in town.'

  'And why did you observe Mr Dalziel, as you put it? ‘asked Headingley wi
th a slight edge of sarcasm. He soon regretted it.

  'Because of his vulgar and boisterous behaviour,' she replied with distaste. 'He was extremely loud and he kept on patting the waitress's person, though I must say she did not look the type to be offended. I had no idea, of course, as I observed this behaviour, that this noisy boor was in fact a senior police officer.'

  Headingley tried his best, suggesting that a view through a glass doorway into a dark car park could easily lead to error. To which the woman replied that the front of the hotel was very adequately lit and as she had actually stepped outside to take a breath of air in the shelter of the entrance porch, the obstacle of glass did not apply.

  A big-boned, open-faced woman came into the room and said, 'I'm sorry to interrupt, Mrs Warsop, but Mr Toynbee's complaining about the soup again, and Cook's busy with the pudding. Could you spare a moment, do you think?'

  This was Miss Day, the matron of The Towers, responsible for the health care and social well-being of the residents while Mrs Warsop, officially designated bursar, was in charge of the catering and general maintenance administration. Pascoe sensed the kind of antagonism between the two women which usually manifested itself in delicate and serpentine borderlines between areas of responsibility.

  'You would think Mr Toynbee was accustomed to the Dorchester,' observed Mrs Warsop. 'Yes, I'll speak to him. I think these gentlemen are finished?'

  'Just one more thing, Mrs Warsop,' said Pascoe. 'Did you see Major Kassell go out into the car park after the other two men?'

  She considered. 'No,' she said. 'There were just the two of them. The other man must have remained in the dining-room, I suppose.'

  'And how long was it before you finally got away yourself?'

  'Five minutes, perhaps,' she said.

  'Your friend kept you waiting,' observed Pascoe. 'You were in the same car?'

  'Yes. I drove her home, but not along the road which goes past The Towers, if that's what you're wondering. It was more convenient to go in the other direction towards the south by-pass and get back into town that way. I had just returned to The Towers when that newspaperman turned up with his questions. It seemed to be my duty to answer them honestly.'

  She stared at Pascoe as if expecting him to challenge this. Then, with a dismissive nod, she left.

  'Very efficient lady, that, I should think,' said Headingley.

  'Oh yes, she's certainly that,' said Miss Day without enthusiasm. 'Poor Mr Westerman! It's really knocked me back.'

  'It must have put a damper on the others too,' said Pascoe.

  'The residents? Yes, I suppose so. Though in a funny way, a death often rather bucks them up, as long as they aren't too close to whoever it is!'

  She laughed as she spoke. Pascoe grinned back at her.

  'How many do you have at a time?' he inquired.

  'Oh, we can take up to eighty and we've squeezed a few more in from time to time, especially during the summer.'

  'That'll be when the big demand from families comes, is it? Wanting to get away to the Costa Brava without gran?' said Headingley.

  'Partly,' she replied. 'Though there's a constant demand for that kind of accommodation all the year round. It's not just people wanting to get away on their own summer holidays, you know. It's people who need a break in their own homes without having the old person on their backs twenty-four hours a day. You've no idea what it can do to people. And it can be very awkward for us at times.'

  'How's that?'

  'Oh, when it comes to going home time. Sometimes the family ring up and say it's not convenient, could the old person stay here another day or two? Or very occasionally they just don't turn up at all to collect them and when they're contacted, they say that's it, they've had enough, the State can look after them now! But worst of all is the old folk who don't want to go back themselves. That's really heartbreaking.'

  She ushered them to the front door and waved them off with the same geniality Pascoe was sure she bestowed on her elderly residents.

  As they drove off, Pascoe asked Headingley, 'How was the bike, by the way?'

  'Sound as a bell, which it had,' answered Headingley. 'It was the old boy's own, he rode it round town regularly, always insisted on bringing it down here so's he could get to the pub. Good lights, back and front. Good tyres. Steady handbrakes.'

  They continued in silence till they saw the sign Paradise Hall Country House Hotel and Restaurant. A smaller notice attached to the ornately scrolled board announced that the hotel was closed until Easter, but the restaurant was open as usual.

  The drive wound its way through fields filled with sheep and cattle rather than the lunatics hoped for by the owner of The Towers. Of the original extensive grounds only the neglected formal garden immediately surrounding the house had been retained. The Hall itself was an undistinguished but not unpleasant building, slightly in need of a lick of paint and a spot of pointing. Pascoe had never eaten in the restaurant but had heard mixed reports. Detractors and enthusiasts alike were agreed upon the impudence of its prices and when Pascoe glanced at the luncheon menu standing on the unattended bar, he said in amazement, 'Pissed or sober, there's no way Andy Dalziel'd pay that for a bowl of soup!'

  'Doesn't seem likely he was paying, does it?' said Headingley, helping himself to a handful of peanuts.

  'Charlesworth, you mean? Or Kassell? I can't see where this guy fits in, can you? Estate manager at Haycroft Grange. William Pledger's shooting parties. It doesn't sound like fat Andy's scene.'

  'He's very respectable, that's the main thing,' said Headingley, who wasn't looking for aggro.

  'Maybe. But his story doesn't gell with Warsop's, so who's making mistakes? What was he a major in, by the way?'

  'The Mid-Yorkies,' said Headingley. 'I looked him up. Got out in 1975. He'd been out in Hong Kong, made some contact with Pledger out there, followed it up, and landed this job.'

  'You've been working fast,' admired Pascoe.

  'No sweat,' said Headingley complacently. 'There's this lass works on the Council switchboard. She knows everything.'

  Pascoe laughed and then said seriously, 'George, what precisely is it you're doing? I mean, how do you see your function?'

  'I wish I could be precise, Peter,' said Headingley. 'I'm going through the motions without going through the motions, so to speak. Which is to say, I'm doing a proper job, but mainly, I reckon, so the DCC can say, if he's asked, which he's still hoping he won't be, that yes, of course we've done a proper job of looking into this accident, and here's George Headingley to prove it!'

  'Sam Ruddlesdin'll ask,' forecast Pascoe.

  'Sam Ruddlesdin's got a boss who might take a wider view,' said Headingley. 'But it's nothing to do with me. I'm just poor bloody infantry. Good day. Would Mr Abbiss be in, please?'

  A woman had come into the bar. She was very striking, with jet black hair tumbling over her shoulders and a pale, consumptive pre-Raphaelite face from which huge dark eyes stared like visitors from another world.

  'I'm Stella Abbiss,' she said. 'Can I help you?'

  Stella and Jeremy Abbiss wish you bon appetit it said at the foot of the menu. Husband and wife, Pascoe assumed. Partners anyway. He settled back to see if nice old-fashioned George Headingley would press for the man.

  But Headingley had suffered enough from antagonistic mine hosts that day and he smiled sweetly and flashed his warrant card and said in his best, hushed we-don't-want- to-embarrass-the-customers voice, 'It's just a small matter of clearing up a couple of points regarding the accident last night. You've probably heard about it?'

  'The old man near The Duke of York?' she said in a low voice which throbbed like a 'cello string.

  She was la belle dame sans merci, Pascoe thought with delight. I shall become obsessed with her. But first I must bring Ellie here to approve. She deserves a good meal. He glanced again at the prices and changed his thought to: She deserves a nice drink. Could that delicious shadow round the eyes be real, or did she put it on with a
feather?

  'That's the one.'

  'We had some reporter round this morning asking questions,' she said.

  'I'm sorry to inconvenience you again,' said Headingley. 'It's just a matter of getting the picture clear.'

  'You want to know how drunk the fat man was, is that it?'

  Such directness allied to such feyness! It was a dizzying concoction. Were their sauces like this? If so, well worth the money!

  'Well, yes, for a start,' said Headingley manfully.

  'Depends how drunk five large Scotches, a bottle and a half of Burgundy and three balloons of cognac would make him,' she said.

  'And in your estimation, how drunk would that be?' asked Pascoe, just for the privilege of engaging in commerce with this creature.

  Those strange compelling eyes joined his for a lovely moment. This was true Paradise, this was the primal idyll with everything possible and no sin, no shame. Then her gaze slipped his and moved to a point just above his right shoulder.

  'Why don't you ask him yourself?' she said.

  'Beer!' boomed a familiar voice. 'A pint of your best for me, lass, and pints of your second best for this pair of trainees who ought to be too bloody busy to drink it!'

  Pascoe turned. The primal idyll was over. Approaching with the weary wayworn smile of a fallen archangel whose heavy pinions have at last deposited him safe on Eden was Andrew Dalziel.

  Chapter 12

  'Et tu, Brute?'

  Dalziel's arrival produced at least one bonus. To the three pints of beer which she drew for them, Stella Abbiss, without any direct request being made, added three portions of cold game pie.

  'Delicious,' approved Dalziel. 'I tried it last night. The fruits of your own gun, if I remember right, love?'

  She nodded slightly. To Pascoe's mental video library was added the slow-motion sequence of this frail, pale beauty clad only in gumboots tracking a low-flying pheasant across a frost-laced stubble field with her hot, smoking barrel.

  He was jerked rudely out of his reverie by Dalziel, who said, 'Now, Peter, what are you doing here? I knew old George had been set to sniff around after me, but I thought you had other things on your plate. Just along to see the fun, is that it? Heard the fire engine and couldn't resist chasing along to see the fire?'