Ellie looked at Pascoe, grinning broadly at his predicament. He reached for his wallet and paid up. The grin alone was worth it.
'Thanks,' she said. 'Now I've got what I want, I'm going to rush off. I have a class at two-thirty. Ring me about tomorrow, will you?'
'OK,' said Pascoe. 'I'll just hang on here a bit.'
He watched her go, then turned to the dealer.
'Mr Burne-Jones?' he asked.
''Nearly right. Etherege,' said the man.
He looked unperturbed when Pascoe introduced himself and blank when he was shown the stamps.
'Sorry,' he said. 'They're just bits of paper to me. Never been able to see it, myself. My partner looks after that side of things. There's nothing in it for us, really, but he's interested.'
'That would be Mr Burne-Jones? Could I speak to him?'
'Not for a few days. He went off to Corsica for his hols this very morning.'
'Damn,' said Pascoe. He produced a copy of the complete list of stolen articles.
'You'll have seen this?'
'Yes,' said Etherege. 'They keep on coming round, but as you can see, it's mainly furniture we deal in here. A bit bulky for your cat-burglar and in any case I buy most of it in myself at the sales, so we know where it's come from.'
'What about the stamps?'
'God knows. I sometimes think David, my partner, hangs around school playgrounds and does swops. Look, if you like, why don't you sort out anything from our stock which matches any of the stamps on your list and take them away for a closer check.'
'That's very generous of you,' said Pascoe who had been about to do just that. But it was nice for a change not to have a fuss.
'Not really,' said Etherege. 'Nothing there's marked at more than a few quid. No penny blacks, I'm afraid.'
There were one or two items, not of any great value or rarity, which corresponded with entries on Sturgeon's catalogue. Pascoe gave Etherege a receipt for them.
'If there's no identification, you'll get them back, of course.'
'And if there is?'
Pascoe shrugged.
'Never mind. I'll take it out of David's profits,' smiled Etherege. 'Cheerio, Sergeant. Come again and do some browsing. Bring the young lady. She seems able to get you to spend rather than just confiscate! Is she in the force too, by the way?'
'No such luck,' said Pascoe. 'Goodbye.'
He walked back to the pub car-park. It had not so far been a very productive day. As he approached his car which was parked up against the fence surrounding the kennels, he heard the dogs howl again, forlorn, wanting their owners.
Dalziel's pain, dissipated or forgotten in the activity of organizing a murder hunt, had returned after lunch. The timing supported his own diagnosis of indigestion, but having worked his way in vain through a variety of pharmaceutical and folk cures, he reluctantly made an appointment to see his doctor. This produced an immediate improvement in his condition and the optimistic reaction was still in evidence as he talked about the Lewis case with Pascoe.
'We need this one. This boy's mad.'
'Sir?'
'You saw Lewis. There was no need for that. The first blow would have stunned him, the next put him out cold. He must have been flat out on the floor for the next half-dozen, the ones that killed him.'
'Panic?' suggested Pascoe.
'I don't think so. You run when you panic. Hit anything in the way, perhaps, but mainly just run. There was no sign of this boy running. He beat an orderly retreat, didn't waste any time, but left in good order. It all points to a nutcase. We'd seen the signs.'
'Killing a man's not quite like peeing in a kettle,’ protested Pascoe.
'I don't know. You leave him lying there in the middle of the room. Like a heap of garbage. That's all a dead man is, after all.'
Pascoe looked doubtful. He was used to playing Dalziel's straight man. It was an exercise which often produced results.
'We're not even absolutely certain it's the same fellow,' he said.
Dalziel snorted with magnificent scorn.
'We've got a villain who does medium large detached houses while the owners are away on holiday. He has shown himself ready to use violence. The owner of a medium large detached house…'
'Bungalow.'
'… who should have been on holiday gets beaten to death by someone he catches in the act. Therefore…’
'He was done to death by a disgruntled client who helped himself to some bits and pieces to make it look like a robbery.'
'Fine. Except that no one knew he was going to be at home that day. He was supposed to be on holiday. Remember?'
'He did come back for a meeting, sir,' replied Pascoe. 'Someone must have known.'
Dalziel sighed as if Pascoe had taken all the joy out of his life.
'All right. Talk to the people at his office if you like. Let's leave no stone unturned. Or uncast, for that matter. We've got to get at this boy somehow. And if he is our thief, then we've only got two starting points. The break-ins themselves, or disposal of the loot. Which so far means a few bloody stamps. Was Etherege any good?'
'No. Oh, he'll know a few ways to make a quick bob or two, but I can't see anything there for us. I brought some stamps for Sturgeon to look at.'
'Which leaves your actual crimes,' said Dalziel, setting in train a long spiral scratch which began at his calf and gave promise of attaining to his crotch.
Pascoe was silent. Everyone on the case had worked long and hard in the search for a common denominator which might lead somewhere. But such a thing was hard to come by. In only two cases did they even know the day of the week and the time of day the crime had taken place. The first, when the old gardener had been attacked, was a Thursday at seven-thirty pm. The second, when Lewis was killed, was a Monday at five-fifteen pm. Early, but that meant nothing. Given a choice, most thieves preferred daylight for a housebreaking job. There was no worry about lights, less risk of being asked to explain your presence on the streets by a casual policeman.
The only real potentially useful link between the crimes was that the house-owners had all been on holiday. The thief must have some source of information.
The trouble was there were any number of ways in which a professional thief could unearth the fact that a house was empty. Though just how much of a real professional their man was, Pascoe wasn't sure. Certainly it was doubtful whether he was known to the police. Every likely villain in the area had been descended on with great force and alacrity in the two cases where the time of the job was known. The results had been negative.
And the deliberate slaying of Lewis (if it had been their man in his house) bothered Pascoe considerably. Your thief had a great instinct for self-preservation. He might smash what lay in the way of his escape, but would probably see no reason to hang around to make a job of it.
'I still don't think he's a nutcase,' he averred as he left Dalziel groaning his satisfaction as he reached the vertex of his scratch.
In the corridor he met Detective-Inspector George Headingley, the man with the strength of will to resist Dalziel's drinking invitations. He held a sheet of paper in his hand.
'There's more in piss than meets the eye,' said the inspector sagely.
'What?'
'It was your idea to send the contents of Cottingley's kettle to forensic, wasn't it? Take a house-point. Our lad's a diabetic.'
