as he had heard Dalziel say in one of his more Scottish moments.
'Then why do you say… well, whatever it is you do say?'
He thought he'd done it again, but she recovered. It was very hard being sympathetic for long, he suddenly realized. Grief was so anti-life. It is a relationship with the dead, emotional necrophilia.
'Mr Atkinson and Mr James and Mr Matt…’
'Who?'
'Mr Cowley and Mr Lewis. I always called them…'
'All right. Go on.'
'Well, they had been doing some business together for a long time. It seemed to be private, I mean there wasn't any correspondence, not that I was asked to do anyway.'
'Miss Clayton perhaps?'
'Perhaps. She was senior.'
She made seniority sound like a disease thought Pascoe.
'Anyway, I knew Mr Atkinson by sight. He always said hello when he came into the office.'
'And what makes you think that it was this business that brought Mr Lewis back on Monday?'
She looked at him in exasperation.
'I'm telling you. Mr Atkinson went along to the office that afternoon. That's why it was probably about their business. Why else should he go to the office when it was closed?'
Pascoe restrained himself with difficulty from shaking her till her crooked teeth rattled.
'You weren't at the office on Monday afternoon though?'
'No. But I was in the High Street shopping and I saw Mr Atkinson and Mr James going into the office.'
'Ah.'
There didn't seem much else to say for a moment.
'What time was this?' he managed finally.
'About three. A bit later perhaps.'
'But you didn't see Mr Lewis?'
'No.'
'Sure?'
'Of course I am! I'd have noticed, wouldn't I, especially as he was meant to be in Scotland?'
'I suppose you would. This Mr Atkinson now…'
He paused. Suddenly he recalled where he had seen the name. John Atkinson. Lochart 269. In Sturgeon's telephone book. It was an absurd coincidence.
'What does he look like?'
'Look like. Well; I don't know.'
Tall? Tall as me?'
'Oh no. A bit shorter, I'd say. But broader across the shoulders. And he's older too. He's got grey hair. And a nice smile.'
'Thank you, Miss Collinwood,' said Pascoe. 'You've been very helpful. Just one more thing.'
It was absurd. But he might as well ask.
'Just where in Scotland is Mr Lewis's cottage?'
'Where? It's in a village somewhere. Near a place called Callander.'
'Lochart?'
'That's right. How did you know? It sounded very nice. He once said I could stay there some time. When he and his family weren't there, of course.'
'Of course,' said Pascoe, not even noticing the imminence of tears this time. His mind was too occupied elsewhere.
His indifference seemed to be therapeutic, for suddenly the girl brightened and smiled sweetly at him.
'Are you driving through town? You couldn't give me a lift, could you? I want to make a hair appointment. It's my birthday on Saturday.'
'Certainly,' said Pascoe. When she smiled she looked extremely pretty. She should smile more often. Perhaps everybody should.
But he could not feel that any possible development in this particular case was going to cause much amusement.
Chapter 6
'Don't be daft,' said Dalziel more from habit than conviction. 'What kind of connection could there be?'
'I don't know, sir,' said Pascoe. 'All I know is the connection that already exists.'
'Lewis has a cottage in a village called Lochart where Sturgeon appears to know somebody? It's not much!'
'Where Sturgeon appears not to know somebody. Remember that Harry Lauder, or whatever his name was, denied the existence of an Archie Selkirk.'
Dalziel whistled a few bars of 'Roamin' in the Gloamin', ending with a scornful discord.
'And there was the other man, Atkinson, also with a Lochart number.'
'Oh? Have you tried ringing it?'
'Not yet. I thought I'd check with Lauder first.'
'Go ahead,' commanded Dalziel waving at the phone on his desk.
He's hooked, thought Pascoe. It's a bit early yet for him to admit he likes the taste, but the bait's been swallowed.
'And there's another connection,' said Pascoe as he waited for his call to be put through.
'Yes?' said Dalziel, who had removed his left shoe and was scratching the sole of his foot on the corner of his desk.
'They were both burgled.'
'So they were. But so were a dozen others. You're not seriously suggesting that Lewis wasn't killed by laddo, but by someone else who had it in for him personally?'
'I don't know, sir.'
'You realize there's only one guy to date who might connect the two things. And that's your mate, Sturgeon. What's the theory then? He wants to do for Lewis, so lies in wait for him at his home, beats him to death, then makes it look like a housebreaking along the same lines as happened to him? Did he strike you as being the super- criminal type?'
'On the contrary,' said Pascoe. 'But men do strange things when. .. hello! Sergeant Lauder? Look, it's Sergeant Pascoe again, Mid-York… PASCOE, yes. We spoke earlier. No, it's not about Archie Selkirk again. No. John Atkinson. What's that you say?'
Some impediment on the line suddenly cleared and Lauder's voice came through loud and as clear as his accent would permit.
'No. There's nae such creature, Sergeant Pascoe. What is it that's making ye think all the missing persons in Yorkshire are coming here to Lochart? We're just a wee village, ye ken. Are ye no' mistaking us for Glasgow, mebbe?'
Dalziel took the phone from Pascoe and held it close to his lips.
'This is Detective-Superintendent Dalziel here, Sergeant. Let's not waste public money. Just answer the questions. Right? Lochart 269, whose number's that?'
'Good evening to ye, Superintendent Dalziel. You're no' from these parts, are ye? If it was a Dalziel you were seeking after, I could lay my hands on a dozen. They seem to be very thick about here.'
Too true anywhere, thought Pascoe, keeping a straight face with difficulty.
'Now, 269. Well, that's easy. It's the hotel. The Lochart Hotel. It's very comfortable, I believe.'
'I'm not bloody well going to stay there!' roared Dalziel. 'Listen, I'm interested in a man called Atkinson, John Atkinson, who may have stayed there in the recent past. I don't know how recent. Now if without causing too much
