seemed disappointed I wasn't in the Tower of London. But he told me all about your day.'
Pascoe was touched by the fat man's solicitude for a moment.
'If I'd been Backhouse, I'd have torn you to shreds,' he went on. 'You think this chap Pelman's your man?'
'He could be,' said Pascoe, not wanting to sound too certain of himself.
'Aye. Backhouse seemed none too happy either,' said Dalziel to his surprise. 'Anyway, you've had a hard day. Don't start cutting corners by trying to force everything to fit your own notions. Forget Cowley. Have an early night.'
'I think I might do,' agreed Pascoe.
'You do. You need your rest, sergeant. Sorry, Inspector. Now you've been promoted I suppose I should call you by your first name. The accolade, eh?'
They had come in their own cars. In the car-park Dalziel clapped him on the shoulder.
'Get yourself off home now,' he said. 'Straight to kip. Good night, Paul.'
He strode away powerfully.
'My name's Peter,' called Pascoe after him, but he didn't think he heard.
His plans for an early night did not last long. The phone was ringing when he entered his flat. It was Ellie, who was reacting very differently to the trying events of the day.
'Peter, if your head feels up to it, I'd like to go somewhere nice and bright and noisy, and have a big meal with a bit of music.'
'That sounds like the Dick Turpin,' he said, referring to the biggest and brightest of the night-spots which had erupted locally in the past five or six years as sophistication crept north.
'That'll do,' said Ellie. 'I feel like getting a little bit high.'
The Dick Turpin was booming even this early in the week and they were lucky to get a table. A five-piece band beat its own original trail through the current hit-parade and the small dance-floor was awash with shuddering flesh.
'Let's dance,' said Ellie as they waited for their prawn-cocktails to arrive.
'This is a side of your character you've cleverly kept concealed,’ said Pascoe as he followed her reluctantly to the edge of the arena.
Fortunately after a couple of minutes the musicians either relented or became exhausted and the tempo decelerated to a dreamily slow shuffle. Ellie hung close so that Pascoe was almost carrying her round.
'What happens now, love?' she asked suddenly.
'What do you mean?'
'It's not really over yet, is it? You know, driving home from Thornton Lacey, I half imagined it was. But now I see it's nowhere near. I mean, there's everything still; investigation, trial, appeal; it just goes on. It's only in stories that everything stops when you get your murderer.'
And it's only in stories you can be certain you've got him, thought Pascoe. But he didn't speak.
'I'll never get them out of my mind,' Ellie went on. 'At one moment on that Friday night they were there, all four of them. Happy, a bit tight, certain they had each other. Then bang! it was all gone.'
'Shall we sit down, love?' asked Pascoe.
'No. I like this. I'm OK, I promise. Peter,' she said drawing back a little from him, 'it's made me realize how much I need the illusion of permanence. Let's get married. Or shack up together. I don't mind which, only I suppose being married wins more friends and influences more people in your business. What do you say?'
The band had a quick recovery rate. Without warning they burst into a new chaos of sound and Pascoe would have found it difficult to make an audible reply. But in fact he made no effort to do so.
His attention was fully concentrated on the far corner of the dance-floor. There, his face flushed with effort, eyes gleaming, mouth set in a twisted smile, body snapping back and forth like a rutting ape, was James Cowley.
But it was his partner who really caught the eye, with her long red hair, large sensual mouth and deep-cut dress which concealed hardly a square inch of her breasts as they shook mightily in the exertions of the dance.
Pascoe's first thought was that she fitted perfectly the albeit sketchy description of the woman who sometimes accompanied Lewis to Lochart.
His second thought was that this was not the only reason for her familiarity.
And his third thought which set the jackpot showering into his amazed mind was that beneath the fiery hair, the bright make-up and the clinging dress was the dowdy, retiring personage of the firm's senior secretary, and the better half of Cowley's Scottish alibi, Marjory Clayton.
Pascoe played it very cunning, much to Dalziel's later approval and Ellie's present distress. He escorted her quickly back to their table, picked up their bits and pieces and dragged her away, not without protest, from their approaching prawns.
'There's someone I don't want to meet,' he explained.
'Why? Who? I thought criminals were supposed to hide from the law, not the other way. And what about my dinner?'
'We'll go somewhere else. And the answer's yes.'
'I don't want to go anywhere else. What answer?'
'To your question. Now where shall we go?'
'Oh. In that case, I'm not hungry.'
They had fish and chips in the car a couple of hours later.
Marjory Clayton, back to her Ugly Duckling plumage, was picked up the following morning as she left for work. She was more than happy to go down to the station to help with their inquiries into poor Mr Lewis's death, but shouldn't she let Mr Cowley know she was going to be late? Some of the warmth left her smile when she was assured Mr Cowley was going to be too busy to notice her absence.
And the smile itself disappeared when Dalziel, wearing his most unsmiling expression, greeted her by slamming down a notepad on the table before her and bellowing, 'Right! Quick as you like! I want details of the account where you've got Sturgeon's forty thousand. Every second you waste now could mean a month on your sentence.'
It took two attempts for her to write it legibly.
Pascoe had a tougher job with Cowley who refused to be prised way from his office and very rapidly became very irate. Finally he picked up his telephone and started dialling. Solicitor? wondered Pascoe. But he was wrong.
'I have had more than enough of this badgering and I intend to have a word with your superior,’ snapped Cowley.
'Dalziel,’ said Pascoe.
'What?'
'Mr Dalziel,’ he repeated, and sat poker-faced as Cowley got through with remarkable speed and launched into a not very elegant series of complaints. Finally he finished and with an air of triumph passed the phone over to Pascoe.
'He wants a word with you.'
'Pascoe? Listen, the girl's talking so fast, it's taxing Ferguson's shorthand. The gist is she was in love with Lewis, didn't know he was doing anything dishonest ha! ha!, was happy to do him a favour by banking the money in a little account she had opened in Leeds. She denies any knowledge of Cowley's Selkirk act, but she's lying. She does agree that it might have been a week earlier that they did the accounts last May. Says she could have got mixed up with the Spring Bank holiday and Whit! We've chatted to the Collinwood girl who agrees. She's so thick she'll agree with anything! Bring Cowley in, will you? Give him a fright if you like. Then shut him up till I get back.'
'Sir?''I've got an appointment with Etherege's leg-man, remember? Sorry you won't be able to make it. I'll be back by eleven. Cheers.'
Pascoe put the phone down quietly.
'Right,' said Cowley. 'I'm sorry to have had to do that, but you really must learn
Pascoe ignored him and stood up.
'James Cowley, you are not obliged to say anything at this time, but I must warn you that anything you do
