'Aye. Can't you just see him standing up in court with a black armband and bags beneath his eyes? They'll be mopping out the jury box.'
Pascoe took a deep breath.
'You haven't charged him then?'
'No. I'll leave it now till we see which way his missus decides to fall. Any road, I said I'd let you see Sandra first. Which reminds me, Acornboar Mount's a funny road to the Westgate Estate.'
'I'll go there tonight instead,’ parried Pascoe.
'Good. But tread careful, Peter. Remember, they're nice people too. You're apt to be a bit heavy-handed on occasion. Hello! You still there?'
'Yes,' said Pascoe.
'You should breathe a bit louder. Take care now. Cheerio!'
The Westgate Estate was a living history of local authority domestic architecture of the twentieth century.
The first group of houses belonged to the twenties. The windows were small, but the brick was good and had weathered well, and they all had quite substantial gardens separated by privet hedges of considerable maturity. Built in blocks of three and four, they had a closer relationship with the agricultural cottage than the urban back- to-back.
Next came the thirties and now the suburban villa was the model. The roofing had changed from black slate to red tiles, the upper storeys were pebble-dashed and there had been some attempt at stylistic variation. This part of the estate had won a prize at the time, Pascoe recalled reading, and when you compared it with the immediately post-war development, you could see why; lines of barrack-like houses faced with the kind of roughcast on which new paint only looked new for a couple of months till the rain beneath the narrow eaves stained and darkened it once more.
More recent development, still continuing, was trying hard to balance speed and economy with environmental concern. It wasn't Acornboar Mount but it was good housing.
Burkill lived in the oldest part of the estate. The house was in darkness and after banging at the door for a couple of minutes, Pascoe decided he was out of luck. The Burkills were probably down at the Club and Sandra had gone out with friends.
He recollected that the Heppelwhites lived next door and recollected also that some of the pressure under which Emma Shorter had so horrifyingly cracked had come from Clint. At least he had assumed it was Clint last night, though at Shorter's insistence he had let the matter slide. Now suddenly he wanted to be certain. He wanted to be able to tell this pair, father and son, to their faces that their vicarious rage and retributive action had probably killed a woman.
No, that was too strong, far too strong. Women like Emma didn't crack overnight or even in a couple of days. There must have been longer, steadier pressures. Such as? God! he laughed grimly. You didn't have to look far. Not if Shorter was screwing his nurse and Emma knew about it. Knew the marriage was on the rocks. Money too, perhaps. OK, he lived on Acornboar Mount and everyone knows that all dentists have Swiss accounts packed with gold fillings. But Pascoe had learned by hard experience that there's no art to read a man's bank balance in his public face.
So, dilute the anger a bit. But they'd helped to put Emma Shorter in hospital or worse, no doubt about it. And with Dalziel poised to charge the man, the publicity threat no longer applied.
He went up the path.
Burkill's front garden had been neat enough, a square of rough lawn with narrow, empty borders. It was the garden of a man who had little time to care about gardens, but sufficient community pride to reject a wilderness. Heppelwhite's small rectangle was a different matter altogether. The few square yards of lawn were as lushly green and as precisely swathed as Shorter's half-acre or Blengdale's half-dozen and the scalloped borders were full of the flowers of spring, crocuses and daffodils, narcissi and tulips, in regimented profusion.
Burkill's front door had retained the original cast-iron knocker, but here there was a bell-push which filled the air with a melodious three-tone chime. A pause, then the door opened.
'Good evening, Mr Heppelwhite,' said Pascoe.
Charlie Heppelwhite didn't look as if he agreed. He also gave no sign that he was contemplating letting Pascoe into his house.
'Who's there, Charlie?' demanded his wife from an inner room, her voice easily drowning the manic chatter of some television compere.
Heppelwhite called back, 'It's all right, Mother, ‘and now motioned Pascoe to enter, having decided that this was the lesser of two evils. He didn't quite put his finger to his lips and make shushing noises, but Pascoe found himself almost tiptoeing as he followed the long gangling figure into the cold front room. Here again was all the evidence needed to indicate a proud do-it-yourselfer. The paint and paper looked as though they had been put on yesterday and the light which revealed all this splendour came from a pseudo-crystal chandelier suspended on a gleaming brass chain. Pascoe knew the crystals were pseudo because they did not tinkle when he walked into them.
'Sorry,' said Heppelwhite. 'The ceiling's not high enough.'
'That's one way of looking at it,' agreed Pascoe. 'I wonder if your son's in, Mr Heppelwhite.'
'Oh, Clint. You want to see him?' Heppelwhite sounded amazed.
'If he's at home,' answered Pascoe.
'Yes, sure. Well, he's down the garden,' amended Heppelwhite. 'He's doing something with his bike. He keeps it in the shed down the garden. Shall I give him a call?'
'No, that's all right,' said Pascoe, thinking it would be useful both to see the bike close up and also to interview the youth away from his parents. 'I'll just chat to him in the shed.'
'Right,' said Heppelwhite. 'I'll show you.'
He led the way out and as they passed the open door of the rear living-room, he stuck his head in and said, 'Betsy, it's Mr Pascoe come to see our Clint.'
Pascoe tried to keep going. He suspected that Heppelwhite's apparent indifference to his reason for wanting to interview the boy would be more than compensated for by his wife. Ahead was a door which opened to reveal a kitchen and, beyond, the back door of the house. But he was not to escape.
'Pascoe? That Inspector? What's he want? Fetch him in here, Charlie,' commanded the voice. And to reinforce the seriousness of the order, the television sound was turned down.
Down, but not off. 'Off' was for deaths in the family, recalled Pascoe from memories of his own family on his father's side (not much referred to by his own family on his mother's side). There was a range of permitted sound level for other events and visitors ranging from almost inaudible for the vicar, non-family deaths, and juicy scandal, to full blast for the insurance man, the rent man, and anything political.
'Police' obviously came almost alongside non-family deaths, and on the twenty-six-inch colour screen a man with the face of a dissipated gnome whispered in manic glee as an old woman tried to jump through a hoop.
Mrs Heppelwhite was not alone. Seated alongside her on the calf-hide sofa was another woman, of an age but not yet thickened into monolith. Pascoe had often remarked the strange process by which northern women of a certain age became their own statues, solid, monumental, larger than lifesize. This one had missed it and, though far from slim, was well proportioned, had shining black, elegantly styled hair and a round, attractive, vaguely oriental face.
'What's our Colin done?' demanded Betsy Heppelwhite, rising menacingly as the reluctant Pascoe was ushered in.
'I just want to talk to him, that's all,' said Pascoe. 'A few questions.'
'What about?' demanded the woman. 'Is it still this business with Sandra?'
The other woman started and Pascoe guessed who she was before Heppelwhite intervened to say, 'Inspector, have you met Mrs Burkill, Sandra's mam?'
'No, I haven't,' said Pascoe. 'How do you do? I just called at your house, Mrs Burkill. I thought I might have a chat with Sandra, if that's all right. But she wasn't in.'
The woman looked surprised.
'She was in when I came round here,' she said.
'Oh, she'll have gone down the chippie,' said Mrs Heppelwhite. 'You still haven't said what you want with our
