before last. He was walking slowly as if uncertain where he was. Finally he reached the bench at which Charlie Heppelwhite was working and here he stopped; Heppelwhite turned round leaving a length of wood to be chewed at will by the spinning blade; the two men talked; Burkill emphasized what he was saying with hammer-like taps of his forefinger into the other man's chest; Heppelwhite seemed to be expostulating with him; he made nervous waving movements with his hands; Burkill's face was thrust only a few inches from the other man's; workers at neighbouring benches looked round at them curiously.
Then Blengdale opened the window, leaned out and shouted, 'Burkill! Get yourself up here this bloody instant!'
Brian Burkill looked up. He hadn't shaved that morning. Whether he saw them all or only Blengdale it was hard to say. In fact, thought Pascoe, so stretched and tight was his face with some emotion, it was difficult to tell if he even saw his employer. A fork-lift truck with a load of doors came rolling down the aisle between the machines and benches. There was plenty of clearance, but to those above it seemed as if Burkill jerked away from its approach, instinctively stepping backwards and turning as he did so. Or perhaps he wasn't seeing the truck either.
His shoulder caught Charlie Heppelwhite full in the chest, knocking him backwards. He put out his right hand to steady himself. It rested on the piece of wood he had left in the saw. The pressure of his hand was enough to drive it through the spinning blade like a piece of cheese being split by a wire.
And his hand offered even less resistance than the wood.
For a second there was no noise, or at least no noise other than the whining of machines, the general clatter of work. Something lay on the surface of the bench and a jet of blood pumped from the end of Heppelwhite's arm, striking the whirling saw and fountaining off in all directions. Heppelwhite raised his other hand to his face as though to ward off the spray.
Then someone screamed.
It was Gwen Blengdale, standing next to Pascoe. One gloved hand was in her mouth, her eyes were wide and unblinking as she stared at the scene below.
And now everybody was moving and shouting.
Blengdale went pounding out of the office. Dalziel grabbed the telephone, dialled 999 and tersely gave instructions for an ambulance. Pascoe couldn't move. Gwen Blengdale was leaning against him, her body shaking, her eyes riveted to the scene below. She had chewed the stitching loose from the glove at her mouth.
Heppelwhite had slumped to the ground now, his back against the bench. Blengdale knelt beside him. Workmates hovered around with the helplessness of the unprepared, Burkill had half turned and looked as if he would have moved away from the spot if the press of people had not prevented him. But no press was tight enough to prevent Dalziel from getting through. His tie was off and in his hand. Pushing Blengdale aside he knelt and with swift efficiency applied a tourniquet.
Satisfied with his handiwork, he stood up and looked around.
'Belt up!' he yelled. 'Bloody well belt up!'
The hubbub of talk faded away.
'Switch off them machines!' he commanded next. 'And when you've done that, I want everyone out of the yard. Go on! You're just in the bloody way!'
What a gift for man-management he had! thought Pascoe, his arms round the still throbbing woman.
The workers slowly moved away stunned by the accident and the way Dalziel had spoken to them. Dalziel turned to Blengdale.
'You've got a stretcher? Right, fetch it!'
Blengdale looked for a second as if he was going to give an argument, then set off at the trot. Dalziel looked up at the window and made an imperious gesture of summons. Pascoe tried to ease Gwen Blengdale to a seat, but finding that her unchewed hand was gripping the sill so firmly that he could not prise it loose, he left her to the mercies of the tired typist.
Chivalry was not dead but it went into hiding whenever Dalziel put in a challenge.
Pascoe arrived by the injured man at the same time as Blengdale. The little round man was carrying an old canvas stretcher, a first-aid box and a blanket. He was puffing hard.
As they eased Heppelwhite on to the stretcher, someone cried, 'Dad!' and Pascoe looked up to see Clint Heppelwhite forcing his way against the flow of men going into the yard.
The boy was paler than his father, who looked up at him and essayed a smile.
'All right, lad,' he said. 'All right. Tell your mam… not to worry.'
'Dad, what happened? Oh fucking hell!' gasped the youth as he saw the bloodstains spreading through the rough bandage that Dalziel was winding loosely round the injured hand.
'He'll be fine, lad, fine,' assured the fat man. 'Listen. There's the ambulance. Get him to the door. The quicker he gets to the Infirmary, the better.'
The ill-omened clang of the ambulance bell was coming near. Blengdale picked up one end of the stretcher and Pascoe would have picked up the other if Dalziel hadn't stopped him.
'Clint, you take it, lad,' he commanded. 'You'll want to go to the Infirmary with your dad.'
Uncertainly, the boy took the strain, staggered weakly for a couple of steps, then stiffened his legs and the stretcher moved swiftly away.
'Is that wise?' asked Pascoe. 'He could drop it.'
'Better he has something to do. Listen, someone's got to tell his wife. You know her, don't you? Right, you get round there and get her to the Infirmary.'
'Right,' said Pascoe, moved by his boss's humanity.
'And while you're there, keep your eyes skinned for Burkill.'
'Burkill? But he's here…' said Pascoe, looking around. There was no sign of the man.
'He's long gone. Wouldn't you be? Mebbe he'll head for home. Mebbe not. Depends what's bugging him.'
'Jesus Christ,' said Pascoe. 'You're not saying this wasn't an accident?'
‘I'm saying nowt and you're saying a bloody sight too much. You may have stirred up more shit than you thought last night, so get round there and have a look-see while Mrs Heppelwhite's taking her pinny off. Oh Jesus wept!'
Dalziel was glowering at the bench top.
'They've forgot the bloody fingers!' he said. 'They can fix 'em back on sometimes.'
He unfolded a huge khaki handkerchief, carefully scooped up the red stained flesh and handed the bundle to Pascoe.
'Give it to the ambulance driver on your way out,' said Dalziel. 'Go on. Move!'
Pascoe looked down at the grisly package, looked up to the office window where he could see quite clearly the staring eyes and set face of Gwen Blengdale and the fatigued indifference of the young typist, turned away and set off at the trot after the stretcher.
Chapter 21
There was a Panda-car parked outside Heppelwhite's house. On the doorstep stood Betsy Heppelwhite confronting a uniformed constable. Pascoe's first thought was that his mission was being performed for him and he felt the usual human mingling of relief and disappointment at not being the first with bad news.
Then he realized that it would have been almost impossible for the constable to have got there before him; and in addition they formed a tableau which didn't fit the thesis. The constable was doing the listening, nodding his head sagaciously from time to time, while the woman spoke volubly, square jaw falling and rising like a steam hammer. Her arms were folded firmly as a shelf for her heavy bosom which at regular intervals she heaved gently upwards in time with little jerks of her head towards the house next door.
They both recognized him at the same time and when he asked, 'What's up?' they both started answering, but the constable quickly abandoned the uneven struggle.
'It's her next door,' said Betsy. 'Deirdre. I went down to the shops about half ten and I gave her a knock to see if there was owt I could fetch her. There was no answer and milk was still on the step. So I went off. When I
