'Are you going inside?' asked the gateman.
The fat man stood there undecided. A blue Mercedes drew up alongside the kerb and the electrically operated window slid silently down.
'Andy!'
Dalziel went across to the car.
'Hello,' he said.
It was Bernard Middlefield JP, not a man he cared for all that much, but a friend to the police who needed all the friends they could get these hard days.
'Thought it was you,' said Middlefield.
'Well, you wouldn't think it was Fred Astaire,' said the fat man.
'What brings you round these parts? That poor girl, is it?'
'Sort of. What about you Bernard?'
'Me? That's my works next door,' said Middlefield in a pained voice.
'So it is,' said Dalziel, looking towards the long single-storied brick and glass building. 'You didn't know her, by any chance, did you, Bernard?'
'The dead lass? No. But I see enough of them. What a sample you get in this place! It's like the flight out of Gomorrah when the hooter goes.'
'Oh aye. Aren't yours the same?'
'No. I employ skilled labour! Electrical assembly's a lot different from canning peas. Why don't you come in, have a cuppa and a look round?'
‘Too busy, Bernard, thanks all the same. How's Jack? Business OK?'
'Fine, both fine. Will I see you at the Mansion House tomorrow?'
The High Fair holiday fortnight traditionally ended with a civic luncheon on the last Saturday, a custom some ratepayers thought might be more honoured in the breach.
Dalziel shook his head.
'Pity. It's usually a good do. By the way, I hope your lot are going to clamp down on those tinkers a bit more promptly this year.'
'Tinkers?'
'The gypsies. It's always the same. Give some people an inch. Because they've been coming for centuries, we put up with them for a couple of weeks while the Fair's on. But is that enough? Oh no. It was nigh on September when they got shifted last year, and then half of them were back before Christmas. There's no shortage of wet wonders in this town, either, that'd like them to be let stay here permanent. What I say is, they call themselves travellers, well, let them travel. You got the message?'
'Did I? What was that?' asked Dalziel.
'The other day. One of their ponies got loose by the Aero Club, nearly killed me as I was taking off. It's not the first time either. I told one of your men to let you know. A funny-looking bugger. Wouldn't have been out of place in a caravan himself!'
'Aye. I think I did hear something,' said Dalziel.
He glanced at his watch. He was going round to the encampment anyway, but Middlefield didn't know that. There was no harm in making a virtue out of it. There'd come a time when he might want to trade off favours with Middlefield.
'I've got a moment now,' he said. 'I'll look into it myself.'
'Will you? Good man. I knew I could rely on you, Andy. I often say, if men like you and me had the running of this country, we'd soon set it right!'
The Mercedes purred away.
Dalziel raised a hand and smiled after it. Running this country from a kraut car! It took a lot to make him feel liberal, but Middlefield could manage it.
'Get fucked,' said Dalziel.
'Pardon?' said the gateman at his shoulder.
'Not you,' grunted the fat man, climbing into his car.
'Though on second thoughts,' he added as he closed the door, 'why not?'
The Aero Club seemed deserted but as Dalziel was peering through the club house window a voice behind him asked him civilly what he wanted.
Dalziel didn't like to be crept up on and was ready to reply most uncivilly till he turned and saw the man was wearing a tracksuit and gym shoes which explained the quietness of his approach.
'Police,' he said, showing his warrant card.
'About the break-in? I'm Greenall, CFI.'
'Eh?'
'Chief Flying Instructor. To tell the truth,' added the man, smiling slightly, 'the only Flying Instructor. I've got an assistant, Roger Minstrel. But he's away on a course. So I do everything. Including tending bar when our girl doesn't turn up or she's rushed. Will you have something for the heat?'
He had opened the club house and led Dalziel into the bar as he spoke. The fat man's estimate, lowered by the track suit for he despised joggers, rose sharply.
'Nice place,' he said, looking round after he'd reduced the level of his malt by an inch.
'You haven't been here before?'
'There's few places that serve drink round here that I've not been to,' said Dalziel. 'But it's many a year since I was in here. It's been tarted up since then.'
'I dare say. It's the social side that makes money in clubs,' said Greenall. 'Any club. You need to be packed at night to be viable.'
'That doesn't sound as if it makes you happy.'
'I'm a flier,' said Greenall. 'I came out of the RAF and wanted to stay in the flying business. Running discos for teenagers isn't my idea of the flying business.'
'I thought all you lot ended up flying Jumbos, earning millions, and putting the smile on those air-hostesses you see in the ads.'
'I failed my last air-crew medical, that's why I came out,' said Greenall, sipping the grapefruit juice he'd poured for himself. 'They're just as strict at the commercial end. Light planes and gliders is all I'm good for.'
'You look fit enough to me,' said Dalziel, glancing from the fruit juice to the track suit.
'I live in hopes. A bit of jogging, bit of squash. With a bit of luck, I might get back to the real stuff one of these days.'
'You don't like gliders, then?'
'Oh, the gliders are all right. That's something quite different. But the small planes are like getting into a rubber dinghy after you've been captaining a battleship.'
'Still, at least they must go slow enough so that you can see things as you pass.'
'They do that,' agreed Greenall. 'Useful for some kinds of police work, I dare say. Though choppers are better. Still, if you ever fancy a trip, just say the word.'
Dalziel smiled at the unlikelihood of this and finished his drink.
'Let's have a look at the damage?' he said.
Entry to the store-room had been through a forced window, not much more than eighteen inches square.
'Kids, your constable reckoned. They only took a few bottles, about as much as a couple of youngsters could carry. He went along to the gypsy encampment and had a look round, but naturally he didn't get anywhere.'
'Naturally?'
'Well, they're fairly expert in hiding things, I should imagine.'
'You've had some other bother with them, I gather. Or with their livestock.'
Greenall grinned and ran his fingers through his blond hair, looking younger than his forty years.
'You heard about Mr Middlefield? He was very upset. Not that he wasn't right. It could have been very dangerous. It's happened a couple of times, horse straying I mean. But this was the first time there'd nearly been an accident.'
They went outside together and looked towards the distant encampment.
