'Right again.'
'Starting when?'
Dalziel looked reproachfully towards the club house but Greenall was no longer in view.
'After lunch,' he said. 'What's the food like here?'
'Let's stick to the point, Superintendent. Just what are you questioning these people about?'
'There was a break-in here last night, did your friend not tell you that?'
'Yes. A couple of bottles. Hardly work for one of your eminence, I shouldn't have thought.'
'I look into crimes. You look into gobs. Neither of us can be selective,' beamed Dalziel. 'What's your interest anyway? The Lees are just a pair of gyppos. You don't strike me as a candidate for a bit of rough.'
Ellie shuddered. Peter wouldn't believe this. On second thoughts, alas, yes he would.
'I dislike abuse of power, especially against women,' said Thelma. 'What you're doing here is on the face of it fascist, racist and sexist.'
'Not sexist,' said Dalziel cunningly. 'I'm treating both of 'em the same.'
'I have a friend who is a solicitor. Adrienne Pritchard, you may know her? I shall instruct her to visit your station as soon as may be this afternoon to ascertain the position regarding the illegal holding of Mr and Mrs Lee and to act on their behalf if they so desire.'
'Well, that's settled then,' said Dalziel. 'Grand! I think I will stay here for a spot of lunch. It's not a bad little place, is it? Ladies, will you join me in a drink?'
Thelma Lacewing said coldly, 'As a policeman, you should be aware that non-members are not allowed to purchase drinks on club premises.'
'Is that right?' said Dalziel, placing one huge hand against each of the women's backs and urging them forward. 'In that case, it looks like your shout, lass. Mine's a pint.'
Chapter 14
Mark Wildgoose's flat was in a district of old Victorian terraces where you were more likely to find nests of students than solitary teachers.
Not that he was solitary when Pascoe arrived. Directed up the stairs by a bearded youth with a beatific smile, he arrived on the first floor landing just as a door opened and a girl emerged. She didn't look to be out of her teens. There was a man behind her and she turned to give him a parting kiss. It was an uninhibited affair on her part, almost exhibitionistic, but his eyes remained open and fixed on Pascoe who after a cursory glance at the other two doors had worked out this must be the one.
The girl finished, slipped past Pascoe and flew down the stairs with the lightness of youth and joy.
The man began to close the door.
'Mr Wildgoose?' said Pascoe.
He nodded.
'I'm Pascoe. Detective-Inspector Pascoe. My warrant card. Could we talk?'
Wildgoose studied the card carefully, then ushered him into what must once have been a morning room. Like good bone structure, its dignified proportions had been able to absorb the ravages of age, neglect and even student taste. It contained an unmade bed, a scarred mahogany wardrobe, a couple of dilapidated armchairs, a table with the remnants of breakfast on it, three folding chairs, a washbasin and an electric hotplate. Some makeshift bookshelves, planks on stacks of bricks, were packed to danger point, and an overspill pyramided in one corner.
Bad to heat in winter, thought Pascoe looking up at the leafily corniced ceiling. But at the moment it was warm enough, too warm in fact, stuffy with a rich mingling of smells. He sniffed. Coffee, perspiration, tobacco…
'There is a bit of a fug,' said Wildgoose, flinging open windows. The girl must have looked up as she left the house for he leaned out and blew a kiss. Pascoe could see his face in the pane of glass.
'It's about your allotment, Mr Wildgoose,' he said, and watched the tension come into the averted face.
But when the man turned, there was nothing but alert frankness there.
Small, dark, sharp, mobile, it was a good face for a French singer of disillusioned but not despairing ballads. The children got more of their looks here than from their mother.
'Wasn't that your wife I met yesterday?' said Wildgoose.
'I believe so.'
'Coincidence?' His eyebrows added their own double question mark.
'Coincidence?' echoed Pascoe. 'A funny thing, coincidences. On the other hand, less funny because less rare than many people believe. It's noticing them that's rare.'
'I don't follow.'
'And you an English teacher,' smiled Pascoe. 'That was a coincidence, wasn't it? I mean you actually taught Brenda Sorby, didn't you?'
'Brenda…?'
'Sorby. Choker victim number three. The girl on your allotment was number two.'
'Not my allotment, Inspector. And no, I can't remember teaching a Brenda Sorby, though I'm willing to accept I did, if you tell me so. Is that it? For coincidences, I mean?'
'Not quite. You drink at the Cheshire Cheese, don't you?'
The man sat down in an armchair and lit a cigarette. His face was thoughtful now. He used the smoke as a mask.
'I have done,' he said.
'What about the fairground, Mr Wildgoose? Have you been to the Fair this year?'
'Yes. I always go. I like fairs.
‘When were you there?'
'Last week. Thursday night if you like.'
He smiled and Pascoe felt irritated. But it had been his own idea to start playing this game. He couldn't blame the other for joining in.
'What about lunch-time two days ago? Wednesday, that is?'
'I think I was out walking,' said Wildgoose after some thought.
'By yourself?'
'I believe so.'
'And where did you walk?'
'Oh, here and there. I expect I strolled along the river bank. It's so pretty down there, don't you think?'
'Along the bank, and through Charter Park, you mean.'
'That's where the river flows, Inspector,' said Wildgoose. 'Now, how are we doing for coincidences?'
He doesn't give a bugger! thought Pascoe. He's mocking me.
Yet there had been something there when we started. Where had they started?
'If you don't mind, I'd like to take a look at your allotment, Mr Wildgoose,' he said abruptly.
That was better. The tension had flickered back momentarily.
'It's a stretch of wasteland, Inspector,' he said lightly. 'I haven't bothered much with it this year. In fact, I'm not sure it's even still mine, officially. The rent could be overdue.
‘All the same, I think I'll have a look,' said Pascoe. 'Would you care to join me?'
Wildgoose stood up. His muscles were aggressively tensed.
'Where'd you get my address from, Pascoe?' he asked. 'Have you been talking to my ex-wife?'
'Your wife, surely? There's no divorce yet, is there?'
'Hardly. But there will be, whatever she thinks. Even the law's delay doesn't last for ever these days.'
Pascoe said, 'The law's delay. That's Hamlet, isn't it?'
'I suppose so. So what?'
'Coincidence, that's all.'
Wildgoose laughed and relaxed and pulled on a cotton jacket over his T-shirt which was not the one
