He managed not to sound relieved.
On the drive back, Pascoe stopped by a telephone kiosk, 'to check what my boss wants next,' he explained half grumblingly to Wildgoose.
He stopped a little later to get some cigarettes, then got stuck behind a slow double-decker bus.
'Sorry to have taken up so much of your time,' he said to Wildgoose as he got out of the car in front of the house which contained the flat.
'Always a pleasure,' said Wildgoose. 'Will I see you again?'
'Who knows? Nothing is impossible to coincidence.'
Pascoe watched Wildgoose walk jauntily up the steps to the front door. Then he looked across the street to make sure that there'd been time to carry out his telephoned instructions. Detective-Constable Preece sitting in a dilapidated VW Beetle raised a languid hand. He looked half asleep. Pascoe hoped it was an act.
He drove round the corner and waited. After a couple of minutes the door of the car opened and Preece slid in. He still looked tired.
'OK?' said Pascoe.
Preece passed him a film cartridge.
'I shot off half a dozen,' he said. 'One should be all right. You want me to hang about, sir?'
'Please,' said Pascoe. 'I want to know where he goes, who he talks to.'
'These houses have got a lane running down the back,' said Preece diffidently.
'Sorry,' said Pascoe. 'You're on your own. You'll just have to hope he comes out of the front. Or be in two places at the same time. Do your best. Which is to say, please don't lose him. And Preece. It doesn't bother me if you don't sleep in your own bed. But make bloody sure you sleep in your own time. OK? Enjoy yourself.'
Preece nodded and left. As he walked away he thought, Christ! He may be politer than Dalziel but he's just as fucking impossible!
Pascoe decided to short-circuit normal lines of communication and drive round to the police labs himself. These were a fairly recent acquisition, very up to date and a source of such pride to the Chief Constable that he tended to skirt round the fact that shortage of space in the congested city centre had obliged them to be built some considerable distance from the central police HQ. An efficient shuttle service had been devised and all officers were given strict instructions that this was the only channel to be used.
Thus Pascoe was greeted frostily by the duty officer, a fat, normally jolly man called Harry Hopper.
'You know this is against regulations,' he said.
'Oh Christ. Is it? I'm sorry, Harry,' said Pascoe. 'It's a fair cop then. You'd better complain to my boss. Andy Dalziel, that is. I'll take what's coming to me.'
'There's no need to threaten me,' grumbled the other. 'All right. What do you want?'
'This developed. A couple of prints of each,' said Pascoe, handing over the cartridge. Alongside it, he laid the sack containing the fertilizer. 'And this to be given the treatment. I'll hang on for the photos if it's not going to take too long, which I'm sure it's not. And if you could rustle me up a copy of the lab reports on June McCarthy and on the garden shed she was found in, it'll give me something to look at and stop me getting impatient.'
Hopper went away, returning some time later with the reports and a smile.
'Everyone's very busy,' he said. 'Some stuff had just come in from your Mr Dalziel – for urgent attention, it was marked, but I told 'em if he gets impatient we'll just have to explain that you have priority, was that all right?'
'Bastard,' said Pascoe.
He sat down and studied the reports. At first things looked hopeful. The fibres of fertilizer on June McCarthy's clothing were identified as probably belonging to one of three proprietary brands and one of these was the same as that found in Wildgoose's greenhouse. But a quick glance at the report on the examination of Mr Ribble's shed revealed that there was a bag of the mixture in question stored there. It was both reassuring and disappointing to find that the reports were models of thoroughness. It had been a long shot that such a discrepancy might exist and have gone unnoticed, but such things did happen.
Still, the reports didn't disprove that she might have been in the greenhouse, thought Pascoe, seeking a tortuous comfort. And there was that odd air of a recent clear-out about it. Worth sending a team in to give it the full treatment? Not without Dalziel's say-so, he decided. The press would be on to it like a flash and who knows what kind of shit Wildgoose might be provoked into flinging about.
The photographs arrived. A couple of them, one side, one full face, were good enough to identify Wildgoose from.
'How's it going?' enquired Hopper. 'Getting anywhere?'
'If we are, it's too slow for human perception,' said Pascoe. 'Thanks a lot Harry.'
'A pleasure. But like sex at my age, not one to be repeated too frequently. Here, you might as well take this, it's marked for you. Final report on that last lot of clothes. Pauline Stanhope's.'
Pascoe took the sheet of paper and ran his eyes down it.
'Anything?' he asked.
'Bugger all,' said Hopper. 'It's all wrapped up for next-of-kin as soon as you care to release it.'
Pascoe thought a moment.
'All right,' he said. 'Look, I'm going to be seeing her aunt. I'll take it with me. Better than just having it pushed into her hands by some anonymous bobby.'
He signed for the small bundle of clothes and the box containing Pauline Stanhope's watch and other personal effects.
'Poor kid,' said Hopper. 'I've got one of my own, just turned twenty. They think they know it all, jobs, key of the door, getting engaged next month, but they're just kids still. I wouldn't dare tell her, but she's so bloody defenceless really. I mean, they need protection, Peter. Get this bastard and get him quick, will you?'
'We'll try,' said Pascoe. 'We'll try.' He glanced at his watch. 'But not till after lunch,' he added.
And wondered as he walked away how long it took for protective cynicism to seep to the deep heart's core.
Chapter 15
Pascoe didn't enjoy his lunch.
Using the justification that the road to the village of Shafton outside which the Linden Garden Centre was situated could (with a detour of a mere six or seven miles) be said to pass his door, he decided to surprise Ellie by eating at home.
His sense of injury at finding she was out intensified when he discovered the larder was almost bare.
A piece of antique cheese and a wrinkled apple later, he continued on his way. The deserted appearance of the Garden Centre did not improve his mood.
It was a medium-sized operation, centred upon an old stone-built farmhouse which looked to be in need of repair. There were two long greenhouses abutting on what had once been a byre but was now a garden shop. Two or three acres of land were under cultivation, mainly to rose-bushes plus a few rows of fruit trees and ornamental shrubs.
Even the bright sunshine could not disguise the sense of neglect there was about the place.
Someone was moving behind the house and Pascoe headed in that direction. It was an old countryman with a wheelbarrow in which was a sackful of what looked like bonemeal. He walked slowly past Pascoe, saying out of the corner of his mouth, 'Place is closed.'
'So I see,' said Pascoe, falling into step beside him. 'Who are you?'
The old man didn't answer straightaway. He had a skin as hard, brown and cracked as the sun-baked earth he walked on, and his eyes which were the faded blue of hydrangea remained fixed unblinkingly on his load as though he were walking a high wire.
Impatiently Pascoe produced his warrant card and thrust it under the man's nose.
'Police,' he said.
'I know that.'
