Wield did not hear this, would not have reacted if he had. All his emotion for that day had been spent in a stormy scene in Maurice's Newcastle flat. Their usual roles had been reversed. Maurice, the more effervescent extrovert of the two, had tried to play it cool. Yes, there was somebody else, an interesting young chap who worked in the Borough Surveyor's office. Wield would like him. He was coming to lunch. Why didn't Wield stay on and have a drink and meet him?
And Wield, the calm, controlled, inscrutable Wield, had exploded in a wild, near hysterical fury which had amazed and frightened himself almost as much as it did his friend. He had left and made the normally two-hour journey back in seventy-five minutes. For two hours he had sat in his room examining the new vistas of violence his morning's experience had opened up for him. And finally he poured the tumblerful of whisky which had been standing before him back into the bottle untouched and went to work.
But there was little to do, just routine, nothing happening, no leads developing.
And when at six o'clock Gladmann appeared, full of the marvellous couple of days he had spent with rich and generous friends in their cottage on the coast, Pascoe thrust the envelope with the tape into his hands, said 'Sod it!' out loud, and went home, feeling, as he told Ellie, as if he'd spent the entire Sabbath at a very long and very tedious church service where the preacher's text had been It is vain for you to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of sorrows.
It still felt pretty vain the next morning. Monday mornings normally don't mean much to policemen. If anything, they bring a sense of relief. The incidence of crime shoots up at weekends, much of it petty, it's true, but all of it time-consuming. But this Monday, all the Monday morning feelings they had skipped for so long seemed to be lying in wait for those working on the Choker case.
The papers were full of comment, nearly all critical. An editorial in the Yorkshire Post wondered heretically if it might not be time to ask the Yard for assistance. Dr Pottle telephoned first thing to say that he had been invited to take part in a chat show on television and he wanted to be clear about what he should and shouldn't say.
'He thinks he knows something important?' queried Dalziel incredulously. 'Why hasn't the silly bugger told us, then?'
Pascoe removed the hand which he had pressed very firmly over the mouthpiece and said, 'Mr Dalziel says he can see no reason not to rely on your professional discretion, Doctor.'
'That's kind of him. By the way, have the papers got it right? This man, Wildgoose – you believe the Choker killed him to cover up his latest murder?'
'More or less. How does that fit with your profile?' asked Pascoe.
'Very well,' said Pottle. 'The killing of the girls he can clearly justify to himself. Even a one-off cover-up killing. But a second opens up the possibilities of a third, a fourth, indeed an infinitude. And that, if, as I posit, he is a man of conscience, must be very distressing.'
'What's he say?' asked Dalziel when Pascoe replaced the receiver.
'He says the Choker's probably sorry about killing Wildgoose.'
'Je-sus,' said Dalziel.
At ten A.M. the phone rang.
Wield took it. He looked unusually pale this morning and there were deeper shadows than usual in the canyons of his eyes.
'For you, sir,' he said to Pascoe. 'The Service Children's Education Authority.'
'Probably want their degree back,' muttered Dalziel. 'Obtaining by fraud.'
It was a woman, friendly, apologetic. She introduced herself as Captain Casey.
'Sorry this wasn't dealt with more promptly,' she said. 'But like most government offices, it's difficult to find anyone but half-wits round the place after lunch-time on Friday. I expect it's the same in the police.'
'All the time,' said Pascoe. 'What can you tell me, please?'
'Everything. Or at least all you asked for. Yes, there was a Peter Dinwoodie on the staff of Devon School. He resigned at the end of Summer Term, 1973. He hasn't been employed in any of our schools since. Nor does he seem to have had a job in the public sector in this country. I rang the DES to check. Thought you might like to know.'
'That was kind of you,' said Pascoe.
'Amends for the delay,' said Captain Casey. 'Now, you also asked whether his wife was employed at the same school, Mr Pascoe. No, she wasn't. In fact, according to our records, Mr Dinwoodie was a bachelor when last he worked for us.'
'Bachelor? Not married, you mean?' said Pascoe foolishly.
'I often do mean that when I say bachelor,' she said pleasantly.
'You're certain?'
'Our records are.'
'Well, thank you very much, Captain.'
'Hang on,' she said. 'You also wanted to know if a Mark Wildgoose had ever taught in Germany. The answer is no, definitely not. By the way, I saw that name in the newspaper this morning. A man murdered. Is it anything to do…'
'Thank you, Captain Casey,' said Pascoe firmly. 'Thanks a lot.'
'Oh well. Any time,' she said. 'Before lunch on Friday that is. Cheerio!'
'What was all that about?' asked Dalziel who had been watching Pascoe's reactions.
'More mystery,' said Pascoe.
When he had outlined the call, Dalziel said, 'Yes, well, all right. So he got married later, when he got back to the UK. What about it?'
'There was a daughter,' said Pascoe. 'She was killed in a car crash early this year. She was seventeen.'
He watched as Dalziel deliberately counted on his fingers.
'I'm with you,' said the fat man. 'But so what? He married a widow.'
'I don't think so,' said Pascoe. 'Something the old man said. Agar. It struck me at the time, but I didn't know why. I think I'll have another word with him, if that's OK, sir.'
'It's better than having you wandering around here, being cryptic,' said Dalziel. 'But when the blinding flash comes, I'd like to be among the first to know.'
As though it had been specially ordered for fair fortnight, the fine weather which had begun to break up the day before was now definitely at an end. It was still warm, but in the eastern sky great ridges of violet-tinged cloud blocked out the sun and as he drove slowly by the empty expanse of Charter Park, seagulls driven inland by the still distant storm floated covetously over the heads of the council workmen clearing up the debris. There would be a couple of policemen hovering too in case anything relevant was discovered, but Pascoe reckoned that the seagulls had a better chance.
Heading for Shafton took him directly towards the storm and the air was quite dark by the time he reached the Garden Centre. He had Agar's home address, but he slowed as he approached the Centre and saw that his judgement had been right. There in the rose field was a solitary figure with a hoe, carefully repairing the damage done by yesterday's line of searching coppers.
The old man glanced up as Pascoe approached but did not pause in his work.
'Big feet some of you lads have,' he said, heeling a loosened root into the earth.
'They had to look,' said Pascoe.
'I dare say.'
'Looks like rain,' said Pascoe, falling into slow step alongside him.
'We can do with it,' said Agar. 'But that lot looks like it's going to come down cats and dogs, and any of these plants that're not firmly set can easy be toppled.'
'Well, I won't keep you back,' said Pascoe. 'It was just that last Friday when we talked you said something that didn't really register till later. You said that Mrs Dinwoodie blamed herself for letting her daughter run off to Scotland to be married. Now Mrs Dinwoodie as a widow would be solely responsible for her daughter while she was still a minor. If she agreed to the wedding, why did the girl have to go to Scotland?'
The old man paused.
'I said that? Well, mebbe I shouldn't have. But there's no harm to be done now. The lass, Alison, she weren't Mr Dinwoodie's daughter. No, she used the name, but she weren't his daughter. I knew, but only at the end when there was trouble and I heard 'em talking. Mrs Dinwoodie knew she could trust me.'
