After they had put the youngsters a little distance behind them, Singh heaved a huge sigh of relief and said, 'Thank you very much, Mrs Pascoe.'
Ellie raised her eyebrows at him.
'You remembered me then? A policeman's memory for faces!'
'I hope so.' He hesitated, then went on. 'Them lads back there, they're all right really. There's just nothing to do but muck about all day.'
'Yes, I know,' said Ellie. 'I didn't think I was rescuing you from a lynch mob. Is that why you joined, so you wouldn't have to muck about all day?'
She spoke with real sympathy. Also, while she firmly believed that the same right-wing policies which were creating unemployment were ironically driving young men to join those bastions of the right, the police and the armed forces, as an escape from the dole, she'd found hard statistics difficult to come by. Even one living and personally known example would be helpful.
To her surprise Singh looked somewhat offended.
'Oh no,' he said. 'My dad's got a shop. I could've helped there if I'd wanted. I just thought I'd rather try the police, that's all.'
'Oh,' said Ellie, feeling put in her place. 'And how's it working out?'
'Not so bad. A bit boring sometimes,' said Singh, who was not about to pour his heart out to this DI's wife, no matter how nice she seemed. On the other hand, there was no harm in trying to do yourself a bit of good. 'What I'd really like,' he went on, 'is to get into plain clothes later on. Uniform branch is all right to start with, but it'd be smashing to be working with someone right clever like Mr Pascoe.'
He gave her the full brilliance of his smile, Ellie returned it, genuinely amused.
'I'll not tell him you said that, I promise,' she said. 'I know it'd just embarrass you, and it might go to his head. Well, thanks for showing me the way.'
She halted and Singh was discomfited to see he had been about to walk right past the Chantry Coffee House. It was an elegant bow-fronted establishment, a long way removed in style and price from the Market Caff. No external grime or internal steam masked these velvet-curtained windows, and instead of the pong of frying fat these ventilators exhaled the pungent aroma of roasting coffee. But a glance through the gleaming panes as he went on his way confirmed that one thing was unchanged. Mrs Pascoe's rendezvous here was with the same woman she'd been sitting with in the Market Caff, the woman whose name he now knew to be Mrs Daphne Aldermann.
That the two women should be friendly didn't strike him as odd. Ellie would perhaps have been irritated, though not necessarily surprised, to learn that in Police Cadet Singh's eyes, she and Daphne Aldermann were two of a kind - confident, articulate, middle-class women who'd never have to worry about things like money and manners. He'd thought a lot about Mrs Aldermann since he and Sergeant Wield had visited Rosemont. There'd been more in that interview than met the eye. There was no real epidemic of car-vandalizing such as Wield had described, certainly nothing to justify spending CID time on. Yet Wield had sat there and asked daft questions, and later he'd choked Singh off when he'd suggested obliquely that the sergeant was more interested in the woman than the car.
That Wield might have been more interested in the man than the woman had not occurred to Singh. In his mind, the vandalizing of the car still had to be the starting-point of CID interest and, aggrieved by Wield's attitude, he had read and re-read the initial report by the uniformed officer who'd first gone to the car park, but its straightforward account of the events had been short, clear and unhelpful.
Arriving at the station, he was making his way through the car park to the rear entrance when he saw PC David Bradley leaning against the bonnet of his car, yawning widely. It was PC Bradley and his partner, PC John Grainger, who'd been sent to the multi-storey when the first complaint came in.
'Hello, Dave,' said Singh cheerfully.
'Hello, young Shady,' said Bradley, using the popular corruption of Shaheed.
'Got a moment?' asked Singh.
'I've got till yon idle bugger, Grainger, gets himself out of the locker-room and into this car. What's up?'
'It's about that car vandalizing in the multi-storey on Monday,' said Singh. 'I was reading your report.'
'Oh aye? Something wrong with my English is there, you cocky young wog?'
Singh forced a tired smile. The fact that much of the racialism he had encountered in the Force was amiably or at least humorously intended did not make it any easier to accept. At school it had been simpler. Long familiarity had bred integration and on odd occasions speed of punch had supported it. In the police force he had quickly realized that references to his background from superior officers had to be borne if he was to survive. Complaint within the Force, and even more so outside it, would make his position intolerable. Racial cracks from fellow cadets and lowly constables did not have to be accepted quite as stoically, however. He had a ready wit and a sharp tongue of his own.
He said, 'No, it'll be grand when you start joining up your letters. Listen, though, it was that Mrs Aldermann I wanted to ask them. The one Sergeant Wield's interested in.'
If Singh had hoped to get some hint of the nature of Wield's interest, he was disappointed, though the form the negative took was interesting in its own way.
'Sergeant Wield? What's he got to do with it?'
'Hasn't he been asking questions about her?'
'No. Why should he? What's CID sticking its nose in for? It's all in my report anyway, if you can read, that is.'
'It's a bit hard when you start using all them long words like car,' said Singh. 'What did she say, anyway?'
'Nowt much,' said Bradley. 'We got called in by some old boy who'd found his paintwork scratched. Mrs Aldermann arrived while we were there. She got in her car without noticing the damage. In fact she didn't seem all that bothered when we pointed it out to her.'
'Not bothered?' said Singh. 'Wasn't she annoyed?'
