'That's right,' said Wield. 'He's keen to talk to you. He's on his way and he'll see you here at twelve-thirty. Unless you're held up.'
'Yes,' said Pascoe slowly. 'You know Sergeant, perhaps I should call in at Eltervale Camp rather than ring them. The Army tends to be a bit protective about its own.'
'Yes, sir,' agreed Wield. 'Face to face is best. And you'd have to go quite near The Duke of York, wouldn't you? To reach the camp, I mean.'
'So I would. Good. You'll know where to get me, then.'
'Unless Sammy Ruddlesdin asks, I will,' grinned Wield.
'Sergeant, you're a darling man. By the way, did you send Seymour and Hector off to the recreation ground?'
'Aye,' said Wield. 'And I've heard nothing since. Hector's likely got lost, and Seymour will have found himself a bird to chat up. What's it all about, sir?'
He sounded disapproving and Pascoe said airily, 'Could be something or nothing, Sergeant. See you later!'
As he left, Wield shook his head sadly. Something or nothing! He much admired Pascoe, but there was no getting away from it, sometimes the young inspector did get his head full of daft notions.
Though in this case, Wield, who was a man of considerable sensitivity beneath his harsh and rugged exterior, wondered how much Pascoe's present 'hunch' wasn't just a mental space-filler, delaying him from admitting just how upset he really was by Dalziel's spot of bother.
The Sergeant's stomach rumbled. No Duke of York for him, but he had been relying on Seymour's return so that he could slip away for a quick snack. Where was the man? Chatting up a bird, he'd suggested to Pascoe. Wield's inner sensitivity did not extend to forgiving DC's who kept him from his food while they chatted up birds.
He chewed on the end of his pen and planned reprisal.
The Sergeant's suspicions about Seymour were to some extent justified, but not in every particular. Women delayed him, but only in the way of duty.
Castleton Court where the late Thomas Arthur Parrinder had lived was a block of local authority retirement flats, in no way an old people's home, though there was on the site a widower in his early sixties who had undertaken the job of warden, which meant for the most part channelling complaints to the Housing Office and responding to the flashing lights and sounding bells which meant a tenant was in trouble.
The warden was called Tempest, a thick-set ex-miner who took his new duties as seriously as he'd taken his old. His cheerful face was shadowed as he let Seymour into Parrinder's flat.
'He were a good lad, Tap. That was what everyone called him, from his initials I suppose, though some says it was because when he was down on his luck with the hosses, he'd be tapping anyone he could for a bob or two. Well, I never knew it; a good lad, spry and lively and right independent. Mebbe a bit too much. Makes a change from them as is never off your back, but there's a happy medium.'
'What do you mean?' asked Seymour.
'Well, look at this,' said the Warden. 'See these alarm switches on the wall in every room? They set off the light and the bell outside the door. See how they've got cords reaching down to the floor? Idea is, if anyone has a fall, he can still pull the switch, right? Well, look at this.'
He opened the bathroom door.
'See. There's the switch, but where's the cord? They take 'em off! Afraid they might pull it by accident instead of the light cord, see, and I might come rushing in and find them in the bath or on the pot. It's daft, really, but that's folk for you.'
Old Deeks could've done with one of those, thought Seymour. But likely he'd have been the same and put it out of action.
'One old lady,' continued Mr Tempest, leading him back into the small but comfortably appointed living-room, 'set her alarm off once by accident, she were so embarrassed, next thing I knew, she'd taken the fuses out so the bloody thing wouldn't go off at all! Can you beat that, eh?'
Seymour who was still young enough to feel immortal shook his head in general bewilderment at the vagaries of age and studied the room. Television, two armchairs, low table with transistor radio, glass-fronted cabinet with the remnants of a good tea-set, not much of a reader but a pile of old Dalesman magazines and not so old racing papers by the fireplace.
'He was a racing man, you say?' he said with the approval of one who shared the interest.
'Oh yes. Waste of time and money if you ask me,' said Tempest, insensitive to Seymour's enthusiasm. 'Not that he went over the top, I'm not saying that. He always kept it within bounds as far as I could see. I suppose it's a hobby like any other.'
'Any family?'
'Daughter in Canada, I think. No one closer, not as comes to see him anyway. His wife died fifteen years ago. He was the only man by himself in this block, the rest is all widows. Gentler sex, they say. I don't know about gentler but they're certainly tougher! I used to have a laugh with him about it. He said it was like most chances in life – came too bloody late!'
'I know the feeling,' said Seymour with the insincerity of the young. 'Any particular friends?'
'I don't know about his own mates – certainly he didn't get many visitors. Among the old girls? Oh, there's two or three he's quite thick with. They play cards for pennies and they like a flutter on the gees. Tap'd put it on for them. There's Mrs Campbell in 24, nice woman, full of life, takes care of herself – you know, hair-do's, make- up. Could pass for fifty. I often wondered if Tap had chanced his arm there! Then there's Mrs Escott at 28. She was probably the closest, only, last six months or so, she's started going.'
'Going?' said Seymour. 'Where?'
'Upstairs,' said the warden significantly. 'SD. Senile dementia. It's just on and off at the moment, but once they start that game, there's no road back. I've seen it too often. They get muddled and start wandering, mentally and physically. In the end they can get to be a menace to themselves. And everyone else. Turn the gas on, go out without lighting it, that kind of thing. It's early days yet for Mrs Escott, but she's going, poor dear. I've had a word with her son. He says he's noticed nowt, but he’s noticed all right. Trouble is, with the telly and everything, people are getting wise these days.'
'Wise to what?' inquired Seymour, to whom all this was literally as well as figuratively territory antipodean, his two surviving grandparents living close to their eldest son, Seymour's uncle Andy, in New Zealand.
'The old folk problem,' said the warden. 'People live a long time these days. Trouble is they don't stay young longer, they stay old longer. It's when they start needing looked after, either because they can't get about any more, or because they're into SD, that the bother starts. I see it coming on, I just pass the word to the social workers. They start working at the relatives to take the old people to live with them. They say it's best for them. Well, maybe. It's certainly best for the local authority. Once you get an elderly relative being looked after in your house, you've got a hell of a job to get shut of him! There's not the hospital beds, you see. The authority just doesn't want to know. But now folk are getting wise, they've seen it on the telly, old folk don't come home to die any more, they come home to live and be a worry and a bother and a burden for years maybe.'
'So what happens?'
'If no one takes 'em in, the authority's got no choice. But you've got to be really hard not to take your old mam or dad in just for a couple of weeks, haven't you? Hello, Mrs Campbell. Here's a nice young bobby for you to dazzle. Always said you were a bobby-dazzler, didn't I?'
Mrs Campbell who had appeared with a shopping basket was a great relief to Seymour. All this talk about senile dementia had filled him with foreboding, and it was a pleasant surprise to see this bright-eyed, handsome woman in an elegant fur coat and a truly remarkable hat which seemed to be composed entirely of orange feathers. She gave him a cup of tea and in the round, confident tones of the middle class expressed her great distress at the sad news about Tap Parrinder.
'Such a nice man. So independent, and good with his hands too. It's so nice to have a man about the place, Mr Seymour, someone you can turn to if you need something lifted or fixed. Mr Tempest, the warden, is very obliging, of course, but he's not the same as a real neighbour, if you know what I mean. I do hope we get a replacement as nice, and preferably another man. We do seem to be rather top-heavy with females, I'm afraid. Not that I'm complaining, Mr Seymour. I never anticipated finishing my days in council accommodation, but to tell you
