regretted it.
'Because of his vulgar and boisterous behaviour,' she replied with distaste. 'He was extremely loud and he kept on patting the waitress's person, though I must say she did not look the type to be offended. I had no idea, of course, as I observed this behaviour, that this noisy boor was in fact a senior police officer.'
Headingley tried his best, suggesting that a view through a glass doorway into a dark car park could easily lead to error. To which the woman replied that the front of the hotel was very adequately lit and as she had actually stepped outside to take a breath of air in the shelter of the entrance porch, the obstacle of glass did not apply.
A big-boned, open-faced woman came into the room and said, 'I'm sorry to interrupt, Mrs Warsop, but Mr Toynbee's complaining about the soup again, and Cook's busy with the pudding. Could you spare a moment, do you think?'
This was Miss Day, the matron of The Towers, responsible for the health care and social well-being of the residents while Mrs Warsop, officially designated bursar, was in charge of the catering and general maintenance administration. Pascoe sensed the kind of antagonism between the two women which usually manifested itself in delicate and serpentine borderlines between areas of responsibility.
'You would think Mr Toynbee was accustomed to the Dorchester,' observed Mrs Warsop. 'Yes, I'll speak to him. I think these gentlemen are finished?'
'Just one more thing, Mrs Warsop,' said Pascoe. 'Did you see Major Kassell go out into the car park after the other two men?'
She considered. 'No,' she said. 'There were just the two of them. The other man must have remained in the dining-room, I suppose.'
'And how long was it before you finally got away yourself?'
'Five minutes, perhaps,' she said.
'Your friend kept you waiting,' observed Pascoe. 'You were in the same car?'
'Yes. I drove her home, but not along the road which goes past The Towers, if that's what you're wondering. It was more convenient to go in the other direction towards the south by-pass and get back into town that way. I had just returned to The Towers when that newspaperman turned up with his questions. It seemed to be my duty to answer them honestly.'
She stared at Pascoe as if expecting him to challenge this. Then, with a dismissive nod, she left.
'Very efficient lady, that, I should think,' said Headingley.
'Oh yes, she's certainly that,' said Miss Day without enthusiasm. 'Poor Mr Westerman! It's really knocked me back.'
'It must have put a damper on the others too,' said Pascoe.
'The residents? Yes, I suppose so. Though in a funny way, a death often rather bucks them up, as long as they aren't too close to whoever it is!'
She laughed as she spoke. Pascoe grinned back at her.
'How many do you have at a time?' he inquired.
'Oh, we can take up to eighty and we've squeezed a few more in from time to time, especially during the summer.'
'That'll be when the big demand from families comes, is it? Wanting to get away to the Costa Brava without gran?' said Headingley.
'Partly,' she replied. 'Though there's a constant demand for that kind of accommodation all the year round. It's not just people wanting to get away on their own summer holidays, you know. It's people who need a break in their own homes without having the old person on their backs twenty-four hours a day. You've no idea what it can do to people. And it can be very awkward for us at times.'
'How's that?'
'Oh, when it comes to going home time. Sometimes the family ring up and say it's not convenient, could the old person stay here another day or two? Or very occasionally they just don't turn up at all to collect them and when they're contacted, they say that's it, they've had enough, the State can look after them now! But worst of all is the old folk who don't want to go back themselves. That's really heartbreaking.'
She ushered them to the front door and waved them off with the same geniality Pascoe was sure she bestowed on her elderly residents.
As they drove off, Pascoe asked Headingley, 'How was the bike, by the way?'
'Sound as a bell, which it had,' answered Headingley. 'It was the old boy's own, he rode it round town regularly, always insisted on bringing it down here so's he could get to the pub. Good lights, back and front. Good tyres. Steady handbrakes.'
They continued in silence till they saw the sign Paradise Hall Country House Hotel and Restaurant. A smaller notice attached to the ornately scrolled board announced that the hotel was closed until Easter, but the restaurant was open as usual.
The drive wound its way through fields filled with sheep and cattle rather than the lunatics hoped for by the owner of The Towers. Of the original extensive grounds only the neglected formal garden immediately surrounding the house had been retained. The Hall itself was an undistinguished but not unpleasant building, slightly in need of a lick of paint and a spot of pointing. Pascoe had never eaten in the restaurant but had heard mixed reports. Detractors and enthusiasts alike were agreed upon the impudence of its prices and when Pascoe glanced at the luncheon menu standing on the unattended bar, he said in amazement, 'Pissed or sober, there's no way Andy Dalziel'd pay that for a bowl of soup!'
'Doesn't seem likely he was paying, does it?' said Headingley, helping himself to a handful of peanuts.
'Charlesworth, you mean? Or Kassell? I can't see where this guy fits in, can you? Estate manager at Haycroft Grange. William Pledger's shooting parties. It doesn't sound like fat Andy's scene.'
'He's very respectable, that's the main thing,' said Headingley, who wasn't looking for aggro.
'Maybe. But his story doesn't gell with Warsop's, so who's making mistakes? What was he a major in, by the way?'
'The Mid-Yorkies,' said Headingley. 'I looked him up. Got out in 1975. He'd been out in Hong Kong, made some contact with Pledger out there, followed it up, and landed this job.'
'You've been working fast,' admired Pascoe.
'No sweat,' said Headingley complacently. 'There's this lass works on the Council switchboard. She knows everything.'
Pascoe laughed and then said seriously, 'George, what precisely is it you're doing? I mean, how do you see your function?'
'I wish I could be precise, Peter,' said Headingley. 'I'm going through the motions without going through the motions, so to speak. Which is to say, I'm doing a proper job, but mainly, I reckon, so the DCC can say, if he's asked, which he's still hoping he won't be, that yes, of course we've done a proper job of looking into this accident, and here's George Headingley to prove it!'
'Sam Ruddlesdin'll ask,' forecast Pascoe.
'Sam Ruddlesdin's got a boss who might take a wider view,' said Headingley. 'But it's nothing to do with me. I'm just poor bloody infantry. Good day. Would Mr Abbiss be in, please?'
A woman had come into the bar. She was very striking, with jet black hair tumbling over her shoulders and a pale, consumptive pre-Raphaelite face from which huge dark eyes stared like visitors from another world.
'I'm Stella Abbiss,' she said. 'Can I help you?'
Stella and Jeremy Abbiss wish you bon appetit it said at the foot of the menu. Husband and wife, Pascoe assumed. Partners anyway. He settled back to see if nice old-fashioned George Headingley would press for the man.
But Headingley had suffered enough from antagonistic mine hosts that day and he smiled sweetly and flashed his warrant card and said in his best, hushed we-don't-want- to-embarrass-the-customers voice, 'It's just a small matter of clearing up a couple of points regarding the accident last night. You've probably heard about it?'
'The old man near The Duke of York?' she said in a low voice which throbbed like a 'cello string.
She was la belle dame sans merci, Pascoe thought with delight. I shall become obsessed with her. But first I must bring Ellie here to approve. She deserves a good meal. He glanced again at the prices and changed his thought to: She deserves a nice drink. Could that delicious shadow round the eyes be real, or did she put it on with a feather?
