that the words came out of his slant and ugly face like a ritual chant through a primitive devil-mask.
Pascoe put the unkind thought aside as best he could, which was not very well. His resentment at being called out had not as yet been assuaged by explanation. Wield had been even more economic of words on the phone and when Pascoe had hinted a complaint shortly after his arrival at 25, Welfare Lane, in the middle of a Victorian terrace which even Betjeman might have hesitated to save, the Sergeant by the flicker of an eye inside the devil-mask had underlined the inhibiting presence of Constable Tony Hector.
PC Hector had been the first officer on the scene and was therefore a potential source of illuminating insights. Unfortunately he was to Pascoe the last person he would have wished first. His principal qualification for the police force seemed to be his height. He was fully six feet six inches upright, though at some stage in his growth he had reached a level of embarrassment which provoked him to shave off the six inches by curving his spine forward like a bent bow and sinking his head so far between his shoulders that he gave the impression that he was wearing a coat-hanger beneath his tunic. He was one of a trio of young constables whom Detective-Superintendent Dalziel had unkindly nicknamed on their arrival two months earlier Maggie's Morons, suggesting that their recruitment into the force was more the result of Mrs Thatcher's economic policies than a natural vocation. Twice already Pascoe had had occasion to see Hector in action and Dalziel's judgment had still to be refuted. But Pascoe was a kindly, sympathetic man and had not altogether given up on the youth.
'Tell me about it,' he now invited the constable.
'Sir?' – with a puzzled note.
'About what happened. Tell me what you found when you got here,' said Pascoe slowly and distinctly to make sure he was heard above the inappropriately loud din of a television set coming from the house next door.
'Oh, yes, sir,' said Hector, producing his notebook and coughing discreetly behind his hand. 'I came on duty at six P.M. on Friday, November…'
'No, no,' said Pascoe. It was, of course, Hector's fondness for the orotund constabulary style which had driven Wield so far towards telegraphese. 'From when you got here. And in your own words, please.'
'These are my own words, sir,' said Hector, brandishing his notebook with the beginnings of indignation.
'Yes, I know. But you're not in the witness-box. I mean, just talk to me as you'd talk to your… to your…' Pascoe tailed away helplessly. Friends? Father? However he ended his sentence it was going to sound ridiculous.
'Self,' interposed Sergeant Wield. His eyes met Pascoe's and the Inspector had to resist an urge to giggle, an urge he quelled by recollecting that a particularly unpleasant murder had occurred a few feet above his head not very long before.
The thought also made him feel guilty about his sense of grievance at being called out.
Am I getting callous, or what? he wondered.
'Go on, son,' he said to Hector.
'Well, sir, when I got here, I found Mrs Frostick and a lot of other people…'
'Hold on. Who's Mrs Frostick?'
'Mrs Frostick is Mr Deeks's daughter, sir. Mr Deeks is the deceased, of this abode.'
Pascoe looked sharply at Hector, hoping to see the gleam of intelligent life in his eyes which would mean he was sending him up. But all was earnest blankness.
'And these other people? Who were they?'
'Neighbours mainly, I think, sir.'
'Think? You've got their names and addresses, haven't you?'
Hector's head sank a little further between his shoulders. Perhaps it was fully retractable, like a tortoise's.
'Some of them, sir,' he said. 'It was all a bit confused. A lot of people had come rushing in when Mrs Frostick called for help…'
'Called? You mean, literally, called?'
Again the blank yearning after understanding.
Wield said, 'There is a telephone, as you saw, sir. But Mrs Frostick seems to have been a bit hysterical and after she found her father she ran out into the street, yelling and banging at neighbours' doors.'
'Neighbours' doors? Several doors? So there would have been several neighbours? And also anyone casually strolling by who might have been attracted by the commotion?'
'It's a nasty night, sir,' said Wield. 'Not many pedestrians, I shouldn't think.'
'No. Well, all these people, some of whose names you have, what were they doing?'
'Some of them were upstairs with the deceased…'
'Was he, by then?'
'Sir?'
'Deceased.'
Another inch of retraction.
'He didn't look good, sir.'
'The murdered man did not look good,' murmured Pascoe, tasting the phrase with a kind of sad pleasure. 'So, some were upstairs. Some I presume were downstairs…'
'Yes, sir. Comforting Mrs Frostick, making her cups of tea, and that sort of thing, sir.'
'In the living-room, was that?'
'Mrs Frostick was in the living-room,' said Hector, screwing up his face in search of preciseness. 'The tea was being made in the kitchen. That's where the oven is, so they'd have to make it there. Mr Deeks was on his bed, in his bedroom. There's only one bedroom, at the front. The other bedroom's the bathroom. Converted.'
Keen to spot glimmers of hope, Pascoe said with the same approval as if he'd been talking about Castle Howard, 'You've got the geography of the house sorted, then.'
The head emerged a little and Hector said, 'Yes, sir. Well, it's just like my Auntie Sheila's in Parish Road round the corner, except that she had a bathroom extension built out over the wash-house in the yard.'
'An extension? Excellent!' approved Pascoe. 'To return to Welfare Lane, what did you do when you got here?'
'Well, I had a look around, sir, then I went outside to call for assistance.'
'I see. You had a look around. And what did you see? I presume you saw something?'
The blank was shot through with agony now, the agony of not asking, 'Like what?' Pascoe looked at him wriggling, wished he could unhook him and throw him back, sighed and said, 'You say you went outside to call assistance.'
'Yes, sir. I thought reception would be better and it were a bit crowded in the house with all them people,' complained Hector.
Pascoe gave up. It was clear that like the useless lamp-post he resembled, the young constable was not going to cast any useful light.
'Thanks, Hector,' he said. 'That'll do for now. Stop on the front door, will you, and help keep the sightseers away. Oh, and I'll want a list of everyone you found in the house when you arrived. Heads of families will do where you didn't have time to make a comprehensive census.'
Looking puzzled, relieved, and also slightly disappointed, Hector departed.
Wield and Pascoe exchanged glances.
'Well, at least he was pretty quickly on the scene,' defended Pascoe, compensating for his final sarcasm.
'Yes, sir,' said Wield stolidly. 'He was just in the next street when the call went out. Having a cup of tea at his auntie's, I suspect.'
'You'd better tell me everything, Sergeant.'
And with the look of one who had been expecting to do no less ever since he found PC Hector on the scene, Wield began.
Dorothy Frostick, now being treated for shock in the hospital to which she had accompanied her father's body, had become alarmed when her attempts to telephone the old man had been unanswered earlier in the evening. On arrival at the house, she had discovered him in his bath, bruised and bleeding. Unable to lift him out singlehanded, she had run outside, half hysterical, and roused the neighbours to help.
Principal among these, Wield had ascertained on arrival, was Mrs Tracey Spillings of No. 27, next door, where
