'I don't know. I haven't looked yet,' said Pascoe. 'Ellie, what about college?'
Ellie lectured in what was now called an Institute of Higher Education. This incorporated the remnants of the college where Pascoe had re-met his former university friend during an investigation some years earlier. The college had started as a tiny teachers' training establishment in the 'fifties, blossomed in size and variety of course during the expansive 'sixties and early 'seventies, then been hit by the decline of both economy and birthrate during the later 'seventies and early 'eighties. Now the delightful rural site had been abandoned, the high-flying academic courses phased out, and the remnants of staff and students sucked into this resoundingly named but hollow centred institute based on the former technical college in the city centre. Clogs to barefoot in one generation was how the cynics described it. Ellie had returned there after maternity leave in September and was far from happy with conditions, courses and many of her colleagues. To be made redundant with a moderate settlement would have been easy and she was certainly tempted. But, as she had put it to Pascoe, 'The bastards are so obviously keen to be shot of me that I may just stay on for ever!'
Now she said dismissively, 'I've got nothing important till the afternoon and I'll have to cancel that. Peter, I think this has made up my mind about college for me.
Suddenly it all seems so inconsequential. I'm neither valued nor valuable there. I think I'll tell them to stuff it. After all, a wife's place is in the home, isn't it?'
'Good lord!' exclaimed Pascoe. 'You've been seeing Andy Dalziel behind my back, haven't you!'
They talked a little longer. Ellie asked after Pascoe's day and he replied noncommittally, even though he suspected she would regard his decision not to off-load his own depression at this juncture as typical masculine egotistic role-playing.
Still, even without the relief and even with the addition of Ellie's depressive news about her father's condition and her delayed return, he derived much ease of spirit simply from talking to her.
It didn't last long. The phone rang again as he replaced it.
It was Sammy Ruddlesdin. Having avoided him by design at lunch-time, Pascoe had managed to avoid him more or less by accident for the rest of the day.
'Inspector Pascoe!' he said. 'You know, I never thought of trying to get you at home before this. Perhaps I should have started here!'
'I'm just back, and I'm just about worn out,' said Pascoe. 'So make it quick. I doubt if there's anything I can add about the Deeks case to what's appeared in your evening edition, except perhaps balance.'
This was sharper than he'd intended after the DCC's admonitions, but he did have strong feelings about being pestered in his own home, even though tonight it felt more unhomelike than he'd ever known.
'Thanks, but it's not Deeks; well, not primarily,' said Ruddlesdin. 'In fact, it's hardly a professional matter at all. More personal curiosity, that's all. I believe you and Inspector Headingley went along to The Towers and spoke with Mrs Warsop today?'
'Look,' said Pascoe. 'I really can't say anything about that. I just drove George Headingley there, that's all.'
'But you were present during the interview?'
'Sammy, if you care to come and see me in the morning, before or after church, as you will, I'll be glad to talk about the Deeks murder investigation. Shall we say ten o'clock?'
'Hold on just a moment, please,' pleaded Ruddlesdin. 'All I wanted to learn from you is the magic words.'
'Sorry?'
'The magic words that you or George Headingley used to change Mrs Warsop's mind. The close sesame! In other words, why is it that last night when I spoke to her she was adamant that she'd seen Mr Dalziel driving away from Paradise Hall, and yet by this evening when I spoke to her again, she was suddenly doubtful. The weather was foul, the visibility poor, the distance great, and perhaps after all it wasn't Dalziel who got into the driving seat. Now why should this be, Mr Pascoe? As a humble seeker after knowledge, I should really like to know why!'
Chapter 14
'Let not poor Nelly starve.'
Determined that any further hints of delay should be dealt with at source, Pascoe himself called on Dolly Frostick to take her to her father's house on Sunday morning.
'We've got a car. I'd have fetched her,' protested her husband as though his virility had been slighted.
'It's in the public service, why should you pay for the petrol?' said Pascoe expansively.
He would have preferred Mrs Frostick by herself but there was no way of barring her husband from getting in beside her.
At the house, he escorted the woman quickly through the living-room, kitchen and bedroom, to get her adjusted to the evidence of ransacking. Not that it was bad; there'd been no deliberate vandalization; but the police examination for traces of the intruder hadn't exactly improved matters and he knew from experience how distressing these moments could be. Dolly Frostick went pale and very quiet but seemed to be holding together well enough.
Downstairs again, he said, 'Good. Now what I'd like you to do, Mrs Frostick, is go round everywhere very carefully, telling us anything you think has gone missing, anything that's been disturbed or shifted.'
There was a banging on the front door which admitted straight from the street into the living-room.
Pascoe opened it. Tracey Spillings stood there, crowding out, without difficulty, the attendant constable. ‘Hello, Dolly,' she said. 'There's a pot of tea next door when you're done here.'
'Thanks, love,' said Mrs Frostick. 'I shan't be long.'
In the event, she was optimistic. Pascoe tried to keep the atmosphere brisk and businesslike, but he knew he was up against forces stronger than anything his own personality could conjure up. Every drawer or cupboard she opened, she was looking into memories; with every relict of her father's day-by-day existence she came across, she was hearing reproaches. Frostick against all expectation proved a godsend, comforting, directing, diverting, and by the time they had finished, Pascoe had forgiven him everything.
The list of missing items was not long. A small transistor radio, half a dozen campaign medals (Deeks's own from the Second World War and his father's from the First) and a pewter-cased pocket watch with a gold sovereign welded on its chain.
'He always said that was to be Charley's,' said Mrs Frostick in a low voice. 'That and the medals. He wanted him to have the medals.'
'He'll be able to win his own now, won't he?' said Frostick. 'Come on, love. Don't fret. Your dad always wanted Charley to join up, you know that. He knew it would mean Charley going away, but he knew it was best for the lad too. Just think, love, you'll be seeing him soon, and he'll tell you for himself.'
His effort to dilute his wife's grief by the reminder of her son's imminent return failed miserably. Mrs Frostick gave out a half-choked sob and Pascoe got in quickly, saying in his best official voice, 'Now, Mrs Frostick, think hard. Was there anything else you noticed down here, anything unusual?'
She looked around helplessly, then pointed through the open living-room door into the kitchen and the broken pane above the outside door.
'I can't think what he was doing leaving the key in that door. He never used to do that. Whenever he locked the door, he always used to put it on the kitchen table. That was one thing he was most particular about. But he was failing, I knew he was failing, mebbe if we'd paid more heed…'
She looked pleadingly at her husband but he interpreted it as reproach and said defensively. 'He wanted to be on his own, Dolly, you know that. And he might have been particular about not leaving the key in the door, but he was daft enough to keep a spare hidden in the wash-house, so where's the difference?'
'In the wash-house?' said Pascoe. 'Can you show me?'
Leaving his wife in Wield's care, Frostick led him outside and opened the wash-house door, pointing to an old-fashioned boiler.
'In there,' he said.
Pascoe lifted the lid. Among a pile of rubbish he found an old tobacco tin. In it was the spare key.
