shirtsleeves, slightly unshaven, and with the haunted look of a fugitive. He regarded Pascoe with the still indifference of a reservation Indian. 'I was looking for the lavatory,' said Pascoe, retreating beneath that haggard gaze.
This had to be Jeff Gregory, hiding here from the family altercation which was distantly audible with the occasional scream of 'Teeny, I want my dinner!' rising above it like the melodic line above the choral patter in a Gilbert and Sullivan song.
'I'd better be on my way,' said Pascoe. 'Goodbye now.'
The man didn't speak.
Pascoe moved swiftly away.
Chapter 15
'Bugger Bognor!'
Detective-Inspector George Headingley was not a man of impulse, nor one who took risks readily.
Let the Pascoes of this world erect airy hypotheses from which to make intuitive leaps; let the Dalziels kick harem doors down and march boldly in, crying 'Stick 'em up!' to the eunuchs. George Headingley would proceed by the book and what wasn't written in the book had better be written and signed by a competent superior. He'd already stepped off this straight and narrow line a couple of times in this current business, most disastrously at the very start when he had spotted Dalziel at the hospital and, instead of heading back to Welfare Lane at the speed of light, allowed himself to become embroiled.
You abandoned a murder case in order to involve yourself with a road accident? he could hear an incredulous voice asking at the Court of Inquiry.
The DCC's approval had been a pleasant thing, he had to admit that. And he had allowed its balmy breath to waft him still further off a strictly official course. But winds could quickly veer, breezes blow up into typhoons.
But what did you imagine you were doing, Inspector? asked the voice in his mind. Investigating a crime? Or covering one up, perhaps?
Following orders, sir, he replied faintly. Whose orders? Did anyone order you to drink four pints of beer with Mr Dalziel at the Paradise Hall Restaurant on Saturday lunch-time? Did anyone order you to interrogate Mrs Doreen Warsop of The Towers in such a way as to make her change her story? Answer, please, Inspector. Answer!
When the DCC had contacted him on Saturday night to ask him what the hell he was playing at, Headingley knew the time had come to get the answer to all these questions firmly on record.
He requested the favour of an interview with the DCC on Sunday morning and this was what he was enjoying as Pascoe drove the Frosticks to Welfare Lane.
'So nothing you said could be taken as covering or inducing Mrs Warsop to alter her story?' said the DCC.
'No, sir.'
'Then why did she alter it?'
'I don't know, sir. I just got a message from her early yesterday evening asking me to contact her. I rang her up and she told me she was concerned that she may have misled me into thinking she was absolutely certain Mr Dalziel had driven out of the car park. Well, she wasn't. It had been very dark and very wet and she'd been a good distance away, et cetera.'
The DCC thought for a moment, then said, 'After this cosy lunch you had at Paradise Hall, Mr Dalziel dropped you back at The Duke of York, you say?'
'Yes, sir.'
'At what time?'
'Half past three, sir.'
'Half past three!' The DCC's tone was precisely that of Headingley's incredulous mental voices. 'And which direction did he drive off in?'
'Sir?'
The DCC said patiently, 'Did he head towards town or turn back along the Paradise Road?'
'I didn't notice, sir,' said Headingley truthfully, but he sensed the continuing doubt in the DCC's gaze.
'Look, sir,' he went on. 'What's the odds? There's two perfectly good witnesses that Mr Dalziel wasn't driving. And one of them's even willing to admit he was driving.'
'How did Charlesworth strike you?' asked the DCC.
'A bit disconnected really,' said Headingley. 'He just states things very flatly as if he's not much bothered if you believe him or not. Mind you, I spoke to him last night after he'd got back from the races. Perhaps he was worn out counting his money! One thing's certain, though. He wasn't drunk. Breathalyser didn't register at all and they confirmed this at Paradise Hall. Nothing but Perrier water all night. Evidently that's all he ever does drinks
'A teetotal bookie,' mused the DCC. 'Perhaps he's too worried to drink!'
He made a note to contact Customs and Excise in the morning to check on their investigation of Charlesworth's alleged betting-tax evasion.
'And of course there's this Major Kassell too,' he said, brightening. 'He seems a reliable kind of chap by all accounts.'
So you've been checking round too, thought Headingley.
'Yes, sir,' he said, and described his encounter with the Major. He'd already given the gist. This time he added the circumstance.
'You say Mr Cruikshank was at the airport?' said the DCC.
'Yes, sir. In case assistance was needed.'
'And was it?'
'No, sir. I checked with Mr Cruikshank later. All clear.'
'No doubt Sir William Pledger would be relieved. And you say that this stand-by at the airport was arranged with Customs via Mr Dalziel?'
'So Mr Cruikshank told me.'
The DCC was silent. He's bothered, thought Headingley. He's not sure if he should have known about this. In fact, he'll be searching his files after I've gone to check if the Chief Constable left him any word about it that he's overlooked! It would be interesting to see how the DCC proceeded. Dalziel's assessment of the man's brain was that it had been fossilized so long that if you opened it up, you'd find dinosaur droppings in it. Headingley did not rate it so low. The DCC was treading a delicate path. To over-react and place Dalziel on suspension while a senior officer from another force investigated would have been stupid. Public accountability was the catchphrase of the moment, but in terms of a policeman's career, internal accountability was what mattered, and no amount of protestation of virtuous intent could compensate for lack of bottle. No, he'd need a lot more evidence of improper conduct before the present gentle investigation of the facts of the matter was formalized.
But it's the poor sod doing the investigation who runs the risks! thought Headingley indignantly. He decided on one last attempt to get things out in the open.
'Look, sir,' he said. 'I'm a plain man, a simple copper, and I like to know what I'm at. What I'm saying, if I get asked, you know, officially, what it is I'm doing, what do I say?'
'For heaven's sake, Headingley,' said the DCC. 'You're doing your job, that's all. It's a simple accident. The driver, who does not deny being the driver, was stone-cold sober. The victim, who cannot give evidence no matter what a tired young doctor alleges he heard, was old, had been drinking, was riding a bicycle in a howling gale on a narrow country road at night. Open and shut. Your function is merely preventive. If the Press, or anyone, should start making waves at the inquest, I want there to be an immediate and informed response, that's all.'
Headingley must have looked so unimpressed by all this that the DCC dropped his irritated tone and added with a real effort at warmth, 'Oh, and George, I shouldn't like to miss this chance of saying how pleased I am that you were the officer on the spot when this unfortunate business blew up. It's not going unremarked, you know, the way you're handling things, rest assured of that.'
A promise? A bribe? Worthless old flannel most likely, thought Headingley gloomily. But at least it emboldened him to make one last request.
