Pascoe explained.
'So that's that,' said Wield. Pascoe sensed an I-could've- told-you-so somewhere in there and perversely replied, 'We might as well let Seymour cross the t's and dot the i's. But by himself. You won't believe this, Sergeant, but Mr Cruikshank actually objects to being deprived of Hector under false pretences.'
Wield laughed and said, 'We're all deprived of him today. It's his day off.'
'What do you imagine he does? Moonlights as a road sign perhaps!' mused Pascoe. 'Is Seymour handy?'
'Should be here any minute. What about us, sir? How long do we carry on here?'
'Tired of the gypsy life, are we?' said Pascoe. 'Not much coming in?'
The function of the caravan was to provide an on-the-spot HQ and also attract local witnesses whose energies or faith in the importance of what they had to say might not take them to the Central Police Station.
'Nothing,' said Wield.
'Give it till tonight,' said Pascoe. 'We'll maybe get somebody coming home from work who's been away over the weekend.'
'Coming home from work?' said Wield. 'Well, it won't be crowds round here, that's for sure.'
Seymour arrived. He made a face when Pascoe told him to take Parrinder's possessions and deliver them to Inspector Cruikshank, but brightened up a bit when he was given the off-licence and restaurant receipts and told to go and find out what he could about Parrinder's appearance in those establishments.
'And that doesn't mean sitting around all day sampling their wares,' said Wield, who clearly thought that this was a waste of valuable police time.
'Oh, and Seymour,' said Pascoe, scribbling on a piece of paper. 'Find out what won these races last Friday.'
Seymour took the scrap of paper and studied it carefully.
'He can read, can't he?' said Pascoe to Wield.
'Depends. Did you join up the letters?'
With the tired smile with which one greets the wit of superiors, Seymour said, ' Red Vanessa by two lengths, Usherette by a short head. Will there be anything else, sir?'
'Seymour,' said Pascoe, 'you're a racing man!'
'I keep an eye open,' said the red-headed detective modestly.
'Not a good thing in a young CID officer,' said Wield. 'Being a racing man.'
'Temptation, you mean?' said Pascoe.
'Gambling, borrowing, debt,' said Wield.
'Bad company, dirty women, bent bookies,' said Pascoe.
'Any word on Mr Dalziel, sir?' said Seymour.
It was a good but not a wise riposte. Wield's face became Arctic once more after its false spring, and Pascoe's features assumed an expression of mild distaste which those who knew him well did not care to see.
Hastily Seymour gathered together Parrinder's possessions.
'Sir,' he said in a conciliatory tone, 'what about this?
Do you want me to give this to Mr Cruikshank too?' He indicated Hector's sack of stones.
Pascoe was sorely tempted. Cruikshank and Seymour – kill two birds with one sack, so to speak! But judgment defeated justice.
'No, leave it. Off you go now. Don't hang around.'
Relieved at getting off so lightly, Seymour made a rapid exit.
Wield, who had recognized the names of the horses from Pascoe's account of his hospital visit, said, 'That explains why he went out, then.'
'Parrinder?'
'Yes. Racing man, makes three selections, sees two of them come up on the telly, he'd be bound to want to chase his luck and make sure he was on the last one. Poor old devil, he must have thought it was his lucky day!'
'Yes, I expect so,' said Pascoe.
It all fitted. Why then couldn't he put it to the back of his mind and concentrate on the Deeks case? Perhaps because there was nothing to concentrate on. Charley Frostick was due home tomorrow, that was the nearest thing to a development, and there seemed little way the young soldier's arrival could help.
As if catching the military trend of his thought, Wield said, 'By the way, sir, Forensic produced this sole pattern from the bathroom vinyl.'
Pascoe studied the sheet of cardboard which Wield handed him.
'Did they have any suggestions?' he asked.
'Size ten, ten and a half,' said Wield.
'Army?'
'Didn't say anything about that. No distinguishing marks, you know, cuts or anything like that. Even the pattern's a bit vague. Wouldn't chance their arm. ‘Well, if they won't, we must!' said Pascoe, eager for some kind of action. 'I'll check it out at Eltervale Camp.'
Wield, condemned to another boring stint in the caravan, said with no overt sarcasm, 'Lunch at Paradise Hall again, sir?'
'No!' said Pascoe. 'No way!'
Chapter 17
'God bless… God damn!'
Perhaps fortunately for Andrew Dalziel, the Deputy Chief Constable was neither a vindictive nor a naturally suspicious man. There was no denying that the Head of CID had long been a thorn in his side, if one so broad and solid could be thus described. The Superintendent had made small effort in the past to conceal his contempt for the DCC's intellect, outlook and abilities. The DCC found this a considerable but bearable irritation. He knew his own worth and he had a pretty fair idea of Dalziel's too. It was this ability to separate the Superintendent's manners from his morals that had caused him to pitch the investigation in such a low key. He found it hard to believe that Dalziel, even in panic, would attempt to duck responsibility for any action of his own. So he had set George Headingley to take a close but discreet look at things.
But now there were faint whiffs of something more corrupt than an accident cover-up coming his way. Typically, the DCC's method was to proceed with even greater discretion. Down in the Met they may have lived so long in an atmosphere of suspected corruption that it was probably suspicious for a senior police officer not to be suspected! But up here in the clearer, fresher air of Yorkshire, where the blunt honest burghers knew for certain that there was no smoke without fire, it was still possible for a man's career to be indelibly darkened by suspicion. So on Monday morning at ten o'clock he found occasion to telephone the regional office of HM Customs and Excise on a question of some necessary statistics for the Chief Constable's annual report, and when this had been sorted out to everyone's satisfaction, he made casual inquiry into the state of the investigation into alleged irregularities in the conduct of A. Charlesworth, Turf Accountant, Ltd.
The investigation had been conducted, he was told.
There would be no proceedings.
Did this mean that there had been no irregularities?
'It means,' said his informant, not without a touch of acidity, 'that there has been no evidence. Mr Charlesworth's records are so clean you'd think they'd been done only yesterday.'
This sounded like good news to the DCC till he incautiously requested complete assurance.
'You mean that Mr Charlesworth has committed no crime.'
There was a pause before the acid voice said carefully, 'I mean that Mr Charlesworth is either the single most conscientious bookmaker we have ever dealt with or that he knew we were coming.'
It emerged that the investigation had been timed to coincide with the final meet of the flat racing season, at Doncaster the weekend before last. Charlesworth's was very much a Yorkshire firm with betting shops all over the county and a large presence at all northern race meetings, so Charlesworth himself would be down at Doncaster on
