least wet our deal with his equally excellent Scotch.'
He produced a silver-plated flask from the door-pocket, unscrewed the cup which doubled as a stopper and poured the contents into it.
'There's only enough for one,' protested Dalziel.
'You have it,' urged Kassell. 'You've got further to go than me.'
'To get to the next drink, you mean?'
'That too.'
The two men looked at each other in silence for a moment.
'Cheers,' said Dalziel. And drank.
Chapter 19
'Je m'en vais chercher un grand peut-etre.'
Tuesday was a day of short tempers.
Dalziel had at last received the DCC's urgent summons. The two men were closeted together for over an hour. Dalziel emerged shaking his head angrily as though pushed to the edge of even his superhuman tolerance, and when George Headingley tapped cautiously at the DCC's door five minutes later, the scream of Come in! echoed round the station like a sergeant-major's Shun! across a parade ground.
Dalziel meanwhile had kicked open the door of Pascoe's office like a man leading a raid, but for once found his assistant in a mood to match his own.
'Come in, do,' growled Pascoe. 'That's the door sorted. What'd you like to demolish next? The window? Or the desk? Sir.'
'What the hell's up with you?' demanded Dalziel.
'Nothing.'
'Is it the Deeks killing? Pull in half a dozen kids off the streets and kick it out of them. They'll likely know something.'
'No, it's not that,' said Pascoe. 'Though we're getting nowhere there either. It's this other business.’
He explained to Dalziel about Parrinder. The truth was that after the discoveries of the previous day he had been rather over-jubilant in assuring Inspector Cruikshank that the famous Pascoe hunch had been correct and the Parrinder 'accident' could almost certainly now be regarded as a mugging. The trouble was that, since then, Seymour had not been able to trace a single sighting of Parrinder at any betting shop nor to get anyone to admit having paid out on a roll-up involving those three horses. Even the pay-outs on single bets on Polly Styrene offered few possibilities, the customers either being known, or their descriptions not fitting.
'So you started crowing before you'd got to the top of the midden,' said Dalziel, not without satisfaction. 'And now you're thinking mebbe there never was an envelope full of money to be stolen, mebbe Seymour's Irish waitress was dazzled by the sight of the poor old devil's pension money!'
'Something like that.'
'Well, better make absolutely sure before you start eating Cruikshank's humble pie. You want information, always go to experts. Let's see what we can do.'
He picked up the phone and dialled.
When it was answered he said. 'Arnie there? Tell him it's Andy. Just plain Andy, that's right, you can remember that, can you, love? Well done! Hello? Arnie? Yes, it's me. Listen, one of my boys is interested to know if an old lad called Parrinder collected last Friday on a roll-up on… what were them horses called?'
Pascoe told him. The information was relayed.
'Aye, that's all we've got. You'll check around? Grand! About twelve o'clock; no, someone will call at your flat, that'll be best. Can't have you seen hobnobbing with the fuzz too much, can we? Yesterday? Oh aye. Bloody marvellous. I only hit one of the bloody things and it wasn't the one I was aiming at. But I got two given. Listen, Arnie, like to buy a pair of pheasants? What?…You too!'
He replaced the receiver.
'There you are,' he said. 'Midday at Arnie Charlesworth's flat. If there's owt to know, he'll know it.'
'Well, thank you, sir,' said Pascoe uncertainly.
'Nothing wrong, lad?' said Dalziel softly. 'You don't object to visiting Arnie, do you? I mean he's not persona non grata or owt, is he?'
'No, nothing like that,' lied Pascoe. 'I was just thinking, I can't make midday myself. Charley Frostick, that's Deeks's grandson, is arriving from Germany then and I want to be there to talk to him. But I'll send Seymour. He's been dealing with the Parrinder business mainly and making not a bad job of it.'
'Aye, he's not bad,' agreed Dalziel. 'And could be Arnie'd prefer a youngster. But you'll have to start paddling your own feet in this puddle sooner or later, Peter. Detection's like copulation, you can't manage it properly once removed. Now, important business. Your Ellie's a dab hand with a pheasant if I remember right. I've got two of the buggers. Two quid apiece. Or I'll take three for the pair. How's that? An offer you can't refuse, else Ellie'll skin you alive when I tell her.'
'I don't think so, sir,' said Pascoe.
'No? Oh, I've got it,' cried Dalziel. 'She's not come back yet! No wonder you're in such a miserable bloody mood!'
Pascoe grinned sheepishly, acknowledging there was some truth in this. Ellie had received no comfort at all from her visit to the doctor. The ageing process was impossible to reverse, difficult even to delay. The only direction was down. Her father had underlined this pessimistic prognosis by slipping into the past again and setting off for the work he'd retired from years earlier. Ellie had resolved to stay on longer.
'I can't just leave Mum,' she said. 'I've got to be sure she can cope.'
Past observation had suggested to Pascoe that Mrs Soper was able to cope very well with most things, not least a bossy daughter. Wisely he kept this observation to himself. But he was far from happy, though he was not about to discuss just how far with Andy Dalziel.
Sergeant Wield, quietly at work among the files in the corner, removed the pressure by addressing the fat man.
'Sir,' he said. 'About them pheasants. I'll take them, if you like.'
'Wield, I always knew you were a man with a nose for a bargain,' said Dalziel. 'They're yours. I've got them in the car. Four pound, we said.' He held out a huge hand.
Wield produced his wallet and said, 'Three pound the pair, I think it was, sir.'
'Three? Oh, that was a special discount for Inspectors whose hunches are all falling apart.'
Wield did not move; his fingers had withdrawn three pound notes from his wallet and he regarded Dalziel's hand unblinkingly.
'Christ,' said the fat man. 'I'd best take the money before he tells me what he's seeing there.'
He whisked the notes out of Wield's fingers.
'I'll leave them at the desk downstairs,' he said. 'Now I'm off. I've got things to do even if you buggers haven't!'
After he had left, Pascoe sat in thought for a while. The fat man was right. He'd interested himself in this Parrinder business without making the slightest direct contact with the case after his first casual view of the body at the hospital. Delegation is the better part of seniority, maybe; but it could be the worst part of detection.
He glanced at his watch.
Charley Frostick was due home from Germany at twelve o'clock. Pascoe had little real hope that the young soldier could help him, but he was planning to see him anyway. Give him half an hour to say hello. And that would give Pascoe plenty of time to call at Castleton Court and take a look at Tap Parrinder's background and neighbours for himself. He instructed Wield to get hold of Seymour and send him round to see Charlesworth.
'He's the only one who understands the language as far as I can see,' he said.
On his way out he bumped into George Headingley.
'How's it going, George?' he asked.
'I'm not sure,' was the reply. 'You seen the fat man this morning?'
