She had seen him hesitating at the dining-room door and after a short delay while she finished serving a table, she came to join him.
'I don't expect you want to eat,' she said.
Pascoe sniffed the rich odours drifting from the kitchen.
'Alas,' he said. 'A light purse develops simple tastes. A loaf of bread. A flask of wine.'
She frowned and said, 'Is it me or Jeremy you want?'
Pascoe did not reply. His eyes had moved away from that face, so sensual with suffering, into the dining- room. It was half full, not bad for so early in the week, he guessed. But what really took his attention was the presence of Doreen Warsop. She was seated at a table for two in front of one of the windows. Her companion was a young woman with frizzy blonde hair who was indulging in the disgusting habit of smoking between courses. Not that she'd had much of a course if the pile of food on her plate was to be completely abandoned. Probably eight or nine quid's worth there, assessed Pascoe. There were probably hungry people in Chinese takeaways who'd be glad of it. He got the impression that Mrs Warsop, who was persevering with her pheasant with truffles, did not take kindly to having smoke puffed in her face.
He said, 'He's in the kitchen, is he?'
'Yes. Very busy. Like me.'
There were in fact two girls serving, one of them looking suspiciously young. Pascoe tried to recollect the law on children's working hours, but quickly abandoned the attempt. His purpose here was vague and delicate enough already without risking unnecessary diversion.
'Right, I'll go through,' he said.
'Is it a raid?' demanded Jeremy Abbiss as Pascoe entered the kitchen. 'Pray God it's a raid and I can abandon this devil's kitchen for a simple monastic cell!'
'What's up? Have you got the zabaglione gang in again?'
'What? Oh. You remembered! No, in fact, things would be fine, only our idiot girl from the village is being assisted by her even less gifted sister. She keeps getting lost between here and the further tables!'
'Worse than the girl you fired, is she?' asked Pascoe idly.
'Infinitely, though it grieves me to say it. At least dear Miss Andrea had all her marbles, it was just her morals and motivation that were in doubt.'
'Morals? You were concerned for her essential purity, no doubt?'
'No!' laughed Abbiss, chopping a tomato with incredible speed. 'I do not set myself up as an arbiter of private pleasures, though I must say I draw a line at some things. There was this bloody soldier she used to bring back, spent all night here sometimes; well, that was pretty cheeky, but when I came down early one morning and caught him taking a final soldier's farewell across the reception desk, I felt that things were getting out of hand! When I remonstrated he didn't even stop, just told me over his shoulder to get lost! I mean, really!'
Pascoe grinned at the thought of young Charley's youthful energy. He probably had to run all the way back to camp too, in an exhausted state! Still, a sergeant-major's wrath is straw to the fire in the blood.
'But it wasn't the screwing, as long as she didn't do it in the dining-room and frighten the customers; it was the way things tended to fade away around her. Half a bottle of Scotch here, a couple of quid there, nothing startling, nothing provable. And she acted as if she wasn't really employed here at all, but just doing a favour by helping out. Enough's enough. At last we quarrelled beyond repair.'
The infant idiot came in, allowed Abbiss to present her with a bowl of salad, then looked around hopefully for the door.
Abbiss ushered her out, rolling his eyes upward in mute appeal.
'So, tell me, Mr Pascoe,' he resumed. 'Why have you come to see me? More questions about your fat friend?'
'Indirectly,' said Pascoe. 'You remember last time we talked, I mentioned Mrs Warsop.'
'Who?' asked Abbiss, now at work on a cucumber.
There was, Pascoe noted, coincident with Mrs Warsop's name, a slice a couple of millimetres thicker than the others.
Encouraged, he pressed on.
'The bursar at The Towers. I'm sure you know her. In fact she's dining here tonight. Shall I perhaps call her in?'
'I don't think we need disturb the customers,' said Abbiss primly. 'What about her anyway?'
'At first she was certain she'd observed Mr Dalziel driving his car away. Later she became unsure.'
'A woman's privilege.'
'I tend to seek less sexist explanations,' said Pascoe.
'Such as?'
'Perhaps someone persuaded her to change her mind.'
'Good lord. You mean the portly gent bribed her?' said Abbiss in mock amazement.
'I doubt it,' said Pascoe.
'Because he's a policeman and water doesn't flow uphill?'
'Because Mr Dalziel is not by nature a briber,' said Pascoe calmly. 'As for Mrs Warsop, she doesn't look like a lady who's short of money. Eating here twice in five days, for instance. It is only twice, is it?'
The door from the dining-room opened and Stella Abbiss came in. She had a trayful of plates in her hands. She set it down by the sink and made no move to go out again.
'Precisely what are you trying to say, Inspector?' asked Abbiss. His face had lost a bit of colour. Another half-hour teasing this man and I could make them a matching pair, thought Pascoe. But now he was convinced of the truth, he was tired of the game. There would be specialists to work through records and accounts and unravel the woof and warp of the fraud. He felt almost sorry for Abbiss. It probably didn't amount to all that much, though any saving must be tempting when margins were narrow.
On the other hand, it was his sad experience that fiddling was zymotic; it would be no surprise to learn that every area of Abbiss's business dealings had been tainted.
'It is my considered opinion,' said Pascoe carefully, 'that you suggested to Mrs Warsop that it might not be a very clever idea for her to get in bad with the police by pursuing her claim that Superintendent Dalziel was driving the car. She admits she did not know that Mr Dalziel was a policeman until after she had spoken to the Press. Suddenly your hotel must have seemed very full of the Law, Mr Abbiss. The quickest way to get rid of them must have seemed to be to get Mr Dalziel off the hook. Hence your advice. But why should you be worried and why should Mrs Warsop be advised by you? Could it be that the pair of you have a business relationship you would prefer not to come under the risk of scrutiny? Could this be why she gets to eat here so regularly and is able to sign her bill?'
'She gets an account like anybody else,' protested Abbiss.
'In which case your records will show this, as will her own cheque-stubs and bank statement.'
'But often she pays by cash anyway,' tried Abbiss desperately.
'You mean she often pays her restaurant bill by cash? How often?'
'For Christ's sake, how am I expected to remember something like that?'
'Well, we'll just have to consult your staff about that, shan't we?' said Pascoe. 'See what their memories are like!'
Suddenly Abbiss's expression changed to one of shocked enlightenment, his chopping knife rose in the air and came hissing down on a capsicum which it clove apart with such violence that the halves shot off the table. One hit the floor. The other, Pascoe caught in an instinctive reaction.
'It's that little cow, isn't it? That's why you were so bloody interested in talking about her! It's really coming to something when a slut like that who gets the push for dishonesty should be allowed to blacken other people's names! The poxy little whore, if I ever get my hands on her…'
It was interesting to detect a definite strain of Merseyside emerging in Abbiss's speech under emotional pressure.
Pascoe put the capsicum half on the table.
'Good night, Mr Abbiss,' he said courteously.
He went to the dining-room door and peered out. He was uncertain yet whether he ought to talk to Mrs Warsop too at this juncture. As he looked, the frizzy-haired girl who was listening with a bored expression to what
