When Pascoe finished his account, there was silence. He neither invited nor desired them to comment on Dalziel's intervention. His reasons for telling them he freely acknowledged; should it ever come to an inquiry, it might stand him in good stead to produce albeit second-hand support for his contention that he was obeying legitimate orders. He felt something of the same kind of self-revulsion in this as Wield was feeling after his little defence of Mrs Warsop. But he also had a career to consider and a wife and family to provide for. His loyalty to Dalziel was strong but there were loyalties which had to be stronger.
Seymour came into the pub as he was leaving. Rather to Pascoe's surprise, he said he had just come from the hospital.
'I don't think Mrs Escott can really have anything useful to tell us,' Pascoe said gently.
The young constable flushed and said, 'I just wanted to see how she was, sir.'
Pascoe thought: Of course, he talked to her first, and he found her. He feels guilty.
His own guilt had rapidly been overtaken by a tide of other emotions closer to home. Compassion was a small flame, needing care and attention and protection from the wind. Perhaps the professional carers' first object was to preserve what they sensed as precious in themselves.
What should a policeman's first object be, then? To remain honest, perhaps. But being compassionate helped.
He said, 'Quite right, Dennis. Well done. How is the old lady?'
Seymour said, 'Just the same. Out of danger from the pills she took, but still in shock from the experience and Dr Sowden says that can be just as dangerous.'
'Sowden?' Pascoe smiled. 'Well, she's in good hands. Keep me posted, lad.'
Lad! he thought as he left. I'm beginning to talk to them as if I were Dalziel!
Seymour bought himself a pint and a pie and sat some distance from Wield and Headingley. Relations in the CID under Dalziel were easy and open, which meant that detective-constables could with no offence given or taken be told to sod off if their company was not desired. At the present moment, the Sergeant and Inspector were cautiously analysing what Pascoe had just told them about Dalziel's intervention, a conversation they would certainly not have continued in Seymour's presence. But it was his own depression as much as his diplomatic sensors that made the young detective sit apart.
His previous night's date had not gone well. The gloom of discovering Mrs Escott and getting her to the hospital and hanging around till she had been pumped out was still on him. He had begged off going dancing, attempting an explanation which sounded self-indulgently prima-donna-ish even to his own ears. Bernadette had been sympathetic enough but made it quite clear as she brought the evening to an early though friendly close that their short acquaintance did not include access to her shoulders for crying on, still less any other part of her anatomy for any other purpose.
He couldn't blame her. He knew what a dull companion he had been and he hadn't even bothered to suggest another date, being so certain of her negative response. Today he should have been off duty but he had gloomed around all morning, visited the hospital when he might simply have phoned, and drifted by instinct into The Black Bull, where he felt quite unable now to distinguish between feeling sorry for Mrs Escott and feeling sorry for himself.
'What's up with you, then? Too much beer last night?'
It was Wield, who had sat unnoticed on the chair opposite. Headingley was disappearing through the door.
'No, not really, Sarge,' he said.
'You did well yesterday,' said Wield. 'Mr Pascoe was very pleased with you.'
'Was he?' said Seymour, brightening up a little.
'I just said so,' said Wield. 'If you want to hear it again, you should have got it on tape. Isn't this your rest day?'
'Yes, Sarge.'
'Well, at least you're getting a bit of rest,' approved Wield. 'Not like most of 'em, moonlighting away like mad. You had any more thoughts?'
'About what?'
'About why a man with three hundred quid in his pocket should suddenly decide to get out of his taxi in a sleet storm and walk the rest of the way home?'
'Well, I did think about it a bit,' said Seymour. 'I don't know. Mebbe someone was following him, someone who saw him pick up his winnings, and he was trying to shake 'em off, or something.'
Wield considered this.
'You watch a lot of television, do you, Seymour?' he inquired.
'If you can think of anything better, Sarge, I'm listening,' Seymour was stung to retort.
Wield shook his head.
'Not yet, but I'm working at it. Well, I'd best be getting back. We're checking up on everyone we can trace who was in the betting shop on Friday afternoon. It's a weary business.'
'I'll give a hand if you like, Sarge,' volunteered Seymour.
The sergeant smiled wintrily.
'I don't know what this police force is coming to,' he said. 'Mr Pascoe gives himself half a day off and you give yourself half a day on. But I'll not come between a martyr and his crown. You want to help, you'll be very welcome. On one condition.'
'What's that, Sarge?'
'Contact that girl of yours and find out whether it's still on or you've parted for ever. There's enough misery in the world without me having to look it in the face all afternoon!'
Coming from Wield, whose face even in the fullness of joy was not a sight to dwell on, this might have seemed an unjust reproach. But Seymour, whose nature was not a brooding one, took it as a spur to action.
There was a telephone in the entrance hall of the pub. He rang, asked for the restaurant, got the dragon, requested that Miss McCrystal should be brought to the phone. She demurred. He became official, told her that the case was a serious one and a piece of clarification from Miss McCrystal essential.
'Hello?' said Bernadette. 'You'll get me shot!'
'I'm sorry. Look, I just wanted to say, sorry I was such a drag last night.'
'That's true. So you were,' she said not very encouragingly. 'How's the old lady?'
'Sorry?'
'You've been to see her, I hope?' said Bernadette threateningly.
'Well, yes. I went to the hospital this morning. She's not very well, I'm afraid.'
'The poor old soul. Right, listen now, my old lady's glowering like the heart of a peat. Is it about tonight you're ringing?'
'Well, yes…'
'Then you're in luck. Wednesday's old-time night at the Eldorado. I'll see you outside at eight. Can you manage that?'
'Well, yes..
'And you'll need a tie. You've got a tie, have you?'
'Yes, somewhere…'
'Then eight it is. Goodbye now, Chief Inspector.'
She put the phone down. Wield watched Seymour return into the bar and did not need more than the young man's expressive face to tell him all was well. He tested his own memory and knew that such joy as this he had never known. Love there had been, and on occasion high delight, but always qualified by the demands of secrecy and, in his conventional and restrictive youth, the taint of guilt.
'Will you have another beer, Sarge?' said Seymour, eager to spread his joy.
'Some other time, lad,' said Wield. 'There's work to be done. We'll have it later. Pleasure's best if you've had to wait, right?'
Which could be the story of my life; with a bit of luck; he thought as they left the pub together.
Pascoe and Ellie too had to wait for their pleasure. Even with the early hours kept in the Soper household, it seemed an eternity from their first embrace until they were at last alone in the narrow confines of Ellie's childhood bed. Neither of them complained about the narrowness, though Ellie was concerned for various reasons about the
