'Not before time,' she grunted, rolling towards him.
It was not what he'd had in mind but a few moments later his mind had room for little else. 'Oh God, I'll never get up in the morning,' he murmured.
'Never mind. Be brave and do your very best,' whispered Ellie.
Chapter 25
'I am dying like a poisoned rat in a hole. I am what I am! I am what I am!'
'Yes, I'm sure,' said Dalziel. 'I've checked with Customs and with the Squad. Aye, I was careful, what do you think? You're all right tomorrow, that's definite. Yes, I'm looking forward to that. Grand!'
He replaced the receiver and turned round.
Standing in the open doorway of his office were Pascoe and Wield.
'Well, look who's here!' he said. 'Bill and Ben, the Flowerpot Men! Eavesdropping in pairs now, is it?'
'Sorry, sir,' said Pascoe. 'I didn't realize you were in.'
'Well, I am, but just passing through. What do you want?'
'I was after the 'fence' file. Sergeant Wield thought you had it last.'
'Did he? Well, he knows more than I do,' said Dalziel, pulling open desk drawers in a desultory fashion. 'What'd I be doing with it, any road? Oh.'
He paused, reached in, pulled out a tattered string-bound cardboard file, looked accusingly at Wield.
'Who put this in here?' he demanded.
Pascoe took the file and said, 'Thank you, sir.'
'What do you want it for anyway?'
'Just to refresh my mind on Edwin Sutton, Antiques,' said Pascoe.
‘Oh, him. Started on the knock ten years back. Soon got sick of working for the shop dealers, so became one himself. No previous, but got done two years ago for having a few bits of silver from Lord Boldon's house that'd been done a couple of weeks before. Managed to persuade some moronic magistrate that it was all a case of genuine error! Since when, a close eye has been kept, but he's boxed clever and prospered. He's got two or three outlets now and Christ knows how many inlets. Why?'
'The medals stolen at the Welfare Lane killing may have turned up,' explained Pascoe. 'Sutton just rang to say that one of his assistants had bought some yesterday and when he, that's Sutton, spotted them this morning, he remembered the list we circulated and thought he'd better give us a call. The name rang a bell. I thought there'd been some trouble there once.'
'And you were right, as always, Peter,' complimented Dalziel. 'So Sutton's playing the honest citizen, is he? I wonder what's got into him.'
'Perhaps honesty, sir?' suggested Pascoe. 'Perhaps something happened to him on the road to Damascus.'
'Oh aye?' said Dalziel. 'It'd need to be a long fucking road, and the first thing I'd do is breathalyse the bastard. Any other leads?'
'No, sir,' said Pascoe.
'Well then, you'd best be off. Oh, by the way, Peter.'
Pascoe turned back, Wield kept on going.
Dalziel said, 'That Warsop woman. What do you reckon?'
'I reckon she's been fiddling the household accounts at The Towers for years. Much easier to do it with goods than with money. She pushes her budget to the limit, buying everything that her books show so that they'll stand up to the annual audit, but then she pushes as much of the stuff as she can to Abbiss. This means stretching things at The Towers, though we'll probably find there's a bit of swapping goes on. For instance, she buys good meat. Abbiss buys scrag end. They swap. At Paradise Hall they get gourmet's delights, at The Towers they get gristle. Warsop and Abbiss split the difference. Do the same with everything, soap, linen, crockery and cutlery even, and it all mounts up.'
'Aye,' said Dalziel, nodding. 'Clever.'
It was hard to tell whether he was commenting on Mrs Warsop's dishonesty or Pascoe's hypothesis.
'I haven't pursued the matter, sir, as per your instructions,' Pascoe said formally. 'Though I did mention it, and your instructions, to George Headingley and Sergeant Wield.'
'Covering yourself, lad?' said Dalziel. 'Well, well. I've taught you a trick or two, you can't deny that.'
'No, sir, I can't,' said Pascoe.
He stood and waited. Dalziel looked at him reflectively and scratched his Adam's apple, deep buried in the massy column of his neck.
'You got something to say to me, Peter?' inquired the fat man gently.
'No, sir,' said Pascoe. 'Except, well, look, are you in some kind of trouble?'
'What kind of trouble would that be?' inquired Dalziel. 'Any road any troubles of mine aren't your concern, lad. Not so long as you keep yourself covered. Right?'
If it was meant as a reproach, nothing in Dalziel's tone or demeanour showed it.
Pascoe said, 'If I need any more instructions, where shall I find you?'
Dalziel said, 'Who knows, lad? I'm on holiday, remember. Except this afternoon. If you want me this afternoon, you'll find me down at the coroner's court. I've got to give evidence at an inquest, remember?'
Seymour had been much happier this morning. Last night had gone well even though his Terpsichorean prowess had suffered under scrutiny, particularly in the tango where a tendency to self-parody was bitingly criticized.
'You're not mocking it because you think it's funny,' she analysed. 'You're mocking it because you think you're funny doing it. And you're not so far wrong, at that, but that's mainly because you think you are. Now if you'll just let yourself go and stop imagining the whole world's got you in its sights, you'll do fine. And while I'm putting you to rights, your reverse turn leaves a little bit to be desired. It's only in the swimming baths that they do the tumble turn; on the dance floor it's just a little matter of shifting your weight, are you sure you're not still wearing your copper's boots?'
Normally Seymour would not have accepted such affronts from anyone under the rank of detective-inspector, but as all Bernadette's criticism ended up in demonstration which involved him in once more putting his arms round this slim, warm body, he found himself submitting to his humbling with as good a grace as any religious novice.
His euphoria, however, had not survived long. Pascoe had summoned him soon after his arrival and given him as odd a set of instructions as he'd ever received.
And this was why he was now in Jane Escott's flat, poking around and looking for anything that might come under the famous general heading of 'blunt instrument'.
In fact there proved to be remarkably little. Blunt instruments are not so plentiful as criminal fictions would have the public believe. But he had found the one specific item mentioned by Pascoe and as he hefted it in his hand, an appreciation of the trend of Pascoe's thought began to seep unpleasantly into his mind.
It was a pouch handbag on a long strap for carrying over the shoulder. It was full of loose change and very heavy. And on one side the soft brown leather held a small, faint, darker stain.
Not even Charley Frostick had been able to be exact in his description of his grandfather's medals, but the ones Edwin Sutton showed to Pascoe matched the imprecise details pretty closely.
Edwin Sutton was a rough diamond whom prosperity, expensive clothes and a toupee too perfect to pass for real had not been able to smooth. Invited to dine at the Palace, he would have been down on one knee in no time, not out of patriotism but examining the table bottom and making deprecating comments prior to trying an offer.
At least, such was Pascoe's assessment. But his main attention was concentrated on Paul Moody, the assistant who had purchased the medals. Moody was a personable young man, quite well-spoken, and reasonably knowledgeable. His honesty was harder to judge. Did a man in Sutton's position hire people for their honesty or their crookedness? From which did he have more to fear?
