'And what did you think?' inquired Pascoe, maliciously amused at these descriptions of Jeremy Abbiss.
'Me? I never met him.'
Ah, but he met you, thought Pascoe, recalling Abbiss's description of catching them in flagrante across the reception desk.
But hadn't Abbiss said that words were exchanged?
He said carefully, 'You mean that when you used to visit Andrea at Paradise Hall you never encountered Mr Abbiss, the proprietor.'
'No, never laid eyes on him,' said Charley. 'I made sure of that, didn't I? Andrea said it was all right, she was entitled to use her room the way she liked, but I didn't want any trouble, not with me still doing my training and all that.'
He rose to his feet and awkwardly held out his hand.
'Cheerio, Mr Pascoe,' he said. 'I hope you get the bastard. It's not a right way to end up, not after living all them years, is it?'
'Perhaps after all those years it doesn't make too much difference, Charley,' said Pascoe gently. 'But rest assured, we'll do our best.'
He sat for a little while in deep thought after the boy had left, then summoned Wield. ‘Sergeant,' he said. 'How do you fancy a little trip to Paradise?'
Chapter 27
'It will end as it began, it came with a lass and it will go with a lass.'
Once more Pascoe arrived in the kitchens of Paradise Hall while a meal was in full swing.
'Oh no!' cried Abbiss. 'Not you again. And this time you've brought the public hangman!'
Wield did not change expression. Why should he, thought Pascoe, when the one he wore normally did so very well?
It was interesting to see that Abbiss seemed to have recovered completely from the trauma of Pascoe's last visit. He must have received promises of immunity which were very potent. Oh, Dalziel, Dalziel, what are you playing at?
Pascoe said, 'Last time we talked, you said that one of your complaints against your former employee, Andrea Gregory, was that she brought a soldier back to her room. You also said you caught them in flagrante delicto early one morning.'
'Ah, you liked that picture, did you, Inspector?' mocked Abbiss. 'Want an action re-run, is that it?'
'When was this, sir?' asked Pascoe patiently.
Perhaps it was the courtesy of the 'sir' that did it, but Abbiss began to take things seriously.
'When? I'm not sure precisely. Last week some time.'
'Last week? Not a few weeks ago?'
'Oh no. Not long before I gave her the push.’
Pascoe felt angry with himself. He had made assumptions, which as Dalziel put it, was posh for making cock-ups. The mention of a soldier had automatically made him think of Charley Frostick and he hadn't seen any reason to check on dates.
He said, 'And it was definitely a soldier?'
'Oh yes,' said Abbiss. 'Fully kitted out from beret to boots, with the minor modification that his pants were pushed down over his buttocks, the better to apply himself to little Miss Andrea who was wearing her nightie round her neck.'
'Could this have been the man, sir?' inquired Pascoe, handing over the Photofit picture.
'Maybe,' said Abbiss doubtfully. 'I mean, it doesn't really look like anybody, does it? I think he had a moustache. On the other hand if you gave me a picture of his backside, I could give you a positive identification straight away! There was a rather interesting bite-mark on his left buttock, I seem to recall.'
It conjured up for Pascoe a picture of a very unusual identity parade. But in fact he hardly had enough to go on to ask for a normal identity parade. The point was that Andrea Gregory had been putting it about a bit, and she had shown a kind of loyalty to Charley by putting it about among the large number of lonely soldiers who at any one moment were inmates of Eltervale Camp.
Just how significant did this make the print on the vinyl floor of Bob Deeks's bathroom which might have been from an Army boot? And could those stab marks on his neck and shoulders possibly have been made by a bayonet?
There was little to go on, but too much to ignore. Andrea herself was the best source of information, but he could imagine those painted lips closing to a thin red line when asked to betray herself.
'Come now, Inspector,' said Abbiss. 'Don't look so baffled. Surely there can't be all that many NCO's of the British Army with teeth marks on their left buttocks. Is it yourself you want him for, or is he a present for a friend?'
'An NCO?' said Pascoe. 'You're sure he was an NCO?'
'Oh yes. There was a stripe on his arm. Just the one, that makes him a lance-corporal, doesn't it?'
'That's right. Anything else about him? Colour of hair, build, anything at all?'
'I don't really know. Good athletic action, I'd say. Brownish hair. Like I say, I think he had a moustache. Oh, and there was one rather odd thing – those webbing belts they wear. Well, his was white.'
Into Pascoe's mind there leapt a picture of a ramrod-straight man with a mousy moustache and watchful eyes, whose friendship with Charley Frostick had perhaps led him to cover up the young man's nocturnal ramblings.
Lance Corporal Gillott of the Mid-Yorkies' regimental police.
'Thank you, sir,' he said, turning on his heel and leaving the kitchen.
There was a public phone in the hallway. He rang the station and got Seymour.
'Pick Moody up and bring him out to Paradise Hall,' he ordered. 'Don't take no for an answer.'
He rejoined Wield.
'Let me buy you a drink while we're waiting, Sergeant,' he said, leading him into the bar where Stella Abbiss was serving a customer. 'And if you're hungry, they do a nice cold game pie.'
The woman heard him and turned her big dark eyes on him with something in them which might almost have been contempt. She thinks I've been fixed! thought Pascoe. And while she might have understood passion, she reckons nothing to greed.
'You're out of luck today, Inspector,' she said in her low deep voice. 'For you, game pie is definitely off.'
Moody sat sulkily in the front seat of Pascoe's car as he drove towards Eltervale Barracks. He had not been pleased, as he put it, to be dragged away from his work, but Pascoe was in no mood to be conciliatory.
It was his intention, however, to tread carefully in his dealings with the military and not to risk provoking any of that protective closing of ranks by which army units traditionally protected their own. It was his intention to talk first with the camp CO and then to arrange for Moody to see Lance-Corporal Gillott while he himself remained unobserved.
It didn't work out quite like that.
As they approached the camp gates, a trio of men in fatigues and carrying spades came doubling out. Presumably they were a work detail of men under arrest. And escorting them was the upright, poker-faced figure of Lance-Corporal Gillott.
'That's him!' cried Moody. 'That's the man I bought the medals from.'
He wound down the window in his excitement. Gillott did a classic Ealing Comedy double-take, then with a reaction speedy enough to impress the most demanding of training instructors, he grabbed a spade off one of the prisoners and hurled it at Pascoe's car.
The windscreen crazed. Moody shrieked, Pascoe slammed on the brake and the car, though already slowing, spun on the road surface still treacherous from the previous day's sleet and snow, scattering the working party in panic.
And Gillott was away down the road, head back, knees pumping high, wisely (so he must have thought) not
