She was looking over his shoulder as she spoke and all her previous animation had left her face. Pascoe turned and saw that Stringer and Swain had come together out of the car park and were standing deep in conversation. Swain patted Stringer apparently reassuringly on the arm and walked away. Stringer watched him go, then turned to re-enter the car park. Only now did he spot his daughter.
He came towards them.
'Evening, Mr Stringer,' said Pascoe.
He got a nod in reply, then the man said to the girl, 'You ready, then? Let's be off. Can't expect your mam to take care of the boy all night too.'
So there was a child. And the husband?
She said, 'I told you. I've got some shopping to do.'
'Have you not done it yet? God, it must be grand being able to waste your life chatting at street corners.'
His hard blue-eyed stare left no doubt he included Pascoe in this censure.
His daughter said, 'I'll not be a minute,' and set off along the pavement.
'I gather I'll soon be able to have my parking spot back,' said Pascoe pleasantly.
'What? Oh aye. We're near on done.'
'And after that? Got anything lined up while the weather lasts?'
For some reason this seemed to irritate Stringer.
'I'm not a bloody brickie on the lump!' he said. 'I'm a partner.'
'Even so, you still need work to make profits.'
'We'll get by. What's it to do wi' you, anyroad?'
'Just polite sympathetic interest, Mr Stringer.'
'Police nosiness, you mean. And you can stuff your sympathy. I've always taken care of me own without any help.'
'I'm sure. You must be proud of your grandson. How old is he now?'
'Near on two,' said Stringer. 'He's a fair enough kiddie.'
Pascoe guessed this was as near a boast as the man could get.
'Takes after his grandad, does he?' he said, hoping to encourage the thaw. He certainly got instant heat.
'He'd better not take after his dad, that's for sure!'
'I'm sorry? His father ... is he ... ?'
'Is he what?' demanded Stringer.
'I don't know. Dead perhaps?'
'Dead? What the hell makes you say that?' said Stringer angrily.
'Mr Stringer,' said Pascoe acidly. 'Clearly you feel there is something undesirable about your son-in-law. If you care to explain what, perhaps I will be able to avoid giving you offence.'
Rather to his surprise, his appeal got a positive response, even if it was rather oblique.
'It's a sick world we live in,' said Stringer with the intonation of authority rather than opinion.
'It's certainly a curate's egg-shaped world,' agreed Pascoe. 'But in what particular respect do you detect this sickness?'
'Everything! If it wasn't so sick, why should God have sent things like Aids and drugs to punish the wicked?'
Pascoe groaned inwardly. He'd forgotten Stringer was something of a religious nut, and religious nuttiness was his one conversational no-go area.
'As punishments, they seem to get doled out pretty indiscriminately,' he suggested. 'But I suppose we all have our work to do, even God. I certainly have. Good night, Mr Stringer.'
But he was not to escape so easily. The builder grabbed his arm and said, 'You asked about my son-in-law, mister. Do you not want an answer?'
'No, really, I'm sorry. It's none of my business
'Aye, you're right there. But I'll tell you anyway,' said Stringer. 'And it'll mebbe stop you bothering other folk with nosey questions. This Tony Appleyard, he put my lass in the club three years back. I'd never heard of him till then. She were still at school, a really bright lass, she could have made something of herself, then this nasty little sod . . . Well, it had to be sorted. He wanted her to have an abortion, but that's murder in my book. And in hers too, I'm glad to say. So I had a quiet word with him. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. You come from a country family like me, you know that there's plenty of marriages start with getting caught, not getting wed, and most on 'em turn out all right in the end. They didn't want to get wed, mark you. Said it didn't matter these days, but I said it mattered to me and it mattered to God. And it'll matter to the kiddie when it gets older. So they got wed.'
He paused. Pascoe said, 'And did it work out?'
'Don't make me laugh!' instructed the man unnecessarily. 'That feckless bugger? A fitter he called himself. Fit for sod-all, that's what he were! He worked at Atlas Tayler's but he got laid off when the Yanks pulled out. I could have fixed him up with a labouring job in the firm, but oh no, he wanted his trade, he said. And in the end he set off south looking for work. Well, he found something, by all reports, making good money, at least good enough for him
