'Yes. Fine. I'll check in a little while. Enjoy yourself.'
'I'll try. Major Studholme, nice to meet you. Sorry I've got to dash. 'Bye.'
She was gone. She was good at exits thought Pascoe with the envy of one who usually made an awkward bow.
Studholme was standing up.
'I'd better be on my way too,' he said. 'Bad form, being late.'
Pascoe didn't rise but studied the other from his chair. With Dalziel breathing down your neck for all those years, one thing you practised till it became instinctive was the art of detailed observation. He let his gaze drift down Studholme's clothing from his collar to his toecaps. He was beginning to feel something which if not anger, had a deal of anger in it.
'Late for what?' he asked. 'If I had to make a guess, major, I'd say you weren't going anywhere. All that about having dinner with friends in this neck of the woods is a load of baloney, isn't it?'
Studholme brushed his forefinger across his moustache and said in a voice which had more of interest than indignation in it, 'And on what would you base such an unmannerly speculation?'
'You haven't changed from when I saw you this morning. Same shirt, same tie, same jacket, same trousers. You haven't even given your shoes a rub. Oh you look tidy enough, don't misunderstand me, but I'm certain a man like you wouldn't go to dine with friends without changing your shirt at least.'
'Man like me? Little presumptuous on such short acquaintance, isn't it?'
Again mildly curious rather than outraged.
'You've known me exactly the same length of time,' said Pascoe who could play this game till the cows came home and went out again. 'Yet you feel you know me well enough to decide that whatever it really was that you came here to say might be best left unsaid. How's that for presumption?'
'Pretty extreme,' the major admitted with the hint of a smile. 'All right. May have been wrong. Still can't be sure.'
'There's only one way to find out,' said Pascoe. 'Like another drink?'
Studholme shook his head.
'Thanks but I'll wait till I get home and can treat myself to a real nightcap. No offence, excellent orange juice.'
He sat down again, easing his right leg straight out in front of him. Did he have a prosthesis or just some muscle damage? wondered Pascoe. He felt a sympathetic twinge in his own leg damaged when he'd been trapped down Burrthorpe Main. Theoretically he'd made a complete recovery from that traumatic experience. His mind had other ideas.
He said, 'So what's the big mystery, major?'
Studholme said, 'Tell me first of all. Your grandmother, why do you think she wanted her ashes scattered at regimental HQ?'
It was honesty time.
'Not as a mark of respect, that's for certain,' said Pascoe. 'She hated all things military, and the Wyfies in particular. If I had to guess, I'd say it was the nearest she could get to spitting in somebody's face.'
'Any idea why she felt so strongly?'
'She lost her father in the war.'
'Millions did.'
'We all find our own way of dealing with things.'
'Indeed,' said the major frowning. 'Though this was extreme.'
'But you think you know why.'
'Not absolutely certain-'
'I think you are,' interrupted Pascoe. 'Perhaps not when you arrived, but now… yet you were going to go without saying anything. Why?'
'Because of your face when you saw the name on that list. You looked like a man looking at his own tomb. I felt, perhaps it would be better…'
'Better, worse, we're past that now,' said Pascoe brusquely. 'Spit it out.'
'All right. Like I said, the name rang a bell. Your name, Pascoe. I checked through the regimental records, found those photographs. Saw your face. Coincidence – the name, the resemblance? Possibly. I had to see the picture you had. That clinched it, though it didn't explain it.'
'Clinched what, for God's sake?'
'This man with your face, and your name, got killed at Ypres in 1917.'
'But you said his name wasn't on the casualty list?'
'No. He didn't die in battle.'
Studholme took a deep breath and fixed Pascoe with his one unblinking eye.
He said, 'Sergeant Peter Pascoe was court-martialled for cowardice in face of the enemy. He was found guilty and in November 1917 he was executed in the Ypres Salient by firing squad. Mr Pascoe, are you all right?' xiv
The first person Ellie saw as she entered the party was Andy Dalziel, clutching a glass in one hand and a Professor of Divinity in the other to whom he seemed to be explaining some point of canon law.
When he saw Ellie he relaxed his grip and called, 'Hey up! Young Woodley back then?'
'Safe and sound. What are you doing here?'
Hurt crinkled the Fat Man's face like interference on a twenty-five-inch screen and he turned in search of support, but the professor, who knew the workings of divine providence when he saw them, was speeding towards the bar.
Robbed of its audience, Dalziel's face resumed normal service as he said, 'I were invited. So where's he at?'
'Baby-sitting. Who invited you?'
It was none of her business but Dalziel as usual had pressed her armed-response button.
'Friend,' he said vaguely. 'He'll be in tomorrow but?'
'Depends what time I get home, I suppose.'
'That kind of do, is it? Let me know when they dish out the marijuana cookies so's I can leave.'
'For the sake of diplomacy?' ventured Ellie.
'To fetch reinforcements,' said Dalziel. Then his face lit up and he said, 'There you are, luv. Thought you'd run out on me. You know Ellie Pascoe.'
Ellie turned to see Mandy Marvell approaching. She looked back to Dalziel trying to control her surprise. Then she thought, I'm trying not to hurt his feelings? and let it show.
Amanda said, 'Yes. Hello, Ellie.'
Dalziel said, 'Nice when you've got mutual friends. Thought there might be another one here. Wendy Walker.'
Jesus, thought Ellie who'd just been looking around to see if she could spot Wendy, how the hell does he always give the impression he's got me bugged?
Dalziel, who'd tossed in the name simply because he still found Walker's transition from pits to pets puzzling, noted her reaction with interest.
'As a matter of fact we did arrange to meet here,' said Ellie, recovering.
'Arrange? You keep in touch then?'
'She called today. For a chat. We didn't have as much time as we'd have liked and she said she'd probably see me tonight.'
'Oh aye? Didn't think she'd approve of do's like this,' prodded Dalziel.
'With her background she's a damn sight more entitled to be here than most of these freeloaders,' said Ellie spiritedly.
Dalziel's grin acknowledged the shaft even as it bounced off him. He emptied his glass and said, 'Aye, you're right, lass. They don't ring fire alarms to get folk moving in these places, they just open a bottle.'
It wasn't a completely accurate analysis, thought Ellie as she took stock of the other guests. One or two, like the Divvy prof, were notorious for turning up anywhere at the clink of a glass. But it was the moral as much as the alcoholic freeloaders who were swelling the numbers. This was obviously the politically correct place to be.
Which didn't explain what Dalziel was doing here in the company of Cap Marvell. Like Jane Austen, Ellie had a
