'That's one way of looking for this stone,' agreed Seymour. 'But what I think Mr Pascoe had in mind was using our eyes.'
He began systematically to search the area round the spot indicated by Cox, spiralling further and further out. From time to time he spotted a stone, but none that looked of a possible size or to have any signs of recent contact with broken skin. Still, it had been raining hard overnight and the microscope might see something he couldn't, so he popped each stone into a plastic bag and charted its position conscientiously. Finally he decided he’d gone far enough and returned to where Cox was standing by the goalpost smoking a cigarette, watching his dog make playful assaults on Hector's legs.
'Thanks for your cooperation, sir,' he said to Cox. 'Would you mind if I left you to find your own way home? I'm going across the ground, see, to where Mr Parrinder lives, out the other way. That's why he'd be walking this way, it must have been a regular short cut for him.'
'Braver man than me,' grunted Cox. 'I wouldn't come this way in the dark, not without Hammy. No, you get on, Officer. Hammy needs all the exercise he can get. We'll walk back in a moment, though he'll be sorry to part company with your mate here!'
It didn't look as if the parting would be equally sorrowful on both sides. But Seymour, not without malice, said, 'No need for that just yet, sir. Constable Hector, would you cast around a bit longer, see if there's anything else you can find. I'll pick you up on my way back. Goodbye, Mr Cox. "Bye, Hammy.'
He strode away jauntily. Perhaps after all there might be more in this for him than wandering up and down Welfare Lane doing house-to-house inquiries. The word was old Dalziel was having a spot of bother. Tough on the old sod, but it had only been a matter of time before his behaviour caught up with him. With Dalziel edged out, there could be a nice bit of upgrading all round, and who was better equipped to be a sergeant than Detective-Constable Dennis Seymour?
He flung his arms wide in a spontaneous gesture of self-congratulation, and Hammy, who had come running after him reluctant to lose even one of his new friends, mistook the gesture for invitation and drove himself upwards, bringing his huge forepaws down against Seymour's shoulders and sending the amazed detective-constable crashing full length on the muddy ground.
Chapter 9
'Dying is a very dull, dreary affair. And my advice to you is to have nothing whatever to do with it.'
Welfare Lane when Pascoe arrived at noon was remarkably free of sightseers even for what was basically a pretty unfashionable murder. Indeed, apart from a couple of shopping-laden women trudging along the pavement, the only person in sight was the constable outside No. 25.
The reason soon became clear. As he parked his car behind the police caravan outside Deeks's house, the puce portal of No. 27 burst open and Mrs Tracey Spillings swept out on a wave of Dallas.
'All right, sunshine!' she bellowed. 'On your way! Oh, it's only you.'
'I'm afraid so,' said Pascoe. 'I'm sorry, did you want this parking spot…?'
'What'd I do with a parking spot?' she demanded, adding with a significant glance up and down the street and an increase in voice projection which Pavarotti would have envied, 'Not that there's not plenty round here as drives in limousines to draw their dole.'
'Is that so?' said Pascoe, thinking that anything short of a chariot of fire would scarcely be a fit vehicle for Mrs Spillings. 'Then why did you…'
'I'm not having folk hanging round here gawking,' she said fiercely. 'Sick, some people are, and with nothing better to do. He's worse than useless – ' indicating the uniformed constable who studied the rooftops opposite, perhaps in the hope of snipers – 'but I've sent 'em packing, no bother. ‘No, thought Pascoe. He didn't imagine there had been any bother!
'I'd like to have a word if I may,' he said. 'Perhaps we could.. .'
He hesitated, glancing at the almost visible din emanating from the Spillings household.
'We'll go in your caravan,' said Mrs Spillings. 'You'll not be able to hear yourself think in here. She's been bad this morning. Worse she gets, louder she likes it. She reckons when she can't hear no more, she'll be dead. Mam, I'll just be five minutes!'
The last sentence ripped like a torpedo through the oncoming waves of sound. Pulling the puce door to, Mrs Spillings set out towards the caravan which dipped alarmingly as she placed a surprisingly small and rather delicately shaped foot on the step.
Inside, Sergeant Wield was working his way through a sheaf of statements and reports. His rugged face expressed no surprise at the sight of the woman.
'Door to door,' he said to Pascoe. 'Nothing. You had any luck, sir?'
'I don't think so,' said Pascoe. 'Mrs Spillings, you knew Mr Deeks well, did you?'
'Pretty well. We moved into 27 when I got wed twenty-five years ago. Dolly Deeks got married from that house two years later. Her mam died four or five years back and the old man had been on his own since then. So you could say I knew him pretty well.'
'Did you ever know him to keep a lot of money in his house?'
She thought for a moment then said, 'Aye. Once. I recall Dolly getting right upset because she found a lot lying around. She's a quiet soul, Dolly, but she really gave him what for that day!'
'Yes, she told me about it,' said Pascoe.
'She's all right, is she? Out of that hospital? That's no place for a well woman. Not much use for a sick 'un either, from all accounts.'
'Yes. She's at home. She'll be coming here tomorrow. To get back to the money, did he still keep any in the house? More important perhaps, did he have any reputation locally for keeping large sums about the place?'
She saw what he meant at once.
'No, he weren't thought of as the local miser or owt like that. Though there's no accounting for the daft ideas some buggers get into their heads! As for still keeping money in the house, I don't know. I recollect him telling me he'd loaned young Charley – that's his grandson – the money to buy that lass of his an engagement ring, but whether it were cash he had or whether he had to draw it out special, I don't know.'
'But he discussed his finances with you?' said Pascoe.
Tracey Spillings laughed and said, 'Not old Bob. He were very close! But this were different. Charley's the apple of his eye, but he would never sub him after he left school. If you can't live on your dole money, he'd say, get a job. He paid no heed to all this unemployment. There's always jobs for them as wants them, he said. They're always after likely lads in the Forces, or even the police.'
Pascoe ignored the implied order of merit and said, 'It doesn't sound as if he'd have been very happy to dish out money so Charley could get engaged, then?'
'Normally, he wouldn't. Specially as he didn't much like the lass. But Charley timed it nicely, I gather. Told his grandad he'd signed on with the Mid-Yorkies, and then touched him straight after. That's how I got to know about the money. Old Bob mentioned the loan when he was telling me about Charley joining up. He were that pleased, even though he knew how much he'd miss the lad.'
'And the lad himself. He was fond of his grandad too?' said Pascoe. 'He'll be upset to hear what's happened.'
'Oh aye. He liked the old boy and I've no doubt he'll be upset,' said Mrs Spillings. 'But you know how it is with young 'uns. You never get back what you give.'
'Your mother seems to be getting a pretty good bargain,' smiled Pascoe.
'You reckon? There's times I could gladly kill her. That's not a right way to feel about your own mam, is it?'
Slightly taken aback by this frank admission, Pascoe found he had no reply. But Wield, without looking up from his records, said, 'I dare say when you were a squawking baby in the middle of the night, there were times she could gladly have killed you, Mrs Spillings.'