He just missed Arnie Charlesworth, learning at his main betting shop that the bookie was on his way to a race meeting at Newcastle.
The DCC had passed Major Kassell's name on to him and he had rung Sir William Pledger's mansion, Haycroft Grange, which was about ten miles out of town, to learn that he'd just missed Kassell too. The good news was that he was coming into town, to the local airport to be precise, to meet a plane.
The plane in question turned out to be a Cessna Utililiner, the property of Van Bellen International, which was bringing some of Sir William's weekend shooting guests from the Continent. The plane had already landed and there seemed to be quite a lot of activity around it as Headingley drove towards the clubhouse of the local gliding club which was the only building on the site with any possible pretensions to being a passenger terminal.
To his surprise, there was a familiar figure standing at the side of the clubhouse, beating his arms against his sides to keep the blood circulating in the cold November air. It was Inspector Ernie Cruikshank, dowager of the uniformed branch, who usually had to be bribed to expose himself to the open air before May was out.
'Ernie, what the hell are you doing here?' asked Headingley,
'Same as you, likely,' said Cruikshank gloomily.
'I hope not,' said Headingley. 'What's going off, then?'
'Don't you know? It's your boss who set it up! Special request from Customs and Excise. For some reason best known to themselves, they're giving yon plane a right going-over and they asked if we could provide a presence in case we were needed. I ask you, bloody Saturday morning too, with them Rovers hooligans piling into town off every train for the match this afternoon, not to mention your precious poof Pascoe helping himself to my lads for his bloody murder inquiry!'
Headingley smiled, guessing that Cruikshank had opted for the outside duty which he felt entailed minimum exposure. The reference to Pascoe was best ignored. Cruikshank made little effort to conceal his opinion that the young DI was a jumped-up, supercilious, intellectual twit.
He pressed for further information and learned that Pledger had got a special dispensation for his company plane to land here during the shooting season.
'Cost him a bit to get it made OK, they reckon,' said Cruikshank. 'Normally it's nowt but gliders here and the odd light plane.'
'Well, that's hardly a heavy plane,' said Headingley judiciously, looking at the Cessna.
'Bit bigger than they normally have here,' said Cruikshank with the defensiveness of one whose expertise had just been garnered via a ten-minute chat with an Excise officer.
'And what's all this about a Customs check?'
'Well, seems normally they have a token chap here when Pledger's plane arrives, just to make sure the formalities are observed. It's top people, usually, and you know how them buggers get kid-gloved in this bloody country,' said Cruikshank with a class-bitterness, Marxian in intensity, but which didn't stop him voting Tory. 'This time, but, Customs have had a tip, someone's bringing in a load of naughties. They're all very tight-lipped but it must be something big to make it worth upsetting Pledger and his mates.'
'And you got this detail via Mr Dalziel, you say?' said Headingley.
'Aye. It'll likely come to nowt. He doesn't give away easy collars, that bugger! But uniformed'll do when it's a case of standing round in the bloody cold, wasting time!'
This analysis of Dalziel's priorities was too close to the mark to bear discussion, so Headingley went into the clubhouse in search of Major Kassell.
He spotted him instantly, not because of anything particularly military in his appearance, but because he was clearly mine host on this occasion, making sure that guests were minimally inconvenienced by this unfortunate delay, dispensing coffee and/or alcohol among the half-dozen new arrivals, four men, two women, lounging at their ease in the club room.
Kassell was about forty, a strong face with a prominent nose and deep-set eyes which seemed always on the move and watchful, even as the mobile mouth twisted in a social smile. He had prematurely grey hair, silky and elegantly coiffured, which far from ageing him seemed to set off the liveliness of his features. He registered Headingley's arrival at once, and also that his presence had nothing to do with the current situation.
The Inspector stood quietly by the door, knowing that Kassell would be with him shortly.
When he finally broke free from his hostly duties, Kassell did not speak at once but gestured to Headingley to step outside into the narrow passageway.
Headingley introduced himself and stated his business.
Kassell nodded and said, 'Yes. I'd heard. Dreadful accident. Poor Charlesworth. Must have shaken him up.'
'I dare say, sir. Though it's business as usual this morning.'
Kassell looked at him, bushy grey eyebrows raised in surprise.
'He's hardly going to close down for a week's mourning, is he? How can I help, Inspector?'
'Just routine, sir. Get the facts straight. Did you come out of the restaurant with Mr Charlesworth and Mr Dalziel?'
'No. I was a little behind them, I recall.'
'Oh. Why was that, sir?'
'I can't see that it matters, but I had a brief word with one of the waitresses.'
About what? wondered Headingley. Didn't they say something about men with big noses being extra lecherous?
He let none of this show, but went on. 'So you didn't actually see the other two getting into their car?'
'No, I didn't.'
'So you couldn't say who was driving?' said Headingley.
'Now why should I need to say that?' said Kassell quizzically. 'Though as a matter of fact, I could.'
'Really, sir? How?'
'My car was round the side of the Hall. As I walked to it, their car passed me on its way out of the car park. I gave them a wave.'
'So you did see who was driving?'
Suddenly Kassell was pure military, stirring up long-forgotten, deep-hidden memories in George Headingley who had served with some discomfort and little distinction as a National Serviceman in Korea.
'Of course I did. Do you think I'm blind, man?' snapped the Major.
'And?' pursued Headingley doggedly.
'It was Charlesworth, of course. Who else?'
Peter Pascoe had had no personal experience of military service so Eltervale Camp, the Mid-Yorkshire Infantry's training depot, aroused no strong emotions in him.
The adjutant, summoned from his pre-lunch drink in the officers' mess, looked Pascoe up and down, decided he could pass for a gentleman and invited him to return with him for a peg.
Pascoe declined, apologized for his untimely call, and explained the purpose of his visit.
The adjutant, a pock-faced captain called Trott, said, 'Frostick, you say? Can't say I recall the name. Sergeant Ludlam's your man. He knows everything.'
Ludlam turned out to be the sergeant in charge of the Orderly Room, a round son of Leeds, who looked Pascoe up and down, decided he could pass for an NCO, and returned Trott's compliment after that gentleman had retreated by opining that he knew fuck all.
'Frostick, Charles,' he said. 'He's the lad whose grandad's been killed?'
'That's right,' said Pascoe, surprised.
'His father was on to us this morning asking if we could get his CO in Germany to pass the news on,' explained Ludlam. 'I dealt with it. Captain Trott, he don't take much in at weekends. Sad case. He'll likely get compassionate. Now, what do you want to know?'
Feeling rather foolish that he had already learned all he wanted to know, i.e. that Charley Frostick was definitely in Germany, Pascoe said vaguely, 'Oh, just a bit of background. What kind of lad he is, that kind of thing. Routine.'
The Sergeant regarded him shrewdly.
'Routine, eh?' he said. 'There's no such beast for you buggers. Let's see what the files say, shall we?'