'I don't think he was a telephone punter. And if someone had backed it for him, wouldn't they have brought him his winnings too?'
'Perhaps they didn't and he went out looking for them,' suggested Sowden, who seemed enlivened by this detective game. 'Or perhaps he had backed all these horses himself the week before, say. That's possible, isn't it?'
'I think so. Only they seem to have been marked as current selections in Friday's paper. I'll have to find out what kind of gambler he was.'
He went through the rest of the pockets, coming up with nothing except another receipt, this time from the restaurant at Starbuck's, a large department store in the city centre. The main charge was?2.95, which Pascoe remembered from a recent rare visit was the basic cost of the Shopper's Special High Tea. Various smaller items brought the total up to?4.80. This with the rum meant he'd spent?8.75, of which only five pounds had come from his recently collected pension. But how much had he had on him in the first place? Or what if he had decided to place more than his usual fifty pence on Polly Styrene, say a couple of pounds, feeling flush because he hadn't touched his pension that week? That would give him eight pounds in winnings which, come to think of it, was just about right. And he celebrates by having a good meal and buying a bottle to keep the cold out. But mocking fate, which likes its victims at their ease and happy, is lurking… End of story, Pascoe told himself determinedly, but with no inner conviction.
He collected the rest of Parrinder's possessions from the hospital security officer. A glance in the pension book told him last week's money had been collected at the head Post Office in the city centre on Friday. Good. Everything that fitted was good. He thanked Sowden for his help and would have departed, but the young doctor said, 'That other business…'
'Yes?'
'The road accident. Look, I don't want to cause trouble, but I'd just like to be certain that, well, everything's been done that ought to be done.'
'I think I can assure you of that,' said Pascoe gravely.
Sowden's face showed doubt as well as fatigue and Pascoe added, 'I can't say anything more than that, really I can't. I mean, either you believe me or you don't. If you don't, then all you can do is start causing trouble, as you put it. That's your prerogative. And it'll give you something to think about next time a patient complains you've stitched him up with a stethoscope inside.'
Sowden grinned.
'All right,' he said. 'But I'll keep an eye on things if you don't mind. To sweeten the pill, let me buy you a drink next time I cross-question you.'
'You know where to find me,' said Pascoe. 'If I were you, I'd get a few weeks' sleep.'
'And if I were you…'
'Yes?'
'… I think I'd be telling me to get a few weeks' sleep,' said Sowden, changing direction with a yawn. 'Good hunting.'
'Good sleeping,' said Pascoe.
In the caravan in Welfare Lane he put Parrinder's possessions down in a corner next to Hector's sackful of stones. Wield looked at the new acquisition and raised his eyebrows, producing an effect not unlike the vernal shifting of some Arctic landscape as the sun sets an ice-bound river flowing once more through a waste of snows.
Pascoe explained.
'So that's that,' said Wield. Pascoe sensed an I-could've- told-you-so somewhere in there and perversely replied, 'We might as well let Seymour cross the t's and dot the i's. But by himself. You won't believe this, Sergeant, but Mr Cruikshank actually objects to being deprived of Hector under false pretences.'
Wield laughed and said, 'We're all deprived of him today. It's his day off.'
'What do you imagine he does? Moonlights as a road sign perhaps!' mused Pascoe. 'Is Seymour handy?'
'Should be here any minute. What about us, sir? How long do we carry on here?'
'Tired of the gypsy life, are we?' said Pascoe. 'Not much coming in?'
The function of the caravan was to provide an on-the-spot HQ and also attract local witnesses whose energies or faith in the importance of what they had to say might not take them to the Central Police Station.
'Nothing,' said Wield.
'Give it till tonight,' said Pascoe. 'We'll maybe get somebody coming home from work who's been away over the weekend.'
'Coming home from work?' said Wield. 'Well, it won't be crowds round here, that's for sure.'
Seymour arrived. He made a face when Pascoe told him to take Parrinder's possessions and deliver them to Inspector Cruikshank, but brightened up a bit when he was given the off-licence and restaurant receipts and told to go and find out what he could about Parrinder's appearance in those establishments.
'And that doesn't mean sitting around all day sampling their wares,' said Wield, who clearly thought that this was a waste of valuable police time.
'Oh, and Seymour,' said Pascoe, scribbling on a piece of paper. 'Find out what won these races last Friday.'
Seymour took the scrap of paper and studied it carefully.
'He can read, can't he?' said Pascoe to Wield.
'Depends. Did you join up the letters?'
With the tired smile with which one greets the wit of superiors, Seymour said, ' Red Vanessa by two lengths, Usherette by a short head. Will there be anything else, sir?'
'Seymour,' said Pascoe, 'you're a racing man!'
'I keep an eye open,' said the red-headed detective modestly.
'Not a good thing in a young CID officer,' said Wield. 'Being a racing man.'
'Temptation, you mean?' said Pascoe.
'Gambling, borrowing, debt,' said Wield.
'Bad company, dirty women, bent bookies,' said Pascoe.
'Any word on Mr Dalziel, sir?' said Seymour.
It was a good but not a wise riposte. Wield's face became Arctic once more after its false spring, and Pascoe's features assumed an expression of mild distaste which those who knew him well did not care to see.
Hastily Seymour gathered together Parrinder's possessions.
'Sir,' he said in a conciliatory tone, 'what about this?
Do you want me to give this to Mr Cruikshank too?' He indicated Hector's sack of stones.
Pascoe was sorely tempted. Cruikshank and Seymour – kill two birds with one sack, so to speak! But judgment defeated justice.
'No, leave it. Off you go now. Don't hang around.'
Relieved at getting off so lightly, Seymour made a rapid exit.
Wield, who had recognized the names of the horses from Pascoe's account of his hospital visit, said, 'That explains why he went out, then.'
'Parrinder?'
'Yes. Racing man, makes three selections, sees two of them come up on the telly, he'd be bound to want to chase his luck and make sure he was on the last one. Poor old devil, he must have thought it was his lucky day!'
'Yes, I expect so,' said Pascoe.
It all fitted. Why then couldn't he put it to the back of his mind and concentrate on the Deeks case? Perhaps because there was nothing to concentrate on. Charley Frostick was due home tomorrow, that was the nearest thing to a development, and there seemed little way the young soldier's arrival could help.
As if catching the military trend of his thought, Wield said, 'By the way, sir, Forensic produced this sole pattern from the bathroom vinyl.'
Pascoe studied the sheet of cardboard which Wield handed him.
'Did they have any suggestions?' he asked.
'Size ten, ten and a half,' said Wield.
'Army?'
'Didn't say anything about that. No distinguishing marks, you know, cuts or anything like that. Even the pattern's a bit vague. Wouldn't chance their arm. ‘Well, if they won't, we must!' said Pascoe, eager for some kind of action. 'I'll check it out at Eltervale Camp.'
Wield, condemned to another boring stint in the caravan, said with no overt sarcasm, 'Lunch at Paradise Hall again, sir?'
'No!' said Pascoe. 'No way!'
Chapter 17