A green van bumped into the courtyard. Kassell came out of the house and spoke briefly with the new arrival, a short, squat man in a tweed suit patterned violently in brown and yellow checks. Then Kassell helped himself to a couple of birds from the truck and walked back to his own vehicle.
'Sorry about that,' he said as he climbed in. 'You should've gone inside and sampled Willy's brandy.'
'Plenty of time for that,' said Dalziel. 'What's this?'
Kassell had reached into the back of the Range Rover, got hold of a plastic carrier into which he put the brace of birds before dropping it onto Dalziel's lap.
'To the victor the spoils,' he said. 'All the guns are entitled to a couple at the end of the day.'
'But I only hit one of the bloody things!' protested Dalziel. 'And what the fuck am I meant to do with them anyway?'
'That's up to you. But one thing I learned in the Army was that a perk is a perk. Never turn down a buckshee!'
'What happens to the rest?' said Dalziel.
'We sell 'em,' said Kassell. 'That chap in the explosive suit is Vernon Briggs, game dealer. He claims his firm's motto is Game for Owt. He's not unamusing, though he thinks of himself as a bit of a character, which is rather a bore. He pays about a quid a bird and they end up on your plate at places like Paradise Hall at ten times the price.'
'I thought that consumptive lass shot her own,' said Dalziel.
'Mrs Abbiss? Yes, she's a fair shot. We've had her out here from time to time. I intend no double entendre. The lady's not for touching, much to the disappointment of some of our foreign guests. Fortunately we usually contrive to keep them happy in other directions.'
'How's that?'
'Oh, they tend to be rather seignorial in their attitude to serving wenches, so we have to make sure that we have the right kind of stuff.'
'Old and ugly you mean?' said Dalziel.
Kassell laughed and said, 'You're very whimsical, Andy. Interestingly, my phone call was from a new recruit. That girl who waited on us, or do I mean on whom we waited, on Friday night.'
'The one who looked like a reject from a punk band?' said Dalziel. 'Jesus!'
'You didn't seem to find her unattractive yourself if I remember right,' grinned Kassell. 'I've noticed her before. She has a certain something. And she was so clearly discontented with her lot on Friday that I had a word with her on the way out.'
'That's why you hung back, was it?' said Dalziel. 'I thought you were fixing yourself a soldier's hello. I didn't realize you were a talent scout.'
'Pimp, did you think of saying? No, I don't believe you did. If you had, you'd have said it, wouldn't you?'
'Oh aye,' said Dalziel. 'And is she hired, then?'
'Yes. She hesitated at the possible isolation. I assured her that transport was provided on days off to get the staff to town and back. So we have a new maid. Yes, talent scout, I like that. Always on the lookout for talent.'
'Like me,' said Dalziel.
'Yes, I'm glad I spotted you. With Arnie's help, of course. To get back to what we were talking about, you're perfectly satisfied with our arrangement?'
'For the time being,' said Dalziel cautiously.
'Subject to review, you mean? Well, we can't ask fairer than that. If you won't go to Willy's brandy, let's at least wet our deal with his equally excellent Scotch.'
He produced a silver-plated flask from the door-pocket, unscrewed the cup which doubled as a stopper and poured the contents into it.
'There's only enough for one,' protested Dalziel.
'You have it,' urged Kassell. 'You've got further to go than me.'
'To get to the next drink, you mean?'
'That too.'
The two men looked at each other in silence for a moment.
'Cheers,' said Dalziel. And drank.
Chapter 19
'Je m'en vais chercher un grand peut-etre.'
Tuesday was a day of short tempers.
Dalziel had at last received the DCC's urgent summons. The two men were closeted together for over an hour. Dalziel emerged shaking his head angrily as though pushed to the edge of even his superhuman tolerance, and when George Headingley tapped cautiously at the DCC's door five minutes later, the scream of Come in! echoed round the station like a sergeant-major's Shun! across a parade ground.
Dalziel meanwhile had kicked open the door of Pascoe's office like a man leading a raid, but for once found his assistant in a mood to match his own.
'Come in, do,' growled Pascoe. 'That's the door sorted. What'd you like to demolish next? The window? Or the desk? Sir.'
'What the hell's up with you?' demanded Dalziel.
'Nothing.'
'Is it the Deeks killing? Pull in half a dozen kids off the streets and kick it out of them. They'll likely know something.'
'No, it's not that,' said Pascoe. 'Though we're getting nowhere there either. It's this other business.’
He explained to Dalziel about Parrinder. The truth was that after the discoveries of the previous day he had been rather over-jubilant in assuring Inspector Cruikshank that the famous Pascoe hunch had been correct and the Parrinder 'accident' could almost certainly now be regarded as a mugging. The trouble was that, since then, Seymour had not been able to trace a single sighting of Parrinder at any betting shop nor to get anyone to admit having paid out on a roll-up involving those three horses. Even the pay-outs on single bets on Polly Styrene offered few possibilities, the customers either being known, or their descriptions not fitting.
'So you started crowing before you'd got to the top of the midden,' said Dalziel, not without satisfaction. 'And now you're thinking mebbe there never was an envelope full of money to be stolen, mebbe Seymour's Irish waitress was dazzled by the sight of the poor old devil's pension money!'
'Something like that.'
'Well, better make absolutely sure before you start eating Cruikshank's humble pie. You want information, always go to experts. Let's see what we can do.'
He picked up the phone and dialled.
When it was answered he said. 'Arnie there? Tell him it's Andy. Just plain Andy, that's right, you can remember that, can you, love? Well done! Hello? Arnie? Yes, it's me. Listen, one of my boys is interested to know if an old lad called Parrinder collected last Friday on a roll-up on… what were them horses called?'
Pascoe told him. The information was relayed.
'Aye, that's all we've got. You'll check around? Grand! About twelve o'clock; no, someone will call at your flat, that'll be best. Can't have you seen hobnobbing with the fuzz too much, can we? Yesterday? Oh aye. Bloody marvellous. I only hit one of the bloody things and it wasn't the one I was aiming at. But I got two given. Listen, Arnie, like to buy a pair of pheasants? What?…You too!'
He replaced the receiver.
'There you are,' he said. 'Midday at Arnie Charlesworth's flat. If there's owt to know, he'll know it.'
'Well, thank you, sir,' said Pascoe uncertainly.
'Nothing wrong, lad?' said Dalziel softly. 'You don't object to visiting Arnie, do you? I mean he's not persona non grata or owt, is he?'
'No, nothing like that,' lied Pascoe. 'I was just thinking, I can't make midday myself. Charley Frostick, that's Deeks's grandson, is arriving from Germany then and I want to be there to talk to him. But I'll send Seymour. He's been dealing with the Parrinder business mainly and making not a bad job of it.'
'Aye, he's not bad,' agreed Dalziel. 'And could be Arnie'd prefer a youngster. But you'll have to start paddling your own feet in this puddle sooner or later, Peter. Detection's like copulation, you can't manage it properly once removed. Now, important business. Your Ellie's a dab hand with a pheasant if I remember right. I've got two of the buggers. Two quid apiece. Or I'll take three for the pair. How's that? An offer you can't refuse, else Ellie'll skin you alive when I tell her.'