He spoke with the bitterness of misunderstood youth, but with something more too. It was a bad time he'd been through, Pascoe knew. His grandfather's death, his broken engagement.
He said gently, 'Will you try to make it up with Andrea?'
The young man thought, then said, 'No.'
It didn't sound a definitive negative. The qualification when it came surprised Pascoe by its honesty and to some extent its maturity.
'What I mean is, no, I'll not be chasing after her. I mean, when I'm away from her, I think about her, but, you know, well, just like that mainly. And if she came after me, I expect I'd make it up because when we're together, you know, by ourselves…'
He stopped speaking but his stumbling words and now his silence were more eloquent than any literary erotica of the power of sex.
'She's an attractive girl,' said Pascoe.
'She is that. I used to slip out from the camp sometimes when she were at that hotel – it's only a couple of miles down the road – we weren't supposed to stay out at night, not during training, but I'd still go and she'd let me in at the back. It were daft really, I could have got into serious bother, but I knew this lad on the gate. Later, when I'd passed out, we were allowed to stay out. I'd still get back late sometimes even though it were so close. And often I'd be fair worn out on the square or at the range!'
He spoke with a mixture of pride, bewilderment and awkwardness. He was glad, Pascoe guessed, to have someone to talk to who was sympathetic but also a stranger, and official with it. He did not doubt that Charley had indulged in his fill of sexual boasting in the company of his fellow soldiers, but that was miles away from this stumbling analysis of the strange ambiguities of body and spirit.
'I'd not really thought of being married to Andrea, do you understand that?' he continued. 'Even when we got engaged. I mean, I couldn't think of her as a wife, somehow, not like me mam, you know, in the house and taking care of things and all that… no, I couldn't see that…'
They had arrived at Welfare Lane. The police caravan had gone and there was nothing to distinguish No. 25 from its neighbours. After Charley's visit, Pascoe could see no further reason for keeping the house sealed. Mrs Frostick would want to start the sad job of sorting out her father's belongings. There had been no will, so the whole estate – money, goods and the house itself – would pass to her as the only child. Pascoe had no doubt that she would see Charley right, but the boy wasn't going to get the old pocket watch that had always been promised him. Not unless the gods decided to be kind.
He didn't open the car door straight away but sat for a moment in case Charley wanted to unburden himself further, but the youth quickly opened the passenger door and got out, perhaps because he felt that there had been quite enough self-examination for one day, perhaps because Mrs Tracey Spillings had appeared at the kerb- side and was peering through the windscreen.
'Hello, Charley,' she said. 'You're looking grand. It must suit you, all this open air life. I was right sorry about your grandad. He could be a miserable old devil when he wanted but he never did nobody any harm and we've had some good times. All these years we've been neighbours and I never thought it'd come to this. It's a terrible business, Charley. I hope they get the bugger as did it, but they run rings round the police nowadays, don't they? You've got the best one of the bunch here, I reckon, but that's not saying too much. You know who was first round? Mrs Jolley's nephew from Parish Road, that Tony Hector, looks as if he's been washed and stretched. Then there was another, you've never seen such a face! When first I saw it, I thought they'd caught the killer, he looked ripe for anything! How are you, lad?'
'I'm fine, thanks, Mrs Spillings,' said Charley, looking slightly shell-shocked.
'And your mam and dad? And that lass you're engaged to? All all right?'
Charley glanced at Pascoe and said, 'Aye, they're OK.'
'Good. You'd like a cup of tea,' asserted Mrs Spillings without fear of contradiction.
'No, thanks,' said Charley boldly. 'But don't let me stop you from having one, Mr Pascoe. In fact, I'd as lief have a look round the house by myself to start with.'
Pascoe who had slid away to unlock the front door regarded the boy with mute congratulation. Such tactical skill must surely predicate a knapsack full of field-marshal's batons.
'That's right,' approved Mrs Spillings. 'You come along with me, Mr Pascoe.'
She seized his arm and Pascoe for the first time in his life knew what it must feel like to be nicked.
But as he entered No. 27, a second and perhaps stranger phenomenon occupied all his attention.
The house was in silence.
Without the waves of broadcast decibels beating against it, even the wallpaper seemed almost peaceful, like a coral reef after a tropical storm.
'Where…?' began Pascoe.
'Mam?' said Mrs Spillings. 'Aye, it is quiet. She's gone.'
'Gone? Oh, I'm sorry,' said Pascoe sitting down heavily and feeling the usual English middle-class inadequacy in matters of commiseration.
'What? No! You silly bugger!' roared Mrs Spillings. 'I don't mean gone. I mean she's gone away. She were booked down to go to The Towers this Friday, but this vacancy came up unexpected and Betty Day, the matron there, she got in touch to ask if she'd like an extra few days. I've known Betty Day for years, her dad was Eric Day who used to have the fish shop in Brahma Street and her mam was a Spurling out of Otley. They washed their hands of her by all accounts when she married Eric, but they changed their tune when Betty came along. She's a grand lass – lass! she must be nearly forty now! Mam's been going to The Towers for years, and I was right pleased when Betty took it over last year! Mrs Collins who ran it before were all right, but she was ancient herself and letting things slide. Betty's making a world of difference. And Mam loves it there and it's a bit of a break for me. Gives me a chance to really bottom this place!'
There were signs everywhere of an enthusiastic November spring-clean about to be commenced.
'A bit of a busman's holiday,' said Pascoe wryly.
'Busman's? Oh aye! I see what you mean. No, I've never minded cleaning, it comes easy to me. But talking of busmen, I'd better get a move on. It all happened so sudden there was half a dozen things Mam forgot to take. Nowt that she can't do without, mind you, but they like to make a fuss! I'm sorry, lad, but can you make your own tea?'
'You mean you're going out there on the bus?' said Pascoe.
'Well, I'm not walking, love!' said Tracey Spillings cheerfully.
Suddenly she eyed him speculatively.
'Of course, if you were happening to be passing that way in that fancy motor of yours, it'd save me a trip and I could make you that tea after all.'
Cheeky cow! thought Pascoe without any real indignation. In fact, he found himself thinking, why not? He'd been wondering intermittently what, if anything, he should do about Andrea's insinuations concerning Mrs Warsop and her former employer. Pass them to Headingley was the obvious answer, except that Headingley had been warned off the Dalziel affair and was likely to respond to any new information with an answer even more obvious.
Now, nudged by the coincidence that Tracey Spillings's old mam had clearly been slipped into the space vacated by Philip Westerman, Pascoe found himself unable to resist the temptation to meddle. The kind of bother Dalziel seemed to be in clearly went a lot further than just the question of his involvement in Westerman's death.
'All right,' he said. 'You're on. I'll take them.'