Dalziel stood up.
'I've had enough of this,' he said angrily. 'Bloody journalists – I've shit 'em! Who runs the police in this country? Us or the bloody newspapers?'
Suddenly the DCC had had enough too. His telly-persona vanished like a whore's smile at an empty wallet. He became total policeman.
'Sit down!' he bellowed. 'And shut up! Now, Mr Dalziel, let me tell you something else. All that's bothering the Press at the moment is whether a drunken police officer is trying to wriggle out of a manslaughter charge. That bothers me too, but what bothers me almost as much is what the hell you were doing consorting with Arnold Charlesworth?'
'Why? What's wrong with Arnie?' asked Dalziel, slowly subsiding.
'Has it somehow escaped your notice, you who usually manage to know what's in my in-tray before I get near it,' said the DCC with heavy sarcasm, 'that Arnold Charlesworth is currently being investigated by Customs and Excise for evasion of betting tax? Just imagine what the Press will make of that when it comes out? Senior police officer entertained by crooked bookie! What the hell are you playing at, Superintendent?'
Dalziel said defiantly, 'There's nowt been proved against Arnie. He's an old mate of mine. Any road, I notice you don't ask who else was eating with us.'
'Not the Archbishop of Canterbury?' said the DCC, essaying wit.
'No. Barney Kassell, Major Barney Kassell.'
'And who the devil's he? Something big in the Sally Army?'
'No,' said Dalziel. 'He's Sir William Pledger's estate manager. You'll have heard of Sir William Pledger, I expect, sir? Big mate of Mr Winter's I gather. Major Kassell knows Mr Winter pretty well too, from arranging shooting parties and the like.'
The DCC was taken aback. William Pledger, a Harold Wilson knight who'd survived the elevation, was a powerful figure in the financial world. He'd made his reputation in the Far East in the 'sixties and early 'seventies, and was currently Chairman of Van Bellen International Holdings which was to date the nearest thing to efficient supra-nationalism to emerge out of the EEC. Pledger's shooting parties on his Yorkshire estate were usually high-powered affairs, with guests flown in from Europe, though the local connection was not neglected, as evidenced by the Chief Constable's frequent presence. Pledger's estate manager would certainly be a different kettle of fish from a local bookie, no matter how rich.
Dalziel pressed home his advantage.
'Arnie Charlesworth's been out to Haycroft Grange, shooting, too. That's how he knows the Major. Thought I might try it myself. Sir.'
The DCC who'd never even had a sniff of such an invitation said, 'I'm not much in favour of blood sports myself, Andy. Anyway, this is all beside the point. A policeman's got to be more careful than anyone else, you know that. What's all right for the public at large may not be all right for him.'
He frowned and went on, 'Look, you know how some people like to make mountains out of molehills. What would seem a good idea to me would be for you to keep your head down for a couple of days. You must be a bit shaken up. Have a couple of days off. You've got plenty of back-leave, you've been pushing yourself a bit hard lately, Andy.'
'Oh. You want me to take some of my holidays then, not sick leave?' said Dalziel mildly.
'Holiday, sick leave, whatever you like!' snapped the DCC. 'Go to Acapulco, Tibet, anywhere, so long as you don't talk to Ruddlesdin or any reporter, or anyone! Understand?'
Dalziel nodded and rose.
The DCC as if encouraged by this silence said boldly, 'Andy, you're quite sure you weren't driving?'
The fat man didn't even pause but left the room without closing the door behind him.
It was not a very positive gesture, but the best he could manage. Usually he regarded any confrontation with the DCC as a mismatch, but today had been different. The trouble was of course that the long streak of owl-shit had a secret advantage today in the shape of an old man looking up into the headlamp-bright tracers of rain with unblinking blue eyes. Dalziel could see him now if he wished, suspected he might start seeing him even if he didn’t wish. It was a ghost that was going to take some exorcising.
'Hello, Mr Dalziel. What's your pleasure this time?'
It was Edna, the canteen girl. For some reason his feet had brought him back to the basement while his mind wandered aimlessly in the past.
'Full house,' he said automatically.
'Again?'
Of course, he'd had it once. On the other hand, it was a silly copper who quarrelled with his feet. Exorcism probably required as full a stomach as most human activities.
'Yes, please,' he said firmly. 'And this time, love, see if you can't get them rashers really crisp.'
Chapter 7
'What does it signify?'
Peter Pascoe allowed himself to be rehearsed in the whereabouts of fridge, oven, and his clean underwear for some minutes before interrupting with, 'And that's a chair, and that's a table, and there's a door! Darling, I haven't lived with a liberated woman these past seventy years, or whatever it is, without becoming moderately self-sufficient.'
'Bollocks,' said Ellie. 'And any more of that crap and I'll leave Rosie in your tender care while I drive off to Orburn.'
'I wouldn't mind,' said Pascoe. 'Even her muckiest nappy's a pleasanter prospect than anything I've got to look forward to. Still, I suppose it's good timing. It could've spoilt a weekend when you were staying at home.'
He kissed the pair of them fondly.
'See you tomorrow night, then,' he said. 'Love to the old folk.'
It was nearly ten o'clock, a lateness explained though possibly not justified by the hour at which he'd finally got to bed. Pascoe assured himself that the lie-in had been necessary in the interests of his personal efficiency, but he wondered whether he'd have chanced it if he hadn't suspected Dalziel was going to have other things on his mind that morning than checking on his staff. His first stop was the hospital where he found that Longbottom, the pathologist, presumably eager to take advantage on the golf-course of the bright November day which had succeeded the stormy night, had already started on Robert Deeks.
A native of Yorkshire whom education had deprived of his accent but not of the directness which usually accompanied it, Longbottom summed up his findings in simple non-technical language.
'You can try murder, but it'll probably end as man-slaughter,' he said. 'Injuries to the head and face caused by slapping and punching. Possibly by someone wearing a leather glove. Injuries to neck, shoulders and scalp caused by narrow-bladed double-edged knife with a sharp point. None of these injuries severe enough to be fatal of itself. But he was old and frail. I'm surprised he was still living by himself, really. Cause of death, in lay terms, shock. Oh, and there was a bit of bathwater in his lungs. He must have gone under a couple of times.'
'Been forced under, you mean.'
'Could be,' said Longbottom. 'Why not? I presume whoever knocked him about was trying to force something out of him. Certainly wasn't self-defence. But that's your problem, Inspector. Now, let's see. What else do we have?'
He checked a list.
'Road accident and a broken hip with death from exposure? No urgency there, I presume. I'll leave them over for a rainy day.'
'I think,' said Pascoe hesitantly, 'though it's nothing to do with me directly, that an early report on the road accident would be appreciated.'
'Oh?' said Longbottom. 'All right. If I must, I must.'
'And as a matter of interest,' pushed Pascoe, 'the other one, I happened to see him last night. His right hip was broken, I believe, as a result of a fall. And he's got a nasty bruise on the left side of his head which Dr Sowden seemed to think could have been caused in the same fall. I'd be interested in your opinion.'