statement. You’ve got his statement, have you, sir?’
‘Yes, Andy. I’ve got his statement.’
‘Grand!’ said Dalziel. ‘Now let’s get on to this problem of yours, shall we?’
The DCC sighed deeply and turned half-profile to Dalziel’s camera-rigid gaze.
‘Andy, what you must understand is our need to appear absolutely impartial in this. Fortunately the editor of the Post is as aware as I am of the need to foster good and mutually beneficial police, public and press relationships.’
‘You mean he doesn’t want us stopping his paper vans parking on double yellow lines,’ growled Dalziel.
‘He has behaved very responsibly by putting the information in my hands…’
‘Information? What information? I’ve told you what happened. Is someone trying to make a liar out of me?’
Ignoring the belligerent stiffening of Dalziel’s body which had the effect, noted with terror by many a criminal, of turning what seemed mere flab into solid muscle, the DCC said, ‘There’s also the matter of Dr Sowden at the City General who claims that Mr Westerman, the deceased, said something before dying which appeared to imply that he thought you were the driver of the vehicle that hit him. The testimony of Mrs Warsop, that’s the witness in the car park, and of Dr Sowden could certainly be presented in a very damaging way if the Post decided to use it. Worse, of course, it might be that one of the less scrupulous national papers would take it up.’
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 tellypersona 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 supranationalism 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.’
‘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