said. ‘Nothing. Only Charley.’
‘Charley?’
‘That’s our son,’ she said. ‘He and his grandad were very close. He must have wanted to see him, or get me to tell him something.’
Her voice broke again.
Pascoe looked on her grief with genuine sympathy, but he was a policeman as well as a fellow human and the best he could do was to try and keep his policeman’s thoughts out of his voice as he said casually, ‘How old’s your son, Mrs Frostick?’
‘Eighteen,’ she said.
‘Is he at home at the moment?’
The note of casual, friendly inquiry might have lulled a doting mother but Frostick was both sensitive and aggressive.
‘No, he’s bloody well not!’ he snapped. ‘He’s in Germany, that’s where he is!’
His wife, bewildered by his aggression, said, ‘Charley’s in the Army, Inspector. He couldn’t get a job, you see, so he joined up this summer. It was all right at first, he was out at Eltervale Camp doing his training with the Mid-Yorkies, so we saw plenty of him. Then he got sent off to Germany three weeks ago. It’s not right really, he’s just a boy, and he’d just got himself engaged to Andrea, that’s Mrs Gregory’s girl next door, you’d think they’d have kept him a bit nearer home…’
‘Best reason on earth for going abroad!’ interrupted Frostick. ‘Lad of his age engaged! Stupid. And to that scheming trollop! He’s a good lad, our Charley, Inspector. He wasn’t content to sit around on his arse collecting the dole like some. He did something about it, and he’ll make a real go of things, if he’s let!’
Frostick’s voice was triumphant. Clearly the wider the gap between Charley and the toils of Andrea Gregory, the better he would be pleased.
But on the sofa Mrs Frostick was weeping quietly and steadily, not only, Pascoe guessed, for a dead father, but also for a lost son.
‘Well, I have had a happy life.’
Detective-Constable Dennis Seymour and Police-Constable Tony Hector had little in common except size and a sense of grievance. Seymour was five inches shorter than Hector, but compensated with breadth of shoulder and depth of chest. Not too privately, he reckoned Hector was something of a twit and part of his grievance at being diverted from the Welfare Lane inquiry lay in having to suffer such a companion. But Sergeant Wield had been adamant. Mr Pascoe wanted this done and Seymour had better make a job of it.
Hector’s sense of grievance went deeper, partly because he felt he had a personal stake in the Welfare Lane murder, and partly because he could not altogether grasp what they were meant to be doing on the Alderman Woodhouse Recreation Ground.
‘We’re looking for a stone or a bit of hard wood, something that, if you fell and hit your head on it, would break the skin and leave a dent,’ said Seymour patiently. He had bright red hair and an underlying Celtic volatility of temper which he knew might prove a hindrance to advancement if he did not keep it firmly underlaid.
‘Couldn’t this old fellow just’ve banged his head on the ground when he fell?’ objected Hector.
‘The ground was soft, it had been raining,’ said Seymour, stamping his foot into the muddy grass which the November sun’s puny heat had not begun to dry.
‘It’s going to be a hell of a job finding something like that, just the two of us,’ grumbled Hector, looking glumly out across the broad open space which included three football pitches and a children’s play area.
‘Not finding it’s the important thing,’ said Seymour smartly. And this is where he lost Hector, to whom the easiest way of not finding something seemed to be not to look for it very hard.
Convinced at last that looking was essential, he said, ‘Wouldn’t it be better if we had some idea of where to look before we started?’
He was right, of course, for Seymour had made the error of driving directly to the Recreation Ground instead of diverting first to talk with the man who’d discovered Mr Parrinder. He regarded Hector with new eyes, and made the discovery that being not quite so stupid as he looked increased rather than diluted the fellow’s unlikability. At least before he had been reliable.
‘You start looking,’ he said. ‘If you find anything, bag it and mark the spot. I’ll go and talk to the fellow who found him.’
The witness was called Donald Cox. He turned out to be a small, voluble, middle-aged man with worried eyes and a rather insinuating manner who lived with his wife, four children and a Great Dane in a basic semi about half a mile from the Alderman Woodhouse Recreation Ground. Or perhaps, thought Seymour, it would be more accurate to say that the Great Dane occupied the house and the Cox family fitted round it as best they could.
‘He needs his exercise, don’t you, Hammy?’ said Cox proudly. ‘Only reason I was out. He’d missed his afternoon walk, I usually take him morning, afternoon and evening, three times a day, well, I’ve got the time now, haven’t I, since they closed the works and put us all on the dole. I wish I could claim for Hammy here, you’d think they’d make an allowance, wouldn’t you, he’s like one of the family, and it was very nasty all afternoon so I thought, I’ll just wait till later, it might fair up, but it just got worse and worse. Not a night to put a dog out in, they say, but this dog’s got to go whatever the weather, if a day goes by without he’s put at least five miles on the clock, there’s no peace. He’ll run up and down the stairs till three in the morning if that’s the only way he can get his exercise, won’t you, Hammy? Round and round the recreation ground he goes, round and round, by Christ I wish I had his energy. Don’t worry, lad! He’s got a lovely nature!’
It was Hammy’s lovely nature, in fact, which was bothering Seymour as the dog attempted to demonstrate its affection by scrambling on his lap.
‘If you could just show me where you found Mr Parrinder,’ he said, trying in vain to rise.
‘Pleasure. Hammy’d love a run out, wouldn’t you, boy? You’ve brought your car, have you? Well, he likes a ride too, though you’ll have to have your windows open, can’t bear to be shut in a confined space.’
It was a chilly and chilling return journey to the recreation ground. The dog occupied the whole of the back seat with its head protruding from one window and its tail wagging out of the other. An amiable fog-horn bark into the ear of an overtaking motorcyclist nearly caused an accident.
‘It’s the white helmet,’ said Cox complacently. ‘He thinks it’s a bone.’
Between the barking and the apologetic waves at the other road-users, Seymour managed a few questions. No, there’d definitely been no one else in sight on the recreation ground. Only idiots and Great Dane owners were out on such a night. Mind you, it had been very dark. In fact, Cox would likely not have seen the prostrate man if it hadn’t been for Hammy finding him. No, the man hadn’t been calling out, looked too far gone for that, poor sod. But yes, he had said something, just as Cox arrived to see what it was Hammy was looking at.
‘And what did he say?’ inquired Seymour.
‘I’m not sure. It sounded like, mebbe, Polly,’ said Cox. ‘That’s the nearest I can get to it. Polly. And seemed to sort of laugh, though what there was for him to be laughing at, I don’t know. Delirious, I should think. But he certainly seemed to be dying happy, so you can’t knock it, can you?’
‘Did you touch him at all?’
‘I tried to lift him up, but I could see he was unconscious and his leg was sprawled out underneath him at a funny sort of angle, and I guessed he’d broken something. So I thought it best to go for help. What’s all this about,