Reginald Hill - Exit lines

'I've only met him and Captain Trott,' said Pascoe. 'Though I did come across one of your former officers recently. Major Kassell.'

'Oh yes. The Major,' said Myers.

There was something in the way he spoke that caught Pascoe's attention. Quickly deciding that Myers was the kind of soldier who would clam up if directly invited to gossip about the regiment with an outsider, he opted for provocation.

'You remember him?' he said. 'He seems to have done all right for himself. Of course, he had the sense to get out and make it in civvy street, didn't he?'

He intended merely to be slightly rude about the Army but by chance the button he pressed won him a jackpot.

'The sense to get out? The sense to get out?' said Myers angrily. 'Doesn't take much fucking sense when the choice is to be court-martialled, does it? At least he had the choice, which is more than others did, you want to ask Dave Ludlam about that, oh yes, you want to ask Ludlam!'

'Yes,' said Pascoe, his mind racing. 'The other day, I got a hint; same business, was it?'

'The very same. CSM he was then, would've been RSM by now, no doubt. Well, if you're daft enough to get caught, that's your bad luck, that's what I tell these lads with their hard luck stories, that's your bad luck. But it should be one law for all, wouldn't you say? One law for all.'

'Indeed yes,' said Pascoe cautiously. 'I dare say there was a lot of it going on?'

'Out in Hong Kong?' said Myers incredulously. 'Never known a place like it. Everyone had a fucking racket, from the police down. Keeping out of the rackets was harder than getting in! What's a few more Chinks, anyway? Place bursting at the seams with them, what's a few more? That's how Dave Ludlam saw it. But it's not right that the same thing as turns a CSM into a private and gets him stuck in the glasshouse should leave a major a major and get him a nice cushy billet in civvy street!'

There was no more. Myers's indignation had taken him as far as he was going. Pascoe drove back to town so rapt in speculation that his doubtfully motivated half-plan to stop for a lunch-time drink at Paradise Hall was completely forgotten.

Dennis Seymour was a pragmatist. An ambitious young man, if he could have impressed Pascoe by performing his appointed tasks and returning with his report in half an hour, he would have done so. But when on learning at Starbuck's restaurant where Tap Parrinder had enjoyed his last meal that the waitress who probably served him wouldn't be on duty till noon, he happily accepted this set-back as an excuse to return and eat there. Meanwhile he went down to the off-licence which was situated only a couple of hundred yards away from the store.

Here he was more lucky. The man in charge recalled Parrinder well.

'Old boy, cheerful sort. I said something about the terrible weather and he laughed and said he didn't mind. No, what he said was the going suited him fine, like he was a horse, if you see what I mean. I said it takes all sorts, and he bought a half of rum. I had some of our own brand on offer, but he said no, he'd prefer the very best, bugger the expense!'

'What time was this?' asked Seymour.

'About a quarter past, half past six.'

'You're sure?'

'Real sure. He was just about the only customer I'd had in hours. Friday's usually the big shopping day, but that weather kept them at home till Saturday last week. What's up, anyway? Nothing wrong with the old chap, is there?'

'He had a fall,' said Seymour.

'Poor old devil!'

'Yes,' said Seymour. 'Do you remember how he paid?'

'Yes. He gave me a fiver, I think. That's it. Definitely a fiver.'

'Did he take it out of a wallet? or a purse? or what?'

'I don't rightly know. Well, I didn't see, did I? He sort of half turned away to get his money out. They nearly all do it, the old 'uns. What's yours is your own business; you don't let any bugger see how much money you've got, even if it's next to nowt! Mebbe especially if it's next to nowt!'

Still having plenty of time to kill, Seymour tried a couple of town-centre betting shops to see if anyone remembered an old boy having a winning bet on Polly Styrene the previous Friday and was not surprised to be greeted with indifference verging on impertinence. He did however establish that in the form book Polly Styrene was a horse that revelled in heavy going, as were Red Vanessa and Usherette.

At twelve o'clock he returned to the restaurant. To his delight, Parrinder's waitress turned out to be an extremely attractive Irish girl called Bernadette McCrystal with shoulder-length hair almost as red as his own, who seemed to show a pleasing readiness to be impressed by his official standing. He modestly corrected her when she addressed him as Superintendent and again when she got down to Inspector, but when she then replied, 'Oh, I'm really sorry, I'm just a plain ignorant country girl, Sergeant,' he spotted the gleam in her eye and realized he was being sent up.

Promising himself he would deal with this personal matter in a moment, he showed her the receipt and asked her if she remembered Parrinder.

'I think so,' she said carefully. 'Is there maybe something wrong with the old fellow?'

Suspecting that what she meant was that she was not about to say anything which might get Parrinder into bother, Seymour said gently, 'I'm sorry to say he had an accident, probably not long after leaving here.'

'Oh, I'm sorry to hear it,' the girl said, looking genuinely concerned. 'Was it serious?'

'Very,' said Seymour. 'I'm afraid he's dead.'

She pulled out a chair from one of the lunch tables and sat down heavily. The restaurant manageress glared disapprovingly from the other side of the room. Seymour glared back and sat down opposite the girl.

'He was such a nice old fellow,' she said. 'Full of fun. He said he'd had a bit of luck and was sort of celebrating. That's what's so upsetting, there he was all happy with his bit of luck, whatever it was, then he walked out of here and… what was it that happened? Knocked down in the street, was it?'

'He had a fall,' said Seymour. 'Did he say what he was celebrating?'

'No. He just ordered the Shopper's Special, a pork chop was what he had, then he said he'd have some soup to start with, and a portion of mushrooms, see you can see it's all down here on the bill. Make that a double portion of mushrooms, he said. I'm very partial and as I've had a bit of luck, I might as well treat myself as there's no one else likely to be treating me. And I'll have a pint of ale with it. We don't serve pints, I said. Only halves; the manageress doesn't like to see a pint pot on the table. Bring me two halves then, he said. It's all one, they'll be rejoined together soon enough!'

'What time was this?' asked Seymour.

'Not long after five,' she said. 'He was here about an hour. We weren't very busy, that awful weather kept people at home, I think, so I had a little bit of a talk with him whenever I went past.'

'But he never said where he'd been or anything?'

'No. He asked me about myself mainly, I got the feeling that the old chap was a bit lonely, well, it's a lonely time, old age, if you're on your own, isn't it?'

'I dare say,' said Seymour. 'You didn't notice how he paid, did you?'

'Why, with money, how else would he pay? He wasn't the type to be bothered with cheques or credit cards.'

'And did you see his money?'

'I did, and a lot of it there was,' she said without envy. 'Part of his stroke of good luck, I supposed. He gave me a pound for myself. Sure and the meal didn't come to above a fiver, not even with his extra mushrooms. I told him not to be daft, but he said it would have been worth it just for the seeing of me across the room, let alone the service, so I took it and said thank you and hoped he'd come back soon with his blarney and all.'