Reginald Hill - Exit lines

Her eyes filled with tears. Seymour said hastily, 'When you say a lot, what do you mean?'

'I don't know. It looked a lot, that was all.'

'Did he have it in a wallet, or what?'

'No, it was in an old envelope, one of those long buff things. There was an elastic band round it, I recall.'

'An envelope? You're sure it wasn't just a few fivers in a pension book?'

'No! I'm not blind, am I? It was a lot of money and it was in an envelope. Why d'you ask? Oh, the old chap was never robbed, was he? No, that'd be a terrible thing, terrible!'

'No,' said Seymour. 'No, well, we don't know. I'll keep you posted if you're interested.'

'I'd like that,' said Bernadette.

'Good. What time do you come off duty?'

'Oh, is that your game?' she said, rising. 'Well, I'd better get myself on duty now or else that old dragon will be giving me a scorching.'

'All right,' said Seymour. 'You can start by serving me. What have you got that'll keep a poor detective-constable on his feet for the rest of the day without turning him into a pauper?'

'Constable, is it?' she said with a grin. 'I think you'd better be having the special.'

'What's that?' he said.

'Tripe and onions,' she said. 'I'll see if I can wangle you an extra portion of onions!'

With the extra virtue of one who has been kept virtuous by accident, Pascoe said, 'You've taken your time! Enjoy your lunch?'

'Sorry, sir. Some of the witnesses have been difficult to pin down,' said Seymour.

Quickly he reported his findings.

'So. A lot of money. But it can't have been all that much, not at four to one. Not unless he put a lot more on the horse than we imagine.'

'Or he'd rolled it up with the other two,' said Seymour eagerly.

'Rolled it up?' said Pascoe, who understood the term only vaguely, not being a racing man.

'Yes. What I mean is, put his money on all three horses to win in a treble. Now Red Vanessa was five to one, so a fiver would give him twenty-five pounds plus his stake on Usherette, two to one, equals sixty plus thirty on Polly Styrene at four to one equals three hundred and sixty plus the stake. Three hundred and ninety pounds. That's money.'

Pascoe, impressed by the rapid calculation, quibbled, 'Yes, but that means he'd have had to have his bet on in advance, doesn't it?'

Wield, in whom the mention of a relatively large sum of money had roused a spark of interest, said, 'But it makes more sense, sir. I was thinking. He was drinking tea and watching television with this Mrs Escott until nearly half past three, you say? It was always going to be a bit of a rush for him to get into town in time to put a bet on the three fifty-five. But if he'd got the money on a roll-up, surely he'd have sat at home and watched the last race on the telly?'

Pascoe looked at Seymour, who nodded and said, 'Wild horses wouldn't have dragged him away.'

Wield said, 'So maybe he did just feel his luck running good and go out to put a bet on the last of selections. There's a betting shop in that parade of shops just beyond Castleton Court, isn't there? He'd get there in time.'

Pascoe who, following Dalziel's hint, had checked the local shops in his street directory, nodded.

'Yes. One of Arnie Charlesworth's.'

'But there's no way he could've won all that money, Sarge,' argued Seymour. 'Not on one bet at four to one.'

'Mebbe a little looks a lot to an Irish waitress,' said Wield sardonically. 'There could be hope for you yet.'

Seymour was disturbed to realize how much of his personal response he must have given away in what he'd thought was a carefully neutral account of Bernadette's evidence. Pascoe came to his rescue saying, 'But there's a sub-post-office in that parade of shops too. Why would he place his bet there, then go into town to collect his pension? There's even a local off-licence, so he could have got his rum too.'

'Well, perhaps he collected his winnings, set off home, decided he'd treat himself to a meal and jumped on a bus and went into town,' said Wield tentatively.

Pascoe shook his head, then spoke with sudden decision.

'This is all detail,' he said. 'It'll get sorted eventually. The main thing is, at least we've something to go on. If Parrinder had a bundle of notes in an old brown envelope when he left the restaurant, where are they now?'

'So you think we can be certain this was a mugging?' said Wield doubtfully. 'Why just take the envelope? What was wrong with the money in his pension book?'

'Perhaps whoever did it just knew for certain about the envelope,' said Pascoe. 'You get some pretty odd people hanging around betting shops. Seeing an old guy going out with a big win would be very tempting to some of them. But let's tread slowly. Seymour, you're obviously at home among the bookies. If someone had a win on a roll-up bet on those three horses, it'll be recorded somewhere. Start with the local one near Castleton Court, but I've got no real hopes there. I want you to do the rounds till you find out where it was, if it was. Come the heavy if they drag their feet. They've all got something to hide! Once we get confirmation that Parrinder did have a little bank-roll, then we can get a proper official investigation under way! Off you go lad. And don't hang about this time, keep away from the colleens.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. And you have a good day too, sir,' said Seymour as he left.

'Cheeky bugger,' observed Wield.

'But he has the makings,' said Pascoe. 'He definitely has the makings. The future of the Force is in good hands if we train the Seymours up right.'

'Yes, sir,' said Wield.

From where Andy Dalziel was sitting, the future of the Force did not seem to be in quite so good a shape. He was outside Haycroft Grange high up in the passenger seat of Kassell's Range Rover and he could see the lanky figure of PC Hector under the archway of the stable wing where the estate offices were, waiting with the other beaters to collect his day's pay.

Dalziel had refused Pledger's invitation to come into the house for a parting drink. There had been things to talk over with Kassell and there was more privacy out here. But Kassell had been summoned to take a phone call and Dalziel was wishing that he'd accepted Pledger's offer after all.

The truck with its bright cargo of dead pheasants was being unloaded by the stable block. There were getting on for a hundred of them, but only one of them was Dalziel's personal responsibility. He was not a man who cared to do things badly and the degree to which age and hard living seemed to have impaired his coordination of muscle and eye had taken him aback.

A green van bumped into the courtyard. Kassell came out of the house and spoke briefly with the new arrival, a short, squat man in a tweed suit patterned violently in brown and yellow checks. Then Kassell helped himself to a couple of birds from the truck and walked back to his own vehicle.

'Sorry about that,' he said as he climbed in. 'You should've gone inside and sampled Willy's brandy.'

'Plenty of time for that,' said Dalziel. 'What's this?'

Kassell had reached into the back of the Range Rover, got hold of a plastic carrier into which he put the brace of birds before dropping it onto Dalziel's lap.

'To the victor the spoils,' he said. 'All the guns are entitled to a couple at the end of the day.'

'But I only hit one of the bloody things!' protested Dalziel. 'And what the fuck am I meant to do with them anyway?'

'That's up to you. But one thing I learned in the Army was that a perk is a perk. Never turn down a buckshee!'

'What happens to the rest?' said Dalziel.

'We sell 'em,' said Kassell. 'That chap in the explosive suit is Vernon Briggs, game dealer. He claims his firm's motto is Game for Owt. He's not unamusing, though he thinks of himself as a bit of a character, which is rather a bore. He pays about a quid a bird and they end up on your plate at places like Paradise Hall at ten times the price.'