Reginald Hill: Exit lines

This introduction of the respected head of geriatrics clearly impressed Sowden.

Pascoe pressed home his advantage. 'Her mind had even more reason to repress the memory as she learned about Tap's death. She couldn't permit herself to associate the two things, could she? And it was only when my questioning forced her to recognize the missing day that she realized what she'd done and decided to crash out. I'd no idea, of course. All I wanted was to clear the decks about Parrinder's movements and her evidence conflicted with the rest.'

'It's still only a theory,' said Sowden stubbornly.

'And will remain so until I talk to Mrs Escott,' said Pascoe. 'Is that possible?'

The young doctor slowly nodded.

'You can talk to her. For a moment anyway. I doubt if she'll reply. Poor woman.'

'Thanks,' said Pascoe.

'Hold on, though!' said Sowden suddenly. 'You said that Mr Parrinder was carrying a lot of money? And that went missing? Now Mrs Escott might just turn out to have struck out at him in her terror and panic, but you're not telling me she robbed him too!'

Seymour said, 'Yes, sir. I was wondering about that, sir. I mean, it doesn't seem likely, does it?'

'No,' said Pascoe. 'What does seem likely is that a man on the dole with a wife, kids, and a seven-foot dog that must cost a tenner a week at least to feed, might be sorely tempted if an old envelope full of ten-pound notes suddenly appeared at his feet. I suggest when we finish here, it might be worthwhile having another chat with your Mr Cox, Seymour.'

Pascoe was horrified to see the change in Mrs Escott. She had looked her age before, but in a healthy, well-nourished fashion. Now she looked like age itself, with hollow cheeks, thread-like lips and eyes sunk almost out of sight into the funnels of their sockets.

'Mrs Escott,' said Pascoe softly. 'I'm Inspector Pascoe who came to talk to you about Tap. Mr Seymour's with me. You'll remember him, I think. He saw you too about Mr Parrinder. Listen, Mrs Escott, what I want to say is we know what happened, and we know it was an accident, and there's nothing to worry about, nothing at all. We all know what happened and nobody blames you. Believe me, Mrs Escott. Nobody blames you.'

There was no response either of sound or movement. Pascoe looked up and caught Sowden's eye. It was good to see that the doctor's face was sympathetic, but it was sympathy based on the expectation of utter failure.

Well, perhaps it would have to be one of those cases where the likelihood of an explanation was strong enough for the case to be shelved, but not certain enough for it to be closed.

'It's all right, Mrs Escott,' he said gently. 'We're going now. Good night. Sleep well.'

As he straightened, she spoke in a voice distant and strange but perfectly clear, like the piping of a bird in some lonely spot.

'Nothing…' she said. 'All nothing… dreams… awful dreams… the rain… footsteps… hitting him. Tap's face.. . hitting him… then running… like a girl again… but not happy like a girl…'

Suddenly she seemed to gain strength and for the first time there was expression on her face and the voice was traceable to the moving mouth.

'Awful dreams,' she said loudly. 'But true. Have they always been true? All of them, always? It's not… it's not… it's not.. .'

And then she was gone again. Gone where? Back to the world of the awful dreams? Pascoe wondered.

He walked away from the bed and out of the ward. Sowden caught him up and put his hand on his arm.

'Don't forget that drink some time,' he said. 'We can't keep on meeting like this.'

'Can't we?' said Pascoe, then took a deep breath and managed a smile.

'I won't forget,' he said.

'I am about to take my last voyage, a great leap in the dark.'

The Cessna taxied to a halt at the end of the short runway, the door opened, and steps were wheeled against it, and the passengers began to disembark.

There were seven of them, five men and two women. Barney Kassell was there to greet them, bare-headed despite the blustering wind which caught at his silky grey hair and streamed it over his brow and eyes to the bridge of his prominent nose.

He greeted them all by name as they descended, some fairly formally, as with the distinguished Dutch judge and his stout wife, a couple of the men very familiarly.

'Helmuth! Jacques!' he cried to the last pair out. 'How nice to see you again.'

'And you. But where is the fine weather Willy promised us?'

'This is it,' grinned Kassell. 'You should have seen it yesterday. I began to doubt if you'd make it. I hope you've brought your winter boots. There's a lot of snow lying up on the moor. Jacques, where is your lovely wife?'

The Frenchman smiled and said in a low voice, 'Busy with family matters this weekend. I hope that you will be able to help me not to miss her too much, my friend.'

'I think we can promise our usual high standard of service,' said Kassell. 'On you go. Usual formalities, won't take long. ‘The luggage was being unloaded almost as fast as the passengers. Kassell looked up at the aircraft. The pilot had appeared at the door. He smiled down at Kassell and gave a little nod of the head.

Kassell turned and followed the new arrivals to the clubhouse of the local gliding club, in the doorway of which stood a Customs officer, quietly observing the approaching passengers.

He remained there till Kassell reached him.

'Just by yourself this week, Mr Downey?' said Kassell. 'Not the full treatment like last time?'

'Everyone's got to take their turn, Major,' said Downey.

'I know. And quite right too,' approved Kassell. 'Sir William was delighted to hear about it. A man with his kind of contacts really hates it if people believe he's getting preferential treatment! Strange, isn't it?'

The formalities were quickly over and the party installed in two Range Rovers.

'Let's be on our way,' cried the Frenchman who for a man whose banking interests 'earned' him more than he had ever bothered to work out was greedier of 'freebies' than any other visitor Kassell had ever welcomed to the Grange. 'I feel that this is going to be one of the great weekends!'

'If,' said Mr Cox, 'I get sent to one of them open prisons, will they let me take Hammy?'

Mr Cox had not been at home the previous night. A neighbour told Seymour that the whole family was away visiting relatives in Leeds and wouldn't be back till late, probably after midnight. Pascoe knew as well as any policeman the psychological advantage of an early morning arrest, but he felt that this particular case didn't warrant it. So Mr Cox got a good night's sleep and in the morning Pascoe's consideration was proved to be deserved, for when Cox opened the door to Seymour and Hector (taken along to provide diversion for the dog) he nodded sadly and went upstairs without speaking and returned wearing his coat and carrying a brown envelope.

'It's all there,' he said. 'It had fallen out of his pocket when he fell, I suppose. When I saw all them notes, I just stuck it in my jacket, just for safety. Then when I heard he was dead, I didn't say owt. And when no one else said owt about any missing money, well, I began to wonder if I hadn't best hang on to it.'

Hammy had accompanied them to the station. There had been no debate. Seymour was not about to argue with a dog which even an upright man, not dying and in daylight, might be forgiven for mistaking for a horse.

Pascoe doubted if it would come to prison for Cox, but it wasn't up to him.

'Get a statement, put the fear of God into him, then send him home till we need him again,' he said.

'On bail, you mean?'

'Who needs bail with a dog like that?' asked Pascoe. 'Can you imagine him fleeing the country with Hammy in tow?'