Reginald Hill - Arms and the Women

Pascoe stepped aside to make the call and Ellie sat on the bed next to her friend and put her arm around her.

‘Watch out for blood,’ said Daphne. ‘This blouse is ruined.’

‘It’ll come out,’ said Ellie. ‘And I’m well spattered already.’

‘Are you? Let me see. Oh, I’m sorry. I hope it’s not one of your best.’

Ellie, knowing well Daphne’s view that baggy T-shirts, especially those printed with subversive messages, were the nadir of style and taste, laughed out loud and said, ‘I’ll insist that you personally buy me an exact replacement in the market. So, my girl, what the hell did you think you were playing at, provoking this hoodlum? He might have had a knife or a gun or anything.’

‘Didn’t see why you should have all the fun. But why is it when a snotty-nosed Trot like you mixes with the lowlife, you get to kick them in the balls, while a respectable Tory lady like me ends up in hospital?’

Before Ellie could answer, Pascoe rejoined them, saying, ‘That’s done. Daphne, I hope you haven’t been telling Ellie your tale because you’re just going to have to tell it to me again.’

‘She was just going to start,’ said Ellie.

‘I was just going to tell you it was all your fault, actually,’ said Daphne. ‘I had it all sorted. I was going to stroll up to this fellow and distract his attention. Then while he had his back turned on your house (after the count of one hundred, remember?), you were going to get your guardian angel to come scooting along to make an arrest. Except that just as I got to him, you came belting out of your driveway, waving your arms and screaming at that poor policeman in the car. Naturally my man realized something was up and turned to make his getaway. Equally naturally, I attempted to grapple with him and keep him there. Upon which he nutted me, I think is the phrase. It’s something I’ve often seen on the telly and I’ve always assumed its effect was a touch exaggerated, like people in Westerns being hurled backwards when someone shoots them. Now I know better. It’s a funny thing how much closer I’ve got to the realities of lowlife since I met you, Ellie.’

‘It’s another funny thing,’ said Ellie, ‘that now you can’t talk down your nose, you sound almost normal.’

‘Daphne,’ said Pascoe quickly. ‘This man, can you describe him?’

‘Well, he was furtive, you know. Perhaps not so much furtive as simply loitering. That’s what made me notice him, though, as I told Ellie. I wouldn’t really have paid any attention if she hadn’t told me about her dreadful experience of yesterday…’

As Daphne Aldermann got older, she sounded more and more like an archdeacon’s daughter, thought Pascoe. Or rather the way you expected an archdeacon’s daughter to sound in an old black and white play, circumlocutory and slightly prissy, with audible inverted commas appearing round any modernism. She should have been a judge. Or at least a magistrate. Yes, she was precisely the type of woman who, despite valiant efforts to broaden the selectorate, still dominated on the magisterial bench. Not that she’d ever shown the slightest ambition in the direction so far as he knew. And while she might make bath sound like an American novelist, she could pronounce the shibboleth which got you admitted to Ellie’s friendship so there had to be more to her than met the eye. Which was probably true of her husband also. A quiet, charming man who lived for roses, he had been in the frame for not one but several apparently accidental deaths. Nothing was ever proved, and in his company Pascoe blushed to recall his suspicions. And yet… and yet…

‘Could you describe him, please, Daphne?’ he said.

‘Yes, of course. Sorry, I’m jabbering a bit, aren’t I? First time I’ve been assaulted, you see. Comes as a shock, especially when the motive isn’t sexual. No, that’s a stupid thing to say, it would obviously have been a much greater shock if he’d then gone on to rape me. What I mean is, he just nutted me as if… well, as if I were a man.’

‘Not an English gentleman then?’ murmured Pascoe, winning a Medusa glare from Ellie. ‘Sorry.’

‘No. You’re right. I mean, I’m not saying he wasn’t English, or British anyway. As Ellie keeps on telling me, we’re a rainbow society now. But he certainly wasn’t Anglo-Saxon. He was dark, not negroid, just well-grilled, like Ellie. I wish I tanned like that but with my colouring all you get’s a splotchy pink. Still, they say nowadays it’s bad for you, too much sun, gives you skin cancer… not that I’m suggesting for one moment, dear, that you’re in danger of that. No, I’m sure in your case it’s all down to natural pigmentation…’

‘Putting aside the interesting question of Ellie’s ethnic origins,’ said Pascoe, ‘you’re saying this fellow was well-tanned? Hair?’

‘Yes, of course. Sorry, I mean it was black, cut short, I don’t mean shaven, not like those – do they still call them bovver boys?’

‘The term is, I believe, a trifle passé,’ said Pascoe. ‘So, short hair. Moustache? Beard?’

‘Yes, now I come to think of it, he did have a moustache,’ said Daphne. ‘Not a big one. Short too. Like his hair. In fact, he was very neat generally, almost dapper. He would have made a very good head waiter at a decent restaurant.’

Was she taking the piss? He glanced at Ellie, who gave him her sardonic smile. She had once advised him, not much point in mocking Daphne when she’s so much better at it herself. But it was hard to resist the temptation. And she seemed to enjoy it in a harmlessly flirty kind of way. Harmless because there wasn’t the slightest sign he turned her on, and he himself had never gone overboard on English roses, who, in a metamorphosis which might have been of interest to Ovid, often seemed to age into English horses.

Whatever, the technique finally got him a pretty good description. Not very big, five-six, five-seven maybe, slim build, thin face, sharp-nosed, wearing a dark-blue lightweight jacket of good cut (Daphne had an eye for clothes), well-pressed light-grey slacks without turn-ups, wine-coloured loafers (this with a moue of distaste), an open-necked powder-blue shirt, and a gold chain with some sort of medallion round his neck.

‘Excellent,’ said Pascoe. ‘Hang on.’

He raised Control on his mobile and passed on the description. In return he was told that the Audi had been found.

‘That’s quick,’ said Pascoe.

‘Didn’t get far. Leyburn Road. A shopping parade. You know it, sir?’

‘Know it? I owe money there.’

It was five minutes’ drive from his house, ten minutes’ walk via the recreation ground.

‘Who’s there?’ he asked.

‘Sergeant Wield.’

That was good. Everything would be in smooth running order.

‘Pass him the description,’ said Pascoe, unnecessarily, he was sure, but he said it anyway. Ellie, who’d picked up the gist, was hissing something at him.

‘What?’

‘The car, is it OK?’

For a second the words who the hell cares about the sodding car? formed in his mind. But the answer was too obvious for them to get near his lips. Ellie cared. Not about the car, but about the fact that her friend had been hurt acting, albeit unasked, on her behalf. Her concern about the car was, literally, a damage-limitation exercise.

‘Is the Audi OK?’ he asked.

‘Far as we know, no problem. Just neatly parked.’

‘Thanks.’ He switched off and said, ‘The Audi’s parked in Leyburn Road. It looks fine.’

‘That’s something, isn’t it, Daph?’

Daphne managed a smile at her friend and said, ‘Yes, that’s something.’

She doesn’t give a damn either, thought Pascoe. But she understands what Ellie’s on about.