Exit Lines (18 page)

The pause in debate lasted only until Frostick saw how unimportant the interrupter was. He nodded dismissively at Pascoe, then picked up the silver thread of his oratory with all the ease of a Cicero.

'Bloody mad's what I say, and bloody mad's what I mean! That's what you'll be if you let her get you hitched. You're just getting a start, you've your whole life ahead of you, your career, everything!'

'He's got me too,' said the girl. 'He wants me! We're in love! And he's old enough to make his own mind up, right, Charley?'

Charley looked miserable. Left to a man-to-man heart-to-heart discussion with his dad, he might well have been able to admit the sense of the elder Frostick's viewpoint. But Andrea with a sharp sense of timing had made sure she precipitated the crisis before the young man could be forewarned, and now the father's vehemence only served to provoke a macho I'll-not-let-my-self-be-pushed-around response.

But at the same time Pascoe sensed even in Andrea's stage-managing another dimension of play-acting which he didn't quite understand.

'Old enough!' sneered Frostick. 'He'll need another hundred years till he's old enough to deal with your sort, flashing everything you've got at him, that's all you bloody know.'

'Is that right? I've never noticed
you
looking away from whatever I've got to flash, Mr Frostick,' retorted the girl.

Then suddenly Charley was on his feet and Andrea was sprawling alone in the armchair.

'Will you both belt up!' commanded the young man. 'I've not come home to get yelled at and ordered around by
anyone.
I get plenty of that in my job, and I'll not put up with it here, all right? I've come home for me granda's funeral, that's what, and I think it's time we were showing some respect.'

Even in his brief period away from home, some process of maturation had taken place which surprised the others, Pascoe could see. Andrea recovered quickest and said, 'You tell him, Charley!'

Her fiancé spun round and said, 'And that goes for you too, girl. He was good to me, was Granda. If it weren't for him being so generous, you wouldn't have that ring on your finger, so show some respect, will you?'

Andrea stood up. She was wearing less make-up today, perhaps in anticipation of the extra mobility of expression circumstances were likely to require. Rather than anger, what showed now was triumph. The explanation of that sense of play-acting was imminent, Pascoe realized.

'Here, if it's this old ring you're worried about, you take the bloody thing,' she said viciously, pulling it off and chucking it at the young man. 'I've got better things to do than go and live in some crummy married quarters with a private!'

Charley was dumb-stricken but his father, unable to believe this turn of fortune, said, 'You've changed your tune! What's happened? Found yourself some money, have you?'

'You could say that. I've got myself a job,' she said. 'A good job. Out at Haycroft Grange, that's that big house out beyond Pedgely Bank.'

'Haycroft Grange! What'll you be doing there?' demanded Charley.

'Helping out,' said the girl. 'Serving at table, and so on. There's a lot of important people gets there.'

'You mean, domestic service? You'll be a maid?' said Frostick in disbelief.

'I'll be assistant to the housekeeper,' retorted Andrea. 'And I get my own room and a colour telly too. You reckon nowt to me, don't you, Mr Frostick? Well, let me tell you this, I only did my job at Paradise Hall so well that one of the customers there noticed me and it was him that got me this job.'

'You didn't say owt about this on Sunday!' said Frostick.

'I didn't know I was going till last night,' said Andrea.

'I get it!' said Frostick. 'So now you've got yourself fixed up, you don't need to shove yourself off on Charley here any more. Christ, Charley lad, I hope you can see what a lucky escape you've had.'

'Oh shut up, Dad!' the young man burst out. With a last glance, part accusing, part amazed, at Andrea he turned away and rushed from the room. They heard his footsteps going upstairs.

'See you then, Mr Frostick,' said the girl, with a provocative pout. She left too. Pascoe said, 'Excuse me,' and followed her.

He caught up with her just outside the front door.

'You know who I am, Miss Gregory,' he said, with a smile which won a response compounded equally of distrust and dislike.

'Yeah, what do you want?'

'This job you've got, was it Major Kassell who got it for you by any chance?'

'That's right. What about it?'

It wasn't so much aggressiveness, he decided, as an inability to respond other than in terms of her own self-interest. What about it, indeed? So Major Kassell, knowing they were short-staffed out at Haycroft Grange, had suggested to this girl that she might care to apply. But why, for God's sake? Pascoe could imagine the kind of waitress she was. Her one talent was probably provoking men. Takes a big tip to get a big tip.

He said, 'Listen, love, I just want a few answers, that's all. I'll get 'em here, or I'll come up to Haycroft Grange for them if you prefer.'

The threat was mild but effective. She responded instantly.

'Yes, it was him, the Major. He gets in a lot to Paradise Hall. Said to me a week or two back, if ever I needed a job, they were always looking for staff at Haycroft Grange. Well, I thought, no wonder, stuck out there in the middle of nowhere. I mean, Paradise Hall was bad enough but at least there was the bus or you could thumb a lift.'

'What made you change your mind?' asked Pascoe.

'I needed a job, didn't I? Anyway, he told me there was regular transport laid on for the staff. So I thought, why not give it a whirl? I'm starting tomorrow so I can get to know the ropes before the next lot of guests come at the weekend. That's what it is mainly, see, these rich men coming up for the shooting.'

She spoke with real respect. No wonder Kassell had hired her! The rich would get real service. But what did that make Kassell? Added to the information supplied by Sergeant Myers, it made him a lot less than a perfectly respectable witness. Not that it mattered too much now that Mrs Warsop had changed her mind.

'On Friday night, did you notice the other people with Major Kassell?'

'Yeah,' she said. 'There was that bookie, Charlesworth. He gets in a lot. And this big fat bloke, pissed out of his mind. He looked a real villain! Is that who you're after?'

'No, no,' prevaricated Pascoe hastily. 'Just a general question. I was really just interested in the restaurant and the clientele generally.'

'Here, it's not old Abbiss you're after?' said the girl, with sudden malice. 'I could tell you a thing or two about his fiddles. You want to be looking at him and that old dyke from The Towers, that's what you want to be doing.'

'From The Towers?' said Pascoe, suddenly alert. 'You mean Mrs Warsop?'

'That's right. She brings her little fancy girls along, rubs knees with them under the table, it makes me sick!' said Andrea viciously.

'Bad tipper, is she?' said Pascoe disapprovingly.

'Tip?
Her?
You never see her money. Signs her bill, like she was important. But Abbiss, he never sees her money either.'

'What are you trying to tell me, Andrea?' said Pascoe gently.

But the girl had gone full circle and was now back to her original instinctive distrust.

'Nothing,' she said. 'I've said nothing. It's nothing to do with me any more. I'm off now.'

She stepped over the fence into her own garden. From the house a plaintive wail arose.

'Teeny! Where's my biscuits?'

'Thank Christ I'll be away from that!' she said half to herself.

'I'll see you again some time, Andrea,' promised Pascoe.

'Will you?' she said, turning on him a crooked, not unattractive smile. 'Perhaps.'

'Perhaps,' agreed Pascoe. 'Perhaps.'

Chapter 20

'All my possessions for one moment of time!'

Dennis Seymour was inclined to regard this consultation with Arnie Charlesworth as a slight on his own detective resources. Having spent several hours trudging round all the possible, and some pretty improbable, betting shops, he resented the implication that Charlesworth could cover the same ground with a few telephone calls. Worst of all would be, of course, if Charlesworth proved to have succeeded where he had failed.

No. He corrected this. It'd be a blow to his
amour-propre,
but the worst thing of all would be if this investigation which he had begun to regard as very much his own should finally grind to a halt.

Charlesworth lived in the highest of a quartet of flats carved out of a tall Victorian terraced house near the town centre. It was somehow curiously depersonalized, feeling more like a hotel suite than a permanent residence. The only personal touches were a set of racing prints on one of the lounge walls and a framed photograph of a group of young men in rugby kit, with one of them holding a large cup.

When Seymour introduced himself at the door, Charlesworth had regarded him with cold assessing eyes before letting him in. Not a man you could get close to, thought Seymour. There was something reserved and watching about him, a mind calculating the odds and at the same time sardonically amused at the absurdity of the race.

'Drink?' said Charlesworth. ‘I could manage a beer,' said Seymour, sitting on a rather hard armchair.

Charlesworth poured him a lager. He took nothing himself.

'Cheers,' said Seymour, taking a sip. 'Did you have any luck, sir?'

'Luck?' said Charlesworth as though it were not a word he was acquainted with. 'In the whole of this city there was only one bet placed which linked those three horses last Friday, and that was for a hundred pounds, and the punter concerned is well known by name and in person.'

'Ah,' said Seymour. 'No luck then.'

'How old are you, son?' asked Charlesworth.

It was an unexpected question, but Charlesworth was not the kind of man whose unexpected questions could be ignored.

'Twenty-three,' said Seymour.

'And you like your work?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Ambitious?'

'Yes, sir.'

What was all this about? wondered Seymour. Was he being sounded out for a bribe? The story of Dalziel's troubles, suitably embellished, was all over the station by now. According to this, the bookie had the fat man in his pocket; was he now looking to invest in the future?

If so, should not Seymour perhaps be flattered by being singled out as a prospective high-flier?

'I had a son,' said Charlesworth abruptly.

'Sir?'

'He was twenty-three when he died. Nearly. Another week and he'd have been twenty-three.'

'I'm sorry,' said Seymour helplessly. He finished his beer and made as if to rise, but something in Charlesworth's hard, set face told him that he was not yet excused.

'You interested in racing? Apart from professionally, that is?' asked Charlesworth.

'Well, yes. I like to go when I get the chance. And I like a bet,' said Seymour, glad to re-enter the realm of casual conversation, even if it might lead to some kind of offer which he hoped he'd have the strength and the sense to refuse.

'It's a mug's game,' said Charlesworth dismissively. 'Punters are mugs. Bookies can be mugs as well, but it takes another bookie to do that.'

Seymour laughed, deciding this must be a joke, but Charlesworth didn't even smile. Seymour wasn't sure what the subject was but he decided to change it.

'Nice prints,' said the young detective. 'Worth a bob or two if they're genuine.'

'They're what they look like,' said Charlesworth ambiguously. 'That's the most you can say about anything, isn't it?'

'I suppose so, sir,' said Seymour, using his interest in the prints as an excuse to rise and study them more closely, with a view to making an early exit.

'I had a Stubbs once. You know Stubbs?'

'I've heard of him,' said Seymour. 'That'd be really valuable, wouldn't it?'

'I let my wife take it,' said Charlesworth. 'She liked it. My son liked it too. So when we divorced, I let her take it.'

Seymour wandered round the room, showing great interest in long stretches of light green emulsion paint, till he arrived at the team photograph.

'Is this your son here?' he said, stabbing his finger at the youth holding the cup. 'I can see the resemblance.'

'No,' said Charlesworth. 'That's me.'

Seymour looked more closely. There was no writing on the photograph, but now he looked, he could see that the cut of the shorts, not to mention the hair, suggested a distant era.

'Rugby, isn't it?' he said.

'Yes. The Mid-Yorkshire cup,' said Charlesworth.

'Hold on,' said Seymour, peering even more closely. One of the figures in the back row, a large solid young man, well-muscled and with the grin of a tiger, looked familiar.

'That's never . . .' he said doubtfully.

'Your Mr Dalziel? Oh yes,' said Charlesworth. 'We go back a long way.'

'My God!' said Seymour, delighted. 'He hasn't changed much. I mean, he's put on a lot of weight, but you can still see . . .'

'He's changed,' interrupted Charlesworth brusquely. 'We all change, given the chance.'

'Yes, sir,' said Seymour. 'Well, thanks again for your help. I'd best be getting back. It's a pity, but I think we'll just have to give up on this one; I reckon it was always a long shot . . .'

'You give up easy, son,' said Charlesworth.

'Sorry?'

'There's no record of this bet, so what you decide is that this bet wasn't made. Is that the way Andy Dalziel teaches you to think?'

'I'm not sure what you mean,' said Seymour. 'I mean, if there's no record . . .'

'That means there's no record. It doesn't mean there was no bet.'

'I see,' lied Seymour, resuming his seat.

Charlesworth tossed him another can of lager and smiled. It wasn't much of a smile, but there was something of genuine feeling in it, a promise of spring in a wintry sky.

'Two reasons why there should be no record,' he said. 'One: the bookie "lost" it. Now this sometimes happens with some bets, with some bookies. There's a ten per cent tax on all bets. So you can see the incentive to "lose" a few: not only do you cut down on your income tax, you get to keep the ten per cent as well.'

'But,' said Seymour, 'surely there's no point in a bookie "losing" a winning bet, if you follow me. I mean, what he pays out he'll want to keep on record, won't he?'

'That's right,' said Charlesworth approvingly. 'Mr Dalziel'd be proud of you. So what's the second reason a bet might not be recorded?'

'Because,' said Seymour, screwing up his face in concentration, 'because it wasn't placed with a regular bookie!'

'Right.'

'You mean, this particular bet might've been placed with a street-corner bookie?'

'There's a lot of them about. Pubs, clubs, factories, offices; the betting shops drove them out of business to start with, but the ten per cent tax has given them new life. Tax-free betting's very attractive to the regular punter. This old boy of yours was a regular, was he?'

'I gather so,' said Seymour. 'But it doesn't help much, not unless we can lay our hands on the joker concerned.'

'If it's a street-corner job, then you'll be pushed,' said Charlesworth.

'What's the alternative?'

Charlesworth shook his head sadly.

'Things are slipping in this town,' he said. 'Time was, we paid the police to do police work.'

Seymour decided the time had come to exert his authority. He was fed up of being treated as 'the lad'. And what the hell was Charlesworth but a jumped-up bookie anyway, and probably bent at that?

'Look,' he said, if you know anything, you've got to tell me. All right? I mean, it's your duty.'

It came out much more weakly than he'd intended. Charlesworth suddenly laughed.

'You really know how to lean on people, son,' he mocked.'All right. I give in. Thirty-two, Merton Street. Down the ginnel back of Inglis's hardware shop. Take a couple of mates in case you need to kick the door down. And don't say I sent you.'

It was curious but this last injunction carried more weight than a whole anthology of threats, bargains or appeals.

At the door, Seymour began to say thank you but Charlesworth grunted, 'Don't thank me till you know what you've got, lad.'

'All right!' said Seymour. 'Shall I come back and tell you if it's been worth it?'

He didn't know why he made the offer except that he had a sense of responding to some unspoken request.

Charlesworth's cold eyes examined him closely as if searching for sarcasm. Seymour did not exactly feel threatened but he certainly felt glad none had been intended.

'Come if you like,' said Charlesworth. 'Why not? Come if you like.'

Rather to Seymour's disappointment there was no need to kick down any doors. The front door of 32 Merton Street opened at a push. Instructing PC Hector that no one was to leave, Seymour and Sergeant Wield entered a narrow entrance hall smelling of cabbage and cat. A toilet flushed and a man emerged from one of the several inner doors. He nodded in a friendly fashion and, opening another door, ushered them into a smoke-filled room.

Here there was a pleasant social atmosphere. A scattering of comfortable-looking chairs faced a raised television screen on which horses were being walked around a paddock. In one corner a girl was dispensing drinks from a small domestic cocktail bar. In the opposite corner behind a rather larger bar with the protection of a metal grille, a man and a woman were taking bets. There were between twenty and thirty people in the room. It was a scene which Seymour recognized from the old black-and-white pre-war American thrillers he sometimes saw on the box.

‘In you go, lads,' urged their polite acquaintance, a grey-haired man in his sixties. 'This your first time? His booze is a bit pricey, but it don't stop at three o'clock, that's the main thing, ain't it?'

'I suppose so,' said Seymour, glancing uncertainly at Wield. The sergeant had authorized the raid in Pascoe's absence, but assured the young detective that it was still very much his show.

‘In fact,' said Seymour to the grey-haired man, 'we're the police.'

'Pardon?' he replied, cupping his hand over his ear. 'You'll have to shout.'

'Police,' shouted Seymour. 'We're policemen.'

'I shouldn't let it worry you,' said this amiable old fellow. 'They're not choosy here.'

Seymour glanced again at Wield whose craggy face gave no sign of the earthquake of mirth going on beneath it.

'Who's the gaffer here?' demanded Seymour.

'Gaffer? That'll be Don you want, him at the counter. I warn you, he's not keen on credit, but if you really are bobbies, that'll probably be all right.'

'Thanks, dad,' said Seymour.

He pushed his way towards the betting counter. There was some protest as he went to the head of the queue waiting to be served by a benevolent white-haired man with a ruddy farmer's face.

'You Don?' said Seymour.

'That's right.'

'This your place?'

'Right again.'

'Police,' said Seymour, producing his warrant card.

'Oh aye? That's buggered it,' said Don calmly. 'Just give us a moment, Officer. Mavis, love, it's police.'

The woman by his side slid off her stool. She was plumply middle-aged, with a stolid expression which didn't change as she gathered up trays of cash from a shelf beneath the counter.

'What's she doing?' asked Seymour.

'I don't know. What are you doing, Mavis?' asked the man.

She did not reply but turned, unlocked a door behind her and went out.

'Hey, stop!' cried Seymour. 'Where's she going?'

'I don't know,' said the man. ‘It's a free country.'

Seymour looked in vain for a way to get behind the counter from this side.

‘If you just wait there, I'll come round, shall I?' said Don helpfully.

'No! I mean . . . look, don't move. I'll come round to you . . . no . . .'

'Look, lad, if I was going off somewhere, I'd have gone by now,' said Don. 'This is all my stuff in here; I'm not going to go and leave this lot to nick it, am I?'

It sounded reasonable.

'All right,' said Seymour.

He returned to Wield who was leaning against the door, blocking any attempt to leave, though to tell the truth most of those present were more concerned with the television where the horses were just coming under starter's orders.

'He's coming round,' said Seymour.

'Is he?' said Wield.

'Should I go and see if Hector stopped the woman?'

'You don't imagine Hector's suspicions would be aroused by the sight of a woman carrying a pile of cash trays, do you?' said Wield. 'Anyway, she'll likely have gone off another way. Mind you, it's just a precaution.'

'Precaution?'

'Aye. Fifty quid fine's the most they'll get for this lot, I should think.'

'Bloody hell,' said Seymour in disgust, it's hardly worth our bother, is it?'

'Listen, son,' said Wield in what passed for his friendly tone. 'Never forget the object of the exercise, right? That's the first rule.'

Behind him the door opened against his back and the venerable white head appeared.

'Shall I come in?' asked Don.

'No. We'll step out,' said Wield.

In the smelly entrance hall, the ugly sergeant put his ruin of a face close to the other man's open, honest features and said softly. 'This is an illegal betting shop you've got here, Don. No, listen. It's also a fire risk. You've boarded the windows up, haven't you? Only one door. Bit of panic in there, caused by something like a police raid, say, and there could be a lot of damage. I don't just mean people. I mean, people mend. But fixtures. Furniture trampled, television smashed, bottles broken, bar pulled down; ruined; I've seen it.'

'Oh aye,' said the man. 'But there isn't any panic.'

'No,' said Wield. 'Let's keep it that way shall we? Friday afternoon last. A win-treble.
Red Vanessa
in the two-ten at Cheltenham,
Usherette
in the two forty-five . . .'