The entrance to the recreation ground was just a wide gap in the wire-netting fence flanked with a small forest of bye-laws ranging from Official Vehicles Only to All Dogs Must Be Kept On Leash. Parking by the latter sign, and noting that either Cox couldn’t read or didn’t count Hammy as a dog, Seymour went in and looked for Hector. A schoolboy football match had started on one of the pitches and Seymour saw with mingled amusement and exasperation that Hector’s search pattern, which consisted of walking in a straight line across the whole breadth of the recreation ground, was at the moment taking him along the touch line, much to the annoyance of the proudly spectating dads. From time to time Hector bent down to pick up a stone or other substantial piece of debris which he put in a plastic sack. He then marked the spot by digging a hole with his heel. Presumably this next traverse would take him on to the pitch itself. It was a confrontation almost worth waiting for, but when Cox pointed confidently towards one of the other pitches not in use, Seymour, for the sake of the reputation of the Force rather than on humanitarian grounds, waved his arm and shouted till he caught the lanky constable’s attention and beckoned him to join them.
‘You’re certain this is where he was lying?’ he asked Cox, who was now indicating a specific square yard of ground indistinguishable from any other.
‘The very spot,’ said Cox with complete conviction. ‘Look, I walked round from the entrance and I got as far as that goalpost there, and I leaned up against it and tried to light a fag, but it wasn’t any use in that wind. Then I saw Hammy galloping towards me and suddenly he stopped and started getting interested in this sort of bundle on the ground, so I went to have a look.’
Examination of the goalpost revealed half a dozen confirmatory matchsticks at its base.
‘All right,’ said Seymour. ‘Let’s take a look.’
He turned to address his invitation to Hector and was delighted to see that Hammy, having at last found a human he could really look up to, was standing with his forelegs on Hector’s shoulders so that he could lick his new friend’s terrified face. Hector retreated, Hammy advanced, the pair spun round together in a parody of a waltz, till finally the constable’s legs slid away from under him and he crashed heavily to the ground.
‘That’s one way of looking for this stone,’ agreed Seymour. ‘But what I think Mr Pascoe had in mind was using our eyes.’
He began systematically to search the area round the spot indicated by Cox, spiralling further and further out. From time to time he spotted a stone, but none that looked of a possible size or to have any signs of recent contact with broken skin. Still, it had been raining hard overnight and the microscope might see something he couldn’t, so he popped each stone into a plastic bag and charted its position conscientiously. Finally he decided he’d gone far enough and returned to where Cox was standing by the goalpost smoking a cigarette, watching his dog make playful assaults on Hector’s legs.
‘Thanks for your cooperation, sir,’ he said to Cox. ‘Would you mind if I left you to find your own way home? I’m going across the ground, see, to where Mr Parrinder lives, out the other way. That’s why he’d be walking this way, it must have been a regular short cut for him.’
‘Braver man than me,’ grunted Cox. ‘I wouldn’t come this way in the dark, not without Hammy. No, you get on, Officer. Hammy needs all the exercise he can get. We’ll walk back in a moment, though he’ll be sorry to part company with your mate here!’
It didn’t look as if the parting would be equally sorrowful on both sides. But Seymour, not without malice, said, ‘No need for that just yet, sir. Constable Hector, would you cast around a bit longer, see if there’s anything else you can find. I’ll pick you up on my way back. Goodbye, Mr Cox. ‘Bye, Hammy.’
He strode away jauntily. Perhaps after all there might be more in this for him than wandering up and down Welfare Lane doing house-to-house inquiries. The word was old Dalziel was having a spot of bother. Tough on the old sod, but it had only been a matter of time before his behaviour caught up with him. With Dalziel edged out, there could be a nice bit of upgrading all round, and who was better equipped to be a sergeant than Detective-Constable Dennis Seymour?
He flung his arms wide in a spontaneous gesture of self-congratulation, and Hammy, who had come running after him reluctant to lose even one of his new friends, mistook the gesture for invitation and drove himself upwards, bringing his huge forepaws down against Seymour’s shoulders and sending the amazed detective-constable crashing full length on the muddy ground.
‘Dying is a very dull, dreary affair. And my advice to you is to have nothing whatever to do with it.’
Welfare Lane when Pascoe arrived at noon was remarkably free of sightseers even for what was basically a pretty unfashionable murder. Indeed, apart from a couple of shopping-laden women trudging along the pavement, the only person in sight was the constable outside No. 25.
The reason soon became clear. As he parked his car behind the police caravan outside Deeks’s house, the puce portal of No. 27 burst open and Mrs Tracey Spillings swept out on a wave of Dallas.
‘All right, sunshine!’ she bellowed. ‘On your way! Oh, it’s only you.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Pascoe. ‘I’m sorry, did you want this parking spot …?’
‘What’d I do with a parking spot?’ she demanded, adding with a significant glance up and down the street and an increase in voice projection which Pavarotti would have envied, ‘Not that there’s not plenty round here as drives in limousines to draw their dole.’
‘Is that so?’ said Pascoe, thinking that anything short of a chariot of fire would scarcely be a fit vehicle for Mrs Spillings. ‘Then why did you…’
‘I’m not having folk hanging round here gawking,’ she said fiercely. ‘Sick, some people are, and with nothing better to do. He’s worse than useless–’ indicating the uniformed constable who studied the rooftops opposite, perhaps in the hope of snipers – ‘but I’ve sent ‘em packing, no bother.’
No, thought Pascoe. He didn’t imagine there had been any bother!
‘I’d like to have a word if I may,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we could…’
He hesitated, glancing at the almost visible din emanating from the Spillings household.
‘We’ll go in your caravan,’ said Mrs Spillings. ‘You’ll not be able to hear yourself think in here. She’s been bad this morning. Worse she gets, louder she likes it. She reckons when she can’t hear no more, she’ll be dead. Mam, I’ll just be five minutes!’
The last sentence ripped like a torpedo through the oncoming waves of sound. Pulling the puce door to, Mrs Spillings set out towards the caravan which dipped alarmingly as she placed a surprisingly small and rather delicately shaped foot on the step.
Inside, Sergeant Wield was working his way through a sheaf of statements and reports. His rugged face expressed no surprise at the sight of the woman.
‘Door to door,’ he said to Pascoe. ‘Nothing. You had any luck, sir?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Pascoe. ‘Mrs Spillings, you knew Mr Deeks well, did you?’
‘Pretty well. We moved into 27 when I got wed twenty-five years ago. Dolly Deeks got married from that house two years later. Her mam died four or five years back and the old man had been on his own since then. So you could say I knew him pretty well.’
‘Did you ever know him to keep a lot of money in his house?’
She thought for a moment then said, ‘Aye. Once. I recall Dolly getting right upset because she found a lot lying around. She’s a quiet soul, Dolly,