She saw what he meant at once.
‘No, he weren’t thought of as the local miser or owt like that. Though there’s no accounting for the daft ideas some buggers get into their heads! As for still keeping money in the house, I don’t know. I recollect him telling me he’d loaned young Charley – that’s his grandson – the money to buy that lass of his an engagement ring, but whether it were cash he had or whether he had to draw it out special, I don’t know.’
‘But he discussed his finances with you?’ said Pascoe.
Tracey Spillings laughed and said, ‘Not old Bob. He were very close! But this were different. Charley’s the apple of his eye, but he would never sub him after he left school. If you can’t live on your dole money, he’d say, get a job. He paid no heed to all this unemployment. There’s always jobs for them as wants them, he said. They’re always after likely lads in the Forces, or even the police.’
Pascoe ignored the implied order of merit and said, ‘It doesn’t sound as if he’d have been very happy to dish out money so Charley could get engaged, then?’
‘Normally, he wouldn’t. Specially as he didn’t much like the lass. But Charley timed it nicely, I gather. Told his grandad he’d signed on with the Mid-Yorkies, and then touched him straight after. That’s how I got to know about the money. Old Bob mentioned the loan when he was telling me about Charley joining up. He were that pleased, even though he knew how much he’d miss the lad.’
‘And the lad himself. He was fond of his grandad too?’ said Pascoe. ‘He’ll be upset to hear what’s happened.’
‘Oh aye. He liked the old boy and I’ve no doubt he’ll be upset,’ said Mrs Spillings. ‘But you know how it is with young ‘uns. You never get back what you give.’
‘Your mother seems to be getting a pretty good bargain,’ smiled Pascoe.
‘You reckon? There’s times I could gladly kill her. That’s not a right way to feel about your own mam, is it?’
Slightly taken aback by this frank admission, Pascoe found he had no reply. But Wield, without looking up from his records, said, ‘I dare say when you were a squawking baby in the middle of the night, there were times she could gladly have killed you, Mrs Spillings.’
The woman considered this, then a wide grin opened up her face, letting out a lively, pretty, perhaps even slim young girl for a moment.
‘Mebbe you’re right there, sunshine,’ she said. ‘Mebbe it does even out in the end! I’d best get back and see to her. If ever you feel like a cup of tea, don’t knock, I’ll not hear you. Just come on in.’
She left.
Pascoe said, ‘Interesting woman.’
‘Interesting, aye,’ said Wield. ‘What was all that about Charley?’
Pascoe explained, adding thoughtfully, ‘But I’ll maybe just give them a ring at Eltervale Camp just to make sure he’s gone.’
‘You’re getting cynical, sir,’ observed Wield. ‘By the way, Mr Headingley rang. Said he’d be having a bit of lunch at The Duke of York if you’re interested.’
‘What’s he think I’m on, my holidays?’ snorted Pascoe. ‘I haven’t time to drive all that way out just to socialize.’
‘Didn’t get that impression, sir,’ said Wield neutrally. ‘Thought he might be after having a chat about Mr Dalziel’s spot of bother. Not that he said owt, you understand.’
There were no secrets in a police station, thought Pascoe. He also thought that he really ought to stay as far away as he could get from this Dalziel business, but did not much like the feeling accompanying the thought.
‘Did you want to speak to the Army now?’ said Wield, reaching for the phone. Before he could touch it, it rang. The Sergeant picked it up and listened.
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Not yet. Half an hour unless he’s held up. Right.’
He replaced the receiver and said, ‘That was Ruddlesdin. He was hanging around earlier. Mrs Spillings spotted him. He tried to interview her.’
He smiled at the memory.
‘How the hell does he come to be ringing us here?’ wondered Pascoe. ‘Oh, and is that me you’re expecting in half an hour?’
‘That’s right,’ said Wield. ‘He’s keen to talk to you. He’s on his way and he’ll see you here at twelve-thirty. Unless you’re held up.’
‘Yes,’ said Pascoe slowly. ‘You know Sergeant, perhaps I should call in at Eltervale Camp rather than ring them. The Army tends to be a bit protective about its own.’
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Wield. ‘Face to face is best. And you’d have to go quite near The Duke of York, wouldn’t you? To reach the camp, I mean.’
‘So I would. Good. You’ll know where to get me, then.’
‘Unless Sammy Ruddlesdin asks, I will,’ grinned Wield.
‘Sergeant, you’re a darling man. By the way, did you send Seymour and Hector off to the recreation ground?’
‘Aye,’ said Wield. ‘And I’ve heard nothing since. Hector’s likely got lost, and Seymour will have found himself a bird to chat up. What’s it all about, sir?’
He sounded disapproving and Pascoe said airily, ‘Could be something or nothing, Sergeant. See you later!’
As he left, Wield shook his head sadly. Something or nothing! He much admired Pascoe, but there was no getting away from it, sometimes the young inspector did get his head full of daft notions.
Though in this case, Wield, who was a man of considerable sensitivity beneath his harsh and rugged exterior, wondered how much Pascoe’s present ‘hunch’ wasn’t just a mental space-filler, delaying him from admitting just how upset he really was by Dalziel’s spot of bother.
The Sergeant’s stomach rumbled. No Duke of York for him, but he had been relying on Seymour’s return so that he could slip away for a quick snack. Where was the man? Chatting up a bird, he’d suggested to Pascoe. Wield’s inner sensitivity did not extend to forgiving DC’s who kept him from his food while they chatted up birds.
He chewed on the end of his pen and planned reprisal.
The Sergeant’s suspicions about Seymour were to some extent justified, but not in every particular. Women delayed him, but only in the way of duty.
Castleton Court, where the late Thomas Arthur Parrinder had lived, was a block of local authority retirement flats, in no way an old people’s home, though there was on the site a widower in his early sixties who had undertaken the job of warden, which meant for the most part channelling complaints to the Housing Office and responding to the flashing lights and sounding bells which meant a tenant was in trouble.
The warden was called Tempest, a thick-set ex-miner who took his new duties as seriously as he’d taken his old. His cheerful face was shadowed as he let Seymour into Parrinder’s flat.
‘He were a good lad, Tap. That was what everyone called him, from his initials I suppose, though some says it was because when he was down on his luck with the hosses, he’d be tapping anyone he could for a bob or two. Well, I never knew it; a good lad, spry and lively and right independent. Mebbe a bit too much. Makes a change from them as is never off your back, but there’s a happy medium.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Seymour.
‘Well, look at this,’ said the Warden. ‘See these alarm switches on the wall in every room? They set