Dalziel thought about this for a moment and then inclined his head in what Pascoe hoped might be the beginning of a nod but turned out to be only the beginning of a right-handed scratch down his spinal column, then across the left shoulder-blade.
Muffled, and apparently emerging from the stubble of greying hair which was all that Pascoe could see of the huge head, came Dalziel’s voice.
‘It’s your case, Peter. Keep me in touch, that’s all I ask. Just keep me in touch.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Pascoe rising. ‘I will.’
When he left he took his mug with him, not doubting else that Dalziel would soon have been examining the grounds with all the keenness of a sadistic fortune-teller in search of disaster.
(Floribunda. Unusual blend of coffee and cream in the opened bloom, useful in floral arrangements, sweet aroma.)
Ellie Pascoe dunked a gobbet of bread roll in her coffee, tested the temperature and then applied the soggy wad to her baby’s lips which sucked at it greedily.
Daphne Aldermann regarded the proceeding with some alarm.
‘Isn’t she rather young?’ she ventured.
‘Ignore all else but not this teaching,’ said Ellie, ‘that life is reached by over-reaching.’
‘What’s it mean?’ wondered Daphne.
‘Christ knows,’ said Ellie. ‘But don’t worry. The coffee in this place is mostly milk, sugar and chicory. But the bacon butties are divine, don’t you agree?’
This place had turned out to be a café, or more definitely, THE MARKET CAFF, a title printed in fading letters along a sagging lintel above a steamed-up window mistily overlooking the open-air market. Stall-holders drifted in and out, each, so far as Daphne could make out, on some personal timetable which meant that every combination of food, from breakfast fry-ups through tea-time cake-and-scones to cocoa-and-sandwich suppers, was in demand.
Ellie and Rose were obviously known here and it struck Daphne that Ellie greeted the many expressions of delight in the baby with none of that instant put-downery her own enthusiasm had provoked. She doubted if the balance of sincerity and conventionality here was much different from her own, so the solution could only lie in the source, but she had not plucked up courage to make this observation to this rather formidable woman when Ellie, whose grey eyes had been observing her with some amusement, said, ‘You’re quite right. Working-class crap is much more tolerable than middle-class crap because they’ve not had the chance to know better. On the other hand, my husband says thinking like that is itself a form of condescension and therefore divisive.’
‘He sounds a clever man. I wonder. Does he earn half as much as most of these workers who’ve not had the chance to know better?’
Ellie smiled. This blonde, horsey, country-set woman might turn out to be worth a smoking.
‘Probably not. But money’s not the really important thing in our class matrix, is it? And it’s certainly not brains, and it’s only incidentally birth. It’s education, not in the strict sense, but in a kind of masonic way. It’s learning all those little signals which say to other people look here, recognize me, I’m a member of the club. You start learning them in a very small way at places like St Helena’s, which is why I’m agin them. Also I can’t smoke and wave a banner at the same time and I’m trying to cut down on smoking. Have one.’
She offered Daphne a filter-tip which she took. They lit up. Ellie dragged deep on hers and said, ‘First of the day.’ Daphne took a quick, short puff, coughed violently and gasped, ‘First of the year.’
‘Why’d you take it then?’ said Ellie.
‘It’s hardly the most offensive thing I’ve taken from you this morning,’ said Daphne.
Ellie said, ‘You’re a sharp lady, lady.’
The door opened and Daphne who was facing it saw two policemen enter, removing capes dripping from the still pelting rain. One was an older man in the traditional tall helmet; the other wore the flat cap of a cadet beneath which a good-looking young Indian face peered out at the momentarily silenced customers, whose chatter instantly resumed when it became clear all that the newcomers were after was a cup of tea.
‘If I’m sharp, then it’s a sharpness I picked up at places like St Helena’s,’ said Daphne.
‘And boarding-school?’
‘I was a day-girl. It was only in Harrogate, but yes, it was a boarding-school.’
‘Well, to quote my husband again, that’s one thing you’ve got to give the English single-sex boarding-school. It teaches you to hold your own.’
The two policemen were coming up behind Ellie in search of a table. The elderly constable glanced down and to Daphne’s surprise his stern hello-hello-hello face broke into a smile.
‘Hello, Mrs Pascoe,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
Ellie looked up.
‘Well, hello, Mr Wedderburn,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Haven’t seen you in here for a long time,’ continued the constable. ‘How’s the kiddy?’
Ellie’s eyes flickered towards her companion to see if she’d caught the implication of the policeman’s remark. She had.
‘Oh, she’s blooming. Blooming this, blooming that.’
‘Isn’t she good,’ said Wedderburn, impressed by the baby’s sang-froid.
‘In crowds and company and public places, yes,’ said Ellie. ‘She saves up her bad side for private performance only. She’ll make a good cop. Who’s your friend?’
‘This is Police Cadet Shaheed Singh,’ said Wedderburn gravely. ‘He’s just been learning that hell is the rush-hour on market days. Singh, this is Mrs Pascoe, Detective-Inspector Pascoe’s wife.’
The cadet smiled. He looked like one of those elegant handsome young princes who at one time always seemed to be playing cricket for England.
‘Nice to meet you, missus,’ he said in a broad Yorkshire accent which made Wedderburn’s sound like Eton and the Guards.
‘You too, Mr Singh,’ said Ellie. ‘Won’t you join us?’
Singh was clearly willing but Wedderburn said, ‘No, thanks, Mrs Pascoe. We’ll sit over here. There’s one or two of the finer points of traffic control I need to discuss with the lad here and you’d likely find it a bit boring. Nice to see you.’
They moved away.
‘Well!’ said Daphne. ‘So I’m in with the fuzz.’
The word sounded alien on her tongue, perhaps because her upper-class accent squeezed it almost into fozz.
‘And,’ she continued, pursuing her advantage, ‘far from being your daily port of call, this elegant establishment is merely a stage-setting to soften up your victims!’
‘Not quite,’ grinned Ellie. ‘But, OK, I did choose it specially this morning.’
‘To turn me into a Trot? Or, with your police connections, are you really an agent provocateur?’
‘What’s your husband do?’ asked Ellie.
‘He’s an accountant with Perfecta, you know, the bathroom people.’
Ellie looked momentarily surprised, then said, ‘And how’s your long