‘Silly cow’d have been all right if she’d put her seat belt on like I told her,’ said the taxi driver.
‘Perhaps you should have been firmer,’ said Pascoe mildly. ‘Who is she? Where’re you headed?’
No reason why he should have asked or the driver answered these questions, but without his being aware of it, over the years Pascoe had developed a quiet authority of manner which most people found harder to resist than mere assertiveness.
The driver pulled out a docket and said, ‘Miss Kelly Cornelius. Manchester Airport. Terminal Three. She’s going to miss her plane.’
He spoke with a satisfaction which identified him as one of that happily vanishing species, the Ur-Yorkshireman, beside whom even Andy Dalziel appeared a creature of sweetness and light. Only a hardcore misogynist could take pleasure in anything which caused young Miss Cornelius distress.
And she was distressed. She returned from her examination of the lorry and gave Pascoe a look of such expressive unhappiness, his empathy almost caused him to burst into tears.
‘Excuse me,’ she said in a melodious voice in which all that was best of American lightness, Celtic darkness, and English woodnotes wild, conjoined to make sweet moan, ‘but your car’s on the other side of this, I guess.’
‘Yes, I’m on my way home to Mid-Yorkshire,’ he said. ‘Looks like I’ll have to turn around and find another way.’
‘That’s what I thought you’d do,’ she said, her voice breathless with delight, as if he’d just confirmed her estimate of his intellectual brilliance. ‘And I was wondering, I know it’s quite a long way back, but how would you feel about taking me to Manchester Airport? I hate to be a nuisance, but you see, I’ve got this plane to catch, and if I miss it, I don’t know what I’ll do.’
Tears brimmed her big dark eyes. Pascoe could imagine their salty taste on his tongue. What she was asking was of course impossible, but (as he absolutely intended to tell Ellie later when he cleansed his conscience by laundering his prurient thoughts in her sight) it was flattering to be asked.
He said, ‘I’m sorry, but my wife’s expecting me.’
‘You could ring her. You’ve got a phone,’ she said with tremulous appeal. ‘I’d be truly, deeply, madly grateful.’
This was breathtaking, in every sense.
He said, ‘Surely there’ll be another plane. Where are you going anyway?’
Silly question. It implied negotiation.
There was just the hint of a hesitation before she answered, ‘Corfu. It’s my holiday, first for years. And it’s a holiday charter, so if I miss it, there won’t be much chance of getting on another, they’re all so crowded this time of year. And I’m meeting my sister and her little boy at the airport, and she’s disabled and won’t get on the plane without me, so it’ll be all our holidays ruined. Please.’
Suddenly he knew he was going to do it. All right, it was crazy, but he was going to have to go back all the way to Glossop anyway and the airport wasn’t much further, well, not very much further…
He said, ‘I’ll need to phone my wife.’
‘That’s marvellous. Oh, thank you, thank you!’
She gave him a smile which made all things seem easy – the drive back, the phone call to Ellie, everything – then dived into the taxi and emerged with a small leather case like a pilot’s flight bag.
Travelling light, thought Pascoe as he stepped back to get some privacy for his call home. The woman was now talking to the taxi driver and presumably paying him off. There seemed to be some disagreement. Pascoe guessed the driver was demanding the full agreed fare on the grounds that it wasn’t his fault he hadn’t got her all the way to Terminal 3.
Terminal 3.
Last time he’d flown out of Manchester, Terminal 3 had been for British Airways and domestic flights only.
You couldn’t fly charter to Corfu from there.
Perhaps the driver had made a mistake.
Or perhaps things had changed at Manchester in the past six months.
But now he was recalling the slight hesitancy before the sob story. And would a young woman on holiday really travel so light…?
Pascoe, he said to himself, you’re developing a nasty suspicious policeman’s mind.
He turned away and began to punch buttons on his phone.
When it was answered he identified himself, talked for a while, then waited.
In the distance he heard the wail of sirens approaching.
A voice spoke in his ear. He listened, asked a couple of questions, then rang off.
When he turned, Kelly Cornelius was standing by the taxi, smiling expectantly at him. A police car pulled up onto the verge beside him. An ambulance wasn’t far behind.
As the driver of the police car opened his door to get out, Pascoe stooped to him. Screened by the car, he pulled out his ID, showed it to the uniformed constable and spoke urgently.
Then he straightened up, waved apologetically to the waiting woman, flourishing his phone as if to say he hadn’t been able to get through before.
He began to dial again, watching as the policemen went across to the taxi and started talking to the driver and the woman.
‘Hi,’ said Pascoe. ‘It’s me. Yes, I’m on my way but there’s been an accident… no, I’m not involved but I am stuck, the road’s blocked, and I’m going to have to divert… yeah, take me when I come… give Rosie a kiss… how’s she been today?… yes, I know, it’s early days… it’ll be OK, I promise… love you… ’bye.’
He switched off and went back to the taxi.
‘What the hell do you mean, I can’t go?’ the young woman was demanding. Anger like injury did nothing to detract from her beauty.
‘Sorry, miss,’ said the policeman stolidly. ‘Can’t let you leave the scene of an accident where someone’s been injured.’
‘But I’m the one who’s been injured so if I say it doesn’t matter…’
‘Doesn’t work like that,’ said the policeman. ‘Need to get you checked out at hospital. There may be claims. Also you’re a witness. We’ll need a statement.’
‘But I’ve got a plane to catch.’ Her gaze met Pascoe’s. ‘Corfu. It’s my holiday.’
A sharp intake of breath from the policeman.
‘Certainly can’t let you leave the country, miss, that’s definite,’ he said. ‘Here’s the ambulance lads now. Why not let them give you the once-over while I talk to these other gents?’
Pascoe caught her eye and shrugged helplessly. She looked back at him, her face (still beautiful) now ravaged with shock and betrayal, as Andromeda might have looked if Perseus, on point of rescuing her from the ravening dragon, had suddenly remembered a previous appointment.
‘Well, if you’re done with me, Officer, I think I’d better start finding another route home,’ he said, looking away, unable to bear that devastatingly devastated expression.
The constable said, ‘Right, sir. We’ve got your name in case we need to be in touch. Goodbye now.’
As he made his way back to his car, Pascoe reflected on the paradox that now he felt much more guilty about Kelly Cornelius than he had before, when it had just been a question of simple reflexive desire.
Women, he thought as he sat in his car and put the necessary