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Authors: Reginald Hill
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which was set like a traitor's head, and thought what a boost it would have been to the Inquisition, worth two or three confessions without touching the rack.
'I think Mr Blengdale went with him.'
'I see,' said Pascoe. 'And you think Mr Blengdale may still have been there when you left.'
'It is possible. I cannot say definitely.'
'Well, thank you, Mr Arany. That will do for now,' said Pascoe. 'The sergeant here will help you prepare your statement and have it typed up for you to sign. It shouldn't take a minute.'
Arany banged both hands on the table.
'Inspector, I am not a bloody stupid foreigner. I can speak and write English probably much better than half of your policemen. I shall write my own statement without Mr Wield having to translate.'
'As you please,’ said Pascoe. 'We'll be next door if you need any help.'
Outside the door he hefted the cardboard wallet and grinned at Wield.
'You overdid this a bit, didn't you?' he said. 'He'll be complaining to Amnesty!'
'It isn't all padding,' protested Wield.
'No? You mean he's made the papers?'
'In a way.The clubland columns in the local rag. You know the thing, Club and Pub with Johnny Hope.'
'Oh yes. Incisive criticism. Old Wrinkle and the Retainers were at the Green Swan last night and kept the customers happy. Did Arany?'
'Not according to Johnny Hope,' said Wield. 'He records his move to management with great enthusiasm.'
'You're a very thorough man, Sergeant,' said Pascoe appreciatively. 'Well, back to the grind. See that Arany's OK, will you? He's more frightened of you than me.'
He glanced at his watch. It was eleven-thirty.
'I suppose I'd better try to have a chat with Godfrey Blengdale. He's not going to like being mixed up in this.'
'I don't suppose he is,' said Wield.
Something in his tone caught Pascoe's attention.
'Do you know him?'
'I make it my business to know anyone who's a big man in this town, sir,' said Wield. 'You never know when you may find yourself dealing with them.'
'Oh dear,' said Pascoe, thinking he recognized another crusader. He only hoped they were heading for the same holy war.
Chapter 7
Back in his office Pascoe looked up Blengdale's home number and dialled. There was no reply, so he tried the business number. A voice so tired that it could have been used on a medium's tape told him that Mr Blengdale had left the country. Further questioning produced the information that this meant he had flown to Northern Ireland on business but should be returning on Sunday.
Disgruntled, Pascoe replaced the receiver, then on impulse picked it up again and rang Ellie's parents' number in Lincolnshire.
'Just thought I'd check you'd arrived safely,' he said.
'Kind of you.' She still sounded cool.
'Mum and Dad well?'
'Yes. Well, not really. Dad's a bit under the weather. Nothing specific, just old age, I guess. But I thought I might stop overnight. Would you mind?'
'Love, with the kind of contact we've been having lately, what difference will it make?'
He tried to say it lightly, but it didn't work.
'It takes two to make contact,' she answered sharply.
'Yes. Yes. I'm sorry. What time will you be back tomorrow?'
'I'm not sure. Take me when I come, will you. We've got an important liaison committee on Monday morning and there's a bit of a council of war at college on Sunday night. I thought I'd better drop in on my way home.'
'Out of your way home, you mean. Yes, I'm sure they couldn't do anything without you. Well, enjoy yourself.'
He banged the phone down, feeling angry and hurt; and also foolish because he knew he had no mature adult reason for feeling angry and hurt.
He glanced at his watch. The Black Bull would be open. He'd been up since five o'clock. He surely deserved an early lunch.
It says much for the humanizing influence of bitter beer that after only half a pint, Pascoe was beginning to regard himself ruefully as some kind of vindictive sexist. He got himself another half and had fallen deep into a
'I think Mr Blengdale went with him.'
'I see,' said Pascoe. 'And you think Mr Blengdale may still have been there when you left.'
'It is possible. I cannot say definitely.'
'Well, thank you, Mr Arany. That will do for now,' said Pascoe. 'The sergeant here will help you prepare your statement and have it typed up for you to sign. It shouldn't take a minute.'
Arany banged both hands on the table.
'Inspector, I am not a bloody stupid foreigner. I can speak and write English probably much better than half of your policemen. I shall write my own statement without Mr Wield having to translate.'
'As you please,’ said Pascoe. 'We'll be next door if you need any help.'
Outside the door he hefted the cardboard wallet and grinned at Wield.
'You overdid this a bit, didn't you?' he said. 'He'll be complaining to Amnesty!'
'It isn't all padding,' protested Wield.
'No? You mean he's made the papers?'
'In a way.The clubland columns in the local rag. You know the thing, Club and Pub with Johnny Hope.'
'Oh yes. Incisive criticism. Old Wrinkle and the Retainers were at the Green Swan last night and kept the customers happy. Did Arany?'
'Not according to Johnny Hope,' said Wield. 'He records his move to management with great enthusiasm.'
'You're a very thorough man, Sergeant,' said Pascoe appreciatively. 'Well, back to the grind. See that Arany's OK, will you? He's more frightened of you than me.'
He glanced at his watch. It was eleven-thirty.
'I suppose I'd better try to have a chat with Godfrey Blengdale. He's not going to like being mixed up in this.'
'I don't suppose he is,' said Wield.
Something in his tone caught Pascoe's attention.
'Do you know him?'
'I make it my business to know anyone who's a big man in this town, sir,' said Wield. 'You never know when you may find yourself dealing with them.'
'Oh dear,' said Pascoe, thinking he recognized another crusader. He only hoped they were heading for the same holy war.
Chapter 7
Back in his office Pascoe looked up Blengdale's home number and dialled. There was no reply, so he tried the business number. A voice so tired that it could have been used on a medium's tape told him that Mr Blengdale had left the country. Further questioning produced the information that this meant he had flown to Northern Ireland on business but should be returning on Sunday.
Disgruntled, Pascoe replaced the receiver, then on impulse picked it up again and rang Ellie's parents' number in Lincolnshire.
'Just thought I'd check you'd arrived safely,' he said.
'Kind of you.' She still sounded cool.
'Mum and Dad well?'
'Yes. Well, not really. Dad's a bit under the weather. Nothing specific, just old age, I guess. But I thought I might stop overnight. Would you mind?'
'Love, with the kind of contact we've been having lately, what difference will it make?'
He tried to say it lightly, but it didn't work.
'It takes two to make contact,' she answered sharply.
'Yes. Yes. I'm sorry. What time will you be back tomorrow?'
'I'm not sure. Take me when I come, will you. We've got an important liaison committee on Monday morning and there's a bit of a council of war at college on Sunday night. I thought I'd better drop in on my way home.'
'Out of your way home, you mean. Yes, I'm sure they couldn't do anything without you. Well, enjoy yourself.'
He banged the phone down, feeling angry and hurt; and also foolish because he knew he had no mature adult reason for feeling angry and hurt.
He glanced at his watch. The Black Bull would be open. He'd been up since five o'clock. He surely deserved an early lunch.
It says much for the humanizing influence of bitter beer that after only half a pint, Pascoe was beginning to regard himself ruefully as some kind of vindictive sexist. He got himself another half and had fallen deep into a
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