Arms and the Women

‘Is the Audi OK?’ he asked.

‘Far as we know, no problem. Just neatly parked.’

‘Thanks.’ He switched off and said, ‘The Audi’s parked in Leyburn Road. It looks fine.’

‘That’s something, isn’t it, Daph?’

Daphne managed a smile at her friend and said, ‘Yes, that’s something.’

She doesn’t give a damn either, thought Pascoe. But she understands what Ellie’s on about.

He said, ‘OK if we move on? This guy, did he speak at all?’

‘Not a word. What in the circumstances do you think he might have found to say?’

‘Well, something like, Take that, you bitch, when he hit you.’

‘Take that, you bitch? Really, Peter, you’re so old-fashioned sometimes. No, he said nothing, or nothing I heard. What I did hear was my Audi revving up and I thought, the bastard’s stealing my car.’

‘You’d left the key in the ignition?’

‘Yes, and my mobile phone on the dash. Is that still there, by the way? No, of course you won’t know. Stupid of me, now I come to think of it. If I’d got chummy to the car, he’d have been dead suspicious soon as he realized I could have rung for help, wouldn’t he?’

‘Not as suspicious as he’d have been when he turned the key and the engine started first time,’ smiled Pascoe. ‘I’ll check out the phone. There’ll be a car waiting to take you home soon as you’re ready.’

He left Daphne in Ellie’s care and went out. Dennis Seymour was waiting for him in the corridor, looking anxious. Reason told him his watching brief hadn’t extended to covering all Mrs Pascoe’s friends and acquaintance, but he knew from personal experience that in the matter of a man’s family, reason did not always apply. But Pascoe was not in the accusing mood.

He said, ‘So, Dennis. You been racking your brains for me?’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry. Nothing more than what I told you. Like I said, I took a note of every vehicle that went along the street while I was on watch. Nothing acting suspiciously. Control’s checked the numbers. Nothing dodgy. All good citizens, nothing known.’

‘OK. Try this for size.’

Pascoe repeated Daphne’s description of her assailant.

Seymour said, ‘No. Didn’t see anyone like that in any of the cars. As for on foot, I saw nobody except the postman. I’m really sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It takes up space in your mind and I want every iota of your attention focused on Mrs Pascoe. In your sights at all times, OK?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right. I’m on my way to Leyburn Road.’

Seymour watched Pascoe go with relief. No bollocking, no attempt to suggest he was at fault. But sometimes Pascoe being quiet and reasonable could be as intimidating as Fat Andy Dalziel on the rampage.

In Leyburn Road he found Wield watching the Audi getting a preliminary going-over by a white-overalled technician. There was a mobile phone on the dash.

‘How’s Mrs Aldermann?’ asked the sergeant.

‘Stiff upper lip, literally,’ said Pascoe. ‘Nose broken, some shock, but still talking. And making sense. What’s happening here?’

‘I’ve got a couple of lads checking the shops to see if anyone noticed the car arriving or anyone fitting your description. Also, they’re asking if the shopkeepers can remember any of their customers in the last hour in case they can come up with something.’

That was good thinking, but Pascoe didn’t say so. Wield would merely be puzzled at being complimented on doing the basics of his job.

Pascoe looked around. The car was parked by the roadside in front of the little shopping complex – grocer, greengrocer, butcher, baker, newsagent, hardware store – which people in the area used conscientiously, aware that letting themselves be lured by the cheaper prices of the superstore only ten minutes’ drive away would soon unleash a drowning shower of rain on the Leyburn Road parade. But the shops were rarely so busy that the assistants wouldn’t have time to glance outside occasionally.

The technician backed carefully out of the Audi and straightened up with a groan of relief.

Pascoe said, ‘Anything?’

The man shook his head and said, ‘Sorry. Looks like he was careful. Everything wiped clean.’

‘Thanks, anyway,’ said Wield. ‘What now, Pete? I’m out of ideas.’

Pascoe smiled as if at an absurdity and said, ‘OK, let’s suppose this guy left his own car here and walked round to watch my house because he felt he’d draw less attention on foot. He steals Daphne’s car because he needs to get back here quick, but he isn’t panicking. He still takes time to wipe his prints. If he’s as cool as that, he wouldn’t park next to his own car because that’s the kind of thing that draws attention, a man jumping out of one car and getting straight into another. So he parks, gets out, and walks.’

As if doing a reconstruction, Pascoe set off at a brisk pace with Wield in close pursuit.

‘Doesn’t help us unless we get a witness saw him walking,’ panted the sergeant.

‘I know. But listen, parking’s bad around here. Not a lot of room.’

Wield could see he was right, but not what he was getting at. In front of the shops there was kerbside parking space for only half a dozen cars. In one direction Leyburn Road curved into a double-yellow-line bend and in the other it ran into the busy ring road via a roundabout, beside which stood a pseudo-Victorian shiny-tiles-and-leaded-lights pub, the Gateway.

It was the pub Pascoe was heading for.

As he walked he explained, ‘When it’s busy here, shoppers often use the pub car park. Billy Soames, the landlord, wants to avoid getting into dispute with the shopkeepers, so he’s put up a sign at the entrance: No charge to shoppers, but it helps if you at least buy a packet of crisps in the bar! Could be that’s where chummy parked his own car. Let’s ask Billy if he noticed a small suntanned man with a moustache using his facilities this morning.’

‘Why not?’ said Wield.

His mobile rang. He put it to his ear and listened. When he switched off, Pascoe, who, like an astronomer after a lifetime’s study of the pocked and pitted surface of the moon, had learned to interpret a few of the sergeant’s expressions, said, ‘You look pleased.’

‘Something I recalled from house-to-house yesterday. One of your neighbours, Mrs Cavendish, noticed a car stopping at the end of the street then turning back when all the troops had turned up. Didn’t seem important then. But it popped into my mind just now when we got Mrs Aldermann’s description of the man who attacked her, so I checked it out.’

‘And?’

‘Her words were, the man was swarthy, moustachioed and sinister.’

‘That sounds like old Mrs C.,’ said Pascoe. ‘And the car?’

‘Metallic-blue. Sounds like a Golf. Could be owt or nowt but the description fits, sort of. She half remembered a bit of the number too, so if it turns out there was a blue Golf in the pub car park…’

‘Anyone ever tell you you’re a treasure?’ said Pascoe.

‘Not since breakfast. By the by, that guy we talked about this morning, the student, Franny Roote. I never saw him. This sound anything like?’

‘Not like the way he was back then. Size might fit, but he was blond.’