accident, and here's George Headingley to prove it!'
'Sam Ruddlesdin'll ask,' forecast Pascoe.
'Sam Ruddlesdin's got a boss who might take a wider view,' said Headingley. 'But it's nothing to do with me. I'm just poor bloody infantry. Good day. Would Mr Abbiss be in, please?'
A woman had come into the bar. She was very striking, with jet black hair tumbling over her shoulders and a pale, consumptive pre-Raphaelite face from which huge dark eyes stared like visitors from another world.
'I'm Stella Abbiss,' she said. 'Can I help you?'
Stella and Jeremy Abbiss wish you bon appetit it said at the foot of the menu. Husband and wife, Pascoe assumed. Partners anyway. He settled back to see if nice old-fashioned George Headingley would press for the man.
But Headingley had suffered enough from antagonistic mine hosts that day and he smiled sweetly and flashed his warrant card and said in his best, hushed we-don't-want- to-embarrass-the-customers voice, 'It's just a small matter of clearing up a couple of points regarding the accident last night. You've probably heard about it?'
'The old man near The Duke of York?' she said in a low voice which throbbed like a 'cello string.
She was la belle dame sans merci, Pascoe thought with delight. I shall become obsessed with her. But first I must bring Ellie here to approve. She deserves a good meal. He glanced again at the prices and changed his thought to: She deserves a nice drink. Could that delicious shadow round the eyes be real, or did she put it on with a feather?
'That's the one.'
'We had some reporter round this morning asking questions,' she said.
'I'm sorry to inconvenience you again,' said Headingley. 'It's just a matter of getting the picture clear.'
'You want to know how drunk the fat man was, is that it?'
Such directness allied to such feyness! It was a dizzying concoction. Were their sauces like this? If so, well worth the money!
'Well, yes, for a start,' said Headingley manfully.
'Depends how drunk five large Scotches, a bottle and a half of Burgundy and three balloons of cognac would make him,' she said.
'And in your estimation, how drunk would that be?' asked Pascoe, just for the privilege of engaging in commerce with this creature.
Those strange compelling eyes joined his for a lovely moment. This was true Paradise, this was the primal idyll with everything possible and no sin, no shame. Then her gaze slipped his and moved to a point just above his right shoulder.
'Why don't you ask him yourself?' she said.
'Beer!' boomed a familiar voice. 'A pint of your best for me, lass, and pints of your second best for this pair of trainees who ought to be too bloody busy to drink it!'
Pascoe turned. The primal idyll was over. Approaching with the weary wayworn smile of a fallen archangel whose heavy pinions have at last deposited him safe on Eden was Andrew Dalziel.
Chapter 12
'Et tu, Brute?'
Dalziel's arrival produced at least one bonus. To the three pints of beer which she drew for them, Stella Abbiss, without any direct request being made, added three portions of cold game pie.
'Delicious,' approved Dalziel. 'I tried it last night. The fruits of your own gun, if I remember right, love?'
She nodded slightly. To Pascoe's mental video library was added the slow-motion sequence of this frail, pale beauty clad only in gumboots tracking a low-flying pheasant across a frost-laced stubble field with her hot, smoking barrel.
He was jerked rudely out of his reverie by Dalziel, who said, 'Now, Peter, what are you doing here? I knew old George had been set to sniff around after me, but I thought you had other things on your plate. Just along to see the fun, is that it? Heard the fire engine and couldn't resist chasing along to see the fire?'
The sheer unjustness of the imputation made Pascoe speechless for a moment and Headingley said, 'He's along because of me, sir. We were meeting for a spot of lunch at The Duke of York and I asked him to give me a lift up
'Sam Ruddlesdin'll ask,' forecast Pascoe.
'Sam Ruddlesdin's got a boss who might take a wider view,' said Headingley. 'But it's nothing to do with me. I'm just poor bloody infantry. Good day. Would Mr Abbiss be in, please?'
A woman had come into the bar. She was very striking, with jet black hair tumbling over her shoulders and a pale, consumptive pre-Raphaelite face from which huge dark eyes stared like visitors from another world.
'I'm Stella Abbiss,' she said. 'Can I help you?'
Stella and Jeremy Abbiss wish you bon appetit it said at the foot of the menu. Husband and wife, Pascoe assumed. Partners anyway. He settled back to see if nice old-fashioned George Headingley would press for the man.
But Headingley had suffered enough from antagonistic mine hosts that day and he smiled sweetly and flashed his warrant card and said in his best, hushed we-don't-want- to-embarrass-the-customers voice, 'It's just a small matter of clearing up a couple of points regarding the accident last night. You've probably heard about it?'
'The old man near The Duke of York?' she said in a low voice which throbbed like a 'cello string.
She was la belle dame sans merci, Pascoe thought with delight. I shall become obsessed with her. But first I must bring Ellie here to approve. She deserves a good meal. He glanced again at the prices and changed his thought to: She deserves a nice drink. Could that delicious shadow round the eyes be real, or did she put it on with a feather?
'That's the one.'
'We had some reporter round this morning asking questions,' she said.
'I'm sorry to inconvenience you again,' said Headingley. 'It's just a matter of getting the picture clear.'
'You want to know how drunk the fat man was, is that it?'
Such directness allied to such feyness! It was a dizzying concoction. Were their sauces like this? If so, well worth the money!
'Well, yes, for a start,' said Headingley manfully.
'Depends how drunk five large Scotches, a bottle and a half of Burgundy and three balloons of cognac would make him,' she said.
'And in your estimation, how drunk would that be?' asked Pascoe, just for the privilege of engaging in commerce with this creature.
Those strange compelling eyes joined his for a lovely moment. This was true Paradise, this was the primal idyll with everything possible and no sin, no shame. Then her gaze slipped his and moved to a point just above his right shoulder.
'Why don't you ask him yourself?' she said.
'Beer!' boomed a familiar voice. 'A pint of your best for me, lass, and pints of your second best for this pair of trainees who ought to be too bloody busy to drink it!'
Pascoe turned. The primal idyll was over. Approaching with the weary wayworn smile of a fallen archangel whose heavy pinions have at last deposited him safe on Eden was Andrew Dalziel.
Chapter 12
'Et tu, Brute?'
Dalziel's arrival produced at least one bonus. To the three pints of beer which she drew for them, Stella Abbiss, without any direct request being made, added three portions of cold game pie.
'Delicious,' approved Dalziel. 'I tried it last night. The fruits of your own gun, if I remember right, love?'
She nodded slightly. To Pascoe's mental video library was added the slow-motion sequence of this frail, pale beauty clad only in gumboots tracking a low-flying pheasant across a frost-laced stubble field with her hot, smoking barrel.
He was jerked rudely out of his reverie by Dalziel, who said, 'Now, Peter, what are you doing here? I knew old George had been set to sniff around after me, but I thought you had other things on your plate. Just along to see the fun, is that it? Heard the fire engine and couldn't resist chasing along to see the fire?'
The sheer unjustness of the imputation made Pascoe speechless for a moment and Headingley said, 'He's along because of me, sir. We were meeting for a spot of lunch at The Duke of York and I asked him to give me a lift up
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