'What are your plans?' he asked.
'See you in court,' she giggled. 'Perhaps they'll put me up on the same day as Jack Shorter.'
Pascoe turned away to meet another pint being thrust his way by Wield.
'Drink up,' said the sergeant. 'Then we're off to the Westgate Social. There's a singer there that Johnny wants to catch. I said we'd go in his car and make our own way back here later.'
The night was slipping out of his control, thought Pascoe a couple of minutes later as he and Wield clung together in the back of an old Morris Minor which smelt as if it had lately been used for transporting sheep. The passenger seat had been removed entirely and replaced by a crate of brown ale, and Hope's hand, through instinct or inaccuracy, frequently rattled among the bottles as he groped for the gear lever.
'Now, about Maurice Arany,' yelled Wield.
'Well I don't know,’ replied Hope dubiously.
'It'll be all right, Johnny,' said Wield.
Pascoe had a sense of a bargain being struck, or a promise made.
'What do you want to know?' asked Hope.
'Nothing much,' said Wield. 'Just anything you wouldn't expect us to find out any other way.'
This seemed a pretty broad demand, thought Pascoe modestly, and when Hope replied 'He's a Hungarian' he thought at first he was taking the piss. Wield seemed prepared to accept this as a serious contribution, however.
'Yes?' he urged.
'And there was some bother there in 1956,’ Hope went on slowly as though divulging state secrets.
'So there was,' said Pascoe.
Hope heaved a sigh which might have been relief at this acceptance of his assertion, or exasperation that he had to say any more.
'This fellow Haggard, now, that got killed, he was something or other in the British Embassy in Vienna. That's in Austria.'
Suddenly Pascoe was no longer amused by this parade of the obvious.
'Hang on,' he said. 'You're not saying that…'
'I'm saying nothing,' said Hope heavily. 'I'm just saying what I've heard others say. Arany either knew, or knew of Haggard before he came here.'
'But he'd just be a boy in 1956,' said Wield.
'Quite fond of boys, so they say,' said Hope. 'Me, I hate owt like that. Anything a bit perverted, I won't touch. You'll never see me mention a drag act in my column, Pete. Edgar'll back me up there.'
Pascoe was now so interested that he was able to forget the erratic progress of the Morris, exacerbated by Hope's habit of turning round to face his auditors every time he spoke.
'So the theory is that Arany had got something on Haggard?' he said.
'It's a strange mix else,' said Hope. 'I mean, it stands out a mile if you look at the facts. You don't have to be a detective!'
'You do if you want to be sure,' said Pascoe reprovingly.
What after all did they have? Arany's family come out of Hungary in 1956 and are transported, very probably via Vienna, to England. Haggard is in Vienna as a British Embassy official in 1956. The following year he leaves the service, possibly under a cloud, and comes home with a bit of money to invest. The inference in the rugby club think-tank was that the cloud was sexual, but rugby club philosophers see everything in physical terms. Suppose there'd been a bit of graft, queue-jumping, buy yourself a trip to sunny Britain? Arany, or his family, is involved. In 1962, Haggard's northward progress brings him to Yorkshire and their paths cross again. But when?
'When did they start to associate, Johnny?' he asked.
'Six, seven years ago, I don't know. One or two reckon Haggard was a sleeping partner in Maurice's agency. You know, put the money up. It'd take a bit of financing and one thing's for sure, he didn't make it doing his turn round the clubs.'
Johnny Hope laughed so violently at the thought that the car came near to making a dramatic entry through the side wall of the Westgate Social Club. When it finally came to rest mostly inside the car-park and with hardly more than two wheels overspilling on to the pavement, a fast-approaching constable sheered off in some confusion as Wield and Pascoe staggered gratefully into the cold night air.
They were inside and drinking another pint before Pascoe had time to think better of it. An acned youth was just finishing a spirited version of 'Young at Heart' which a benevolently drunk Sinatra might have accepted as a tribute. Johnny Hope applauded with more enthusiasm than the rest of the fairly sparse audience put together.
'He's the wife's cousin's lad,' he explained.
'Does your wife ever come with you?' asked Pascoe.
'No. She can't stand the clubs. Doesn't drink either. She's not religious, mind, just prefers the telly and a cup of tea. But she likes the family to stick together. Hello, Bri! Not a bad turn, young Sammy, is he?'
'He'll get paid,' said Brian Burkill ungraciously. 'Friends of yours, Johnny?'
He looked without much favour on Pascoe and Wield.
'Evening, Bri,' said the sergeant. 'Don't crack your face, will you? You know Mr Pascoe.'
'I know him.'
'Evening, Mr Burkill,' said Pascoe. 'You haven't got a motor-bike by any chance?'
'No. Why?'
'No reason. What time does your show start?'
'Eight o'clock, after the bingo.'
'Who runs that?'
'Whoever's handy.'
'And tonight?'
'I did the calling tonight. What's up, Inspector? Someone robbed a train?'
'I'm just interested in how these places run, that's all.'
'Ah. Slumming, is it?' said Burkill.
Pascoe ignored him, though he recognized a trace of truth in the sneer. Like all detectives he had a pool of more or less useful informants, but the small club circuit was very much the prerogative of Dalziel himself, and, of course, the indispensable Wield. 'You're a saloon bar man,' Dalziel had told him early in their association. 'It's them trendy shirts and the way you turn your head away when you pick your nose. Stick to your last, lad. The low life's not for you.'
It had been a joke, another Dalziel story to tell old friends, but Pascoe had since realized what he recognized once more now as he looked around this smoke-filled room with its gaudy vinyl wallpaper, its Formica tables and stackable chairs, its shouted conversations and screeched amusement, its pints of bitter and port and lemons – that some catch of self-awareness in him could never be released sufficiently to let him plunge without restraint into these less than Byzantine pleasures. It wasn't just the natural watchfulness which becomes second nature to most detectives. It was a need to assess before experiencing. It was a distrust of the commonalty of pleasure. It was a sense of the cry of bewilderment in human laughter. Above all, it was a longing for joy and a fear of being duped and debased by some shoddy substitute.
Such were Pascoe's extrapolations in his more self-analytical moments. He sometimes thought he was going quietly mad.
On the other hand, he had been totally immersed in the delight offered him by Estelle, the teenage trampolinist. Perhaps there would be something else tonight which would engage his whole attention, though the standard of the group presently offering harmonic near-misses in a nasal falsetto did not bode well. The audience seemed indifferent, too, drinking and talking as though they weren't being told by four epicene young men that angel face with wings of lace had taken off to another place. At a table quite close Pascoe recognized the Heppelwhites, Burkill's associates in the great assault. With them was a portly woman, in cast of feature not dissimilar from Estelle's mother.
Presumably this was Mrs Heppelwhite joining her men for a jolly family outing. Clint caught his eye and nudged his father who looked up and then looked quickly away. The youth picked up his pint and took a long draught. There was a fresh white bandage around his palm.
'Back in a minute,' said Pascoe to Wield. 'An old friend. Look, before William Hickey here gets totally insensible, see if he can give us anything more. Ask him about Haggard in particular.'