'And you yourself, Percy, when you finally made direct contact, how did he strike you? What did he say?' Across Pascoe's mind flickered a black and white image of Miles Malleson in Kind Hearts and Coronets asking the condemned duke for permission to read the ode he had composed to mark the occasion. Difficult to top that, but Percy came close. 'He said goodbye to everyone. Then he cupped his ear like he was listening and said, "Hush!" We all hushed, and listened. Nothing.
Then he laughed and said, "Sorry, I thought I heard a galloping horse.
Cheer up, Nugent -" the governor was looking as upset as ever I've seen him – "it looks as if it's going to be a far, far better thing after all. Thank you, Mr Pollock. At your convenience." And that was it, gentlemen. Forty-five seconds later. Sir Ralph was dead.' 'You're very precise,' said Pascoe. 'Yes, sir. This was by way of being a record. Usually I reckon on between fifty and eighty from the time I take them out of the cell, depending on how they move. But he stepped out so sprightly it was all done in forty-five. And he was my last, my very last, so it'll stand forever, I suppose.' There was a note of melancholy nostalgia in his voice that revolted Pascoe but before he could speak, Dalziel said, 'You had your contacts at the women's jail at Beddington too, I expect, Percy.' 'Oh yes. It's a long time since I had to take off a lady, a long, long time. But I had my contacts.'
'Anyone who would have been working there when Kohler topped the wardress?' Pollock thought a moment, then said, 'There's Mrs Friedman.
She retired the year after, I think. She was there.' 'And where is she now?' 'She lives locally, I believe. Would you like me to check, Mr Dalziel?' 'I'd appreciate it, Percy. Now, will you have another drink?' 'No, thank you,' he said, standing up. 'Time I was home to my supper. Goodbye, Mr Pascoe. A pleasure to meet you.' He offered his hand. Presumably his initial hesitation had been conditioned by the reluctance of some people to shake the hand that had slipped the noose over so many necks. Pascoe felt this reluctance more now than he had on first encounter, and to cover his slowness in responding, he said lightly, 'The bet Mickledore wanted placed, what happened?' 'Oh, it was put on. In fact, when word got around, so many officers not to mention the inmates and their families, backed the horse that its odds shortened from twenties to fives.' 'Oh aye?' said Dalziel. 'And did it win?' Percy Pollock smiled sadly. 'I'm afraid not. It fell at the last fence and broke its neck.' They sat in silence for a while after Pollock had left, Dalziel because he was eating a steak and kidney pie with double chips, Pascoe because he felt deeply depressed. 'Have a chip if you want,' said Dalziel. 'Not up to Black Bull standards, but they'll do.' 'No, thanks. Like I said, I'm not hungry.' 'You'll waste away to nowt. Man who doesn't take care of his belly won't take care of much else.' Pascoe felt this as a reproof and said, 'I do my job, full or empty.' 'Oh aye? Then do it. What do you make of old Percy?'
'Not a lot. If anything, I suppose he came down on the side of Mickledore being innocent.' 'What makes you say that?' asked Dalziel, studying a piece of kidney with the distrust of a police pathologist.
'That business about there being no chance of reprieve for him. That sounds like a fit-up.' 'Rumour. Ancient rumour at that,' said Dalziel, deciding to risk the kidney. 'What about Mickledore's demeanour? He acted as if he expected to be reprieved.' 'So what? He doesn't sound the type to collapse and kick his legs in the air. Stiff upper something, it's what they learn 'em at these public schools.' But if you take what he said at the end. "Looks like it's going to be a far, far better thing after all." Now the implication of that…' 'Yes, yes, I get the implication,' said Dalziel impatiently. 'I'm not totally ignorant. I go to the pictures too. And I'll tell you this for nowt, I can't see Mad Mick as Carter the martyr.' 'Carton,' said Pascoe. 'Who incidentally didn't look very likely material for Carter the martyr either. But isn't the point that Mickledore didn't want to be a martyr anyway? His kind of code says you do everything you can to cover up for a chum in trouble, no matter what he's done. Look at the way Lord Lucan's mates closed ranks when he vanished. But I doubt if any of them would have been willing to hang for him.' 'That's the choice they'd have got from me if I'd been running the case,' said Dalziel. 'So you're saying that when push came to shove, Mick said, sod this for a lark, and sent for Wally to tell him the truth, viz., that Westropp dunnit after all? So what about Westropp, then? This famous Lucan code says it's OK if you're the guilty party to let your best mate swing for you?' 'There may have been other considerations.