Pascoe liked Sheffield. Everyone with an eye for beauty, a nose for excitement, a taste for variety likes Sheffield. Built on seven hills like Rome, it is possible to pass from spring in its valleys to winter on its heights without ever crossing the city boundary.
Perhaps it gets its peculiar buzz from being a frontier town, for this is where Yorkshire in particular and the North in general end. After this, wrap it up how you will, you're into the Midlands. The White Peak bits of Derbyshire may have something of the North in them, but it's hilly landscape stood on its head. You are looking down from edges rather than staring up at heights.
DI Stan Rose was certainly looking down rather than staring up. His lost snout had been picked up in London trying to use a dodgy credit card. Rose had gone south to see him. He'd found a very scared man, showing signs of a recent severe beating.
As Pascoe heard this, he thought uneasily of Lee Lubanski. Mate Polchard didn't have a reputation for gratuitous violence, but he was up for anything that the situation demanded. And God knows what kind of mindless muscle he was employing.
Then Rose, unprompted, mentioned the Elsecar Hoard, and his concern for the missing rent boy evaporated.
Strong hints that further info on the Sheffield job could persuade Rose to put in a word when the Met came to decide how to proceed in the snout's present difficulty had at first produced only the eloquent comment that he might be better off inside. To which Rose had replied that, in that case, he would make sure he got a conditional discharge, then let it be known around Sheffield that he'd been down for a chat.
Even then, all he got was a date. January 26th, a week from today, the day the Hoard was being transferred from Sheffield to Mid-Yorkshire.
'But what made you think of the Hoard as a target in the first place?' asked Pascoe.
Tolchard's record made me think it might be a security-van hit, so I researched a list of all possibles this month,' said Rose proudly. 'When I saw the date matched the Hoard transfer day, I got all the museum security tapes and went through them. And you know what, Polchard's visited the exhibition twice at least. Coat collar turned up, hat pulled down, but it was definitely him.'
'Perhaps he's just interested in Roman history,' said Pascoe drily. 'You were going to tell me all this, weren't you, Stan? I mean, we are talking about next Saturday, right?'
'Of course I was. I've been putting some ideas together, just wanted to run them by my boss, he's been off with this Kung Flu, just got back today, so I was planning to ring you. Anyway, it's still all a bit speculative, isn't it?'
'I think it's a bit more than that, Stan,' said Pascoe.
As he explained the reasons for his visit, Rose had the grace to look positively embarrassed at the contrast between Pascoe's speedy sharing of new information and his cards-close-to-the-chest approach.
'Pete, this is really good. This is all I need to get the go-ahead on my… on our op.'
'I'm pleased for you. Though of course if, as seems likely, they're planning to make the hit during transfer, it's as likely, in fact more likely to take place on Andy Dalziel's turf.'
He paused a moment just to let Rose contemplate the life-threatening perils of a power struggle with the Fat Man, then went on, 'But the guy who takes the call calls the shots, isn't that what they say? It's your show, Stan. You'll get full backing from our side of the fence – just as long as we're getting full intelligence from yours.'
'Pete, that's great. Thanks a bunch. Look, I've got a lot of ideas for this oppo. I'm calling it Operation Serpent, by the way. Thought that fitted.'
He spoke almost defiantly and Pascoe concealed his amusement.
'So why don't we get down to some hard planning while you're here,' the DI continued.
To be honest, I'd rather get down to the museum and see what all the fuss is about,' said Pascoe.
He had seen photographs of various items in the Hoard, but they hadn't prepared him for its full splendour. It wasn't a huge collection but it had clearly been put together by a man with an eye for beauty who must have approved the care which had been taken in setting his pieces out on display. Rings, bracelets, brooches, necklaces, each was shown to its best advantage on slowly rotating stands covered with black velvet and lit by shifting lights which moved from the full glare of sunshine to the soft glow of candleshine. At the very centre, set on a fibreglass ovoid, which though faceless somehow invited you to see whatever features you found most beautiful there, was the serpent coronet.
For a moment as he studied it, Pascoe almost understood Belchamber's desire for possession. And he could certainly share his indignation that this treasure was being allowed out of the country.
They saw the Exhibition Director and questioned him about the transfer arrangements at the end of the exhibition. They kept the tone as low-key as possible, stressing that these were just the routine security enquiries any movement of so valuable a cargo would require. Prevention might be better than cure, but neither of them had any desire to alert the gang to their suspicions and warn them off. As Dalziel once put it, with hardbitten pros, the only true crime prevention was prison. Anything else was mere postponement.
One piece of information caught Pascoe's interest. The transfer was going to be done by Praesidium Security.
Rose, with a sensitivity to reaction which boded well for him in his career, noted the flicker of interest and brought it up as they left the Director's office.
Pascoe told him about the earlier attack on the Praesidium van and of the link with Belchamber.
'So you think this could have been some kind of rehearsal?'
'Could be. It would certainly explain why they weren't that much interested in the money that had been on board. Though I must say if they think the crew ferrying the Hoard are going to stop at a caff for tea, they must be seriously thick.'
Pascoe paused as they passed through the main foyer. On a noticeboard a poster had caught his eye. It advertised the one-day conference being held at the university by the Yorkshire Psychandric Society – and of course today was the day. He wondered how Pottle's opening address had gone down.
He went closer to check the details.
Amaryllis Haseen had been on that morning, so he'd missed her. But Frere Jacques, Roote's guru, was on after lunch, talking about Third Thought and his new book.
Back at Sheffield HQ he met Rose's boss. He didn't look well and, despite his assurances that he was no longer infectious, whenever his chain smoking brought on a bout of ferocious coughing, Pascoe tried to keep to the windward.
He was less convinced than his DI that Pascoe's news meant there was definitely a heist attempt in the offing, but he questioned him closely about Andy Dalziel's attitude. Obviously the Fat Man's opinions carried weight everywhere. Finally he gave Rose that conditional blessing which Pascoe well recognized. Interpreted, it meant: your triumph is ours, your cock-ups are your own.
But Stan Rose was delighted. Outside the smoky room, he said, 'Pete, let me buy you some lunch. Least I can do. I owe you.'
Pascoe said, 'Thanks, Stan, but there's something I need to do up at the university. Talking of which, there is something… Remember that boy Frobisher, the one Sergeant Wield asked you about way back in connection with that lecturer's death on our patch…?'
'Yeah, I remember him. Accidental overdose trying to stay awake to finish his work.'
"That's the one. Look, while I'm here I'd like to poke around the house he lived in, have a word with any of his mates who are still there, nothing heavy – but if anyone got stroppy, it would be good to say I'd checked, it out with you.'
Rose was regarding him like a poor relation who'd fsuddenly mentioned money.
This anything to do with that fellow Roote?' he asked.
'Distantly.'
'Pete, this is a non-suspicious death, all done and dusted.'
'From what you said, his sister didn't think so.'
'What are sisters for? Pete, it's a waste of time.'
'You're probably right. And I realize I should be devoting all my energies to assisting you in this Hoard oppo…'
He slightly stressed assisting. Rose sighed. 'Be my guest, Pete. I can always say you pulled rank on me.'
'That was my next move,' grinned Pascoe.
At the university, Pascoe entered the lecture theatre just as Dr Pottle was concluding his introduction of Frere Jacques. The front rows were full but there were plenty of empty seats near the back. Perhaps the flu bug was to blame. Pascoe seated himself in the rearmost row alongside a trio of world-weary female students who looked like they'd only come in to get out of the cold. Pottle finished and stepped down to take a seat at the front. A woman next to him turned her head to speak and, though he'd only seen a book jacket photo, Pascoe thought he recognized Amaryllis Haseen. Frere Jacques was a surprise. With his cropped blond hair and his tight-fitting black turtleneck, which showed a muscular torso with no sign of fat, he looked more like a ski instructor than a monk.
'Well, hello sailor,' said one of the girls sitting near Pascoe. 'Wonder if he's got a dick to match?'
It came out perfectly natural, on a par with a young man's not many of them in a pound on sight of a big-breasted woman. Was this an advance to equality or a backward step? wondered Pascoe.
Jacques began talking. His English was structurally perfect with just enough of an accent to be sexy. He talked easily of death, his own experiences as a soldier, his belief that Western man's growing obsession with longevity and wonder cures had foolishly made a foe out of the one fact of nature we couldn't hope to defeat. 'Pick your friends carefully is a wise motto’ he said. 'But pick your enemies even more carefully is a wiser one. Losing a friend is much easier than losing an enemy.'
His ideas were carefully couched in the language of psychology and philosophy rather than of religion. Only once did he stray in the direction of Christian dogma, and that was when he referred with an ironic twinkle of those luminous blue eyes to the unique comforts of the English Prayer Book 'which assures mourners at a funeral that "man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower." No wonder the tradition has grown up after a funeral of heading back to a house or pub and downing as many drinks as are necessary to blot out this cheerful message!'
A thread of humour ran through all his exposition of the stratagems and disciplines by which Third Thought aimed to make its practitioners more comfortable with that awareness of death which he argued was essential to a full life. But there was never anything frivolous or factitious or tinged with mere bravado in his talk. He ended by saying 'It is commonplace, as many great truths are commonplace, to talk of the miracle of life. But being born is only the first of the two great miracles which humanity is involved in. The second is of course death and in many ways it is the greater. The fine Scottish poet Edwin Muir understood this, as expounded in the opening verse of his poem "The Child Dying".
Unfriendly friendly universe
I pack your stars into my purse and bid you, bid you so farewell.
That I can leave you, quite go out,
Go out, go out beyond all doubt,
My father says, is the miracle.'
He sat down. The applause, led by the three no longer bored girls, was enthusiastic. Pottle stood up to say that Frere Jacques would now take questions and afterwards would be happy to sign copies of his new book.
The questions were as usual led by the tyro academics eager to count coup. One quoted with heavy irony from a later stanza of Muir's poem which referred to 'the far side of despair' and 'nothing-filled eternity' and wondered what the good Brother's religious superiors thought of this alternative to the Christian heaven he seemed to be promising his proselytes. One of Pascoe's neighbours said very audibly, 'Dickhead!' but Jacques needed no external shield, parrying the blow easily with the assurance that the questioner, whether atheist or Christian or anything else, need not fear his beliefs were being challenged as Third Thought was non-secular, non-proselytory, and concerned only with the living.
The girl who'd said, 'Dickhead', then asked very seriously what part sex with its 'little death' played in Third Thought philosophy, to which Jacques replied equally seriously that if she cared to read chapter seven of his book, he was sure she'd find her question answered. As he finished speaking, he smiled, not at the questioner but at someone seated at the other end of Pascoe's row. He leaned forward to look and saw a stunningly beautiful blonde-haired young woman smiling back at the monk.
Afterwards Pascoe bought a copy of the book and was wondering whether to join the signing queue (which included all three of his young neighbours) when Pottle tapped his shoulder and said, 'Peter, how nice to see that the policeman's pursuit of enlightenment doesn't stop in the forensic laboratory. Let me introduce you to Amaryllis Haseen.'
As he shook hands with the woman, Pascoe thought that Roote's description had been a bit over the top but not much. She was definitely sexy in a slightly overblown and garish kind of way. He could see how she might provoke many stirrings and rustlings and scratch-ings in the wainscot of St Godric's SCR.
He said, 'I was very sorry to hear of the death of your husband, Ms Haseen. Sir Justinian will be a great loss to scholarship.'
Englishmen are notoriously bad at offering condolences and Pascoe thought he'd done it rather well, but the woman regarded him with unconcealed scepticism and said, 'You knew my husband, Mr Pascoe?'
'Well, no…'
'But you know his books? Which one impressed you most?'
Pascoe glanced appealingly at Pottle who, smiling faintly, said, 'In fact, Amaryllis, you and the Chief Inspector do have a common acquaintance, I believe. A Mr Franny Roote.'
Grateful for both the change of subject and the opening, Pascoe said, 'I read with great interest what you said about him in Dark Cells, which -I was really impressed with, by the way. Fine work. If you've got a moment to talk about him, I'd really appreciate it.'
His attempt at diversion by flattery failed miserably.
She said coldly, 'I cannot talk about my clients, Mr Pascoe, none of whom was identified in the book anyway.'
He said, 'No, but Franny identified himself to me in a letter. Prisoner XR, if I remember right. So perhaps the rules of confidentiality no longer apply. He was certainly very open about his sessions with you and the debt he feels he owes you for supporting his transfer from the Syke to Butler's Low.'
'If you've got a whip’ said the Gospel according to St Dalziel, 'just a little crack will usually do the trick -so long as they're convinced you're willing to draw blood.'
Pascoe fixed her with what he hoped was a stare full of Dalzielesque conviction.
Get 'em in a corner then show 'em a get-out, was another of the Master's tips.
'But you met him again recently at St Godric's, I believe, long after he'd ceased to be a client, so no ethical problems talking about that, are there? I know it must be a very painful memory to you, that conference. But at the same time it must have been a source of great pleasure seeing someone you'd helped as a prisoner receiving the applause of a distinguished academic audience for his paper. Weren't you impressed?'
'By the paper, no. Like most literary analyses, so called, it was big on waffle, low on psychological rigour. Hardly worth rushing lunch for. But of course it wasn't Roote's work, was it? I was rather more interested in his relationship with the late Dr Johnson.'
'You must have known Sam when Sir Justinian worked at Sheffield?'
'Oh yes. We met.'
He said, 'I knew him too. Very bright, very attractive guy, I thought.'
'You found him attractive?' She gave him an assessing glance.
'Yes, I did. I gather there was some kind of falling out with your husband.'
She shrugged and said, 'On Johnson's part, perhaps. A certain type of character always comes to resent those who have helped them as much as Jay helped Johnson with his Beddoes book. For some people it is easier to quarrel with the helper than to acknowledge the help. I did not know him well, but he always struck me as a very volatile, perhaps even unstable character. I was not surprised when I heard of the circumstances of his departure from Sheffield.'
'The death of that student, Jake Frobisher, you mean?'
'You know of that? Of course, you would. Again the closeness followed by the rejection, the same pattern as with Jay, except of course the closeness in this case was sexual rather than academic collaboration. I think Johnson's death may have been a lucky break for Roote, in more ways than one.'
‘I’m not sure he sees it like that. And certainly he doesn't see the rift between your husband and Johnson in quite the same light,' said Pascoe, finding in himself the beginnings of a serious antipathy to this woman.
He guessed she wasn't exactly crazy about him either, and now she proved it.
She said, 'Your name is Pascoe, you say? That name rings familiar. Wasn't one of the policemen who helped put Roote away called Pascoe?'
'That was me,' said Pascoe.
'And he's writing to you, you. say?' She smiled with evident satisfaction. That must be a source of concern to you, Mr Pascoe.'
'Why?'
'Because whenever he spoke of his trial, though he claimed to have sublimated any thought of revenge into other areas, particularly his academic research, I still detected an undercurrent of resentment and a feeling of having been ill done by. Of course, this was years ago, and time does, in some few cases, bring about changes 'Indeed,' interposed Pottle. 'And Mr Roote, some of whose letters I have seen, wrote specifically to the Chief Inspector to assure him he had no thought of revenge.'
Amaryllis smiled again, like a Borgia hostess seeing her guest holding out his wine-glass for a fill-up.
'Well, that's all right then. If someone as devious, as complex and as clever as Franny Roote tells you that he doesn't want to harm you, what have you to worry about? If you'll excuse me, I'm heading back" to Cambridge today and I need to get packed.' She moved away.
Pascoe said to Pottle, That sounded to me very like a vote for my interpretation of Roote's motives. She doesn't go out of her way to be charming, does she?'
Pottle smiled and said, 'Peter, you were aggressive, indeed threatening, and hinted all kinds of criticism of her recently dead husband. What makes you think that psychiatrists are above feelings of resentment and thoughts of revenge? I see you have the good Brother's book. Would you like to get it signed? I think he might welcome being rescued.'
The book-signing queue had diminished to the three female students, who were crowding round Jacques apparently hanging on to his every word and looking ready to hang on to anything else of his they could get hold of. Standing a little to one side, watching with a quizzical smile, was the beautiful blonde.
The predatory trio looked up resentfully as Pottle and Pascoe approached.
'Sorry to interrupt, but you have an appointment to keep, Brother. Ladies, I'm sure you'll find a chance to continue your conversation later in the day.'
Jacques said goodbye to the girls, who retreated, comparing inscriptions.
This appointment…?' he said to Pottle.
'With Mr Pascoe here’ said Pottle. 'Chief Inspector Pascoe who, among other things, would like you to sign his book. Let's find somewhere a little more private.'
As he led them away, Jacques shot an apologetic glance at the blonde. Pottle showed them into a small empty office, closing the door behind them.
'Pascoe?' said Jacques musingly. 'Tell me, you're not Franny Roote's Inspector Pascoe by any chance?'
'Depends in what sense you use the possessive’ said Pascoe.
'In the sense of being the policeman who forced him to confront his anti-social behaviour, understand his motives for it, pay the necessary legal penalty for it, and ultimately become the better, more mature person he is now.'
'That seems to me to be stretching the sense quite a bit,' said Pascoe.
'Yes, he told me you had some problems with coming to terms with your role in his life’ said Jacques.
'I had problems!' Pascoe shook his head vigorously. 'Believe me, Brother, the only problem I've got is dealing with Roote's problems!'
'Which are?'
'Basically that he's a sociopathic fantasist whose unpredictable behaviour makes me very uneasy about my own welfare and that of my family.'
As he spoke, Pascoe was asking himself, What happened to my plan of having a quiet chat with this guy about his crazy chum during the course of which I'd glean many interesting ears of information without him suspecting the true nature of my interest?
'These seem large judgments to make on the basis of a few presumably non-threatening letters.'
'What makes you presume that?' demanded Pascoe. 'And how do you know he's been writing to me anyway?'
'Because he told me so. And as I imagine that written threats to a policeman from a former convict would rapidly result in apprehension and charges, I presume no such threats were made. In any case, Mr Pascoe, I hope it will reassure you to learn that whenever he mentioned your name he did so in terms of great respect and admiration, bordering, I felt, on affection’
'So you talked about me’
'He talked, I listened. The impression I received was of someone exploring his feelings towards someone else and being rather surprised at what he was discovering. I am not a psychologist – Dr Pottle might well be worth consulting on this matter – but my instinct suggests that Franny matured intellectually at an early age, but emotionally and morally is still in late adolescence.'
He regarded Pascoe for a moment as if to assess how he was responding to this analysis, then went on, 'You are perhaps tempted to retaliate by quoting from his letters some deprecating comment he has made about me. But I would suspect that his initial attitude, that I was some kind of – what is your expression? – some kind of religious plonker worth being polite to for the sake of keeping in with his patroness, Mrs Lupin, has moderated somewhat. You see, one thing my line of business has made me expert in is spotting the difference between lip-service and genuine commitment. Franny, I believe, has made a genuine movement.'
'Franny's expertise lies in making people feel what he wants them to feel’ said Pascoe coldly.
'Perhaps. Shall I sign your book, or was that merely your ticket of entry, Chief Inspector?'
'No, please sign it’ said Pascoe, feeling he'd been ungracious enough for one day.
The monk took the book, opened it at the title page, scribbled a few words and handed it back.
Pascoe looked at what he'd written. It was his signature followed by Thessalonians 5, 21.
He said, 'OK, you got me. Save me having to look it up.'
' "Prove all things: hold fast that which is good."'
That's nice, but for a cop it works out slightly different,' said Pascoe. 'Prove all things: then hold very fast that which is bad. Thank you, Brother.'
He opened the door. Outside he saw the blonde beauty waiting. Suddenly he knew who she was.
'You've made up your mind about Miss Lupin then?' he said.
Jacques didn't look surprised. '
'Yes, I have made up my mind.'
'Congratulations. I hope all goes well for you both.'
'Thank you. Franny is right, you are a sharp man, Mr Pascoe. We would prefer for the moment to keep our news to ourselves. Until people close 'to us have been told. My Brothers, Emerald's mother.'
'Will this affect your Third Thought" work?' asked Pascoe.
'Why should it? I have never ignored the existence of the two other thoughts.'
'Well, good luck. And take care.'
'You too, Mr Pascoe. And God bless you.'
Outside he nodded pleasantly at Emerald and went to find Pottle.
'So what did you get?' asked the psychiatrist.
'I got blessed. In both our languages,' said Pascoe.
The house in which Jake Frobisher had died was a large semi-detached building in monumental granite which age and atmosphere had darkened to mausoleum grey. Situated on the edge of the Fulford suburb of the city, its small front and side gardens were sadly neglected by comparison with others in the road, and the paintwork on the doors and windows was cracked and flaking too.
Pascoe, ever ready to put two and two together, read its history as rich tradesman's dwelling slowly declining towards multiple occupation till it became either by purchase or long lease wholly a student residence, which was probably something of an irritant to the inmates of these neighbouring properties which looked to have reverted to one family occupation as the area swung back up to something like its original status during the closing decades of the last century.
There was a line of bell-pushes on one of the door columns. They didn't give much promise of working. Pascoe peered down a weathered list of names and made out the name Frobisher against number 5. He guessed this was unchanged since last summer when the unfortunate youth had died. He pressed the button, heard nothing, and was about to try other buttons when the front door opened and a young man pushed a bicycle out. Pascoe held the door to assist and got a cheerful, 'Thanks, mate' in exchange.
He went inside.
The smell brought back his student days, not so long ago in terms of years but, oh, an ache of lifetimes away in terms of memory. There was curry in it and other spices, a hint of vegetable decay, a touch of drains, a soupcon of sweat, a curl of joss-sticks and a wraith of dope. Trapped in the refrigeration unit of the unheated hall and stairwell, it didn't assault the nostrils and tear at the throat, but he was glad it wasn't midsummer.
He went up the stairs and found a door marked 5 on the first landing.
It was slightly ajar.
He tapped at it and when there was no reply, he pushed it open and called, 'Hello?'
No reply. In fact, unless there was someone concealed in the big Victorian wardrobe or, even less likely, under the unmade futon, there was no possible source of answer.
He stood in the doorway and tried to… what? He'd no idea what he was looking for here, couldn't begin even to imagine what he might hope to find. OK, a few months ago a boy had died in this room, but in a house this old, it must be almost impossible to find a room in which at some point someone hadn't died.
So what was he expecting? Some message from the grave? Lines from the poem in the Beddoes collection open by Sam Johnson's side when he found the lecturer's body came to Pascoe's mind:
There are no ghosts to raise; Out of death lead no ways.
So, just a room. He stepped inside as if to affirm his dismissal of the possibility of any malign or supernatural influence. His foot caught on something. He stooped to unhook whatever it was and came up with a flowered bra whose blues and reds had blended in with the patterned carpet which covered most of the floor. He saw now there were other female garments strewn on the crumpled duvet that covered the futon.
Time to retreat and knock on a couple of doors, see if he could find someone who remembered Frobisher and was willing to chat.
'Who the fuck are you?' said a voice behind him.
He turned to see a young woman in the doorway. She was wearing a Japanese robe and drying her long blonde hair with a towel. She looked as unpleased as she sounded.
She also looked as if the slightest wrong move would have her yelling for help.
Pascoe smiled and made a reassuring gesture, which turned out to be a bad idea as it only drew attention to the bra he was holding.
I'm sorry’ he said. ‘I didn't realize that That the room was occupied? That it was occupied by a female?
He changed direction, heading for firmer ground.
'I'm a policeman,' he said, reaching for his warrant card, which gave him an excuse to casually drop the bra.
He opened the card and held it up without moving towards her.
She peered at it then said, 'OK, so you're a cop as well as a pervert. I believe your type gets really well treated in jail.'
'Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come in here. And I stuck my foot in your bra’
'Well, that's novel,' she said. That will sound interesting in court.'
This was not going well. It was time to be blunt. He said, 'I don't know if you know, but last summer there was a death in this house. A student called Frobisher
She said with renewed fury, 'What the hell are you talking about? What kind of cop are you? Let me see that warrant again!'
He produced his card once more and this time took it towards her.
She studied it closely and said, 'Mid-Yorkshire? You're a long way off your ground, aren't you? You got permission?'
'Yes, of course. DI Rose
‘That wanker!'
'You know him?'
'Oh yes. Useless bastard.'
She pushed by him and went to sit on a rickety stool in front of a matching dressing table and began to comb her hair.
'If you know DI Rose, then surely you must know about Frobisher's death
'Yeah, all about it. But it wasn't in this room.' 'I'm sorry, it was the name by the front door… ah.' It dawned, so obvious that he felt embarrassed. 'You're Jake's sister,' he said. 'Sophie.'
'That's right.' 'But this wasn't his room
'Of course it wasn't. Listen, I loved my brother and he'd arranged for me to have a room in this place when I started in the autumn, but you don't imagine I was going to take the same room he was killed in, do you? That would be real bloody macabre!'
'Yes, of course, I'm sorry. And I'm sorry for intruding like this, Miss Frobisher’
'You could be a lot sorrier if I make a complaint,' she said. Trespass and sniffing around my underwear, that could be a bad career move.'
'I'll take my chances,' he said, still uncertain how best to go forward. It would be easy enough to get her on his side by indicating he was still not satisfied with the inquest verdict on her brother, but having her proclaim him as an ally might be an even worse career move than letting her accuse him of being a pervert.
'So what the fuck do you want, anyway?' she demanded.
‘Time to show your colours, Pascoe, he thought.
He said, 'Just now you said, "the room he was killed in". What did you mean by that?'
She turned to him with the comb halfway down her long wet tresses.
'What's it to you what I meant?' she said.
It sounded like a real question, not a snarl of defiance.
He said carefully, 'I would just like to be sure myself of the circumstances of your brother's death.'
'Is that right? I need a bit more than that, Inspector. Sorry, Chief Inspector. I mean, it's understandable for me, just a silly young woman and Jake's sister to boot, to get all uptight and hysterical about his death, isn't it? I bet that's what DI Rose says about me, when he's being polite, that is. But you, a high-ranking gumshoe from another division, what brings you around all this time on asking questions?'
The best way of hiding the whole truth is with a bit of the truth, as any lawyer knows.
Pascoe said, 'One of Jake's tutors, Sam Johnson, died in suspicious circumstances on my patch last autumn. At first it seemed possible it was suicide and, because he'd moved to Mid-Yorkshire rather precipitously after Jake's death, we had to look at the possibility that there was some connection. You know, state of mind and that sort of thing. Later we discovered Dr Johnson had been murdered so the connection with your brother no longer seemed important. But for some reason I kept on thinking about his death
It sounded feeble but the girl's eyes were shining as she said, 'You mean, like Johnson's death turned out not to be suicide but murder, you think Jake's might be the same? Not accident but murder? The same person who killed Dr Johnson maybe?'
'Definitely not that,' said Pascoe, imagining Trimble's reaction, not to mention Dalziel's, at seeing the headline STUDENT DEATH PROBE – ANOTHER WORDMAN KILLING? There really is no way there can be a link between the deaths, believe me.'
Except of course Roote…
But he wasn't going to mention Roote either which made it a bit difficult to explain when Sophie Frobisher said irritably, 'So what the hell are you doing here then?'
'I was in Sheffield on another matter and DI Rose told me about your reservations about the way your brother died. And about the missing watch. And because I was involved before, I thought it might be useful to have a chat with you. To tie up loose ends, so to speak.'
This was even feebler than before, and provably so inasmuch as it must stick out like a sore nose that he hadn't come here with the intention of seeing her.
But she seemed satisfied and said, 'OK, start tyring.'
'Why are you so certain Jake didn't in fact accidentally overdose in his efforts to keep himself awake to finish his work assignments?'
She was looking at him obliquely now through the mirror in which she was combing her hair.
She said, 'It was just… well, you'd have to know Jake. First off, he always seemed so laid back about his work. I used to come up and stay with him sometimes and I don't think I ever saw him write a word. It's all sorted, he'd say. Decks cleared so I can entertain my little sis! As for drugs, he did the usual stuff, yeah, but he was really careful. Had to know the ins and outs of where it came from. He was always telling me if I wanted E's to come to him, not to risk picking up something dodgy from a guy dealing in a disco bog. He was the last guy on earth to go over the top by accident.'
'The nature of drugs is that they affect the judgment,' said Pascoe. 'You can start off taking care but once you're under the influence…'
'Score a lot, do you?' she said scornfully. 'I know my brother.. . knew my brother’
Tears came to her eyes and she began to drag the comb through her hair as if trying to pull it out by the roots.
'Maybe it did happen that way’ she said, half sobbing. 'Maybe I just don't want to accept he's dead… he's dead… I don't really understand what that means… dead
Words of consolation and reassurance crowded Pascoe's tongue but he didn't utter them. If this woman was getting to some kind of acceptance that her brother's death was accidental, it would be selfishly wrong to let his obsession with Roote get in the way.
Looking for a diversion in facts, he said, Tell me about the missing watch.'
She rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes and said, 'It was something he got given, don't know who from, but they must really have fancied him. It was a big chunky one, just his style, an Omega I think, gold bracelet – well, I don't know if it was real gold, but it certainly looked the job. And it had an inscription on the back.'
'Didn't that tell you who it was from?'
'Not really. I asked him, but he just laughed and said, "Little sister, big nose, the more she sniffs the bigger it grows!" That's what he always used to say when we were’
The tears were back.
Pascoe, trying to stem them, asked, This inscription, can you remember what it said?'
'I can show you,' she said. 'It was quite long, little letters, and done in a circle to fit the back of the watch, so it wasn't easy to read. So I did a rubbing, like I used to do with coins when I was a kid.'
She went to a drawer, poked around for a moment, then handed him a sheet of paper.
She was right, it was hard to read, with the words so close engraved in a fancy script it was hard to tell where one ended and another began, and being in a circle didn't make it any easier. He took the folding magnifying glass he always carried out of his pocket, assembled it, then peered at the lettering again.
It took a little effort to work out, but he finally got it sorted into: YOUR’S TILL TIME INTO ETERNITY FALLS OVER RUINED WORDS
He said, 'Can I hang on to this?'
She looked at him doubtfully.
He said, Til get it photocopied, send it straight back.'
She said, 'Why not? Makes a change to have someone interested.'
'Yes, I'm interested. But please don't get your hopes up. When was the last time you saw your brother?'
'Three weeks before he… died.'
'And he had the watch then?'
'Definitely. God, it really pisses me off to think some plod helped himself to it. And his stash too. That not strike anyone as odd? Just a couple of loose pills found?'
She glared at him accusingly.
'How did he seem that last time you saw him?' he asked. 'He must have known he was in trouble about his work assignments by then.'
'He seemed fine. One of his mates said something which made me think he might be in trouble, but Jake just laughed as usual and said, "It's sorted, Sis." Like he always did.'
'I see.' Pascoe sought for an exit line which wouldn't leave hope, because he didn't have any to leave. He was himself clutching at straws, or rather the shadows of straws, and suppose he did by some miracle find that the death of Jake Frobisher had somehow involved foul play, what comfort could there possibly be in that for Sophie?
He said, 'I might as well look at Jake's room while I'm here. What number was that?'
'Eleven. Upstairs. But there's somebody in it.'
‘Fine. Thank you very much, Miss Frobisher. Look, like I say, I don't really expect there's going to be anything new here, but either way, I'll be in touch. So, take care, eh? And I'm very sorry about your loss.'
'Me too,' she said.
She fixed all her attention on the mirror. She seemed to have shrunk within the robe and to Pascoe as he left she looked not much older than Rosie, dressed in her mother's dressing gown, playing at being grown up.
The door to Room 11 was opened to his knock by a young man with the build of a rugby forward which, from the boots slung into a corner and the hooped jersey draped over a radiator, he probably was, though why he wasn't running round a freezing field with all the other muddied oafs this Saturday afternoon wasn't clear.
It became clear when the young man spoke.
'Yeah?' he said, in what at first sounded like a thick foreign accent. 'Help you?'
The two further words revealed the truth. Not foreign but true Yorkshire, going into or coming out of a severe bout of the dreaded Kung Flu.
Averting his head, Pascoe introduced himself. Risk apart, the flu bug did have one positive benefit in that the young man, who said his name was Keith Longbottom, expressed no curiosity about his desire to look at the room but merely said, 'Help yourself, mate’ and collapsed on his unmade bed.
Pascoe looked. It was a pointless exercise. What was there to see?
He said, 'Did you know Jake Frobisher?' Longbottom opened his eyes, walked mentally round the question a couple of times, then said, 'Yeah. Living in the same house, you get to know who's who.'
'You lived here last year then?'
'Yeah.'
Pascoe digested this, then went on, 'But not in this room, obviously?'
'No. I mean it were Frobisher's room, weren't it?'
'Yes. Of course. So how…?'
'How did I get it? Well, it's bigger than my old room, which was down in the basement anyway, so when this fell vacant I thought, why not? Felt a bit spooky, but my girl said not to be daft and go for it. Like she said, it weren't as if I really knew the guy. Nowt in common. He were a bit arty, doing English or something, you know the type.'
The long answer seemed to exhaust him and the eyes began to close again.
'And what are you studying, Mr Longbottom?' Geography, he guessed. Or Sport Injuries. Get a degree in anything these days!
'Maths,' said the youth.
You patronizing plonker, Pascoe reproved himself, his gaze now going beyond the sport kit to the books lying on the table and standing along the windowsill.
The door opened and a young woman came in unbuttoning her coat.
She stopped in the doorway when she saw Pascoe, and Longbottom said, 'Hi, luv. Didn't expect to see you till tonight.'
'Can't make it. Got to do an extra shift’ said the woman, taking her coat off to reveal a nurse's uniform beneath. 'So I thought I'd best pop round and see if you're still living. God, this place is a sty!'
She began tidying up, shooting suspicious glances at Pascoe.
Longbottom said, 'This is Jackie, my girlfriend. Jackie, this is Inspector Pascoe. He were asking about Frobisher, you remember
'I remember’ she said shortly. 'I thought that were all done and dusted.'
'It is really’ said Pascoe. 'Just a loose end or two to tie up.'
'You know his sister lives here now?' said Long-bottom.
'Yes, I've been talking to her’
'Not been upsetting her, I hope?' said Jackie, filling an electric kettle at the hand basin.
‘Tried not to’ said Pascoe. 'Mr Longbottom, the night it happened, I don't suppose you recollect anything unusual? I expect someone asked you this at the time.'
'Yeah, the pi-, the police talked to us all. No, I heard nowt, saw nowt. Like I say, we were down in the basement then.'
'We?'
'Aye, me and Jackie.'
Pascoe looked at the nurse who was, he noticed, making coffee for two. Just as well. He didn't fancy using any cup that might have got near Longbottom's lips. Perhaps nurses developed a natural immunity.
She said, 'I sometimes stay over.'
'And you stayed that night?'
'Yeah,' said Longbottom, smiling reminiscently. 'It were a good night, I recall. We got some pizza sent in, drank a bottle of vino, listened to some tapes, then we…'
1 don't think the Inspector needs the details,' said Jackie.
'No’ said Pascoe, giving her a smile she didn't return. 'Anyway, clearly you were far too busy to have heard anything or seen anyone hanging around. Well, thank you for your time. I'll get out from under your feet now’ He'd opened the door when the woman said, 'There was someone.'
He stopped and turned.
She said, 'I didn't stay all night. I was on early shift and needed to get back to the Home to get changed. I woke up about half one and thought I'd best not go back to sleep or I'll likely sleep in. No use relying on him to wake me, he's like a log once he's gone’
Longbottom nodded complacently.
The nurse went on, 'So I got up and got dressed and headed off out. I'd just got outside and was going to start up the steps from the basement when I heard the front door open and I saw this guy come out. Thought nowt about it. It weren't all that late and, in his business, there's no opening hours.'
Longbottom had a violent bout of coughing and the nurse looked at him with concern changing to indifference as, like Pascoe, she spotted this was signal rather than symptom.
'His business?' said Pascoe, recalling what Sophie had said about Jake's stash going missing, nothing but a few loose tabs lying around, about getting her E's from him…
'He peddled dope?' he said. 'He was a supplier?'
'You didn't know? Jesus, where do they get you guys?' said the nurse in disgust.
'Big time?'
He looked at Longbottom, who said dismissively, 'No. He just had connections, could always get you sorted.'
'Yes, I see.' But Sophie was right, there'd have been a stash, unless he'd taken the lot himself, which hardly seemed likely. Which meant it had gone somewhere.
'Did you ever say anything about this man you saw leaving to any of my colleagues?' he said to Jackie.
'No. Why should I? No one ever asked me. I mean, I wasn't around when they found the poor sod. In fact I knew nowt about it till days later. It were a right busy time for us, I recall. Don't see how it matters anyway. Unless you know something you're not telling.'
A sharp young woman, thought Pascoe.
He said, 'Nothing, I'm afraid. And you're probably right. It doesn't matter. This guy you saw leaving, was it someone from the house?'
'No, definitely not.'
'You knew all the residents well enough to be sure?'
'No, not all of them.'
'Then how can you be sure he wasn't a resident?' he asked, puzzled.
'Cos I knew the guy I saw. Not personally, but I'd seen him around at work.’
'At work? At the hospital, you mean?'
A wild hope was squirming in Pascoe's belly. He crossed his ringers and said, 'What hospital do you work at, as a matter of interest?'
'The Southern General.'
Where Franny Roote had worked as a porter during his time in Sheffield before he moved back to Mid-Yorkshire.
'And this man you saw, what did he do at the hospital? Nurse? Doctor?'
'No, he pushed trolleys around. He was a porter.' ' 'You don't know his name by any chance?'
'Sorry. And I've not seen him around for months now, so he must've moved on.'
'But you're sure it was the same man?'
'Oh yes. Couldn't mistake him. Dead pale he were, and always dressed in black. Someone once said he looked like he should have been on the trolley himself, not pushing it. Dr Death, the youngsters used to call him.'
Dead pale, dressed in black.
Dr Death.
Oh, thank you, God, exulted Peter Pascoe.