Death dap-20

by Reginald Hill

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.'