'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.
18
The Child
The Burrthorpe Canal, constructed in the age of Victoria to bring the coal from the mines of South Yorkshire to new industries springing up further north, had been one of the first to fall victim to the competition of improved roads, mechanical trucks and developing rail services after the turn of the twentieth century. Because of this it was in an advanced state of decay when the age of canal refurbishment came, and the fact that it was relatively short and did not link up with any navigable river meant that it had little attraction as a recreational waterway, so it lay neglected except by a few hardy fishermen who dreamt of monstrous carp lying in its weedy depths.
The towpath had long since vanished, the banks were overgrown and the only evidence remaining to show that this was a work of man not of nature was the Chilbeck Tunnel not far over the border into Mid-Yorkshire. Drilled through a low mound (which was in fact a Bronze Age barrow, a fact known only to the engineer who shored up the evidence behind his shiny brick walls without compunction rather than risk a delay in the completion of his contract) it ran for a distance of less than thirty yards, but its interior proved so attractive to small boys and others with troglodytic tendencies that the ends had been boarded up in the interests of public safety.
But nails rust and wood rots, and when two hardy Sunday anglers whose boast it was that not even the foulest January weather could keep them from their sport saw the skies darken and the rain come down at a rate beyond even their tolerance, they pulled aside a dislodged board and stepped into the tunnel for shelter.
When their eyes had adjusted to the gloom, one of them noticed a rope floating in the water. To an angler any line is an object of interest, particularly if one end dives steeply into the depths. Using his rod, he hooked the rope to the edge and began to haul it in.
After a while it stuck.
'Gie's a hand here,' he said to his friend.
And together they hauled at the rope.
Whatever was on the end of it was heavier even than a big carp.
And certainly heavier than a pair of trainers, which were the first things they saw breaking the surface.
Then another heave revealed that the trainers still contained feet, and the feet were attached to legs…
At this point one of them let go and the other made only a token effort to retain his grip. Heedless now of the rain they hurried out of the tunnel to ring the police.
An hour later, with several police cars and an ambulance pulsing their lights into the teeming rain on the road a hundred yards away, the body of what looked at first glance like a child was laid on the canal bank. The rope was bound tight around his ankles.
The police doctor declared what no one doubted, that death had taken place. Photo flashes lit up the scene both inside and outside the tunnel. Radios crackled.
Rain hissed.
Then a new sound was heard, the roar of a powerful motorbike engine being pressed hard.
It skidded to a stop on the wet road, the rider dismounting as it did so and letting the machine come to rest against a hedge. He pulled his helmet off and at the sight of his face the officers advancing to remonstrate fell back.
He pushed his way past them, slithered down the slope into the field and stumbled across the tussocky grass to the canal bank.
There he stood for a moment looking down at the small young face at his feet.
Then he moved through the broken board into the tunnel and a second later all work stopped as a cry like the rage of a wounded Minotaur came trailing out of the dark.
It was not till the following morning that Pascoe learned of the grim discovery. Sunday he'd spent down in Lincolnshire on a visit to Ellie's mother. He'd faxed in a digest of the official part of his Sheffield visit to the Fat Man and suggested they meet first thing on Monday morning to examine the implications. A trip into outer space wouldn't have prevented Dalziel from tracking him down if he'd wanted an earlier consult, but the discovery of the body had kept that great mind occupied.
'Definitely Lubanski,' said Dalziel. 'Dead for a couple of days at least. Being in the water makes it hard to be precise.'
'How'd he die?' asked Pascoe.
'Drowned. But there's evidence he took a beating first. After that it looks like someone tied the rope round his ankles and tossed him into the cut, then dragged him along a bit afore hauling him out. Several times maybe.'
Pascoe grimaced, then said, 'Asking questions, you reckon?'
'Could be.'
'So it could be they didn't mean to kill him, just went too far?'
'Or that they heard all they wanted to hear, so dropped him in and left him to drown. Either way, it's murder in my book.'
'Mine too. How's Wieldy taking it?'
'How do you bloody think?' snarled Dalziel. 'I just about had to tie him down to stop him heading straight off to kick the shit out of Belcher.'
'Doesn't sound such a bad idea,' said Pascoe.
'Oh aye? Old Mr Human-rights Pussyfoot has suddenly become an expert on kicking shit, has he? Well, I've got gold medals and, believe me, this isn't an option. Belchamber gets warned off, Wieldy gets locked up, how's that help anything?'
'If they made Lubanski talk, won't they be warned off anyway?'
'Depends. If all he knew was what he told Wieldy, that was fuck all, wasn't it? Any road, from what Wieldy said about the lad, I wonder if he told them owt, except maybe that Wieldy was a punter after his arse. Easy enough to credit. I don't doubt Belchamber knows Wield's gay. Gay cop in tight black leathers rides into Turk's with a rent boy in tow, what's the criminal mind to think but he's a bent cop in every way, using his clout to get freebies. No, I reckon that's the tale the lad would stick to.'
'You think someone like Lubanski was capable of that sort of resolution?'
'Someone like Lubanski? Hark at you, Chief Inspector. OK, if you won't give the little scrote credit for any noble feelings, how about self-interest? Some psycho's asking you if you've been grassing him up to the pigs. Tell him yes, and you're absolutely certain you're going to die. Keep telling him no, and perhaps, just perhaps, you'll make it. Didn't work out, that's all. Either the psycho miscalculated or he's a real psycho. Either way, it don't matter. Here's how we play it. For the papers, body found in the cut, identification difficult because of deterioration in the water, enquiries proceeding.'
'And Wieldy, is he going to play along?'
'He'd better. I sent for yon Digweed to take him home and keep him there for now, even if it means chaining him to the bed. Yon old fart's likely got the chains anyway.'
Did he actually say that to Digweed? Pascoe decided he didn't want to know and remarked, 'Wieldy won't be happy.'
'Don't want him happy. Just don't want him doing owt that'll make him look like anything but a bent cop shit scared 'cos this lad he's been forcing to give him freebies has turned up dead. That should
convince Belcher's boys that Lubanski's told us nowt.'
Pascoe considered then said, 'You've been persuaded that this idea that Belchamber's planning to heist the Elsecar Hoard's got legs, have you? You were a bit sceptical on Friday. My trip to Sheffield persuaded you, did it?'
Dalziel grinned.
'It helped, but it was the phone ringing with news of a definite ident on the body that did it. There's an upside to everything, Pete. Lubanski alive and feeding Wieldy with titbits because he liked to see him smile meant nowt. Lubanski tortured and dead means there's definitely something going off and most likely it's Belchy trying to get his hands on the Hoard. So God bless the lad, eh? But don't tell Wieldy I said that!'
Pascoe looked at his boss with a distaste he made no effort to disguise. From time to time he had tried to persuade Ellie that most of the Fat Man's callousness, not to mention his occasional racism, sexism, and general political incorrectness, was deliberately provocative rather than deep engrained.
'Or maybe it's a safety valve to help him deal with the crap, like a surgeon making bad jokes as he carves open a patient,' he theorized.
'Or maybe you thinking like that is your technique for stopping you kicking the fat bastard in the balls,' said Ellie.
'Probably break my foot if I did’ said Pascoe. But listening to the Fat Man now made him think it might be a risk worth taking.
On the other hand, his own reaction might have less to do with the natural sensitivity of his soul than with (a) guilt that his own attitude to Wield's relationship with the youth had been pretty ambivalent, and (b) the fact that he'd had a lousy night and was feeling a bit under the weather. It was two days since his trip to fluey Sheffield, just about the right incubation time, and he'd breakfasted on orange juice and some proprietary brand anti-flu capsules which consumer tests showed were less effective than simple aspirin, though costing six times as much, but in whose efficacy he had an almost superstitious trust.
Dalziel glowered back at him and said, 'What's up wi' thee? Ellie kick you out of bed last night?'
'I'm fine,' snapped Pascoe. 'By the way, am I ever going to get to hear what's going off in regard to that German journalist and Rye Pomona? Or is it a national security matter, for your eyes only?'
Death dap-20 Page 44
