Death's Jest-Book

by Reginald Hill

  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 tying.’

  ‘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:

  YOURS TILL TIME INTO ETERNITY FALLS OVER RUINED WORLDS

  He said, ‘Can I hang on to this?’

  She looked at him doubtfully.

  He said, ‘I’ll 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 …’

  ‘I 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 woma
n, 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 fingers 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.

  12

  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.