Death's Jest-Book

by Reginald Hill

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Let me spell it out. Sam and Jake were lovers. That got right up your nose. You alone wanted to be Sam’s best boy. You chummed up with Jake and waited your chance to break up the relationship. Maybe you even encouraged the boy to believe that his closeness to Sam put him above the uni’s normal academic demands. Whatever, it finally came about that the Academic Board forced Sam to wield the big whip and tell Jake, either this course work gets done or you’re out. Mission accomplished, you must have thought, except that either it seemed possible Jake might indeed get the work done, or you simply didn’t trust Sam not to give him a bunk-up with his grades. So, under pretence of helping Jake out, you sit in his room the night before the deadline, feeding him uppers to keep him mentally right on top of things, only God knows what else you slip in there till finally the boy collapses. Plenty of choice, him being a pedlar in a small way. Then you slip away. Only you made two mistakes, Franny. One, you were seen by a witness who can positively identify you. Two, you couldn’t resist taking his drug stash and, more tellingly, this love token, which it must have torn your guts to see Jake flashing around.’

  He held up the watch.

  He didn’t expect Roote to start like a guilty thing surprised, but the youth was full of surprises. His face crumpled and tears came to his eyes as he looked at the watch. Could this at last be confession time? Pascoe asked himself.

  The security man’s radio crackled. He lifted it to his mouth, pressed the Send button, and said, ‘Yes, over.’

  Then he listened.

  Wield couldn’t make out the words but he didn’t need to. Body language told all.

  The security man took a step back from the Presidium men.

  The radio was still pouring urgent words into his ear.

  Don’t be a hero, urged Wield, letting the bike move gently forward.

  The man pressed the Send button and began to speak.

  The taller of the other men reached into the cab of the pantechnicon. When he straightened up, he had something in his hands.

  Wield, because he had that kind of mind, identified it even from this distance as a Mossberg 500 ATP8C shotgun.

  He sent the Thunderbird raging forward.

  The big man pushed between the Praesidium pair, pointed the gun at the security man, and fired.

  The man staggered back drunkenly, took a few steps sideways, then collapsed.

  Wield had to swerve to avoid his body and felt the machine going from under him. His loss of control probably saved his life. The big man had swung the gun to cover his approach and now he fired again. Wield heard shot pellets ricocheting off concrete, felt a spatter of them bed themselves into his leathers. One of the Praesidium men was yelling angrily, but his words were drowned by the noise of a fast-approaching siren. At the same time, several more security men came racing down the ramp.

  Wield hadn’t stopped rolling till he fetched up against the front wheel of the van. He came to his feet in a single movement and scrambled through the open door, pulling it shut behind him as the next shot ploughed into the armour-plated side. The key was in the ignition. He turned it on, pressed on the accelerator and swung the wheel over hard, swinging the vehicle round till it crashed into the front of the pantechnicon.

  ‘Get out of that if you can,’ he mouthed at the big man, who sent another ball of shot crashing into the van’s window, which bulged and crazed but didn’t give.

  A police van was coming fast up the slip road.

  The heisters seemed uncertain what to do, all except the big man, who had seized the crate from the back of the pantechnicon and was now dragging it, screaming at the others for help, into the loading bay, heading towards the service lift.

  The others began to follow him. Police officers and security men began to run forward. One-handed, the big man sent a shot towards them. It didn’t find a target, but it was enough to discourage heroics and send the pursuers diving for cover.

  The four fugitives and the crate disappeared into the lift and the doors closed.

  Up above, aware of the sound of police sirens but happily ignorant of the drama going on beneath her feet, Ellie Pascoe grimaced as Suzie’s mum, the founder of the feast, acknowledged that the partygoers had eaten as much as they could contain. Next on the agenda was the Punch and Judy show, a sore test of political correctness but a good way of channelling the little buggers’ newly refreshed energies and aggressions.

  Leaving the other mums to get the kids into a rough kind of line, Ellie went outside to summon Rosie and her friend. Little Mary came instantly, but Rosie yelled, ‘Just one more go,’ and vanished into the Dragon. The sound of sirens was nearer, coming from all sides. Along the walkway beyond the play area, Ellie saw four men running, two of them in some kind of uniform. One of the uniformed men and a short square man in overalls were carrying a crate between them. The other uniformed man was jogging alongside another man in overalls who was huge and carried something in his right hand.

  It looked like a gun.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ said Ellie. Then she screamed, ‘Rosie!’

  Her daughter had appeared on top of the dragon. She waved at her mother and launched herself down the switchback neck. The beast roared, the crimson smoke belched, Rosie vanished into it and, when she reappeared through the fumes, she was caught up under the big man’s left arm.

  ‘Mum!’ yelled the little girl.

  Ellie began to run forward. Their paths must intersect. The gun began to wave in her direction but she knew it didn’t matter. It would take more than a gun to stop her now.

  But before her suicidal bravado could be put to the test, there was the sound of a siren behind her and a police car came round the side of the Jumbo Burger Bar.

  The fleeing men changed direction, now heading away from the play area towards the crowded commercial shopping area of Estotiland.

  Ellie went in pursuit, but as they disappeared through a sliding glass door, she felt herself seized from behind.

  She turned on her captor, swinging her fists, but stopped struggling when she saw the unmistakable features of Edgar Wield.

  ‘They’ve got Rosie,’ she sobbed.

  ‘It’ll be OK, Ellie,’ he said urgently. ‘There’s nowhere for them to go.’

  She wanted to believe him, she wanted to run after her daughter, she wanted … above all – fuck feminism – she wanted her husband.

  ‘Wieldy,’ she said. ‘Get Peter, for me. Please. Get Peter!’

  It’s funny,’ said Roote. ‘You know where the quotation comes from?’

  ‘Death’s Jest-Book,’ said Pascoe. ‘What’s so funny about that?’

  ‘Just the context. A message of love from Sam. But if you look at the context of the quote, we’re back with that tragic irony you were talking about, Mr Pascoe. Here it is.’

  He took down the other volume of Beddoes’ works and opened it at a page which was marked by what looked like a sheet of writing paper.

  He said, ‘Athulf, the Duke’s son, is talking to his brother, Adalmar. He says “I have drunk myself immortal.” His brother replies, “You are poisoned?” And Athulf says,

  I am blessed, Adalmar. I’ve done’t myself,

  ’Tis nearly passed, for I begin to hear

  Strange but sweet sounds, and the loud rocky dashing

  Of waves, where time into Eternity

  Falls over ruined worlds.

  Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not here to discuss aesthetics,’ said Pascoe wearily. ‘If you’ve got a point, make it, then I’ll arrest you.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. My point is … I think you’d better read this, Mr Pascoe.’

  He removed the bookmark and handed it over.

  Pascoe now saw that it was indeed a sheet of writing paper which was enclosed in a piece of transparent plastic through which he could see writing.

  He looked up at Roote, who nodded encouragingly. And sympathetically.

  Don’t read this
, Pascoe told himself. It’s another spell this evil sorcerer is laying on you. Take him in, hand him over to Fat Andy, the Witchfinder General!

  But even as he told himself not to read, his eyes were taking in the scrawled words.

  Darling Sam its all too much its not just the work though thats more than I can get through without the help you promised me its what you said to me I thought you loved me more than that Im looking at the watch you gave me as I write well my worlds really broken now why did you do this to me youve been carrying me for two years now you always said that as long as you were around I didnt need to worry about grades or anything whats changed Sam except that you stopped loving me or maybe all I ever was to you was an easy way of getting your gear theres no other explanation and I cant bear it I wont bear it Jake

  ‘What’s this supposed to be?’ said Pascoe, trying for mocking scepticism and failing. In any case Roote looked beyond reach of such weak weapons as he began talking in a rapid low drone, as if returning somewhere he didn’t want to be and wanting out fast.

  ‘I was round at Sam’s that night, it was supposed to be a review session on my thesis but he wasn’t in any state to review anything except his own psyche. He drank and rambled about Jake and what he meant to him. There are plenty of nasty people around in the academic world, Mr Pascoe, and when it became known that Jake’s assessment work was way behind schedule, it was made clear to Sam that this new deadline was absolute and unextendable, and if there were the slightest hint that Sam had been offering any special assistance, either by way of writing the assignments or grading them, it wouldn’t just be Jake’s head on the block. So he’d given him a real talking to and tried to shock him into a realization that he had to find his own salvation. Now he was beginning to feel he’d gone too far. You should never talk to someone you loved like that. He wanted to go round and see Frobisher and apologize. What did a stupid degree matter anyway? They could set up house together, Jake could act as his research assistant, happiness ever after was still a possibility, lots of maudlin crap like that.’

  ‘I can see how it would have touched your heart,’ said Pascoe sarcastically.

  ‘I’m not pretending I was sorry to see the relationship heading for the rocks,’ said Roote. ‘I stopped him going out, he kept on drinking and in the end I put him to bed about midnight. Then the phone started ringing. I answered it. It was Frobisher. He just assumed I was Sam and started off with all these incoherent ramblings. I remember thinking, Christ, I just get shot of one self-absorbed monologue, and now I’m right into another. Then what Jake was actually saying began to get through. He’d taken something, lots of things from the sound of it. My first reaction was, good riddance! I’m not proud of it, but there you go. Finally he stopped speaking, and then I got to thinking what this really meant. And I knew I had to go round there.’

  ‘To make sure he’d done the job properly?’ said Pascoe.

  Roote smiled wanly but ignored the crack.

  ‘I got round there, found his door unlocked and him lying on the floor. He was dead.’

  ‘Well, that was handy.’

  ‘It was disastrous,’ said Roote coldly, ‘I found this note. I knew that Jake’s suicide would devastate Sam. Plus the knives were out for him in the university, and the reference to Frobisher supplying him with dope would finish him professionally. So I had to do whatever I could to tidy things up. I sat Jake at his table and dug out all his unfinished work and set it round him, making it look like he’d been really trying to get it into shape. Then I put the jug and glass by his hand. I put some pill bottles there too, empty of everything except a few uppers. I checked I’d done everything I could to make it look accidental, and left. I took the note for obvious reasons, and the watch because I didn’t want some smart cop making connections with Sam, and the drug stash to stop awkward questions being asked around the house. The rest you know.’

  Pascoe sat in silence for a long while. Once more it seemed he was cast as Tantulus; the closer to the prize he came, the more bitter the pain of seeing it snatched away.

  He said, ‘And you kept the note because … ?’

  ‘Because if it ever emerged that I had been there that night, I needed something to back up my story. You can check it’s Frobisher’s handwriting, and of course it’ll have his fingerprints all over it. As I’m sure you’d agree, Mr Pascoe, without it, I might have a problem persuading some people that all I did was help a friend in need.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Pascoe, looking at the note thoughtfully.

  Roote smiled.

  ‘Another man, Mr Dalziel, say, might be tempted to lose this note. Or burn it.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m so different?’

  Roote didn’t reply but took the note from Pascoe’s unresisting fingers and removed it from its plastic cover. Then he rifled through the contents of a desk drawer which Pascoe had deposited on the carpet, came up with a cigarette lighter and flicked on the flame.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Pascoe unnecessarily. He knew what was going to happen but he had no strength to stop it.

  ‘Just clearing up,’ said Roote.

  He held the flame beneath the paper till it shrivelled up and fell away in ashes.

  ‘There,’ said Roote. ‘Now you can proceed without any risk of contradiction, Mr Pascoe. If you are so convinced of my guilt, the way is clear. You’ve proof I was there. I admit I interfered with the scene. As for the rest, it’s just the word of a convicted felon. Sounds like you’ve got a pretty good case. Shall we go down to the station now?’

  It’s always me being judged, me being tested, thought Pascoe desperately. Shall I call his bluff, if it is a bluff? Could be the real reason he burnt that note is that now no one can ever check the writing and the prints. Could be he wrote it himself against this eventuality, and now I’m the only living person who can vouch that it ever existed!

  His head felt muzzy and heavy. He should still be in bed. He was in no state to be making this kind of decision. What to do? What to do?

  Somewhere a phone rang.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ he demanded.

  ‘I think,’ said Roote, ‘it’s yours.’

  Pascoe reached into his pocket and took out his mobile.

  He didn’t want to talk to anybody, but anybody was better than talking to Roote.

  ‘Yes,’ he croaked.

  ‘Pete, that you?’ said Wield’s voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Pete, I’m at Estotiland. We’ve got a bad situation here.’

  Pascoe listened. After a while his legs gave way and he sat down heavily. Questions crowded his mind but he couldn’t find the words for them.

  He said, ‘I’m coming.’

  With difficulty he stood up.

  Roote looked with alarm at his colourless face and said, ‘Mr Pascoe, are you ill?’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Go where? Please, sit down, I’ll call a doctor.’

  ‘I’ve got to go to Estotiland. My daughter …’

  He began to move to the door like a man walking on Saturn.

  ‘You can’t drive,’ said Roote. ‘Not without your car keys anyway.’

  He picked up Pascoe’s discarded jacket, felt in the pockets, produced the keys.

  ‘Give them here,’ snarled Pascoe.

  ‘No way,’ said Roote. ‘You’ll kill yourself. Tell you what, though, I’ll drive you. Deal? Come on, Mr Pascoe. You know I’m right.’

  ‘You always are, Franny, that’s your problem,’ said Pascoe, not resisting. ‘You always fucking are.’

  Roote drove as Pascoe, if he’d been in a state to notice, would have expected him to drive. Smoothly, efficiently, never taking obvious risks, but always first away at lights, slipping into the narrowest of gaps at intersections, overtaking slower vehicles at the earliest opportunity, so that they were out of town and hurtling down the road to Estotiland in the shortest time possible.

  As he drove he asked q
uestions. Pascoe, using all his will to hold himself together mentally and physically, had none left over to resist interrogation and answered automatically. The whole story unfolded. Only once did Roote make any attempt at conventional reassurance and that was when Polchard was mentioned.

  ‘Mate?’ he said. ‘Then there’s nothing to worry about. Necessary violence only. He’ll know there’s no benefit in hurting your daughter.’

  ‘Where was the benefit in drowning Lee Lubanski?’ replied Pascoe dully. ‘He did it all the same.’

  As they approached the Complex, Roote said, ‘Looks like wall-to-wall fuzz ahead. You got one of those noddy lights? Else we’re going to take forever getting through.’

  Pascoe reached in the back and found the lamp. He hadn’t used it since that morning he’d raced along the bus lane to get Rosie to her clarinet lesson on time, the same morning he’d had his apparent vision of Roote.

  Even with the lamp flashing, a couple of cops seemed inclined to check their progress but rapidly hopped aside as Roote wove his way through the scatter of cars with undiminished speed.

  ‘We’ve got to find out where to go,’ said Pascoe, reaching for his phone.

  ‘It’s all right. I’m following Mr Dalziel.’

  Pascoe had been aware of a car ahead of them, but now for the first time he realized who was in it.

  As he watched, it skidded to a stop by a side door in the structure holding the main shopping mall. The Fat Man got out and headed inside. Pascoe reached over and leaned on the horn. Dalziel paused, looked round, then waited for them to get out and join him. His gaze touched curiously on Roote but his main concern was for Pascoe.

  ‘Pete, you look like shit. But I’m glad you’re here for Ellie’s sake. No change as far as I can make out. Let’s get inside and check.’

  They went inside. A few steps behind, Roote followed.

  They climbed a flight of stairs till they reached a door marked SECURITY – NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT PASS. A uniformed constable stood outside. For a moment he looked inclined to hinder their progress, but one look at Dalziel’s face changed his mind.