These two had known each other for a long time and had built up a mutually advantageous system of favour-exchanging over the years. It was based on a form of oblique questioning which allowed both to avoid too much damage to their professional consciences.
'If I was wanting to buy a house, who would you advise to use as an agent?'
'That would depend on what you had in mind.'
'Something pretty high-class, I think. You know me. Nowt squalid. What do you reckon to Lewis and Cowley?'
There was a long pause.
'I was sorry to hear what happened to Lewis,' said Noolan finally.
'Were you?'
'Yes. Nice family. They'll be hard pressed now.'
'There must be a good lot coming to them, surely,' said Dalziel, infusing surprise into his voice.
'They could be in trouble if they're relying on money from the firm,' said Noolan.
'Really? But there must be other things. That's a nice house. And there's their cottage in Scotland. Oh, she'll be all right, never fear, Willie. A businessman like Lewis looks after his dependants.'
'You may be right, Andy. Perhaps his assets are looked after somewhere else.'
'I see. Well, perhaps I'll stick in my own place for a bit. Cheers, Willie. See you at the club some night.'
So. As far as Willie Noolan knew (and on matters financial there was little that happened locally without Willie getting a sniff of it) Lewis and Cowley were in a bad way, a business crisis which overspilled into Lewis's private life. It would be easy to check Noolan's hints, but hardly necessary, he felt. The house must be heavily mortgaged, the cottage too, and from the sound of it, there might not be a lot of insurance cover there.
All in all, one ought to feel very sorry about Matthew Lewis. But there was something in all this which bothered him. Perhaps it was time James Cowley was confronted with the full majesty of a detective-superintendent instead of the lightweight threat of a sergeant.
Which reminded him of Pascoe whom he had not yet seen. He felt slightly guilty. The lad would probably have read about it in the newspapers now. Still, that was what life was all about. You opened a paper and read that someone you knew had died. Or was dying. Or was going to be killed.
And one day the name you read was your own.
There was a knock at the door and it was no surprise when Pascoe walked in.
'You've seen the papers, Sergeant?'
'Sir.'
'I'm sorry. If I'd known where you were last night, I'd have told you. But there's still no body been found.'
'No, sir.'
'Tell me, Sergeant, this friend of yours, would he write a suicide note in poetry?'
'What?'
'Poetry.'
'The note was in poetry?' Pascoe thought hard. 'I doubt it. . . well, no one would . . . but he might quote somebody else's. He was - is - a great lover of the apt quotation. You don't happen to know what the note said?'
'No, lad. Such things are not revealed lightly, even among policemen. Anyway, put it out of your mind. There's other work to be done. This Lewis business.'
Quickly he filled Pascoe in on the new information they had.
'Nothing gels,' he said in conclusion. 'It's all scrappy. I think you'll have to go and talk with Sturgeon if you can.'
'To Doncaster?'
'If it's inconvenient,' said Dalziel wearily, 'we could ask him to meet you half-way. He is after all merely a sixty-eight-year-old man, half dead after a car crash. He is also the only person who can confirm or deny what seems to be a nutty idea on the face of it - i.e. that he killed Lewis. If he did, I'd like his word on it before he snuffs it. So hurry.'
'Yes, sir,' said Pascoe without enthusiasm.
'How's his wife?' asked Dalziel.
'Still in hospital, but getting better. She was worried about the cats.'
'Hospitals,' said Dalziel gloomily. 'It's been a good week for the doctors. Off you go then, Sergeant. We might as well keep up the illusion of motion, though it's all running on the bloody spot. By the way, while you're at it, find out anything you can on the circumstances of Sturgeon's crash, will you? I'm beginning to have a feeling about this.'
'Me too, sir. But I'm not sure what.'
'Suicide after murder. It's not uncommon.'
'No, it's not,' said Pascoe flatly
'Oh, shit!' said Dalziel. 'I'm sorry. I keep forgetting ... look, just how concerned are you about this other business, Sergeant? How delicately do you want people to tread?'
'It bothers me,' admitted Pascoe. 'It's getting better but it's always there. And sometimes I feel this anger stirring inside. Such an anger that I could..’
He found he had clenched his fists and forced himself to relax. Why am I telling Dalziel this? he wondered. A fat old copper who thinks tears in a man are proofs incontrovertible of homosexual tendencies.
'Hold it in, lad,' advised Dalziel. 'One of these days it'll mebbe come in handy. By the way, I forgot. We never asked Lauder if he knew anything about Lewis. Give him a ring before you set off for sunny Doncaster.'
He said I forgot, noted Pascoe. Coming from Dalziel this was a kind of sympathy.
'You've been worried, have you, Andy?' asked Dr Grainger. 'That's good. I hoped you might be.'
'Hoped?'
'That's it. I bet your fertile imagination's run through every disease known to man and invented a few more besides. Well, you'll be pleased to know you've got none of them.'
'None? You mean there's nothing wrong with me?' growled Dalziel, beginning to bristle with anger.
'Don't sound so disappointed. Anyway, you're far from perfect, I assure you. That's why a bit of good honest fear might be a help. Let me list your faults. You smoke too much, you drink too much and you eat too much. In addition you try to interrupt your doctor. You wanted bad news. I'll give it to you. You follow my advice or within a twelvemonth, two years at the most, I reckon you'll be laid low, perhaps permanently, by one or more of half a dozen complaints.'
'Such as?' said Dalziel almost humbly.
'You name it. High blood pressure, bronchitis, cirrhosis, thrombosis.'
'God Almighty!' said Dalziel disbelievingly. 'I can't have them all!'
'Believe me,' said Grainger, 'we all have them all. Only some people have them more than others. I've made out a diet sheet for you. You'll need to drop at least a stone, to start with. It'll be difficult for you, especially without the comfort of tobacco and alcohol, so I'm giving you a prescription for a mild tranquillizer, just so you don't become too unbearable to yourself and others. OK?'
'OK,' said Dalziel helplessly. 'You're a bloody sadist though.'
'Do as I say and you may yet live to dance lightly on my grave.'
'One thing before I go,' said Dalziel, looking with distaste and disbelief at the diet sheet he held. 'You're on the committee at the Liberal Club aren't you?'
'That's right. You're not going to join after all this time?'
'I'm not that sick,' grunted Dalziel scornfully. 'No, it's just that a couple of your members have come my way lately.'
'Matt Lewis and Edgar Sturgeon, you mean? Tragic, tragic. Everyone at the club's desolated.'
'Were they very friendly? With each other, I mean.'
'Not particularly. Though I've seen them together once or twice since Edgar retired.'
'I see. Any word on either of them round the snooker table?'
'Pardon?'
'Come on!' said Dalziel. 'I know clubs. Any little titbits of gossip, scandal, you know?'
'I'm your doctor, Andy, not one of your snouts!' said Grainger indignantly.
'All right. No harm in asking, I've got some right surely after this!'
He waved the diet sheet violently in the air.
'You think so? All right then. I shall deny having said it but, in confidence, the word was that Lewis was a very sharp man on a business deal.'
'You mean a crook?'
'I mean he worked on a large profit margin in everything he did.'
<
br /> 'Oh aye. Suppose I told you he was financially in Queer Street when he died?'
Grainger nodded, unsurprised.
'Why not? The trouble with being a crook in a place like this is, it gets known. That little firm has always gone in for the "class" stuff - none of your suburban semis. So the people interested in the kind of property market Lewis and Cowley catered for are the same people who'd have heard the rumours. Businessmen, the aristocracy of brass. So a spiral starts. Less business for the firm, and then still less business because everybody knows they're doing less business! Add to this the rate at which Lewis could spend money.'
'What on?'
'Dear me, Andy, what do your underlings do nowadays? He's a lover of the good life, or was. Wine, women and song. So they tell me, I hasten to add. I have never been involved in any of his excesses.'
'Don't sound so regretful,' said Dalziel, rising and making for the door. 'And Sturgeon?'
'Pleasant chap. Self-made man, rose from having nothing to owning a nice little timber business. His wife talked him into selling up and retiring I believe; he didn't want to sit back and do nothing, you know what these blasted Yorkshiremen are like!'
'None better. Thanks. I must be off. You'll send me a bill?'
'Too bloody true,' said Grainger, picking up the diet sheet which Dalziel had replaced on the desk. 'And pay it quick if you're leaving this behind you. I don't want all the trouble of making claims against your estate.'
'Oh, give it here!' said Dalziel, taking the paper and thrusting it carelessly into his jacket pocket. 'Don't do too many illegal operations. Cheers.'
He left noisily. Grainger shook his head, smiling. But there was a shadow of worry in his eyes.
Chapter 8
Pascoe seemed to have spent the entire morning on the telephone, preserving a steady balance between official and unofficial business. First call was to Sergeant Lauder of Lochart who recognized his voice instantly.
'It's nice to hear from you again, Sergeant Pascoe,' he said. 'The day isna' complete without it.'
'Should auld acquaintance and all that,' said Pascoe. 'This time it's a man called Lewis, Matthew Lewis. He had a cottage somewhere near Lochart, I believe. Now why was I just pondering that?' inquired Pascoe.
'Because I am by the way of being a distruster of coincidence, Sergeant, and when I have to tell a woman called Mrs Lewis who has a week-end cottage in Lochart that her husband had been murdered, and when my colleagues in Yorkshire start ringing me up twice or thrice a day, why then I suspect a connection.'
'I hope this means you've anticipated my inquiries.'
'Perhaps so. The man Lewis has been coming here for nearly three years now. Week-ends and longer in the summer. He keeps himself to himself as far as the locals are concerned. He's usually with his wife and family.'
'Usually?' asked Pascoe, alert.
'Aye. But there have been others. Men and women. Such things are noticed. One other woman in particular.'
Dirty old Lewis, thought Pascoe.
'Anything else?'
'Nothing much. Some people in the village are looking after their dog. Mrs Lewis just wanted to get home as quickly as possible that night, you'll understand. Perhaps you might inquire about returning the beastie.'
'I will. Many thanks, Sergeant.'
'Just one more thing. Since you were so interested in this man, Atkinson, who stayed at the hotel, I went back through the hotel register just to see if anything else struck me. I made a note of one or two names, people with addresses from your part of the world who'd stayed there this summer. Would you be interested?'
'I certainly would.'
The list was not very long. Only one name was notable and Pascoe was less than surprised. Mr and Mrs E. Sturgeon. He checked the dates. They had been there for three nights early in the summer; clearly the holiday during which their house had been burgled.
'Thanks, Sergeant,' he said. 'I've no doubt we'll be in touch again.'
Doncaster Royal Infirmary was next on his list. Sturgeon's condition was unchanged. It was impossible to say whether or not a visit would be worthwhile - The tone used here was clearly disapproving. But they had never heard Dalziel's disapproval, thought Pascoe as he replaced the receiver. He would have to go.
Finally he contacted the garage to determine the results of the examination of Sturgeon's car.
He thought of this some time later as he drove by the scene of the crash. Not that there was anything to see. Sturgeon's car had, of course, been lifted away, and at Pascoe's speed, a broken hedge and ploughed-up grass were hard to spot.
The car was being closely examined, and according to the reports which he had got via the telephone, there seemed to be little reason for the crash. Tyres were all OK and the steering was absolutely sound. No evidence had yet been discovered of mechanical failure. The full report might show otherwise, but Pascoe's uneasy feeling was getting worse.
The doctor he spoke to confirmed it. So far as they could tell there had been no physical explanation of the crash in Sturgeon himself. All damage had clearly stemmed from the accident, not contributed to it.
'What are his chances?' asked Pascoe.
'Pretty slim, I'd say,' answered the doctor. 'He was badly knocked about, lost a lot of blood. But it's not just that. He doesn't seem to have the least interest in staying alive.'
'How can you say that?' protested Pascoe. 'He's only been here twenty-four hours. You can't expect much joy and laughter after what he's been through.'
'Listen,' said the doctor, 'I won't arrest any motorists if you don't make diagnoses. All right? And I'll tell you this. If it wasn't for the fact that I believe he might well be dead before morning, you wouldn't be going to see him now.'
What there was to see of Sturgeon's face confirmed the doctor's words. It was deadly pale and pinched-looking, as though the blood had been squeezed out of it by force. His eyes miraculously had escaped the onslaught of shivered glass which had gashed his scalp and brow as he pitched forward into the windscreen. But the flicker of recognition as they stared up at Pascoe was a mere movement on the surface of despair.
It was no time for social exordia.
'Mr Sturgeon, I rang Lochart,' said Pascoe deliberately. 'The constable there says there's no one called Archie Selkirk in the district.'
There was no response.
'He told me you'd phoned as well. What did you want with this man, Selkirk?'
Sturgeon closed his eyes, but he was still listening.
'What about John Atkinson then?' asked Pascoe. 'What's your connection with him? Do you know James Cowley? Did you know Matthew Lewis?'
The eyelids perceptibly pressed down more tightly on the eyes. This was getting them nowhere. A passing nurse pushed the door open, peered assessingly at Pascoe, and went on her way.
'Listen, Edgar,' urged Pascoe leaning closer, 'this is doing you no good. I want to help. You wanted me to help. Just tell me what it's all about and I'll try to sort things out. Is it something to do with the robbery? Your stamps?'
Still nothing. It was difficult to know where to go from here. The man was in no state to withstand the kind of shock being questioned about a murder could give him. Pascoe could hardly believe that a man like Sturgeon could have had the will or the strength to kill Lewis, but his innocence would possibly just increase the shock.
'All right, Edgar. I'm going now,' he said to the closed eyes. 'I'll come again.'
He rose to leave. The eyes opened.
'Mavis?' whispered Sturgeon.
'Mavis? Yes, I've been to see her.'
'To see?' Sturgeon was puzzled. Of course, he doesn't know she's in hospital as well, thought Pascoe. He's wondering why it's me standing here, not her.
'I'll tell her,' he said reassuringly, eager to get out now.
'Let her come. I want to explain.'
The words were almost inaudible. The door opened and the doctor and nurse appeared. Pascoe ignored them.
'Explain what, Edgar?'<
br />
'I can see you've cheered him up,' said the doctor. 'What's he said?'
'He was asking for his wife.'
'His wife? For God's sake man, you didn't tell him she was in hospital too, did you?'
'Hospital? Mavis in hospital?'
There was nothing inaudible about Sturgeon now.
'No, but you did,' Pascoe answered the doctor. 'Listen, Edgar, it's all right, she'll be all right. She was just upset when she heard about your accident, that's all. You get better, she'll get better, it's as simple as that.'
Sturgeon stared up at him, his eyes alive with feeling now.
'Damn them,' he said. 'Damn them to buggery! Damn them!'
'Who, Edgar? Who?' said Pascoe, feeling it should be 'whom?' Sturgeon ignored him. He took two or three deep breaths.
'How am I, Doctor?' he asked feebly. 'Will I mend?'
'Certainly, old man. With care you could be your old self in a couple of months.' He sounded very convincing.
'Right,’ said Sturgeon. 'I want a word with Sergeant Pascoe now.'
The doctor looked down at him dubiously for a moment, but whatever he saw in the old man's face seemed to satisfy him.
'Five minutes,' he said. 'That's all.'
Sturgeon was talking before the doctor and nurse had left the room. His voice was low and shaky, but he spoke fast, like a man in a great hurry. Pascoe asked no questions, did not interrupt at all. After ten minutes the nurse returned and angrily chased him.
He met the doctor outside.
'Any use?' the man asked cheerfully.
'I think so. What about him?'
He looked backwards to the now completely still figure in the bed.
'Well, I'd say you've either killed or cured him, wouldn't you? Time will tell. We'll let you know.'
It was with relief that Pascoe had stepped out into the dingy sunshine of a Doncaster day and made his way to a phone box. He could have begged the use of one in the infirmary, but it had seemed important to get out into the open as quickly as possible. Even spacious, modern, well-equipped hospitals could deafen the mind with imagined screamings of pain and despair.
Dalziel listened with interest to what he told him. He sounded unsurprised.
Dalziel 03 Ruling Passion Page 15
