Dialogues of the Dead

by Reginald Hill

  20^ 'Then perhaps you should listen when I say that Roote's not crying murder without a reason.' 'Double bluff, you mean? Because he did it? Nay, I'll give you he may be feeling guilty, but there's all kinds of guilt. What if him and Johnson had got a thing going . ..' 'A thing?' 'Aye. A thing. Buggering around with each other. I were trying to save your blushes. That Sunday they go to the flat for a quick bang then have a tiff. Roote flounces out. Johnson thinks he'll be back any minute and settles down with his book and a coffee, then this dicky ticker you told me about reacts to all the excitement of the row and whatever else they'd been getting up to, and he snuffs it.' The preliminary medical examination hadn't got any further than suggesting heart failure as the cause of death. The examiner reckoned that Johnson had been dead at least two days which took them back to Sunday when Roote was the last person to admit to seeing him alive. The full post mortem examination would take place the following morning. Roote's prints were on the glass by the other armchair but not on the coffee mug or whisky bottle which had been sent to the police lab for further examination and analysis. 'Meanwhile Roote's really taken the huff,' continued Dalziel. 'He doesn't go back, reckoning that Johnson will come running after him some time in the next couple of days. When he doesn't, Roote starts to get worried, and naturally when he sees him dead, he doesn't want to blame himself so he cries murder. What do you think?' I think, thought Pascoe, you're feeling the pressure, Andy, and you'd kill someone if it meant not having another murder on your patch. 'I think if there was much more assumption in what you're saying, they'd make this a feast day,' he said forcefully. 'For a start, Sam's heart problem wasn't life-threatening. And what makes you think either of them's gay?' 'Well, blind man on a galloping horse can see there's summat very odd about Roote. Bit of a swordsman back in yon college, by all accounts, but it didn't stop him getting tangled up with that lecturer who died, the one who topped himself. Funny, now I think back, weren't he called Sam too? Which brings us to this Johnson, I only met him the once at yon preview, but he's another of your arty-farty intellectuals, isn't he?' 'For God's sake!' exclaimed Pascoe. 'Is that the mil menu, then? Big slice of guesswork topped up with prejudice?' 'I'll let you be the judge of that, Pete,' said Dalziel. 'I mean, I'm no lover of Franny Roote, but it seems to me you can't look at the guy without wanting to blame him for everything in sight. That's what I call prejudice.' Feeling he had been set up, Pascoe said stubbornly, 'All right, I've got no evidence that Roote's directly involved in this. But one thing I know for certain, Roote's not crying murder because he feels guilty. That bastard never felt guilty about anything in his life!' 'First time for everything, lad,' said Dalziel genially. 'I might start putting Ribena in my whisky. Who the hell's that?' The phone had rung. He picked it up and bellowed, 'What?' As he listened, he looked increasing less genial. 'Fucking champion,' he said banging the receiver down. 'They've traced Johnson's next of kin.' Following usual procedure in suspicious deaths, the police had checked to see if anyone profited. They found Sam Johnson had died intestate, which meant his next of kin got what little he had to leave. Pascoe recalled Ellie asking the lecturer about his family when he came to dinner. He had replied tipsily, 'Like Cinderella, I am an orphan, but I am fortunate in having only one ugly step-sister to avoid,' then refused, with a pantomimic shudder, to be drawn further. 'The step-sister, is it?' said Pascoe. 'So?' 'So you know who she turns out to be? Only Linda Lupin, MEP. Loopy bloody Linda!' 'You're kidding? No wonder he didn't want to talk about her!' Linda Lupin was to the European Parliament what Stutter Steel had been to Mid-Yorkshire Council, a thorn in the flesh and a pain in the ass. So right wing she occasionally even managed to embarrass William Hague, she never missed a chance to trumpet financial mismanagement or creeping socialism. A lousy linguist, she could nevertheless cry / accuse! in twelve languages. Deeply religious in an alternative Anglican kind of way, and passionately

  20J opposed to women priests, Loopy Linda, as even the Tory tabloids called her, was not the kind of relative a trendy left-wing academic would care to admit to. And she was certainly not the kind of crime victim's next of kin an investigator under pressure wanted knocking at his door. 'As if things weren't bad enough with Desperate Clan and all the tabloids on my back,' groaned Dalziel, 'now I'm going to have Loopy Linda sitting on my face.' Pascoe tried turning the words into a picture but its grotesqueries required a Cruikshank or a Scarfe. But at least the entrance of Loopy Linda on the scene had the good effect of ending the Fat Man's brief flirtation with the role of Wise Old Sensible Cop. 'Right, Pete, I'm converted,' he declared, pushing himself to his feet. 'Whatever that bastard Roote's guilty of, let's start pulling out his fingernails till he confesses!' But this pleasant prospect had to be postponed till the following day as, whatever Roote's real state of mind, he had convinced the medics that he was too distraught to be questioned.

  There was no doubt about the genuineness of Ellie Pascoe's distraction when she heard the news ofjohnson's death. She went out into the garden where, despite the chill evening air, she stood unmoving under the skeletal ornamental cherry tree for almost half an hour. Her rangily athletic frame seemed somehow to have lost its old elasticity and Pascoe, watching through the trench window was shocked to find himself for the first time thinking of that lithe body he knew so well as frail. Rosie, his young daughter, came to his side and asked, 'What's Mum doing?' 'Nothing. She just wants to be alone for a bit,' said Pascoe lightly, concerned not to let adult distress spill over into the child's world, but Rosie seemed to take this desire for solitude as entirely natural and said, 'I expect she'll come in if it starts raining,' then went off in search of her beloved dog. 'Sorry,' said Ellie when she returned. 'I just had to get my head round it. Not that I have. Oh God, poor Sam. Coming here to make a new start, then this . ..' 'New start?' said Pascoe. 'Yes. It was pretty much a sideways move, you know. He'd had ... a loss back in Sheffield, it seems, and just wanted to get away, and this job came up unexpectedly, so he applied, got it, then took off abroad for the summer. That's how they landed him with this creative writing thing. That should really have been a separate post but he wasn't in a state to argue and naturally the bastards took advantage .. .' 'Hang on,' said Pascoe. 'This loss . .. you never said anything about this and I never heard Sam mention it.' The neither,' admitted Ellie. 'It was just gossip, you know what they're like at the Uni, bunch of old women ...' On another occasion this combination of ageism and sexism from such a doughty defender of human rights might have cued mock-outrage, but not now. 'In other words, your old SCR chums filled you in on Sam's background? Or at least the gossip,' said Pascoe. 'That's right. Gossip. Which was why I never said anything to you. I mean, it was Sam's business. It seems that in Sheffield there was some student Sam got very close to, and he had some kind of accident, and he died . ..' 'He?' 'Yes. So I understand.' 'Sam Johnson was gay?' 'I doubt it. Bisexual maybe. Worried about playing squash with him? Sorry, love, that was a stupid thing to say.' 'It was a stupid thing to do, certainly,' said Pascoe. 'This accident, what do the old women say about it, was it something Sam could have blamed himself for?' 'I've no idea,' said Ellie. 'I didn't encourage anybody to go into detail. Peter, you said you weren't sure yet exactly how Sam died, so what are you getting at?' 'Nothing. There's a lot of possibilities ... and with Roote being involved . ..' Ellie shook her head angrily. 'Look, I know it's your job, but I'm not ready yet to start thinking of Sam's death as a case. He's gone, he's gone, it doesn't matter how. But just one thing, Pete, every time Franny Roote comes up, you start twitching like a dog that's seen a rabbit.

  207 Remember what happened last time. Maybe you ought to tread very carefully.' 'Good advice,' said Pascoe. But he was thinking, not a rabbit. A stoat.

  Next morning Roote came in voluntarily, as insistent as ever that Johnson must have been murdered and demanding to know what they were doing about it. Pascoe took him into an interview room to calm him down, but while he was waiting for Dalziel to join them, Bowler appeared to tell him the super w
anted a word. 'Sit with him,' said Pascoe. 'And be careful. If he wants to talk, fine. But you keep your mouth shut.' He could see he'd offended the young DC but he didn't care. Upstairs he found the Fat Man perusing copies of the post mortem report and the lab analysis. 'Case is altered,' he said. 'Take a look at these.' Pascoe read the reports quickly and felt both sick and triumphant.

  Johnson had died of heart failure. Not long before death he had eaten a chicken sandwich and a chocolate bar and drunk coffee and substantial quantities of whisky. But most significant from the police point of view was the discovery in his system of traces of a sedative drug called Midazolam used as an anaesthetic in minor surgery, especially of children. Combined with alcohol, it became life-threatening, and this combination taken by someone with Johnson's heart condition was likely to prove fatal unless antidotal measures were taken quickly. The drug was present in large quantities in the whisky bottle and there were traces in the coffee cup, but none in the glass with Roote's prints nor in the cafetiere. 'We've got the bastard!' exulted Pascoe. But far from confirming the Fat Man's conversion to the DCI's side of the argument, the news seemed to have reawakened all his doubts. 'Give it a rest, Pete. It means we've got nowt.' 'What do you mean? Now we know it's murder. At the very least, it puts the kibosh on your theory. See, no evidence of recent sexual activity.' 'So they never got round to it. But nowt to say that the rest doesn't hold, except that Johnson expected Roote to come back a lot sooner, within the hour, say, and he took a dose of this drug so he'd be passed out, just to give his boyfriend a fright.' 'Oh yes? And what's Johnson doing with Midazolam in his medicine cabinet? You don't get that on prescription.' 'What's Roote doing with it then?' 'He worked in a hospital in Sheffield, remember?' said Pascoe. 'And he's just the kind of creepy bastard who'd help himself to something like that just in case it came in useful one day.' 'Hardly evidence,' said Dalziel. 'Right, let's go talk to the lad. But we'll go easy.' 'Thought we were going to pull his nails out?' said Pascoe sulkily. 'We're going to take a witness statement, that's all,' said the Fat Man seriously. 'Remember that or stay away.' Pascoe took a deep breath, then nodded. 'You're right. OK. But give us a minute. I need a word with Wieldy.' The sergeant listened to what he had to say in silence. Trying to read reaction on that face was like seeking a lost stone on a scree slope, but Pascoe sensed unease. 'Look,' he said slightly exasperated. 'It's really simple. We've got a guy who the super thinks may have topped himself and I've heard that he might have suffered a distressing personal loss some few months ago. Won't the coroner want to hear anything we can give him which might throw light on Sam Johnson's state of mind?' 'So why don't you ring Sheffield yourself?' 'Because as you well know, Wieldy, the last time I asked them for help, things went a bit pear-shaped. Roote ended up in hospital with his wrists slashed and there were mutterings about police harassment. So the name Pascoe might raise a few hackles.' 'Only if it was linked again with the name Roote,' said Wield. 'Which this isn't?' 'Of course not. It's apropos a suicide enquiry. No need to mention Roote's name. Though while you're at it, you might as well check with that hospital Roote worked at whether any Midazolam ever went missing while he was there.'

  2oy 'Still without mentioning his name?' said Wield. 'I don't care what you mention,' said Pascoe, growing angry. 'All I know is I smell a rat and it's name's Roote. You going to _, do this or shall I do it myself?' I 'Sounds like an order to me, sir,' said Wield. It was the first time in a long while Wield had called him sir other than on formal public occasions. But as he turned away, the sergeant's voice said, 'Pete, you be careful in there, eh?'

  In the interview room, Dalziel laid out the facts about the poisoning rather more baldly than Pascoe would have done. When he mentioned that the Midazolam had been placed first in the whisky bottle then transferred to the coffee mug, Roote interrupted. 'We didn't drink coffee. This proves it. Someone else must have been there.' Dalziel nodded and made a note, as if grateful for the suggeson. Pascoe came in. 'What did you drink?' 'Whisky. And we had sandwiches.' 'What kind?' 'I don't know. Mine was cheese, his was chicken, I think. He stopped at a garage on the way back from the pub and bought them, so they all tasted much the same, I dare say. Is this relevant to anything?' 'Just necessary detail, Mr Roote,' said Pascoe, who knew the value of grinding away at matters that irritated a suspect. 'You eat anything else? Either of you?' 'No. Yes, Sam bought a couple of chocolate bars, Yorldes. He ate his. I don't eat chocolate.' 'Why's that?' . 'It brings on migraine. What the hell is going on here? What's this got to do with Sam's death?' 'Please bear with me, Mr Roote. This Yorkie bar you didn't eat, did you take it out of its wrapper?' : 'Of course I didn't! Why the hell should I?' 'Maybe you miss chocolate and even though you can't eat it, you like to look at it, smell it, perhaps?' 'No! For God's sake, Mr Dalziel, I've lost a dear friend here and all I'm hearing is waffle about my diet!' Anyone in his seat appealing to the Fat Man for assistance was really in trouble, thought Pascoe gleefully. Dalziel said, 'Mr Pascoe's just trying to get things straight, Mr Roote. Let's get back to this coffee. You say you didn't drink any, so he must have made it after you left, right?' 'Right. Someone else must have come, someone he knew.' 'You're very keen on this other visitor,' said Dalziel doubtfully. 'But we only found one mug, and our lab has established that Johnson definitely drank from it.' 'What's that prove? It's easy to wash a mug. Which cafetiere did he use?' 'How do you know he used a cafetiere?' 'He always made real coffee. He despised instant. And he had a small one cup cafetiere he used if he was by himself and a large one if he had company. It was the large one, wasn't it?' 'You got into the room, Mr Roote. You probably saw for yourself. On the table by his chair.' 'I wasn't looking at the fucking furniture, you moron!' shouted Roote, leaping up with a violence that knocked his chair backwards and shifted the table toward his two interrogators. 'Interview suspended while the witness gets a hold of himself,' said Dalziel equably. Outside, he said, 'The lad seems upset. You weren't making faces at him behind my back, were you?' 'No,' said Pascoe. 'It's Roote who's making faces at us. We've got to get behind them.' 'Bit of plastic surgery with a truncheon, you mean? Nay, don't take on so. I just can't see if he's involved why he's so keen to cry murder.' 'He's clever and he's devious,' said Pascoe. 'Just because we can't see where he's heading, doesn't mean he's lost.' 'Wish I could say the same for us. So, this bloody cafetiere, which were Johnson using, the big 'un or the little 'un?' 'The large one. And yes, it looks as if several cups had been poured from it, always presuming he'd filled it to the top in the first place. Path. report suggests Johnson had downed a fair amount of coffee shortly before he died, but exact measures aren't on the menu.'

  211 'Never are when you want 'em. Useless sods, doctors,' said Dalziel. 'What's all this about a Yorkie bar?' 'Just winding him up. The other one had been taken out of its wrapper and put down on the mantel shelf. Probably Johnson was going to eat it but didn't get round to it.' 'Wouldn't mind one myself,' said Dalziel, rubbing his belly. 'So what do you think, lad? I mean, if Roote weren't mixed up in this, would you be doing owt other than tell the coroner it looks like he topped himself?' Pascoe thought then said, 'I'd still want to know where Johnson got the Midazolam. And why he put it in the whisky first rather than straight into his coffee.' 'Good questions,' said Dalziel. 'Let's get back in there, shall we? See if he's settled down, then we'll wind him up some more.' They went back inside. Roote was, outwardly at least, back to his usual fully controlled self. Dalziel took up the questioning as if nothing had happened. 'This tutorial you were having with Dr Johnson, bit of an odd time for it, Sunday lunch? I mean, most folk are sitting down to roast beef and Yorkshire pud with their nearest and dearest.' 'I seem to recall we left you in The Dog and Duck, Superintend ent,' said Roote. 'Aye, well, pubs is where I meet my nearest and dearest,' said the Fat Man. 'So what were this tutorial about?' 'What has this got to do with anything?' 'It might help us understand Dr Johnson's state of mind when you left him,' murmured Pascoe, 'His state of mind is immaterial,' insisted Roote. 'You're
not still trying to brush this aside as suicide, are you? Sam just wasn't the suicidal type.' 'Takes a one to know a one, does it?' said Dalziel. 'Sorry?' 'You did slash your wrists a few months back, I seem to recall.' 'Yes, but that was...' 'More a gesture? Aye, well mebbe the good doctor was making a gesture too. Mebbe he planned to be found sitting with his book in plenty of time to have his stomach pumped and then spend a happy convalescence been cosseted by his loving friends. You see yourself as a loving friend, do you, Mr Roote?' For a second it looked like there might be another outburst, but it came to nothing. Instead he smiled and said, 'Let me prevent you, Superintendent, in the archaic as well as the modern sense of the word. You think perhaps Sam and I were a gay couple who had a riff that lunchtime, and I flounced out, and Sam decided to teach me a lesson by drinking a carefully measured non-fatal draught in the expectation that I would soon return in plenty of time to oversee his resuscitation, after which it would be all reconciliation and contrition, not to mention coition, for the rest of the day. But when I didn't come, he didn't stop drinking. And now I, filled with guilt, am trying to ease my agitated conscience by insisting it was murder.' Pascoe felt an unworthy pang of pleasure at hearing what he thought of as Dalziel's absurd theory so precisely anatomized. The Fat Man, however, showed no sign of discomfiture. 'By gum, Chief Inspector,' he said to Pascoe, 'didst tha hear that? Knowing the questions afore they're asked! Get a few more doing that, and we'd only need to teach them to beat themselves up, and you and me 'ud be out of a job.' 'No, sir. We'd still need someone to hear the answer,' said Pascoe. 'Which is, Mr Roote?' 'The answer is no. Sam and I were friends, good friends, I believe. But above all he was my teacher, a man I respected more than any other I ever knew, a man who would have made a huge contribution to the world of learning and whose loss to me, both personally and intellectually, is almost more than I can bear. But bear it I must, if only to ensure that you bumbling incompetents don't make as big a cock-up of this investigation as you've made of others in the past.' 'Nobody's perfect,' said Dalziel. 'But we got you, sunshine.' Roote smiled and said, 'So you did. But you didn't get to keep me, did you?' And Dalziel smiled back. 'We just catch them, lad. It's the lawyers as decide which are going to be kept and stuffed, which chucked back as tiddlers rill they're big enough to be worth the keeping. You think you're big enough yet, Mr Roote? Or are you still a growing boy?' Pascoe would have been interested to see how this verbal tennis played but the door of the interview room opened at that moment