Death's Jest-Book (5 page)
Authors: Reginald Hill
Tags: #Fiction, #Political, #Mystery & Detective, #General
This took my breath away for two
reasons.
First, how the hell did she know
what my proposed thesis topic was?
And second, how did I explain it?
The Revenge Theme in the
English Drama.
Could it be that all the time I
thought I was coolly, calmly and collectedly planning my future like
a rational man, deep down inside me some bitter scheming fury was
obsessed with thought of vengeance against you and Mr Dalziel?
Well, since then I've had a lot
of time to think about it, and I can put my hand on my heart and
declare with complete honesty that not one thought of you or Mr
Dalziel crossed my mind as I chose my thesis topic.
Like I said earlier, I was bored
to tears by all the sociological crap I'd had to shovel out for my
degrees. I wanted something different. I wanted something to do with
real people feeling real passion and I knew I had to turn from
sociology to literature for that, and to the theatre in particular. I
remembered an old English teacher who used to say there are three
springs of action in the drama - love, ambition and revenge - and the
greatest of these is revenge. So I started reading the Elizabethans
and Jacobeans and very soon realized he was right; In terms of
dramatic energy, nothing was more productive than revenge. Love
moved, ambition drove, but revenge exploded! I knew I had found my
theme, but it was an artistic, an academic, an autotelic choice,
having nothing to do with extraneous matters like my own situation.
But I could see how it must look
to Amaryllis with her Freudian squint.
I opened my mouth to argue,
decided this was the wrong tactic, and said instead, 'I'd really
never thought of that. Good God. And here's me thinking .. . well, I
never!'
Let her see me gobsmacked, I
thought. Let her feel completely in charge.
And all the time my brain was
racing to work out how she knew about my proposal. I'd never
mentioned it to her. Indeed I'd only put it together myself last week
and sent it off to the extra-mural department of the University of
Sheffield who had still to reply ...
That was it! Her husband. I knew
from the grapevine he was a university teacher. Her presence at the
Syke meant it was likely it was one of the Yorkshire universities.
I'd assumed his discipline would be the same as hers, but why should
it be?
If I was right . . . but first
check it out.
I could see no easier way than
the most direct.
I said, 'This would be your
husband telling you about my application, I presume? And you filling
him in about me. Funny that. Don't the usual rules of patient
confidentiality and pastoral responsibility apply in the case of
convicted felons then?'
A fishing expedition she might
have wriggled away from, but this was a grenade lobbed into the
water.
She did her best but she was
floundering belly-up from the start.
'No, really, nothing sinister,'
she said, flashing me an all-sophisticates-together smile from those
tubulous lips. 'Just one of life's little coincidences. Jay, that's
my husband, happens to be in the English Department there, you see,
and he happens to chair the committee which looks at these things,
and he happened to mention that there'd been an application from
someone in Chapel Syke
An expert
interrogator like yourself would have easily spotted the symptoms of
evasion, too many
happenses,
trying to cover the fact that
when she leaves here, she heads home and chats away quite happily
with her poncy husband about the funny things her banged-up clients
have been telling her, fuck professional confidentiality, probably
livens up the chat round the dinner table with little anecdotes
plucked from our soul-baring confessions. For a moment I felt
genuinely indignant till I recalled that most of what I personally
had told her was crap, more arsehole-baring than soul-baring.
I said, 'Well, that's handy.
Maybe you could give me a hint how my application's going, seeing as
they're taking forever to respond to me direct. I was thinking of
having a word with the Visitor about it. He's always banging on about
prisoners' rights.'
That gave her something to think
about. Lord Threlkeld, our Chief Visitor, must be familiar to you. I
bet he's one of old Rumbletummy's pet hates, being a notorious
bleeding heart who likes nothing better than a good case of
professional misconduct either from the police or the prison service
to wave at his peers in the House.
She gathered her wits and
answered, 'It's not for me to say, of course, but I think they're
really impressed by the quality of your proposal. I know that Jay in
particular is keen to see that you get approval ... all things being
equal, of course
Oh my Amaryllis, is chess one of
the sports you play in the shade? I wondered, hiding a smile as I
interpreted her words. Good old Jay would love to be your advocate,
but that might be difficult if you're making some silly complaint
about his wife .. .
'Now that would be kind,' I said.
'Is there any chance your husband would be interested in supervising
me himself?'
'Oh no,' she said hurriedly.
'He's taking up a new post next term in his old college, so he won't
be around, you see. But there is a colleague of his, Dr Johnson,
who's showing a very positive interest
And that was the first time I
heard dear Sam's name, but I hardly felt it as an epiphanic moment, I
was more concerned with pressing home my advantage.
'So now you've happened to find
out about my PhD proposal, what do you reckon it shows about me?' I
asked. 'Do you really think I'm secretly harbouring thoughts of
revenge against the people I blame for putting me here?'
'That's putting it too strongly,
perhaps,' she said. T don't see you as a strongly vengeful
personality. While it would be surprising if you didn't feel some
resentment, I see your choice of thesis subject as a sublimation of
these feelings. In other words, it's part of the healing process
rather than part of the trauma.'
This was
Reader's Digest
stuff, I thought gleefully. This was the kind
of simple diet I wanted the boneheads who decided my future to be fed
on.
'So in fact, Doctor, you think
the topic of my PhD proposal, and its acceptance at Sheffield, will
be a help in getting me transferred to Butler's Low? I mean, I
wouldn't want to be too far away from my supervisor, would I?'
'I can see that’ she said,
nodding and making a note. 'That makes a lot of sense.'
I took that as
a yes, and a yes is what it proved to be, though in fact I got
transferred to Butlin's before I had my PhD proposal accepted. So it
was there I met Sam for the first time. I was glad later that he
never had to come to the Syke and see me in that context, and smell
me too, probably, for one of the first things they told me when I
reached Butlin's was that I'd brought the prison stink with me. You
don't notice it yourself, but the others notice it, and I noticed it
myself later when a
new transferee arrived.
Curious, the
creative power of a smell! It took me straight back to slamming doors
and crowded cells and slopping out and constant fear - oh yes, even
when you were Polchard's chess playmate, you still lived in
fear - a sadistic screw, some nutter running amuck, dodgy smack, a
new king rat knocking Polchard off his perch - you never knew what
deadly changes the day might bring. So that smell was a potent
incentive to behave myself in Butlin's. Here we were in the Land of
Beulah. Every day we could look across the river to the Promised
Land.
Only a fool would ever let
himself be sent back to that other place.
I wasn't a fool then and I'm not
a fool now.
I can see you might find it hard
to believe my prison experience has rehabilitated me, but you can
surely understand it's left me resolved never ever to risk going back
inside.
So, no threats of revenge, nor
even any thoughts of revenge, not even under provocation - and you
must admit you have been somewhat provocative, dear Mr Pascoe.
What I want from life I can get
by simple honest means, or at least what passes for such in the
groves of academe! I look around me - at the old oak panelling of the
room I'm writing in, its honeyed depths returning the glow of the
open fire which fends off the chill of the crisp winter day whose
pale sunlight fills the quiet quad outside my window.
I only arrived a couple of hours
ago and, as I've told you, I'm only here for the weekend, but, I knew
the moment I set foot in the place that this or something very like
it is what I want. That's why I'm writing to you, Mr Pascoe. I'd been
thinking for some time it would be nice to clear the air between us,
but now I know it's essential, as much I admit for my own selfish
reasons as to ensure your peace of mind.
Have I said enough? Perhaps,
perhaps not. I'll check later. But now I've got to go. It's the
opening session of the conference in five minutes. Dwight has already
left, pointing to his watch then making a drinking motion with his
hand.
It wouldn't do for a new boy to
be late. There's a post box by the porter's lodge so I'll drop this
in when I go down. I don't expect I'll be writing to you again, dear
Mr Pascoe. I hope that I've cleared the air between us. The past is
Hades, the past is the cities of the plain; look back and disaster
strikes. My eyes are set firmly on the future.
I must admit to feeling somewhat
nervous, but also very excited.
This could be the beginning of
the rest of my life.
Wish me luck!
a Very Merry Christmas to you and yours!
Franny Roote
Ellie
Pascoe was a fast reader and soon she was picking up his discarded
sheets and she snatched the last one from his fingers before he could
let it fall.
Pascoe watched her finish it then
said, 'So what do you think?'
'Well it's always nice to have
one's judgment confirmed.'
'Your judgment being like the
court's, that Roote is a devious amoral psychopath?'
'Is that what
the judge said? I must have missed it. I thought he was found guilty
of being an accessory to murder. In any case, the judgment I refer to
is the one by which Charley Penn and me awarded him first prize in
the
Gazette
short-story competition. He writes very
entertainingly, doesn't he?'
'Does he? I'd rather-read a gas
meter.'
'Each to his own taste. But
you've got to give it to him. He's really making the most of his
opportunities.'
'That's a good working definition
of most crimes.'
'I didn't see any reference to
crimes.'
'Killing Brillo wasn't a crime?'
‘The fault, dear Peter,
lies not in our Fran but in the system that put him there.'
'How about blackmailing Haseen to
get him into Butlin's? And what about conning Linda Lupin into taking
him under her wing? The poor cow had better keep her eyes skinned
else she'll find she's got a permanent stowaway on the European gravy
train.'
'Haseen seems to have behaved
unprofessionally, so she had it coming. As for Loopy Linda, she
deserves everything she gets. And besides, I suspect she can look
after herself. She certainly doesn't waste much energy looking after
anyone else.'
Pascoe smiled,
knowing he wasn't going to get anywhere inviting sympathy for Linda
Lupin, who was a Tory MEP and a particular
bêtesse noire
of
the left-wing feminist tendency. The fact that she was also the late
lamented Sam Johnson's half-sister and sole heir had come as a shock
to Ellie, but to Franny Roote it had clearly come as an opportunity
which he'd grasped with both hands.
'And aren't you being a touch
paranoid?' continued Ellie. 'All he's doing is telling you he's doing
well for himself, so why should he be nursing grudges?'
'Doing well for a criminal
involves criminality,' muttered Pascoe.
'Maybe. But what better area for
the legitimate use of criminal talent than the life academic?' said
Ellie, who since being officially confirmed as a creator by
acceptance of her first novel tended to look back rather
patronizingly at her old existence as a college lecturer. 'Anyway,
he's paid his debt and all that, and he'd probably never have come to
your notice again if you hadn't gone after him in a not very subtle
way.'
This was so unjust it might have
taken Pascoe's breath away if life with Ellie hadn't left him pretty
well permanently breathless.
He said mildly, 'I only turned
him up in the first place because someone was threatening you and he
looked a possible candidate.'
'Yeah, and the other times? Pete,
admit it, you've always gone in hard with Franny Roote. Why is that?
There must be something about him that bugs you specially.'
'Not really. Except he's weird,
you've got to admit that. No? OK, let's look at it another way. Don't
you think it's just a little bit screwy to be writing to me like
this?'
'You're acting like this is a
threatening letter,' said Ellie. 'Despite the fact that he goes out
of his way to say this isn't a threatening letter! What more does he
have to say?'
'A man comes towards you in a
dark street,' said Pascoe. 'He stops in front of you and says
reassuringly, "It's OK, I'm not going to rape you." How
reassured do you feel?'
'A lot more reassured than if
he's stark naked and waving a knife, like Dick Dee when young Bowler
rode to the rescue. How is he, by the way?'
'He looked fine when I saw him on
Thursday. Should be back with us by the middle of next week, if he
doesn't overtax his strength this weekend.'
'Doing what?'
'Seems Rye Pomona, his light of
love, is showing her gratitude by taking him away for a long weekend
at some nice romantic hotel in the Peaks. He was full of it on
Thursday. Well, it should either make him or break him.'
'How nice it must be to have a
part of you that's eternally adolescent,' said Ellie. 'But I'm glad
he's come through it all OK. How about the girl?'
'Oddly enough, she looked a lot
worse than him last time I saw her.'
'Why oddly?'
'He was the one who got his skull
fractured and ended up in hospital, remember?'
'And she was the one who nearly
got raped and murdered,' retorted Ellie.
They sat in silence for a while,
each recollecting the dramatic climax of what came to be known as the
Word-man case. The prime suspect, Dick Dee, head of the public
library reference section, had lured his assistant, Rye Pomona, out
to a remote country cottage. When DC Hat Bowler, who was madly in
love with her, had discovered this, he'd gone rushing off to the
rescue, with Pascoe and Dalziel in hot pursuit. Bowler had arrived to
discover Rye and Dee, both naked and covered with blood, locked in a
deadly struggle. In the fight that followed, Hat had managed to get
hold of the knife Dee was wielding and stab the man fatally, but not
before receiving severe head injuries himself. Pascoe, who'd been
next on the scene, had feared the young man might die from his
wounds, a fear compounded by his own sense of guilt that he had
allowed too much of his own attention to be diverted by the presence
among the list of suspects of the man who had come once more to
disturb the even tenor of his ways - Franny Roote.
He'd been wrong then. Perhaps he
was over-reacting now. Ellie certainly thought so.
She returned to the attack.
'Getting back to our Fran’she
said. 'We are entering the season of comfort and joy, or so the telly
ads keep telling us, the season for making contact with people far
away in space and time, hence all these sodding cards, which
incidentally you might care to help me open. It's the time to put
records and relationships straight. What's so odd about Roote wanting
to do that, especially now things are looking up for him?'
'OK, I give in’said Pascoe.
'I accept Roote's forgiveness. But I'm not going to send him a
Christmas card. Jesus, look at the size of this one.'
He'd opened an envelope to reveal
a reproduction of some alleged Old Master showing what looked like a
bunch of sheep rustlers gazing up in understandable alarm at what
could have been a police helicopter spotlight surrounded by an
all-girl jazz band.
'And who the hell's Zipper with
three kisses?' he asked, opening the card. 'We don't send cards to
anyone called Zipper, do we? I certainly hope we don't.'
'Zipper. Rings a bell. Let me see
. . .'
Ellie turned the envelope over
and said, 'Shit. It's addressed to Rosie. Zipper was that little boy
Rosie took up with on holiday. Parents were hang-'em-high Tories.
We'd better reseal it else she'll report us to the Court of Human
Rights.'
'Why not just bin it? Can't have
our daughter mixing with the wrong set, can we?'
Ellie ignored his satirical
intent and said, 'It's her first billy-doo. Girls treasure such
things. I'll take it up to her and tell her to get her coat on. If
you can drag yourself away from your own fan mail, shouldn't you be
getting the car started? You know what it's like these cold mornings.
You really ought to take more care of it.'
This was unjust enough to provoke
rebellion. The reason Pascoe's car froze outside most nights was that
Ellie's ancient vehicle usually occupied the garage on the basis of
first come, first protected.
He said, 'Seeing your wreck is so
highly tuned, why don't you take Rosie?'
'No chance. I'm meeting Daphne
for coffee in Estotiland at ten, then we're going to break the back
of Christmas shopping or die in the attempt. Unless you want to
swap?'
'You for Daphne, you mean? Might
be OK . . . Sorry! But Rosie might be happy to trade in Miss
Wintershine for Estotiland.'
Estotiland was a huge R&R
complex (R&R standing for Recreation and Retail, and also for
Rory and Randy, the Canadian Estoti brothers who'd developed the
concept) built on a mainly brownfield site across the boundary
between South and Mid-Yorkshire. The Estotis boasted that Estotiland
provided everything a man, woman or child could reasonably want. It
was as user friendly as such a place could be, with clubs and sports
facilities as well as retail floors, and its Junior Jumbo Burger Bar
and associated play areas had become the site of choice for kids'
parties.
'The girl wants to be an infant
prodigy, prodigious is what she's going to be,' said Ellie, who saw
enough of herself in Rosie to be up to all her wiles. ‘I’ll
get her moving.'
She went out. Pascoe shoved the
rest of his toast into his mouth, emptied his coffee cup, thrust
Roote's letter into his pocket and headed out to his car.
As forecast, it showed a
reluctance to start to match his own and its morning cough was a lot
worse. Some time during its third or fourth bout, Rosie climbed into
the passenger seat. She sat there in silence for a while then said in
her nobly suffering martyr's voice, 'When I go with Mum, I'm never
late.'
'Funny that,' said Pascoe. 'My
experience has been precisely the opposite. Gotcha!'
The cough turned into a splutter
then a rhythmic rattle and finally into something like the sound of
an internal combustion engine ready to go about its proper business.
'Now let's see who's late’
said Pascoe.
Ms Wintershine lived in St
Margaret Street, which unfortunately meant taking the main road into
the city centre. At first they made reasonable progress then the
traffic began to thicken.
'Jesus’ said Pascoe.
'There's not a football match on or something, is there?'
'It's Christmas shopping’
said Rosie. 'Mum said we should have set off a lot earlier.'
'You weren't ready a lot earlier’
returned Pascoe. Which might have been worth a point if he'd been
sitting in the drive with the engine revving when Rosie got into the
car.
Gradually the traffic declined
from a meander to a crawl and finally to a stop.
Rosie said nothing, but she had
inherited from her mother the ability to communicate I-told-you-so by
an almost indiscernible flexing of her nose muscles.
'OK’ said Pascoe. 'Here's
something your mother can't do.'
He reached into the back seat,
picked up his magnetic noddy light, opened the window, slammed it on
to the roof, and pulled into the empty bus lane to his left.
Siren howling, light flashing, he
raced past the stationary traffic.
Rosie expressed her delight at
this turn of events by beaming from cheek to cheek and waving madly
at the people in the stalled cars.
'Do me a favour, love’ said
Pascoe. 'Cut the Royal Progress act. Either look like a dying infant
being rushed to hospital or a deadly criminal on her way to jail.'
With some complacency he saw from
the clock on St Margaret's Church as they turned into St Margaret
Street that they had almost five minutes to spare. All the parking
spaces in front of the house were filled so he pulled into the
Hearses Only spot in front of the church, switched off the siren, and
said to Rosie, 'There we are. Early’
She gave him a quick kiss and
said, 'Thanks, Dad. That was great.'
'Yeah. But do me another favour.
Don't tell your mum. See you in an hour.'
He watched her run along the
pavement. She paused at the top of the steps leading up to the
terraced house, waved at him, then disappeared inside.
He relaxed in his seat. Now what?
With the shopping traffic the way it was, there was little point in
heading home as he'd have to turn round and come back almost straight
away. Too early for weddings or funerals, so he might as well wait
here. Something to read would have been nice. He should have brought
a newspaper. or a book.
All he had was Franny Roote's
letter.
He took it out of his pocket and
started at the beginning again.
What's the bastard up to? He
thought as he read.
In his mind's eye he could see
that pale oval face with its dark unblinking eyes, which somehow
managed to be at the same time compassionate and mocking, whether
their owner was beating him over the head, lying in a bath with his
wrists slit, or merely observing what a lovely day it was.
Had he got anything to reproach
himself with in his relationship with Roote? Did his legitimate
questioning of the man in pursuit of his investigative duties have
any smack of persecution about it?
No! He told
himself angrily. If there was any persecution going on here, it was
quite the other way round. The obsessiveness was all Roote's. And why
the hell was he worrying about him anyway? At this very moment the
bastard would be standing up to deliver the late Sam Johnson's paper
on
Death's Jest-Book.
'Hope he gets hiccoughs!'
declared Pascoe, glaring towards the church as if challenging it to
condemn his lack of charity.
He found himself looking straight
into Roote's dark unblinking eyes.
He was standing on the path which
ran down the side of the church, partially obscured by a large
memorial cross in weathered white marble. The distance was thirty or
forty feet, but the expression of compassionate mockery was as clear
as a close-up.
The church clock started striking
the hour.
For two strikes of the bell they
looked at each other.
Then Pascoe started to open the
car door but found he'd parked too close to a wizened yew tree, so he
slid over to the passenger side and scrambled out.
