Death's Jest-Book (60 page)

'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:

YOUR’S TILL TIME INTO
ETERNITY FALLS OVER RUINED WORDS

He said, 'Can I hang on to this?'

She looked at him doubtfully.

He said, Til 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 woman, 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 ringers 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.

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.