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  'Where will you be, sir?' inquired Wield.

  'At the hospital,' said Pascoe. 'Talking to Mrs Frostick, if possible, and checking on what killed Deeks.'

  He paused at the door, turning his already dripping raincoat collar up as the wind outside shrieked its joy at the prospect of having another go at him.

  'And if I find George Headingley in intensive care,' he added bitterly, 'it might just about justify getting me mixed up in this lot.'

  Chapter 5

  'Bring me all the blotting-paper there is in the house!'

  In the event, it took George Headingley only five minutes to convince Pascoe that there were worse things to be mixed up with than murder inquiries. 'You've got yourself a real mess there, George,' he said feelingly. 'A real mess!'

  'You can say that again,' said Headingley. 'I'm sorry I got you called out, but I got this feeling I was going to be needed mopping up after Fat Andy, and as things are turning out, I was right.'

  The two men were talking in the comfortably appointed foyer of the main modern wing of the City General Hospital. Headingley had contacted Wield a couple of minutes after Pascoe's departure from Welfare Lane, and learning of his destination had hastened to intercept him.

  'Arnie Charlesworth! What the hell was he doing driving round with Arnie Charlesworth?' demanded Pascoe.

  'Be careful what you say,' objected Headingley. 'He's regarded as a respected member of the community.'

  'We've all got things we regard as respected members,' said Pascoe, 'but we're in trouble if we start flashing them round in public.

  ‘You know,' said Headingley, 'you've always been Andy's golden boy, but there's no need to start sounding like him! All right, so Charlesworth's a bookie and a bit of a hard case, and not the kind of man we should be seen taking favours from. But he's completely legit, and he's a big charity man. The mayor's parlour, the Rotary, the Masons, anywhere they make decisions and influence people, he's welcome.'

  'All right. So it's only suspicious sods like you and me who'll be worried about Dalziel hobnobbing with this respectable citizen.'

  'I hope so,' said Headingley. 'But I've got a nose for trouble, Peter. It's not the Charlesworth connection that bothers me. It's this other thing. And it's Sam Ruddlesdin who's got a pretty sensitive nose himself. He rang me a little while back, asked about the Deeks killing. I told him you were on the case and would, I was sure, be only too pleased to cooperate fully with the Press. Then he said, dead casual like, Oh, by the way, this accident out on the Paradise Road, Mr Dalziel was a passenger in the car, is that right? I said I believed he was. He asked if he was OK and I said I understood so, and he said that he believed Arnie Charlesworth was driving and I said yes, and then he said, But it was in fact Mr Dalziel's car? That shook me rigid. I'd no idea if it was or not. I'd just assumed it had been Charlesworth's car. Well, I waffled round it, but it got me worried. And then something else began to worry me too. Listen.'

  Pascoe listened. At the head of the foyer were six lifts, seemingly in constant use even at this hour. They announced their arrival with a melodic ping! The pings were pitched at slightly different levels and as Pascoe listened their interval and sequence suggested the communications code from Close Encounters. At last! he thought. An explanation of why hospitals always give the impression of being run by aliens disguised as human beings.

  'See the pay-phone over there?' said Headingley. 'All the time Ruddlesdin was talking I could hear those bloody pings! The bastard was here!'

  'So what?' said Pascoe. 'He came round here to check on Deeks. Sergeant Wield told me.'

  'Mebbe. But he must have got here not long after I'd got Mr Dalziel out of the place. Christ knows what that daft doctor said to him.'

  'But what could Sowden tell him?' asked Pascoe. 'That he thought the old fellow said something about the driver being pissed before he died? What's that mean? Anyway, why should Sowden get himself involved in something so vague?'

  'Christ knows,' said Headingley. 'He seemed to have managed to work up a fair head of steam for some reason. Even when Charlesworth said he was the driver, this didn't calm him down. Not that I didn't have some sympathy with him. Bloody Charlesworth just stood there, puffing out cigar smoke, a bit of a sneer on his face like he was saying, That's my story. Prove different.'

  'George,' said Pascoe quietly. 'You don't think there could be anything different to prove, do you?'

  Headingley shook his head.

  'No. No. Not Andy, it's not his style. Mind you, Peter, he was as drunk as I've seen him, no doubt about that. I always thought he was unsinkable, but by Christ he'd hit an iceberg tonight. I've as good as locked him in his office and I told the lads on the exchange that no calls were to be put through to him.'

  'You're taking a risk, aren't you?' said Pascoe admiringly.

  Headingley shook his head.

  'Not me. Soon as Ruddlesdin rang off, I got on to the DCC and put him in the picture in case the Post started after him. I'm covered, Peter. The DCC approved my action, even unto the passing of this Deeks inquiry to you. Not that I wouldn't rather have it back and leave some other poor sod to deal with old chubby cheeks!'

  'Well, thanks for putting me in the picture,' said Pascoe. 'I'll tread carefully with the dastardly doctor.'

  'You do that,' said Headingley. 'Just you be nice and noncommittal if he starts pushing. By the way, I told him I was just holding the fort, so to speak, till our murder expert could be brought off another case. Didn't want him thinking I was more worried about my Chief than about an investigation. So better wear your deerstalker!'

  The two men separated, Pascoe continuing into the depths of the hospital where he finished up kicking his heels for twenty minutes in a tiny office. The desk top was covered in papers, mostly handwritten in a scrawl which convinced him that doctors did not after all develop a specially illegible hand just for prescriptions. Sowden arrived suddenly and quietly enough to discover him trying to interpret one of the sheets.

  'Ah,' said the doctor. 'The ace detective, I presume. Trying to keep your hand in?'

  Somewhat abashed, Pascoe dropped the paper back on to the desk and said, 'Sorry, but it's a bit like an archaeologist stumbling on the Rosetta stone. I'm Pascoe. Detective-Inspector Peter. How do you do?'

  He held out his hand. After a second, Sowden shook it.

  'John Sowden,' he said. 'Sorry you've had to hang around, but things happen in convoys out there. With luck I may have two minutes before the next lot heave into view. So what can I do for you? I think I told the other chap all I could.'

  Pascoe looked at him sympathetically. In his twenties with the kind of dark continental good looks that must have the nurses falling over backwards for him, he looked at the moment too tired to take advantage of such gymnastics.

  'Yes, I've looked at what you told Mr Headingley,' he said. 'There are a couple of things I'd like to ask you, though. And I'd like a look at the body for myself.'

  'Just in case I've missed anything?' said Sowden.

  'Not really,' said Pascoe. 'But I bet if a cop tells you that your rear offside light isn't working, you always walk round the car to have a look.'

  Something vaguely related to a smile touched Sowden's face.

  'All right,' he said. 'Come on, I'll take you along and you can ask your questions as we go.'

  They set off together down the corridor, the doctor's pace a little faster than Pascoe found comfortable.

  'It's really a matter of what might have caused these wounds on Deeks's head and neck,' he said.

  'At a guess I'd say that most of the contusions could have been the result of simple blows from a fist,' said Sowden.

  'Hard enough to damage the knuckles?' asked Pascoe.

  'What? Oh, I see what you mean,' said Sowden. 'Possibly. I don't really know. This isn't really my field, you know. You're the murder expert, so I was told. Or was the other chap exaggerating?'

  'Very likely,' said Pascoe. 'And the cuts? What kind of instrument
should I be telling my chaps to look out for?'

  'I don't know. A knife.'

  'Blunt knife, sharp knife?' prompted Pascoe. 'Broad blade or narrow? A knife for stabbing or a knife for cutting?'

  'Something with a sharp point,' said Sowden. 'Yes, certainly that.'

  'And sharp on both sides of the point? Like a stiletto? Or a round-bladed point, like a long nail, or a spike?'

  'More like a stiletto except broader,' said Sowden, becoming interested. 'Yes, there was certainly evidence of the sharp point digging in, with the skin and flesh being severed cleanly on both sides. Here we are. See for yourself.'

  The chill air of the hospital morgue touched the skin with none of the violence of the wild cold November wind outside, but Pascoe did not have to pause to consider his preference. There were three bodies as yet unparcelled for the night. Sowden glanced at the labels on their toes, his face troubled.

  'Not a good night for the old,' he said. 'This is your man. Robert Deeks.'

  He pulled back the cover. Robert Deeks, his face a player's mask of grief with its deep hollow cheeks and gaping toothless mouth, stared accusingly up at them. Quickly and efficiently, Sowden pointed to the location of the wounds and bruises and offered his interpretation of them.

  'Thanks,' said Pascoe, making notes. 'That'll do fine till Mr Longbottom takes a look.'

  He meant no slight, but tired men are easily piqued, and Sowden, covering Deeks's face with an abrupt movement, pointed to the body on the next slab and said, 'At least you won't need Longbottom to tell you how this one died.'

  'No? Why's that, Doctor?' asked Pascoe courteously, though he had no doubt of the answer.

  'Philip Cater Westerman,' said Sowden, drawing down the sheet. 'Road accident. Hadn't you heard?'

  Philip Cater Westerman had contrived to pass away with an expression of amused bafflement on his face which was not altogether inappropriate.

  'Hard to keep track of all the road deaths, more's the pity,' evaded Pascoe. 'And the third? What about him?'

  He thought his efforts to divert the trend of the conversation were going to fail for a moment, but Sowden contented himself with a sardonic stare, then covered Westerman's face.

  'This one? Straightforward. Poor devil died of exposure on a playing field, would you believe? You couldn't go three hundred yards in any direction, so they tell me, without hitting houses.'

  He drew back the cover and Pascoe saw Thomas Arthur Parrinder's thin aquiline face, which might have been carved in marble except for a stain of discolouration round a patch of broken skin on the left temple. Pascoe sniffed. A non-medical smell had caught his nose. It was rum.

  'What happened?' he asked. 'Drunk, was he?'

  'No, I don't think so,' said Sowden. 'The smell's from a half bottle of rum he had in his pocket. It smashed when he fell but as far as I could see, the seal on the cap was unbroken.'

  'You're doing our work now,' said Pascoe drily. 'So, what did happen?'

  'Slipped in the mud as he was taking a short cut across the recreation ground. Broke his hip, poor sod. He must have lain there for hours. It was such a nasty night, no one was out. He wasn't very warmly clothed. Hypothermia kills hundreds of old folk indoors every winter. Expose them outdoors…'

  'Yes,' said Pascoe. 'Terrible. That bruise on his head…'

  'He must have gone down a real wallop,' said Sowden. 'Cracked his head on a stone; it probably stunned him so that by the time he was conscious enough to cry for help, he'd already have been weakened so much by the cold that his voice would be too feeble to carry far.'

  'Yes,' said Pascoe. 'Probably. Which hip did he break?'

  'Hip. Let me think. The right one. Why?'

  'He'd break it by falling on it?'

  'Sorry?'

  'I mean it'd be a fracture by impact rather than by stress. I'm sorry to sound so untechnical.'

  'No, I take your meaning,' said Sowden. 'By impact, yes. I see. What you're saying is – '

  'What I'm asking,' interrupted Pascoe, 'is whether you wouldn't expect any damage to the head incurred in the same fall that broke his hip to be on the right side also?'

  'It would be more likely,' agreed Sowden. 'But the body is capable of almost infinite contortions, especially an old, poorly coordinated body out of control in a fall. As for a mugging, which I take it you're hinting at, I looked in his pockets to get his name. I got it from his pension book which had several bank notes folded inside it. And there was also a purse, I recall, with a lot of silver. No, I think you and your colleagues, Inspector, could usefully take a course in suspicious circumstances, what to follow up, what to ignore.'

  Again that note of challenge. Pascoe made a note of Parrinder's name and said, 'Thank you for your help, Doctor. Now I know how busy they keep you here, so I won't hold you up any more.'

  Pascoe was congratulating himself on having evaded any head-on conflict. He guessed that after Sowden had enjoyed a few hours' sleep, he would relegate the road accident to that deep-delved and well-locked chamber where doctors and policemen alike try, usually successfully, to store yesterday's horrors as they relax and prepare themselves for today's.

  But this one was not yet ready for inhumation. With no great pleasure he recognized a lanky figure chatting intimately to a nurse outside the doctor's office. It was Sam Ruddlesdin, the Post reporter.

  Inclination told him to keep walking by with a cheerful wave of the hand. Instinct, however, told him that Ruddlesdin would only have returned to the hospital if he had some mischief in hand, and it might be well to get a scent of it. So when Ruddlesdin greeted him with a cheerful, 'Hello, Mr Pascoe. How are you?' he stopped and said, 'As well as can be expected, in this place, at this time. What brings you here?'

  'Same as you, I dare say,' said Ruddlesdin with a saturnine grin. He had a good line in saturnine grins to go with a nice line in scurrility, which made him an entertaining companion for about two and a half pints, and generally speaking his relationship with the police was finely balanced on a fulcrum of mutual need.

  Pascoe said, 'You mean the Welfare Lane killing? Mr Deeks?'

  'That too,' said Ruddlesdin. 'I was down there earlier, before you in fact. Talked to Sergeant Wield. He seemed to think Mr Headingley would be on the case. But when I was here earlier, I gathered from Dr Sowden that he'd just left with Superintendent Dalziel and that you were taking over. The murder specialist. Is that an official designation in Mid-Yorkshire now, Inspector?'

  'It doesn't carry any extra money if it is,' said Pascoe, looking at Sowden, who returned his gaze defiantly with just a hint of guilt. 'Anyway, you've caught up with me now. Shall we talk on our way out to the car park?'

  Ruddlesdin said, 'I'd certainly be glad of the chance to talk with you, Mr Pascoe, but I'd really like a quick word with Dr Sowden first.'

  He looked at Sowden, who made no move to invite him into the office; then at Pascoe, who made no move to take his leave. Ruddlesdin let another saturnine grin slip down from beneath the brim of his slouch hat.

  'It was really just to check again on what you thought Mr Westerman said before he died, Doctor,' he said.

  'Look,' said Sowden, suddenly uneasy. 'I'm not sure I should really be talking about this with you. A patient's dying words, I mean, in a sense they're, I don't know, confidential, I suppose.'

  'Like in confession?' said Ruddlesdin, swapping the grin for a parody of piety. 'Yes, I can see that. And I'm not going to quote you, Doctor. Well, probably not. But something else came up. You see, after I talked to you earlier, I did a little bit of research on the ground. Paradise Road runs past The Duke of York where Mr Westerman had been drinking, past The Towers, the old folks' holiday home, which was where he was heading, and then past nowhere at all for another three miles till you arrive at Paradise Hall Hotel. I can't afford their restaurant prices very often myself, but I have been there. Very nice. Excellent menu, top class clientele. Just the place for a pair of distinguished citizens to eat, I thought. And I was right! M
r Charlesworth and Mr Dalziel ate there tonight.

  'Mr Abbiss, the owner, was very discreet, but I got just a hint that Mr Dalziel had been a trifle the worse for wear when he left. Not that that signifies, as he was the passenger, of course. Only…'

  Pascoe refused to be the one who said, 'Only what?' but Sowden was less resilient.

  'Only what?' he said.

  'Only when I called in at The Towers just to get some background on the poor old chap who'd died, I got talking to a Mrs Warsop who is by way of being their bursar. Quite by chance it seems that she too was dining at Paradise Hall tonight. Now, she doesn't know Mr Dalziel from Adam, but she is acquainted with Mr Charlesworth by sight. And as she was leaving the Hall, she saw them in the car park together, getting into a car. And the strange thing is, she's quite adamant about it, that it wasn't Mr Charlesworth, but the (I quote) fat drunk one who got into the driver's seat and drove away!'

  Chapter 6

  'I think I could eat one of Bellamy's veal pies.'

  Andrew Dalziel awoke to sunlight and birdsong, both of which filtered softly through grey net curtains. It was almost a month since, following his usual habit on bad mornings of hauling himself upright with the help of the hideous folk-weave drapes which were a sort of memorial to his long-fled wife, he had pulled the curtain rail right off the wall. Time had not yet effected any great healing, and now only the flimsy net and an erratic window-cleaner maintained the decencies. There was no way, however, that the net could maintain his weight, so now, belching and breaking wind, he pursued his alternative levee strategy of rolling sideways till he hit the floor, then using the bed for vertical leverage.

  Upright, he had the misfortune to glimpse himself in a long wall mirror. Clad in a string vest and purple and green checked socks, it was an image to engage the unwary eye like a basilisk. He approached closer and addressed himself.