‘Was it because of the women you left him?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Not just the women.’
‘What, then?’ he asked, wondering if sleep or her answer would break the tape first. It was a close-run thing.
‘… it was like … going home … to another shift … and it was always … Saturday night … on casualty …’ she said. Then she slipped onto the bed with one arm still in her blouse and was instantly asleep.
Wield stood looking at her for a while. His two exemplars came into his mind. First he did what Pascoe would have done, eased her arm out of the blouse sleeve and folded the duvet gently over her body.
Then he did what Dalziel would have done and started to search the room.
Down at the Black Bull, Dalziel was trying to change the subject.
‘Did you have a look at them letters?’ he interrupted.
‘Which letters?’ said Pascoe.
‘From that barmy woman. I put ’em on your desk. Surely you’ve had time to read a couple of letters?’
Pascoe sighed, recalling the small alp of files which had reared out of his in-tray that morning. In fact he had read the letters, if only for their relative lack of bulk.
‘Yes, I saw them. Very interesting. Now about your statement …’
Having grasped the nettle, and also having paid for the first two rounds despite the official postponement of his celebration, Pascoe was determined not to let go.
‘I just said what I saw, lad.’
‘Which was Swain holding the gun. Then Water-son making a grab for him. Then the gun went off?’
‘I heard the gun going off, didn’t see it,’ corrected Dalziel. ‘Now, about them letters, I’d like your opinion, you being such a clever sod.’
‘Yes, sir. You’re sure about the sequence?’
‘Of course I’m bloody sure!’
‘Then Waterson must be covering up for Swain?’
‘See? I was right. You are a clever sod,’ said Dalziel, finishing his second pint. ‘All we’ve got to do is find the bugger, kick some sense into him, and I get to stay flavour of the month. Now, these letters …’
Pascoe gave up. For the time being.
‘What’s your interest, sir?’ he asked. ‘She says she’ll not be writing again.’
‘She’ll write again, never fear,’ growled Dalziel. ‘Then she’ll top herself, and I don’t want any bugger saying we did bugger-all. So get something down on paper, pass the buck to social services, the Samaritans, anyone so long as we look squeaky clean to the coroner. Here come our hot pies. I’ll have another pint to wash the taste away when you’re ready.’
‘I thought it was a rise in salary I was getting,’ said Pascoe, nursing his half full glass. ‘I didn’t realize it was an entertainment allowance.’
Dalziel thought this so funny he choked on his pie and, his own glass being empty, he finished Pascoe’s.
‘That’s better,’ he gasped. ‘And I see you’re ready now, so how about them drinks?’
It’s pinpricks not principles that engender treason. As Pascoe put the foaming pint before his chief he said casually, ‘Talking of free booze, there’ll be some going on Sunday evening if you’re interested. A little reception at the Kemble in connection with these Mystery Plays they’re putting on in the summer. Ellie’s a mate of Eileen Chung’s and she said they’re keen to have some police liaison. These theatricals pour the plonk like there’s no tomorrow and I don’t see why those blighters in traffic should enjoy all the freebies, so I’ve fixed for us to get invited.’
‘Good thinking, lad. They can come in later and do the work! Chung, eh? I’ve seen her and I’ve heard a lot about her but we’ve never actually met. I’d like that. I think the arts deserve every thinking citizen’s support.’
He squinted over his glass to catch Pascoe’s reaction, then he added, ‘And I’ve always been partial to a bit of dusky chuff,’ and laughed so much he started coughing again.
Back at the station the laughter stopped when Dalziel found the full post-mortem report on Gail Swain on his desk. It confirmed the cause of death as massive brain damage from the .357 Magnum cartridge which had been recovered from Waterson’s converted attic after bursting its way through from the bedroom below. Blood alcohol was present at the level of 155 milligrams per 100 millilitres, which meant, as Dalziel observed, that she was well pissed. Remains of what the pathologist designated as an exotic meal, probably Chinese or Indian, were found in her stomach. She was a heavy smoker, had had her appendix removed, had sustained a fracture of her left tibia not less than three years before, had had no children, and had had sex a couple of hours before her death.
She was also a heroin user.
Dalziel threw back his head and bellowed, ‘Seymour!’
Thirty seconds later a broad-shouldered redhead peered anxiously through the door. Detective-Constable Dennis Seymour’s ear was not refined enough to distinguish furioso from simple fortissimo so he always anticipated the worst.
‘Had a good poke around Swain’s house, did you?’ said Dalziel.
‘Yes, sir. Report’s on your desk, sir.’
‘I’ve read it. It’s not a bad report far as it goes. But I couldn’t see owt in it about drugs.’
‘Drugs?’ Seymour’s good-looking face went rigid with alarm. ‘I wasn’t told to look for drugs, sir.’
‘You weren’t told to look for Barbary apes either, but I dare say if you’d found a pair fornicating on the kitchen floor, you might have mentioned them!’
‘What I meant, sir, was I saw no sign of drugs.’
‘Oh aye? Checked every bottle in the bathroom cabinet, did we? Stuck your finger in every tin and jar in the kitchen and had a lick?’
Seymour shook his head. He looked so contrite that Dalziel, who was not above admitting an injustice once it had served its turn, said, ‘Not your fault, lad. You weren’t told. Though the way to get on is to do things you’re not told, as long as they’re not things you’ve been told not to, except if you know for sure they need doing. Ask Mr Pascoe to step in here a moment, will you?’
With the mingled relief and bafflement of a supplicant leaving the sibyl’s cave, Seymour departed. Dalziel picked up the phone and spoke to Sergeant Broomfield on the desk below.
‘Get the quack along here, will you, George? I want him to give Swain a going-over for drug abuse.’
‘Yes, sir. What if he don’t want to be gone over, sir?’
‘Tell him it’s routine. A pre-release examination just so he can’t come back with accusations about brutality. He hasn’t fallen off a chair or accidentally banged his head against someone’s boot, has he?’
‘No, sir. Very well behaved. One thing, though: he’s asked to contact his solicitor.’
‘Taken his time, hasn’t he? He got the chance last night, it’s in the record. Which crook acts for him?’
‘Mr Eden Thackeray.’
‘Old Eden? Shit. Get the quack quick as you can, George.’
He put the phone down and looked up at Pascoe who’d just