don’t know,’ said Pascoe slowly. ‘It’s … odd.’
‘Of course it’s bloody odd. Fairy tales usually are! What he still hasn’t twigged is I saw him with the gun in his hand before I heard the shot. Once we get Mr Gregory Waterson’s version, it’ll be two to one, and then I’ll make the bugger squirm!’
This simple scenario did little to assuage Pascoe’s sense of oddness. But he didn’t want to seem to be muddying Dalziel’s triumph so he held his peace and tried for a congratulatory smile. It lacked conviction, however, for Dalziel said, ‘You’ve not changed, have you, lad? In fact, all them weeks lying in bed playing with yourself have likely set you back. What you need is some good solid meat to get your stomach settled. I’ve got just the thing. Football hooligans.’
He regarded Pascoe complacently and received in return a look of surprise. The big clubs in West and South Yorkshire had their share of maniac supporters, but City, Mid-Yorkshire’s only league side, rattling around the lower divisions for years, rarely attracted serious home-grown trouble.
‘I’ve not read about any bother,’ said Pascoe. ‘And anyway crowd control’s uniformed’s business.’
‘Murder isn’t,’ said Dalziel grimly. ‘Saturday before last, young lad vanished travelling back to Peterborough from a visit to his girlfriend in London. They found him next morning with a broken neck at the bottom of an embankment near Huntingdon.’
‘Sad, but what’s it to do with us?’
‘Hold your horses. City were playing in North London that day and it seems there were a lot of complaints about bevvied-up City supporters on the train the dead lad would have caught from King’s Cross.’
‘But you said he’d been visiting his girl, not attending a match. Why should he get picked on?’
‘Colour of his eyes’d be provocation enough for some of these morons,’ declared Dalziel. ‘But it was more likely the colour of his scarf. Royal blue, which some bright spark in Cambridgeshire spotted was the colour of City’s opponents that afternoon. Could be nowt, but there’s been one or two hints lately that our local loonies are keen to get organized like the big boys, so this could be a good excuse to bang a few heads together before they get properly started, right?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Pascoe reluctantly. It didn’t sound a very attractive assignment. He glanced at Wield in search of sympathy, but Dalziel took it as an attempt to pass the buck.
‘No use trying to delegate, lad. The sergeant here’s going to be busy. How’s your bedside manner, Wieldy? Christ, the sight of you coming through the door would get me back on my feet pretty damn quick! Why don’t you get yourself off down to the Infirmary and take this shrinking violet Waterson’s statement so that I can spoil Mr lying bastard Swain’s lunch? No, better still, I’ll leave it till after lunch and give him indigestion. No reason why we should miss opening time at the Black Bull, is there? Not when it’s celebration drinks all round!’
‘You mean you’re in the chair because of this collar?’ asked Pascoe, trying not to sound surprised.
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Dalziel, who was not notorious for treating his staff. ‘I’ll let Desperate Dan supply the booze for that. No, it’s you who’ll be in the chair. Peter, unless you crap on the Chief’s carpet when he calls you in.’
Wield caught on before Pascoe and shook his hand, grinning broadly and saying, ‘Well done, sir!’ Dalziel followed suit.
‘One thing but,’ he said. ‘When you give Ellie the glad tidings, point out it’ll be a couple of years before it makes any difference to your pension. Now sod off and start earning your Chief Inspector’s pay!’
Detective-Sergeant Wield parked his car in the visitors’ car park and set off up the long pathway to the Infirmary. The oldest of the city’s hospitals, it had been built in the days when visitors were regarded as a nuisance even greater than patients and had to prove their fitness by walking a couple of furlongs before they reached the entrance. As recompense, the old red brick glowed in the February sun and a goldheart ivy embraced it as lovingly as any stately home. Also the path ran between flowerbeds white with snowdrops. Spotting a broken stalk, Wield stopped and picked the tiny flower and carefully inserted it in his button-hole.
What a saucy fellow you’re becoming! he mocked himself. You’ll be advertising for friends in the Police Gazette next.
His lips pursed in an almost inaudible whistling as he strode along but inside he was smiling broadly and singing Bunthorne’s song from Patience: ‘… as you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediaeval hand …’
His merry mood lasted along the first straight mile of corridor but by the time he reached his destined ward, the sights, sounds and smells of the place had silenced his inner carolling.
There was no one at the sister’s desk and he went into the open ward.
‘Mr Waterson? First door on your left,’ said a weary nurse who looked as if she should be occupying the bed she was making.
Wield pushed open the door indicated and went in.
It occurred to him instantly that Waterson must have private medical insurance. A nurse in a ward sister’s uniform was leaning over him. Their mouths were locked together and his hands were inside her starched blouse, roaming freely. No way did you get this on the National Health.
Wield coughed. The nurse reacted conventionally, doing the full guilty thing surprised bit, jumping backwards while her fingers scrabbled at her blouse buttons and blood flushed her pale and rather beautiful face like peach sauce over vanilla ice. The man, however, grinned amiably and said, ‘Good morning, Doctor.’
‘It is Mr Waterson, isn’t it?’ said Wield doubtfully.
‘That’s right.’
Wield produced his warrant card.
‘Good lord. It’s the fuzz, dear. I expect you’ve come for a statement? It’s all ready. They wake you at sparrow fart in these places, you know, so I’ve had hours to compose.’
He thrust a single sheet of foolscap bearing the Local Health Authority’s letter-head into Wield’s hand.
The woman meanwhile had reassembled herself into the pattern of a brisk efficient ward sister.
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’ll look in later.’
‘Nice, isn’t she?’ said Waterson complacently as the nurse left.
Wield examined the man neutrally. He was approaching thirty, perhaps had even passed it. Nature had tossed youthful good looks into his cradle, and nurture in the form of an artistic hairdresser, an aesthetic dentist and possibly an expensive dermatologist, had made sure the gift wasn’t wasted.
‘The sister is an old friend?’ he ventured. Waterson smiled. There was charm here too.
‘Wash your mind out, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘That was no sister, that was my wife!’
Deciding this was a conundrum best postponed, Wield looked at the statement. It consisted of a single very long paragraph written in a minute but beautiful hand. It wasn’t easy to read but one thing was very quickly clear. It was a lot closer to Swain’s version of events than to Dalziel’s!
Wield began to read it through a second time.
Gail Swain and I became lovers about a month ago. It was difficult to see as much of each other as we would have liked, so when Gail came up with a plan for us to have a longer period together I was delighted. She was going back to America on a visit to see her mother and she rearranged things so that she wouldn’t need to get there till much later than she’d