Death's Jest-Book (59 page)

'Depends in what sense you use
the possessive’ said Pascoe.

'In the sense of being the
policeman who forced him to confront his anti-social behaviour,
understand his motives for it, pay the necessary legal penalty for
it, and ultimately become the better, more mature person he is now.'

'That seems to me to be
stretching the sense quite a bit,' said Pascoe.

'Yes, he told me you had some
problems with coming to terms with your role in his life’ said
Jacques.

'I had problems!' Pascoe shook
his head vigorously. 'Believe me, Brother, the only problem I've got
is dealing with Roote's problems!'

'Which are?'

'Basically that he's a
sociopathic fantasist whose unpredictable behaviour makes me very
uneasy about my own welfare and that of my family.'

As he spoke, Pascoe was asking
himself, What happened to my plan of having a quiet chat with this
guy about his crazy chum during the course of which I'd glean many
interesting ears of information without him suspecting the true
nature of my interest?

'These seem large judgments to
make on the basis of a few presumably non-threatening letters.'

'What makes you presume that?'
demanded Pascoe. 'And how do you know he's been writing to me
anyway?'

'Because he told me so. And as I
imagine that written threats to a policeman from a former convict
would rapidly result in apprehension and charges, I presume no such
threats were made. In any case, Mr Pascoe, I hope it will reassure
you to learn that whenever he mentioned your name he did so in terms
of great respect and admiration, bordering, I felt, on affection’

'So you talked about me’

'He talked, I listened. The
impression I received was of someone exploring his feelings towards
someone else and being rather surprised at what he was discovering. I
am not a psychologist - Dr Pottle might well be worth consulting on
this matter - but my instinct suggests that Franny matured
intellectually at an early age, but emotionally and morally is still
in late adolescence.'

He regarded
Pascoe for a
moment as if to assess how he was responding to
this analysis, then went on, 'You are perhaps tempted to retaliate by
quoting from his letters some deprecating comment he has made about
me. But I would suspect that his initial attitude, that I was some
kind of - what is your expression? - some kind of religious plonker
worth being polite to for the sake of keeping in with his patroness,
Mrs Lupin, has moderated somewhat. You see, one thing my line of
business has made me expert in is spotting the difference between
lip-service and genuine commitment. Franny, I believe, has made a
genuine movement.'

'Franny's expertise lies in
making people feel what he wants them to feel’ said Pascoe
coldly.

'Perhaps. Shall I sign your book,
or was that merely your ticket of entry, Chief Inspector?'

'No, please sign it’ said
Pascoe, feeling he'd been ungracious enough for one day.

The monk took the book, opened it
at the title page, scribbled a few words and handed it back.

Pascoe looked
at what he'd written. It was his signature followed by
Thessalonians
5, 21.

He said, 'OK, you got me. Save me
having to look it up.'

' "Prove all things: hold
fast that which is good."'

That's nice, but for a cop it
works out slightly different,' said Pascoe. 'Prove all things: then
hold very fast that which is bad. Thank you, Brother.'

He opened the door. Outside he
saw the blonde beauty waiting. Suddenly he knew who she was.

'You've made up your mind about
Miss Lupin then?' he said.

Jacques didn't look surprised. '

'Yes, I have made up my mind.'

'Congratulations. I hope all goes
well for you both.'

'Thank you. Franny is right, you
are a sharp man, Mr Pascoe. We would prefer for the moment to keep
our news to ourselves. Until people close 'to us have been told. My
Brothers, Emerald's mother.'

'Will this affect your Third
Thought" work?' asked Pascoe.

'Why should it? I have never
ignored the existence of the two other thoughts.'

'Well, good luck. And take care.'

'You too, Mr Pascoe. And God
bless you.'

Outside he nodded pleasantly at
Emerald and went to find Pottle.

'So what did you get?' asked the
psychiatrist.

'I got blessed. In both our
languages,' said Pascoe.

The
house in which Jake Frobisher had died was a large semi-detached
building in monumental granite which age and atmosphere had darkened
to mausoleum grey. Situated on the edge of the Fulford suburb of the
city, its small front and side gardens were sadly neglected by
comparison with others in the road, and the paintwork on the doors
and windows was cracked and flaking too.

Pascoe, ever ready to put two and
two together, read its history as rich tradesman's dwelling slowly
declining towards multiple occupation till it became either by
purchase or long lease wholly a student residence, which was probably
something of an irritant to the inmates of these neighbouring
properties which looked to have reverted to one family occupation as
the area swung back up to something like its original status during
the closing decades of the last century.

There was a line of bell-pushes
on one of the door columns. They didn't give much promise of working.
Pascoe peered down a weathered list of names and made out the name
Frobisher against number 5. He guessed this was unchanged since last
summer when the unfortunate youth had died. He pressed the button,
heard nothing, and was about to try other buttons when the front door
opened and a young man pushed a bicycle out. Pascoe held the door to
assist and got a cheerful, 'Thanks, mate' in exchange.

He went inside.

The smell brought back his
student days, not so long ago in terms of years but, oh, an ache of
lifetimes away in terms of memory. There was curry in it and other
spices, a hint of vegetable decay, a touch of drains, a soupçon
of sweat, a curl of joss-sticks and a wraith of dope. Trapped in the
refrigeration unit of the unheated hall and stairwell, it didn't
assault the nostrils and tear at the throat, but he was glad it
wasn't midsummer.

He went up the stairs and found a
door marked 5 on the first landing.

It was slightly ajar.

He tapped at it and when there
was no reply, he pushed it open and called, 'Hello?'

No reply. In fact, unless there
was someone concealed in the big Victorian wardrobe or, even less
likely, under the unmade futon, there was no possible source of
answer.

He stood in the doorway and tried
to ... what? He'd no idea what he was looking for here, couldn't
begin even to imagine what he might hope to find. OK, a few months
ago a boy had died in this room, but in a house this old, it must be
almost impossible to find a room in which at some point someone
hadn't died.

So what was he expecting? Some
message from the grave? Lines from the poem in the Beddoes collection
open by Sam Johnson's side when he found the lecturer's body came to
Pascoe's mind:

There are no ghosts to raise;
Out of death lead no ways.

So, just a room. He stepped
inside as if to affirm his dismissal of the possibility of any malign
or supernatural influence. His foot caught on something. He stooped
to unhook whatever it was and came up with a flowered bra whose blues
and reds had blended in with the patterned carpet which covered most
of the floor. He saw now there were other female garments strewn on
the crumpled duvet that covered the futon.

Time to retreat and knock on a
couple of doors, see if he could find someone who remembered
Frobisher and was willing to chat.

'Who the fuck are you?' said a
voice behind him.

He turned to see a young woman in
the doorway. She was wearing a Japanese robe and drying her long
blonde hair with a towel. She looked as unpleased as she sounded.

She also looked as if the
slightest wrong move would have her yelling for help.

Pascoe smiled and made a
reassuring gesture, which turned out to be a bad idea as it only drew
attention to the bra he was holding.

I'm sorry’ he said. ‘I
didn't realize that That the room was occupied? That it was occupied
by a female?

He changed direction, heading for
firmer ground.

'I'm a policeman,' he said,
reaching for his warrant card, which gave him an excuse to casually
drop the bra.

He opened the card and held it up
without moving towards her.

She peered at it then said, 'OK,
so you're a cop as well as a pervert. I believe your type gets really
well treated in jail.'

'Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't
have come in here. And I stuck my foot in your bra’

'Well, that's
novel,' she said. That
will
sound interesting in court.'

This was not going well. It was
time to be blunt. He said, 'I don't know if you know, but last summer
there was a death in this house. A student called Frobisher

She said with renewed fury, 'What
the hell are you talking about? What kind of cop are you? Let me see
that warrant again!'

He produced his card once more
and this time took it towards her.

She studied it closely and said,
'Mid-Yorkshire? You're a long way off your ground, aren't you? You
got permission?'

'Yes, of course. DI Rose

‘That wanker!'

'You know him?'

'Oh yes. Useless bastard.'

She pushed by him and went to sit
on a rickety stool in front of a matching dressing table and began to
comb her hair.

'If you know DI Rose, then surely
you must know about Frobisher's death

'Yeah, all about it. But it
wasn't in this room.' 'I'm sorry, it was the name by the front door .
. . ah.' It dawned, so obvious that he felt embarrassed. 'You're
Jake's sister,' he said. 'Sophie.'

'That's right.' 'But this wasn't
his room

'Of course it wasn't. Listen, I
loved my brother and he'd arranged for me to have a room in this
place when I started in the autumn, but you don't imagine I was going
to take the same room he was killed in, do you? That would be real
bloody macabre!'

'Yes, of course, I'm sorry. And
I'm sorry for intruding like this, Miss Frobisher’

'You could be a lot sorrier if I
make a complaint,' she said. Trespass and sniffing around my
underwear, that could be a bad career move.'

'I'll take my chances,' he said,
still uncertain how best to go forward. It would be easy enough to
get her on his side by indicating he was still not satisfied with the
inquest verdict on her brother, but having her proclaim him as an
ally might be an even worse career move than letting her accuse him
of being a pervert.

'So what the fuck do you want,
anyway?' she demanded.

‘Time to show your colours,
Pascoe, he thought.

He said, 'Just now you said, "the
room he was killed in". What did you mean by that?'

She turned to him with the comb
halfway down her long wet tresses.

'What's it to you what I meant?'
she said.

It sounded like a real question,
not a snarl of defiance.

He said carefully, 'I would just
like to be sure myself of the circumstances of your brother's death.'

'Is that right? I need a bit more
than that, Inspector. Sorry, Chief Inspector. I mean, it's
understandable for me, just a silly young woman and Jake's sister to
boot, to get all uptight and hysterical about his death, isn't it? I
bet that's what DI Rose says about me, when he's being polite, that
is. But you, a high-ranking gumshoe from another division, what
brings you around all this time on asking questions?'

The best way of hiding the whole
truth is with a bit of the truth, as any lawyer knows.

Pascoe said, 'One of Jake's
tutors, Sam Johnson, died in suspicious circumstances on my patch
last autumn. At first it seemed possible it was suicide and, because
he'd moved to Mid-Yorkshire rather precipitously after Jake's death,
we had to look at the possibility that there was some connection. You
know, state of mind and that sort of thing. Later we discovered Dr
Johnson had been murdered so the connection with your brother no
longer seemed important. But for some reason I kept on thinking about
his death

It sounded feeble but the girl's
eyes were shining as she said, 'You mean, like Johnson's death turned
out not to be suicide but murder, you think Jake's might be the same?
Not accident but murder? The same person who killed Dr Johnson
maybe?'

'Definitely not that,' said
Pascoe, imagining Trimble's reaction, not to mention Dalziel's, at
seeing the headline STUDENT DEATH PROBE - ANOTHER WORDMAN KILLING?
There really is no way there can be a link between the deaths,
believe me.'

Except of course Roote . . .

But he wasn't going to mention
Roote either which made it a bit difficult to explain when Sophie
Frobisher said irritably, 'So what the hell are you doing here then?'

'I was in Sheffield on another
matter and DI Rose told me about your reservations about the way your
brother died. And about the missing watch. And because I was involved
before, I thought it might be useful to have a chat with you. To tie
up loose ends, so to speak.'

This was even feebler than
before, and provably so inasmuch as it must stick out like a sore
nose that he hadn't come here with the intention of seeing her.

But she seemed satisfied and
said, 'OK, start tyring.'

'Why are you so certain Jake
didn't in fact accidentally overdose in his efforts to keep himself
awake to finish his work assignments?'

She was looking at him obliquely
now through the mirror in which she was combing her hair.

She said, 'It was just . . .
well, you'd have to know Jake. First off, he always seemed so laid
back about his work. I used to come up and stay with him sometimes
and I don't think I ever saw him write a word. It's all sorted, he'd
say. Decks cleared so I can entertain my little sis! As for drugs, he
did the usual stuff, yeah, but he was really careful. Had to know the
ins and outs of where it came from. He was always telling me if I
wanted E's to come to him, not to risk picking up something dodgy
from a guy dealing in a disco bog. He was the last guy on earth to go
over the top by accident.'