view of being the hub of the Centre. From here you could get to anywhere else within, or head for either the underground car park or main shopping precinct without. Even the fatal loo itself was situated in a corridor running between the mezzanine and a landing from which stairs ran up and down to the rest of the Centre. Dalziel had put his finger on the problem straight off. “Place is a fucking maze,” he’d said. “You’d need to be a trained rat to find your way to the cheese round here.”
Talking of Dalziel, there was no sign of him. Probably got impatient and went in to hurry the sodding quack along.
“Did you see Councillor Steel at all?” said Pascoe.
“I think I might have noticed him, his bald head, I mean, going down the stairs a bit in front of us, but I couldn’t swear to it,” said Bowler. “I was, you know…”
“Yes, deep in conversation with Miss Pomona,” said Pascoe. “How long was it before your own call of nature grew strong enough to drag you away from her?”
“Couple of minutes, no, probably a bit more. Sorry,” said Bowler, clearly irritated at his own vagueness. “Rye went off to pick up her coat and things that she’d left in the reference library…”
“Ah. Did she go down the corridor with the toilet in it, by any chance?”
“No, she went that way,” said Bowler, pointing to a door inscribed STAFF ONLY. “It would be quicker, I suppose.”
“And you…?”
“Like I say, I pootered around the book shop for a couple of minutes…”
“Or maybe a bit more?”
“Or maybe a bit more. Then I thought I’d take the chance to have a leak and I went to the toilet…”
“Why that one?” said Pascoe. “If you were down there by the book shop, there’s another Gents, very clearly signed, just outside.”
“Well,” said Bowler uncomfortably, “to tell the truth, I’d just seen Mr. Dalziel going in there…”
Pascoe laughed out loud. He could recall a time shortly after his arrival in Mid-Yorkshire when he’d found himself standing alongside the terrifying figure of the Fat Man in a urinal, quite unable-despite a very full bladder and the usually mimetically encouraging sound of a vigorous flow hitting the next basin-of producing a drop. It wasn’t displeasing to see that today’s laid-back youngsters weren’t entirely free of such hang-ups.
“So you went down the corridor,” said Pascoe. “Anyone else in sight, either end?”
“Definitely not, sir,” said Bowler, pleased to be on firm ground at last.
“And you went inside and saw Councillor Steel,” said Pascoe. “Well, that’s twice you’ve told me. You should be word perfect for Mr. Dalziel. Anything else you’d like to add?”
“Don’t think so. Except, well, you don’t think this could have anything to do with these Wordman killings, do you, sir?”
“At the moment there’s nothing to suggest it has,” said Pascoe. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason really. Just, well, when you’ve had three deaths and there comes a fourth…”
“That’s the kind of mistake it’s easy to make,” said Pascoe. “The Wordman murders are one case, this is another. Try to put them together without evidence and all you do is risk buggering up both investigations. OK?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.”
“Good lad. One more thing just in case the super asks. You said you’d noticed him going into the other loo. When you found the body, didn’t you think of getting hold of him? He must have still been in the vicinity.”
“It did cross my mind, sir,” said Bowler. “But by the time I’d tried resuscitation and called up assistance and alerted the Centre security staff, he was probably long gone, whereas I knew you and the sarge were still up here and I just thought it would be best to be sure.”
Meaning that, uncertain he’d done everything by the book and aware that he was a little shook up, he didn’t fancy running breathless down the street to put himself at the judgment of Fat Andy.
“I think perhaps it might be simpler to say nothing about seeing the super going into the other Gents,” said Pascoe. “So far as you knew, he was long gone. Ah, that sounds like him now.”
The Gents’ door opened and a short ochrous-complexioned man who looked as if he’d rather be playing golf, for which he was indeed dressed, emerged, followed by Dalziel.
“And that’s it, Doc, he’s dead? Well, I’m sorry I interrupted your game. How’d it go, by the way?”
“As a matter of fact I was dormy three against my revolting brother-in-law whom I haven’t beaten for five years and he was in a bunker and I was on the green when my pager went.”
“Moral victory then.”
“In dealings with my brother-in-law, there is no moral dimension. The game is void. As to the unfortunate councillor, I’m sorry, I cannot tell you what I do not know. He was killed, certainly within the past hour and probably as a result of a blow at the base of his skull from a narrow sharp weapon. The wounds to the top of his head are slight and appear more likely to have been inflicted after rather than before the fatal wound, though for what purpose I cannot even speculate. You must await the post mortem for a more considered view. Now, I bid you good day.”
“Well, thank you, Dr. Caligari,” said Dalziel to his retreating back. “DC Bowler, nice of you to drop by. Step in here and show me what things looked like afore you and every other bugger who came near him started chucking poor Stuffer around.”
Bowler went through the toilet door. He avoided looking down at the figure on the floor, uncomfortably aware that Dalziel was watching him closely in the mirror which ran along the facing wall.
“He was slumped down in front of the washbasins, slightly over to his right side. I got the impression he must have been washing himself when he was attacked.”
“Oh aye? That a wild guess or do you hear voices?”
“No, sir. I noticed his hands were wet and his face too, I noticed that when I tried to give him the kiss of life.”
“Aye, I heard about that. So, he’d had a pee, washed his hands and was splashing a bit of water on his face. What do you reckon happened next?”
“The door opened, the assailant came in. It’s only two or three paces across the floor, and with the councillor washing his face, the assailant could have been right up behind him before he looked up and saw him in the mirror. Then it would be too late.”
“Might have made no difference anyway,” said Pascoe. “You see someone come into a public toilet, you don’t think, That guy’s going to attack me, not unless he’s foaming at the mouth and carrying a bloodstained axe. Something the size of that burin, you wouldn’t even notice he had it in his hand.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bowler. “That was something I’ve been thinking about. A weapon like that directed against the head, from what I recall of anatomy, you’d have to be very expert or very lucky to kill somebody or even incapacitate them with a single blow.”
He paused and Dalziel said impatiently, “Come on, lad, don’t arse about like Sir Peter Quimsby, make your point.”
“Well, it might make sense if we assume this was unpremeditated, I mean, like someone wandered in here who just happened to have a burin in his hand and he saw Steel stooping down and thought, Hello, I think I’ll have a stab at him. But our perp didn’t just happen to have a burin, he had to steal it. That was risky in itself. I mean, who knows, by the time we interview everybody who was in the gallery, we might find somebody who saw something suspicious around Jude Illingworth’s display, not suspicious enough to cry, Stop thief! but something they recall when we start asking questions.”
“Perhaps he didn’t steal it as a weapon but for some other reason,” said Pascoe. “And it just came in handy when he suddenly decided to attack Councillor Steel.”
“Yes, sir, possibly, though on a scale of improbabilities, I’d say
…not that I mean it’s not possible, only…”
“Nay, we don’t stand on ceremony in murder investigations,” interrupted Dalziel. “If you think the DCI’s talking crap, just spit it out.”
“I wouldn’t quite say that…”
“Well, I would. I think you’ve got the right of it, lad. Chummy made up his mind to stiff old Stuffer, he wanted a weapon and the burin was the best he could come up with in a hurry.”
