distant shore.
The first hospital gate Pascoe reached had an EXIT ONLY sign.
Pascoe turned in and roared up the drive toward the looming gray building.
There was a parking space vacant next to the main entrance. It was marked CHIEF EXEC. Pascoe swung into it, narrowly missing a reversing Jag XJS. He got out, slammed his door shut, and set off running. Through the Jag's open window a man called angrily, 'Hey, you. That's my spot.'
Over his shoulder Pascoe called, 'Fuck you!' without slackening his pace.
He'd been here before, knew the layout well. Ignoring the elevator lift, he ran up the stairs to the third floor. It required no effort. Far from panting, it was as if his body had given up the need for breathing. There was a waiting room at the end of the children's ward. Through the open door he saw Ellie. He went in and she came to his arms.
He said, 'How is she?'
'They're doing tests. They think it might be meningitis.'
'Oh, Christ. Where is she?'
'First left, but they say we should wait till they tell us…'
'Tell us what? That it's too late?'
'Peter, please. Dick and Jill are here…'
For the first time he noticed the Purlingstones, clinging together on a sofa. The man tried a smile which made as little impression on his tense face as a damp match on concrete.
Pascoe didn't even try.
Breaking away from Ellie's grasp, he went out of the waiting room and straight through the first door on the left.
It was a small side ward with only two beds. In one he saw the blond head of little Zandra Purlingstone. In the other, Rosie.
There were doctors and nurses standing round. Ignoring them he went to the bedside and took his daughter's hand.
'Rosie, love,' he said. 'It's Daddy. I'm here, darling. I'm here.'
For a fraction of a second it seemed to him the eyelashes flickered and those dark, almost black eyes registered recognition. Then they vanished, and there was nothing to show that she was even breathing.
Someone had him by the arm. A voice was saying, 'Please, you must go. You have to wait outside. Please, let us do our job.'
Then Ellie's voice saying, 'Come on, Peter. For Rosie's sake, come on.'
He was back in the corridor. The door closed. His daughter vanished from his sight.
He said to Ellie, 'She recognized me. She really did. Just for a second. She knows I'm here. She'll be all right.'
'Yes,' said Ellie. 'Of course she will.'
Two men were coming along the corridor. One wore the hospital security uniform, the other an elegantly cut lightweight linen suit.
The suit said, 'That's the fellow. Damn cheek.'
The uniform said, 'Excuse me, sir, but Mr. Lillyhowe says you've left your car in his reserved place.'
Pascoe looked at them blankly for a long moment, then said slowly, 'I'm not sure…'
'Well I'm absolutely sure,' snapped the suit. 'It was you. And you swore at me-'
'No,' said Pascoe, balling his fist. 'I mean, I'm not sure which of you to hit first.'
The suit took a step back, the uniform a half step.
Ellie moved swiftly into the space created.
'For God's sake,' she said crisply to the suit. 'Our daughter's in there…'
The crispness faded, crumbled. She took a deep breath and tried again.
'Our daughter's in… Rosie's in…'
To her surprise she found the world had run out of words. And out of space, except that little room which held her daughter's life. And above all it had run out of time.
She sat in a waiting room, staring at a poster which proclaimed the comforts of the Patients' Charter. Peter was there, too, but after a few fruitless attempts they made no effort to speak. Why speak when all the words were done? The Purlingstones weren't there. Perhaps they were in another room like this one. Perhaps they were taking a miraculously recovered Zandra home. Either way, she didn't care. Their grief, their joy, was nothing to her. Not now. Not in this helpless, hopeless, endless now.
Something happened. A noise. Peter's mobile phone. Was time starting again?
He put it to his ear. Mouthed something at her. Dee. Ell. Dalziel. Fat Andy. She remembered him as in a dream, so surfeit swell'd, so old, and so profane. Peter was saying to her, 'You okay?' She nodded. Why not? He said, 'I'll go outside.'
In the corridor Pascoe put the phone to his ear again, a gesture somewhat superfluous with Dalziel bellowing full blast, 'Hello! HELLO! You there? Sod this bloody useless thing.'
'Yes, I'm here,' said Pascoe.
'Oh, aye? Where's here? Down a sodding coal mine?'
'At the Central Hospital,' said Pascoe. 'Rosie's here. They say she may have meningitis.'
There was a silence, then the sound of a tremendous crash, as from a fist hitting something hard, and Dalziel's voice declared savagely, 'I'll not thole it!'
Who, or what, he was addressing was unclear. Another silence, much briefer, then he spoke again in his more everyday matter-of-fact tone.
'Pete, she'll be okay. Right little toughie that one, like her mam. She'll make it, no bother.'
It was completely illogical but somehow the blunt assurance, with its absence of breathless sympathy and request for details, did more for Pascoe's spirits than all the medical staff's qualified reassurances.
He said, 'Thank you. She's… unconscious.'
He found he couldn't say in a coma.
'Best thing,' said Dalziel with a Harley Street certainty. 'Time out to build up strength. Pete, listen, owt I can do, owt at all…'
Again, no conventional offer of help this. Pascoe guessed that if he hinted the hospital wasn't doing enough, the chief executive would find himself in an interview room, being made an offer he couldn't refuse.
'That's good of you,' he said. 'Was there some special reason you ringing, sir?'
'No, nowt. Well, in fact we've got someone in the frame. I'm on my way to Danby now. Likely it'll be nowt. Listen, Pete, forget the job
… well, no need to tell you that. But is there owt you were doing that I should know about and no other bugger can tell me?'
'Don't think so,' said Pascoe. 'Nobby Clark can fill you in on… oh, hang on, I've made an appointment to see Jeannie Plowright at Social Services at nine tomorrow morning. It's about Mrs. Lightfoot, the grandmother. There's stories about Benny being seen, Clark's got details, and I thought the old lady's the only person he'd want to make contact with, if she's alive, which I doubt, and if he's here, which I doubt even more. Straw clutching. Probably simplest to cancel it if you've got a better straw to clutch.'
'No, we'll leave it till I see how things are looking. Pete, I'll be in touch. Remember, owt I can do. Luv to Ellie. Tell her…'
For once the Dalziel word-horde seemed to be empty.
'Yes,' said Pascoe, 'I'll tell her.'
He stood for a moment, reluctant to move, as if the clocks had stopped and his movement would start them ticking again. A nurse passed him, paused, looked back, and said, 'Excuse me, sir, no mobiles in here. They can set up interference.'
'Interference?' said Pascoe. 'Yes. Of course. Sorry.'
He went back into the waiting room and put his arm round Ellie's shoulders.
'Andy sends his best. He says she'll be okay.'
'He does? Oh, good. That's it, then. Let's all go home.'
'Come on,' he chided. 'Who'd you rather have being optimistic? The pope or Fat Andy?'
