'As well as can be expected.'
'Can you sort out his patients without fuss?' asked Pascoe. 'You realize how important it is to play things cool.'
'Important for Jack Shorter, you mean?' she said.
Pascoe looked at her curiously.
'What's wrong with that?' he said.
'I've no time for professional mystique and solidarity, Mr Pascoe,' she said. 'But I'll see to the patients.'
She left and Pascoe returned to the desk.
'What's that then?' demanded Burkill. 'Stage one of the cover-up?'
'Look, if you're not going to talk to me, do it right, will you?' snapped Pascoe. 'Keep your stupid mouth shut.'
It was sheer irritation, but in the event it turned out to be a subtle psychological ploy.
'You can't talk to me like that!' said Burkill.
'Why not? I'm just talking. I'm not trying to knock your stupid head off.'
'Listen,' said Burkill leaning across the desk and wagging a forefinger at Pascoe who was relieved that at least one fist was now unclenched. 'I'm having my breakfast, right? I'm just finishing when the wife tells me. This bastard's been at our Sandra, she tells me! At breakfast. At bloody breakfast!'
To Pascoe it seemed almost as if the timing of the news had upset Burkill as much as the news itself, but he kept the observation to himself.
T thought there was something up. She'd been very restless that night. Turns out Sandra had come out with it on Sunday night when I was down at the Club.'
'Why didn't she tell you on your return?' enquired Pascoe.
'Said she didn't want to tell me when I'd been drinking. Five or six pints, you call that drinking? I suppose she were right, though. You never know, I might have done summat daft last night.'
'Instead of which…' prompted Pascoe.
'I wanted to go right round to his house, there and then, and have it out. But the wife said no. She said I had to think about it, work something out. I were right upset, you can imagine. I went off to work
…'
'Where's that?'
'Blengdale's,' said Burkill. 'I'm yard foreman there. I couldn't work for thinking about it. I told Charlie Heppelwhite. He lives next door and we drive to work together. I've known Charlie for years. I asked what he thought on it.'
'And he advised you to come round here and assault Mr Shorter.'
Burkill considered.
'No. Charlie said that buggers like that needed doctoring, but it was his boy, Clint, who got really mad. He's been like an elder brother to our Sandra.
He was so angry he was going to set off by himself to see Shorter. Well, we didn't want that. It might have meant trouble. He's a wild un when he's roused, young Clint. So we decided we'd all come round and have it out.'
'Why not go to the police?'
'Look!' said the man. 'It was early days for the police. I wanted to hear what Shorter had to say for himself first.'
'It's getting clearer,' said Pascoe. 'You came here partly to preserve the peace, and partly to protect Mr Shorter's right to put his side of the matter. Well, in that case, I'm sorry I interrupted you. If I'd known what you were up to, I'd have stood there and watched the three of you kick him about a bit longer.'
'I knew it was no good talking to you,' grunted Burkill. 'What do you want me to do? I go in there and ask him to step outside for a chat. He tells me to bugger off. I don't want to talk in front of other people, but I see it's got to be that way, so I ask him straight out, what's he been doing to our Sandra. He goes bloody berserk, tries to push us out of the room. I don't like being pushed. It turns into a bit of a punch-up. What do you expect? Have you got any kids, mister? What'd you do?'
'Mr Burkill, we'll have to talk with your daughter, you realize that? How old is she?'
'Thirteen. On Saturday she was thirteen. What a bloody birthday present, eh?'
'And what precisely did she tell you had happened here?'
'She told the wife that…'
'No,’ interrupted Pascoe. 'What did she tell you? You spoke to your daughter, I presume?'
'Aye. I went up to her room.'
'And what did you say?'
'I said something like, Sandra, is it right what your mam tell me?'
'And she answered?'
'She said, yes dad.'
'And you said?'
'I said nowt. That were enough for me,' said Burkill.
Pascoe covered his face with his hands.
'Oh God,' he said. 'And on that evidence you come round here and start knocking hell out of a stranger?'
Burkill stood up and both fists were balled again.
'You've decided, haven't you? You've bloody decided. I knew you were one of his mates. So I'm wrong, I'm in trouble, and he's going to get off with it? Let me tell you, mister, it doesn't work like that any more, there'll be no cover-ups here, no, not if you were ten times the man I think you are!'
The door burst open as though hit by a sledge-hammer.
'There's a lot of noise in here,' said Dalziel, entering the room. 'Just calm it down a bit, Brian. They don't want to hear you in Newcastle.'
'Oh hello, Mr Dalziel,' said Burkill. 'Thank Christ you’re here. This sod's trying to cover up for his mate and…'
'Brian,' said Dalziel mildly, 'you refer like that just one more time to Inspector Pascoe or any of my officers and there won't be enough left of you to cover up. Now sit down and shut up. Inspector.'
He jerked his head at Pascoe who followed him out of the door.
'You're having a busy morning,' said Dalziel. 'This isn't one for you, you know that?'
'I was here,' protested Pascoe.
'That's the trouble. As soon as I heard the name Shorter, I knew I'd best get down here myself. What's happened?'
Quickly Pascoe filled him in.
'And you've been doing what? Interrogating Burkill?'
'Just general stuff till someone turned up,' said Pascoe.
'Oh aye. So general that he's crying police cover-up already!'
Pascoe didn't answer. He was all too aware of the messy inadequacies of his questioning of Burkill.
'You know Burkill, sir?' he asked.
'From way back.'
'Officially?' said Pascoe, suddenly alert.
'You mean, has he been in trouble? No, there's no way out for your mate there. Burkill's not a good man to antagonize, but he's honest, industrious and well thought of. He runs the shop floor at Blengdale's like a Panzer division. No half-baked union disputes there about who turns what screw. No, you do what Burkill says or you sling your hook.'
'Is that where you know him from?' asked Pascoe.
'Not me,' said Dalziel. 'I've nowt to do with Blengdale's. No, Bri's other great interest is Westgate Social Club. He's lived on the estate for years, helped build the Club up from scratch and he's been concert secretary there as long as I can remember. I've done a bit of drinking there in my time, that's how I know him. No West End finesse, but by God, the buggers who perform there know they'd best put on a good turn, else they won't get paid! I'll have a word with him now. I speak the same language.'
'I'll get out of your way then,' said Pascoe rather sulkily.
