coming into the hospital earlier. She was upset, needed someone to spill it out to, and I was handy. She probably regrets it now.'
'Yes, she probably does,' said Wield ironically. 'So what did she say?'
'She told me that Waterson had rung her earlier and asked her to meet him in the Sally. He said he needed money and could she bring some. He turned up late so they didn't have much time to talk. In any case when she handed over what cash she could get together, he said it wasn't enough and looked set for one of his explosions so she got out quick.'
'Leaving Waterson inside?'
'Yes. And I thought things might be resolved by getting you round there to pick him up. All right, if you wanted to bang him up for a while, that wouldn't bother me either. But I seem to have underestimated your capacity to cock things up.'
'Yes, sir,' said Wield. 'Thanks for your call anyway.'
'Any time.' The doctor hesitated, then said, 'Look, I'd prefer Mrs Waterson didn't know it was me . . .'
Wield grimaced. For his part he felt the doctor deserved the promise of confidentiality, but there was no way of getting Dalziel to rubber stamp humanitarian gestures.
'We'll try to be discreet, sir,' he said. 'But she will have to be interviewed, you understand that?'
'I suppose so,' said Marwood unhappily. 'But it'll be you doing the questioning, will it? You'll keep her out of that fat bastard Dalziel's clutches?'
'No, sorry, can't guarantee that,' said Wield, shaking his head. The resulting pain was like an affirmation of his wisdom at not making that kind of promise. And affirmation even stronger was unsuspectedly close at hand.
The door opened and the pretty Pakistani looked in.
'Sorry, but there's someone out here . . .'
She was gently but irresistibly eased aside and over the threshold tripped the fat bastard himself. He looked from the nurse to Marwood and back again. Then, advancing on Wield, he said, 'Dr Livingstone, I presume? What in Christ's name have the natives been doing to you?'
CHAPTER TWO
From each according to his ability: to each according to his need.
Dalziel had once stated this as the basis of his allocation of CID duties during an investigation. Pascoe had not cared to inquire if its source was a conscious or unconscious irony. But the morning after Waterson's second vanishing act and Wield's first gay assault, he had to admit the fat man seemed to have got it just about right.
He, Dalziel, had undertaken to grill the landlord of the Pilgrim's Salvation, and it was a universally acknowledged fact that grilling was hot and thirsty work. Seymour had been despatched to see if his boyish charm could get more out of Pamela Waterson than the Superintendent had managed the previous night during an interview inhibited by the pressure of her duties and the presence of Ellison Marwood.
And he, Peter Pascoe, husband of a woman who was constantly urging upon him the need for more pulses and bran in his carnivorous diet, found himself in a health food shop.
The clue which had drawn him here was the car number Wield had noted. A computer check revealed the owner of the blue Peugeot estate to be a Mr Harold Park of 27a String Lane. This was an off-city-centre street whose buildings were listed as being of architectural interest, though it was hard to imagine to whom. There was no visible 27a but 27 was a single-fronted, grimy-windowed shop called Food For Thought, sole prop. Gordon Govan. Pascoe entered and found himself at the end of a short queue of three monks being served by a shadowy figure with an accent like Billy Connolly with a bad cold. Finally the brown-robed figures left, lugging several hundred-weight of assorted seeds and grasses. Pascoe could only hope they bred budgies. He stepped up to the counter and the accent was joined by a pair of bright blue eyes and a tangle of gingery beard.
'Mr Govan, is it?' said Pascoe. 'Excuse me, but I'm looking for 27a.'
'Is that so?' mused the Scot, rolling non-existent r's.
'It is indeed. A Mr Harold Park.'
'You don't say?'
Pascoe sighed and produced his warrant card.
'The polis, is it? You should have said. I get some really weird characters in here.'
'Like monks?'
'Och, the wee brownies, you mean? Aye, we do a lot of business with the religious communities. They say it's in the Bible, but I reckon that stuff damps the libido, and that'd be a kind of advantage in their situation, I'm thinking. You know, a bit of roughage is cheaper than a bit of rough. Paul's Epistle to the Aberdonians.'
This threw an entirely new light on Ellie's leguminous evangelism. Pascoe switched it off and said, 'Mr Park? Can you help?'
'Aye. 27a's a wee flat above the shop. You reach it up the entry round the side. But he's no' there just now. He's a traveller, you see. Sometimes a whole week or more goes by without sight nor sound of him.'
'What's his line?'
'Veterinary products, I'm thinking. Pills for poodles, that kind of thing. Can I take a message?'
'You can ask him to contact me when he gets back. Here's my card. But I'll probably call back again anyway.'
'Aye, you'd be wise to do that,' said Govan, accompanying him to the door. 'Some people don't rush to help the polis, know what I mean? Me, I like to keep a good relationship going. Never know when we might need each other, eh? Man, I hope you've not far to your car. It looks like coming on rain. Or worse.'
It was indeed a cold snarling sort of day and in the east beyond the just visible cathedral tower a swelling bank of cloud threatened the snow this mild winter had so far spared them.
