'Dr Marwood says not. I don't think he'd have told me about it if she had. It's Waterson he wants to get at, not her.'
'Sounds to me very like it's her he wants to get at,' said Dalziel salaciously. 'And what does she say?'
'I didn't ask her, sir,' said Seymour. 'I thought it best to get back here. Also if I'd gone straight back to her room, she'd have known it was the doctor who told me.'
'Give me strength,' said Dalziel. 'Did your mummy tell you always follow doctor's orders, or what? Listen, son, we're not a caring profession, we're a catching profession. It's crime you should worry about, not some black bugger's sensibilities.'
'I don't think his colour is terribly relevant,' interposed Pascoe.
'No? What if he's a yardie boss out to grab the Yorkie bar concession? What are you grinning at, Seymour? Why don't you browse through your Moriarty and see how many offences he's committed? For starters, the sod knew a crime had been attempted, but he kept it to himself. And why did she tell him, anyway? Could be she wanted to oblige hubby and the easiest way to get at the real happy stuff was to screw a doctor. Mebbe Marwood's running scared with all this police interest in the Infirmary so he's trying to get his retaliation in first. Mebbe Waterson's the Mid-Yorks drug king and Mrs Swain was his customer as well as his tart. Didn't any of this cross your mind?'
Seymour, wilting under the assault, said bravely, 'I don't believe that about Marwood and Mrs Waterson. She's really unhappy, I think, and he's genuinely worried about her because he, well, because he's in love with her.'
'Oh aye?' said Dalziel in disgust. 'Forget Moriarty. Bugger off back to your Mills and Boon.'
Seymour, uncertain whether this was his dismissal, looked to Pascoe who jerked his head towards the door. As he went out, the Chief Inspector caught his eye and drooped his lid in the suspicion of a wink.
'You were a bit hard on the boy,' said Pascoe after the door had shut.
'You reckon? You rate him, don't you? Needs stiffening up if you ask me.'
'You make him a bit nervous, that's all,' said Pascoe.
'Me?' said Dalziel in amazement. 'Bloody hell.
Now I've heard everything. Only thing that's making Seymour nervous is getting used to the rhythm method likely. Young Bernadette's clean, by the way.'
'Clean?' said Pascoe, scandalized. 'What do you mean? AIDS? And how . . . ?'
'Don't be daft. No, you weren't around, were you? When he got himself engaged and it dawned on me this thing wasn't going to burn itself out, I passed Miss McCrystal's details on to Special Branch. Well, it wouldn't help his career if it turned out his in-laws were card-carrying Provos, would it? But it was OK. They looked at the family up, down and sideways, and though they'll sing 'The Wearing o' the Green' with the worst of them, it's Guinness talk not gun talk.'
'I'm sure Seymour will be delighted to have Special Branch's approval,' said Pascoe stonily.
'Oh, they don't approve. In their eyes, any Irish connection's a bad connection, but I told 'em to sod off and get back to scratching John McCormack records. So, what do you make of this stuff your protege’s brought back?'
'I don't know. I haven't met Mrs Waterson or this doctor. Seymour obviously thought they were straight. What did you make of them?'
'I only saw 'em briefly, I was more concerned with checking Wieldy was all right. This Marwood, that's twice he's tried to drop Waterson in it. Twice he's double-crossed the woman by breaking her confidence.'
'All's fair in love and war.'
'Aye, but which is this?'
'You weren't serious about him being a drug-pusher, were you?' said Pascoe.
'Because he's a doctor, you mean? So were Pritchard and Palmer and Crippen and Cream! You have a look at him, Peter. And do a bit of straight talking with the woman. You should have gone yourself in the first place. Seymour's too susceptible. One thing in his report makes sense, though. Here where the woman said if Waterson was staying with a friend, she'd have long legs and blonde hair. She could be right. Let's try to get a line on his love-life before Mrs Swain, shall we?'
'He's beginning to look a lot better bet as the pusher, isn't he?' said Pascoe.
'You reckon? Why?'
Pascoe started ticking off arguments on his fingers.
'One, Mrs Swain was a user and Swain seems in the clear on that. Two, he tried to get his wife to supply hospital dope. Three, it would explain his reluctance to put himself under a spotlight by answering questions about the shooting, even though it was . . . looks like an accident.'
He stood before Dalziel with his three fingers raised like a primary teacher's visual aid. The fat man reached out and took hold of his forefinger.
'Nice,' he said, 'except that, one, he volunteered a statement when he could have kept stumm and pleaded shock which in his case seemed a lot more likely than with Swain. Two, his up and down behaviour makes him sound more like a user than a pusher, though I know the two aren't exclusive. And three, he was touching his wife for a few quid last night, and I've not come across many poor pushers.'
With each argument he forced one of Pascoe's fingers back into his palm, leaving him with a clenched fist and wondering where he could best use it.
Then Dalziel laughed and said, 'But you may well be right, Peter. One thing, accident or not, we've got plenty of reason now to go full pelt after Mr Gregory bloody Waterson!'
'Yes, sir,' said Pascoe, glad to see that the dullness which had descended on his chief as a result of Eden Thackeray's visit seemed to be lightening. 'One other thing, though, about those letters . . .'
'Not those bloody letters again! I wish I'd just burnt the things. You mustn't let yourself be distracted from the
