but the rest was . . . the rest was . . . mystery . . .
A nurse, needing to confirm what needed no confirmation, summoned a doctor. It was Marwood. He made to draw the sheet over the dead man's face but Mrs Stringer said, 'No, he couldn't thole being covered up.'
Marwood nodded and moved away. Pascoe said, 'Mrs Stringer, Shirley, I'm sorry. He was a good man.' Mrs Stringer said tearfully, 'Thank you, he were,' but Shirley only returned his gaze blankly. He went after Marwood and found him outside the door.
'All roads lead you lot to the Infirmary, it seems,' said the doctor.
'Too many of them,' said Pascoe. 'How's Mrs Waterson by the way?'
'Looking like she ought to be one of her own patients,' said Marwood. 'You making any progress, or is that too much to ask?'
'No.'
'No, it's not? Or no progress?'
'Both, I fear,' said Pascoe.
'At least you're honest.'
'A good quality in a policeman and in a doctor too, wouldn't you say?'
'Depends on the patient. And on the suspect, I'd guess. Be healthy.'
Pascoe watched him walk away. He had sensed an ambiguity in the man's inquiry into progress in the hunt for Waterson. It figured that a man in love with a woman whose husband was missing might have mixed feelings about his reappearance. Yet earlier Marwood had been keen to the point of snouting to see the police get their hands on Waterson.
Suddenly Pascoe thought of Wield and the car which had slowed down as he was being beaten up by Jason Medwin. He had been very sceptical of the sergeant's attempts to implicate Swain, but now it occurred to him that there had been someone else who knew of the Sally rendezvous that evening.
Marwood.
He had rung Wield with the tip-off. What if then he had gone along himself to see the fun? And instead of the expected arrest, he had seen Wield diverted and Waterson on the point of getting away, so he had acted himself and offered Waterson a lift and . . .
And what? Here the hypothesis petered out. Marwood had come on duty by the time Wield got taken to the Infirmary, so that left very little time for . . . anything.
But how much time did it take for . . . anything? Especially for a doctor?
And here was a classic explanation of that ambiguity he had sensed.
A man, a woman, and a body. Only if the body is found will the woman feel free to give herself to the man. But if the body is found and something in the manner of death points at the man, then he loses both the woman and his liberty.
'Mr Pascoe!'
It was Swain, obviously addressing him for the second or third time.
'I'm sorry. I was miles away.'
'So I gathered. I would like some information. What is the procedure for laying a complaint against a member of the police force?'
Pascoe was jerked back to full alertness. Swain, he observed, seemed to have made a rapid recovery from the trauma of Stringer's death and looked quite his old self again.
'Depends what you have in mind, sir,' said Pascoe.
'What I have in mind is to do whatever is necessary to prevent that creature Dalziel from harassing and maligning me.'
'I'm sure the Superintendent has no intention of causing you offence,' lied Pascoe. 'I know he can be a little heavy-handed at times. It's really just a matter of style . .’
'Telling me I murdered my wife and deliberately turned the JCB over on Stringer, that's style? You heard what Arnie said? I hope you made a note of it. It was an accident, a tragic accident. But what's the use of talking to you? Another five stone and fifteen years and you'll just be the same as Dalziel. I'll leave it to my lawyer. Once he gets to work, you won't be able to close ranks tight enough to hide that fat bastard!'
He turned and strode away. For the first time Pascoe noticed that Shirley Appleyard had come out into the corridor and was standing a few feet away.
'Is it right what he said, that Mr Dalziel reckons he might have deliberately killed Dad?' she said.
'I don't honestly think so,' said Pascoe. 'Mr Dalziel sometimes likes to stir things up, that's all. Besides, what your father said at the end seems to make it clear it was an accident.'
'I suppose so. Pity he couldn't have managed a few words for his family, though,' she said with a surface irony that didn't altogether conceal real pain.
'How's your mother?' asked Pascoe.
'She wants to sit there a bit longer. But I've got to shoot off now and see to my boy. A neighbour's looking after him. At least I'll see a bit more of him now.'
'Why? I mean, your job . . .'
'I'll not stay. I only took it in the first place 'cos Dad fixed it up and I couldn't bear for him to go on about me being a layabout like he did when Tony told him to stuff his job. But I've never liked Mr Swain much, and anyroad
