shape CID more in his own image. Ellie was still away, her telephone conversation was evenly divided between concern for her mother and contumely for her mother's doctor, and Pascoe did not feel able to break the tacit truce which had evolved around their own personal battle. He'd come to the Central to talk about security after a man with a record of sex offences had been caught hiding in a toilet near the children's ward.
His business finished, he had found himself diverting without forethought to Pottle's office. And when the man had said, 'Yes, amazingly, I do have a moment. How can I help you?' all that had come into his mind was the Mickledore Hall affair. Finally the discussion had run out of steam. There was nothing to do but leave. Instead he heard himself making the crack about smoking. 'I'm sorry,' he said.
'None of my business.' 'That's OK. Nice to have someone concerned about my health. What about you, Peter? Back to full strength?' Pascoe noted the Peter. They weren't exactly friends. Perhaps men whose professions created such instant wariness never could be. But they'd reached a stage of affectionate mutual respect. He tried to remember Pottle's first name. 'Yes, fine. I'm looking after myself for a few days. Ellie and Rose are away. It's her mother; my father-in-law's ill, Alzheimer's, I may have mentioned it to you, he's in a Home now, but the strain on my mother-in-law…' He was explaining too much.
He tried a light finish. 'Anyway, if you're any good at washing up and ironing, I could do with some help.' 'I'd like to help you all I can, Peter,' said Pottle quietly. 'Just precisely what is it you want?'
Perhaps after all the cigarette smoke was functional, thought Pascoe, providing a screen which pushed the crumpled face with the big Einstein moustache back to a confessional distance. He took a deep breath of secondary carcinogens and said, 'I want to be happy again.'
'Again?' 'Like I used to be.' 'You mean in some personal Golden Age when the summers were long and hot and felt like they would never end?' 'No, not childhood. It's adult happiness I'm talking about.'
Pottle looked dubious. 'You know what Johnson used to say about anyone claiming to be happy? Pure cant. The dog knows he is miserable all the time.' 'If the best you can do for me is tell me everyone's in the same boat, maybe I understand why you're smoking yourself to death.'
'Hoity-toity,' said Pottle. 'Tell me what form your unhappiness takes?' 'Lying awake at night worrying about everything. Not being able to see the point of anything. Panic attacks. How am I doing?
Still running with the pack?' 'And what do you think might be the cause of these conditions, or any one of them?' 'I've got to do my own analysis too? Is this because I'm not in BUPA?' 'What are you so angry about?' asked Pottle mildly. 'I'm not angry!' exclaimed Pascoe. 'I'm just irritated… Look, I'm pretty busy at the moment, couldn't we … Oh shit. All right. Here we go. Why am I angry? Well, it's better than being… It's all about control, isn't it? And I'm not in control. At first it was externals, things happen in relationships, like me and Ellie. We're apart, I don't just mean physically, that's just a step towards admission, but for a long time we've been drifting further away. We've both tried, at least I know I've tried, no, that's not fair, she's tried too; and there we are, two intelligent people trying to do something they both want desperately, but not being able to pull it together because… because why? Because what?' 'You tell me,' said Pottle. 'I think she blames me for her friend, you know, that suicide, the woman who jumped from the cathedral. She says she doesn't but I think she does.' 'And you? Do you blame yourself?'
'I did. I blamed myself. I blamed everyone. Then I thought I didn't, I thought I'd got it under control, that it was a choice, and what right had any of us to interfere with that choice, so where was the guilt?'
'That sounds reasonable.' 'Reasonable? ' said Pascoe bitterly. 'I remember reasonable. Just. Reason means control, right? Me, I've lost control of relationships, I've lost control of events, and finally I've lost control of myself. I wake up in the night and the most trivial of worries comes at me like a mad Rottweiler. Or worse, I'm going about my business in the full light of day, and suddenly I'm terrified, the whole physical world becomes a threat, I can't even control my own muscles, for God's sake!' 'Have you seen your doctor?'
'Don't be silly. Do you think he'd pass me fit for work if I spoke to him like I've spoken to you?' 'Perhaps not. Do you think you are fit for work?' 'Fit?' said Pascoe slowly. 'I don't know about fit. But I know I need it. You lot invented occupational therapy, didn't you?'
'No. Like your lot, we don't invent, we observe. And another rule we have in common is, never dismiss the simple explanation. Could be there's a physical origin for at least some of your symptoms. Talk to your doctor. Mention me so that he can refer you back. That way you'll get me on the NHS. Might as well use it while you can, like finishing your pudding on the Titanic.' Pascoe laughed. It felt good. He rose to leave. 'Thanks,' he said. 'And thanks for listening to me about the Mickledore case. Even if it was a cover, it was useful hearing your comments.' 'There you go again, dismissing the simple,' said Pottle, ‘It wasn't just a cover. You could have asked me about this intruder, couldn't you? In fact, that was your obvious excuse for calling on me.
No, you chose the Mickledore case because this inquiry genuinely concerns you. And it interests me too. The woman's state of mind in particular. You know, after all that time inside, it was probably harder to leave jail than stay in. The miracle with Lazarus was not that Jesus brought him back to life, but that he bothered to come.'
'So we should be asking why?' ‘Indeed. And while you're at it, there are two other people with dodgy motivations. This fellow Waggs, and our own dear friend, Andrew Dalziel. You might do worse than ask yourself what makes them run, Inspector.' ' Chief Inspector, if we're getting formal again,' said Pascoe. ‘It's mixing relationships that messes them up,' said Pottle. 'Coming in here, you may sometimes be a patient, but leaving you're always a cop. Take care.' As he drove away, Pascoe felt better than he had done for weeks. It was probably just the illogical euphoria of getting out of the dentist's even though you had another appointment next week. So what? Don't knock.
Relax and enjoy! His radio crackled his call number. He acknowledged and the operator said, 'Message from Sergeant Wield. Ring him as soon as you can.' He stopped at a phone-box and rang HQ. Wield said, 'I tried to get you at the hospital security office but they said you'd left.' 'I'm sorry. I got diverted. What's up?' 'Nothing, just a message for you, and as I'd no idea if you were coming straight back here or not, I thought I'd better put out a call.' The reproachful note again. Pascoe had meant to fill the Sergeant in after Dalziel's departure, but having washed his own hands of the business, it hadn't seemed important. 'So what's the message, Wieldy?' 'A Mr Pollock called. Said to tell you Mrs Friedman was back from holiday and would be taking a drink with him in the Blind Sailor this lunch-time. I thought it might be urgent.' A querying note this time. 'Not really,' said Pascoe. 'But thanks all the same. See you soon.' Percy Pollock.
He heard the soft melancholy voice in his imagination and shuddered.
Thank God he'd washed his hands of all that. Yet as he drove into the town centre, he found Pottle's comments about Kohler and Waggs, and Dalziel too, buzzing round his mind like an invisible fly in a hotel bedroom. He glanced at his watch. Just after midday. Trimble and Hiller couldn't expect him not to eat. And if you can't sleep, chasing flies with a rolled-up newspaper is better than despair. He switched lanes and headed for the Blind Sailor.
THREE
'No, you wicked foreign woman, I am your match.'
Dalziel's first full day in the New World was buzzed in by his bedside phone.
'Hello,' he yawned.
'Mr Dalziel? Sorry to trouble you, sir, but there're a lot of reporters down here at the desk would like to talk with you.'
'Reporters? What the hell do reporters want with me?'
He found out when he got up. Someone had pushed a tabloid paper under his door. He looked at it in disbelief. There was his photograph occupying half of the front page with the banner headline, CROCODILE DALZIEL!
He recalled now that a reporter had turned up with the police last night, probably alerted by their radio. HOTEL GUEST M UGGED would have rated no interest but BRIT TOURIST SOCKS HOTEL MUGGER was worth a couple of lines on a quiet night. Unfortunately the story had rung a bell with someone who'd picked up the news of the airport arrest earlier, and the two stories together had added up to this silly season splash.
He knew how to nip such journalistic nonsense in the bud. You confronted its perpetrator with a menacing jocularity and suggested that life, liberty and the pursuit of Pulitzers required his presence elsewhere.