the will overturned. Which is why I need to get Chakravarty to come clean. I’m sure there’s something there. I thought I was getting somewhere with him, I laid all my cards on the table, then suddenly he went all coy on me, said he hadn’t got anything to tell me and, even if he had, patient confidentiality would be his watchword. That was the giveaway, I thought. Why say that unless there really was something?”
“So what you’re saying is that you think this Chakravarty guy might know something about Pal Maciver’s health which could support the widow’s assertion that he was off his head when he changed the will?”
“You’ve got it! Look, could you lean on Chakravarty? Don’t mention you’ve been talking to me, though. That bastard wields a lot of power, he could scupper my chances of getting established in the hospital if he set his mind to it. Could you do that for me?”
“I’m not sure I could,” said Wield. “And I’m not sure I should. I mean, what would my reason be?”
“Because you want to know why he topped himself, don’t you? What if he had an inoperable brain tumour? That’s the beauty of it, you see. You get your motive for suicide. Sue-Lynn gets her case for contesting the will. It’s perfect!”
“We’re talking about a dead man here,” said Wield coldly. “Not only that but I’ve seen the post-mortem report. No mention of a tumour.”
“There wouldn’t be. No one would be looking for it and, if they did, where would they look? Did you see the state of the poor bastard’s head? I did, close up. It was fragmented. There was more brain on the desk and floor than there was left in his skull, and I can’t see you lot sweeping it all up and putting it back in a plastic bag like chicken giblets.”
Wield had heard enough. He stood up.
“Dr Lockridge,” he said, “I have been asked to tell you that until such time as your behaviour and involvement, direct and indirect, in this case has been carefully considered, you are suspended from the official police list of attending physicians. You may be formally interviewed at a later date. In any event you will certainly be hearing from the Police Authority at some time in the future. Thank you for your co-operation.”
It was like dumping a bucket of cold water over the man.
And as he drove away, Wield admitted to himself with some surprise that the only thing he’d have enjoyed more was actually dumping a bucket of cold water over him.
No one spoke in the car on the journey to Cothersley Hall, but Shirley Novello’s head was abuzz with excitement. She knew it was only her gender that had placed her here, but for once it didn’t matter. When the brass invite a WDC to join them in talking to a woman, it means that things are getting serious, and even if her main function turned out to be escorting Mrs Kafka to the bog or standing over her as she changed her clothes, Novello knew that involvement in the serious was the way to the stars.
She also knew that there was something more personal at issue here between Dalziel and Pascoe and felt a natural curiosity to find out the truth of it.
In response to Dalziel’s warning that he was coming, the gates of Cothersley Hall stood open. Novello drank it all in, the imposing entrance, the tree-lined drive, the extensive grounds whose dewy grass was still chiffoned with mist as the spring sun’s weak warmth got to work, and finally the house itself, the kind of place she only knew through the kind of heritage movie she hated. Moscow House had been bad enough, but at least there were other buildings within screaming distance and five minutes’ brisk walk would bring you in sight of some shops. What kind of woman would choose to live out here by herself, or even with a fellow, which, bed apart, Novello regarded as being to all other intents and purposes, alone?
The door of the house opened as they got out of the car and Kay appeared at the top of the steps in a bathrobe. Her hair was just a touch dishevelled. The distraught wife, thought Pascoe. But not overplayed.
She came down the steps to greet them.
“Andy, thank you for coming. And you, Mr Pascoe.”
She expressed no curiosity about nor interest in Novello.
Dalziel put his arm around Kay’s shoulders and urged her back up the steps into the house. Pascoe and Novello read the legend on the back of the robe, then exchanged glances, like Sweden and Switzerland, each vying for the greater neutrality.
Novello thought, Is he going to suggest a tour of the grounds while that pair cosy up to each other inside?
Pascoe thought, Two seconds here and she’s got him performing like a dancing bear!
He said, “Let’s get inside.”
They caught up with the odd couple in the spacious room he’d sat in the previous day.
Kay Kafka was apologizing for her dishabille, occasioned, she explained, by the fact that since waking this morning she’d been attempting with increasing concern to contact her husband. It occurred to Pascoe that she might have thought Dalziel would turn up alone, in which case the loosely tied bathrobe could have been intended as a useful distraction. The impression he got of there being nothing beneath it certainly distracted him. Then he dismissed the suspicion. Anyone as bright as Kay Kafka would long since have sussed out that she had more chance of diverting a charging rhino with an amusing anecdote than taking the Fat Man’s eye off the ball with a glimpse of groin.
“I’m sorry to have troubled you with this, Andy,” she concluded. “I didn’t know who else to turn to.”
“You did right, luv. Look, there’s probably nowt to worry about, simple explanation. I’ve set the wheels in motion. Why don’t you go and get yourself dressed while I check if there’s any news. Young Ivor here can make us all a nice cup of tea.”
Fuck that! thought Novello angrily. But when Kay Kafka made for the door she found herself meekly following and saying, “Where’s the kitchen, Mrs Kafka?”
By the time the two women dead-heated back into the room-Kay Kafka immaculate and composed in slacks and sweater, Novello, bearing a tray laden with mugs and teapot, plus a jug of cranberry juice and a plateful of buttered scones-the last two items her own choice; if she was going to be a skivvy, she might as well be a well- fed skivvy-Dalziel had checked that there was nothing new.
“Right,” he said. “It’s still early days. Let’s have a cuppa and I don’t doubt we’ll hear summat in the next half-hour or so. Shall I be mum?”
“No, I think I can manage that, Andy,” said Kay. “Excuse me, my dear, I think you’ve forgotten the sugar and, as I’m sure you know, the super likes his tea hot and sweet.”
Oh, but you’re living dangerously there, thought Pascoe. In a duel of words, you can probably slash our Shirley to pieces without breaking sweat, but if ever it comes to the real thing, I reckon she’d snap you like a twig.
But Novello showed neither resentment nor antagonism as she rose and went out of the room in search of the sugar basin.
Kay poured the tea and passed it over, then said, “While we’re waiting, it occurs to me that perhaps Mr Pascoe’s presence here might have more to do with my encounter with Sergeant Wield last night than with my concern about Tony.”
She fixed him with an encouraging smile. At the same time, Dalziel gave him a look which would have frozen a basilisk, but the DCI was not going to let this chance pass. If they turned up some bad news about her husband she was going to move right out of his reach for some time, but at the moment all that the situation meant was that her usual super-efficient guard might have dropped a little. Such opportunities, he had been taught by someone not a million miles away, were not to be missed.
He said, “Actually, I wanted to see you again even before the sergeant mentioned your encounter. Yesterday I got called away before our really interesting discussion had reached its conclusion. You’ll recall we’d been discussing the possible reasons your husband had for using one of Emily Dickinson’s poems as a farewell note, so to speak, and you offered a very moving explanation of what you thought he was trying to say. But what, I wonder, do you imagine his son was trying to say by leaving the same poem open on the desk?”
The power of Dalziel’s gaze was now so intense that Pascoe thought, if I duck, birds in a direct line will be falling out of the sky for several miles.
“I’ve really no idea, Mr Pascoe,” said Kay. “Only Pal could tell us that, and I suspect the poor boy was so
