changed Sam except that you stopped loving me or maybe all I ever was to you was an easy way of getting your gear theres no other explanation and I cant bear it I wont bear it Jake
'What's this supposed to be?' said Pascoe, trying for mocking scepticism and failing. In any case Roote looked beyond reach of such weak weapons as he began talking in a rapid low drone, as if returning somewhere he didn't want to be and wanting out fast.
'I was round at Sam's that night, it was supposed to be a review session on my thesis but he wasn't in any state to review anything except his own psyche. He drank and rambled about Jake and what he meant to him. There are plenty of nasty people around in the academic world, Mr Pascoe, and when it became known that Jake's assessment work was way behind schedule, it was made clear to Sam that this new deadline was absolute and unextendable, and if there were the slightest hint that Sam had been offering any special assistance, either by way of writing the assignments or grading them, it wouldn't just be Jake's head on the block. So he'd given him a real talking to and tried to shock him into a realization that he had to find his own salvation. Now he was beginning to feel he'd gone too far. You should never talk to someone you loved like that. He wanted to go round and see Frobisher and apologize. What did a stupid degree matter anyway? They could set up house together, Jake could act as his research assistant, happiness ever after was still a possibility, lots of maudlin crap like that.'
'I can see how it would have touched your heart’ said Pascoe sarcastically.
'I'm not pretending I was sorry to see the relationship heading for the rocks,' said Roote. 'I stopped him going out, he kept on drinking and in the end I put him to bed about midnight. Then the phone started ringing. I answered it. It was Frobisher. He just assumed I was Sam and started off with all these incoherent ramblings. I remember thinking, Christ, I just get shot of one self-absorbed monologue, and now I'm right into another. Then what Jake was actually saying began to get through. He'd taken something, lots of things from the sound of it. My first reaction was, good riddance! I'm not proud of it, but there you go. Finally he stopped speaking, and then I got to thinking what this really meant. And I knew I had to go round there.'
To make sure he'd done the job properly?' said Pascoe.
Roote smiled wanly but ignored the crack. ‘I got round there, found his door unlocked and him lying on the floor. He was dead.'
'Well, that was handy.'
'It was disastrous’ said Roote coldly. 'I found this note. I knew that Jake's suicide would devastate Sam. Plus the knives were out for him in the university, and the reference to Frobisher supplying him with dope would finish him professionally. So I had to do whatever I could to tidy things up. I sat Jake at his table and dug out all his unfinished work and set it round him, making it look like he'd been really trying to get it into shape. Then I put the jug and glass by his hand. I put some pill bottles there too, empty of everything except a few uppers. I checked I'd done everything I could to make it look accidental, and left. I took the note for obvious reasons, and the watch because I didn't want some smart cop making connections with Sam, and the drug stash to stop awkward questions being asked around the house. The rest you know.'
Pascoe sat in silence for a long while. Once more it seemed he was cast as Tantulus; the closer to the prize he came, the more bitter the pain of seeing it snatched away.
He said, 'And you kept the note because…?'
'Because if it ever emerged that I had been there that night, I needed something to back up my story. You can check it's Frobisher's handwriting, and of course it'll have his fingerprints all over it. As I'm sure you'd agree, Mr Pascoe, without it, I might have a problem persuading some people that all I did was help a friend in need.'
'That's true,' said Pascoe, looking at the note thoughtfully.
Roote smiled.
'Another man, Mr Daziel might be tempted to lose this note. Or bum it.'
'What makes you think I'm so diffrenet?’
Roote didn't reply but took the unresisting fingers and removed it from Pascoe’s unresisting fingers. Then he rifled through the contents of desk drawer which Pascoe had deposited on the carpet. with a cigarette lighter and nicked on the flame.
'What are you doing?' said Pascoe unnecessarily. He knew what was going to happen but he had no strength to stop it.
'Just clearing up,' said Roote.
He held the flame beneath the paper till it shrivelled up and fell away in ashes.
'There,' said Roote. 'Now you can proceed without any risk of contradiction, Mr Pascoe. If you are so convinced of my guilt, the way is clear. You've proof I was there. I admit I interfered with the scene. As for the rest, it's just the word of a convicted felon. Sounds like you've got a pretty good case. Shall we go down to the station now?'
It's always me being judged, me being tested, thought Pascoe desperately. Shall I call his bluff, if it is a bluff? Could be the real reason he burnt that note is that now no one can ever check the writing and the prints. Could be he wrote it himself against this eventuality, and now I'm the only living person who can vouch that it ever existed!
His head felt muzzy and heavy. He should still be in bed. He was in no state to be making this kind of decision. What to do? What to do?
Somewhere a phone rang.
'Aren't you going to answer that?' he demanded.
'I think’ said Roote, 'it's yours.'
Pascoe reached into his pocket and took out his mobile.
He didn't want to talk to anybody, but anybody was better than talking to Roote. 'Yes’ he croaked.
'Pete, that you?' said Wield's voice.
'Yes.'
'Pete, I'm at Estotiland. We've got a bad situation here.'
Pascoe listened. After a while his legs gave way and he sat down heavily. Questions crowded his mind but he couldn't find the words for them.
He said, 'I'm coming.'
With difficulty he stood up.
Roote looked with alarm at his colourless face and said, 'Mr Pascoe, are you ill?'
'I've got to go.'
'Go where? Please, sit down, I'll call a doctor.'
'I've got to go to Estotiland. My daughter…'
He began to move to the door like a man walking on Saturn.
'You can't drive,' said Roote. 'Not without your car keys anyway.'
He picked up Pascoe's discarded jacket, felt in the pockets, produced the keys.
'Give them here,' snarled Pascoe.
'No way,' said Roote. 'You'll kill yourself. Tell you what, though, I'll drive you. Deal? Come on, Mr Pascoe. You know I'm right.'
'You always are, Franny, that's your problem,' said Pascoe, not resisting. 'You always fucking are.'
Roote drove as Pascoe, if he'd been in a state to notice, would have expected him to drive. Smoothly, efficiently, never taking obvious risks, but always first away at lights, slipping into the narrowest of gaps at intersections, overtaking slower vehicles at the earliest opportunity, so that they were out of town and hurtling down the road to Estotiland in the shortest time possible.
As he drove he asked questions. Pascoe, using all his will to hold himself together mentally and physically, had none left over to resist interrogation and answered automatically. The whole story unfolded. Only once did Roote make any attempt at conventional reassurance and that was when Polchard was mentioned.
'Mate?' he said. 'Then there's nothing to worry about. Necessary violence only. He'll know there's no benefit in hurting your daughter.'
'Where was the benefit in drowning Lee Lubanski?' replied Pascoe dully. 'He did it all the same.'
As they approached the Complex, Roote said, 'Looks like wall-to-wall fuzz ahead. You got one of those noddy lights? Else we're going to take forever getting through.' Pascoe reached in the back and found the lamp. He hadn't used it since that morning he'd raced along the bus lane to get Rosie to her clarinet lesson on time, the
