scheduled to give a paper.'
'But surely in view of what happened, she'll be cancelling?'
'I suggested so in my letter of condolence. She has replied that on the advice of her analyst she is minded to keep the date. She is a woman of great resilience.'
'Evidently’ said Pascoe. 'So how do you rate her? I mean, if you've invited her to address your society, I presume you don't think she's a dud?'
'Far from it,' said Pottle. 'What you're really asking is how much notice you should take of what she says about Roote in her book. I would advise you not to disregard it. She is, as you would see if you'd read the whole book rather than just the bits Roote directed your attention to, a meticulous worker, capable of great insight and not easily fooled.'
'And yet,' said Pascoe, 'in the question of Roote's relationship with his father, she has had the wool pulled completely over her eyes. The man died while he was still a babe in arms. All these so-called memories are pure invention.'
'Is that so? You surprise me.'
If you'd met Roote you wouldn't be surprised,' said Pascoe fervently. 'He's the great deceiver.'
'Except in your case? Perhaps, Peter, you should retrain as a psychiatrist.'
'Maybe I will. And maybe I'll come along to your Symposium if I'm free.'
'Be my guest’ said Pottle. 'Indeed it might be doubly worth your while for, by one of those coincidences which people only object to in detective novels, another of our speakers is this chap Frere Jacques that your friend Roote refers to.'
'I didn't think your members would have much interest in all that hippy-happy stuff.'
'Peter, I hope you won't be offended if I point out that from time to time you sound disturbingly like your lord and master, Mr Dalziel. Man's relationship with death is a very proper area of study for people in my profession. Indeed you might argue that in some ways it is the only thing that we study. Frere Jacques, though far from free of religion's tendency to poetic waffle at the expense of systematic rigour, has many interesting things to say. We are fortunate to get the chance to listen to him. Also, as he's touring the country promoting the book, we are fortunate to get him for free and his publishers even cough up for a small amount of relaxing booze’
'Cheap and cheerful then’ said Pascoe. 'So when exactly is this knees-up?'
'Saturday January nineteenth’ said Pottle. 'Your motive in attending would be…?'
To see for myself a couple more experts whose strings Franny Roote is pulling.'
'Ah. I see. The open-mind approach then. Peter, don't rush to judgment. Read Frere Jacques' book. He has a fine perceptive mind, not easily fooled, I'd say. And, like I said before, read Haseen's book all the way through.'
'And if I do, will I find any mention of the way he more or less blackmailed this objective professional into recommending his transfer to Butlins?' asked Pascoe cynically.
'Peter, once again you're cherry-picking. If you distrust parts of Roote's letters then you must distrust the whole, until you have evidence to the contrary. A common feature of the obsessive personality is a belief that everybody else has got everything wrong’
Pascoe's face assumed what Ellie called his sulky look, which he himself, if pressed, might have described as the politely stoical expression of one who has heard all the arguments to the contrary but prefers to trust his own judgment.
He glanced at his watch. He should have been at work fifty minutes ago.
'So, bottom line, how do you read Roote's motives in writing these letters?' he asked.
Pottle did the little piece of legerdemain which turned the glowing cinder at his lip into a whole new cigarette and said, 'Difficult. I think he has motives which he knows, and motives which he believes he knows, and motives which he is only dimly aware of. Perhaps your best approach is to simplify matters. To this end, I would advise that you ask yourself why he wrote to you in the first place. Then ask yourself why he wrote to you in the second place. And then in the third place. And so on, till the picture is complete.'
He clapped his hands together then threw them apart in a gesture which momentarily cleared the veil of smoke that hung before his face.
Pascoe knew from old experience that this signalled the end of the session and for a second he felt some sympathy with Andy Dalziel's most printable reaction to trick cyclists and their works. 'Any other bugger made my brain hurt like that, I'd kick him in the goolies till his eyes popped out of their sockets.'
But only for a second.
'Thank you kindly. Doctor,' he said. 'That's been a great help. I think.'
'Good. Till next time then, when perhaps we can start looking at you.'
8
After its terrible start, Hat Bowler's Christmas had really taken off.
He had rung Rye later on Christmas Day as promised, expecting to find she'd taken to her bed once more. To his surprise and delight, she greeted him brightly and in the background he could hear music and voices.
'You having a party?' he asked.
She laughed and said, 'No, idiot, it's the TV movie. It turned out Myra was on her own too, so when she said she'd better be getting back to her own flat, I asked her what she was going to do, and she said watch the movie probably, so I said,.. Why on earth am I going on like this? I think it's just because I feel so much better.'
'Great. You had anything to eat?'
'God, you're a real mother hen, aren't you? Yes, I have. We each applied our special talents to preparing a Christmas meal. To wit, I opened a bottle of wine, two in fact, and Myra made cheese omelettes, really great, the best I've had in ages, so you needn't worry that I'm dying because I turned down your offer of beans on toast.'
Hat didn't recall specifying beans on toast, but he was too glad at the improvement in Rye to protest. With Myra Rogers on one side and Mrs Gilpin on the other,
Rye now had a double line of defence in the event piss-artist Penn returned to the fray.
When he got to see Rye again on the evening of Boxing Day he'd found the recovery was complete and all the delights of Christmas, traditional and individual, that he'd been looking forward to tasted all the better for being delayed.
This is all I want, Hat’ she whispered as she clung on to him after they made love. This is where I want to be, here, you, me, warm, snug, safe, forever.'
She lay across him, her arms and legs grappling him to her in an embrace so tight it was painful, but nothing in the world would have made him admit that pain. He had known from early on in their acquaintance that she was the one. Without her, life would be… he had no words to describe what life would be. All he knew was that whatever she wanted from him was hers without question. Even when she fell asleep she did not slacken her grip on him, and when she awoke in the small hours of the morning and began to explore his body again, she found his limbs locked in cramp.
'Jesus,' she said. 'Hat, love, what have I done to you? Why didn't you push me off?'
'Didn't want to,' he assured her. 'I'm fine. Oh shit!'
This in reaction to the stab of agony that followed his attempt to stretch his left leg.
She flung back the duvet, climbed astride his body and began to give him a comprehensive massage, which brought first relief then arousal.
'Here's a bit that's still stiff,' she said, running her hand down to his groin. That's going to need some real work.'
'Yeah, that's been bothering me for years,' he said. 'Don't think you'll have much luck there, Doctor.'
'At least we can wrap it up and keep it warm,' she said. 'Like this And Christmas was merry all over again.
