day (New Year's Day being of course a holiday); Myra Rogers with a basket of fruit and, wise woman, a small grip full of clothes and other necessities. And Hat came too, of course, with flowers and chocolates, and love, the only gift which made her want to cry, though she felt a bit weepie as she saw Dalziel finish the last of the loganberries.
She dozed off a little (it was funny how lying in bed all day makes you so sleepy) and woke to see Hat in deep confabulation with a couple of nurses. She felt no jealousy, just a kind of languorous pride in the effect his youthful charm clearly had on the young women.
She dozed again and woke to find she'd almost missed Mr Chakravarty. He was looking down at her from a great height. He was tall, slim, dark, extremely handsome. He might have been one of those Indian princes who, she seemed to recollect, went to the great public schools and played cricket for England back in the thirties. And, like a prince, he stayed only long enough to be adored then went on his way.
She asked the nurses and the adolescent doctor the questions she'd failed to ask him. They talked of tests and scans, all of which it seemed must be delayed till the necessary facilities became free. It sounded as though there were waiting lists to go on waiting lists.
Alone at last about teatime, she lay fully awake and pondered these matters. Several things were quite clear to her.
Whatever needed to be done was going to take time. During that time she was going to be treated like a poor dependant. And Hat was only going to have to smile for everything concerning her diagnosis to be made immediately available to him.
She got out of bed and took the grip Myra had brought her from under the bed.
The ward sister summoned the adolescent doctor, but Rye simply said, 'I will sign anything you want me to sign as long as I have it before me in the next sixty seconds.'
She then went down to the reception area where there was a large diagram of the hospital, studied it for a while, then strode off with such a certainty of purpose that no one felt it necessary to enquire what that purpose was, not even when she entered areas not accessible to the commonalty of patients.
Finally she arrived at a door with the name she sought printed on it – Victor Chakravarty – and went in. A stout young woman behind a stout old desk viewed her without enthusiasm.
'I want to make an appointment to see Mr Chakravarty,' said Rye. 'My name is Pomona, initial R. He has all my details, or at least they are available to him in Ward 17.'
'You're a patient?' said the woman, as if it were a nasty condition. 'Sorry, but you really shouldn't be here
'I was a patient. I wish to become a client. A paying client. I understand that there are various tests I may have to undergo. I should like to make an appointment to see Mr Chakravarty fairly early one morning so that, after our consultation, I might undertake these tests and hear his interpretation of their results later the same day.'
'He's really very busy
'So I've gathered. So I won't be too demanding. It's Wednesday the second now. Let's say the start of next week. Monday the seventh would suit me very well.'
The stout woman, her alarm at being confronted by an NHS patient alleviated, now came briskly to the most important point.
'Do you have health insurance?'
'No. I shall be paying for my own treatment. Would you like a deposit?'
The stout woman's eyes said she reckoned this wasn't a bad idea, but her mouth said, 'No, of course not
'Good,' said Rye. 'Shall we say nine thirty, Monday morning, January seventh? Here's my home number in case of problems. My work number too. I'll be there between nine and five from tomorrow. Thank you.'
At the door she paused.
'Of course, as a private patient, I shall expect complete privacy. Any leakage of information to anyone – friends, relations, anyone – I should view very legalistically.'
She left without waiting for an answer.
On the morning of Saturday January 5th Edgar Wield looked at the over-the-top decorations festooning Corpse Cottage and thought with relief that tomorrow would see the end of them. He'd have had dow after New Year but his born-again-nalist partner declared it was well known to be tremendous bad luck if you laid hands on them before Twelfth Night.
Now Digweed said sadly, 'The place won't be the same without them.'
'You're right there’ said Wield with undisguised irony.
His partner regarded him seriously. Perhaps, thought Wield, he's thinking that in this relationship he makes all the adjustments and when he asks me to go along with one little thing like having bells and baubles all over the place, I make a big fuss. Maybe I should try harder. I will try harder! 'Edgar’ said Digweed. 'Yes?'
'Tonight we're going out’ 'OK’ said Wield. 'Where?' Tinks.'
If Wield's features could have shown aghast, that's what they would have shown.
He said, 'You mean Tinks? Krystabel's? The club? At Estotiland?'
'As always you are right in every respect. Tinks, the night club’
Wield still couldn't believe it: Digweed was even less of a hot-spot night-owl than he was. In his own case, professional discretion played a large part. But for Digweed it was simply a deep-rooted distaste. And of all the clubs available, Wield would have picked Tinks as the one his partner was least likely to be seen dead in. Whether the Estoti brothers had planned it as a gay club, no one knew. But within weeks of its opening in Estotiland, its street name had changed from Krystabel's to Tinkerbell's, hence Tinks, and the management seemed set on running it as almost a parody of what straights thought a gay club ought to be. All this Wield knew by report. If he'd anticipated visiting the place, it seemed likely it would be in the line of duty. Never in his wildest fantasies had he thought he and Edwin would go there as customers.
He said carefully, 'Are you sure this is a good idea? It's a night club, yes, but perhaps not in the way you remember them’
'And what way is that, pray? Discreet lighting, dinner jackets, a string trio to dance to, and perhaps the Western Brothers or Inkspots as cabaret? I assure you, I am completely au fait with modern trends’
'In that case, why…?'
'My good friend, Wim Leenders, is celebrating his fiftieth birthday there, and he wants me to join his party, and he said I've been hiding your light under my bushel for far too long and insisted I bring you. And if he hadn't insisted, I would have done because you cannot imagine I could contemplate entering such a place without your moral support’
This, as well as being a nicely turned compliment, explained everything.
Since they got together, Wield had met several of Digweed's friends. Most of them he liked very much, and generally they seemed to like him, but he avoided getting too close. Over the years, like a lot of his straight colleagues. Wield had learnt to be careful about his choice of friends outside the Force. He'd been upfront with Digweed about his reluctance to be swamped by a whole new circle of acquaintance, vicariously acquired, and usually he'd met his partner's chums singly or in pairs.
Wim Leenders was a six and a half foot, sixteen and a half stone, chisel-bearded Dutchman who'd moved to England twenty years ago because he liked to climb rocks and walk uphill. He collected early books on mountaineering and fell walking, which was how Digweed had come to know him. He seemed to have rather more money than his outdoor-gear shops might be expected to generate, but a careful check by Wield (memory of which filled him with shame) had turned up no hint of naughtiness. Most of the time, as if self-conscious about his physical presence, he was a very quiet-mannered, self-effacing, gently courteous kind of chap, but when he let his hair down, he became a runaway juggernaut. Wield had seen something of this side of him at a funeral wake. What he was going to be like at his own fiftieth didn't bear thinking of. This made his choice of Tinks a damage- limitation tactic which said much for his basic good sense. But Wield still couldn't quite grasp why Edwin hadn't simply made an excuse when he got the invitation.
So, because he believed in openness in a relationship, he asked the question direct.
Digweed said, 'Wim helped me out of a rather tricky situation a few years back, long before I knew you. Of course my first reaction was to say no to his invitation, but he has been most pressing and I've brooded on the
