which was probably something of an irritant to the inmates of these neighbouring properties which looked to have reverted to one family occupation as the area swung back up to something like its original status during the closing decades of the last century.
There was a line of bell-pushes on one of the door columns. They didn't give much promise of working. Pascoe peered down a weathered list of names and made out the name Frobisher against number 5. He guessed this was unchanged since last summer when the unfortunate youth had died. He pressed the button, heard nothing, and was about to try other buttons when the front door opened and a young man pushed a bicycle out. Pascoe held the door to assist and got a cheerful, 'Thanks, mate' in exchange.
He went inside.
The smell brought back his student days, not so long ago in terms of years but, oh, an ache of lifetimes away in terms of memory. There was curry in it and other spices, a hint of vegetable decay, a touch of drains, a soupcon of sweat, a curl of joss-sticks and a wraith of dope. Trapped in the refrigeration unit of the unheated hall and stairwell, it didn't assault the nostrils and tear at the throat, but he was glad it wasn't midsummer.
He went up the stairs and found a door marked 5 on the first landing.
It was slightly ajar.
He tapped at it and when there was no reply, he pushed it open and called, 'Hello?'
No reply. In fact, unless there was someone concealed in the big Victorian wardrobe or, even less likely, under the unmade futon, there was no possible source of answer.
He stood in the doorway and tried to… what? He'd no idea what he was looking for here, couldn't begin even to imagine what he might hope to find. OK, a few months ago a boy had died in this room, but in a house this old, it must be almost impossible to find a room in which at some point someone hadn't died.
So what was he expecting? Some message from the grave? Lines from the poem in the Beddoes collection open by Sam Johnson's side when he found the lecturer's body came to Pascoe's mind:
There are no ghosts to raise; Out of death lead no ways.
So, just a room. He stepped inside as if to affirm his dismissal of the possibility of any malign or supernatural influence. His foot caught on something. He stooped to unhook whatever it was and came up with a flowered bra whose blues and reds had blended in with the patterned carpet which covered most of the floor. He saw now there were other female garments strewn on the crumpled duvet that covered the futon.
Time to retreat and knock on a couple of doors, see if he could find someone who remembered Frobisher and was willing to chat.
'Who the fuck are you?' said a voice behind him.
He turned to see a young woman in the doorway. She was wearing a Japanese robe and drying her long blonde hair with a towel. She looked as unpleased as she sounded.
She also looked as if the slightest wrong move would have her yelling for help.
Pascoe smiled and made a reassuring gesture, which turned out to be a bad idea as it only drew attention to the bra he was holding.
I'm sorry’ he said. ‘I didn't realize that That the room was occupied? That it was occupied by a female?
He changed direction, heading for firmer ground.
'I'm a policeman,' he said, reaching for his warrant card, which gave him an excuse to casually drop the bra.
He opened the card and held it up without moving towards her.
She peered at it then said, 'OK, so you're a cop as well as a pervert. I believe your type gets really well treated in jail.'
'Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come in here. And I stuck my foot in your bra’
'Well, that's novel,' she said. That will sound interesting in court.'
This was not going well. It was time to be blunt. He said, 'I don't know if you know, but last summer there was a death in this house. A student called Frobisher
She said with renewed fury, 'What the hell are you talking about? What kind of cop are you? Let me see that warrant again!'
He produced his card once more and this time took it towards her.
She studied it closely and said, 'Mid-Yorkshire? You're a long way off your ground, aren't you? You got permission?'
'Yes, of course. DI Rose
‘That wanker!'
'You know him?'
'Oh yes. Useless bastard.'
She pushed by him and went to sit on a rickety stool in front of a matching dressing table and began to comb her hair.
'If you know DI Rose, then surely you must know about Frobisher's death
'Yeah, all about it. But it wasn't in this room.' 'I'm sorry, it was the name by the front door… ah.' It dawned, so obvious that he felt embarrassed. 'You're Jake's sister,' he said. 'Sophie.'
'That's right.' 'But this wasn't his room
'Of course it wasn't. Listen, I loved my brother and he'd arranged for me to have a room in this place when I started in the autumn, but you don't imagine I was going to take the same room he was killed in, do you? That would be real bloody macabre!'
'Yes, of course, I'm sorry. And I'm sorry for intruding like this, Miss Frobisher’
'You could be a lot sorrier if I make a complaint,' she said. Trespass and sniffing around my underwear, that could be a bad career move.'
'I'll take my chances,' he said, still uncertain how best to go forward. It would be easy enough to get her on his side by indicating he was still not satisfied with the inquest verdict on her brother, but having her proclaim him as an ally might be an even worse career move than letting her accuse him of being a pervert.
'So what the fuck do you want, anyway?' she demanded.
‘Time to show your colours, Pascoe, he thought.
He said, 'Just now you said, 'the room he was killed in'. What did you mean by that?'
She turned to him with the comb halfway down her long wet tresses.
'What's it to you what I meant?' she said.
It sounded like a real question, not a snarl of defiance.
He said carefully, 'I would just like to be sure myself of the circumstances of your brother's death.'
'Is that right? I need a bit more than that, Inspector. Sorry, Chief Inspector. I mean, it's understandable for me, just a silly young woman and Jake's sister to boot, to get all uptight and hysterical about his death, isn't it? I bet that's what DI Rose says about me, when he's being polite, that is. But you, a high-ranking gumshoe from another division, what brings you around all this time on asking questions?'
The best way of hiding the whole truth is with a bit of the truth, as any lawyer knows.
Pascoe said, 'One of Jake's tutors, Sam Johnson, died in suspicious circumstances on my patch last autumn. At first it seemed possible it was suicide and, because he'd moved to Mid-Yorkshire rather precipitously after Jake's death, we had to look at the possibility that there was some connection. You know, state of mind and that sort of thing. Later we discovered Dr Johnson had been murdered so the connection with your brother no longer seemed important. But for some reason I kept on thinking about his death
It sounded feeble but the girl's eyes were shining as she said, 'You mean, like Johnson's death turned out not to be suicide but murder, you think Jake's might be the same? Not accident but murder? The same person who killed Dr Johnson maybe?'
'Definitely not that,' said Pascoe, imagining Trimble's reaction, not to mention Dalziel's, at seeing the headline STUDENT DEATH PROBE – ANOTHER WORDMAN KILLING? There really is no way there can be a link between the deaths, believe me.'
Except of course Roote…
But he wasn't going to mention Roote either which made it a bit difficult to explain when Sophie Frobisher said irritably, 'So what the hell are you doing here then?'
'I was in Sheffield on another matter and DI Rose told me about your reservations about the way your brother died. And about the missing watch. And because I was involved before, I thought it might be useful to have
