Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

“He?”

“Yes. So I understand.”

“Sam Johnson was gay?”

“I doubt it. Bisexual maybe. Worried about playing squash with him? Sorry, love, that was a stupid thing to say.”

“It was a stupid thing to do, certainly,” said Pascoe. “This accident, what do the old women say about it, was it something Sam could have blamed himself for?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Ellie. “I didn’t encourage anybody to go into detail. Peter, you said you weren’t sure yet exactly how Sam died, so what are you getting at?”

“Nothing. There’s a lot of possibilities …and with Roote being involved …”

Ellie shook her head angrily.

“Look, I know it’s your job, but I’m not ready yet to start thinking of Sam’s death as a case. He’s gone, he’s gone, it doesn’t matter how. But just one thing, Pete, every time Franny Roote comes up, you start twitching like a dog that’s seen a rabbit. Remember what happened last time. Maybe you ought to tread very carefully.”

“Good advice,” said Pascoe.

But he was thinking, not a rabbit. A stoat.

Next morning Roote came in voluntarily, as insistent as ever that Johnson must have been murdered and demanding to know what they were doing about it. Pascoe took him into an interview room to calm him down, but while he was waiting for Dalziel to join them, Bowler appeared to tell him the super wanted a word.

“Sit with him,” said Pascoe. “And be careful. If he wants to talk, fine. But you keep your mouth shut.”

He could see he’d offended the young DC but he didn’t care.

Upstairs he found the Fat Man perusing copies of the post mortem report and the lab analysis.

“Case is altered,” he said. “Take a look at these.”

Pascoe read the reports quickly and felt both sick and triumphant.

Johnson had died of heart failure. Not long before death he had eaten a chicken sandwich and a chocolate bar and drunk coffee and substantial quantities of whisky. But most significant from the police point of view was the discovery in his system of traces of a sedative drug called Midazolam used as an anaesthetic in minor surgery, especially of children. Combined with alcohol, it became life-threatening, and this combination taken by someone with Johnson’s heart condition was likely to prove fatal unless antidotal measures were taken quickly.

The drug was present in large quantities in the whisky bottle and there were traces in the coffee cup, but none in the glass with Roote’s prints nor in the cafetière.

“We’ve got the bastard!” exulted Pascoe.

But far from confirming the Fat Man’s conversion to the DCI’s side of the argument, the news seemed to have reawakened all his doubts.

“Give it a rest, Pete. It means we’ve got nowt.”

“What do you mean? Now we know it’s murder. At the very least, it puts the kibosh on your theory. See, no evidence of recent sexual activity.”

“So they never got round to it. But nowt to say that the rest doesn’t hold, except that Johnson expected Roote to come back a lot sooner, within the hour, say, and he took a dose of this drug so he’d be passed out, just to give his boyfriend a fright.”

“Oh yes? And what’s Johnson doing with Midazolam in his medicine cabinet? You don’t get that on prescription.”

“What’s Roote doing with it then?”

“He worked in a hospital in Sheffield, remember?” said Pascoe. “And he’s just the kind of creepy bastard who’d help himself to something like that just in case it came in useful one day.”

“Hardly evidence,” said Dalziel. “Right, let’s go talk to the lad. But we’ll go easy.”

“Thought we were going to pull his nails out?” said Pascoe sulkily.

“We’re going to take a witness statement, that’s all,” said the Fat Man seriously. “Remember that or stay away.”

Pascoe took a deep breath, then nodded.

“You’re right. OK. But give us a minute. I need a word with Wieldy.”

The sergeant listened to what he had to say in silence. Trying to read reaction on that face was like seeking a lost stone on a scree slope, but Pascoe sensed unease.

“Look,” he said slightly exasperated. “It’s really simple. We’ve got a guy who the super thinks may have topped himself and I’ve heard that he might have suffered a distressing personal loss some few months ago. Won’t the coroner want to hear anything we can give him which might throw light on Sam Johnson’s state of mind?”

“So why don’t you ring Sheffield yourself?”

“Because as you well know, Wieldy, the last time I asked them for help, things went a bit pear-shaped. Roote ended up in hospital with his wrists slashed and there were mutterings about police harassment. So the name Pascoe might raise a few hackles.”

“Only if it was linked again with the name Roote,” said Wield. “Which this isn’t?”

“Of course not. It’s apropos a suicide enquiry. No need to mention Roote’s name. Though while you’re at it, you might as well check with that hospital Roote worked at whether any Midazolam ever went missing while he was there.”

“Still without mentioning his name?” said Wield.

“I don’t care what you mention,” said Pascoe, growing angry. “All I know is I smell a rat and it’s name’s Roote. You going to do this or shall I do it myself?”

“Sounds like an order to me, sir,” said Wield.

It was the first time in a long while Wield had called him sir other than on formal public occasions.

But as he turned away, the sergeant’s voice said, “Pete, you be careful in there, eh?”

In the interview room, Dalziel laid out the facts about the poisoning rather more baldly than Pascoe would have done. When he mentioned that the Midazolam had been placed first in the whisky bottle then transferred to the coffee mug, Roote interrupted.

“We didn’t drink coffee. This proves it. Someone else must have been there.”

Dalziel nodded and made a note, as if grateful for the suggestion. Pascoe came in.

“What did you drink?”

“Whisky. And we had sandwiches.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know. Mine was cheese, his was chicken, I think. He stopped at a garage on the way back from the pub and bought them, so they all tasted much the same, I dare say. Is this relevant to anything?”

“Just necessary detail, Mr. Roote,” said Pascoe, who knew the value of grinding away at matters that irritated a suspect. “You eat anything else? Either of you?”

“No. Yes, Sam bought a couple of chocolate bars, Yorkies. He ate his. I don’t eat chocolate.”

“Why’s that?”

“It brings on migraine. What the hell is going on here? What’s this got to do with Sam’s death?”

“Please bear with me, Mr. Roote. This Yorkie bar you didn’t eat, did you take it out of its wrapper?”

“Of course I didn’t! Why the hell should I?”

“Maybe you miss chocolate and even though you can’t eat it, you like to look at it, smell it, perhaps?”

“No! For God’s sake, Mr. Dalziel, I’ve lost a dear friend here and all I’m hearing is waffle about my diet!”

Anyone in his seat appealing to the Fat Man for assistance was really in trouble, thought Pascoe gleefully.

Dalziel said, “Mr. Pascoe’s just trying to get things straight, Mr. Roote. Let’s get back to this coffee. You say you didn’t drink any, so he must have made it after you left, right?”

“Right. Someone else must have come, someone he knew.”

“You’re very keen on this other visitor,” said Dalziel doubtfully. “But we only found one mug, and our lab has established that Johnson definitely drank from it.”

“What’s that prove? It’s easy to wash a mug. Which cafetière did he use?”