Reginald Hill - 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 a chat with you. To tie up loose ends, so to speak.'

This was even feebler than before, and provably so inasmuch as it must stick out like a sore nose that he hadn't come here with the intention of seeing her.

But she seemed satisfied and said, 'OK, start tyring.'

'Why are you so certain Jake didn't in fact accidentally overdose in his efforts to keep himself awake to finish his work assignments?'

She was looking at him obliquely now through the mirror in which she was combing her hair.

She said, 'It was just… well, you'd have to know Jake. First off, he always seemed so laid back about his work. I used to come up and stay with him sometimes and I don't think I ever saw him write a word. It's all sorted, he'd say. Decks cleared so I can entertain my little sis! As for drugs, he did the usual stuff, yeah, but he was really careful. Had to know the ins and outs of where it came from. He was always telling me if I wanted E's to come to him, not to risk picking up something dodgy from a guy dealing in a disco bog. He was the last guy on earth to go over the top by accident.'

'The nature of drugs is that they affect the judgment,' said Pascoe. 'You can start off taking care but once you're under the influence…'

'Score a lot, do you?' she said scornfully. 'I know my brother.. . knew my brother’

Tears came to her eyes and she began to drag the comb through her hair as if trying to pull it out by the roots.

'Maybe it did happen that way’ she said, half sobbing. 'Maybe I just don't want to accept he's dead… he's dead… I don't really understand what that means… dead

Words of consolation and reassurance crowded Pascoe's tongue but he didn't utter them. If this woman was getting to some kind of acceptance that her brother's death was accidental, it would be selfishly wrong to let his obsession with Roote get in the way.

Looking for a diversion in facts, he said, Tell me about the missing watch.'

She rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes and said, 'It was something he got given, don't know who from, but they must really have fancied him. It was a big chunky one, just his style, an Omega I think, gold bracelet – well, I don't know if it was real gold, but it certainly looked the job. And it had an inscription on the back.'

'Didn't that tell you who it was from?'

'Not really. I asked him, but he just laughed and said, "Little sister, big nose, the more she sniffs the bigger it grows!" That's what he always used to say when we were’

The tears were back.

Pascoe, trying to stem them, asked, This inscription, can you remember what it said?'

'I can show you,' she said. 'It was quite long, little letters, and done in a circle to fit the back of the watch, so it wasn't easy to read. So I did a rubbing, like I used to do with coins when I was a kid.'

She went to a drawer, poked around for a moment, then handed him a sheet of paper.

She was right, it was hard to read, with the words so close engraved in a fancy script it was hard to tell where one ended and another began, and being in a circle didn't make it any easier. He took the folding magnifying glass he always carried out of his pocket, assembled it, then peered at the lettering again.

It took a little effort to work out, but he finally got it sorted into: YOUR’S TILL TIME INTO ETERNITY FALLS OVER RUINED WORDS

He said, 'Can I hang on to this?'

She looked at him doubtfully.

He said, Til get it photocopied, send it straight back.'

She said, 'Why not? Makes a change to have someone interested.'

'Yes, I'm interested. But please don't get your hopes up. When was the last time you saw your brother?'

'Three weeks before he… died.'

'And he had the watch then?'

'Definitely. God, it really pisses me off to think some plod helped himself to it. And his stash too. That not strike anyone as odd? Just a couple of loose pills found?'

She glared at him accusingly.

'How did he seem that last time you saw him?' he asked. 'He must have known he was in trouble about his work assignments by then.'

'He seemed fine. One of his mates said something which made me think he might be in trouble, but Jake just laughed as usual and said, "It's sorted, Sis." Like he always did.'

'I see.' Pascoe sought for an exit line which wouldn't leave hope, because he didn't have any to leave. He was himself clutching at straws, or rather the shadows of straws, and suppose he did by some miracle find that the death of Jake Frobisher had somehow involved foul play, what comfort could there possibly be in that for Sophie?

He said, 'I might as well look at Jake's room while I'm here. What number was that?'

'Eleven. Upstairs. But there's somebody in it.'

‘Fine. Thank you very much, Miss Frobisher. Look, like I say, I don't really expect there's going to be anything new here, but either way, I'll be in touch. So, take care, eh? And I'm very sorry about your loss.'

'Me too,' she said.

She fixed all her attention on the mirror. She seemed to have shrunk within the robe and to Pascoe as he left she looked not much older than Rosie, dressed in her mother's dressing gown, playing at being grown up.

The door to Room 11 was opened to his knock by a young man with the build of a rugby forward which, from the boots slung into a corner and the hooped jersey draped over a radiator, he probably was, though why he wasn't running round a freezing field with all the other muddied oafs this Saturday afternoon wasn't clear.

It became clear when the young man spoke.

'Yeah?' he said, in what at first sounded like a thick foreign accent. 'Help you?'

The two further words revealed the truth. Not foreign but true Yorkshire, going into or coming out of a severe bout of the dreaded Kung Flu.

Averting his head, Pascoe introduced himself. Risk apart, the flu bug did have one positive benefit in that the young man, who said his name was Keith Longbottom, expressed no curiosity about his desire to look at the room but merely said, 'Help yourself, mate’ and collapsed on his unmade bed.

Pascoe looked. It was a pointless exercise. What was there to see?

He said, 'Did you know Jake Frobisher?' Longbottom opened his eyes, walked mentally round the question a couple of times, then said, 'Yeah. Living in the same house, you get to know who's who.'

'You lived here last year then?'

'Yeah.'

Pascoe digested this, then went on, 'But not in this room, obviously?'

'No. I mean it were Frobisher's room, weren't it?'

'Yes. Of course. So how…?'

'How did I get it? Well, it's bigger than my old room, which was down in the basement anyway, so when this fell vacant I thought, why not? Felt a bit spooky, but my girl said not to be daft and go for it. Like she said, it weren't as if I really knew the guy. Nowt in common. He were a bit arty, doing English or something, you know the type.'