Reginald Hill - Death

The long answer seemed to exhaust him and the eyes began to close again.

'And what are you studying, Mr Longbottom?' Geography, he guessed. Or Sport Injuries. Get a degree in anything these days!

'Maths,' said the youth.

You patronizing plonker, Pascoe reproved himself, his gaze now going beyond the sport kit to the books lying on the table and standing along the windowsill.

The door opened and a young woman came in unbuttoning her coat.

She stopped in the doorway when she saw Pascoe, and Longbottom said, 'Hi, luv. Didn't expect to see you till tonight.'

'Can't make it. Got to do an extra shift’ said the woman, taking her coat off to reveal a nurse's uniform beneath. 'So I thought I'd best pop round and see if you're still living. God, this place is a sty!'

She began tidying up, shooting suspicious glances at Pascoe.

Longbottom said, 'This is Jackie, my girlfriend. Jackie, this is Inspector Pascoe. He were asking about Frobisher, you remember

'I remember’ she said shortly. 'I thought that were all done and dusted.'

'It is really’ said Pascoe. 'Just a loose end or two to tie up.'

'You know his sister lives here now?' said Long-bottom.

'Yes, I've been talking to her’

'Not been upsetting her, I hope?' said Jackie, filling an electric kettle at the hand basin.

‘Tried not to’ said Pascoe. 'Mr Longbottom, the night it happened, I don't suppose you recollect anything unusual? I expect someone asked you this at the time.'

'Yeah, the pi-, the police talked to us all. No, I heard nowt, saw nowt. Like I say, we were down in the basement then.'

'We?'

'Aye, me and Jackie.'

Pascoe looked at the nurse who was, he noticed, making coffee for two. Just as well. He didn't fancy using any cup that might have got near Longbottom's lips. Perhaps nurses developed a natural immunity.

She said, 'I sometimes stay over.'

'And you stayed that night?'

'Yeah,' said Longbottom, smiling reminiscently. 'It were a good night, I recall. We got some pizza sent in, drank a bottle of vino, listened to some tapes, then we…'

1 don't think the Inspector needs the details,' said Jackie.

'No’ said Pascoe, giving her a smile she didn't return. 'Anyway, clearly you were far too busy to have heard anything or seen anyone hanging around. Well, thank you for your time. I'll get out from under your feet now’ He'd opened the door when the woman said, 'There was someone.'

He stopped and turned.

She said, 'I didn't stay all night. I was on early shift and needed to get back to the Home to get changed. I woke up about half one and thought I'd best not go back to sleep or I'll likely sleep in. No use relying on him to wake me, he's like a log once he's gone’

Longbottom nodded complacently.

The nurse went on, 'So I got up and got dressed and headed off out. I'd just got outside and was going to start up the steps from the basement when I heard the front door open and I saw this guy come out. Thought nowt about it. It weren't all that late and, in his business, there's no opening hours.'

Longbottom had a violent bout of coughing and the nurse looked at him with concern changing to indifference as, like Pascoe, she spotted this was signal rather than symptom.

'His business?' said Pascoe, recalling what Sophie had said about Jake's stash going missing, nothing but a few loose tabs lying around, about getting her E's from him…

'He peddled dope?' he said. 'He was a supplier?'

'You didn't know? Jesus, where do they get you guys?' said the nurse in disgust.

'Big time?'

He looked at Longbottom, who said dismissively, 'No. He just had connections, could always get you sorted.'

'Yes, I see.' But Sophie was right, there'd have been a stash, unless he'd taken the lot himself, which hardly seemed likely. Which meant it had gone somewhere.

'Did you ever say anything about this man you saw leaving to any of my colleagues?' he said to Jackie.

'No. Why should I? No one ever asked me. I mean, I wasn't around when they found the poor sod. In fact I knew nowt about it till days later. It were a right busy time for us, I recall. Don't see how it matters anyway. Unless you know something you're not telling.'

A sharp young woman, thought Pascoe.

He said, 'Nothing, I'm afraid. And you're probably right. It doesn't matter. This guy you saw leaving, was it someone from the house?'

'No, definitely not.'

'You knew all the residents well enough to be sure?'

'No, not all of them.'

'Then how can you be sure he wasn't a resident?' he asked, puzzled.

'Cos I knew the guy I saw. Not personally, but I'd seen him around at work.’

'At work? At the hospital, you mean?'

A wild hope was squirming in Pascoe's belly. He crossed his ringers and said, 'What hospital do you work at, as a matter of interest?'

'The Southern General.'

Where Franny Roote had worked as a porter during his time in Sheffield before he moved back to Mid-Yorkshire.

'And this man you saw, what did he do at the hospital? Nurse? Doctor?'

'No, he pushed trolleys around. He was a porter.' ' 'You don't know his name by any chance?'

'Sorry. And I've not seen him around for months now, so he must've moved on.'

'But you're sure it was the same man?'

'Oh yes. Couldn't mistake him. Dead pale he were, and always dressed in black. Someone once said he looked like he should have been on the trolley himself, not pushing it. Dr Death, the youngsters used to call him.'

Dead pale, dressed in black.

Dr Death.

Oh, thank you, God, exulted Peter Pascoe.

The Burrthorpe Canal, constructed in the age of Victoria to bring the coal from the mines of South Yorkshire to new industries springing up further north, had been one of the first to fall victim to the competition of improved roads, mechanical trucks and developing rail services after the turn of the twentieth century. Because of this it was in an advanced state of decay when the age of canal refurbishment came, and the fact that it was relatively short and did not link up with any navigable river meant that it had little attraction as a recreational waterway, so it lay neglected except by a few hardy fishermen who dreamt of monstrous carp lying in its weedy depths.

The towpath had long since vanished, the banks were overgrown and the only evidence remaining to show that this was a work of man not of nature was the Chilbeck Tunnel not far over the border into Mid-Yorkshire. Drilled through a low mound (which was in fact a Bronze Age barrow, a fact known only to the engineer who shored up the evidence behind his shiny brick walls without compunction rather than risk a delay in the completion of his contract) it ran for a distance of less than thirty yards, but its interior proved so attractive to small boys and others with troglodytic tendencies that the ends had been boarded up in the interests of public safety.

But nails rust and wood rots, and when two hardy Sunday anglers whose boast it was that not even the foulest January weather could keep them from their sport saw the skies darken and the rain come down at a rate beyond even their tolerance, they pulled aside a dislodged board and stepped into the tunnel for shelter.

When their eyes had adjusted to the gloom, one of them noticed a rope floating in the water. To an angler any line is an object of interest, particularly if one end dives steeply into the depths. Using his rod, he hooked the rope to the edge and began to haul it in.

After a while it stuck.

'Gie's a hand here,' he said to his friend.

And together they hauled at the rope.

Whatever was on the end of it was heavier even than a big carp.

And certainly heavier than a pair of trainers, which were the first things they saw breaking the surface.