Reginald Hill - A Cure for All Diseases

Pete gave us bulletins. Quadriplegia seemed likely to start with, so when it finally came down to paraplegia, Pascoe acted like he’d won the lottery. Bothered me a bit. I told him, be grateful, OK, but that don’t mean feeling responsible for the sod for the rest of your life. Pascoe slammed off out after I said that and I heard no more about Roote for six months or more. That’s a long sulk in my book so finally I mentioned him myself.

Turned out the reason Pascoe said nowt was ’cos he’d nowt to say. He’d lost touch. Seems that when the medics decided they’d done all that could be done for Roote, he just vanished. Pascoe had traced him as far as Heathrow where he’d got on a plane to Switzerland. We knew he’d been there before. That’s where some of the funny letters had come from. This time no letters, not even a postcard. Best guess was, being Roote, he weren’t settling for a life viewed from belly level, he were going to spend some of that compensation dosh looking for a cure.

Would have been easy enough for us to get a fix on him. Even in our borderless Europe, a foreigner in wheelchair tends to leave a trail. But I reckon Ellie said to Pete that if Roote didn’t want to keep in touch, that was his choice.

Now here he was, large as life, back on my patch – all right, on the very fringe of it – and I didn’t know a thing about it.

I didn’t like that. OK, I’d spent a bit of time in a coma recently, but that’s no reason not to know what’s going off.

He manoeuvred his chair alongside me and said, ‘I read about your bit of trouble and I’m so pleased to see reports of your recovery haven’t been exaggerated. Though tell me, is the bare foot part of a new therapy? Or have you finally joined the Masons?’

That was Roote. Misses nowt and likes to think he’s a comic.

I said, ‘You’re looking well yourself, lad.’

In fact he was. If anything he looked a lot younger than last time I’d seen him – not counting straight after getting shot, of course. The landlord came over to our table and set a glass of something purple with bubbles in front of him. Mebbe it were the elixir of life. If any bugger found it, it would be Roote.

He said, ‘Thanks, Alan. And thank you too, Mr Dalziel. Yes, I feel extremely well. So what brings you to sunny Sandytown? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. I’d say you’re down here to convalesce at the Avalon. You must have arrived fairly recently, they are still completing their preliminary assessment, which you, growing impatient, have opted to pre-empt by making your own way to this excellent establishment.’

Told you he were a clever bastard.

I said, ‘If we’d caught you younger we might have made a detective out of you, Roote. But I’m not complaining we caught you later and made a convict out of you instead.’

‘Still as direct as ever, I see,’ he said, smiling. ‘Any minute now you’ll be asking what I myself am doing here.’

‘No need to waste my breath,’ I said.

‘Meaning of course you’re just as capable as me at working things out,’ he said.

Like a lot of folk who love playing games, Roote always reckoned other folk were playing them too. Don’t mind a game myself, long as I’m making the rules.

I said, ‘No. Meaning I’d not believe a bloody word you said! But I can work out you’ve been here long enough for our landlord to know you drink parrot piss.’

‘Cranberry juice actually,’ he said. ‘Full of vitamins, you really ought to try it.’

‘Mebbe after morris dancing and incest,’ I said. ‘As for your reasons for being here, I’m not interested. Unless they’re criminal, which wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘Oh dear. Still the old mistrust.’

‘Nay, just the old realism,’ I said.

Then I went on ’cos I’d never said it direct and it needed saying, ‘Listen, lad, I’ll be forever grateful for what you did for little Rosie Pascoe. Thought you should know that. Won’t make me turn a blind eye to serious crime, mind, but any time you feel like parking your chair on a double yellow line in Mid-Yorks, be my guest.’

His eyes filled. Don’t know how he does that trick, but the bugger’s got it off pat.

‘I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Mr Dalziel. And how is the girl? Must be growing up now. And dear Mr Pascoe and his lovely wife, how are they?’

‘All well. He were a bit upset losing contact with you. What happened there?’

He sipped his drink. I had to look away. If the buggers can ban smoking, I reckon at least they should put up screens for folk wanting to drink stuff that colour.

Then he said, ‘I was deeply touched by Mr Pascoe’s concern for me. He’s a man I admire greatly. I would love to be able to think of him as my friend. Perhaps it was because of this that, as I gradually improved, I began to worry in case the gratitude he felt should become a burden. It’s all too easy for gratitude to turn into resentment, isn’t it? Mr Pascoe is a man of intense feeling. Sometimes perhaps over intense. It was a hard decision, but I felt it might be best if I cooled things between us, so when I concluded that medical wisdom as it stood in the UK had done everything possible for me and decided to head abroad in search of other treatments, it seemed a good opportunity. I’m sorry if that sounds too altruistic for your view of me, Mr Dalziel, but it’s the truth.’

I found I believed him.

I said, ‘I reckon you got things right for once.’

The bar door opened and a young woman came in, laden with carrier bags. She were tall and skinny as a bow string. Slim they likely call it in the women’s mags, or slender or willowy, some such bollocks, but it’s all skinny to me. I like a lass with a bit of something to get a hold of. Mind you, beggars can’t always be choosers and I’ve known a lot of bow strings that had plenty of twang in them, but on the whole I’ve always steered clear of the lean and hungry ones. Not that this lass weren’t bad looking in a hollow cheek modelly sort of way, with wavy brown hair, a good full mouth, a determined little chin, and soft blue eyes that fastened on Roote.

She said, ‘Franny, hi.’

‘Clara,’ said Roote. ‘Hi! Come and meet my old friend, Andrew Dalziel. Mr Dalziel, this is Clara Brereton.’

She came towards us. She were a lovely mover even with the bags. Fair do’s, probably being skinny helps here, though my Cap doesn’t get many complaints on the dance floor.

She said, ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Dalziel,’ like she knew how to spell it. And she was another who didn’t blink when she spotted how I were dressed.

I said, ‘Likewise, lass.’

‘Why don’t you join us?’ said Roote giving her the full smarmy charmy treatment.

She sat down, saying, ‘Just till Auntie comes. Teddy’s taking us to lunch at Moby’s. He’s supposed to be meeting us here.’

She looked relieved to set the bags down.

I said, ‘They don’t deliver round here then?’ just to make conversation.

Roote chipped in, ‘Indeed they do, but there’s a small charge, and why pay that when you’ve got your own personal service?’

They smiled at each other. Something going on here? I wondered. With Roote, owt’s possible. A gent would likely have made an excuse and left them to get on with it, but gents don’t find themselves sitting in public bars in their dressing gowns. Any road, I wanted to see how Roote would play it. But there weren’t time to make his play.

The door opened again and another woman entered, this one a bit more to my taste. The way her gaze fixed on Clara and Roote, I guessed straight off this were the aunt. She were knocking on, sixties bumping seventy, but well preserved, and built like a buffalo, with an eye to match. If there weren’t enough meat on young Clara to make a Christmas starter, there were plenty here for a main course with something left over for Boxing Day. Not bad looking for an old ’un, but in a very different way from her niece. No smooth pallor here but weathered oak. Only thing in common were the determined chin which age had carved on her face into a bit of an ice-breaker. This was a woman used to getting her own way.