Exit Lines. Reginald Hill
bit of space to move in.’
This lot were the forensic team and the photographer who were beginning to move methodically through the tiny house.
‘Incidentally, why did you bother me?’ wondered Pascoe as he led the way out of the front door, ignoring PC Hector’s vain attempt to stand straight at attention. ‘Mr Headingley busy, is he? And Mr Dalziel out of reach?’
George Headingley was the CID Inspector on duty that night. And Superintendent Andy Dalziel would certainly have expected to be informed instantly of any murder on his patch.
‘I’m not sure what’s going on, sir,’ said Wield in a low voice as they walked towards No. 27. ‘Something seems to have come up at the hospital.’
‘Something to do with this case, you mean?’
‘I don’t think so, sir,’ said Wield. ‘What happened was, Hector buzzed in about this lot, said that the ambulance was just arriving to take Mr Deeks away. It sounded at the time as if the old fellow was still alive, so Mr Headingley said he’d go down to the hospital to see what was what and asked me to get things started down here.’
They’d covered the few yards to 27, but Wield did not offer to knock and the two men sheltered from the driving rain as best they could in the lee of a puce-glossed doorway.
‘He contacted me about half an hour later, maybe more. Told me Deeks was dead and Mrs Frostick was under sedation. Then he said something had come up and it’d be best if I could get hold of you as he was going to be occupied with this other thing. I asked if he wanted me to try to get hold of Mr Dalziel too, but he said no, there was no need for that, no need at all. He was being very cagey, said he’d explain things to you later. Anyway, that’s how I came to be disturbing your evening.’
‘You could have told me this on the phone!’ protested Pascoe. ‘It might have made me a fraction less bad-tempered.’
‘Thought you’d prefer to start off with a clear mind,’ said Wield.
He was right, of course. Anything that could make a good, solid, down-to-earth copper like George Headingley slide out from under a murder inquiry must be serious. Already Pascoe’s mind was spiralling off into the inane of speculation. He only hoped he could drag it back to earth and hold it there till he got this investigation properly under way.
He needn’t have worried. Ballast was at hand.
The fluorescent door was flung open, revealing a brightly lit living-room where the full volume of a television set competed vainly with a clamorous wallpaper whose main motif was the display ritual of birds of paradise in a tropical jungle. Lowering his eyes, Pascoe met the glower of a short but enormously broad woman in a nylon overall which seemed to have been glossed from the same pot as the doorway.
‘Are you buggers too shy to knock, or what?’ she demanded. ‘I didn’t rudd that step just so’s a pair of petrified coppers could stamp their hobnails on it. Are you coming in? I haven’t got all bloody night, even if you have!’
The mysterious behaviour of George Headingley was quite forgotten. Meekly Pascoe followed Sergeant Wield into the house.
‘Die, my dear doctor – that’s the last thing I shall do.’
The mysterious behaviour of George Headingley had its roots in what had happened out on the Paradise Road earlier that evening; or perhaps even in what had happened during Dr John Sowden’s medical training a few years before, for Dr Sowden’s ethical attitudes had matured much more rapidly than his clinical knowledge.
As a second year student, he was already proclaiming a doctor’s first duty was to his patient, not to some semi-religious philosophical abstraction. He found no difficulty with abortion; the mother was his patient, not the foetus. And at the other end of existence, the only difficulty he found with euthanasia was its illegality, but he would certainly not strive officiously to keep alive patients who ought to be switched off.
These were the pragmatic points of view which deserved to be maintained by a modern young doctor. Somewhere within their clinically rigid framework, there should have been a space perfectly tailored to contain the death of Philip Cater Westerman, to whom surgery could at best have given only a couple of years of probably bedridden life. Yet in some peculiarly illogical way, even though he had done everything possible for the man, which in all truth was precious little, it was to Dr Sowden as if the thought that Westerman would be better off dead had somehow transplanted itself into action. Incredibly, he felt guilty! Another few minutes and he would have been dead on arrival like the other two. But because he had technically entered into his care for those last few minutes of life, he, Dr Sowden, prospective snapper-off of life-support systems and generous dispenser of terminal tranquillizers, felt guilty. Or responsible. Or resentful. Or something.
Puzzled and irritated by this feeling, he went to the waiting-room where a nurse had told him that some visitors were eager for news of Mr Westerman.
There were three men there; one fat, flushed and middle-aged, staring gloomily into space, the only sign of life being the movement of his right hand down his right sock as he attempted to scratch the sole of his foot inside his shoe; the second slightly younger and much better preserved, with a reflective self-contained expression on his sallow face and in his hand an expensive-smelling cigar whose smoke tendrils twined themselves around the no-smoking sign above his head; the third, sitting as far away from the other two as possible and looking distinctly the most nervous of the trio, was a uniformed police constable.
Not relatives, decided the doctor; they must be from the car involved in the accident.
Addressing a neutral point of the room, he said, ‘I’m sorry to say Mr Westerman is dead.’
The fat man stopped scratching momentarily; his companion raised his cigar to his lips; the constable stood up.
‘The death will have to be reported to the coroner, of course,’ said Dr Sowden to the constable, thinking that he was keeping the coroner busy tonight. ‘If you’d like to come with me…’
He opened the door and waited. The constable glanced across at the two men as if in search of something but nothing was said.
He followed the doctor into the corridor.
‘How’d it happen?’ Sowden asked as they walked along together.
‘Don’t rightly know,’ said the officer vaguely. ‘He was riding a bike.’
‘That,’ said Sowden judiciously, ‘is surely a circumstance rather than a cause. How was the breathalyser test?’
It was none of his business, of course, and had the policeman merely indicated this, he would probably have felt it was no more than his own bit of pomposity deserved and let the matter drop. But when the constable said evasively, ‘I’m not sure,’ Sowden said sharply, ‘You did breathalyse them? Or rather him? The driver? That was him there, in the waiting-room, I take it?’
The constable’s silence acquiesced.
‘And you don’t know if he’s been breathalysed? Good lord, if even a dying man could smell the whisky, surely you didn’t miss it? I could still smell the stuff in the waiting-room! And what’s he doing there anyway? Shouldn’t he be down at the station, helping with inquiries?’
‘Not up to me, sir,’ said the constable, stung to reply.
Sowden was prevented from any further probing by the intervention of the ward clerk who drew him aside and murmured. ‘There’s a police inspector to see you, Doctor. It’s about Mr Deeks.’
Waiting in his office was a middle-aged man with bushy eyebrows and a kind of weary affability, like a country parson at the end of a long church fête.
‘Headingley,’ he