Wield coughed. The nurse reacted conventionally, doing the full guilty thing surprised bit, jumping backwards while her fingers scrabbled at her blouse buttons and blood flushed her pale and rather beautiful face like peach sauce over vanilla ice. The man, however, grinned amiably and said, Good morning, Doctor.
It is Mr Waterson, isnt it? said Wield doubtfully.
Thats right.
Wield produced his warrant card.
Good lord. Its the fuzz, dear. I expect youve come for a statement? Its all ready. They wake you at sparrow fart in these places, you know, so Ive had hours to compose.
He thrust a single sheet of foolscap bearing the Local Health Authoritys letter-head into Wields hand.
The woman meanwhile had reassembled herself into the pattern of a brisk efficient ward sister.
If youll excuse me, she said. Ill look in later.
Nice, isnt she? said Waterson complacently as the nurse left.
Wield examined the man neutrally. He was approaching thirty, perhaps had even passed it. Nature had tossed youthful good looks into his cradle, and nurture in the form of an artistic hairdresser, an aesthetic dentist and possibly an expensive dermatologist, had made sure the gift wasnt wasted.
The sister is an old friend? he ventured. Waterson smiled. There was charm here too.
Wash your mind out, Sergeant, he said. That was no sister, that was my wife!
Deciding this was a conundrum best postponed, Wield looked at the statement. It consisted of a single very long paragraph written in a minute but beautiful hand. It wasnt easy to read but one thing was very quickly clear. It was a lot closer to Swains version of events than to Dalziels!
Wield began to read it through a second time.
Gail Swain and I became lovers about a month ago. It was difficult to see as much of each other as we would have liked, so when Gail came up with a plan for us to have a longer period together I was delighted. She was going back to America on a visit to see her mother and she rearranged things so that she wouldnt need to get there till much later than shed told her husband. I wanted to fix up a hotel somewhere but she said no, she would come to me as soon as she could and she preferred to stay with me in town. I think the idea of stopping so close to her home excited her in some way. She turned up at my house in Hambleton Road last Thursday. I know she had allegedly left for America on the Sunday but what she had been doing in the meantime she never said. She was in a rather strange mood when she arrived and though things went well enough at first, by the time the weekend was over I was seriously worried. She never left the house but stayed inside all the time, drinking heavily, watching television, playing records, and talking wildly. Sexually she made increasingly bizarre demands upon me, not I felt for her own physical satisfaction so much as my humiliation. When I suggested she ought to be thinking about leaving, she became abusive and said things like, they would need to carry her out of there for all the neighbours to see. Last night she was the worst I had seen her. When I tried to reason with her, she produced this gun and said something about this being the only thing that spoke any sense. I know nothing about guns so I had no idea if it was real or loaded or anything. She aimed it at me and said it would be nice to have some company when she went. Just then the doorbell went and when I went downstairs to answer it, I found it was Philip Swain, her husband. I was naturally taken aback but also in a strange way I was quite relieved to have someone else to share the responsibility with. It just all came spilling out how worried I was and it must have got across as genuine, for instead of throwing a jealous fit, he came upstairs to see for himself. As soon as she saw us together, she became quite hysterical. She was laughing madly and screaming abuse and waving the gun, first at us, then at herself. I went towards her to pacify her and she put the gun under her chin and said if I came any closer she would kill herself. I was still uncertain whether the gun was real or not but I could see that she was in such a state she was likely to press the trigger unawares so I made a dive at her. Next thing the gun went off and there was blood and flesh and bone everywhere. Im afraid I just collapsed and after that everything was a blur until I awoke this morning and found myself in the Infirmary. I can see now that Gail was a highly disturbed woman and was always capable of doing damage to herself or others. But I blame myself entirely for what happened last night. If I had acted differently and called for professional help instead of trying to disarm her myself, perhaps none of this would have happened.
Signed: Gregory Waterson.
After his second reading, Wield stood in silence for a while.
Whats the matter? said Waterson. Not the right format? Get it typed up any which way you like, Sergeant, and Ill sign it.
Gathering his wits, Wield said, No, sir, its fine. Will you excuse me?
He went out. A ward sister had appeared at the desk, a stout woman with a smile of great sweetness which switched on as he approached and identified himself.
I met Mrs Waterson a moment ago, he said. Is she not on this ward?
No. Womens surgery. Did you want her?
No. At least not now. Id like a telephone, if I could.
In my office, just down there.
Thanks. Any idea when Mr Waterson will be discharged?
Youll need to ask Dr Marwood. Shall I get him? Hes just down the ward.
Yes, please.
He went into the tiny office and dialled. He identified himself to the switchboard operator and asked to be put through to Dalziel. A moment later Pascoe answered the phone.
That you, Wieldy? Look, the Supers in with the Chief. Anything I can do to help?
Quickly Wield filled him in.
Oh dear, said Pascoe. No wonder you sounded relieved to get me.
Its not quite the same story as Swains, said Wield, in search of a silver lining.
No. But its a bloody sight closer to it than Fat Andys version, said Pascoe.
You dont think he could have got it wrong?
Are you going to tell him that?
Im only a sergeant. Chief Inspectors get the danger money, said Wield. Went all right, did it, your big moment? Corks popping and such?
I got a cup of instant coffee. Is Waterson fit enough to come down here for a bit of close questioning?
He looks in rude health to me but Im just going to check with the doctor.
As Wield replaced the receiver, the door opened and a black man in a white coat came in. He was in his late twenties, with a hairline further back and a waistline further forward than they ought to be.
Marwood, he said. You the one wanting to know if Watersons fit to go? The answers yes. Sooner the better.
This sounded like something more than a medical opinion.
Thank you, Doctor, said Wield. Were you on when he was admitted?
No, but Ive seen the notes. Shock; sedation. Well, the sedations worn off. Never lasts long with his type. Same with shock, Id say.
His type?
Volatile, said the doctor. At least thats one way of putting it.
Wield said, Do you know Mr Waterson, sir? I mean, not just as a patient?
Weve met. His wife works here.
And it was through her ?
Staff parties, that sort of thing. He turned up a couple of times.
And how did he strike you? asked Wield.
Did I take to him, you mean? No way! He struck me as an opinionated little shit, and crypto-racist with it. I wasnt surprised when she left him.
Left him?
You didnt know? Marwood laughed. If I try to operate without knowing my patients a haemophiliac, I get struck off. But you guys just muddle through and no one gives a damn! Whats he done anyway?
Just helping us, sir, said Wield, wondering how Marwood would have reacted to the scene he had interrupted minutes earlier. How long have they been separated?
Not long. She moved into a room in our nurses annexe. Excuse me.
A bleeper had started up in his pocket. He switched it off and picked up the phone.
Right, he said after a moment. Replacing the receiver, he said, Ive got to go. Listen, medically, Watersons fit to go. But personally and off the record, Id say the guy should be put out to pasture at the funny farm.
He left. Wield pondered what he had heard for a while. Clearly Marwood felt about Waterson as Dalziel felt about Swain. Such strong antipathies bred bias and clouded the judgement. Wield knew all about bias, hoped he would speak out against it if necessary. But for the moment all that he was required to do was deliver Waterson safe into Dalziels eager hands.
He went back to the small side ward.
It was empty.
Suddenly his heart felt in need of intensive care. He went out to the nurses station. The plump sister gave him her smile.
Wheres Mr Waterson, sister? he asked.
Is he not in his bed?
No.
He might be in the lavvy. Or perhaps hes gone to have a shower.
You didnt see him? Have you been here all the time, since we talked, I mean?
He must have sounded accusatory.
Of course I havent. I went off to fetch Dr Marwood to see you, didnt I? she retorted.
Wheres the lavatory? And the shower?
The lavatory was the nearer. It was empty. But in the shower Wield found a pair of pyjamas draped over a cubicle.
Either Waterson was wandering around naked, or
He returned to the sister.
What would happen to his clothes when he was admitted?
Theyd be folded and put in his bedside locker, she said.
The locker was empty.
Shit, said Wield. Only a few months earlier during the case on which Pascoe had hurt his leg, a suspect had made his escape from a hospital bed and Dalziel had rated the officer responsible a couple of points lower than PC Hector. But no reasonable person could have anticipated that a mere witness whod volunteered a statement would do a bunk!
Then Dalziels features flashed upon Wields inward eye and reason slept.
Oh shit, he said again. Something made him glance down at his lapel. The tiny snowdrop had already wilted and died. He took it out and crushed it in his hand. Then with wandering steps and slow he made his way back to the telephone.
CHAPTER THREE
The Reverend Eustace Horncastle was a precise man. It was through exactitude rather than excellence that he had risen to the minor eminence of minor canon, so when he said to his wife, The woman is pagan, she knew the word was not lightly chosen.
Nevertheless she dared a show of opposition.
Surely she is merely exuberant, dramatic, full of life, she said with the wistful envy of one who knew that whatever she herself had once been full of had seeped away years since.
Pagan, repeated the Canon with an emphasis which in a lesser man might almost have been relish.
Looking at the object of their discussion who was striding vigorously across the Market Square ahead of them, Dorothy Horncastle could not muster a second wave of disagreement. Eileen Chungs silver lurex snood was a nod in the direction of religiosity, and there was perhaps something cope-like in the purple striped poncho draped round her shoulders. But devil-detection begins at the feet, and those zodiac-printed moccasins with leather thongs biting into golden calves each separately sufficient to seduce a Chosen People, were a dead giveaway. Here was essence of pagan. If you could have bottled it, the Canons wife might have bought some.
The clerical couple were almost at a canter to keep up with those endless legs, so when Chung stopped suddenly there was a small collision.
Whoa, Canon, said Chung amiably.
A canon indeed, but little woe, said Horncastle to his wifes amazement. He rarely aimed at wit and when he did was more likely to try a Ciceronian trope than plunge into a Shakespearean pun. A suspicion formed in Dorothys mind, to be brushed away like a naughty thought at Communion, that her husband might have invited her presence this morning not simply to represent the views of the laity (his phrase), but because he felt the need of a chaperone!
There had been one full meeting of the Mysteries committee which had been as long as an uncut Hamlet and not nearly as jolly. The combined verbosity of a city councillor, a union leader, a member of the Chamber of Commerce, a mediaeval historian, a journalist and Canon Horncastle, had defeated even Chungs directorial expertise and she had resolved thereafter to pick them off singly as she had picked them on singly in the first place. The diocese contained many worldlier, merrier clerics who would have given half their tithes to be religious advisers on such a project, but Chungs homework had told her Horncastle was the man. Heir apparent to the senescent Dean, he was the key figure in the Cathedral Chapter on matters relating to sacred sites and buildings, and the Bishop was said to respect his views highly, which her interpreter assured her was Anglican for being shit-scared of him.
I thought this might be a good site for one of the pageants, said Chung. The sun will be coming round behind the Corn Market at that time of day and itll light up the wagon like a spot.
If the weather is clement, said the Canon.
Ill rely on your good offices for that, laughed Chung.
Dorothy Horncastle waited for her husbands expected rebuke at this meteorological blasphemy but it didnt come. Instead something horribly like a simper touched his narrow lips. The unbelievable notion rose again that perhaps he really did need protection! Not sexually, for the frost in those loins was surely proof against the most torrid touch, but there were other temptations in this pagans armoury. Shed been mildly puzzled when at breakfast this morning Eustace had started reminiscing about his seminary triumph in the chorus line of Samson Agonistes. If Lucifer could fall, why not a minor canon?
It was time for a dutiful wife to come to the rescue.
She said, Wont the market stallholders object to their customers being turned into an audience?
Horncastle turned his cold gaze upon her, no simper now deflecting the straight line of those lips.
Monday is not a market day in normal circumstances, I think youll find. When it happens also to be a Bank Holiday, it seems more than ever unlikely that there should be any commercial activity, wouldnt you say, my dear?