Death's Jest-Book

13
Judgment Day

On Saturday the twenty-sixth of January, Rye Pomona woke on the floor of her bathroom. She recalled feeling sick in the night and climbing out of bed, but she recalled no more. She stood up and realized she had fouled herself. Stripping off her nightgown, she stepped into the bath and turned the shower full on.

As the icy blast slowly turned warm, she felt life return to her limbs and her mind. She found herself singing a song, not the words but the catchy little tune. This puzzled her, as recently she'd found no problem in recalling anything, even things from her very earliest years.

Then it came to her that she couldn't recall these words because she'd never known them. Even the tune she'd only heard once. It had been sung by the boy with the bazouki in the Taverna, the Greek restaurant in Cradle Street. Of all the songs he had been asked to sing that night, this was the only one which sounded authentically Greek. The words she didn't understand, but the rippling notes created an impression eidetic in its intensity of blue skies, blue waters and a shepherd boy sitting under an olive tree on a sun-cracked hillside. She got dressed, tidied up, left everything as she would have liked to find it on her return, locked the door carefully behind her.

Mrs Gilpin was coming up the stairs with her morning milk.

'Off to work then’ she said.

'No, I'm not working today’ said Rye smiling. 'I've been admiring that lovely window box of yours. It's so clever of you to get such colours in the middle of winter, and I thought I'd drive out to that big garden centre at Carker and see if I could pick up anything as nice.'

Mrs Gilpin, unused to her neighbours being happy to exchange more than the briefest of greetings with her, flushed at the compliment and said, 'If you want any help, donlt hesitate to ask.'

'Thank you. I won't’ said Rye.

She ran down the stairs, happy in the knowledge that every word of the exchange would be imprinted on the magnetic tape of Mrs Gilpin's mind, and a little bit sorry that she had never gone out of her way to show the woman a friendly face before.

Until she met her neighbour, she hadn't had the faintest idea where she was going, but now she knew. And she knew why, though it wasn't till she crossed the town boundary and set her car climbing sedately up the gentle slope which led to the brow of Roman Way that she formulated the knowledge. At the top, she pulled on to the verge and waited.

Below her stretched the old Roman road, running arrow straight down an avenue of ancient beeches for nearly all of the five miles to the village of Carker. Down there she had sat in wait for the boy with the bazouki, watching as the light of his motorbike raced towards her, then switching on her own headlights and driving into his path.

Of all her victims, he perhaps was the one she regretted most. He had been young, and innocent, with no guile in his heart, and music at his fingertips. She hadn't killed him, but she had caused his death and in her madness read that as her licence to kill.

If she could bring someone back to life…

The thought made her feel disloyal to Sergius, her brother whom she'd also killed with her driving, though not deliberately, simply by selfishness and neglect.

But he would understand.

She waited till the road ahead was empty. In her mirror she saw a distant vehicle coming up behind her. Could it be…? Yes, it was!

A yellow AA van.

What more fitting witness could she ask!

But a witness to what? Here was a problem. How could you have an accident on a perfectly straight and traffic-free stretch of road?

Yet somehow it didn't feel like a problem.

She set off down Roman Way, her foot hard on the accelerator.

As her speed increased, she felt time slowing, so that the beech trees which should have been blurring by her were moving in sedate procession. This was part of that aura which had preceded her terrible deeds, the same kind of aura which in clinical terms often preceded the onset of epilepsy or other kinds of seizure. In her present case it could be either, the tumour at its destructive task or the harbinger of her final killing. She would on the whole prefer her medical condition not to be a factor in her death. She couldn't imagine it being a comfort to Hat to know he would have lost her anyway, and she could imagine how he would feel to learn she had been hiding the truth about her health from him.

But if it had to be, it had to be.

Then she saw the deer heading towards the road across the field to her left.

It was, she presumed, moving very fast, but to her leisurely gaze it advanced at a slow lope.

She recalled driving with Hat to Stang Tarn when a deer had appeared on the road ahead of them, sending his little MG skidding on to the grass verge and triggering memories which had come bubbling out, bringing her and Hat dangerously close, making her contemplate for the first time ever – and already too late – the possibility of happiness.

Happiness she had had, however brief, however t tainted. A deer had started it and now a deer would end it.

This was good. Hat would remember, and such patterns of fate are a comfort to the stricken. We grasp at anything to give us evidence that what seems meaningless has meaning, what seems final is only a pause before a new beginning.

The deer reached the hedgerow and flew over it in a movement of such beauty her heart stopped at the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Then it was on the road. She swung the wheel over, touched the brake lightly to give a touch of evidential authenticity to the AA man who was now within sight, and careered towards the far side of the road with scarcely any loss of speed. Yet in her time-out world, the approach to the tree that was to kill her felt so slow that she could make out clearly its bruised and scarred trunk and knew with a burst of joy that here was the very same beech beneath which the bazouki boy had died.

Even the dying which the coroner would describe as instantaneous took long enough for her to see the line it was necessary to cross. On one side knelt Hat looking pale and stricken and on the other stood Sergius and the bazouki boy, overlapping and melding, smiling in welcome.

Then it was dark, and in the control room of Praesidium Security where Hat had been posted to follow the progress of the van dispatched to collect the Hoard, everything went dark too.

'What's up with you?' demanded Berry, the manager, looking with concern at the young DC who had risen from his chair and was clasping both hands to his pallid face.

'I don't know. Nothing. Didn't the power fail?'

'Eh? I think I'd have noticed.'

'No, look there was something… see there! The signal's gone.'

Berry glanced at the computerized map, smiled and started counting.

'… fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen… there it is!'

A flashing light had appeared on the screen heading south.

'It's the Estotiland underpass’ he said. 'Shields the signal. Usually takes between twelve and twenty seconds, depending on traffic. Any road, no need to get your knickers in a twist. It's on the way back with the Hoard on board that these master criminals of thine are going to strike, not on the way down with an empty van. Didn't they teach you owt at police college?'

Hat didn't answer. It felt like something had been snuffed out in his mind. Was it possible to have a stroke at his age? But there was no paralysis of one side of his body, no twisting of his mouth, no sense that the link between thought and speech had been lost. Yet something had been lost.

'You don't look so grand,' said Berry, observing him more closely. 'Sit down, lad, and I'll bring you a cup of tea. You've not been near anyone with this Kung Flu, have you?'

'What? Yes. The DCI's got it.'

That'll likely be it then. How old's your DCI? I've heard it can be a killer.'

But Peter Pascoe in fact was feeling much much better. For the first time in five days he'd woken up without feeling he had been unwillingly summoned from the grave, and the only trace his mind held of the troubled visions of the past few days had something to do with a Scotch pie.

He had been sleeping alone, for his comfort and Ellie's protection. He pushed back the duvet and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Excellent. No dizziness, no sudden overheating of the body. The door opened and Ellie came in with a tray. 'Well, hello, Lazarus,' she said. 'What's this? Urgent call of nature?'

'Something like that. What did you feed me last night? I've got dim recollections of a Scotch pie. I think there's been a miracle cure.'

'Scotch pie? No, you're still delirious. Stand up.' He stood up and fell over.

'Just a little miracle then. Do you want a lift into bed or are you going to levitate?' Sulkily he crawled back beneath the duvet. 'But I really do feel much better,' he protested. 'Of course you do. Why is it your bouts of illness always follow such a hyperbolical parabola? A simple cold takes you from death's door to the Olympic stadium in one mighty leap.'

'A simple cold? Bollocks. And hyperbolical parabola sounds tautologous to me.'

'I know you're getting better when you start sneering at my style. And I'm glad of it,' said Ellie, setting down the tray. 'It means I can leave you with a clear conscience.'

'Leave me? I know you writers are sensitive, but that's a bit extreme, isn't it?'

'Leave you to your own devices while I try to stop your power-mad child from hijacking Suzie's birthday party at Estotiland.'

'Typical. Gadding off enjoying yourself while I'm lying on a bed of pain,' said Pascoe.

'What happened to the miracle? And if you really want to change places

Pascoe closed his eyes, imagined the party – the noise, the violence, the vomit – and said, 'I think I'm having a relapse.'

But later, after he'd heard the front door close behind Ellie and his wildly excited daughter, he climbed out of bed again and this time, not needing to impress with his returned athleticism, he was able to stand upright and take a few tentative steps with little more counter-effect than a drunken stagger.

He put on his dressing gown and went downstairs. As he made himself a cup of coffee he switched on his official radio. He no longer took sugar, but what better sweetener does a man at home need than to eavesdrop on his colleagues hard at work?

Not a lot on the general frequency. Shoplifting in the town centre. Bit of strife outside the railway station as visitors arriving for that afternoon's football match were fraternally greeted by home supporters. And an accident on Roman Way. Only one car involved and they were still cutting the victim out of the wreckage.

He tried the frequencies that CID normally occupied and on the second of them heard Dalziel's voice asking for a report from Serpent 3. Operation Serpent. He'd forgotten all about that. Funny how a virus could reduce matters of seemingly vast importance to vanishing point. Bowler, who must be in the Praesidium control room, reported that the pick-up van was inside the Sheffield city boundary. Pascoe felt a pang of guilt. It should have been his job to make sure that Mid-Yorkshire's share in the operation was trouble free. At the very least he ought to have rung Stan Rose and wished him luck. He could remember his own first big job after he'd been promoted to DI, how eager he'd been to get things right, to reassure everyone – and in particular Fat Andy – that he could hack it. Too late to get involved now, but he'd make a determined effort to be first with his congratulations. The telephone rang.

He went through to the lounge and picked it up. 'Pascoe,' he said.

'Mr Pascoe! How lovely to hear your voice!' He sat down. It wasn't a voluntary movement and fortunately there was a chair conveniently placed for his buttocks, but he'd have sat down anyway. 'Hello? Hello? Mr Pascoe, you still there?' 'Yes, I'm still here.'

'Oh good, thought I'd lost you for a moment there. It's Franny, Mr Pascoe. Franny Roote.'

'I know who it is,' said Pascoe. 'What do you want?'

'Just to talk. I'm sorry. Is this a bad time?'

To talk to you? Every time is a bad time! He said, 'Where are you, Mr Roote? America? Switzerland? Germany? Cambridge?'

'Just outside Manchester. I got back from the States this morning. Plane was late. I felt a bit knackered, so I hung around and had a shower and a hearty breakfast, and now I'm on my way home. Look, Mr Pascoe, I wanted first of all to say sorry about all these letters I've been bombarding you with. I hope you haven't found them too much of a nuisance, I’ve never given you the chance to say so Mabye I was scared to. I mean, if you didn't tell me direct that you were pissed off with getting letters from me; then I could imagine maybe it was OK, maybe you even quite enjoyed reading them and looked forward to them… OK, that's probably going too far, but writing them has been important to me and I'm sure you can't do your job without understanding how ingenious human beings are at justifying doing the things that seem important to themselves.'

'I understand that very well, Mr Roote,' said Pascoe coldly. 'I think the most persuasive line in self-justification I ever heard came from a man who had just dismembered his wife and two children with a meat cleaver.'

There was a pause. Then Roote said, 'Oh shit. You really are pissed off, aren't you? I'm sorry. Listen, no more letters then, I promise. But won't you at least talk to me?'

'That's what I seem to be doing,' said Pascoe.

'Face to face, I mean. It's amazing, I feel I know you really well, like a… really well. But if you think about it, just about all the times we've talked face to face have been when you came looking for me officially. There's not a lot of scope for conversation in those circumstances, is there? All I ask is one meeting, it would mean a lot to me. I could call round to see you… no, maybe that's not such a good idea. Invasion of personal space and all that. Maybe you could come round to see me. You know where my flat is, don't you – 17a Westburn Lane. Any time to suit yourself. Or just drop in. I'll be spending most of my time there when I get back. I've really got to get down to some hard work on Sam's book. There's a deal of editing to do, a couple of chapters to write more or less from scratch, and I've even been trying my hand at a few of his Imagined Scenes', you know, imaginative reconstructions of events and conversations. It's a device to use with great care, of course, but, as you know yourself, Mr Pascoe, when not a great deal of physical evidence exists, you've got to use all your professional skill to put together a plausible picture of events. Oh God, I'm rabbiting, aren't I? If you could come to see me, I'd be more pleased than I can say. And if I happen to be out, don't disappear. I'm never far away. There's a spare key with my neighbour, Mrs Thomas, she never goes out, arthritis, tell her Francis says it's OK, she always calls me Francis, so if you say that, she'll know you've spoken to me. I'm ringing off now before you can say no. Please come.'

The phone went dead.

Pascoe sat in thought for a long moment. He had, despite himself, been touched by what sounded like a note of real pleading in the young man's voice.

But that was his deceptive art, wasn't it? That was what pleasured the cunning bastard. He'll be sitting there now, that pale face blank as ever, but inside he'll be grinning like a death's head at the thought of the little seeds of fear and uncertainty he's planted in my mind.

He stood up with sudden resolution that seemed to send new strength surging along his arteries to revive his weakened limbs.

Thanks for the invitation, bastard’ he said. 'Don't worry. I'll come!'

He went upstairs and got dressed. If he'd gone back into the kitchen he'd have heard Edgar Wield, code sign Serpent 5, sitting astride his Thunderbird on the South and Mid-Yorkshire boundary line, reporting to Serpent 4 (Andy Dalziel) that he'd just had word from Serpent 1 (DI Rose) that transfer was complete and the Hoard was on its way north out of Sheffield.

And if he'd turned back to the first channel he'd have heard that the registered owner of the crashed car on Roman Way was a Raina Pomona and that the corpse of a young female, presumed to be Miss Pomona, had just been removed from the vehicle.

But Pascoe had ears only for the voices in his own head.

The party in the Junior Jumbo Burger Bar was going a treat.

Ellie, on the excuse of going to the loo, had double-checked the kitchen to reassure herself there hadn't been a switch from fresh local produce to reclaimed gunge since her previous visit.

Satisfied, she returned to the party just in time to nip in the bud an assault spearheaded by Rosie on a neighbouring bouncy castle occupied by a tribe of little boys who had been foolish enough to opine that girls were stupid and should be permanently banned from Estotiland.

The boys screamed their delight at the enforced retreat. Then suddenly delight turned to shock as their bouncy castle started to deflate and Ellie found herself with no justification whatsoever staring accusingly at her daughter.

'I just wished it’ said Rosie defensively. Oh God, thought Ellie. Don't tell me I've got one of them!

Ten miles away the Praesidium security van bearing the Elsecar Hoard was moving steadily north, followed, though not too closely, by an unmarked car containing DI Stanley Rose and four of his South Yorkshire colleagues. Also moving north on by-roads and side roads were various other police vehicles, staying roughly parallel to the main highway so that major reinforcement was never more than a few minutes away, and in the event things went pear-shaped, all escape routes could be rapidly blocked.

A few days ago Edgar Wield would have strongly opposed these tactics. In his book, prevention was always better than cure. OK, it made a better statistic and certainly put a bigger feather in the police cap, and in Stan Rose's cap in particular, if they got a positive result by taking Mate Polchard's gang in the act. But no matter how fast they moved in on trouble, there was always a chance the security guards could get hurt. Better by far in his opinion to have flashing lights and screaming sirens before and after the van, sending all the low-life scurrying back to their murky crevices.

But that was before the discovery of Lee's corpse.

Now as he tracked the South Yorkshire car on his Thunderbird, he was longing for the expected ambush to occur, to put bodies in reach of his stick and his hands.

Ahead a huge sign with a direction arrow said Estotiland – Visitors and a quarter of a mile further on the slip road slid away to the left. Good planning that, he approved. The complex itself was five miles further, but feeding the visitors off so early considerably reduced the chance of a tailback extruding dangerously on to the main highway. Even as he let these thoughts of traffic control flow across the surface of his mind, he knew he was trying to damp down what the Estotiland sign really said to him. And I need you now tonight… and I need you more than ever… and the foul canal water forcing itself down Lee's throat and into his belly, his lungs…

He shook his head violently as though shaking it free of water and forced his attention back to Operation Serpent, scanning the way ahead for the first sign of danger.

Peter Pascoe stood on the threshold of Franny Roote's flat.

Getting the key had been easy. Getting away from Mrs Thomas, the key's keeper, had been more difficult. But after suffering a lengthy and seamless encomium of her lovely young neighbour, Francis, who was such a parcel of virtues you could have sent him as gift-aid, he had finally been released by the announcement of the next horse-race on her television set.

Now as he stood there looking into what he thought of as his enemy's lair, he wondered once more, not with self-doubt but with amazement at the gullibility of his fellows, why it was that he always seemed to be swimming against a tide of Rootophilia.

He also wondered what the hell he imagined he might gain by coming here.

Indeed it occurred to him that the mention of the spare key might simply be a lure to make him waste his time, the kind of stratagem the youth loved.

Well, if he was going to waste time he might as well waste it quickly!

He stepped inside and began a methodical search.

Marcus Belchamber stood before one of the most treasured items in his study – a life-size model wearing the uniform and equipment of a military tribune of the late empire.

On his desk stood a high-powered radio illegally tuned in to police frequencies through which he had surfed until he hit the one that interested him.

Operation Serpent! What dull plod had thought that one up? It was like saying, if you want to keep track of our anti-heist plans, here's the channel you should be listening to.

It did mean, however, that either the Sheffield grass or poor little Lee had said enough to alert even a dull plod.

But according to Polchard it didn't matter that they knew. In fact the plan was always going to assume they knew anyway. But not of course everything.

He was, for such a terrifying man, comfortingly reassuring.

For all that, Belchamber had a packed bag in the boot of his Lexus and a plane ticket to Spain in the glove compartment. When trouble comes, the professional criminal rings his clever lawyer. But who does the clever lawyer ring? No, at the first sign of things going wrong, he was going to vanish and oversee developments from a safe distance.

The uniform was necessarily eclectic; a bit here, an item there, put together over many years and at the expense of many thousands of pounds. Only the cloth and the fine purple plume in the helmet weren't original. He was particularly fond of the helmet. He liked to put it on at moments of crisis. When he was alone, of course. The only person who ever saw him wearing the uniform in part or whole was the dead boy.

Don't think about him.

With the helmet on, he sometimes had the fancy he was that hypothesized ancestor, Marcus Bellisarius. Certainly he seemed to see things more dearly when he wore it, perhaps with the ruthless eye of the military tactician, balancing so many men lost against so much ground gained.

He took the helmet down now. Was something happening? The voices on the radio no longer sounded quite so bored and routine.

He raised the helmet high and placed it on his head.

Stanley Rose was beginning to sweat. He hoped his colleagues wouldn't notice, but when you've got five big men packed together into a medium saloon, sweat is hard to hide. If they did notice, they'd know the reason. And behind their grimly blank faces, they'd be grinning. When Operation Serpent got the go-ahead, he'd revelled in being The Man and he hadn't been able not to let it show. Try as he might, he knew that at briefings he'd come on strong, always having the last word, making sure everyone knew whose show they were in. Christ, when he'd gone to the bog, if there'd been any of the team there, he'd even pissed with more authority I

Logically, if the Hoard got safely delivered to Mid-Yorkshire, that was a job well done. But it wouldn't read like that back in Sheffield. If he'd been a little more tentative in his approach, he might have got away with some heavy ribbing. But when you'd strutted your stuff as The Man, a no-show with its expense of time and effort and manpower was going to be chalked against you almost as heavily as a successful heist.

They were approaching the Estotiland underpass. Another twenty minutes beyond that would see them home. Polchard! he screamed mentally. Where the fuck are you?

A hundred and fifty yards ahead. Mate Polchard back at Rose's car through the mirror of the security van.

The pigs were still keeping their distance. He'd banked on this. Not for them the plain fare of successfully escorting the Hoard to the Mid-Yorkshire Heritage Centre. No, they wanted to dip their snouts in the great steaming trough of arrests, and bodies in cells, and headlines in papers. But they hadn't thought to escort the empty van down from Mid-Yorkshire. Forcing it to divert into the Estoti service area off the underpass had been easy. And while the strong-arms in his team dealt with the driver and guard, the substitute vehicle, its call-sign signal carefully adjusted, emerged from the southern end of the underpass.

Reversing the process required a bit more guile.

'Keep it steady’ he said to his driver.

They'd gradually diminished their speed for the past quarter-hour so that now they were barely doing forty-five. Were the pigs suspicious? Why should they be? In any case it was too late now, he thought, focusing his gaze beyond the trailing car.

The pantechnicon coming up fast in the outside lane had no problem in getting past the police car just as the van began its shallow descent into the underpass. Signs warned, no stopping or overtaking, but the pantechnicon flashed its indicator after passing the police saloon and began to pull in front.

'Plonker!' yelled Rose. 'Get past him, for Christ's sake.'

His driver began to flash to pull out, but there was a white transit van slowly overtaking him now, blocking the manoeuvre.

Polchard watched all this in his mirror, then said 'Go,' when the saloon was completely out of sight.

The driver rammed down the accelerator.

Ahead was a sign with an arrow pointing off left, saying estotiland service area – authorized vehicles only. The security van roared along the slip road. Further on, down the exit slip road from the service area, the original Praesidium van joined the underpass road at a sedate pace.

'It's all right, guv, he's turning off,' said Rose's driver reassuringly as the pantechnicon began to move over on to the exit slip road. 'No need to worry. There's the van up ahead.'

'Where the fuck did you expect it to be? Vanished into thin air?' snarled Rose, annoyed to have let his anxiety show so clearly. 'Close up a bit, will you? And try not to let any other fucker get between us.'

'… fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen… there they are,' said Berry as the blip reappeared on the computer screen. 'Not long now. Beginning to look like much ado about nowt, isn't it?'

'Yeah’ said Hat Bowler. 'Nowt.'

This oppo couldn't finish too early for him. Though the extreme effects of whatever malaise had hit him over an hour ago hadn't been repeated, he still felt somehow physically cold and mentally spaced out. Another reaction had been a desire verging on a need to hear Rye's voice, so when Berry was called out of the control centre for a few minutes he'd taken the chance to ring the library, only to be told that Rye wasn't due in today.

This had surprised him. When he'd told her he was going to be tied up on Saturday, he'd got the impression she was working too. He then rang her flat. Nothing but the answer machine.

So she was out. What did he expect her to do when he wasn't around? Sit at home and mope?

But he felt uneasy though he knew no reason why.

The door of the control room opened.

'Hello, Superintendent. Come to check up on things?' said Berry. 'Must say you lot are taking this very seriously, but it's all going like a dream so far.'

Hat didn't turn from the screen. All his earlier symptoms were back mob-handed. He knew it wasn't Dalziel who'd come into the room, it was Death.

Death that master of role-play who was yet always himself. For he could come garbed as a nurse, or a close friend, or in the cap and bells of a jester, or as a great fat policeman, but the cavernous eyes and grinning jawbone were still unmistakable.

So he sat and stared at the light pulsing like a heart across the screen.

'Hat’ said Dalziel, 'could you step outside for a moment. I need a word.'

'Watching the van, sir’ said Hat stiffly. 'Won't be long now till it gets to the museum.'

'Mr Berry will watch for us,' said Dalziel gently. 'Come on, lad. We need to talk. Your office all right, Mr Berry?'

By now the manager too knew that a darkness more than the semi-dusk of a grey January day had entered the room.

'Sure’ he said.

Hat rose and, still without looking at the Fat Man, went out of the room.

'Will he be back?' said Berry.

'No’ said Dalziel. 'I don't think he will. You can manage here, I expect?'

'What's to manage?' said Berry, glancing at the screen. 'I reckon it's all over now.'

'I think you're right’ said Dalziel. 'It's all over.'

Pascoe was beginning to wish he'd stayed in bed. He sat on a chair and looked uneasily round Franny Roote's flat.

Normally he was the most meticulous of searchers, missing no possible hiding place in his pursuit of whatever it was he was pursuing, and just as assiduous in leaving no messy traces of his searching. In fact it was a standing joke among his less particular colleagues that if you wanted to give a room a good tidying, you got Pascoe to search it.

But something had gone wrong today.

Roote's flat looked like it had been done over by a disturbed juvenile on his first job.

With no effect whatsoever, except to waste so much energy he'd broken out in a muck sweat. He took off his jacket and wiped his brow.

What to do? he asked himself desperately.

Flee, and hope it got put down to said disturbed juvenile?

Stay and brazen it out if and when Roote turned up? Or try to tidy things up and cover all traces of his passage?

That was going to be hard, he thought as he looked around. He'd made a real mess and he knew he couldn't put it all down to his illness. He'd often looked at the after-effects of a destructive burglary and wondered why it was that as well as stealing the thief had needed to wreck what he left behind. Now he began to understand. For some people it wasn't enough simply to rob; they had to hate and even blame those they robbed.

He'd found nothing to use against Roote, but by God! he'd let the bastard know what he thought of him!

It was a shameful thing to have done, quite inexcusable.

Though, thank God, there were limits.

There was a bookcase against one wall, serviceable rather than ornamental and stained a funereal black. The only things he hadn't laid violent hands upon were the books.

And, though there'd been nothing conscious in the omission, he thought he knew why.

He went to the case and took a book down. He'd been right. The name on the fly cover was Sam Johnson. These were part of Roote's inheritance from his old friend and tutor. If there was anything at all about Roote that Pascoe trusted, it had to be the genuineness of his grief for Johnson's death.

And, of course, it helped that his theory that Roote was involved in Jake Frobisher's death depended on the existence of a love for Johnson that led to a murderous jealousy.

But it made him feel a little better to think he hadn't reached the point where true pathological hatred would have started, the destruction of what the object loved the most.

There was a two-volume edition of Beddoes' poems he thought he recognized, quite old with marbled paper boards. He took down one of the books and opened it. Yes, it was the Fanfrolico Press edition. This was Volume Two, the very book that had been found open on the dead academic's lap.

He started to replace it carefully, and only then saw there was something behind it, a narrow package wrapped in a black silk handkerchief, rendering it almost invisible against the dark wood.

He took it out and carefully unwound the silk.

It contained an Omega watch with a gold bracelet, very expensive looking.

He turned it over and looked at the back of the watch.

There it was, a circlet of writing, which had been easier to make out on Sophie Frobisher's rubbing than on this shiny surface, but he knew it off by heart anyway.

TILL TIME INTO ETERNITY FALLS OVER RUINED WORLDS YOUR S

Well, time into eternity had fallen for both of them now, leaving, like all deaths, ruined worlds behind.

And now at last, he thought with less glee than he'd imagined he'd feel at this moment of justification, he had it in his power to ruin forever the world of Francis Xavier Roote.

Behind him the door opened.

He turned so quickly that his Kung Flu dizziness hit him again.

When his vision cleared, he was looking at Franny Roote.

'Hello, Mr Pascoe,' said the young man, smiling. 'I'm so glad you could come. Sorry the place is such a mess. Hey, you look a little pale. Are you sure you're all right?'

When the pantechnicon pulled in front of Rose's car, Wield's instinct had been to pull out straightway and overtake, but he too found himself blocked by the white transit.

He finally managed to squeeze by through the narrow space between the vehicle and the central reservation barrier just as the pantechnicon began to turn into the slip road. A long way ahead he glimpsed the rear of the security van.

A very long way ahead.

Perhaps it had speeded up. But why should it? The natural thing to do if you momentarily lost sight of your escort in your rear-view mirror was slow down.

He accelerated till he got close behind it. The transit had speeded up too and went by him. Some drivers are like that, hate to be overtaken, especially by a superannuated rocker in black leathers with eat my dust in silver studs on his back. The guy in the passenger seat wound down his window as he went by and Wield half expected to get the finger. But the gesture when it came wasn't the finger, it was a thumbs-up.

And it wasn't aimed at him, it was directed at the Praesidium van as the transit went rushing past it.

What the hell did that signify? Could be nothing more sinister than the camaraderie of the road, one working lad greeting another, as you might nod and say How do? to a stranger encountered on your way to work in the morning.

But as the van rejoined the inside lane ahead of the security vehicle and slowed to match pace with it, his heart misgave him.

Suddenly he was recalling Lee Lubanski's tip about Praesidium which had ended in the fiasco of the only thing going missing being the van itself. They'd all laughed at this new evidence that most crooks were a full stop short of a sentence, but suppose that in fact things had gone perfectly to plan and all they wanted was the van? Which could mean…

He slowed till Rose's car was overtaking him, then speeded up again to keep pace, mouthing urgently at the DI in the passenger seat. Rose wound down the window. 'What?' he yelled.

'I think they've done a switch’ shouted Wield. 'I don't think that's our van.'

It was like knocking at some poor bastard's door and telling him his wife has been in a crash. Rose's face went white as he struggled to resist the words.

This was the young DI's big test. Now he could get angry, refuse to believe it, carry on as though nothing had happened. Or…

'Don't be daft,' he yelled scornfully, desperate not to see Operation Serpent swallowing its own tail.

'Ours is back at Estotiland’ cried Wield urgently. 'The decoy'll lead you into town, stop at lights, the driver and his mate'll get out, go round a corner and get into that transit.'

He wasn't sure, he couldn't be sure, but he knew he had to sound sure if Rose was to summon up the cavalry.

They were out of the underpass now. Estotiland was falling behind. They were back at ground level, the road curving between shallow embankments running up to fields.

Time for decision, not debate.

'I'm going back,' he yelled.

He hit the accelerator and sent the bike across the hard shoulder and bucketing up the rough grassy slope.

'By God, he can handle that machine,' said Rose's driver with untroubled admiration. He could afford to be calm. All he had to do was what he was told, no come-back.

In the same spirit, the three men crushed together in the back looked at their leader with blank expressions which said, This is where you earn your pay, guv.

'Shut up the lot of you,' said Rose savagely. Then grabbing the radio, he said, 'Serpent One to all units

'It's over, Franny,' said Pascoe wearily.

Roote smiled with pleasure.

'I think that's the first time you've called me Franny,' he said. 'What's over?'

'The games,' said Pascoe. 'This is the closing ceremony.'

'Surely the awards come first,' said the young man. 'Would you care for a drink? Have to be a tea-bag. I seem to be out of coffee.'

He was looking ruefully at the heap of grounds Pascoe had emptied out of the jar into the sink.

‘I’ll leave awards to the judge,' said Pascoe.

'Please, don't tell me you've found something else you imagine I've done,' cried Roote. 'I thought we'd put all that behind us. No, I see you're serious. All right, let's get it out of the way, then we can really talk. So what is it this time?'

He didn't look or sound in the least worried, but then when did he?

Pascoe gathered his thoughts. The clever thing would be to get him down to the station and sit him in an interview room properly cautioned with the tapes running.

But you didn't get anywhere with Roote by being clever. So be open, tell him what you've got, get a preview of how he's going to play it so that you're at least partially prepared to counter his tactics when things get official.

He let his mind run over everything he suspected. None of that stuff from the letters was any good here. Roote himself had planted it in his mind and was no doubt fully covered. Hit him with the unexpected. 'You burgled Rye Pomona's flat,' he said.

'That's right’ agreed Roote without hesitation. 'Though I think burglary implies felonious intent.'

'Which you didn't have? I don't think you can deny criminal damage though.'

'Well,' said Roote, looking around his wrecked room with a smile, 'I bow to your expertise there, Mr Pascoe.'

Pascoe flushed and said, 'So what was your intention, if not to steal?'

'I'm sure you've guessed. It's dear old Charley Penn, really. He went on so much about his chum Dee being innocent that in the end he got me wondering. I don't give a toss about Dee, but if it were true that he wasn't the Wordman, this meant the guy who did kill Sam Johnson was still roaming free. Of course Charley's obsessed and a man with an obsession tastes with a distempered appetite, as I'm sure you are aware, Mr Pascoe. I must say I have always sensed something… different about Ms Pomona, an odd sort of aura. Anyway, without having the slightest idea what I might be looking for, I thought I owed it to Sam to have a poke around.'

'And you chose a solitary woman's flat to have a poke around in?'

'Where else to start, Mr Pascoe? Charley was full of police conspiracy theory. I knew of course that, as far as you were concerned, that was out of the question, and I certainly didn't fancy breaking into Mr Dalziel's house. But young Mr Bowler, one look tells you he'd sell his soul for the sake of Ms Pomona. So she had to be the starting point. I knew she was going to be away that night, I had an excellent alibi in the conference. My session was a bit early, but it was easy to get it changed. It was a bit of a shock to run into you, I must admit. You looked like you'd seen a ghost, so I thought maybe I could persuade you that in a sense you had. Hence my second letter. Would I have written it if we hadn't encountered? I don't know. My first letter was genuinely intended to clear the air between us. But after the second, I found I was really enjoying having someone I could unburden myself to. In a sense, I regard our encounter as a nudge from God. But I'm sorry if the letters have caused you any distress.'

If he sounded any sincerer, I'd buy his old car, thought Pascoe savagely.

He said, 'So you found there was nothing to find, but left a bug anyway?'

'You found that? Clever. My intention, of course, was to leave no trace of my passage. But I accidentally knocked a vase over, which turned out to be a funerary urn. This confirmed my sense of Ms Pomona's otherness. People who keep dead people in their bedrooms are, you must admit, different. No way to clear it up, so I set about making it look like your normal burglary, rather as you have done here, Mr Pascoe.

Then as I was leaving I took the precaution of peering through the peephole, and who should I see lurking on the landing but Charley Penn! That gave me the idea of leaving something on her computer which might make Charley suspect number one.'

'Lorelei’ said Pascoe.

'You picked it up. Good. Then I went into the churchyard to plant my receiving cassette under the eave of a rather vulgar tomb, and that's when I saw you. Waste of rime, by the way. A few sound effects and a little pre- and post-coital converse, then the useless thing packed up. So you've got me bang to rights for that. On the other hand, will Mr Dalziel be all that keen to force me to explain my behaviour in detail under the public gaze in open court? Perhaps we should move on. I presume from the way you are clutching that watch that there is more?'

Why do I always feel like I'm speaking lines he's written for me? thought Pascoe desperately. Why can't I be a good old-fashioned dull unimaginative cop who at some point would give him a good old dull unimaginative kicking and send him on his way? What am I doing here? There's all kinds of places I'd rather be. Home in bed. Chasing around the county on Operation Serpent. Even, God help me, watching twenty little girls creating mayhem in the Jumbo Burger Bar at Estotiland! Why in the name of sanity am I here?

For a while as the kids tucked into their Jumbo burgers, there was relative peace. Even Rosie found it difficult to talk with her teeth sunk deep into a succulent wad of prime beef and chopped onion, crimson with ketchup. Ellie nibbled at hers, admitted its excellence, then took another long draught of the black coffee which fell some way short of the standard set by the burgers but would have to do as a restorative till she could get within annihilating distance of a big gin and tonic. Some of the other mums were still trying to be sparkling and sprightly, but Ellie could read the tell-tale signs.

Rosie finished her burger, washed it down with a quarter pint of something which was fluorescent mauve in colour and looked as if it could strip wallpaper, then approached her mother and said, 'Can I go with Mary to play on the Dragon?'

The Dragon was a feature of the play area which in Ellie's view could have been marketed as a pervert's sex-aid. Made of soft but tough plastic in vomit green and arterial blood red, the creature crouched menacingly with its head on the ground. You entered it via its anus and clambered up through its guts to emerge at the top of its spine. Then you slid, legs astride, down its neck over a series of savage bumps, till your weight triggered off some mechanism which produced a climactic roar and an orgasmic jet of scarlet smoke as you shot over its gaping mouth into a sandpit.

Rosie loved it.

Ellie shot a glance at Mary's mum, who shot a glance back. Both nodded and a moment later the two girls rushed out, screaming with anticipation.

Ellie watched them fondly and sipped her coffee. She heard the roar of an engine and saw a motorbike go shooting by on the walkway. Some moron in black leathers. Where the hell was Security? Anywhere near the children's areas was designated a completely pedestrianized zone. Worth an angry word to someone, she noted. But not now. Rest while you could. And besides, the bike was long gone.

Wield had cut across a couple of fields till he joined the Complex approach road. There was a small queue of traffic at the main entrance. He wove his way through it at speed till an irritated-looking security man blocked his passage.

Happily it turned out he was ex-job. He recognized Wield's warrant at a glance and reacted to his terse summary of the situation with equally concise directions to the main service level. He was already on his radio by the time Wield sent the mud-spattered Thunderbird racing forward.

The man's directions were good and within a minute he was on a curving ramp which took him down to the lower service deck. At the extreme point of the first curve his heart leapt as he glimpsed below the unmistakable shape of a Praesidium security van.

But had they had time to transfer the Hoard to another vehicle and escape down the slip road to the underpass?

He tail-skidded round the final curve and saw with relief that he was in time. Two figures wearing the Praesidium uniform were in conversation with an Estotiland security man. He brought the bike to a halt about thirty yards away and assessed the situation.

The pantechnicon was parked alongside the security van. Two other men, one short and square, the other tall and well muscled, were carrying a crate from the van to the larger vehicle. Both men wore navy blue overalls and woollen hats pulled low over their brows. Wield guessed the Complex security man had noticed the presence of these unaccounted for vehicles and come to ask what the problem was. They wouldn't be looking for trouble if it could be avoided and so far the conversation looked pretty amicable. But any second the security man's radio could sound an alert and then things might get nasty. They needed bodies down here fast. What was DI Rose doing? Did he have the bottle for this? Where was the cavalry?

Above all, where the hell was Andy Dalziel when you needed him?

Andy Dalziel stood with his arms locked around Hat Bowler's body. Whether he was offering comfort or applying restraint he didn't know. He was experiencing a very odd feeling. Utter helplessness.

Later when he gathered together every scrap of information on the circumstances of Rye Pomona's death, he would be able to put them together with all those other scraps and hints and intuitions which added up to a conclusion too monstrous to articulate, and tell himself, this way was best. This drew a necessary line under everything.

But there in that untidy office with the boy in his arms, his body feeling as lifeless as that other sad corpse now lying in the mortuary, he would have given anything to have the power to breathe life back into both of them.

His mobile started squeaking like a bat in his pocket.

He ignored it.

The squeaking went on.

Answer it,' commanded Hat.

He thinks it might be a message saying it's all been a dreadful mistake, thought Dalziel. In a life with too many deaths in it, he had come to understand at what pathetically flimsy straws desperate fingers may rasp.

He removed one arm from its embrace and took the phone out.

'Dalziel’ he. said.

Hat's ear was pressed close so that he could catch the voice coming out of the mobile.

'Guv, it's Novello. I've been trying to get you. Serpent's gone pear-shaped. They've done a switch out at the Estotiland complex. No one seems sure where the Hoard is…'

'Jesus wept!' exclaimed Dalziel.

He let Hat go and headed back to the control room.

Berry looked up from his newspaper.

'Nearly there’ he said cheerfully, nodding towards the screen where the flashing light was just crossing the city boundary. 'Going to join the welcome committee, are you?'

'Wanker!' snarled Dalziel.

He went out again and met Hat coming out of the office.

'Where do you think you're going?' he demanded.

'To the hospital, where else?' retorted the young man.

One straw crumples, you grab at the next.

‘I’ll come with you.'

'Don't be stupid’ said Hat savagely. 'You've got work to do.'

He pushed the Fat Man aside and ran down the stairs.

Dalziel watched him go, that unfamiliar feeling back with reinforcements.

Then he put the phone to his ear again and said, 'Ivor, you still there?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I'm on my way. Listen, you get yourself down to the hospital morgue. Bowler's on his way there. I want you to stick to him like shit to a blanket, OK? Don't let him out of your sight. If he goes to the bog, count ten then kick the door down. Got that? Good.'

He thrust the phone into his pocket and headed down the stairs at a speed to match the young DC's." feeling like a very bad day indeed. At least there was no way he could see for it to get worse.

Pascoe said, 'Yes, there's more and it gets more serious. Jake Frobisher. You remember him?'

Roote's expression turned solemn.

'Yes. I knew him vaguely. A bright young man. Tragic accident. Greatly missed.'

'Especially by Sam Johnson.'

'Indeed. Sam was very close to Jake, and naturally he was cut up when it turned out Jake had overdone it, popping pills to keep him awake to catch up with his course work.'

He enunciated the words carefully, like a kid reciting a lesson.

'Yes, I understand that was the official verdict’ said Pascoe. 'And I can see why, in the circumstances, Sam should feel so cut up he couldn't wait to get away from Sheffield. Which explains his rather precipitous move to MYU, with all its sad consequences. Funny that. You could say, if Jake hadn't died, Sam would still be alive too.'

That got to you! thought Pascoe gleefully as for a second pain fractured the mask of polite interest on Roote's face.

'I've often thought the same’ said the young man quietly.

'I bet you have’ said Pascoe. 'I bet you could write a nice little paper on tragic irony, couldn't you, Mr Roote? Tragic irony and the eternal triangle, by F. X. Roote MA. A new research topic after you've finished exploring Revenge.'

'What are you getting at?'

'Let me spell it out. Sam and Jake were lovers. That got right up your nose. You alone wanted to be Sam's best boy. You chummed up with Jake and waited your chance to break up the relationship. Maybe you even encouraged the boy to believe that his closeness to Sam put him above the uni's normal academic demands. Whatever, it finally came about that the Academic Board forced Sam to wield the big whip and tell Jake, either this course work gets done or you're out. Mission accomplished, you must have thought, except that either it seemed possible Jake might indeed get the work done, or you simply didn't trust Sam not to give him a bunk-up with his grades. So, under pretence of helping Jake out, you sit in his room the night before the deadline, feeding him uppers to keep him mentally right on top of things, only God knows what else you slip in there till finally the boy collapses. Plenty of choice, him being a pedlar in a small way. Then you slip away. Only you made two mistakes, Franny. One, you were seen by a witness who can positively identify you. Two, you couldn't resist taking his drug stash and, more tellingly, this love token, which it must have torn your guts to see Jake flashing around.'

He held up the watch.

He didn't expect Roote to start like a guilty thing surprised, but the youth was full of surprises. His face crumpled and tears came to his eyes as he looked at the watch. Could this at last be confession time? Pascoe asked himself.

The security man's radio crackled. He lifted it to his mouth, pressed the Send button, and said, 'Yes, over.' Then he listened.

Wield couldn't make out the words, but didn’t need to, the body language told all.

The security man took a step back from the Praesidium men.

The radio was still pouring urgent words into his ear.

Don't be a hero, urged Wield, letting the bike move gently forward.

The man pressed the Send button and began to speak.

The taller of the other men reached into the cab of the pantechnicon. When he straightened up, he had something in his hands.

Wield, because he had that kind of mind, identified it even from this distance as a Mossberg 500 ATP8C, shotgun.

He sent the Thunderbird raging forward.

The big man pushed between the Praesidium pair, pointed the gun at the security man, and fired.

The man staggered back drunkenly, took a few steps sideways, then collapsed.

Wield had to swerve to avoid his body and felt the machine going from under him. His loss of control probably saved his life. The big man had swung the gun to cover his approach and now he fired again. Wield heard shot pellets ricocheting off concrete, felt a spatter of them bed themselves into his leathers. One of the Praesidium men was yelling angrily, but his words were drowned by the noise of a fast approaching siren. At the same time, several more security men came racing down the ramp.

Wield hadn't stopped rolling till he fetched up against the front wheel of the van. He came to his feet in a single movement and scrambled through the open door, pulling it shut behind him as the next shot ploughed into the armour-plated side. The key was in the ignition. He turned it on, pressed on the accelerator and swung the wheel over hard, swinging the vehicle round till it crashed into the front of the pantechnicon.

'Get out of that if you can,' he mouthed at the big man, who sent another ball of shot crashing into the van's window, which bulged and crazed but didn't give.

A police van was coming fast up the slip road.

The heisters seemed uncertain what to do, all except the big man, who had seized the crate from the back of the pantechnicon and was now dragging it, screaming at the others for help, into the loading bay, heading towards the service lift.

The others began to follow him. Police officers and security men began to run forward. One-handed, the big man sent a shot towards them. It didn't find a target, but it was enough to discourage heroics and send the pursuers diving for cover.

The four fugitives and the crate disappeared into the lift and the doors closed.

Up above, aware of the sound of police sirens but happily ignorant of the drama going on beneath her feet, Ellie Pascoe grimaced as Suzie's mum, the founder of the feast, acknowledged that the partygoers had eaten as much as they could contain. Next on the agenda was the Punch and Judy show, a sore test of political correctness but a good way of channelling the little buggers' newly refreshed energies and aggressions.

Leaving the other mums to get the kids into a rough kind of line, Ellie went outside to summon Rosie and her friend. Little Mary came instantly, but Rosie yelled, 'Just one more go,' and vanished into the Dragon. The sound of sirens was nearer, coming from all sides. Along the walkway beyond the play area, Ellie saw four men running, two of them in some kind of uniform. One of the uniformed men and a short square man in overalls were carrying a crate between them. The other uniformed man was jogging alongside another man in overalls who was huge and carried something in his right hand.

It looked like a gun.

'Oh Jesus,' said Ellie. Then she screamed, 'Rosie!'

Her daughter had appeared on top of the dragon. She waved at her mother and launched herself down the switchback neck. The beast roared, the crimson smoke belched, Rosie vanished into it and, when she reappeared through the fumes, she was caught up under the big man's left arm.

'Mum!' yelled the little girl.

Ellie began to run forward. Their paths must intersect. The gun began to wave in her direction but she knew it didn't matter. It would take more than a gun to stop her now.

But before her suicidal bravado could be put to the test, there was the sound of a siren behind her and a police car came round the side of the Jumbo Burger Bar.

The fleeing men changed direction, now heading away from the play area towards the crowded commercial shopping area of Estotiland.

Ellie went in pursuit, but as they disappeared through a sliding glass door, she felt herself seized from behind.

She turned on her captor, swinging her fists, but stopped struggling when she saw the unmistakable features of Edgar Wield.

'They've got Rosie’ she sobbed.

'It'll be OK, Ellie,' he said urgently. 'There's nowhere for them to go.'

She wanted to believe him, she wanted to run after her daughter, she wanted… above all – fuck feminism – she wanted her husband.

'Wieldy,' she said. 'Get Peter, for me. Please. Get Peter!'

‘It's funny,' said Roote. 'You know where the quotation comes from?'

'Death's Jest-Book,' said Pascoe. 'What's so funny about that?'

'Just the context. A message of love from Sam. But if you look at the context of the quote, we're back with that tragic irony you were talking about, Mr Pascoe. Here it is.'

He took down the other volume of Beddoes' works and opened it at a page which was marked by what looked like a sheet of writing paper.

He said, 'Athulf, the Duke's son, is talking to his brother, Adalmar. He says "I have drunk myself immortal." His brother replies, "You are poisoned?" And Athulf says,

I am blessed, Adalmar. I've done't myself,

'Tis nearly passed, for I begin to hear

Strange but sweet sounds, and the loud rocky dashing

Of waves, where time into Eternity

Falls over ruined worlds.

Beautiful, isn't it?'

'I'm not here to discuss aesthetics,' said Pascoe wearily. 'If you've got a point, make it, then I'll arrest you.'

'Yes, I'm sorry. My point is… I think you'd better read this, Mr Pascoe.'

He removed the bookmark and handed it over. Pascoe now saw that it was indeed a sheet of writing paper which was enclosed in a piece of transparent plastic through which he could see writing.

He looked up at Roote, who nodded encouragingly. And sympathetically.

Don't read this, Pascoe told himself. It's another spell this evil sorcerer is laying on you. Take him in, hand htm over to Fat Andy, the Witchfinder General!

But even as he told himself not to read, his eyes were taking in the scrawled words.

Darling Sam its all too much its not just the work though thats more than I can get through without the help you promised me its what you said to me I thought you loved me more than that Im looking at the watch you gave me as I write well my worlds really broken now why did you do this to me youve been carrying me for two years now you always said that as long as you were around I didnt need to worry about grades or anything whats changed Sam except that you stopped loving me or maybe all I ever was to you was an easy way of getting your gear theres no other explanation and I cant bear it I wont bear it Jake

'What's this supposed to be?' said Pascoe, trying for mocking scepticism and failing. In any case Roote looked beyond reach of such weak weapons as he began talking in a rapid low drone, as if returning somewhere he didn't want to be and wanting out fast.

'I was round at Sam's that night, it was supposed to be a review session on my thesis but he wasn't in any state to review anything except his own psyche. He drank and rambled about Jake and what he meant to him. There are plenty of nasty people around in the academic world, Mr Pascoe, and when it became known that Jake's assessment work was way behind schedule, it was made clear to Sam that this new deadline was absolute and unextendable, and if there were the slightest hint that Sam had been offering any special assistance, either by way of writing the assignments or grading them, it wouldn't just be Jake's head on the block. So he'd given him a real talking to and tried to shock him into a realization that he had to find his own salvation. Now he was beginning to feel he'd gone too far. You should never talk to someone you loved like that. He wanted to go round and see Frobisher and apologize. What did a stupid degree matter anyway? They could set up house together, Jake could act as his research assistant, happiness ever after was still a possibility, lots of maudlin crap like that.'

'I can see how it would have touched your heart’ said Pascoe sarcastically.

'I'm not pretending I was sorry to see the relationship heading for the rocks,' said Roote. 'I stopped him going out, he kept on drinking and in the end I put him to bed about midnight. Then the phone started ringing. I answered it. It was Frobisher. He just assumed I was Sam and started off with all these incoherent ramblings. I remember thinking, Christ, I just get shot of one self-absorbed monologue, and now I'm right into another. Then what Jake was actually saying began to get through. He'd taken something, lots of things from the sound of it. My first reaction was, good riddance! I'm not proud of it, but there you go. Finally he stopped speaking, and then I got to thinking what this really meant. And I knew I had to go round there.'

To make sure he'd done the job properly?' said Pascoe.

Roote smiled wanly but ignored the crack. ‘I got round there, found his door unlocked and him lying on the floor. He was dead.'

'Well, that was handy.'

'It was disastrous’ said Roote coldly. 'I found this note. I knew that Jake's suicide would devastate Sam. Plus the knives were out for him in the university, and the reference to Frobisher supplying him with dope would finish him professionally. So I had to do whatever I could to tidy things up. I sat Jake at his table and dug out all his unfinished work and set it round him, making it look like he'd been really trying to get it into shape. Then I put the jug and glass by his hand. I put some pill bottles there too, empty of everything except a few uppers. I checked I'd done everything I could to make it look accidental, and left. I took the note for obvious reasons, and the watch because I didn't want some smart cop making connections with Sam, and the drug stash to stop awkward questions being asked around the house. The rest you know.'

Pascoe sat in silence for a long while. Once more it seemed he was cast as Tantulus; the closer to the prize he came, the more bitter the pain of seeing it snatched away.

He said, 'And you kept the note because…?'

'Because if it ever emerged that I had been there that night, I needed something to back up my story. You can check it's Frobisher's handwriting, and of course it'll have his fingerprints all over it. As I'm sure you'd agree, Mr Pascoe, without it, I might have a problem persuading some people that all I did was help a friend in need.'

'That's true,' said Pascoe, looking at the note thoughtfully.

Roote smiled.

'Another man, Mr Daziel might be tempted to lose this note. Or bum it.'

'What makes you think I'm so diffrenet?’

Roote didn't reply but took the unresisting fingers and removed it from Pascoe’s unresisting fingers. Then he rifled through the contents of desk drawer which Pascoe had deposited on the carpet. with a cigarette lighter and nicked on the flame.

'What are you doing?' said Pascoe unnecessarily. He knew what was going to happen but he had no strength to stop it.

'Just clearing up,' said Roote.

He held the flame beneath the paper till it shrivelled up and fell away in ashes.

'There,' said Roote. 'Now you can proceed without any risk of contradiction, Mr Pascoe. If you are so convinced of my guilt, the way is clear. You've proof I was there. I admit I interfered with the scene. As for the rest, it's just the word of a convicted felon. Sounds like you've got a pretty good case. Shall we go down to the station now?'

It's always me being judged, me being tested, thought Pascoe desperately. Shall I call his bluff, if it is a bluff? Could be the real reason he burnt that note is that now no one can ever check the writing and the prints. Could be he wrote it himself against this eventuality, and now I'm the only living person who can vouch that it ever existed!

His head felt muzzy and heavy. He should still be in bed. He was in no state to be making this kind of decision. What to do? What to do?

Somewhere a phone rang.

'Aren't you going to answer that?' he demanded.

'I think’ said Roote, 'it's yours.'

Pascoe reached into his pocket and took out his mobile.

He didn't want to talk to anybody, but anybody was better than talking to Roote. 'Yes’ he croaked.

'Pete, that you?' said Wield's voice.

'Yes.'

'Pete, I'm at Estotiland. We've got a bad situation here.'

Pascoe listened. After a while his legs gave way and he sat down heavily. Questions crowded his mind but he couldn't find the words for them.

He said, 'I'm coming.'

With difficulty he stood up.

Roote looked with alarm at his colourless face and said, 'Mr Pascoe, are you ill?'

'I've got to go.'

'Go where? Please, sit down, I'll call a doctor.'

'I've got to go to Estotiland. My daughter…'

He began to move to the door like a man walking on Saturn.

'You can't drive,' said Roote. 'Not without your car keys anyway.'

He picked up Pascoe's discarded jacket, felt in the pockets, produced the keys.

'Give them here,' snarled Pascoe.

'No way,' said Roote. 'You'll kill yourself. Tell you what, though, I'll drive you. Deal? Come on, Mr Pascoe. You know I'm right.'

'You always are, Franny, that's your problem,' said Pascoe, not resisting. 'You always fucking are.'

Roote drove as Pascoe, if he'd been in a state to notice, would have expected him to drive. Smoothly, efficiently, never taking obvious risks, but always first away at lights, slipping into the narrowest of gaps at intersections, overtaking slower vehicles at the earliest opportunity, so that they were out of town and hurtling down the road to Estotiland in the shortest time possible.

As he drove he asked questions. Pascoe, using all his will to hold himself together mentally and physically, had none left over to resist interrogation and answered automatically. The whole story unfolded. Only once did Roote make any attempt at conventional reassurance and that was when Polchard was mentioned.

'Mate?' he said. 'Then there's nothing to worry about. Necessary violence only. He'll know there's no benefit in hurting your daughter.'

'Where was the benefit in drowning Lee Lubanski?' replied Pascoe dully. 'He did it all the same.'

As they approached the Complex, Roote said, 'Looks like wall-to-wall fuzz ahead. You got one of those noddy lights? Else we're going to take forever getting through.' Pascoe reached in the back and found the lamp. He hadn't used it since that morning he'd raced along the bus lane to get Rosie to her clarinet lesson on time, the same morning he'd had his apparent vision of Roote.

Even with the lamp flashing, a couple of cops seemed inclined to check their progress but rapidly hopped aside as Roote wove his way through the scatter of cars with undiminished speed.

'We've got to find out where to go’ said Pascoe, reaching for his phone.

'It's all right. I'm following Mr Dalziel.'

Pascoe had been aware of a car ahead of them, but now for the first time he realized who was in it.

As he watched, it skidded to a stop by a side door in the structure holding the main shopping mall. The Fat Man got out and headed inside. Pascoe reached over and leaned on the horn. Dalziel paused, looked round, then waited for them to get out and join him. His gaze touched curiously on Roote but his main concern was for Pascoe.

'Pete, you look like shit. But I'm glad you're here for Ellie's sake. No change as far as I can make out. Let's get inside and check.'

They went inside. A few steps behind, Roote followed.

They climbed a flight of stairs till they reached a door marked security – no admittance without pass. A uniformed constable stood outside. For a moment he looked inclined to hinder their progress, but one look at Dalziel's face changed his mind.

Inside they passed through a large office into an even larger control room with TV monitors banked up an entire wall. There were several people here, including Wield and DI Rose. And Ellie.

She saw her husband and came to him in a rush. They embraced like lovers on a sinking ship, each other's last hope in a disintegrating world.

Dalziel said, 'Situation?'

He spoke to Wield, not to Rose.

The sergeant said, 'There's four of them. They're on the top floor, back of the building, lingerie department.'

'Lingerie!'

'No significance. Just happens to be the section you arrive at if you keep heading up towards the roof, which was what they were after, I reckon. It's a flat roof with several fire escapes. By the time they showed there, we'd got the escapes covered, though. DI Rose's quick thinking saw to that.'

For the first time Dalziel looked at the South Yorkshire DI.

'Stan, isn't it?' he said. 'Stan the Serpent. How do you see things, Hissing Stan?'

Poor sod, thought Wield. He's tracked dirt on to Andy Dalziel's carpet and he's going to have his nose rubbed in it.

Rose said, 'We've got an Armed Response Unit in position, all exits covered, Inspector Curtis in charge, he's out there doing a recce at the moment.'

Pascoe and Ellie had broken apart now.

Pascoe said, 'What about contact? Have they made any demands?'

He was still looking like shit, thought Dalziel, but not such bad shit. Nothing like being at the front to stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.

'Not yet. There's a phone up there. We keep on ringing but no one's picked it up yet.'

'Can we see anything on the closed circuit?' asked Pascoe, staring desperately at the wall of screens.

'Sorry. Those two there, B3 and 4, cover that area of the top floor.'

'Shot them out, did they?'

'Don't think so’ said a man in a black suit. 'I'm Kilroy, Head of Security for Estotiland. I think they've got someone who knows his electronics. I think they simply disconnected them.'

Ellie said to Pascoe, 'But they saw them arrive before the monitors went. Rosie was with them, she looked OK, isn't that right?'

She was asking for a repeat reassurance for herself as much as for her husband.

One of the security men monitoring the screens turned round and nodded reassuringly.

'Yeah, she was walking with one of them, he was holding her hand, but she didn't look distressed or owt. In fact she seemed to be talking away ten to the dozen.'

'That's my girl,' said Dalziel. 'She'll be grand.'

Ignoring him, Pascoe said, 'Any other hostages? The place must have been packed with people.'

'We sounded the fire alarm,' said Wield. 'Got everyone out double quick. We'd no idea where they were headed and it seemed best just to clear the whole complex.'

'Drills worked a treat,' said Kilroy. 'Everyone safely out in eight and a half minutes.'

'Nice to know your fire drills work so well,' grated Dalziel. 'Likely you'll get a bonus.'

'Sir, one of Mr Kilroy's men's in hospital, critical,' said Wield warningly.

'Is that right? I'm sorry for it, Mr Kilroy.'

The radio Wield was holding crackled into life.

'Control to Serpent 5.'

Dalziel seized it and said, 'Fuck serpents. Dalziel here. What?'

'We've got all four now, sir. You know we picked up the first two when they dumped the security van

'Don't waste my time telling me things I bloody well know!' roared Dalziel.

'Sorry, sir. The pair in the transit spotted the arrest and took off. Pursued them for fifty miles, then crashed on the Al, no serious injuries.'

'More's the pity. That it?'

'Just hearing from Sergeant Bowman and the team that went round to interview Mr Belchamber. Bit odd.'

'I like odd’ said Dalziel. 'Patch me through. Bowman, Dalziel here. What's the situation?'

'We're outside Belchamber's house. His car's here, open. There's a bag in it with a bunch of money and a plane ticket for Malaga. OK to break the front door down, sir?'

'With a bulldozer if you like,' growled Dalziel.

He looked at the others. He could see on the Pascoes' faces the thought that this was an unnecessary diversion. He wasn't about to tell them it was necessary for him, to give himself time to work out what the hell to do next.

'Sir, Bowman here. We're inside. We've found Mr Belchamber. He's wearing fancy dress. Some sort of Roman soldier's outfit, I think. And he's got a sword stuck in his belly. Ambulance on the way.'

'Not dead then?' said Dalziel.

'Not yet, but it don't look like it's going to be long, sir.'

'Oh, tell him to take as long as he likes,' said Dalziel. 'Keep me posted.'

He tossed the radio back to Wield and said, 'All right, Mr Kilroy, you're the on-the-spot -expert. How do you see the situation here?'

'From the point of view of containment, we've got them bottled up,' said the security man. 'No way out. But no easy way in either to take them by surprise. Defensively, they've picked the best spot in the complex.'

'He's right,' said a new voice.

The door had opened and a man in ARU gear had come in.

'You Curtis?' said Dalziel.

'Yes, sir.'

'So what's the problem? There's only four of them, right?'

The newcomer, a crop-haired man who looked like he worked out between work-outs, glanced frowningly at Ellie.

'It's all right’ said Dalziel. 'You can talk in front of Mrs Pascoe. She's one of us.'

Meaning, thought Wield, if I could think of any way of getting her out of here, I would, but I can't, so let's set on with it!

"Four's enough, depending on how many of them are armed’ said Curtis.

'Only saw one weapon’ said Wield.

'You want to bet money they don't have more?'

Wield shook his head.

'Me neither. The point is, where they are there's no windows. There's an office with one door on to the retail floor. Behind the office there's a series of stock rooms with a service lift. They've immobilized the lift, so our only approach is full frontal on the office door across the display area, which we reckon they've got full CCTV coverage of.'

'All retail sections have their own monitors for on-the-spot surveillance for shoplifters and so on’ explained Kilroy. 'All they had to do was disconnect our link.'

'We could cut off power, but the one thing we've heard from them was someone yelling out, "Anyone touches the electrics and we come out shooting with the little girl leading the way."'

He glanced apologetically at Ellie.

'So they can see us but we can't see them? Bloody marvellous’ said Dalziel. 'So what are your recommendations, Inspector?'

'Limited options, I'm afraid. Either the long game or direct assault full frontal

'You mean stun grenades and CS gas?' said Ellie. 'Andy, for God's sake, tell them!'

'It's OK. We'll do nowt that will risk harming Rosie’ assured the Fat Man. 'What about listening devices? Photo optics? We need to know what's going on in there’

'We're working on it’ said Curtis. 'Like I say, it's hard getting any kind of access’

'He seems to be managing’ said one of the security men before the monitors.

Everyone looked. On one of the screens a figure was striding boldly through a display of men's outdoor clothing towards a line of lifts. A man in plainclothes intercepted him and spoke. He took something out of his pocket, showed it, said a few words, then entered one of the lifts and the doors closed behind him.

'Christ almighty, it's Roote!' exclaimed Dalziel. 'Who's that plonker he spoke to?'

'He's one of mine’ said Rose, pulling out his mobile.

He did a quick dial. The man on the screen took out his phone and put it to his ear.

'Joe’ said Rose, 'that guy you just let get into the lift.. ‘

He listened then said, 'He says it was DCI Pascoe. He showed him his warrant.'

Pascoe slapped his hand to his pocket.

'Shit!' he said. 'The bastard had hold of my jacket.'

'Where's he going?' said Dalziel.

There he is, top floor. Looks like he's heading for the lingerie department’ said Kilroy.

'We'll soon stop him’ said Curtis, raising his radio.

'No!' cried Ellie.

Curtis looked at her, looked at Dalziel.

'Andy’ said Ellie, 'he's doing something. Nobody else is.'

The Fat Man said, 'Pete?'

Pascoe rubbed his hand across his face. Pale before, now all colour seemed erased by the movement.

He said, hopelessly, 'Let him go. Why not? Perhaps… Let him go.'

'Inspector, tell your men not to get in his way’ ordered Dalziel.

'Your decision, sir’ said Curtis, in a tone which said just as clearly, And your career.

He spoke into his radio. They watched as Roote walked off the edge of the monitor.

'He's into the area covered by the dead cameras’ said Kilroy.

Curtis, his radio clamped to his ear, said, 'Sir, my men have him in sight. He's standing looking towards the door of the stock area like he wants to be seen. Now he's walking across the display area. He's at the door. It's opening. He's gone inside.'

'So what do we do now?' said Stan Rose.

They all looked at Dalziel.

He scratched his left buttock like the Count of Monte Cristo beginning to work on the walls of his cell.

'We wait’ he said. 'Pete, lad, you always said yon Roote could talk a rabbi into sharing a packet of pork scratchings. Let's hope that for once you're right about the sod!'

Franny Roote! It really is you. Here, what do you think?'

Mate Polchard was sitting behind a desk on which he had placed a travelling chessboard with magnetic pieces.

On the floor, seated against an open packing case, was Rosie Pascoe, eating a chocolate bar. On her head rested a cirque of gold in the form of two snakes. She glanced at the newcomer, decided he didn't look much fun, and returned her full attention to the chocolate. Nearby a short squat blockhouse of a man in blue overalls was watching. a couple of security screens on which the lingerie retail floor could be seen in its entirety. Of the other two gang members, there was no sign.

Roote advanced and looked at the disposition of pieces on the chessboard. It was an early middlegame situation, the pieces developed, no losses yet on either side, but Black had a bit of a problem in the centre.

'Samisch – Capablanca 1929,' he said. 'Black's knackered.'

'Bit early to be saying that, isn't it?' said Polchard, frowning.

'That's what Capablanca thought. Played on for another fifty moves. He still lost’ said Roote. 'He'd have done better to give in gracefully and go off for a bit of shut-eye.'

'That's how it looks to you, is it?'

'That's how it is, Mate,' said Roote. 'Like you once said to me, the thing about chess is it teaches you to see things that have happened before they've happened.'

'I said that? Must be true. How've you been, Fran? Never came to see me in Wales.'

'You know how it is,' said Roote. 'Out on licence, they see you associating with the king of crime, they don't listen when you say we're just playing chess. Then, later on, I got a new life going. I'm an academic now. A teacher, sort of.'

'I know what a fucking academic is,' said Polchard.

'Do you? Wish I did,' said Roote placatingly.

'Much money in it?'

'If you know where to look.'

‘That's the secret, isn't it? Knowing where to look. That kid there, she's got more money on her bonce than you'll ever see, I'd guess.'

'I get along,' said Roote with a serene smile. 'You know who she is, do you?'

'She keeps telling us her dad's some VIP and he's going to come along and whip our arses. She can certainly talk, I'll give her that. Couldn't think how to shut her up till I found that whoever uses this desk is a chocoholic. Fancy a Mars Bar?'

'No thanks. She's DCI Pascoe's daughter.'

'Is that right?' said Polchard indifferently. 'Bad choice then. Could have been worse, though. Could have been that fat bastard's lass.'

'Still not good, Mate. The security guard that got shot's still alive, by the way.'

'Glad to hear it. Nothing to do with me though. You can't get the help these days.'

'No? This the same mad bastard who topped the kid in the canal?'

'You know a lot,' said Polchard, looking at Roote speculatively. 'That was definitely nothing to do with me. What are you doing here anyway?'

'Helping out a friend. Two friends, if I include you, Mate. Think about it. Good lawyer, few years improving your chess, no sweat.'

'Good lawyer.' Polchard smiled wanly. 'Used to have one of those. Reckon I might be needing another now. What you got in mind for the endgame, Franny?'

'I walk out of here with the girl, tell them you're coming out too. Couple of minutes later, you show; the hard men with guns do a lot of shouting but no shooting, and before you know it, you're nice and comfy where you don't have to worry about the taxman.'

Polchard bent his head over the board for a long moment. Then with his forefinger he flicked the black king off its magnetic base.

'Off you go then,' he said.

'Right,' said Franny. 'How about the guns? You want I should take them too?'

Polchard laughed.

'There's only the one, and I knew nothing about it till it went off. No, Franny, leave the gun to me. I really don't think you want to hang around and try to persuade your old chum to hand it over to you, do you?'

'My old chum?' said Franny, puzzled.

For the first time Polchard looked surprised.

'You don't know? Well, well. And here's me thinking you were really brave! He's wandering around looking for a way out.' Polchard glanced towards the stock-room door and lowered his voice. I'd push off before he comes back if I were you.'

'But who…?'

'Go while you can!'

When Polchard spoke with that degree of urgency, even the screws at Chapel Syke had jumped.

He went to Rosie and offered her his hand. She stood up. Her mouth was stained with chocolate. The serpent crown which was too big for her slim head slipped to one side. She looked like a tipsy cupid.

'Your dad sent me’ he said.

She looked at him assessingly. He had seen the same expression in her father's eyes. This time it was followed by belief and acceptance, which had never happened with Pascoe.

They walked hand in hand to the door. He opened it slowly and stood there a moment just to make sure the watchers on the far side of the display area registered who it was.

It was a moment too long.

'Roote! It is you that Roote, you fucking bastard! I've been waiting a long time for this! Bring the kid back inside.'

Franny's brain, always hyperactive behind that calm front, had already worked out who Polchard had to be talking about. It wasn't hard. All he had to do was run a finger down the list of people he'd met in the Syke, looking for the kind of madman who'd disobey even the great Mate's instructions and smuggle a gun on a job and use it.

He reached down and took the serpent crown off the girl's head and said in a low voice, 'Rosie, when I say run, run! But not straight. Run right. OK?'

'OK,' said the little girl, deciding she'd been wrong and maybe he was fun after all.

Slowly Roote turned and faced the man who stood in the stock-room doorway.

He was big, very big. He had a black woolly hat like a funeral parlour tea-cosy pulled very low over his brow. And he was holding a shotgun.

Seeing he had Franny's full attention, he took one hand off the weapon and tore off the hat to reveal a bald head tattooed with an eagle whose talons were poised over his eyes.

Roote's face split in a broad grin.

'No, Dendo, you didn't… it's real, is it? You got yourself tattooed in loving memory of poor old Brillo! Now that's really touching. You make a great tombstone!'

'Get inside! Brillo would want this to be slow!'

'Of course he would,' said Franny Roote, stepping forward so that his body was between the gunman and the girl. 'He needed everything slow, didn't he, the poor bastard. Run!'

Rosie set off right. Roote sent the serpent crown spinning towards Bright then hurled himself left. The first shot ripped along his shoulder but he kept running. Bright came to the doorway, his face mottled with such rage it was hard to see where the tattoo ended and unsullied flesh began. And then a fusillade from the waiting marksmen punched a new and final pattern into his body. But he still managed to get off one more shot.

Roote felt a blow in the middle of his back. It didn't feel all that much, the kind of congratulatory slap one overhearty sportsman might give another to acknowledge a good move. But it switched off the connection between his brain and his limbs and he went down like a pole-axed steer.

Men in police combat gear carrying guns came running across the floor to the stock room. Rosie Pascoe leapt into Ellie's arms with such force they both collapsed to the ground and already, even as they lay there locked together, the girl was describing her wonderful adventure. Dalziel took possession of an unresisting Mate Polchard. Wield stepped over Dendo Bright's body like it was a dog dropping and stooped to pick up the serpent crown. He saw nothing of its beauty. To him it was a bit of bent metal which wasn't worth the loss of a single second of Lee Lubanski's life.

And Pascoe, after sinking his face briefly in his daughter's hair, left her to her mother and went straight to Franny Roote.

He put his arm round him to make him more comfortable and felt the warm blood oozing between his fingers.

"Medics!' he screamed. 'Get some help here, for fuck's sake!'

'Made up your mind yet, Mr Pascoe?' said the youth in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper. 'Going to put me on trial? No, of course you're not. It's not in you…'

'Don't be too sure. I can be a right bastard when I try’ said Pascoe with an effort at lightness. 'We'll talk t about it when you're convalescing.'

'Convalescing? I don't think so.'

His eyes clouded for a moment then cleared again and he seemed to take in his surroundings and began to laugh, painfully.

'Remember that inscription I told you about? Need a change now. Franny Roote… Born in Hope… Died in Ladies Underwear… even better, eh?'

A paramedic arrived and knelt down beside the wounded man. Pascoe tried to move aside but Roote's fingers found strength from somewhere to hold him back.

'Know what the date is?' he said. 'January the twenty-sixth. Same day Beddoes died. Funny that.'

'Don't talk about dying,' said Pascoe sharply. 'You can't die yet. It's not your time.'

'Want to keep me alive, Mr Pascoe? It would be a good trick. For all his talk of death, I sometimes think Beddoes would have liked to master it. But why should you want me alive if you're not going to try me?'

'So I can thank you, Franny’ said Pascoe desperately. 'So you can't die.'

'You know me, Mr Pascoe… always looking for someone who'd tell me what to do’ said Roote smiling.

The paramedic was doing what he could, all the while talking urgently into his lapel radio, demanding to know where the hell the stretcher was and saying they needed a chopper here, an ambulance would be too slow. Franny showed no reaction to the sound of his voice or the touch of his hands or the prick of his needle. Still he kept tight hold of Pascoe's hand and never once took his eyes off his face, and Pascoe locked on to the young man's gaze as if by sheer force of will he could hold it steady and bright.

All around them was noise and bustle, people moving swiftly, men shouting orders, radios crackling, distant sirens wailing; but for all the heed either of them took of this, they might have been a pair of still and isolated figures sitting under the solitary moon in the hush'd Chorasmian waste where the river Oxus flows on his long and winding journey to the Aral Sea.

Imagined Scenes from

AMONG OTHER THINGS: The Quest for Thomas Lovell Beddoes by Sam Johnson MA, PhD

(revised, edited and completed by Francis Xavier Roote MA, PhD)

It is January 26th, 1849. In the Town Hospital of Basel, Thomas Lovell Beddoes awakes. It is early. The large garden overlooked from his window is still in darkness and the birds that winter there have not yet unlocked the first notes of their aubade.

He feels a stab of pain in his right leg, just beneath the knee joint. He grimaces, then smiles as the pain fades. The ghost of a poem in the comic macabre style flits through his mind. In it the amputated limbs tossed into the furnace of the hospital mortuary sing their resentment at this enforced exile from their proper sphere and send farewell messages to the bodies that have betrayed them.

He shifts in his bed and a book falls to the floor. He shares his bed with numerous volumes which range across all his interests, from medical treatises through modern German novels and translations of the classics to a new collection of Goethe's letters to Frau von Stein. Absent only are the radical tracts of earlier days. He has said goodbye to all that.

He lies there with his eyes staring into the dark until light begins to seep through the edges of the heavy curtains, then he throws back the coverlet in a torrent of books and rolls out of bed.

With the aid of a crutch he has achieved an agility which is the wonder of Dr Ecklin and Dr Frey and all the hospital attendants. His generally lively demeanour gives them hope of a matching mental recovery and if his jokes have something of a macabre cast, then they always did.

Later in the day, as he moves rapidly out of the hospital grounds, he returns cheerful greetings to those he encounters who often pause to watch his progress with admiration.

On his way into town he passes the house where Konrad Degen is lodged but he does not pause. That too is over. Degen has been persuaded by mutual acquaintance to return from Frankfurt to Basel to aid his old patron's recuperation. But a true friend would have needed no persuasion. And a son would have crawled over hot coals to comfort his stricken father.

In a quiet side street he pauses a while to make sure he is unobserved by anyone of his acquaintance. Then he enters an apothecary's shop where he is greeted deferentially as Herr Doktor Beddoes and offered a chair in which he sits and chats about his medical researches while his required prescriptions are made up.

Back at the hospital, he tells his attendant that his excursion, though enjoyable, has fatigued him and he is now going to rest for a few hours.

Locking his door, he takes from his pocket the drugs he has obtained. Only one of them does he have any use for. He mixes it in a glass of heavy Rhenish wine, sips, makes a wry face, adds a little more wine, sips again, then sits down at the table which stands before the window and sharpens a pen. His mind meanwhile is running through a list of possible correspondents. His sense of drama, though it falls well short of that necessary to a practical rather than a literary playwright, is refined enough to know that more than one last letter is a profligacy which risks touching the absurd.

His choice is made. Phillips, a good and noble man, head of a happy family and a pattern for fathers everywhere.

He scrawls across the head of his paper To Mr Revell Phillips, The Middle Temple, London, and begins to write, pausing from time to time to sip his wine.

Outside the day is dying young.

My dear Phillips,

I am food for what I am good for – worms.

Food for… good for… I could use that. Make a note? Hardly worth it! The echo of Hotspur's dying speech makes him think of Konrad. He pushed the thought aside.

‘I have made a will here which I desire to be respected, and add the donation of?20 to Dr Ecklin, my physician.

W. Beddoes must have a case (50 bottles) of Champagne Moet 1847 to drink my

He pauses. My health? Hardly. Then he smiles and starts writing again. death in.

Thanks for all kindness. Borrow the?200. You are a good amp; noble man amp; your children must look sharp to be like you.

Yours, if my own, ever,

T. L. B.

He throws down his pen.

It is over.

But the retiring actor does not leave the stage without many a backward glance and the retiring singer can never resist one last reprise, and no real writer ever truly retires.

So he takes up his pen again and scribbles a few more lines.

Love to Anna, Henry, the Beddoes ofLongvill and Zoe and Emmeline King -

Anyone missed out? Of course, the most important of them all. also to Kelsall whom I beg to look at my MSS and print or not as he thinks fit. I ought to have been among other things a good poet. Life was too great a bore on one peg and that a bad one.

Bit self-pitying that? Perhaps. End on a jest, that's the true way of death! He winces as he feels a spasm in his gut from the poison. Then he smiles again. A little medical joke to finish with.

Buy for Dr Ecklin above mentioned one ofReade's best stomach-pumps.

Perhaps he should elaborate on this but now the pen feels heavy in his hand and his lids feel heavy on his eyes.

He sets the pen down, takes up the note and carefully pins it to his shirt. He drains the wineglass and hops across to his bed across which he sprawls supine.

By now it is quite dark outside. Or is the darkness his alone? He does not know. His mind ranges across his life, his huge hopes – for himself, for mankind – and their huge failure, which somehow at this moment of departure does not seem quite so huge. Fantastic images spin across his brain and instinctively he reaches out to them and tries to trap them in a net of words. Now he is seeing death, not on the slab, not on the stage, not on the printed page, but real and active and standing before him, rendering all those thousand of words he has used to describe it sadly inadequate – shards of a broken glass, ashes of an incinerated painting, echoes of a distant music. If only he could raise his pen now, he might after all be more than a good poet, he might be a great one.

Is it too late? Who knows? Can death take a joke as well as make one?

His lips part, his collapsing lungs strive to uncrease thernselves and take in that rich and healing air which he knows can revive him, but his strength has gone. Death's jest is complete.

So Thomas Lovell Beddoes exhales his last breath bearing his last words.

'Fetch the cow… fetch the cow…'