Time for a prompt before the inarticulate young man decided that guns spoke louder than words.
'Don't you want my watch, then? It's a good 'un, stands up to God knows how many atmospheric pressures, though what a man would want with knowing the time when his eyeballs have gone pop, I've never been able to fathom.'
As he spoke he took a step forward, pulled the watch off, tossed it on to the bed, saw the man's eyes follow its flight, draped the huge towel over the hand gun, pirouetted to one side with the deceptive speed of an angry bear, and as the weapon went off, hit the youngster behind the ear with a fist like a steamhammer.
Then he got dressed. A shot in the night was clearly not regarded as a summons for room service in New York, so after he'd buttoned his shirt, he picked up the phone and got the desk.
'Room 709,' he said. 'Can I have Security up here, please. Oh, and while you're at it, you might let the housekeeper know I'll need a new bath towel.'
TWO
'I am a doctor… let me examine it.' ‘I do not want it examined… let it be.' 'Don't your colleagues ever warn you about smoking?' said Peter Pascoe as Dr Pottle lit another cigarette from the dog end between his lips. 'I tell them if they keep out of my lungs, I'll keep out of their heads,' said Pottle. He was Head of the Psychiatry Unit at the Central Hospital. Pascoe, despite Dalziel's scepticism, had been using him as a consultant on police matters for years. That was why he was here today, he assured himself, an assurance he'd have found more convincing if the particular case he'd presented for Pottle's scrutiny hadn't been the Mickledore Hall murder. With Dalziel's departure, he had made, and meant, a fervent promise that there'd be no more meddling in the inquiry. After an initial euphoria at Dalziel's absence, however, he found himself strangely unable to enjoy the freedom he now had to shape CID more in his own image. Ellie was still away, her telephone conversation was evenly divided between concern for her mother and contumely for her mother's doctor, and Pascoe did not feel able to break the tacit truce which had evolved around their own personal battle. He'd come to the Central to talk about security after a man with a record of sex offences had been caught hiding in a toilet near the children's ward.
His business finished, he had found himself diverting without forethought to Pottle's office. And when the man had said, 'Yes, amazingly, I do have a moment. How can I help you?' all that had come into his mind was the Mickledore Hall affair. Finally the discussion had run out of steam. There was nothing to do but leave. Instead he heard himself making the crack about smoking. 'I'm sorry,' he said.
'None of my business.' 'That's OK. Nice to have someone concerned about my health. What about you, Peter? Back to full strength?' Pascoe noted the Peter. They weren't exactly friends. Perhaps men whose professions created such instant wariness never could be. But they'd reached a stage of affectionate mutual respect. He tried to remember Pottle's first name. 'Yes, fine. I'm looking after myself for a few days. Ellie and Rose are away. It's her mother; my father-in-law's ill, Alzheimer's, I may have mentioned it to you, he's in a Home now, but the strain on my mother-in-law…' He was explaining too much.
He tried a light finish. 'Anyway, if you're any good at washing up and ironing, I could do with some help.' 'I'd like to help you all I can, Peter,' said Pottle quietly. 'Just precisely what is it you want?'
Perhaps after all the cigarette smoke was functional, thought Pascoe, providing a screen which pushed the crumpled face with the big Einstein moustache back to a confessional distance. He took a deep breath of secondary carcinogens and said, 'I want to be happy again.'