That means the heart rate drops too low to feed the required amount of blood to the brain, inducing dizziness and fainting. Sometimes the heart stops altogether for a few seconds. Sometimes, without outside aid, it won't start again. And, of course, during such an attack it would not be difficult to make sure it didn't start again.' 'Are you saying this is what happened?' demanded Trimble. 'I'm saying that evidently it could have happened,' said Hiller irritatedly. 'There is no evidence either way. Unless we take as evidence the fact that the pathologist found only five currants in her stomach?' 'I'm sorry?' said Trimble. 'I gather Mr Pascoe can explain.' Pascoe explained. He kept on explaining. He wasn't yet sure how they were going to react, but at least he would know that they knew everything there was to know. He laid out the facts without comment until Trimble, with the reluctance of a hypochondriac asking his doctor to tell him the worst, said, 'And what is your interpretation of these facts?' 'When Marsh went to see Kohler in June nineteen seventy- six she told her something that made her want to get out. Thereafter she applied for parole and began to accept Daphne Bush's overtures of friendship because she needed a private channel to the outside world. Bush became her letter-box. I don't know if she wrote to anyone else but she certainly wrote to James Westropp. And in that letter she accused him of being the real killer of his wife. When Bush brought Westropp's reply to her cell, the two women fell out – it may have been because of the letter, there may have been some other reason – they had a fight, and Daphne Bush got killed.' 'Hold on,' said Hiller. 'I've read all the evidence. There was nothing about a letter being found in the cell.' 'I think Mrs Friedman removed it, along with anything else that might have suggested there was anything going on between Bush and Kohler. Partly to protect a colleague's reputation, partly because in her eyes there's no such thing as mitigating circumstance when a con kills a screw.' 'She admitted this?' 'She admitted nothing. She's a very careful lady. How much she really knows, I wouldn't like to say.
Not all that much is my bet. I think she got really pissed off when her chum started going gooey-eyed over Kohler and they had a row. It wasn't just a general principle that made her keep her mouth shut when Kohler was on trial, it was a particular hatred. She was delighted to do her bit to see that Kohler got another life sentence.' But why would Miss Marsh go to see Kohler in the first place?' asked Trimble.
'Were they friends? Or was it just some purely altruistic motive?' ‘I doubt it,' said Pascoe. 'She struck me as a lady with a keen eye for the main chance.' 'What makes you say that?' said Hiller. ‘Just look at her! Living at her ease in that posh flat by dint of putting the squeeze on Partridge because he'd fathered a child on her!' exclaimed Pascoe. 'I've just told you all about that.' ‘Yes, you did,' said Hiller.’It's been puzzling me. You say the source of your information is some old Welshman who lives on an estate village?' 'That's right.'
'Put not your trust in Welshmen, Mr Pascoe,' said Hiller almost facetiously. 'One other thing Mr Dekker told me the pathologist said.
Miss Marsh was not a virgin, certainly. But equally certainly, she'd never had a child.' Pascoe was taken aback, and before he could recover, Trimble pressed home, 'Perhaps Marsh went to see Kohler to talk about the blood evidence. Perhaps she offered at that time to give testimony and that's what sparked Kohler's interest in getting out.' 'Why wait so long?' demanded Pascoe. 'Perhaps it had been nagging her conscience for years but she'd persuaded herself it made no real difference. Then the coincidence of her being at Beddington College while Kohler was five miles away in Beddington Jail brought it to the surface. But when Kohler killed Bush, that just confirmed to her that she'd been rightly condemned in the first place.' It made some sense, certainly more than his own theories. Trimble concluded, 'When the basis of your conclusions proves wrong, change your conclusions. Basic rule of detection, Mr Pascoe.' In his head Pascoe heard another voice. 'When you're sure of where you're at, lad, who gives a fuck if you started from the wrong place?' Hiller was standing up. Trimble said in a non- authoritarian voice, 'Do you want a chat, Geoff?' Looking grey and weary, the DCC shook his head. 'I think it better not. In the circumstances. Mr Pascoe, thank you.' He left.
Trimble said, 'Well, Peter, it looks like the same angel that's covered Andy Dalziel's tracks all these years has taken you under his wing. But be warned. There are people out there ready and able to blast angels out of the sky if they feel the need.' It was an odd thing to say. But Pascoe wasn't really listening. He was looking at the door which had just closed behind Hiller and wondering why he had the sense of having just witnessed a man destroying his own career.
TEN
'One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Hush!'
Dalziel liked trains, especially he liked trains when the alternative was driving on the wrong side of a road more crowded with maniacs than the corridors of Bedlam. The girl on the travel desk had tried to persuade him that New York was unique and if he let her rent him a car at very reasonable rates, he'd find things much different on the thruway. But Dalziel cocked an ear to Seventh Avenue in full throat outside and said, 'I'd rather sup lager and lime.'
She booked him a seat on something called the Colonial and a room at a hotel called the Plantation, all of which sounded too folksy for comfort. Nor was he much impressed by her assurance that the hotel was on the edge of this 'historic area' she was so reverential about. But he comforted himself with the thought that over here 'historic' probably meant something built before the Korean war.
He left a note for Linda at the desk, explaining where he'd gone.
He reckoned she'd come round breathing fire when he stood her up at lunch-time, and a bit of cheque-book journalism would soon loosen the travel girl's tongue, so he might as well tell the truth and keep himself qualified (he hoped) both for her favours and his expenses.
Once he'd made up his mind to head south, professional courtesy took him along to the police in case they needed him in connection with the man he'd caught in his hotel room.
It was like walking into a TV series. He found himself sitting in a room as crowded as the Black Bull on a Saturday night with a detective who managed to look harassed and laid back at the same time.