Dialogues of the Dead

Dalziel nodded and made a note, as if grateful for the suggestion. Pascoe came in.

“What did you drink?”

“Whisky. And we had sandwiches.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know. Mine was cheese, his was chicken, I think. He stopped at a garage on the way back from the pub and bought them, so they all tasted much the same, I dare say. Is this relevant to anything?”

“Just necessary detail, Mr. Roote,” said Pascoe, who knew the value of grinding away at matters that irritated a suspect. “You eat anything else? Either of you?”

“No. Yes, Sam bought a couple of chocolate bars, Yorkies. He ate his. I don’t eat chocolate.”

“Why’s that?”

“It brings on migraine. What the hell is going on here? What’s this got to do with Sam’s death?”

“Please bear with me, Mr. Roote. This Yorkie bar you didn’t eat, did you take it out of its wrapper?”

“Of course I didn’t! Why the hell should I?”

“Maybe you miss chocolate and even though you can’t eat it, you like to look at it, smell it, perhaps?”

“No! For God’s sake, Mr. Dalziel, I’ve lost a dear friend here and all I’m hearing is waffle about my diet!”

Anyone in his seat appealing to the Fat Man for assistance was really in trouble, thought Pascoe gleefully.

Dalziel said, “Mr. Pascoe’s just trying to get things straight, Mr. Roote. Let’s get back to this coffee. You say you didn’t drink any, so he must have made it after you left, right?”

“Right. Someone else must have come, someone he knew.”

“You’re very keen on this other visitor,” said Dalziel doubtfully. “But we only found one mug, and our lab has established that Johnson definitely drank from it.”

“What’s that prove? It’s easy to wash a mug. Which cafetière did he use?”

“How do you know he used a cafetière?”

“He always made real coffee. He despised instant. And he had a small one cup cafetière he used if he was by himself and a large one if he had company. It was the large one, wasn’t it?”

“You got into the room, Mr. Roote. You probably saw for yourself. On the table by his chair.”

“I wasn’t looking at the fucking furniture, you moron!” shouted Roote, leaping up with a violence that knocked his chair backwards and shifted the table towards his two interrogators.

“Interview suspended while the witness gets a hold of himself,” said Dalziel equably.

Outside, he said, “The lad seems upset. You weren’t making faces at him behind my back, were you?”

“No,” said Pascoe. “It’s Roote who’s making faces at us. We’ve got to get behind them.”

“Bit of plastic surgery with a truncheon, you mean? Nay, don’t take on so. I just can’t see if he’s involved why he’s so keen to cry murder.”

“He’s clever and he’s devious,” said Pascoe. “Just because we can’t see where he’s heading, doesn’t mean he’s lost.”

“Wish I could say the same for us. So, this bloody cafetière, which were Johnson using, the big ’un or the little ’un?”

“The large one. And yes, it looks as if several cups had been poured from it, always presuming he’d filled it to the top in the first place. Path. report suggests Johnson had downed a fair amount of coffee shortly before he died, but exact measures aren’t on the menu.”

“Never are when you want ’em. Useless sods, doctors,” said Dalziel. “What’s all this about a Yorkie bar?”

“Just winding him up. The other one had been taken out of its wrapper and put down on the mantelshelf. Probably Johnson was going to eat it but didn’t get round to it.”

“Wouldn’t mind one myself,” said Dalziel, rubbing his belly. “So what do you think, lad? I mean, if Roote weren’t mixed up in this, would you be doing owt other than tell the coroner it looks like he topped himself?”

Pascoe thought then said, “I’d still want to know where Johnson got the Midazolam. And why he put it in the whisky first rather than straight into his coffee.”

“Good questions,” said Dalziel. “Let’s get back in there, shall we? See if he’s settled down, then we’ll wind him up some more.”

They went back inside. Roote was, outwardly at least, back to his usual fully controlled self.

Dalziel took up the questioning as if nothing had happened.

“This tutorial you were having with Dr. Johnson, bit of an odd time for it, Sunday lunch? I mean, most folk are sitting down to roast beef and Yorkshire pud with their nearest and dearest.”

“I seem to recall we left you in The Dog and Duck, Superintendent,” said Roote.

“Aye, well, pubs is where I meet my nearest and dearest,” said the Fat Man. “So what were this tutorial about?”

“What has this got to do with anything?”

“It might help us understand Dr. Johnson’s state of mind when you left him,” murmured Pascoe.

“His state of mind is immaterial,” insisted Roote. “You’re not still trying to brush this aside as suicide, are you? Sam just wasn’t the suicidal type.”

“Takes a one to know a one, does it?” said Dalziel.

“Sorry?”

“You did slash your wrists a few months back, I seem to recall.”

“Yes, but that was …”