'Last words,' said Sowden. 'Exit lines. I wonder what her friend's tip was?'
'It's not knowing that makes horse-races,' said Pascoe wearily.
As they reached the door, a patient at the far end of the ward began to make a noise. At first it was just a kind of moaning sound, but finally words came out quite clearly.
'Teeny! Teeny! Where's my tea?'
Pascoe stopped.
'Who's that?' he asked.
'That? Oh, some old boy who came in this afternoon. Had a nasty fall downstairs.'
Downstairs? Pascoe thought of Mabel Gregory's old father lying on his bed in the front parlour. Thought also of the woman's tired face and of her blank-eyed husband sitting far down the garden, smoking a cigarette and looking at nothing.
And then he thought of the news which had reached the Gregorys that evening.
'Why? You interested in him?' asked Sowden.
Pascoe shook his head. Somehow it didn't feel quite such a betrayal as a spoken no. Betrayal of what? Of whom? He realized he didn't want to go home to an empty house. Tomorrow with luck it would no longer be empty. Ellie would be there. And Rose. One-year-and-one-week-old Rose. Perhaps they would give him the strength to contemplate what he ought to do about the Gregorys. Perhaps.
Meanwhile.
They had reached the lifts. Pascoe stepped in. Sowden stood back and watched him.
'Goodbye then,' he said.
The doors began to close. Pascoe racked his brain for something to say. Every parting should be treated as a rehearsal for the last one; everyone should have some piece of farewell wisdom or wit at his tongue's end; but, alas, for most, even the best prepared, this was probably how it would be; the doors closing, the light fading, the lift descending, with nothing said, nothing communicated.
The doors closed. His hand shot out and his finger pressed the open button. The doors parted and Pascoe stepped back out into the corridor. He grinned triumphantly at Sowden who looked at him mildly surprised.
'Some rehearsal, huh?' said Pascoe. 'Now, about that drink.'