'Listen,' said the doctor, 'I won't arrest any motorists if you don't make diagnoses. All right? And I'll tell you this. If it wasn't for the fact that I believe he might well be dead before morning, you wouldn't be going to see him now.'
What there was to see of Sturgeon's face confirmed the doctor's words. It was deadly pale and pinched-looking, as though the blood had been squeezed out of it by force. His eyes miraculously had escaped the onslaught of shivered glass which had gashed his scalp and brow as he pitched forward into the windscreen. But the flicker of recognition as they stared up at Pascoe was a mere movement on the surface of despair.
It was no time for social exordia.
'Mr Sturgeon, I rang Lochart,' said Pascoe deliberately. 'The constable there says there's no one called Archie Selkirk in the district.'
There was no response.
'He told me you'd phoned as well. What did you want with this man, Selkirk?'
Sturgeon closed his eyes, but he was still listening.
'What about John Atkinson then?' asked Pascoe. 'What's your connection with him? Do you know James Cowley? Did you know Matthew Lewis?'
The eyelids perceptibly pressed down more tightly on the eyes. This was getting them nowhere. A passing nurse pushed the door open, peered assessingly at Pascoe, and went on her way.
'Listen, Edgar,' urged Pascoe leaning closer, 'this is doing you no good. I want to help. You wanted me to help. Just tell me what it's all about and I'll try to sort things out. Is it something to do with the robbery? Your stamps?'
Still nothing. It was difficult to know where to go from here. The man was in no state to withstand the kind of shock being questioned about a murder could give him. Pascoe could hardly believe that a man like Sturgeon could have had the will or the strength to kill Lewis, but his innocence would possibly just increase the shock.
'All right, Edgar. I'm going now,' he said to the closed eyes. 'I'll come again.'
He rose to leave. The eyes opened.
'Mavis?' whispered Sturgeon.
'Mavis? Yes, I've been to see her.'
'To see?' Sturgeon was puzzled. Of course, he doesn't know she's in hospital as well, thought Pascoe. He's wondering why it's me standing here, not her.
'I'll tell her,' he said reassuringly, eager to get out now.
'Let her come. I want to explain.'
The words were almost inaudible. The door opened and the doctor and nurse appeared. Pascoe ignored them.
'Explain what, Edgar?'
'I can see you've cheered him up,' said the doctor. 'What's he said?'
'He was asking for his wife.'
'His wife? For God's sake man, you didn't tell him she was in hospital too, did you?'
'Hospital? Mavis in hospital?'
There was nothing inaudible about Sturgeon now.
'No, but you did,' Pascoe answered the doctor. 'Listen, Edgar, it's all right, she'll be all right. She was just upset when she heard about your accident, that's all. You get better, she'll get better, it's as simple as that.'
Sturgeon stared up at him, his eyes alive with feeling now.
'Damn them,' he said. 'Damn them to buggery! Damn them!'
'Who, Edgar? Who?' said Pascoe, feeling it should be 'whom?' Sturgeon ignored him. He took two or three deep breaths.
'How am I, Doctor?' he asked feebly. 'Will I mend?'
'Certainly, old man. With care you could be your old self in a couple of months.' He sounded very convincing.
'Right,’ said Sturgeon. 'I want a word with Sergeant Pascoe now.'
The doctor looked down at him dubiously for a moment, but whatever he saw in the old man's face seemed to satisfy him.
'Five minutes,' he said. 'That's all.'
Sturgeon was talking before the doctor and nurse had left the room. His voice was low and shaky, but he spoke fast, like a man in a great hurry. Pascoe asked no questions, did not interrupt at all. After ten minutes the nurse returned and angrily chased him.
He met the doctor outside.
'Any use?' the man asked cheerfully.
'I think so. What about him?'
He looked backwards to the now completely still figure in the bed.
'Well, I'd say you've either killed or cured him, wouldn't you? Time will tell. We'll let you know.'
It was with relief that Pascoe had stepped out into the dingy sunshine of a Doncaster day and made his way to a phone box. He could have begged the use of one in the infirmary, but it had seemed important to get out into the open as quickly as possible. Even spacious, modern, well-equipped hospitals could deafen the mind with imagined screamings of pain and despair.
Dalziel listened with interest to what he told him. He sounded unsurprised.
‘I thought it must be something like that,' he said. 'Silly bugger. You wonder how they make a living, don't you?'
'He'll be lucky if he makes much more of one,' said Pascoe.
'What? Oh aye. Do you think he killed Lewis?'
'No.'
'You're very certain. You can't expect a deathbed confession if the sod's decided not to die after all. Here. Have you thought on? That break-in. No, not at Lewis's, at Sturgeon's own place. Could he have done it himself to get the insurance money, tide him over a bit?'
'Hardly, sir,' said Pascoe. 'He was in Lochart that week, remember? He hadn't signed up yet, and even when he did, it took a long time for disenchantment to set in.'
Sturgeon's story had been so incredible it had to be true. Bored with inactivity after a few months' retirement, he had been rash enough to reveal his malaise in the company of Matthew Lewis. Lewis (as Pascoe reconstructed) had taken care to bump into Sturgeon fairly frequently at the Liberal Club in the following weeks and had steered conversation round to his own adventures on the stock market, expressing a special interest in Nordrill Mining (whose shares, Pascoe later ascertained, were moving steadily upwards at this time). Sturgeon had been fairly interested by this, but he became really interested when Lewis started dropping hints that he was going to cash in on Nordrill in more ways than one. He probably pretended to drink too much one night and revealed that he had inside information of a potentially rich mineral strike at Nordrill's test bore not far from his holiday cottage at Lochart. After that things had moved with tragic inevitability, with Sturgeon, like the hard-headed, clear-sighted Yorkshire businessman he imagined he was, measuring every step he took with the utmost care and Lewis with even greater care making sure that there was always a small piece of firm ground under Sturgeon's foot.
First Atkinson was introduced as Nordrill's site engineer. He had even taken them round the drilling site one Sunday afternoon, the watchman doubtless having been persuaded to stick in his hut with a couple of fivers for company. Naturally Atkinson confirmed the strike.
Next Archie Selkirk of Strath Farm had appeared on the scene, the alleged owner of a large tract of what was euphemistically called hill-farming land under which most of the mineral ore would probably lie. He was willing to let others take the risk of negotiating with Nordrill, if it ever came to that, and was selling the land at a mere half of its potential price. Lewis bought as much as he could afford. Sturgeon acted as a witness of the deal. By now he was firmly hooked. An agreement was drawn up for another parcel of land. Atkinson suddenly let slip that the news was going to break in the national Press the following week and Nordrill's own land-agents would be getting to work the very next day. Sturgeon went the wholehog, cashed in on all his resources including using his house as security for a loan, and bought every acre Selkirk had to offer. It cost him over forty thousand pounds.
'He hasn't a penny left in the world,' Pascoe had concluded. 'It took a long time for him to get suspicious but when he read in Monday's paper that questions were being asked about Nordrill's intentions in Scotland, he got worried. He tried to contact Lewis at his office, but he wasn't there of course on Monday morning. Then when I got in touch with him about the stamps, he took the opportunity to ask me to check on Archie Selkirk. I was too busy to do anything. Perhaps if I'd pressed him more..’