The Price of Butcher's Meat by Reginald Hill Page B

Felt he owed him, specially after all the nasty thoughts he’d had about him.
    Me, I were real grateful too. Rosie’s a grand kid, got the best of both her mum and dad in her. But just ’cos I were grateful didn’t make me elect him St. Franny!
    Pete gave us bulletins. Quadriplegia seemed likely to start with, so when it finally came down to paraplegia, Pascoe acted like he’d won the lottery. Bothered me a bit. I told him, be grateful, okay, but that don’t mean feeling responsible for the sod for the rest of your life. Pascoe slammed off out after I said that and I heard no more about Roote for six months or more. That’s a long sulk in my book so finally I mentioned him myself.
    Turned out the reason Pascoe said nowt was ’cos he’d nowt to say. He’d lost touch. Seems that when the medics decided they’d done all that could be done for Roote, he just vanished. Pascoe had traced him as far as Heathrow where he’d got on a plane to Switzerland. We knew he’d been there before. That’s where some of the funny letters had come from. This time no letters, not even a postcard. Best guess was, being Roote, he weren’t settling for a life viewed from belly level, he were going to spend some of that compensation dosh looking for a cure.
    Would have been easy enough for us to get a fix on him. Even in our borderless Europe, a foreigner in a wheelchair tends to leave a trail. But I reckon Ellie said to Pete that if Roote didn’t want to keep in touch, that was his choice.
    Now here he was, large as life, back on my patch—all right, on the very fringe of it—and I didn’t know a thing about it.
    I didn’t like that. Okay, I’d spent a bit of time in a coma recently, but that’s no reason not to know what’s going off.
    He maneuvered his chair alongside me and said, “I read about your bit of trouble and I’m so pleased to see reports of your recovery haven’t been exaggerated. Though tell me, is the bare foot part of a new therapy? Or have you finally joined the Masons?”
    That was Roote. Misses nowt and likes to think he’s a comic.
    I said, “You’re looking well yourself, lad.”
    In fact he was. If anything he looked a lot younger than the last timeI’d seen him—not counting straight after getting shot, of course. The landlord came over to our table and set a glass of something purple with bubbles in front of him. Mebbe it were the elixir of life. If any bugger found it, it would be Roote.
    He said, “Thanks, Alan. And thank you too, Mr. Dalziel. Yes, I feel extremely well. So what brings you to sunny Sandytown? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. I’d say you’re down here to convalesce at the Avalon. You must have arrived fairly recently, they are still completing their preliminary assessment, which you, growing impatient, have opted to preempt by making your own way to this excellent establishment.”
    Told you he were a clever bastard.
    I said, “If we’d caught you younger, we might have made a detective out of you, Roote. But I’m not complaining we caught you later and made a convict out of you instead.”
    â€œStill as direct as ever, I see,” he said, smiling. “Any minute now you’ll be asking what I myself am doing here.”
    â€œNo need to waste my breath,” I said.
    â€œMeaning of course you’re just as capable as me at working things out,” he said.
    Like a lot of folk who love playing games, Roote always reckoned other folk were playing them too. Don’t mind a game myself, long as I’m making the rules.
    I said, “No. Meaning I’d not believe a bloody word you said! But I can work out you’ve been here long enough for our landlord to know you drink parrot piss.”
    â€œCranberry juice actually,” he said. “Full of vitamins, you really ought to try it.”
    â€œMebbe after morris