Death of Dalziel - Dalziel & Pascoe 22

by Reginald Hill

  And this had been the result. A nightmare he couldn't, or wouldn't recall. And a stomach like the Red Sea after the application of Moses' rod.

  He immersed his head in cold water, brushed his teeth, gargled, and felt a little better. By the time he emerged from the bathroom, Ellie had made a hot milky drink.

  She'd also unearthed the tablets prescribed by John Sowden when Pascoe left hospital. He'd stopped taking them after a few days and had left them at home when he went to Manchester. Now he looked at them with distaste.

  'They make me drowsy,' he objected.

  'You're in your pyjamas, it's two o'clock in the fucking morning,' said Ellie. 'Take them.'

  Pascoe's fairy godmother had been more generous than poor Hector's, but they did to some extent share the gift of survival, though the Pascoe version was rather more specialized. He knew when not to argue with his wife.

  He climbed back into bed.

  'Feeling a bit better now?' she asked.

  'Yes. Much. Thought I might go along to visit Andy in the morning. And Hector too.'

  ‘I think that's a good idea,' she said.

  She leaned over to kiss him. He turned his mouth away because, despite the toothpaste, gargle, and milky drink, he still had a faint aftertaste of vomit at the back of his throat. But she kissed him on the lips anyway.

  Then they both lay there, side by side, simulating sleep while their open eyes stared uncertainly into the dark.

  12

  the man of my dreams

  Next morning when Rosie heard about the proposed hospital visit she said, Til come too.'

  'No,' said Pascoc, more shortly than he'd intended. ‘I don't think that's a good idea. Uncle Andy's very ill. Very ill indeed.'

  'That's why I want to see him.'

  'But he still hasn't woken up, he won't know you're there.'

  'He won't know you're there either and that doesn't stop you from going.'

  But it didn't make it easy, thought Pascoe. Was he just transferring to Rosie his own unhappiness at the prospect of sitting at the Fat Man's side, murmuring a few awkward self-conscious phrases in his ear, but with growing conviction that if this unresponsive hulk could hear anything, it was only the melancholy, long, withdrawing roar of that same tide of life which had beached him here?

  'OK,' said Pascoe. 'If Mum says it's OK, you can come.'

  He looked at Ellie. She gave him the look she usually gave him when he wished a decision about Rosie on to her, but her voice was even and pleasant as she said, 'Of course you can go, darling, if that's what you want.'

  'Yes, that's what I want,' said the girl. 'What time shall I be ready?'

  She spoke with great aplomb, but as they approached Dalziel's room, Pascoe was able to gauge from the increased pressure of her fingers around his that she was as nervous as he was.

  When he pushed open the door, it was a relief to see Cap Marvell sitting by the bedside.

  She was talking to the recumbent figure, naturally, easily, with none of the self-consciousness of his own attempts. Indeed, as if in the middle of a real conversation, she gave them a welcoming smile but didn't break off till she'd finished what she had to say.

  '. . . and the bastard said I was trespassing and if I didn't get off his land, he was in his rights to throw me off, and I asked if he could drive a tractor one-handed because if he laid a finger on me I'd break his arm. Then I rang the RSPCA. Had to wait an hour till they got there, but I didn't trust him not to blow the poor beast's brains out and drag it off and hide the body if I left. Now here's Peter and Rosie to see you. Hello, you two. Rosie, how are you? It's been an age since I saw you. You're still awfully thin, my dear. I hope you're eating properly. How's school?'

  Amanda Marvell had shed much of the conditioning of her upbringing, but in her attitude to children the spirit of nanny and nursery still clung close.

  'Fine,' said Rosie.

  She began to walk slowly round the bed as if determined to get the fullest possible view of the Fat Man.

  Cap had a small bottle in her hand which she now held beneath Dalziel's nose.

  'Smelling salts?' enquired Pascoe.

  She smiled and moved the bottle beneath his nose.

  A peaty spirituous aroma floated out of it. 'Lagavulin,' she said. 'Very distinctive.' 'Good Lord. Do you think it does any good?' said Pascoe doubtfully. 'Watch this.'

  She produced another small bottle, removed the stopper and held that under Dalziel's nostrils, which immediately crinkled in seeming distaste.

  'Gin,' said Cap. 'Which Andy thinks is only fit for disinfecting urinals.'

  'What do the staff here think of your . . . treatment?'

  'The staff?' she said puzzled. 'How on earth should I know?'

  She was truly formidable. Pascoe wasn't absolutely certain how much he liked her, and though always friendly towards him, he occasionally got the feeling that she regarded him as a

  Leporello to the great Don. In build she was Wagnerian rather than Mozartian, in this at least a fit consort for the Fat Man. In background (landed gentry), education (St Dorothy's Academy) and beliefs (animal rights, Greenpeace, Friends of the Earth) she was a Scots mile away from him. In bed . . . the collective imagination of Mid-Yorkshire constabulary had become considerably overheated fantasizing on their carnal relationship. 'Whales do it,' PC Maycock had said. 'Yes, but they do it in water,' PC Jennison had responded. On land or in sea, the Fat Man and his buxom leman seemed to be managing very well, thank you.

  Rosie meanwhile had settled herself on a chair on the other side of the bed, leaning forward over Dalziel. Her eyes were wide open and fixed unblinkingly on his face.

  Pascoe said, 'Any change?'

  'I got the impression he was getting bored with the Big Bands, so I've changed the tape,' said Cap. 'Thought he'd like this.'

  She showed him a cassette box which advertised it contained the perfect music to turn your dull Anglo-Saxon New Year into a hootenanny Hogmanay ceilidh.

  'Good, good,' said Pascoe, thinking. The world is full of seriously weird people. And I should know, living with two of them.

  He said, 'Look, we won't interrupt. There's another of our officers in hospital. I think I'll pop along and see him. Rosie, you want to come and say hello to Constable Hector?'

  The girl didn't respond. She was leaning so far forward now her face was almost touching the Fat Man's. She'd had to move some of his tubes and wires to get so close.

  'Rosie?' he said, faintly alarmed. 'Be careful you don't get tangled in that stuff.'

  Detective's daughter switches her dad's boss off. That would be a headline to set alongside the one about Cousin Mick.

  'Rosie!' he said more sternly.

  She stood up and came to the end of the bed.

  'OK,' she said. 'Let's go.'

  Pascoe felt a coward at his readiness to take off after such a very short visit, but at least he'd made an excuse, however feeble, whereas Rosie's response just sounded totally indifferent.

  He glanced apologetically at Cap, who gave him an ironic smile as if she knew he was running for cover.

  He said defensively, 'Maybe we can look in again on our way out.'

  Rosie said, 'No need. We're done for now.'

  This hardly improved matters.

  'We?' he said sternly. As he spoke the word, it occurred to him it didn't feel as if it included him or Cap.

  'Me and Uncle Andy.'

  Was she saying she'd taken her farewell? Not a road to go down here and now.

  He said, 'OK. Let's go then. Oh, by the way,

  Cap. You'd better have this, for when he wakes up.'

  He handed her a plastic bag containing Dalziel's dental plate.

  To his horror, he saw her eyes fill. She doesn't really believe he's going to recover either, he thought.

  'Thank you,' she said, taking the bag. 'Good of you to come. You too, Rosie.'

  The girl looked at her thoughtfully then said, ‘I think he'd like the Scottish music now. By
e.'

  In the corridor Pascoe said, 'How did you know Cap had brought some Scottish music for Uncle Andy?'

  'Didn't she tell us?'

  'No. Perhaps you saw the box.'

  'That must have been it. I'm going to get Uncle Andy to teach me the sword dance when he comes home. He's got some real claymores in his attic'

  This was true. Pascoe had seen them one night when he'd accompanied the Fat Man home for a night-cap after the enthusiastic celebration of a successful case. The night-cap had turned into a whole milliner's shop, and something had been said which provoked Dalziel into giving a demonstration of his prowess. For ten minutes his stockinged feet had performed intricate and athletic steps between the gleaming blades of the crossed claymores without a single mistake. Finished, he had essayed a bow and toppled over across a substantial coffee table which he reduced to matchwood.

  Maybe Rosie had overheard him describing the scene to Ellie.

  They got directions to Hector's ward from a nurse. As they approached, a man came from the opposite direction and began to open the door. He paused when the Pascoes halted, preparatory to following him into the room.

  Through the half-open door they could see two beds, one with Hector's unmistakeable head, eyes closed, on the pillow, the other empty but looking as if it had been recently occupied.

  'Damn,' said the man. 'He must have gone to the day room. I'll check it out.'

  With a courteous smile he held the door open to allow them to pass, then closed it behind them.

  They approached Hector's bed. Sleep had smoothed his normal waking emotions of doubt and concern from the constable's face and for a moment Pascoe saw him as he might have been if life hadn't set such ambushes in his path.

  Then the eyes opened, the old bewilderment returned, followed after a little while by recognition and an attempt thwarted by his long legs to stiffen to attention under the sheet.

  'At ease,' said Pascoe. 'Sorry to hear about your spot of bother, Hec. How are you doing?'

  While the constable rifled his word-hoard for a suitable response, Pascoe's gaze drifted to the bedside locker. Its surface was bare except for a stub of pencil and a cheap writing pad. It stood in strong contrast with the locker by the other bed, its surface precariously crowded with a bowl of fruit, a vase of flowers, a box of chocolates and a pile of paperbacks. He recalled Hector's appearance at his sick bed with the custard tart and was annoyed at himself for coming empty-handed.

  'Not so bad, sir,' said Hector.

  'Good. Good. This is my daughter, Rosie. We've just been visiting Mr Dalziel.'

  Hector suddenly looked animated.

  'How is he? Has he woken up?'

  'Not yet, I'm afraid.'

  The animation faded.

  Pascoe tried to find something optimistic to say but the words stuck in his throat.

  Instead he asked, 'So when can we expect you back then?'

  'Back?'

  'At work. Everyone's missing you.'

  Not a lie, just an ambiguity.

  'That's nice,' said Hector. 'I'm looking forward to getting back.'

  'Good. But make sure you're fit first. By all accounts it was a nasty knock you took. Have you remembered anything about the accident?'

  ‘I thought maybe . . . I'm not sure . . . don't think so, sir.'

  This was a truly Hectorian answer.

  'Don't worry. We'll get him. The milkman who found you gave a description of the car and it's bound to have a dent in it.'

  The door opened and a man in a dressing gown came in. He didn't look pleased to see them and made straight for his bed.

  As he climbed in, Pascoe called to him, 'Did your friend find you all right?'

  'What friend?'

  'There was someone looking for you. He said he'd try the day room.'

  'That's where I've been, so he can't have tried very hard,' said the man indifferently.

  He picked up a book and started to read.

  Rosie said, 'Is this supposed to be Brad Pitt?'

  She'd picked up the writing pad and opened it.

  Hector said, 'No. It's not him.'

  'That's all right then, because it doesn't look like him. The armour's good though.'

  Pascoe, knowing how sensitive Hector was about his drawing, said sharply, 'Rosie, don't be rude. You've no right to be looking at that anyway.'

  They both looked at him in a faintly puzzled way and he realized that in fact there hadn't been any rudeness intended nor any offence taken. It had been an exchange between children who feel no need to soften facts.

  'It's all right, sir,' said Hector.

  'Well, if you don't mind . ..'

  He took the pad and looked at the drawing. It really was quite good. He could see why Rosie had thought of Brad Pitt. The chariot and the armoured figure were strongly reminiscent of the movie Troy which he'd seen on television recently.

  But it wasn't the kind of film he'd ever let Rosie sit up to watch and when it came out a couple of years ago there was no way she'd been to see it. So how . . . ?

  One of her stopovers with friends, he thought grimly. On Friday night they'd caught the big action moment on Fidler's Three. On other occasions where there was a DVD player built into the bedroom set, they'd probably dump the kiddy film and take a look at something 'borrowed' from the parents' collection. God knows what else Rosie had seen! He reminded himself to have a word with Ellie. Somehow his own well-honed interview techniques lost their edge when he tried to interrogate his daughter.

  He gave her a promissory glower and asked, 'This one of yours, Hec?'

  'Yes,' said Hector defiantly, as if he'd been accused of something.

  'It's very good, though I don't recall many cats pulling chariots in the movie.'

  'It's not a cat, silly,' said Rosie. 'It's a jaguar.'

  'Is that so? I bow to your superior knowledge,' said Pascoe.

  Apart from the weirdness of the beast between the shafts, there was something else about the picture . . .

  He said, 'The charioteer, if it's not Brad Pitt.. .'

  'It looks like the man at the door,' said Rosie, putting into words what he found almost too farfetched to admit, let alone say.

  But now it had been said, there was no doubt about it. The face staring out beneath the funny helmet was the man who'd been opening the ward door when they arrived.

  He said, 'What made you draw this picture, Hec?'

  The constable's eyes showed the beginnings of panic and Pascoe went on reassuringly, 'It's just that it's so good, it's almost like it was drawn from life. Could be really useful to someone in our line of work.'

  The inclusion of Hector in the DCI's line of work did the trick.

  The panic faded and Hector said, 'It was a face in my mind . . . someone in a sort of dream.'

  'That's really interesting.'

  He wanted to lean forward closer and urge Hector to talk about his dream, but he guessed that too much pressure might be counterproductive.

  He leaned back in his chair and said, 'Isn't that interesting, Rosie? You have some funny dreams too, don't you? I bet you'd like to hear what Hec was dreaming about.'

  Was it his imagination or did she look at him with a cool amusement which said clearer than words, OK, if I do this, does that get me off the hook about watching Troy?

  It must have been imagination. No child could be as super subtle as that, not even Ellie's daughter. Could she?

  She said, ‘I sometimes dream about playing the clarinet in a really big orchestra, and I'm doing a solo, and the conductor's someone really famous like Simon Rattle who I saw when Mum took me to Leeds once and in my dream it looks just like him. What did you dream about, Hec?'

  Hesitantly, Hector began to tell her about his dream, making the point several times that it wasn't like an ordinary dream because he seemed to still have it when he was awake.

  Pascoe thought, this is crazy. A man in a chariot pulled by a jaguar who deliberately runs him down . . . the milkman se
eing a big car, maybe a Jag, pulling away at high speed ... I rest my case, m'lud. Court collapses in helpless laughter.

  He stood up and took the writing pad to the other patient, covering the distracting jaguar with his thumb.

  'Excuse me,' he said. 'Do you recognize this man?'

  The man raised his eyes from his book, said, 'Yes,' and went back to his reading.

  This should have been a relief. Why the hell should Hector's subconscious mind be any more reliable than his conscious? And it was a relief insomuch as Pascoe, still smarting from Wield's demolition of his hypothetical construction last night, shuddered at the thought that he might have tried out this latest theory on any of his colleagues.

  And yet it was disappointing too. No man likes to see his fantasy, no matter how far-fetched, destroyed.

  He began to turn away, then, because he was famous for, as Dalziel put it, liking his eyes crossed and his teas dotted, he said, 'And were you expecting him to visit you today?'

  The patient looked at him with irritation.

  'Eh?' he said.

  'Your friend, the one who was looking for you, were you expecting to see him today?'

  'What the fuck are you talking about?'

  'This man, the one in the drawing, the one you said you recognized, isn't he your friend?'

  'What's up with you, mate? Yes, I recognize him. No, he's not a friend. Hang about. . .'

  He leaned over to his locker and pulled a book from the bottom of the pile of paperbacks.

  'There,' he said, thrusting it into Pascoe's hand. 'That's the fucker. Now can I get on with my reading?'

  The book was called Blood on the Sand and subtitled A Novel of the Iraqi Wars. Its author was John ‘I. Youngman, formerly, so Pascoe discovered when he turned the book over, of the SAS. He also noticed the publisher was Hedley-Case, the same as Ellie's, but what really drew his eye was the photograph of the author beneath the blurb.

  It wasn't very big, passport-size at most, but it was undoubtedly a picture of both the man at the door and Hector's charioteer.

  13

  no change

  Pascoe moved fast.

  No doubt Wield, and everyone else, would have rational explanations for all this, but he wasn't taking any chances.