Death of Dalziel - Dalziel & Pascoe 22

by Reginald Hill

  'Yes, sir. Procedure?'

  This was the moment of choice. Hit the house hard and take them by surprise, or open up lines of communication?

  If he was right and Youngman would be realistic enough to assess the odds and act accordingly, it had to be the latter.

  Also, he admitted to himself, in these situations he was always reluctant to order other men to take risks he wasn't sharing, and if Youngman did decide not to come quietly, the risks could be great. ARU training was hard but it was kindergarten stuff compared with what you needed to get into the SAS.

  'Dispose your men so that the building is completely covered, then I'll talk to him,' said Pascoe. 'No shooting except on my command.'

  'Except if life is threatened,' said Sergeant Axon, wanting to hear him say it.

  'Naturally.'

  'Right,' said the sergeant and went to join his men.

  Ten minutes later he returned to say, 'All in position. Some movement inside. So far only confirmation of one inmate.'

  'Male or female?'

  Axon shrugged.

  'OK. Lead on.'

  Pascoe followed the sergeant into a small beech copse. When the cottage came in sight, they halted behind a tree broad enough to absorb rounds from most small arms.

  Collaboy gave him a field phone with a recording facility. You never knew how long a negotiation might take and it was as well to be able to check what both sides had said.

  'Number?' he asked.

  Collaboy gave it to him. Good old efficient Jim.

  He punched it into the keypad.

  The insistent shrill of the phone came floating out of the cottage's open windows.

  On the fourth ring it was answered.

  'Hi. Youngman here.'

  He sounded very relaxed.

  'Mr Youngman. This is Detective Chief Inspector Pascoe.'

  'Thought it might be. Real early bird, aren't you?'

  That was interesting.

  Pascoe said, 'Mr Youngman, I'm ringing to tell you that the cottage is surrounded by armed officers . . .'

  ‘I know,' the voice cut in. 'Been watching them get into place for the last twenty minutes. Way those lads move, they're not going to win many prizes on Celebrity Come Dancing’

  'Perhaps not, but they are all expert marksmen, and they have instructions to shoot unless my instructions are carried out to the letter.'

  'Fair enough. Instruct away.'

  'First of all, is Mrs Kentmore there with you?'

  'Kilda? No, sorry. She was, but she went off earlier. Had some shopping to do, I expect. You know women. If it's not sex, it's shopping. Any excuse. Sales, birthday, something for a wedding. I told her that she ought to stay put, but you're a married man, Chief Inspector, you must know that once a woman gets an idea in her head it would take an Ml9 to knock it out. Us servants of the Crown, we just follow orders, but a woman does whatever fucking well takes her fancy.'

  The tone was mocking. Was he simply taking the piss or was he actually lying about Kilda's departure?

  Why would he lie? Pascoe asked himself. So that he can show his face and lure us into the open, then Kilda springs an ambush?

  Not likely, not unless Youngman himself was looking to go out in a blaze of glory, and from what Pascoe had read about him, he didn't sound like the suicidal type.

  'OK. Here's what you do,' he said. ‘I want you to remove your shirt and your trousers. Open the front door and come out with your hands on your head. Advance six paces, then halt and wait for further instructions.'

  'Don't want my Y-fronts off too? Folk have been surprised what I've got hidden down there.'

  'No. Keep them on. But I hope you don't find uniforms a turn-on,' said Pascoe. 'You get twitchy, my marksmen could get twitchy too.'

  He was doing his chameleon act again, slipping into the mode which seemed best suited for getting the job done.

  Youngman laughed and said, 'I'm on my way. See you soon.'

  The phone went dead. A few moments later, the front door opened.

  'Coming out,' called a voice.

  Then Youngman emerged, hands on head, stripped down to his underpants. He marched forward six paces and did a parodic military halt.

  'OK, Sergeant,' said Pascoe. 'Over to you.'

  There was the usual yelling and shouting and kicking open of doors and clatter of running feet which ended with Youngman lying on his face, his hands cuffed behind his back, and Axon reporting to Pascoe, 'Cottage clear, sir. No one else present.'

  'Good work. Sergeant,' said Pascoe. 'Jim, you and your boys start searching the place. No nasty surprises lying around, I hope, Mr Youngman?'

  Youngman rolled over on his back, looked up at him and grinned.

  'Wouldn't dream of it, Chief Inspector.'

  'Good.' He stooped to whisper directly into the man's ear. 'But if it turns out you're lying, I'm going to cut your balls off.'

  'That's tough talk, Mr Pascoe. But could you really do it?'

  'Oh yes,' said Pascoe, straightening up.

  The recumbent man regarded him thoughtfully then said, 'Yeah, maybe you could, but we're not going to find out today. No nasty surprises. Apart from yourself, of course. Didn't think you'd get here for another hour at least. . . Hold on, I've got it. It's Maurice, right? You were having lunch with him and you got him to talk. Knew he was a bit limp, but didn't think he'd drop Kilda in it.'

  'Sometimes a man's conscience speaks even more loudly than family loyalty,' said Pascoe, deliberately sententious. There was no way he could maintain the hard-man role once this got official, and he didn't doubt that Youngman had been trained to withstand interrogation techniques far beyond anything he could bring to bear. But let him think you were a bit of a pompous plonker, get him to feel superior ...

  But he saw instantly that wasn't going to get him anywhere either.

  Youngman grinned up at him and gave him an exaggerated wink.

  'Oh yes, I can see all the stuff I've heard about you's true, Mr Pascoe. You're a one to watch. So that's it from me, nothing more but name and number.'

  'You're not a prisoner of war,' said Pascoe.

  'Aren't I? In that case, shouldn't you be telling me something about the right to remain silent? Which is a right I'm fucking well exercising till I've got my lawyer present.'

  For a man lying almost naked at the feet of his captor, who he must know had evidence enough to put him away for a very long time, he sounded surprisingly unconcerned.

  He knows that CAT are going to take control of him as soon as they get wind of this, thought Pascoe. And he reckons that, once he's in their hands, he's going to get a much better deal than he can expect from me.

  So, back to hard man.

  He said to Sergeant Axon, 'Get him into a car, wrap a blanket around him. Any move he makes that you haven't OK'd should be treated as an escape attempt. Warn him, then shoot him. My authority.'

  He went into the house where Collaboy and a couple of uniformed officers had begun their search. The DI wasn't happy.

  'Should we be doing this, Pete?' he asked. 'Won't CAT want to have a clean scene when they show up? At least I ought to call up a SOCO team.'

  'It's not a crime scene, Jim,' nit-picked Pascoe. 'As for CAT, I'll take full responsibility. I've been seconded to them since getting back to work, didn't you know that?'

  'Heard something,' said Collaboy.

  'Cheer up,' said Pascoe, not happy at trying to mislead his colleague. 'Your patch, your collar. Now let's see what we can find.'

  'Sir!' called a constable from upstairs.

  He was in a small single bedroom. There was a grip on the bed in which Youngman had been packing his clothes. The constable had pulled open the drawers in a dressing table. In one of them lay a 9mm Beretta and several clips of ammo. In the other was a bundle of what looked to Pascoe's inexpert eye like detonators alongside a plastic box containing a quantity of grey clay-like material.

  'Sex-aids?' said Collaboy.

  ‘I think we'd
better get the bomb squad out here,' said Pascoe. 'Close this room up, but let's carry on looking elsewhere.'

  Next door was another, larger bedroom, clearly the woman's. There was nothing to suggest they'd been sharing a bed, which was interesting in view of Youngman's reputation. Further along the landing Pascoe found a door that was locked. He didn't waste time looking for a key but kicked it open with his heel. It turned out to be Kilda's dark-room. There were shelves lined with photographic materials and a variety of cameras. She was evidently technically as well as artistically proficient, for on a work surface by the sink Pascoe spotted the innards of a camera, removed presumably for modification or repair. But he didn't waste much time looking at this for, out of the comer of his eye, he glimpsed something strangely familiar.

  And when he turned to look at the wall half-hidden by the open door, he saw it was covered by photo prints, half a dozen of which featured his own face.

  A man frozen in the act of stuffing a wedge of Victoria sponge into his gob doesn't look his best, he observed critically. But they were good pictures and they'd caught the bright delight in his eyes that sprang both from the pleasure of eating and the pleasure of Kilda's company. For a brief moment he relived the magic moment that had followed, when they'd sat at the still point of the turning world in a silence more potent than music.

  Then his gaze drifted to the other pictures displayed here and the moment was dispelled more completely than it had been by the terriers' distant cacophony.

  There were other mementoes of the fete here. Ellie looking quizzical, Kentmore determinedly hearty, Rosie obstinate, Sarhadi and Jamila smiling and happy. And these fete pictures were surrounded by others less clearly focused as though taken through a long lens by a hand-held camera, pictures which showed the Marrside Mosque and a bearded man coming out and ducking into a waiting car.

  Sheikh Ibrahim. And Pascoe did not doubt that this was the same day that someone had put a bullet into the rear light of his car, not the bullet of a professional like Youngman which would have been from a high-powered perfectly zeroed sniper's rifle.

  No, this had been a bullet fired opportunistically, a bullet from a 9mm Beretta, the same kind of pistol that they'd found in the cottage and that Kilda had used in Mill Street.

  Pascoe hurried out of the dark room and went downstairs and out of the house. The phone he'd used to ring Youngman rested where he'd laid it.

  He rewound the tape and played it.

  Kilda? No, sorry. She was, but she went off earlier. Had some shopping to do, I expect. You know women. If it's not sex, it's shopping. Any excuse. Sales, birthday, something for a wedding. I told her that she ought to stay put, but you 're a married man, Chief Inspector, you must know that once a woman gets an idea in her head it would take an MI9 to knock it out. Us servants of the Crown, we just follow orders, but a woman does whatever fucking well takes her fancy.

  And he recalled what the man had said as he lay on his back, smiling up at him.

  No nasty surprises. Apart from yourself, of course. Didn't expect you till later...

  Why should he have been expecting the police would turn up at the Gatehouse some time that day?

  'Oh shit,' said Pascoe.

  He started to run towards his car.

  Behind him, Collaboy yelled, 'Pete!' He paused and looked back. The DI had his mobile to his ear. 'What?'

  Collaboy lowered the phone and muffled it with his hand.

  'I've got Bagshit here. He's heard about me calling up an ARU and he wants to know what the fuck's going on.'

  Superintendent Bagshott of Harrogate was notorious for being a stickler for proper procedure as well as being a great snapper-up of other officers' credit.

  'What have you told him?' yelled Pascoe.

  'The truth, dickhead. What else would I tell him? He wants to speak to you.'

  'Tell him the truth again,' cried Pascoe. 'Tell him I'm not here.'

  'But you are . . .'

  Then Collaboy realized that Pascoe wasn't asking him to lie.

  The DCI had vanished from sight at a fast run and a moment later all that indicated he'd ever been there was the scream of an over-revved engine fading away on the rich summer air.

  5

  wedding gifts

  So now I'm a married man, thought Kalim Sarhadi.

  Throughout the ceremony he had felt curiously disconnected, more like a casual onlooker than one of the main participants. His even stronger sense of disconnection from Jamila hadn't helped. A few weeks ago she'd announced that she wasn't going to wear the white bridal gown usually favoured in marriages in the West, but a traditional shalwar-qameez outfit. He'd been amused, thinking her main motive was to take the bangers by surprise, but when he saw her, he'd been struck dumb. In Western white she would doubtless have looked beautiful, but in scarlet silk richly embroidered with heavy gold thread, she was an exotic jewel. He could not believe this lovely creature was his Jamila. In his sharp grey suit and brilliant white shirt he felt shabby and out of place. It was as if he had entered one of the old stories in which a young man affianced since childhood to some

  unknown girl approaches his wedding day with considerable trepidation only to discover he has been contracted to a princess.

  But he didn't want a princess, he wanted his Jamila.

  The feeling of not-rightness persisted all the way to the Marrside Grange Hotel where he found himself enthroned alongside Jamila on a sofa raised on a shallow dais so that the assembled guests could see them together and approach them with congratulation and gifts. He turned towards her and she turned towards him. For a second they looked solemn-faced into each other's eyes, two complete strangers wondering what the future might bring.

  Then she grinned and murmured, 'Any chance we can skip the nosh?' and suddenly she was his Jamila again.

  He relaxed and began to enjoy his wedding day.

  It was, as most second- and third-generation marriages were these days, a mix of old and new, of East and West.

  The Nikah in the mosque had naturally followed the old established pattern, but once they'd moved on to the hotel for the Walima, tradition had been considerably rearranged. This enthronement was taking place before the actual Walima rather than after, and the Walima itself, which back in Pakistan traditionally consisted of two separate banquets, one for the men, one for the women, was going to be mixed.

  'Don't care what they do over there,' Tottie had declared. 'Over here, them as pays the piper calls the tune.'

  Any mutterings from fundamentalists had been stifled by the Sheikh's ready agreement to all the arrangements Tottie wanted to make. When Sarhadi thanked him for not raising any objection, he had replied with a smile, 'Fundamentalism is about substance, not form. Preserving old truths does not mean we cannot learn new tricks. And I dare say many of the old traditions will still be observed, if only by accident. For instance the one which declares that, strictly speaking, the Walima should not take place till after the marriage has been consummated.'

  This hint that he knew how far Sarhadi and Jamila had gone in their very untraditional courtship had come as a shock. More likely it was just an educated guess. Thanks be to Allah that the bangers were not so educated.

  His mother had greeted news of the Imam's accord with typical directness.

  'Grand,' she'd said. 'Not that it 'ud have made a ha'porth of difference if the old bugger had said owt else.'

  While Kalim never doubted that his mother's had been a true conversion, it was quite clear that the spirit of Allah had supplemented rather than replaced the spirit of Yorkshire independence.

  Tottie was standing alongside the sofa-throne now, taking care of the gifts of money, most of which came in the form of notes or cheques, though some of the guests, harking back to the days when the bride was showered with coins, gave all or part of their offering in the form of purses stuffed with golden coins. The gift received and thanks given, any guests who looked inclined to linger too long were soon chivvied into the
dining room by this redoubtable lady. There was no doubt who was in charge here. When Farrukh Khan, one of the group of young men who formed the Sheikh's unofficial bodyguard, tried to station himself behind the sofa, Tottie tapped his shoulder and with a jerk of her head sent him packing to join the pair of bangers who were checking on the guests entering the lounge.

  The officious manner of most of these self-appointed guards got up Sarhadi's nose, but there was no escaping the fact that some lunatic had fired a gun at the Sheikh's car, so any occasion which involved his presence meant you had to put up with the bangers too.

  By now the flow of guests was dying to a trickle and Tottie was glancing at her watch with the satisfaction of someone whose timetable was proving atomically accurate. She frowned as she saw Farrukh's bulky frame once more approaching the sofa, but the young man ignored her and said to Sarhadi, 'Got a woman outside trying to get in. Says she's a photographer and she knows you. You not been arranging another photographer, have you? My Uncle Asif's got the job, right?'

  'Yeah, sure. What's her name?' asked Sarhadi, puzzled.

  'Kent, something like that, I think. I'll tell her to push off.'

  'No, hang on,' said Jamila. 'Kentmore, could it be? Kilda Kentmore?'

  'That's right.'

  'Kal, you remember her? Last week - she's the sister-in-law of that guy who was on the TV with you. We met her again at the fete. I talked with her a lot. She's a real photographer, Kal, did fashion, knows all the top models. If she wants to photograph us, let's ask her in.'

  'What about Uncle Asif?' protested Farrukh.

  'What about him?' said Jamila with spirit. 'Everyone knows he's going blind in one eye and that's the eye he puts to the viewfinder. I say you let Kilda in.'

  Farrukh looked at Sarhadi. Tottie was one thing, but he wasn't about to start taking instructions from this mouthy girl.

  Sarhadi said, 'Yeah. Why not? Let her through.'

  6

  hi-yo, Silver!

  To average fifty plus miles per hour driving through urban West Yorkshire on a Saturday afternoon in the height of summer requires a lot of luck and a total disregard of law. In Pascoe's wake the law was in tatters, but fortunately so far his luck had held. He knew he was acting irrationally but rationality involved time.