“So what did you talk about?”
“I don’t know. You I suppose.”
“Me?” said Pascoe, alarmed. “What did you tell her?”
“What do you think I told her?” retorted Ellie indignantly. “Where you’ve stashed all that drug money you’ve stolen? I was upset, believe it or not, and she was kind.”
“Yes, I’m sorry,” said Pascoe placatingly. “She does seem very kind. All the same, better check your purse and change your PINs.”
Ellie smiled the smile of a woman confident that no one of either sex could sweet-talk her out of anything she didn’t want to give.
“I’d better go,” she said, looking at her watch. “Last time I was late picking Rosie up from rehearsal, I found her sitting on the school wall, playing her clarinet. There was some change on the ground in front of her, but I suspect she’d put it there herself.”
“Pity,” said Pascoe. “Nice if she could be self-supporting. Give her my love. And tell her I’ll see her tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Pete, what shall I tell her about Andy? I think she needs to know how bad things are, just in case…”
“In case what?” snapped Pascoe. “Sorry. Tell her the truth, that’s what we’ve always tried, isn’t it? But keep it cool, yes?”
“Sure,” she said. “By the way, they gave me what was left of your clothes. I went through your trouser pockets before I dumped them. Found a dental plate.”
“It’s Andy’s,” he said. “Clean it up, will you? He’ll want it when…”
His voice creaked into silence.
“I’ll clean it,” said Ellie, stooping to kiss him. “Now I’ve got to dash. But you won’t be lonely. I think I spotted another visitor lurking.”
She grinned as she spoke and a few moments later Pascoe realized why. The door slowly opened and a dolorous visage appeared, its brow puckered with uncertainty, like a sheep contemplating a gap in the hedge which separated its field from a busy motorway.
“Hector,” he said. “Nice of you to visit. Or are you just looking for the lavatory?”
He was surprised to hear himself make the joke. Usually he made a conscious effort not to join in the friendly piss-taking which Hector provoked among his colleagues.
Maybe somewhere deep inside, or not so deep, I blame him, he thought. If it hadn’t been for Hector, none of this would have started. Or if someone else had started it, then perhaps Dalziel would have taken it more seriously. Or…
He pushed the thoughts aside and forced a smile.
“Come in then,” he said. “Have a seat.”
Slowly Hector advanced. Like many lanky men, he walked with his head held low and thrust forward, as if to distract attention from his height. At moments of maximum uncertainty, which were many, the posture was so exaggerated that he put Pascoe in mind of those men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders, which Desdemona seemed to find a turn-on. Dalziel, less literary but in his own way just as poetic, had once said to him, “For God’s sake straighten thyself up, lad. You look like someone’s hung your tunic on a coat hanger with you still in it!”
Perched on the edge of the chair he stared fixedly at Pascoe.
“So,” said Pascoe heartily. “And how are things down at the factory? I mean the Station. The Police Station.”
It was well to be precise in your intercourse with Hector.
“OK,” said Hector. “I mean, everyone’s dead worried about you and Mr. Dalziel, but.”
“Are they? Well, you can tell them I’m doing fine. And the Super, well, we’ll just have to wait and see.”
There followed a long silence and Pascoe was thinking about bringing the visit to an end with a plea of fatigue when Hector burst out, “Is it true he’s going to die, sir?”
“I hope not,” said Pascoe, touched by the degree of concern shown. “But I’m afraid he is very ill. Look, Hector, you shouldn’t blame yourself…”
“Blame who, sir?” said Hector, screwing up his eyes in the effort of concentration.
Whoops, thought Pascoe. Got that wrong, didn’t I? Whatever’s bothering Hector, it’s not a sense of guilt.
“Blame anyone,” he said. “It’s no one’s fault. Just one of those awful things that can happen to anyone.”
Hector nodded vigorously, very much at home with the concept of awful things that could happen to anyone but which for some reason were more likely to happen to him.
“I gather you’ve been talking to Mrs. Glenister,” Pascoe went on; then, observing a familiar blankness spreading across Hector’s face, he added “Detective Superintendent Glenister from the antiterrorism unit.”
“Glenister?” said Hector. “Joker said her name were Sinister. Her who speaks funny?”
Deafness clearly hadn’t affected Constable Jennison’s love of a laugh, thought Pascoe, for which he supposed they ought to be grateful.
“Yes, she does. It’s called a Scottish accent. That’s Mrs. Glenister all right. I hope you were able to help her.”
“Oh yes,” said Hector, very positive. “Kept on asking about the men I saw in the shop. Asking and asking. I started getting a bit confused but Mrs. Sinister—sorry—Mrs. Glenister said not to worry as the men I saw must have got blown up anyway. Then she helped me with my report.”
“That was nice of her,” said Pascoe. “And it’s nice of you to come visiting. But I’m a bit tired now, Hector…”
He paused and started counting to fifty. Dropping a hint to Hector was like turning on an old-fashioned wireless. You had to wait for the tubes to warm up.
At forty-six, Hector stood up and said, “I’d best be going.”
He took a step toward the door then turned back.
“Nearly forgot,” he said. “Brought you this.”
Out of the depths of his tunic jacket he took a paper bag which he placed carefully on the bedside locker. Then he set off again, this time reaching the door before he halted once more.
“Sir,” he said. “I hope Mr. Dalziel doesn’t die. He’s been very good to me.”
Then he was gone leaving Pascoe only a little less amazed than he would have been if the angel Gabriel had popped in to tell him he’d been chosen to have a baby.
He settled back into his pillows to contemplate the nature of the Fat Man’s goodness towards Hector, noticed the paper bag on his locker, reached out and picked it up.
It contained, rather squashed but not beyond recognition, a custard tart.
“Oh shit,” said Pascoe.
And suddenly, for some reason beyond reason, the barrier he’d been erecting both consciously and unconsciously between himself and the events in Mill Street crumbled like the walls of number 3, and when the nurse looked in to check that all was well, she found him with his face buried in his pillow, sobbing convulsively.
PART TWO
The Days that we can spare
Are those a Function die
Or Friend or Nature—stranded then
In our Economy
Our Estimates a Scheme—
Our Ultimates a Sham—
We let go all of Time without
Arithmetic of him—
—EMILY DICKINSON, “THE DAYS THAT WE CAN SPARE” (POEM 1184)
1
A TIDY DESK
On the third day, there were many in Mid-Yorkshire not normally noted for their religious fervor who would have been unsurprised to hear that Dalziel had taken up his hospital bed, hurled it out of the window, and walked away.
But in an age of digital TV and mobile phones, commonplace miracles have gone out of fashion, so the day dawned and departed with the Fat Man still comatose.
Pascoe on the other hand did manage to rise and limp away, not through divine intervention, but by dint of nagging Dr. John Sowden into discharging him, though only on the strict understanding that he took a minimum of seven days’ convalescent leave.
On his second day home he announced his intention of dropping in at work to see how things were going.
Ellie’s objections were forceful in expression and wide in range, starting with medical diagnostics and ending with reflections on his mental stability. When she paused for breath, Pascoe said, “You’re absolutely right, love. About everything. Only, I feel that here at home, I’m not pulling for Andy. I know it’s daft, and me going back to work isn’t going to make the slightest difference. But somehow it feels like it might.”
Ellie said, “You and your daughter, you’re both mad. But you’d better go. It’s going to be bad enough if the fat bastard dies without you feeling personally responsible.”
In her mind, Ellie had already given up on Dalziel and was gathering her strength to deal with the aftermath of his death. She did not doubt it would be traumatic, like losing a…Here her imagination failed her. Like losing a what? No human simile fit. Humans went. It was their nature. You grieved. You got on with living. But Dalziel, when he went it would be like losing a mountain. Every time you saw the space where it had been, you’d be reminded nothing was forever, that even the very majesty of nature was only smoke and mirrors.
If anything she was more worried about her daughter than her husband. Peter knew that his reaction was daft. OK, he still went ahead, but he knew. Rosie by contrast had reacted to the news of Uncle Andy’s coma with apparent indifference. When Ellie had gently tried to make sure she understood the seriousness of the situation, she had reversed the roles and with the patience of mature experience addressing childish uncertainty replied, “Uncle Andy will wake up when he wants to, don’t you see?”
Ellie had promised herself when Rosie was born that she would never be anything but completely honest with her daughter. Often her resolution had been strained close to the breaking point but she’d always tried. Now she nodded and said, “Let’s hope so, love. Let’s hope so. But he is very ill and we’ve got to face it, maybe he’s so ill that he wouldn’t want to wake up, and he’ll just die. I’m sorry.”
Her words clanged dully in her own ears, but Rosie’s expression didn’t change.
“That doesn’t matter,” she exclaimed. “He’ll still wake up when he’s needed.”
Like King Arthur, you mean? thought Ellie. Or, perhaps more aptly, the kraken?
But she said no more. What else was to say but the clichés of comfort? And the time for them, though close, had not yet arrived.
So leaving behind a wife absolute for death and a daughter buoyed up by a sure and certain hope of resurrection, Peter Pascoe returned to work.
Determined to conceal any evidence of debility, as he approached the CID suite he took a deep breath which proved rather counter-productive, sending a spasm of pain through his rib cage that made him momentarily let up on the effort of will necessary to control his left knee.
Thus the first sight his junior colleagues had of him was limping, wincing, and breathing hard. Edgar Wield followed him into his office and said anxiously, “Pete, you OK? I thought you were laid up for a week at least.”
“Bloody quacks, what do they know?” said Pascoe roughly. “Right, Wieldy, bring me up to speed.”
“Not a lot’s changed,” said the sergeant. “Three more break-ins up on Acornboar Mount, spate of credit card fraud, looks like someone’s recording PINs, couple of muggings, an affray outside the Dead Donkey…”
“Jesus, Wieldy!” interrupted Pascoe. “That’s not what I’m worried about. Someone blew up half a street, three dead, Andy lying in a coma, that’s the only case I’m interested in. So what’s the state of play there?”
Wield shrugged and said, “Sorry, out of our hands. You’ll need to talk to CAT. Dan’s told us to cooperate fully. So far that’s meant pointing Glenister and her men toward the best pubs and restaurants.”
Dan was Chief Constable Dan Trimble.
“So he’s had his arm twisted,” said Pascoe. “Two can play at that game.”
He reached for the phone.
Wield said, “Actually, he’s here. In Andy’s room, I think…”
“Andy’s room? What the hell’s he doing in there?” demanded Pascoe.
“Well, he is the Chief Constable…” began Wield, but he was speaking to Pascoe’s back as the DCI headed out of the door.
He didn’t bother to knock when he reached Dalziel’s office but burst in.
“Peter!” said Sandy Glenister, her round farmer’s wife face lighting up with a welcoming smile. “Good to see you. We were just talking about you, weren’t we, Dan?”
“Er, yes. But I wasn’t expecting…shouldn’t you still be on sick leave?” said Chief Constable Trimble.
Glenister was sitting in Dalziel’s extra-large chair behind a desk which was as clear and tidy as Pascoe could recall seeing it. Trimble was sitting opposite her so that he had to twist round to look at the newcomer.
“I’m fine, sir,” said Pascoe shortly. “Couldn’t lie around when there’s so much to do. Who have we got heading up the Mill Street investigation, sir?”
“That would be me, I think,” said Glenister.
“No, I meant from our side,” said Pascoe.
“Our side? I hope that’s what I’m on too.” She smiled.
“Sir?” said Pascoe, addressing himself pointedly to Trimble.
The Chief eyed him speculatively, decided to make allowances, and said, “Peter, in view of the national security aspects of the business, I think it’s reasonable that we follow Home Office guidelines and let the specialists deal with the investigation—”
“Sir!” interrupted Pascoe. “There’s been a major incident on our patch, we’ve got bodies, Mr. Dalziel’s in a coma, the people of Mid-Yorkshire, our constituents, will be expecting their own police force to provide answers. The local media will want to see faces they know, not listen to the meanderings of some imported spin doctor. Our lads need to feel they’re involved instead of being sidelined by a bunch of—”
“Enough, Chief Inspector!” said Trimble, rising.
He wasn’t a very big man, but even Dalziel grudgingly allowed that when he wanted, he could be quite formidable. Clearly he wanted now.
“Decisions have been made. Your job when you return officially to work will be to follow and to implement them. I’m sure that Chief Superintendent Glenister will keep you informed of progress, on a need to know basis, of course—”
“You mean they may be things relating to criminal activity in Mid-Yorkshire that I don’t need to know?” exclaimed Pascoe incredulously. “Has there been a change of government or what?”
Trimble went fiery red. But before he could reply, Glenister said, “Hey, come on, you two! My da used to say that the English were a cold, unfeeling race, no passion. He should be here now! Dan, Peter’s quite right. I’d feel the same in his position. Home Office guidelines! What do those wankers know about life at the sharp end, eh? And I could do with all the help I can get. Why don’t you leave me and him to get acquainted and work out a modus operandi?”
The Chief Constable thought for a moment, during which his cheeks cooled to their normal healthy glow.
“That sounds reasonable,” he said. “But if you should decide that in your estimation the Chief Inspector needs to rest for the full term of his prescribed convalescence, just let me know.”
He left.
Pascoe said, “You and the Chief seem to be very close.”
“Oh yes, we go way back, me and Dan,” said the woman. “Started out together in the days of auld lang syne.”
And now, thought Pascoe, Dan’s Chief Constable and you’re Chief Super which, making allowances for what Andy called the handicap of tits and twat in the police promotion stakes, puts you several lengths ahead. Definitely one to watch.
She stood up and came round the desk to his side.
“Anything new on Mr. Dalziel?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Well, while there’s life…Sorry if that sounds banal, but at times like this, there’s no gap between banal and pretentious. I found that out when I lost my man. Banal’s sincere; prete
ntious means they don’t give a damn.”
“Your…man, was he job?”
“Oh yes. Funny really. We’d been married seven years. I was at the point where I really had to decide, kids or career. Then I woke up one morning realizing I could have both. Just as me and Colin would share the kids, so we’d share his career, which looked set to be glorious. It all seemed so obvious. I’d never felt so happy. And that of course was the day it happened.”
She fell silent. Pascoe didn’t ask what happened. Her motives for telling him this much were obscure. If she wanted to tell him more, she would.
After a while he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. So am I. On the other hand, if it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t be here now. Peter, why don’t you sit there?”
She indicated the chair behind the desk which she’d just vacated.
“If anyone should keep this seat warm, it’s you,” she said. “I’ve got an Ops room down the corridor. Dan asked me if I’d sit in here if I had any spare time. With his two best CID officers out of the frame, I think he wants someone senior to make sure things keep ticking over. I didn’t much care for the idea, but like I say, he’s an old friend…”
She smiled the smile of someone who finds old friends hard to refuse.
In fact, guessed Pascoe, what she was probably doing was checking through Andy’s files to see if there was anything there which tied in even remotely with the events in Mill Street. She’d be lucky. Dalziel’s system of paperwork was sibylline.
Left to himself he would have been reluctant to take over the Fat Man’s seat, but now he refused to play coy.
He sat down, looked around, and said, “Someone’s been tidying up.”
“Me, I’m afraid. The way I work. Set things in order, then you’ll see what they mean. Your Mr. Dalziel from all accounts belongs to the opposite school. Ignore chaos and ultimately its meaning will come looking for you.”
“I think rather he had…has…the ability to set things in order in his mind, but reckons that chaos has its meaning too,” said Pascoe.
Death Comes for the Fat Man Page 5
