Death Comes for the Fat Man

by Reginald Hill

  “Meaning now I’ve put stuff where it ought to be, he won’t be able to find a thing.” She laughed. “Anyway, here’s the deal, Peter. You’ll have full access to my Ops room. I’ll have full access anywhere I care to go in CID. I’ll consult with you first before using anything I think may be relevant. And I expect you to return the courtesy.”

  Seated at Dalziel’s desk, it occurred to Pascoe that the proper response would be to say he didn’t take kindly to folk offering to do him favors on his own CID floor, but he swallowed the words and said as mildly as he could manage, “That sounds reasonable. Why don’t we stroll along to your Ops room now and you can bring me up to speed?”

  He rose, went to the door, opened it, and stood there to usher her out.

  For a moment she looked slightly nonplussed at the speed with which he was moving things along, then gave him the open matronly smile again and moved through the doorway.

  The CAT Ops room bore the Glenister trademark. It was as tidy and well organized as she’d left Dalziel’s desk. Three computers had been set up on a trestle table at the far end. Not a spare inch of power cable showed. On a wallboard were pinned six photos, three showing the remains found in the ruins of Mill Street, each connected to a head shot of a man, two of them distinctly Asian in coloring and feature, the third less so. Beneath each photo was a name. Umar Surus, Ali Awan, and Hani Baraniq.

  “Surus and Awan are positive IDs,” said Glenister. “We have dental records, and in Awan’s case, DNA. Baraniq isn’t positive yet but we’re eighty percent sure.”

  “You’ve shown these pics to Hector?”

  “Naturally. Could be his sort-of-darkie was Awan, and the other possibly Baraniq, though he’s even vaguer there. I’ve tried to push him beyond sort of funny, not so much a darkie but no luck. I hope we never have to have poor Hec up on the witness stand.”

  She spoke with a smile.

  Pascoe thought, Two minutes on our patch and already she’s making our jokes.

  He said, “Look, what Hector doesn’t see is most things. But what he says he does see, you can usually rely on. His shortcomings are verbal rather than optical.”

  This wasn’t just a knee-jerk Hector-might-be-an-idiot-but-he’s-our-idiot reaction. Pascoe had once spotted Hector sitting on a park bench, notebook open on his knee, eyes fixed on a pair of sparrows dining on a discarded cheeseburger.

  “Making notes in case you have to arrest them, Hec?” he’d inquired jocularly as he came up behind.

  Hector had reacted as if caught committing an indecent act, jumping up so fast he dropped his pencil stub, the while regarding Pascoe as if he carried a flaming sword. At the same time, he was ripping the page out of his notebook, but not before Pascoe glimpsed what looked like a sketch of the two birds.

  “Can I have a look?” Pascoe had asked.

  With great reluctance Hector had handed the sheet over.

  Smoothed out, it revealed what proved to be a lively and accurate depiction of the feeding sparrows.

  “Please, sir, you won’t tell anyone, please,” said Hector tremulously.

  “This is good,” said Pascoe, returning the sketch. “I didn’t know you could draw, Hec.”

  “But you won’t tell anyone,” repeated the constable anxiously.

  It now struck Pascoe that it wasn’t being reported for misuse of his official notebook that bothered Hector so much as the idea of his colleagues knowing that he drew pictures. Everyone needs a secret, Pascoe thought. Most of us have too many. But if you’ve only got the one, how precious must that be.

  “Of course I won’t,” he said. “Carry on, Constable!”

  And he’d kept his word, not even sharing Hector’s secret with Ellie.

  So he certainly wasn’t going to be specific with Glenister, who said doubtfully, “If you say so, Peter. Now is there anything else we can bring you up to speed on?”

  “Maybe.”

  He went to the computer table and tapped the shoulder of the operator who looked to have the least happening on his screen.

  “Could you bring me up the Mill Street SOCO file?” he said.

  The man glanced up at him, blank faced. Blank was the right word here. He had a regularity of feature which made you think android. His mirror and photographic images were probably indistinguishable. In his thirties, Pascoe guessed, but metro-thirties rather than up-north-thirties. The jacket draped over the back of the chair and his open necked shirt said bet-you-can’t-afford-me loud and clear. His blond hair had more gel in it than Dalziel would have let pass without some crack about an oil change. And he had eyes the color of slate and just as hard.

  The eyes held Pascoe’s for a moment then the man turned to look at Glenister.

  Pascoe also turned to face her, his head cocked to one side, his lips pursed in exasperation, his eyebrows raised interrogatively.

  She said, “Listen in, laddies. This is DCI Pascoe. What he asks for, you give him. No need to come running to me like I’m your mam and you need your nose wiped. OK?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the other two responded with a crispness born, Pascoe guessed, of past refusals by their boss to hear anything that wasn’t loud and clear, but the blond’s only response was to bring up the file. He then rose and offered Pascoe his chair.

  Glenister said, “Peter, meet Dave Freeman He has been known to speak.”

  A smile touched Freeman’s lips without getting a grip and he said, “Hi.”

  “And hi to you too,” said Pascoe, sitting down.

  Though not in the same superleague as Edgar Wield, who it was rumored could hack into Downing Street to check out what antiwrinkle cream the PM used, Pascoe regarded himself as premier division, IT speaking. As he gingerly accessed the file and realized just how extensive and comprehensive it was, the sense of an audience made him a touch nervous and he found himself bogged down in pictures, both still and moving, of the rubble. He lingered here awhile, as if this were where he wanted to be, before moving on to his real goal, a lengthy list of every recognizable item recovered from the ruins.

  After scrolling through it twice, he asked, “Where’s the gun?”

  “Sorry?” said Freeman, at his shoulder.

  Pascoe got in a bit of payback, blanking him for a second before swiveling round in search of Glenister who, he discovered, had moved across to the wallboard.

  “Where’s the gun?” he said. “Hector reported that one of the men he saw had a gun. There’s no gun mentioned here.”

  “Peter,” said the woman, “despite your admirable loyalty to Constable Hector, you’ve admitted yourself that when it comes to detail, he’s not the most reliable of witnesses. In fact, wasn’t it Hector’s involvement that made Mr. Dalziel so sure there was no man with a gun on the premises that he took the reckless action he did?”

  Reckless. Shit on Dalziel, shit on Hector, in fact, shit on Mid-Yorkshire police work generally. He thought he was getting the message.

  He stood up and said, “Thanks, Dave,” to Freeman.

  “Anytime, Pete.”

  Pete. Was this kid his own rank? Or just a cheeky sergeant?

  Neither, the answer came to him. The C in CAT stood for combined. Freeman was a spook. Did Trimble know that Glenister had imported nonpolice personnel into the Station? Of course he did! Pascoe answered himself angrily. He was getting as paranoid as Andy Dalziel about the Security Services.

  Glenister was observing him as if his reactions were scrolling across his forehead.

  He went up to her and said brusquely, “So what’s the state of play now?”

  “Complex. We’re working backward and forward at the same time, trying to trace where all this explosive we didn’t know about came from, and what it was they planned to do with it. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Peter. I’ll get your PC linked to our network here so you’ll have everything at your fingertips and not need to wear a hole in the corridor running along here every time you need an update. But do drop in anytime you need to. For obvious reaso
ns we need to have a bit of a firewall between us and the rest of the Station. But as far as you’re concerned, you’re fireproof. And I’m hoping it will be two-way traffic. Anything you think may help, don’t hesitate. You’re the man on the spot. Your input could be invaluable.”

  It was an exit cue if ever he’d heard one.

  But for all her vibrantly sincere assurances, as Pascoe returned to his own office, he felt less like a protagonist with big speeches still to come than an attendant lord, fit to swell a progress or start a scene or two.

  In fact, it occurred to him as his ribs twinged and his knee began to ache that at the moment, he didn’t actually feel fit enough even for those walk-on roles.

  And when Edgar Wield looked in twenty minutes later and found him half slumped across his desk, he made no protest as the sergeant escorted him down the stairs to the car park and drove him home.

  2

  SHOW BUSINESS

  Archambaud de St. Agnan said, “Aren’t we too close?”

  “For what?” said Andre de Montbard. “He’s used to being followed. That’s what makes it so easy.”

  Ahead of them, the silver Saab turned right into a long street of tall Edwardian houses and came to a halt after about fifty yards. Andre pulled the black Jaguar into the curb some three car lengths behind.

  The driver of the Saab got out. He was a tall, athletically built man with shoulder-length hair and a lean, intelligent face with a neat black mustache beneath an aquiline nose. Pausing beneath a streetlamp to look back at the Jaguar, he put his hands together and made a small perfunctory bow before running lightly up the steps, inserting a key, and vanishing through the door.

  “Cheeky sod,” said Andre. “Thinks he’s bulletproof. He’s due a reality check.”

  He got out, opened the back door, and took out a sports bag.

  “You OK?” he said to Archambaud, who hadn’t moved.

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  Andre said, “Listen, it’s OK to be scared. Really. Ones I always looked for were the ones who didn’t look scared first time out. Remember what they did to your uncle, OK? All you’ve got to do is give him a tap, I’ll be taking care of the serious stuff. Crap yourself if you must, so long as you don’t freeze, OK?”

  Managing a smile, Archambaud said, “I’ll try to avoid both.”

  “So let’s do it.”

  They walked quickly along the pavement and climbed the steps of the house. Andre glanced down the list of names by the bell pushes, selected the one marked Mazraani, and pressed.

  After a short delay a voice came over the intercom.

  “Gentlemen, how can I help you?”

  “Just like a quick word, sir,” said Andre.

  “By all means. Won’t you come up?”

  They heard the wards of the door lock click open.

  “See? Easy.”

  They went inside. There was a lift but Andre ignored it and set off up the stairs.

  The flat they wanted was on the second floor. They rang the bell. When the door opened, they went in. There were two men in the room that was conventionally furnished with a sofa and easy chair, a hi-fi system from which, turned well down, came the voice of a woman singing in Arabic, and a heavy oak dining table with four matching chairs. The tall man from the Saab was standing in front of the table, facing them. The other man, in his twenties, with a wispy beard, sat in the easy chair. He was smoking a richly scented cigarette and avoided eye contact with the newcomers.

  “Evening, Mr. Mazraani,” said Andre to the tall man. “And this is…?”

  “My cousin, Fikri. He’s staying with me for a few days.”

  “That’s nice. Anyone else in the flat?”

  “No. Just the two of us,” he replied.

  “Mind if we check that? Arch.”

  Archambaud went out of a door to the left. After a few moments he came back into the living room and said, “Clear.”

  “So now we can perhaps get down to what brings you here. Won’t you introduce yourselves for the tape?”

  Mazraani’s voice was bland and urbane. He seemed almost to be enjoying the situation, by contrast with the other man, who looked resentful and apprehensive.

  Andre said, “Certainly, sir. I’m called Andre de Montbard, Andy to my friends. And my colleague is Mr. Archambaud de St. Agnan. He’s got no friends. And this lady singing is, I’d say, the famous Elissa? Compatriot of yours, I believe? Gorgeous girl. Lovely voice, and those big amber eyes! I’m a great fan.”

  He moved to the hi-fi and turned up the volume, using his index knuckle.

  Then he set his sports bag on the table, unzipped it, reached inside and took out an automatic pistol with a silencer attached.

  A look of disbelief touched Mazraani’s features, but the seated man did not even have time to register fear before Andre shot him between the eyes from short range.

  “Sorry about that, sir, but we wanted to talk to you privately,” said Andre. “So why don’t you just relax and we’ll have that drink.”

  Horror at what he’d just seen had paralyzed Mazraani. He stood there looking down at the body, blinking now and then as if trying to clear the image from his vision, his mouth open but no words coming out.

  Andre nodded at his companion, who looked almost as shocked as Mazraani.

  “Wake up, Arch!” snapped Andre.

  The man called de St. Agnan gave a twitch, then reached into his pocket, took out a leaden cosh, and swung it against Mazraani’s neck with tremendous force. He gave a choking groan and sank to his knees.

  “There, that wasn’t difficult, was it?” said Andre. “And unless my nose has got stuffed up, you’ve not even crapped yourself yet. Now it’s showtime.”

  He went back to the sports bag and took out a video camera which he passed to Archambaud. Next came a black hood with eyeholes which he pulled over his head, then a pair of long latex gloves which he put on.

  Now he took out a length of polished wood, about two and a half feet long, like the extension butt of a snooker cue. And finally he drew forth a bin liner from which he took a gleaming steel cleaver blade, six inches deep and eighteen inches long, with a threaded tail of another eight inches which he screwed into the end of the wooden butt.

  Mazraani was trying to rise. Archambaud raised the cosh again but Andre said, “No need for that, Arch. Here, sir, let’s give you a hand.”

  He placed one of the dining chairs on its side in front of the stricken man, then pushed him forward so that his head rested over the chair back.

  “Just get your breath, sir,” said Andre. “Arch, you ready?” “Do we really need this…?” said Archambaud uneasily.

  “Main point of the exercise. Just point the fucking thing and try to keep it steady.”

  He pushed the tall man’s long hair forward over his head to leave the neck clear, grasped the polished wood of the butt, and raised the glistening blade high above his head.

  “You rolling?”

  “Yes,” said Archambaud in a low voice.

  “Then here we go!”

  The blade came crashing down.

  It took three blows before the severed head fell onto the carpet.

  “All that practice with logs, thought I’d have done it in one,” said Andre. “You OK?”

  Archambaud managed a nod. He was pale and shaking but he still held the camera pointed at the body.

  “Good man,” said Andre.

  He wiped the blade on the bearded man’s robe before unscrewing it from the handle and dropping it into the bin liner which he replaced in the sports bag.

  “Now all we need are the credits then we’re out of here.”

  From the bag he took a cardboard tube about eighteen inches long out of which he pushed a paper scroll. This he unrolled, to reveal that it was covered with Arabic symbols. After checking it was the right way up, he held it before the camera for thirty seconds.

  “OK,” he said, replacing the scroll in the tube. “You can turn that thing off now. Time
to go. You touch anything out there?”

  “Just the door handles, and I wiped them.”

  “Great,” he said, removing the hood and dropping it into the bag. “We make a good team. Morecambe and fucking Wise, that’s us. In fact, let’s see…”

  He looked at his watch.

  “Four minutes thirty since we came through the door. I gave us five, and I was only expecting one of them. Now that’s what I call show business!”

  3

  WALKING THE DOG

  After his first attempt to get back to work, Pascoe spent the next two days in bed. On the third he was feeling recovered enough to insist that he was going to spend another day on his back only if Ellie joined him, which she did, purely on medical grounds, she said, which in fact turned out to be true as she cunningly contrived to leave him so exhausted that when he woke again, it was the morning of the fourth day.

  He appeared so much better that Ellie had few qualms about letting him take their daughter’s dog Tig out for a stroll after lunch.

  “You won’t be taking the car?” she said.

  “Of course not. I’m going for a walk, remember?” he retorted.

  Satisfied that this amounted to an assurance he wasn’t going anywhere near Police HQ, she waved him a good-bye before heading into her “study” to get on with some very necessary work on her second novel.

  (If asked – which few people dared–how things were going, Ellie would reply that it was one of the great myths of publishing that the most difficult thing of all was to follow up the success of a universally acclaimed first novel. No, the really difficult thing was to produce a second novel after your first had attracted as much attention as a fart in a thunderstorm.)

  Now she reimmersed herself in her book, confident that all she needed to do here to produce a best-seller was apply the same subtle understanding of human nature that she had just demonstrated in her management of her husband.

  Meanwhile, two streets away, Pascoe was climbing into a car driven by Edgar Wield, who wasn’t happy.

  “Ellie’s going to kill me when she finds out,” he said.