Death Comes for the Fat Man

by Reginald Hill

  Gordon (whether this was his first or second name never became clear) joined them as they completed their preparations. Pascoe couldn’t get a clear picture of the man’s face behind his black-up, but the gaze that measured him was cold and unfriendly.

  “You ready?” he said to Glenister. “OK, let’s move. Sullivan’s with you. Do everything he says. Everything.”

  The last everything was almost spat at Pascoe.

  “Don’t think he likes me being here,” he said when Gordon had retreated.

  “At least you’re a fellow,” said Glenister. “From now on, no talking. No sound at all.”

  “What happens if I sneeze?” asked Pascoe, determined not to be sucked into their game. “This chap Sullivan shoots me?”

  “Of course not,” said Glenister. “Far too noisy. He’ll probably slit your throat.”

  In fact, within a short time of setting off, Pascoe began to feel very pleased to be in the care of the man called Sullivan. Without his careful guidance, communicated by tugs and touches and simple unambiguous hand signals, progress through the forest would certainly have been slow and noisy, and probably painful and wet.

  As it was they advanced at a rate not much below his normal hill-walking pace.

  Gradually the trees thinned till at last they came to a halt in a ditch alongside a narrow roadway whose once tarmacked surface had deteriorated into eczemous patches.

  They could see on the far side of the road, at a distance of about fifty yards, the cottage. It stood in a rectangle of tumbledown wall which presumably had once enclosed a garden, but the tussocky grass and moorland bracken had long since reclaimed the lost ground.

  Not satisfied with this victory, nature also had the actual building in its sights.

  An almost full moon had risen as they advanced and in its light the cottage looked newly painted, but when Pascoe studied it through his binoculars, he saw that the pebble dash of the once white walls was flaking and stained with water and lichen. So much for moonshine.

  How long would they hang around here before deciding what he was already sure of, that the place was empty? Not long, he hoped. The midges, which had started taking a few amuse-bouche nibbles as soon as he got out of the car, had now decided to make a main course of him. Perhaps like Glenister they had fond memories of Otterburn.

  Gordon materialized beside them.

  He spoke into Glenister’s ear then moved away.

  “What do we do now?” asked Pascoe. “Hang around in the hope he’ll show up?”

  She looked at him in surprise.

  “But he’s here already, Peter, or someone is. They’ve seen a light inside and their heat-scanner things confirm there’s somebody there.”

  Pascoe looked at her like a man who has just seen his self-assembly bookcase collapse under the weight of the first paperback.

  “But there’s no light showing,” he protested, unwilling to accept what he’d heard.

  “Round the back there is. Oil lamp, they think. There’s no electricity. Fan of the primitive life is our Sergeant Jonty.”

  Somewhere close an owl hooted.

  “OK,” said Glenister. “They’re going in.”

  “That was a signal?” said Pascoe.

  “No,” said Glenister. “That was an owl. This is the twenty-first century.”

  She patted the side of her head and Pascoe saw she was wearing an earpiece.

  There was movement around the cottage, dark shadows flitting across the moon white walls. Then sound. An explosion. A crash. A cry of pain. Voices.

  “That sounds interesting,” said Glenister. “Let’s not miss the fun.”

  I’m right, thought Pascoe. She does get turned on by this stuff.

  He followed her across the rough grass, crouching low. He was no expert but the explosion hadn’t sounded like the crack of an assault weapon. Maybe a stun grenade? Except there was no sign of disturbance within the cottage. Whatever was going on, the wise move would have been no move. Stay in the ditch till the professionals gave the all clear. But here he was again, following his superior officer toward the enemy line. Last time he’d done that…

  He put the thought out of his mind. Also the thought of Ellie’s reaction if she could see him now, scuttling into danger like some Hollywood action hero.

  They reached the cottage and Glenister headed down its windowless side.

  At the rear corner crouched two figures. One of them was Gordon.

  He looked round and saw them.

  “Told you to stay put,” he snarled.

  “And very insubordinate it sounded,” said Glenister. “What’s happening?”

  “The bastard had set a booby trap. Simple trip wire, set off a charge, probably a small amount of explosive in a can packed full of earth. Not life threatening, just meant to frighten and warn. But one of my men got a gobful of pebbles and fell against a dustbin.”

  “And Youngman?”

  “He’ll be ready now. Makes it that much harder to get him out in one piece.”

  “Hard’s OK,” said Glenister sharply. “Impossible is what I don’t want to hear.”

  Pascoe peered round the corner. In the moonlight he saw a garden area which a couple of shrubs and a tree made appear a little more organized than the wilderness at the front. But the shrubs were gorse and the tree looked like a sycamore, so hardly the remnants of cultivation.

  His shoulder was seized and he was dragged roughly back.

  “You trying to get yourself killed?” demanded Gordon.

  “Not as such,” said Pascoe. “What’s the problem with a locked door? I thought you people just kicked them down or smashed windows and threw grenades inside?”

  Gordon said, “You’re watching too much television. Our Mr. Youngman’s gone to a lot of trouble to make his cottage secure. Kind of doors and windows he’s got, we’d need to set a charge that would bring half the wall down with it. And if he’s got weapons in there to match, I’m not taking any chances with my men.”

  “So what do you propose doing?” said Glenister.

  “Let things settle for a while, then start negotiating. Hold on.”

  Something was coming over his head-set. But presumably not over Glenister’s earpiece, observed Pascoe. She might be in charge on paper, but on the ground Gordon was determined to be king.

  “What?” demanded Glenister impatiently.

  “Upstairs window open. Gun barrel showing.” He spoke into his mike. “Room to get a stun grenade in?”

  He listened, then addressed Glenister.

  “Too small a gap to be sure of a grenade, but my sergeant reckons he can put enough rounds through it to take out anyone inside. Your call, ma’am.”

  “Suddenly I’ve got my rank back,” the woman murmured. “I told you, we want him in a fit state to talk, so let’s try and start the process now, shall we?”

  But they didn’t have to try very hard. Without any prompting a voice came shrilling from above.

  “You people out there, go away! I’ve got a gun, see. And I know how to use it.”

  There was a bang. Pellets whistled through the foliage of the sycamore.

  “Next one’s for you! Now go away!”

  Gordon and Glenister looked at each other in surprise.

  The superintendent said, “Either that’s a woman or Sergeant Young got a very serious war wound he doesn’t like to talk about.”

  Gordon said, “Man, woman, makes no difference. Weapon discharged puts the next move down to me, I think, ma’am.”

  “Only if your men are under real and imminent threat,” said Glenister. “That sounded more like a shotgun than a Kalashnikov. How threatening is that, Mr. Gordon?”

  Then Pascoe, who’d been struggling with the old problem of identifying the familiar in an unfamiliar context, suddenly put two and two, and two more, together. The same publisher as Ellie…a trip to the northeast…that familiar Celtic lilt…

  “For God’s sake!” he said. “Forget about the gun. The poor
woman sounds terrified! And no bloody wonder. Has anyone bothered to tell her who we are?”

  He pushed past Gordon, stuck his head round the angle of the wall, and called, “Ffion!”

  Silence, then the voice with its unmistakable Welsh accent said, “Who’s that?”

  “It’s me, Peter Pascoe. Ellie’s husband. Eleanor Soper. It’s the police out here, Ffion. Open the door and let us in. These midges are eating me alive!”

  “Peter? Is that really you? Step out where I can see you.”

  “No!” said Glenister. “You stay where you are, Chief Inspector. Do I gather you know this woman?”

  “Yes! She works for Hedley-Case, my wife’s publishers who also happen to publish Youngman’s books. She was up here to look after one of her writers who should have been on Fidler’s Three. But he had to cancel and this woman got my wife to do the show instead. Damn damn damn. I should have asked. Fidler was clearly after guests with a terrorist connection. It’s so bloody obvious!”

  “Most things are,” murmured Glenister. “In retrospect.”

  “Peter, I’m not doing anything till I see it’s really you!” came the woman’s voice.

  Pascoe began to move forward, but both Gordon and Glenister grabbed him.

  “No,” said the superintendent. “We know nothing about her and she may not be alone.”

  “Of course she’s alone!” exploded Pascoe. “Doesn’t the heat scanner show there’s only one person inside? And I know enough about her to know that while she’s pretty ruthless in getting publicity for her authors, she won’t go as far as killing their husbands.”

  Gordon’s grip slackened. He’d probably worked out that the worst that could happen was he’d lose someone he found a bit of a pain and at the same time get an excuse to deploy maximum force.

  Pascoe gently disengaged Glenister’s hand, squeezing it reassuringly, and stepped out onto the ground at the rear of the cottage.

  Something impeded his progress at shin height. He looked down and made out an axe embedded in a log. The video from Said Mazraani’s flat came into his mind. These were seriously dangerous people. Perhaps he should have listened to Gordon. But he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing him go into retreat now.

  Looking up he could see the bedroom window opened just sufficiently to allow a shotgun barrel to protrude. Behind the glass he could see a dim figure.

  “Ffion!” he yelled. “See, it’s me, Peter.”

  He spread out his arms and moved backward to give her a better angle to view him.

  A better angle to shoot him too, the thought slipped into his mind.

  He discarded it with irritation. This was no mad terrorist up there, no fugitive killer. This was a frightened young woman who’d somehow got caught up in this crazy business. He was safer here than driving down the bypass in the rush hour.

  Calling, “Ffion, just leave the gun there and come down!” he took another step backward.

  He saw the protruding gun barrel move.

  Then there was a loud explosion and he felt a dull blow on the left side of his neck just above the protection of his flak jacket, and as he dropped to his knees, waiting for the pain which must surely follow, he thought, I can’t keep on getting things wrong like this!

  16

  THE WORD OF AN ENGLISHMAN

  Ffion Lyke-Evans was a very lucky young woman.

  Normally when the door of a besieged building is thrown open and a suspect comes running out wielding a shotgun what follows is a remake of the closing scene from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Happily the CAT Armed Response Unit responded to Sandy Glenister’s directorial scream of, “Don’t shoot!” by holding both their discipline and their fire.

  When Peter Pascoe saw Ffion rushing toward him brandishing a shotgun, he presumed she was intent on finishing the job. So sure was he that he was dying anyway, he hardly felt relieved when he saw two of the men in black bring her crashing to the ground and remove the weapon from her unresisting hands. As she lay there, she shouted something which he had difficulty in hearing through the ringing in his ears. But if he’d got it right and what she was shouting was, “Peter! Peter! Are you all right?” this struck him as a pretty cheeky attempt at spin even for a publicist.

  By now, however, most of his attention was focused on the terrible pain he expected any moment, on the life-draining gush of arterial blood from the wound in his neck.

  But for some reason the pain didn’t come, and when he put his hand up to his wound, the spurt of hot blood felt surprisingly like a smear of cold earth.

  The truth revealed to him by Officer Sullivan, who turned out to be a softspoken Ulsterman of amiable disposition, was both a huge relief and a slight embarrassment.

  He hadn’t been shot. He’d backed into another of Youngman’s booby-trap wires, and the explosion had hurled a clod of earth that had struck him on the neck.

  The only medication required was also provided by Sullivan in the form of a water bottle full of whiskey which the gentle Irishman administered only after extracting a promise of complete confidentiality.

  It could have been a lot worse, thought Pascoe as he accepted a second dose. Especially the embarrassment. At least as he sank to his knees, he hadn’t dictated any dying messages. Indeed on this occasion, as in Mill Street, all the elegant valedictory epigrams he had collected over the years had quite gone out of his mind.

  By the time he was fully back in the world he’d feared he might be leaving, there was no sign of Ffion or Glenister. When he tried to get into the cottage, Gordon, who’d set his men to combing the environs for other warning devices, barred his passage.

  “Can’t go in there,” he said. “Crime scene. You should know that.”

  Pascoe, disappointed at missing a chance to have a poke around among Youngman’s things, thought of arguing the toss. But never pull rank with a man who pulls triggers is a good maxim. Also he had no idea what Gordon’s rank was, nor indeed whether he belonged to the police or the spook faction of CAT.

  He said, “Where’s Ffion, the Welsh girl?”

  “Sandy Glenister’s taken her to your car. Watch how you go. Don’t want you falling over any more trip wires.”

  He found the two women in the back of the car. Freeman must have driven up soon as the action was over. He got out of the driving seat as he saw Pascoe approach.

  “Best leave them be a little while longer,” he murmured with the smile. “Girl talk.”

  “Which it’s all right for you to hear but not me? What’s that make you? The palace eunuch?”

  This seemed to tickle Freeman, who laughed out loud, then inquired solicitously, “And how are you, Peter? After your little shock, I mean.”

  “I’m fine,” said Pascoe.

  As with Gordon and entry to the cottage, there was nothing to do but sit on his frustration and wait for whatever crumbs of information fell his way, which seemed unlikely to compensate for a row with Ellie and the loss of a quiet Sunday night at home.

  At last Glenister got out of the car and came to join him.

  “So what’s she say?” he asked impatiently.

  “A great deal, but very little to the point,” said the chief superintendent. “She claims to have strayed into all of this just following her hormones.”

  Ffion’s story as told to the chief superintendent was fairly straightforward, starting with an admission that while doing publicity on Youngman’s last book, she’d slipped into a relationship with him.

  “Nothing serious, she says,” said Glenister. “But she did spend a weekend up here in the wilds last spring, which suggests that it was more than just a fling. On Friday afternoon she got the train up north and just as she was getting into Middlesbrough she got a call from Youngman saying he couldn’t do the TV show after all, family illness. She was pretty pissed off but calmed down a bit when he said he didn’t think it would make any difference to their spending the weekend together as planned. He’d ring her later. Which he did, Fr
iday night, after the show. He picked her up and drove her out here. Spent the next twenty-four shagging themselves witless. This morning he said he had to go off again. Gave her a choice. Either get dropped off at the nearest mainline station or hang around waiting for his return, which he anticipated would be midafternoon.”

  “What was his story this time?”

  “Same as before. Hospital visiting. She recalls he grinned as he said it.”

  “Really funny,” said Pascoe. “So she decided to wait. He must be good value.”

  “Sounds like it. Also she’d cleared herself till Tuesday morning in anticipation of this bonking break, so there was no rush. By teatime she was getting annoyed. Then the phone rang. It was Youngman saying his relative was too ill to leave. Now you’ll like this bit. He told her that if he wasn’t back by dark, she should lock all doors and windows and load up his shotgun. There was this bunch of local yobs he’d been having a running battle with even since he bought the place. That’s why he had the booby traps…”

  “She knew about the traps then?”

  “Oh yes. Last time she was here, he’d shown them to her, so she would take care to steer clear of them, he said. She says he never missed a chance to remind her he was a hairy-arsed survivalist, which she freely admits she found a turn-on.”

  Freeman, who’d been listening, said doubtfully, “You believe her when she claims she’s a complete innocent? I mean, how many women know how to use a shotgun?”

  “Sometimes you are almost a Neanderthal, Dave,” said Glenister pityingly. “Apart from bonking, their only other activity during her previous stay had been a bit of rough shooting, which, incidentally, she seems to have been doing since she was six. It was either that or start playing rugby.”

  “So he told her there might be intruders,” prompted Pascoe.

  “You’re getting there. He said if she did have any bother, just to open the bedroom window a crack and fire a warning shot. That would send them running.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Yes, lovely guy, isn’t he? When things went pear shaped at the hospital thanks to you, Pete, the last place he was going to head was home. He knew we’d be on to this place eventually. And he must have thought it would hold things up a bit if there was someone on-site, armed and ready to resist boarders.”