Recalled to Life

by Reginald Hill

  Dalziel delved into his flight bag and produced his bottle of Scotch.

  'Glass, mebbe. Two if they'll not let you stay for the strip search.'

  Thatcher grinned broadly and went out.

  *

  In the event Dalziel probably spent almost as much time in the room as he would have done in the queue, but at least he was sitting comfortably drinking from the glass one of Thatcher's men brought him. Finally the black man himself appeared, carrying another glass and a big bag of something called pretzels.

  'Any luck?' said Dalziel.

  Thatcher shrugged and said, 'These things take time. You said something about some Scotch?'

  They sat and talked in an apparently desultory fashion, but Dalziel soon realized he was being interrogated by an expert. He didn't mind. It made a change being on the receiving end. His first instinct was to throw up a smokescreen but after a while he found himself telling quite a lot of the truth.

  'So Kohler's back home, but you think she really was guilty and they're going to do a shit job on your old boss, right?'

  'That's how it looks to me.'

  'So what's your game plan, Andy?'

  'To catch up with Kohler and have a little chat. Also to talk with the rest of the American connection, see what I can squeeze out of them. Oh aye, there's plenty for me to do.'

  He spoke confidently. Thatcher grinned, sipped his Scotch and said, 'That's what Stephanie Keane sounded like, I guess.'

  'You what?'

  'Talking laid back to reassure herself. Andy, to coin a phrase, this is a big country. How the hell are you going to find Kohler for a start? And what's the rest of this American connection you mentioned?'

  'Well, there's Marilou Stamper, she's a Yank. Got a divorce, so likely she's living here somewhere. And there's Rampling, he was at the US Embassy back then, and now he's something important, at least I've seen his name in our papers so I shouldn't have any problem tracing him . . .'

  He was whistling in the dark, but it didn't bother him. He'd been in the dark before and if you whistled loud enough, something usually came snuffling along to see what all the noise was.

  Thatcher said, 'Rampling? You don't mean Scott Rampling?'

  'Aye, yon's the bugger. Stocky blond lad, could have been another young Kennedy, leastways that's how he looked twenty-seven years ago.'

  'That's not how he looks now. You're right, you'll have no problem tracing him, but I doubt you'll find it easy to see him. In fact I'm not sure it would even be wise to try.'

  'Why's that?'

  'The reason you've read about him is he's in line to be Deputy Director of the CIA, which is an appointment that needs clearance from the Senate. He knows where all the bodies are buried, which means he's got a lot of friends, or, put it another way, he's got a lot of smiling enemies who wouldn't be sorry to see something nice and dirty dug up in his background. It wouldn't take much - politically we're a neurotic society - so even if Scott Rampling's pure as the driven snow, he might not take kindly to an unofficial English cop linking him with an ancient murder case.'

  'He can please himself,' said Dalziel indifferently.

  He finished his drink, screwed the top back on the now almost empty bottle and stood up.

  'Well, I'd best be on my way. Enjoyed our chat.'

  'Hold on,' said Thatcher. 'What makes you think we're finished?'

  'Come on, lad! You'd not be chewing the fat with me so relaxed if you hadn't got yon cow in the bag. I bet you told her I was a cop and we'd been following her for days, and now she's busy dropping everyone she can in the shit. I know the type. What was it? Antiques? A big scam, only she got greedy and decided to mix in a bit of private enterprise?'

  'You may turn out to be a marvel,' said Thatcher. 'At first she was very tight-lipped, even when I said you'd been following her for weeks. So finally I showed her my law degree and ran a few sentences before her, maybe I exaggerated a tad, but the thought of five years in the slammer concentrated her mind wonderfully. She's over here to oversee the unpacking of a shipment of antiques all properly documented from your side, only a lot of the documentation itself is a work of art. Seems there's stuff there which would never have got an export licence even if it hadn't been stolen in the first place. She's done this before a couple of times, gets well paid, but not enough. So this time, when this pair of very hot eighteenth-century miniatures turned up in her shop, she chatted to a mate in Boston, got a good offer, and simply wrapped them in her underwear. "Repro samples" was going to be her story if they got spotted, but as no one had ever bothered her before, she wasn't too much worried.'

  'They never are till they see the whites of your eyes,' said Dalziel. 'So that's that. How do I get out of here?'

  'Back to the Immigration line, you mean?' said Thatcher.

  'Nay, lad. You wouldn't?' said Dalziel in alarm.

  'Believe me, if Keane had come out clean, you'd be so far back in the line, you'd be up to your knees in water,' said Thatcher evenly. 'But then I wouldn't be drinking your Scotch, would I? So let me show you the express route through the formalities. Here's my card, by the way. Anything I can do, call me. I owe you.'

  'Thanks,' said Dalziel. 'I may just do that.'

  'And take care of yourself, Andy. You're a long way from home and the house rules are different over here.'

  'I'll be so quiet, you'll scarcely notice I'm here,' promised Dalziel.

  The Manhattan skyline made a dramatic frieze against the evening sky as Dalziel's taxi crossed the East River, but the Fat Man was in no state to appreciate it. He hadn't been so terrified since Mad Jack Dutot had pressed a double-barrelled shotgun against his balls and invited him to choose left or right.

  Deposited outside his hotel on Seventh Avenue, Dalziel carefully counted out the exact fare. The driver looked at him expectantly.

  'You want a tip?' inquired Dalziel.

  The man pursed his lips in an expression that was acquiescent without being eleemosynary.

  'All right, here's one, take up sky-diving. You'll live longer and so will your passengers.'

  He went into the hotel followed by a cry of, 'Up yours, fatso!'

  It wasn't a great hotel but it wasn't a fleapit either. It was the early hours of the morning, home-time. He dumped his case in his room and went down to the coffee shop on the first floor, where he made a hearty supper of hamburgers and fries. Back in his room it was still too early American-time to go to bed, but his body disagreed, so he compromised by removing his shoes, finishing off his duty-free Scotch, and stretching out on the bed.

  Four hours later he awoke from a dream of Mad Jack Dutot and the shotgun. It was bad but not a nightmare. It had been the reality that was the nightmare till Wally Tallantire walked in and assured Dutot that whichever barrel he used to scatter Dalziel's family jewels, the other was going straight up Mad Jack's own arse.

  Dutot who, despite his sobriquet was a not unreasonable young man save on the subjects of bank robbery and Sheffield Wednesday, said, 'Sod it. It's not loaded anyway,' in proof of which assertion he pointed the weapon at his own foot and squeezed the trigger.

  The resultant explosion, smoke, pedal dispersion, and loud screaming gave Dalziel cover under which he was able to go outside and clean himself up. When he'd tried to thank Tallantire, the Superintendent said, 'Word of advice, lad. Next time you want to be a hero, wear plastic pants or a brown suit.'

  Dalziel rolled off the bed, stripped, went into the bathroom and stood under a searingly hot shower till British time, both past and present, had been sloughed out of his system. Towelling his crutch vigorously, he came out of the bathroom, feeling at last he was one hundred per cent in New York and got instant confirmation in the shape of a pallid young man going through his suitcase.

  If anything, the youngster looked the more shocked of the two, but this was small consolation as he instantly pulled a small handgun out of his waistband and screamed, 'Hold it right there!'

  'Nay, lad, I'll hold it anywhere
you like,' said Dalziel reassuringly. 'Do I look like I'm going to give you trouble?'

  He was quite sincere. His reading of the British tabloids had taught him that New York was full of drug-crazed muggers with Saturday Night Specials that went off if you farted. Suddenly he felt a strong nostalgia for Mad Jack Dutot.

  He glanced at his watch. Eight hours in this sodding country and he'd been mixed up with an art smuggler, a homicidal cab-driver and a nervous mugger. He must be on Candid Camera! If so, it occurred to him that the mugger was having trouble remembering his lines.

  Time for a prompt before the inarticulate young man decided that guns spoke louder than words.

  'Don't you want my watch, then? It's a good 'un, stands up to God knows how many atmospheric pressures, though what a man would want with knowing the time when his eyeballs have gone pop, I've never been able to fathom.'

  As he spoke he took a step forward, pulled the watch off, tossed it on to the bed, saw the man's eyes follow its flight, draped the huge towel over the hand gun, pirouetted to one side with the deceptive speed of an angry bear, and as the weapon went off, hit the youngster behind the ear with a fist like a steamhammer.

  Then he got dressed. A shot in the night was clearly not regarded as a summons for room service in New York, so after he'd buttoned his shirt, he picked up the phone and got the desk.

  'Room 709,' he said. 'Can I have Security up here, please. Oh, and while you're at it, you might let the housekeeper know I'll need a new bath towel.'

  TWO

  'I am a doctor ... let me examine it.'

  ‘I do not want it examined ... let it be.'

  'Don't your colleagues ever warn you about smoking?' said Peter Pascoe as Dr Pottle lit another cigarette from the dog end between his lips.

  'I tell them if they keep out of my lungs, I'll keep out of their heads,' said Pottle.

  He was Head of the Psychiatry Unit at the Central Hospital. Pascoe, despite Dalziel's scepticism, had been using him as a consultant on police matters for years. That was why he was here today, he assured himself, an assurance he'd have found more convincing if the particular case he'd presented for Pottle's scrutiny hadn't been the Mickledore Hall murder. With Dalziel's departure, he had made, and meant, a fervent promise that there'd be no more meddling in the inquiry. After an initial euphoria at Dalziel's absence, however, he found himself strangely unable to enjoy the freedom he now had to shape CID more in his own image. Ellie was still away, her telephone conversation was evenly divided between concern for her mother and contumely for her mother's doctor, and Pascoe did not feel able to break the tacit truce which had evolved around their own personal battle. He'd come to the Central to talk about security after a man with a record of sex offences had been caught hiding in a toilet near the children's ward. His business finished, he had found himself diverting without forethought to Pottle's office. And when the man had said, 'Yes, amazingly, I do have a moment. How can I help you?' all that had come into his mind was the Mickledore Hall affair.

  Finally the discussion had run out of steam. There was nothing to do but leave. Instead he heard himself making the crack about smoking.

  'I'm sorry,' he said. 'None of my business.'

  'That's OK. Nice to have someone concerned about my health. What about you, Peter? Back to full strength?'

  Pascoe noted the Peter. They weren't exactly friends. Perhaps men whose professions created such instant wariness never could be. But they'd reached a stage of affectionate mutual respect. He tried to remember Pottle's first name.

  'Yes, fine. I'm looking after myself for a few days. Ellie and Rose are away. It's her mother; my father-in-law's ill, Alzheimer's, I may have mentioned it to you, he's in a Home now, but the strain on my mother-in-law . . .' He was explaining too much. He tried a light finish. 'Anyway, if you're any good at washing up and ironing, I could do with some help.'

  'I'd like to help you all I can, Peter,' said Pottle quietly. 'Just precisely what is it you want?'

  Perhaps after all the cigarette smoke was functional, thought Pascoe, providing a screen which pushed the crumpled face with the big Einstein moustache back to a confessional distance.

  He took a deep breath of secondary carcinogens and said, 'I want to be happy again.'

  'Again?'

  'Like I used to be.'

  'You mean in some personal Golden Age when the summers were long and hot and felt like they would never end?'

  'No, not childhood. It's adult happiness I'm talking about.'

  Pottle looked dubious.

  'You know what Johnson used to say about anyone claiming to be happy? Pure cant. The dog knows he is miserable all the time.'

  'If the best you can do for me is tell me everyone's in the same boat, maybe I understand why you're smoking yourself to death.'

  'Hoity-toity,' said Pottle. 'Tell me what form your unhappiness takes?'

  'Lying awake at night worrying about everything. Not being able to see the point of anything. Panic attacks. How am I doing? Still running with the pack?'

  'And what do you think might be the cause of these conditions, or any one of them?'

  'I've got to do my own analysis too? Is this because I'm not in BUPA?'

  'What are you so angry about?' asked Pottle mildly.

  'I'm not angry!' exclaimed Pascoe. 'I'm just irritated . . . Look, I'm pretty busy at the moment, couldn't we . . . Oh shit. All right. Here we go. Why am I angry? Well, it's better than being . . . It's all about control, isn't it? And I'm not in control. At first it was externals, things happen in relationships, like me and Ellie. We're apart, I don't just mean physically, that's just a step towards admission, but for a long time we've been drifting further away. We've both tried, at least I know I've tried, no, that's not fair, she's tried too; and there we are, two intelligent people trying to do something they both want desperately, but not being able to pull it together because . . . because why? Because what?'

  'You tell me,' said Pottle.

  'I think she blames me for her friend, you know, that suicide, the woman who jumped from the cathedral. She says she doesn't but I think she does.'

  'And you? Do you blame yourself?'

  'I did. I blamed myself. I blamed everyone. Then I thought I didn't, I thought I'd got it under control, that it was a choice, and what right had any of us to interfere with that choice, so where was the guilt?'

  'That sounds reasonable.'

  'Reasonable?' said Pascoe bitterly. 'I remember reasonable. Just. Reason means control, right? Me, I've lost control of relationships, I've lost control of events, and finally I've lost control of myself. I wake up in the night and the most trivial of worries comes at me like a mad Rottweiler. Or worse, I'm going about my business in the full light of day, and suddenly I'm terrified, the whole physical world becomes a threat, I can't even control my own muscles, for God's sake!'

  'Have you seen your doctor?'

  'Don't be silly. Do you think he'd pass me fit for work if I spoke to him like I've spoken to you?'

  'Perhaps not. Do you think you are fit for work?'

  'Fit?' said Pascoe slowly. 'I don't know about fit. But I know I need it. You lot invented occupational therapy, didn't you?'

  'No. Like your lot, we don't invent, we observe. And another rule we have in common is, never dismiss the simple explanation. Could be there's a physical origin for at least some of your symptoms. Talk to your doctor. Mention me so that he can refer you back. That way you'll get me on the NHS. Might as well use it while you can, like finishing your pudding on the Titanic.'

  Pascoe laughed. It felt good. He rose to leave.

  'Thanks,' he said. 'And thanks for listening to me about the Mickledore case. Even if it was a cover, it was useful hearing your comments.'

  'There you go again, dismissing the simple,' said Pottle, ‘It wasn't just a cover. You could have asked me about this intruder, couldn't you? In fact, that was your obvious excuse for calling on me. No, you chose the Mickledore case because this inq
uiry genuinely concerns you. And it interests me too. The woman's state of mind in particular. You know, after all that time inside, it was probably harder to leave jail than stay in. The miracle with Lazarus was not that Jesus brought him back to life, but that he bothered to come.'

  'So we should be asking why?'

  ‘Indeed. And while you're at it, there are two other people with dodgy motivations. This fellow Waggs, and our own dear friend, Andrew Dalziel. You might do worse than ask yourself what makes them run, Inspector.'

  'Chief Inspector, if we're getting formal again,' said Pascoe.