Death Comes for the Fat Man (13 page)

“I noticed something,” said Ellie unhappily. “But he’s a great bottler-up. Stupid sod imagines he’s protecting me and Rosie by clamping down the hatches. He said an odd thing when he went back to work that fi rst time. He said he felt he had to, as if him not being there would lessen the chances of Andy recovering. A sort of sympathetic magic.”

“Very like,” said Wield. “Look, luv, I don’t think you should worry too much. Either Andy’ll make it and we’ll all get back to normal, or he won’t, and we’ll all get back to normal then too, only it’ll take a bit longer and normal will have changed.”

She’d wanted honesty before comfort. This sounded to her reasonably close to the former and a long way short of the latter.

She said, “I just wish he hadn’t gone to Manchester. I suppose we should be grateful to Sandy Glenister for seeing how much it meant to d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 95

him to stay involved, but I don’t really see how he can be of any use to those CAT people across there . . . what?”

Wield knew that in the innermost reaches of his mind he had grunted skeptically, but he was certain that nothing in his larynx had uttered even the ghost of an echo of that grunt. Also he had the kind of face which made the Rosetta Stone seem as easy to read as the back of a cornfl akes packet. “Watch his left ear,” advised Andy Dalziel. “It doesn’t help, but it means you don’t have to look at the rest of his face.”

Yet despite all this, perhaps because over the years he and Ellie Pascoe had got very close, and in matters relating to her family she was super-sensitive, somehow the grunt had reached her ears telepathically.

“I said nowt,” he said.

She said nowt too, which made her point very effectively.

“All right,” he said, pushed another step toward honesty. “I reckon maybe Mrs. Glenister didn’t take Pete with her team just so he could help pursue their investigations over there, she took him to make sure he wasn’t sticking his nose in back here.”

“But why should she do that? I thought she’d fallen over herself to make sure Mid-York CID were fully involved?”

“Oh aye, she did,” agreed Wield. “I’m not suggesting owt sinister.

It’s just that once you get into Security, you’ve got to tread very carefully. It were all right long as she were around, but likely she could see Pete were so obsessive, he wasn’t going to stop picking away at things just because the CAT team had moved on.”

Ellie sipped her cappuccino. It left a smudge of creamy brown foam along her lip. She had the kind of strong facial structure which age only improved and the kind of figure which only strong willpower in the matter of cream doughnuts and buttered crumpets kept this side of orientally voluptuous. Looking at her, Wield thought of the old gay joke—
doesn’t it sometimes make you wish you were a lesbian?

She licked her lip and said, “This have anything to do with that bullet Tig found? Pete seemed to think that was a bit of a mystery.”

“A mystery susceptible of more than two explanations can hardly be deemed mysterious,” said Wield.

He caught Pascoe’s intonation so perfectly that Ellie laughed out loud.

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“That’s what he decided, was it?” she said.

“He certainly got his two explanations,” evaded Wield. “Look, Ellie, I really don’t think there’s owt much to worry yourself about. Give it time. He’ll be back soon—when he rang through yesterday he said he felt he were superfluous to requirements . . . ”

“Hanging around like a yard of foreskin at a Jewish wedding was how he put it to me,” said Ellie.

Wield grinned.

“Me too. Another one from the wit and wisdom of Fat Andy, I think. Anyway, like I say, he’ll be back in a day or two. And when he is, there’s such a backlog of stuff piling up, he’ll not have time to worry about owt else.”

“I hope you’re right, Wieldy,” said Ellie. “But all this Templar stuff in the papers today . . . do you think that it could be connected with the Mill Street explosion?”

The papers had all been running the Mazraani killing on their front pages for a couple of days now. Several of them had used blurry images taken from the video, though none had shown the severed head. The
Voice
had gone as far as showing the moment of first impact, and the same paper had come closest to expressing approval of the killing with the headline now it’s your turn!

Reaction in the Muslim community, already heated by news of the murders, was brought to boiling point by this and other ultranational-ist responses. A protest march to the
Voice
offices in Wapping might have caused a riot if a strong police presence had not prevented right-wing youths from getting closer than shouting distance to the Muslim marchers. Thwarted of its hoped-for images of violence, the
Voice
had compensated with a front-page photo of the protesters under the headline:

RIGHT TO DEMONSTRATE? YES!

BUT WHERE WERE THEY WHEN STAN COKER DIED?

It was only today, however, that the media had made the connection between the cryptic message about the “new knighthood” and the d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 97

Manchester killing. CAT had kept the lid on the contents of its audio-tape but a second message to the media reading
If the State cannot
protect us, then we must look to those who can,
signed
Hugh de Payens,
Grand Master, the Order of the Temple,
had let the cat out of the bag, and already there’d been some speculation about a possible connection with the Mill Street bombing.

“Possible but far from sure,” said Wield. “But as far as Pete’s coming home’s concerned, I don’t see it making any difference. He’s a man who likes to be useful. If them daft buggers are just letting him tread water, he won’t want to hang around.”

He spoke reassuringly but he was holding back, and despite his best efforts, he suspected Ellie knew it. He’d lied about only hearing from Pascoe at work during the day. Last night he’d taken a call on his mobile at home. Pascoe had made it clear he believed there was a connection between Mill Street and the beheading. He’d concluded by asking the sergeant to check out a couple of things, accompanying the request with the exhortation, “And do it in person, eh, Wieldy? No phoning from the Station.”

Wise precaution or paranoia? Wield didn’t know, though he had his concerns and they were more about Pascoe’s state of mind than the behavior of CAT.

But you didn’t tell an old mate—much less his wife—you thought he might be off his chump till you were absolutely certain, and he’d been on his way to deal with the first of these requests when Ellie ambushed him.

It was only a short walk to the Fire Service Headquarters. It looked like being a wasted walk when the Chief Fire Officer’s secretary told him her boss was in a meeting. Then her face split in a grin and she added, “But he’ll be glad of an excuse to get out of it, that is if your business is urgent, Sergeant Wield?”

“Oh yes,” Wield assured her solemnly. “Life and death.”

Five minutes later, Jim Lipton, the CFO, appeared.

“Wieldy, lad,” he said. “You’re a lifesaver. Another two minutes with those plonkers and there’d have been such a case of spontaneous com-bustion, I’d have had to put myself out! A cup of coffee?”

98 r e g i n a l d h i l l

The two men were old acquaintances, full of respect for each other’s expertise. But even respect has its boundaries. Under the tutelage of his partner, Edwin Digweed, Wield had come to admit that Hal’s espresso was a cut above Camp, but he’d needed no tuition to recognize the awfulness of firehouse coffee which, according to Pascoe, was the direct opposite of instant, having been on the boil so long there might be grounds in there coeval with Conopios.

“No thanks. Just had some,” he said.

“Then let’s get down to business. What brings you?”

“It’s about the Mill Street explosion,” he said. “Sorry, that a problem, Jim?”

There are two kinds of Yorkshire face, the one which gives nowt away, not even when the ferret down its owner’s trouser leg wakes up and goes looking for breakfast, and the one like the giant screen at an international match.

Lipton’s was the latter. It showed every emotion and, if you pressed the right buttons, gave a rerun in close-up.

“It’s just yon Scots lass said I weren’t to talk about this to any bugger except her.”

“Oh
her,
” said Wield. “She’s been called back to Lancashire. Likely they’d forgotten how to load the dishwasher.”

This racist and sexist slur was enough to reassure Lipton, who relaxed, sipped his coffee with every sign of pleasure, and said, “So what do you want to know. Not that there’s owt I’ve not put in my report. You’ll have seen my report?”

“Oh aye,” said Wield, pulling a copy out of his pocket and waving it negligently. “Couple of things not in here, ’cos there’s no reason for them to be. You mention that you and the housing officer checked out the terrace eighteen months ago when the council’s plans for pulling it down went on the blink. Recommendation—not fit for domestic habitation, but OK for commercial use.”

“Aye, a bit of arm-twisting went on there,” said Lipton.

“You reckon there was a fi re hazard?”

“I reckoned the whole place
were
a fire hazard!” corrected Lipton.

“The council promised to check out the electrics and give the wood-d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 99

work a fire-retardant treatment. Bit like spraying your knickers with insect repellent at the Mayor’s Christmas Dance.”

In local government mythology, the Mayor’s Christmas Dance made the Ball of Kirriemuir sound like a revivalist meeting.

“How about the roof space,” asked Wield casually. “Were the dividing walls solid brick or just lath and plaster?”

“Don’t be daft! Neither, ’cos there were no dividing walls, just a common roof space. Fire got up there in number one, it ’ud be paying a visit on number six quicker than a fit lad could run along the pavement!”

“Terrible,” said Wield. “They should have listened to you, Jim.”

“Nay, fair do’s,” said Lipton. “What happened there, nowt I recommended would have made a difference. Explosion like that were going to flatten the place and kill every bugger in it, the fire were just an optional extra.”

“Aye, it must have been some bang,” agreed Wield. “I had a look myself, me and one of the Scottish woman’s team. There were a door at the side of number six, looked a good strong security door, metal frame.

I noticed it were hanging off its hinges. That would be the blast that blew it open, I suppose? Or did your boys mebbe open it when they were making things safe?”

“No, it were the blast. I noticed it myself.”

“But a door like that, two dead locks it had, if they’d been shot home . . . ”

“They weren’t,” said Lipton promptly. “Can’t have been locked either. That’s why it flew open when the blast hit it. Probably that’s what helped the walls stay up. The way Mill Street terrace were built, yon wall was ready to tumble like Jericho if the doorway hadn’t given the blast an escape route.”

Wield stayed a few minutes longer, chatting about this and that, and giving an update on Andy Dalziel’s progress.

“That’s what really showed me what a big explosion this was,” said Lipton as the sergeant left. “Any bang that could bowl yon bugger over must’ve been a real stunner!”

It was funny, thought Wield as he walked away. To a large section of the population of Mid-Yorkshire
the threat of the terrorists in our
100 r e g i n a l d h i l l

midst
as the local paper had so unimaginatively put it was exponentially increased by the possibility that their midst had had Andy Dalziel permanently removed from it.

He glanced at his watch. Getting on for lunch but first he had to visit the morgue. That should put an edge on his appetite. Sometimes as he sat in the cozy living room of the cottage he shared with Edwin, listening to his beloved Gilbert and Sullivan, he found himself counting the days to retirement.

It was a long count. There were still years to do before he could metaphorically swap his truncheon for a poppy or a lily.

Whistling the sergeant’s song from
The Pirates of Penzance
, he walked his mystic way up the steep hill that led to the Central Hospital.

4

B U R G L A R Y

By the end of his second day in Manchester, Peter Pascoe had had enough.

During the initial video show and briefing, he’d felt he was on the front line. But on arrival at the Lubyanka early the next morning, he’d been directed to a stuffy cellar where two agents who, at fi rst sight, looked young enough to be students on Work Experience had invited him to join them in trawling through Intelligence files in search of anything that might link to this self-styled new Order of Templar Knights.

By the end of the first day, he had reached several conclusions.

Firstly, his new colleagues were not quite as young as they looked, with the one called Tim (dark haired, medium build, with a round rather melancholy face) senior to the one called Rod (blond, blue-eyed, slim, with a fresh lively face which readily broke into a smile).

Secondly, though apparently rather lighthearted in their approach to their work, in fact they took it very seriously. And thirdly, that however seriously Tim and Rod took it, from his point of view it was a complete waste of time.

The following morning he spent another hour in the cellar, then went in search of Glenister. When he announced his intention, Rod grinned at Tim and Tim frowned at Rod, but they gave him directions without comment. A couple of minutes later he was standing before a door with the superintendent’s name on it. There was no reply to his knock, so he tried the handle. It was locked. Frustration made him rattle it violently. Behind him he heard a dry cough. He turned.

Lukasz Komorowski was standing there. In one hand he carried a plastic bottle, in the other a pair of scissors. Probably just about to give a 102 r e g i n a l d h i l l

seminar on how to kill an enemy agent using objects you’d find in the conventional kitchen.