Death Comes for the Fat Man (24 page)

“Shit. I gather there’s been a message from the Templars.”

“Oh yes,” said Komorowski. “All the main TV companies and most of the national papers. As before. Where the Law fails, we will provide justice, that sort of thing. It will, I fear, resonate with a lot of people.”

“A lot of
Voice
readers, certainly,” said Pascoe.

“
Voice
readers? Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

Pascoe could sense the faint smile on the man’s lips.

“Look, thanks a lot for being so open with me,” he said. “It’s not that there was ever any close connection between my wife and Carradice, you understand . . .”

“Of course,” said Komorowski. “I’m glad you felt able to ring. In fact, if you hadn’t, I was going to ring you.”

“You were?” said Pascoe, surprised. “Well, thanks even more.”

“I must confess my motives were mixed,” said the man. “Concern for your wife’s feelings coming a little behind a more professional concern. The distant connection between Mrs. Pascoe and the dead man is of course of no interest to anyone of sense, but the tabloids would seize upon it with great glee. Headlines like
I married a terrorist’s auntie,
says bombed bobby
would not, of course, bring down the government, but they could be deeply embarrassing. And in pursuit of a good story, these people are without scruple. No one is safe, colleagues, friends, family—children are particularly vulnerable.”

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 179

“Yes, OK, I know all this, but there’s no reason why it should get out. Is there?”

“We live in an age of leaks, Mr. Pascoe,” said Komorowski gloomily.

“Even the secrets we take to the grave with us aren’t safe from the scavengings of biographers and obituarists. As for reasons, malice has its reasons that reason wots not of. But I’m probably taking too dark a view here. If you and Mrs. Pascoe keep your heads beneath the parapet for a while, I’m sure the Carradice story will soon go the way of all copy.”

Am I being warned here or threatened? Pascoe asked himself.

He said, “Was Carradice defi nitely guilty?”

“If it’s any consolation, yes, he was. Beyond all doubt, except for the kind that defense lawyers cultivate like delicate orchids in the hot-house of our courts. Will you be returning to us on Monday?”

“Superintendent Glenister is going to ring me tomorrow,” said Pascoe.

“I see. Whatever, I’m sure we will meet again. Don’t hesitate to ring if I can be of any further assistance. Good-bye.”

He rang off. From downstairs Ellie’s voice called, “Coffee’s getting cold!”

In the kitchen he said, “Sorry. I got talking on the phone.”

He passed on in full what Komorowski had said.

Ellie said, “I thought the CAT spooks tended to keep you at arm’s length?”

“And now here’s one falling over himself to be friendly. Yes, I noticed that too.”

“And do you believe him?”

“Which bit of him?”

“Let’s start with the bit about Mike being defi nitely guilty.”

“He seemed very sure.”

“It was people like him who were sure about weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re always wrong.”

“No. But it doesn’t make any difference anyway. Does it?”

He knew what she was saying but he still said, “What?”

“Mike was murdered. What he might or might not have been guilty of is irrelevant. He was murdered, end of story. Right? Or now you’ve 180 r e g i n a l d h i l l

been told he was defi nitely guilty, does this make it some sort of justified homicide in your book?”

“No, of course not,” said Pascoe irritably. “An unlawful killing is an unlawful killing. It’s up to the courts to take account of motive and circumstance. Without fear or favor. That’s the way the judiciary operates in trying cases. And that’s the way the police operate in investigating them.”

“And that’s what you’re doing in regard to the Mill Street explosion, right?”

“I’m sorry?” said Pascoe, thinking, Christ! and I thought I’d kept this under wraps! Could she have got a hint from Wieldy? Not likely, but how else . . . ?

“You’re not letting it alone, are you, Peter?”

“It nearly killed me. It may have killed a very good friend,” he pro-claimed. “I’m sorry if I seem a bit obsessive about it. I’ll try to put it out of my mind in future, shall I?”

It was bluster, aimed at winning space to think. Sometime soon he would have to share his doubts and theories about what had actually happened in Mill Street, but he’d have preferred Edgar Wield to be the first to run his cool unblinking gaze over them.

Next moment he realized he no longer had a choice.

Ellie said, “There was a file behind a cushion on the sofa.”

Oh shit. His private investigation file, which events last night had put right out of his mind.

He said, “You read it?”

“Stuff you find down the sofa is common property, house rule, remember?”

A rule which on occasion had provided a useful way of giving Rosie a bit of extra pocket money when an open advance would have breached strict economic policy.

“So?”

“So let’s not beat about. Do you really think Mill Street wasn’t just a dreadful accident but something more sinister? Or is this just a neurotic symptom of PTSD?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It sounds a bit crazy, I know, but what’s d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 181

happened to Carradice and to Mazraani sounds crazy too, and we know that’s really happened.”

“Yes, but whoever organized those killings wants the world to know about it. There’s been no message relating to Mill Street, has there?”

“No, but it could be they’re a bit reluctant to admit doing something which not only killed three terrorists but also blew up two policemen, maybe killing one of them.”

That brought silence. Pascoe drank his cooling coffee and crumbled a soggy croissant. This was not in any respect the breakfast he’d expected.

Ellie said softly, “Pete, are you sure you know what you’re getting into here?”

“You mean if I’ve spotted there are inconsistencies, so have the CAT investigators, and why aren’t they saying anything? Oh yes, I’ve looked down that road and I’m still not sure where it leads.”

“No,” said Ellie. “I hadn’t thought of it, but it just makes things worse.”

“What then?”

“It’s what we were talking about before, only a lot more personal.

I mean, if the explosion hadn’t put Andy in a coma and come close to killing you, would you be so bothered about it? Even if you spotted inconsistencies. Three terrorists killed. Who cares? CAT want to call the shots. Dan Trimble is happy they should. Would you in those circumstances have started stirring things up and getting yourself noticed?”

“In those circumstances, the guys who did this would have wanted the world to know, so there wouldn’t have been a problem,” declared Pascoe triumphantly. But it was merely a debating point and they both knew it.

He couldn’t resist following it up with another.

“Anyway, it’s not two minutes since you were getting aerated because you thought the death of Carradice might get downgraded because people thought he was a terrorist. So why are you down on me for trying to get at the truth about Mill Street?”

“I’m not down on you,” she said. “I just know how much you’ll beat 182 r e g i n a l d h i l l

up on yourself when you realize it’s revenge you’re after more than justice.”

“Oh yes? And is it simply justice you want for Carradice, or does being related come into it?”

“I held him in my arms, Pete.”

“He peed on you.”

“Rosie almost washed me away till I got the hang of it,” she said.

“He’s not Rosie,” he said, half angrily.

“I expect he was to someone. The same. You know what I mean.”

He began to see what was really bugging her. She believed in giving their daughter her own space to develop along the lines of her own personality. But what if after all their love, all their care, one of those lines led to an end as unforeseeably sad as Mick Carradice’s?

He looked for words to say, reassurances to offer which wouldn’t sound empty and banal. But she wasn’t done with him yet.

“That CAT stuff in your folder about the bodies, there were some notes attached you’d written yourself. Where did they come from?”

He’d no intention of letting her know he’d burgled Glenister’s office to get the original file but saw no reason to hide the fact that he’d talked to Mary Goodrich.

“And they’d really put the frighteners on her to keep her mouth shut,” he concluded, wanting to underline CAT’s suspicious behavior.

As so often, her response leapfrogged his intention to a point he didn’t really want her to reach.

“Oh yes? So if she was so frightened, why did she talk to you?”

“She’s a good citizen,” he said lamely.

She was on him in a fl ash.

“You mean you found a way to make her talk even more frightening than CAT’s to keep her quiet? What did you use, Pete? A cattle prod?”

He was saved from having to mount what was at best going to be a retreating defense by a sudden fanfare of barking from Tig as he leapt out of his basket and ran into the entrance hall. Only the imminence of Rosie provoked this response. Not that it meant she was at the door, just that she was less than a mile away and getting closer. It was of course impossible for the dog to know this, but he was never wrong.

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 183

I live in a house where everyone knows more than I do, thought Pascoe. And in some cases more about me too.

He said, “End of our quiet weekend.”

“I didn’t notice it had started,” said Ellie.

And if the media pack get wind of your relationship with Carradice, you’ll be amazed at how much worse it can get, thought Pascoe.

Suddenly home seemed not the best place to be.

“Tell you what,” he said. “All this stuff about terrorism and bombs and assassinations makes the thought of good old-fashioned traditional country entertainment seem rather attractive. Why don’t we compensate Rosie for missing out on her skating trip by accepting Squire Kentmore’s invite to his village fete?”

Ellie looked at him suspiciously. They heard the front door open and Tig’s barking rise to a crescendo.

“Let’s put it to she-who-must-be-obeyed,” said Ellie.

9

T H E D E C I S I V E M O M E N T

Kilda Kentmore stood at her bedroom window and watched the cars bumping across the field to the side of her house. This was the overflow car park. Not yet midday and already the main car-park must be full. The fine weather had brought the crowds out. Happily the same fine weather meant the ground surface was hard and firm. Last year it had rained, resulting in the double whammy of fewer visitors and the parking fields churned into a quagmire.

She yawned. For a long time after she’d been widowed, she hadn’t been able to sleep except when completely exhausted, and even then her terrible dreams had usually brought her cold and shaking back to the dark reality of life after very few minutes.

Well, she was over that now. Drink had helped, no denying that.

But she was in control. There was a bottle of vodka on her dressing table. She could take a drink from it, or pour it down the loo, or just walk away from it.

That’s control. Running from it isn’t control, and hiding from it definitely isn’t.

Empty words she’d judged them when first she heard them, but they kept coming back till she acknowledged their truth. And the truth of the words that followed.

You need something, pointless denying it. But find something better.

I’d guess you’ve got real talent. Use it.

At first this had come across as a clumsy nudge toward sex. Instead she now saw it as a clever nudge toward . . . not survival, she doubted if survival had ever been an option . . . but toward meaning, with the bonus en route of her first twelve-hour dreamless sleep from which she’d woken as fresh and bubbly as when she was a girl, with none of d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 185

that back-of-the-eyes dullness which was the price she paid for punch-ing herself unconscious with alcohol.

She picked up the photo of her husband that stood next to the bottle on her dressing table. In it he looked incredibly young and boyish, blond hair blowing in a stiff breeze as he stood in swimming trunks on the beach at Scarborough. Sometimes you had to wait an age for the Cartier-Bresson
moment décisif
, but occasionally it just happened.

Not that she’d had any pretension to being a Cartier-Bresson, but she’d been making some headway out of the shallow waters of fashion photography when it happened. Maybe I should try photojournalism, she’d said to him when he told her the squadron was posted to Iraq. I could specialize in combat photography. Then I wouldn’t have to stay at home. No way, he’d replied, laughing. One crazy in the family’s quite enough. Go for grainy realism if you like, but no way do I want you within a hundred miles of a war zone.

She had photos of him in uniform, standing by his helicopter, and he’d even smuggled her onboard during a training flight and she had shots of him, very focused and professional, at the controls.

These she could not bear to have around her. In fact, until the last few weeks she hadn’t felt the least urge to use her camera equipment.

But life—even pointless, unwished for life—is movement, one way or another.

She let her gaze drift from the photo to the mirror. She hadn’t put back on all the weight she’d lost in those first few months, but she was no longer the skeletal figure she had become for a while. OK, a lot of the restored calories might have come out of a bottle, but now this lean, taut body simply looked stripped for action.

She poured herself a glass of vodka. Her choice, her breakfast.

Maurice had asked if she would be present at the fete’s offi cial opening on the lawn in front of the big house. She’d replied with a cool,
no. In
fact,
she’d gone on,
I doubt if I’ll be in the mood for bucolic jollity at all.