Death Comes for the Fat Man (29 page)

This sounded like a sort of compliment.

“What’s happening?” he said.

“We’ve got a possible location for Youngman and we’re going to try and pick him up tonight. Want to come along? Thinking is, you’ve earned it.”

Earned the right to leave his home and family in the middle of the night to go chasing around after a suspected killer! What would they reward him with if he did something really amazing? Two weeks undercover work in Afghanistan?

He said, “Yes.”

“Good. Knew you’d be up for it. Thing is, it’s a bit distant. He’s got a cottage up in Northumberland, near the Kielder reservoir. Can you make Hexham by ten o’clock?”

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 217

“Yes,” said Pascoe, not bothering to try and work it out.

“Great. Here’s a grid reference.”

She gave it only once.

“Fine. If you’re not there by ten we won’t wait.” A pause, then she laughed softly and said, “It’s about ten miles north of Hexham along the B road to Bellingham. Me, I’m an old-fashioned A to Z lassie.”

He told Ellie where he was going because there wasn’t any point in lying.

“Why?” she said with genuine amazement. “It’s not your patch. It’s not your kind of work. And if you’re right, and he’s been warned off, there’s not a cat in hell’s chance of this Youngman fellow being there anyway. So why?”

He said, “Because they want me there, and I want them to go on wanting me around till I get some answers. Also it might give me the chance to poke around in Youngman’s stuff before it all gets classifi ed and locked up somewhere out of reach.”

He went and got changed before she could pick his response to pieces.

When he reappeared, Rosie, who’d been on her way to bed when the phone rang and who’d naturally used the distraction to snatch an extra half hour said, “Are you going bird-watching, Dad?”

Pascoe glanced down. He’d put on his heavy walking boots and hiking trousers and had his binocular case draped round his neck.

“Not if I can help it, darling,” he said, smiling.

“When could you last help anything, Pete?” said Ellie.

“I’m just doing what I get paid for,” he said.

“No, you’re not. No one’s paying you to think you’re Superman!”

It wasn’t a note to part on but there was no choice. Even with light Sunday-night traffic, he was going to have to move fast to keep his rendezvous.

It was almost ten as he passed through Hexham. The sun had just set and there was still plenty of residual light. Before he left he’d marked the grid reference carefully on his map. He had it in his head that the CAT hit squad would have pulled off the road and set up camouflage and he was determined he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing him drive by.

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

He needn’t have worried. As he approached the rendezvous point, he saw a car parked at the roadside with Sandy Glenister leaning against the boot, smoking a cigarette and talking to Freeman.

She gave him a welcoming wave as he drew in behind them.

As he went to join them, he saw that she was wearing slacks and sneakers, whereas Freeman was dressed in a sharp Italian suit and what looked like handmade shoes.

His eyes ran down to Pascoe’s hiking boots and he twitched an eyebrow.

“Hi, Pete. Good timing,” said Glenister. “Lovely evening, eh? I really like it round here. Gorgeous countryside and not too many tourists.

Pity we didn’t hang on to it after giving your lot a kicking at Otterburn.

Let’s hope we’re not in for another moonlit battle.”

“Any reason to think we might be?” said Pascoe.

“He seems to fancy himself as a hard man, this Jonty Youngman,”

she said. “I’ll fill you in as we drive. Leave your car here, we’ll go the rest of the way in Dave’s.”

“So Youngman’s cottage isn’t close?” said Pascoe as he climbed in the back of the other car.

Glenister twisted round in her seat and said, “Pete, you don’t really think our hit squad would arrange to meet you within a couple of miles of a target, do you? They’d be worried you’d get lost and end up knock-ing at Youngman’s door to ask for directions.”

“Well, I’m glad not to have worried them,” said Pascoe coldly.

She laughed and lit another cigarette as Freeman sent the car racing along the narrow road.

“Not just that,” she said. “They didn’t want to stop alongside a public road. Even round here where there’s more foxes per square mile than people, half a dozen men in black with hard hats and assault rifl es might draw attention.”

She puffed out a jet of smoke which Pascoe waved away.

“Run out of Smarties?” he said.

“No, but there are times, after sex, before action, in serious midge country, when My Lady Nicotine’s charms are still irresistible. So, Peter, that was some sharp work you did at the hospital. And seems you were right about Constable Hector. There’s more to him than meets d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 219

the eye. That other thing he said—
a bit funny, but not a darkie,
was it?—maybe we should get him to do a drawing. Always listen to the man on the spot, eh?”

For the first time it occurred to Pascoe that perhaps it was because someone had listened to his loyal defense of Hector that the Templars had decided not to take risks but to get rid of him.

He pushed the idea aside and asked, “What do we know about Youngman?”

“Apart from his military record, not a great deal,” she said. “Ex-SAS. Rank sergeant. Real name is Young, known as Jonty, so not much change to John T. Youngman. Served in the Balkans, Afghanistan, and Iraq. Not the most popular member of the unit, kept himself to himself, but was noted for his reliability and efficiency. Marked down for advancement till an incident in Iraq when several prisoners were blown up in unexplained circumstances put a question mark on his record. Left the army in 2005. He’d already got Hedley-Case, the publishers, interested in his fi rst book,
Death in the Desert.
There’s been one more since that came out,
Blood on the Sand
I think it’s called, and I gather there’s another in the pipeline. You read any of his stuff?”

Pascoe shook his head.

“Me neither, but Dave’s had a glance through them. What did you think, Dave?”

“Interesting,” said Freeman. “Claims to be faction, real stories rejigged to give a strong narrative thread, and with some names and details altered for security reasons. Makes it hard for the War Offi ce or anyone else to raise objections without tacitly agreeing that they recognize the individuals or incidents described. Clever, really.”

“So he’s a clever arrogant murderous bastard,” said Pascoe.

“You’ve taken against him, I see.”

“I take against any bastard who goes around trying to kill my offi -

cers,” growled Pascoe. “These books of his, are they big sellers?”

“Moderately so,” said Glenister. “But the Hedley-Case website says they’ve got high hopes for a breakthrough with the next one. The bastards will be delighted when they get a whiff that we might be taking a professional interest. Man writes about the Gulf Wars then the 220 r e g i n a l d h i l l

Security Services go after him, you can see how that plays in terms of free publicity.”

“You don’t seem very concerned.”

“It’s business, laddie. And when it comes to my turn to write my memoirs, it’s always nice to know how the publishing mind works.

Maybe I should have a word with your wife. Nice bit of publicity she got on the box the other night. She’s OK, is she?”

“She’s fi ne.”

“I was sure she would be. Struck me as a tough lady.”

Her mobile sounded. She listened, said, “On our way. Ten minutes tops.”

Just under the ten, Freeman slowed from the steady fifty mph he’d been doing and bumped off the road along a rutted track between soaring pine trees. After a couple of hundred yards, he came to a halt alongside a large black van with the Forestry Commission logo on the side. He killed the lights.

Glenister said, “Stay here,” and got out.

It took Pascoe’s eyes a little while to adjust, but when they did, he realized that even here among the crowding trees some residual light from the long summer day still managed to filter through. He looked for signs of life but couldn’t see any. Then a figure detached itself from the bole of a tree. Clad in black combats and carrying a short-barreled weapon, he looked like something out of an action movie.

What the hell am I doing here? Pascoe asked himself.

Glenister and the man talked. Pascoe managed to pick out another couple of armed figures crouched among the trees. Glenister came back to the car.

“We’re about a mile from the cottage,” she said. “Gordon, the team leader, has sent a couple of men ahead to reconnoitre. So let’s get ourselves kitted out, Peter.”

He got out of the car. Freeman didn’t move.

“You not coming?” asked Pascoe.

“I’ve not been invited to the party,” said Freeman. “So I don’t need to wear the fancy dress.”

He gave that smile again as he spoke. He didn’t look put out at missing the fun.

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 221

Perhaps, thought Pascoe, because like me he knows there’s no chance of finding anyone at home in the cottage.

Glenister led him to the van, and that’s where the nonsense with the face paint and the flak jacket began.

The superintendent grunted as she squeezed herself into her jacket.

“No one’s bothered to update our equipment buyers on equal opportunity legislation,” she said. “These things just don’t take big tits into account.”

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

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 fi rst 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 electric-ity. 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-fi rst century.”

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

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

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 223

“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 window-less side.

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