Death Comes for the Fat Man (32 page)

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 239

Unhappily he quickly discovered that parity of information does not necessarily lead to parity of conclusion. While it was obvious to him that he had (a) never been in any danger during the assault on Youngman’s cottage and (b) that the only way he was going to discover what had really happened to put Fat Andy into a life-threatening coma was to stick as close to CAT operations as he could, to Ellie it was just as clear that if his conspiracy theories had any merit at all, his persistence in nosing around unofficially could only put his own health, physical and professional, at serious risk.

“Go and see Trimble,” she urged. “Or write to the Commissioner.

Get it in the open so you’re not a solitary target.”

“You think that would help,” he retorted, “when I’ve no idea how high this goes, how many blind eyes are being turned at top level to these so-called Templars?”

To which she replied, “And you think that’s going to comfort me?”

But what did comfort her was his strong suspicion that his ad hoc secondment to CAT was going to be terminated.

On Monday, he’d wanted to go into the Station and see how things were there, but recalling Glenister’s injunction, he stayed at home, jumping every time the phone rang.

It was never Glenister and by midafternoon he was convinced that she wasn’t going to call. Then at five o’clock, the phone rang again.

“Pascoe,” he said.

“Peter, hi. It’s Dave Freeman.”

His heart sank. She wasn’t even doing her own dirty work.

Then what Freeman was saying sank in.

“Sandy’s sorry she can’t ring herself, but she’s busy busy. How’re you feeling?”

“Fine. Well rested. Ready for work.”

“Excellent. But let’s not rush things. Sandy thought you were looking a bit peaky on Sunday. Why don’t you meander across here tomorrow evening, settle back in your hotel, then report for duty at the Lube on Wednesday.”

His first impulse was to say he could be there tonight but he resisted it.

“Yes! Fine,” he said. “I’ll be there first thing Wednesday.”

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

He must have sounded keen.

“At least wait till sunup,” said Freeman.

He laughed as he spoke, but it was a sharing, friendly laugh rather than his usual knowing fricative.

When he told Ellie, she wasn’t pleased, but seeing it was pointless to argue, she held her peace. Never part mad had been one of their early marriage resolutions, never broken without subsequent regret, and her good-bye kiss as he left the following day was as passionate as a man could wish for.

Next morning she was sitting glaring in frustration at the recalci-trant third chapter of her new novel when the phone rang. The number in the caller display was unfamiliar, and she answered with a snappy,

“Yes?” ready to cut off any attempt to sell her anything.

“Ellie?” said a man’s voice cautiously.

“That’s right. And you are?”

“It’s Maurice. Maurice Kentmore. I’m sorry, is this a bad time?”

“Maurice!” she said. “Hi. No, it’s fine, really. For some reason I thought you were trying to sell double glazing. Sorry.”

He laughed and said, “No, not selling. The opposite in fact. I had to come over here on business this morning, and I just wondered if I could buy you—and Peter, of course—lunch? Sorry it’s so last minute, but I got my business done much quicker than I expected, and I have to hang around as I’m picking up Kilda later—she’s visiting a friend—so what I mean is, I thought I’d have a bite to eat somewhere, and I tend to bolt my food when I’m eating alone, which gives me indigestion . . . ”

“So this is a medical emergency rather than a social call?” said Ellie, amused for once rather than irritated at the polite Englishman’s inability to say, “Fancy some lunch?”

Kentmore said, “Sorry, I’m going on, aren’t I? Look, it would be nice to see you, but if you’re busy or have made other arrangements or . . .”

Now Ellie did let herself sound a little irritated.

“Maurice,” she said. “I’m quite capable of finding my own excuses.

If I wanted any. Which I don’t. So when and where?”

“I really only know the Keldale Hotel,” he said. “The restaurant is pretty reliable. What do you think?”

Reliable, in this case meaning dull, stodgy, and pretentious.

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 241

“If you’re seriously asking, I think I’d rather grab a burger in the park,” she said.

“Oh well, if you really wanted to do that . . . ”

“I’m joking, Maurice. But not the Keldale. How about the Saracen’s Head, Little Hen Street, twelve thirty? You’ll need to book. Or would you like me . . . ?”

This was a challenge too far to his masculinity.

“No. I’ll do it. Look forward to seeing you.”

Was I rude? thought Ellie, putting the phone down. Maybe. But I’m not going to reorganize my day to lunch in the fucking Keldale!

It occurred to her that she hadn’t mentioned she’d be alone. Ah well, it would be a pleasant surprise for him. She hoped. Whoops. Why did she hope that? Because she was assuming it was her company he wanted, not Peter’s.

To what end?
she heard her husband inquire.
For your sparkling
conversation? Or your lily white body?
“How should I know!” she said to her reflection in the mirror.
OK, but you should know why you said
yes,
came the retort. “Because he seemed to expect me to say no,” she replied briskly as she stood in front of her wardrobe, wondering what to wear.
But couldn’t that be exactly the reaction he was looking to provoke?

asked her husband.
Men, as you have from time to time pointed out, can
be devious bastards, especially in pursuit of LWBs.
“Speak for yourself,”

she retorted.

And found herself wishing yearningly that he was here to do that.

She closed the wardrobe and looked at herself in the mirrored door. For a casual pub lunch, what was wrong with the M&S jeans and checked shirt she was wearing?

Nothing, came the answer.

Nothing at all.

The Saracen’s Head was an old coaching-inn pub which Peter and Ellie often used if they met at lunchtime. It was old and dark and could have done with a bit of tender loving care from a sympathetic decorator, but the dining room was clean and airy with well-scrubbed deal tables not too crowded together and a short menu of good plain food cooked from scratch on the premises. Another advantage was that 242 r e g i n a l d h i l l

it was a good mile from the Black Bull, CID’s favorite pit stop, so there was little chance of an overspill.

It occurred to Ellie as she walked toward the ancient sign, which had been creaking over the cobbles of Little Hen Street for at least two hundred years, that in light of Kentmore’s sad family history it wasn’t perhaps the most diplomatic of venues.

The inn sign showed the eponymous head looking a touch pop-eyed, which was perhaps not surprising as it had evidently just been severed from its body.

A Lib-Dem councilor with more sensibility than sense had mounted a campaign to have the sign removed, on the grounds that it was likely to cause offense to non-Christian faith groups. The local paper had produced an editorial which seemed to be supporting the campaign until you reached the paragraph listing other signs the councilor might like to put on his hit list such as
Men
on public toilets (sexist),
Help the
Aged
over a charity shop (ageist),
St. George’s Church
(dragonist), and
Posy Please
(fl orist).

Ellie had laughed even though the councilor was a friend of hers.

She too had taken a little time to learn that sometimes perception is the better part of principle.

Kentmore was already there.

He’s keen, thought Ellie as she saw him rising from his chair and stepping forward to greet her. She was prepared for anything from an air kiss to the touch of warm lips, but all he offered was a brisk hand-shake. They sat down. The table was set for only two. Did this mean he’d guessed or presumed that Peter wouldn’t come? Watch out for your lily white body, girl! she admonished herself as she ordered the poached salmon salad and a small glass of white wine. He did the same. He said it was his first time here and asked if she knew anything of the history of the place. To an ex-lecturer, it’s always pleasant to be given an excuse to deliver a short lecture, so she did, watching carefully for the first sign of eye-glaze but not detecting any.

“So,” she concluded, “though the building is seventeenth century, it could be the name was inherited from a medieval pub that once occupied the same site. Or it could be that some Yorkshire entrepreneur cashing in on the buoyant market for cakes and ale after the d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 243

Restoration thought a nice bit of retrodesign would be just the job.

Probably had lances on the wall, Crusader ale in the cask.”

“Steak and
coeur-de-lion
pie on the menu,” he contributed, smiling.

He had a very attractive smile. Apart from the table for two, nothing in his demeanor or conversation suggested he had LWBs on his mind, but she recalled once hearing the Great Guru Dalziel say that getting a confession and getting laid had much in common—you had to be willing to listen to a lot of crap en route without falling asleep.

The salmon came. It was delicious. She refused a second glass of wine, not through fear of weakening her resistance but because she was picking Rosie up from school later. Kentmore made no effort to persuade her.

She asked after his sister-in-law, Kilda.

“She’s fine,” he said. “She keeps herself busy. She has lots of friends.”

Most of whom she meets at AA sessions, thought Ellie. Then slapped herself mentally for being a bitch.

“Is she working again now? She was a photographer, wasn’t she?”

“I hope she’ll get back to it,” he said. “On Saturday at the fete, that was the first time I’ve seen her using her camera since Chris . . . ”

He tailed off and she came in quickly, “What about family? Any kids?”

“No.”

“That’s a pity.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I just thought, losing her husband, kids might have been a comfort. I know if anything ever happened to Peter, I’m certain I’d be even gladder than I am to have my daughter, Rosie . . . sorry. Not my business.”

“Kilda’s got me. After it happened we had each other.”

“It’s good you’re so close,” she said.

“Yes, it was really handy that she and Chris had a house on the estate.”

She almost said she didn’t mean that, but stopped herself. Of course he knew she didn’t mean that. How close they were, what com-244 r e g i n a l d h i l l

fort they had sought in each other, was their business. And she recalled her instinctive feeling, which she’d passed on to Peter, that they weren’t in a physical relationship.

She said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. Grief, sharing a death, that either brings people together or thrusts them apart . . . ”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

She said, “Sort of, I suppose. Before we got married, we lost some friends, people we’d been at university with, in circumstances . . . well, we don’t need to go into that. And I wasn’t certain at the time where it was going to leave us.”

“But it brought you closer?”

“Oh yes. Then later, there was a time when Rosie was seriously ill and I really didn’t know what might happen to us if she didn’t make it . . .

still don’t . . . ”

His hand rested on hers and he said, “I think you’d have been OK.

But it’s hell, no getting away from it. They say time heals, but that moment when I realized Chris was dead, that’s left a wound that nothing can heal.”

His fingers were digging into the back of her hand.

She said, because it felt necessary to say something, anything, to stop him from reliving the experience, “How did you hear? Letter, or did they contact you direct?”

“What? Oh yes, eventually. But I knew already. I heard him die, you see.”

Oh God, she thought. Was this going to be one of those mystic experiences she usually mocked as a retrospective rearranging of the furniture?
And when I heard he’d died at two o’clock on Thursday, I
remembered that it was just about then that I broke one of my best crystal
glasses . . . just fell apart . . . he always loved those glasses . . .

She drew her hand away from beneath his and said, “Heard . . . in what sense?”

“In the sense of
I heard,
” he said. “He rang me. That’s right. I was in bed and the phone rang and when I picked it up, it was Chris.

His helicopter had been shot down and he got taken prisoner. He was injured already and the bastards who took him decided they weren’t going to waste medical supplies on him but they might as well extract d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 245

any useful information they could before they dumped him. So they tortured him.”

“Jesus!” exclaimed Ellie. “But this phone call you say he made . . . ”

“A rescue party turned up and sorted out the bastards who were torturing him but it was too late for Chris. He knew he was dying.

There was a satellite phone. Chris begged the chap in charge to let him use it. Strictly against the rules, I imagine, but what use are rules when a man’s dying in front of you?”

He fell silent.

Ellie said, “And he rang you?”

She tried to keep the note of puzzlement out of her voice, but didn’t succeed.

He said, “And not Kilda, you mean? Of course he tried her fi rst.

But she was away. So he rang me. We spoke only a few seconds. And then he fell silent. After a moment a voice said, ‘Sorry, sir, he’s gone. I’ll be in touch.’ Then the phone went dead.”

“Oh my God. And what did you do?”

“What do you think I did?” he demanded savagely. “Dialed 1471

and tried to get reconnected? Sorry, that was rude. I don’t know what I did. It felt like a dream, a nightmare. Eventually of course it became official. That was better, marginally. Official you can deal with. Offi cial gives you things to do, decisions to make, papers to sign.”