Death Comes for the Fat Man (45 page)

“You never said. Ellie, as you see, is not sentimental, Maurice. She would have made a good farmer’s wife.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Kentmore with an effort at a smile. “Is your girl at home?”

“No, she’s gone skating. Should have gone last week but she missed out.”

“And came to our fete instead. A poor substitute.”

“No no,” said Ellie. “She thoroughly enjoyed herself, and Tig had a really great time. He’s not so hot at skating. Pete, take Maurice into the garden. We thought we’d cross our fingers and eat outside. Ready in about fi ve minutes.”

She went out and Pascoe said, “Meaning, if you want the loo, now’s the time. She gets seriously pissed with people who wait till the gong sounds, then disappear.”

“Not my intention,” said Kentmore, following Pascoe through the French window onto a raised patio. “So this is how a policeman lives.

Nice garden.”

In fact, the narrow rectangle of lawn showed signs of the depreda-d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 341

tions of an active daughter and an even more active dog, but the well-tended borders were rich with shrub roses, creating a corridor of color which drew the eye down to the fine magnolia grandiflora against the high south-facing wall. Birds sang in its branches, bees buzzed among the roses, and the light summer wind twitching the white cloth on the garden table was heavy with the sweet scent of both tree and shrubs.

“Yes, it is,” said Pascoe with the complacency of one whose wife did most of the actual work. “Not exactly a landed estate, but we try to keep up appearances and of course the bribes help.”

“What? Oh yes. Like a Jewish joke, only funny when a Jew makes it. So how were things in Manchester?”

“Oh you know, Lancastrian.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to pry into your work.”

“And I wasn’t being coy,” said Pascoe. “I felt a little out of my element over there. Also it was a bad time to be away with my boss out of commission and all that.”

“Any news there?”

“No. Nothing. There’s still evidence of brain activity, so we’re still a long way off the switching-off option, but it’s been nearly three weeks now.”

“Nineteen days.”

That was very precise, thought Pascoe.

“That’s right, nineteen days. For Andy Dalziel, that’s a long time between drinks. It’s going to be hard going in on Monday and fi nding he’s not there. I suppose if I’d been back in my own offi ce continuously since I got signed off the sick list, I might have made some adjust-ments, but this will be like starting all over again . . . sorry. I’m getting maudlin.”

“No, no. He sounds like a very special man.”

“Oh yes, he was. I mean, he is. Very special. Irreplaceable. When he goes, it will feel like the end of things.”

Ellie’s voice broke the silence that followed.

“Grub up!” she said, stepping onto the patio with a laden tray.

“Maurice, grab a seat. Peter, could you bring the wine?”

As he passed her she hissed, “Lighten up, for God’s sake!”

At the table she moved smoothly into lively hostess mode and 342 r e g i n a l d h i l l

Kentmore relaxed into the guest having a good time role with well-bred ease. But it seemed to Pascoe that his mind was elsewhere.

Or is it just my mind that’s elsewhere? Pascoe asked himself. In Mill Street, to be precise. Have I become so obsessed by what happened there that I want to see connections everywhere? Perhaps instead of looking at my ejection from CAT in terms of conspiracy theory, I should be booking a few sessions with a good counseling service.

Ellie kicked him under the table and he realized he’d drifted off into an introspective silence.

He said brightly, “Are you a cricket fan, Maurice?”

“I keep an eye on the test score but I haven’t played myself since school. Too busy farming, I suppose.”

“Oh yes. And riding, and climbing mountains. That must fill the day.”

It was meant to come out as admiration that one man could pack so much into one life. Instead it sounded to Pascoe’s own critical ear not far short of a social sneer.

Kentmore said, “I still ride when I can but I’ve rather given up on the climbing. How about you two?”

Ellie said, “We do a bit of hill walking, but when it gets so steep you need a rope, we head down to the nearest pub.”

“Each to his own,” said Kentmore.

“Yeah, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” said Pascoe.

There I go again! What the hell’s getting into me?

Ellie opened her mouth but whether it was to issue a stinging reproof or ask if anyone wanted seconds remained a mystery as the doorbell rang.

Pascoe began to rise but she said firmly, “No, you sit and talk. I’ll get it.”

She went out.

Pascoe poured more wine.

“This is nice,” said Kentmore. “Where do you get it?”

Poor sod was repeating himself. Pascoe felt a little better about his flirtation with rudeness. Socially this guy was on autopilot, his mind was defi nitely elsewhere.

But where?

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 343

Don’t reach, Pascoe warned himself. Let reason be your guide.

“Sainsbury’s, I think,” he said. “Well, look who’s here.”

A figure had appeared at the French window. It was Edgar Wield.

His face was as always unreadable but there was something in his pos-ture which said he wasn’t about to ask if anyone fancied tennis.

Behind him stood Ellie, looking faintly puzzled.

“Peter, I need a word,” said Wield in a rough peremptory tone.

“Sure,” said Pascoe.

He stood up, and as if the movement had triggered it, let out a tremendous sneeze.

“Sorry,” he said, pulling out his handkerchief. “Hope I’m not getting a summer cold. Wieldy, would you like a glass of wine?”

“No thanks,” said the sergeant.

He took a step onto the patio, his eyes fixed on Pascoe.

Something about the way he held himself, a stiffness across his shoulders, a rigidity in his arms, was alarming Ellie.

“Is everything OK, Wieldy?” she asked.

He didn’t respond. His gaze stayed fixed on Pascoe.

“Pete,” he said.

It sounded like a preliminary, but nothing followed.

Pascoe said, “For God’s sake, Wieldy, what is it? Is something wrong? Oh shit. Is it Andy?”

“Yes,” said Wield. “It’s Andy. I’ve just come from the hospital.”

He was having difficulty speaking. His voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar. Whatever it was he had to say, he clearly didn’t want to say it.

“What? Spit it out, man! Is he worse?”

Wield shook his head but his answer was affi rmative.

“Worse, aye. The very worst.”

He looked round at Ellie as if he didn’t want her to be there. Then his gaze returned to Pascoe and he sucked in a deep breath, as if the heavy words he had to speak needed a torrent of air to float them out.

“Pete, he’s dead,” he said brokenly. “I’m sorry. He’s dead. Dalziel is dead. Andy Dalziel is dead.”

2

W H E E L O F F I R E

Some news is so tremendous that silence is the only possible response.

Everything went still, the breeze in the table cloth, the bees in the roses, the birds in the magnolia, the earth on its axis, the stars in their courses.

Then, as it will, as it must, life went on.

Ellie threw back her head and let out a sob which came close to a scream, Pascoe shook his head like a man betrayed and cried, “No, Wieldy, no!” Wield looked from one to the other, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” And from the table came a crash as Maurice Kentmore slumped forward, his head in his hands, toppling the wine bottle into the sauce boat from Ellie’s best china set.

Pascoe turned to look at him, then turned back toward the doorway and said, “Wieldy, take care of Ellie.”

And to her evident surprise, Ellie, who was moving towards him, her face full of love and concern, found herself caught up in the sergeant’s strong arms and urged irresistibly across the lounge and out of the door into the hallway.

Pascoe sat down heavily next to Kentmore.

After a while the man raised his head and looked at his host with anguished eyes.

Neither man spoke. It was as if they were waiting for a sign.

It came in the form of another high-pitched cry from inside the house.

To the untutored ear this sounded very like its predecessor, spring-ing from the depths of some divine despair, but Pascoe recognized in its long, wavering note the tremolo of a far from divine rage.

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 345

The sound unlocked Kentmore’s tongue.

“I prayed this wouldn’t happen . . . I really prayed . . . not selfi shly, at least I don’t think so . . . for him, not for me . . . ”

Then he paused and fi xed his gaze on Pascoe, and after a moment nodded, as if a question had been answered.

“You know, don’t you?” he said.

“Yes. I know.”

“Peter, I’m so sorry. It wasn’t meant to be like this. I’m so very sorry.”

“Well, that’s all right then, so long as you’re sorry,” said Pascoe with a controlled vehemence. “But sorry’s not going to bring Andy back, any more than murdering people was going to bring your brother back.

What were you thinking about, for God’s sake?”

“I was . . . I don’t know . . . I owed it to him . . . the blood debt . . .
I
owed it to him!
”

He put his head between his hands again as if trying to hide from Pascoe’s cold unblinking gaze.

I owed it to him.

The repeated phrase echoed again in Pascoe’s mind.

It spoke of something more than simple revenge, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. There was nothing Old Testament about Kentmore, no hint of Italianate emotionalism or even a Celtic nursing of old resentments. He was English through and through . . . and in your true-blue Englishman, loss paralyzes . . .

But guilt energizes!

I owed it to him.

Not simple revenge, but expiation!

It had to be sexual . . . English guilt was always sexual.

“It was Kilda, wasn’t it?” said Pascoe.

“Yes. Kilda.”

He removed his hands but kept his head bent forward, his eyes fixed on the ruined tablecloth as he began to speak in a low harsh monotone.

“She was in bed with me that night when the phone rang. Youngman told me he’d tried the Gatehouse number first. Then when there was no answer, Chris asked him to ring me. Youngman said he could see it 346 r e g i n a l d h i l l

was only willpower that was keeping him alive. He should have been long dead, but he wanted to speak to Kilda before he went. Instead he spoke to me. And Kilda was by my side, her warm naked fl esh close against mine, and he gave me words of love and farewell to pass on to her and I wanted to say she’s here and let him hear her voice, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t let my kid brother die knowing that while he lay dying, I was fucking his wife.”

Pascoe felt a pang of sympathy, quickly suppressed. Sympathy was not on today’s agenda.

“How much of this did Youngman know?”

“I’ve no idea. I never told him. I don’t know about Kilda. He came to see us when he got back to the UK. It was I believe a simple act of kindness, of duty even, one soldier looking out for another. He came back several times. We wanted him to. Sometimes he saw us together, sometimes separately. Gradually he passed on more and more detail of what they’d actually done to Chris. Whatever his motives were originally, I think at some point he started assessing our readiness to be recruited to the Templars.”

“And you passed the test with flying colors,” said Pascoe. “Maurice, what the hell were you thinking of ? This is crazy stuff! This is torch-light processions and master-race mythology! From what I’ve seen of you, it’s just not your sort of thing at all!”

He’d picked the right tone. Kentmore raised his head and looked straight at him.

“You’re right,” he said. “I was a bit crazy, I think. It was Kilda. No, I’m not blaming her. After Chris’s death, she went very strange. Started drinking heavily, practically stopped eating. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the bit of nourishment she got from the booze, I think she may have starved herself to death. Last thing Chris said to me was to look after Kilda, and pretty soon I was thinking that just as I’d betrayed him while he was alive, I was going to let him down now he was dead. Then things began to change.”

“After Youngman came?” Pascoe guessed.

“Yes. Not at first, but eventually, as he became a fairly regular visitor, she seemed to get herself together. Didn’t stop the drinking but started taking on board enough food to pull herself back from the brink. He d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 347

broached this Templar stuff with her first and she mentioned it to me. I was furious, but when she saw that, she clammed up. Things had been strained between us since it happened. We never . . . did it again. There was no way either of us could think of each other in that way again. But somehow we were bound closer than we’d ever been . . . bound together on a wheel of fire . . . don’t know why that came into my mind . . . something I read at school . . . but now I knew what it meant . . . and at the same time I think we hated each other for being part of the pain. Then when she started on about the Templars, for the first time in a long time she opened up like she’d done in the old days. And I cut her off short.”

He shook his head as though to dislodge the memory.

“So next time it came up, you listened, because you’d promised your brother to take care of her,” prompted Pascoe, keen to get beyond naked souls to naked fact.

“Yes, I listened. And I listened to Youngman. Look, I’m not saying I got involved simply because of Kilda. I was off balance myself, and I’d felt for a long time that politically we were pretty wishy-washy in our response to the terrorism, and the idea of fi ghting fire with fire had a lot of appeal. Also to start with it seemed like a game. Secret names, special ways of contacting each other, it was, I don’t know, it was sort of fun.”

“Like Stalky and Co, you mean?” said Pascoe savagely. “Like being back at boarding school? And when you discovered your particular mission was to blow up a video shop in Mill Street and murder the men who ran it, did it still seem like fun?”