Death Comes for the Fat Man (7 page)

Her words clanged dully in her own ears, but Rosie’s expression didn’t change.

“That doesn’t matter, ” she exclaimed. “He’ll still wake up when he’s needed.”

Like King Arthur, you mean? thought Ellie. Or, perhaps more aptly, the kraken?

But she said no more. What else was to say but the clichés of comfort? And the time for them, though close, had not yet arrived.

So leaving behind a wife absolute for death and a daughter buoyed up by a sure and certain hope of resurrection, Peter Pascoe returned to work.

Determined to conceal any evidence of debility, as he approached the CID suite he took a deep breath which proved rather counterproductive, sending a spasm of pain through his rib cage that made him momentarily let up on the effort of will necessary to control his left knee.

Thus the first sight his junior colleagues had of him was limping, wincing, and breathing hard. Edgar Wield followed him into his offi ce 48 r e g i n a l d h i l l

and said anxiously, “Pete, you OK? I thought you were laid up for a week at least.”

“Bloody quacks, what do they know?” said Pascoe roughly. “Right, Wieldy, bring me up to speed.”

“Not a lot’s changed,” said the sergeant. “Three more break-ins up on Acornboar Mount, spate of credit card fraud, looks like someone’s recording PINs, couple of muggings, an affray outside the Dead Donkey . . . ”

“Jesus, Wieldy!” interrupted Pascoe. “That’s not what I’m worried about. Someone blew up half a street, three dead, Andy lying in a coma, that’s the only case I’m interested in. So what’s the state of play there?”

Wield shrugged and said, “Sorry, out of our hands. You’ll need to talk to CAT. Dan’s told us to cooperate fully. So far that’s meant pointing Glenister and her men toward the best pubs and restaurants.”

Dan was Chief Constable Dan Trimble.

“So he’s had his arm twisted,” said Pascoe. “Two can play at that game.”

He reached for the phone.

Wield said, “Actually, he’s here. In Andy’s room, I think . . . ”

“Andy’s room? What the hell’s he doing in there?” demanded Pascoe.

“Well, he is the Chief Constable . . . ” began Wield, but he was speaking to Pascoe’s back as the DCI headed out of the door.

He didn’t bother to knock when he reached Dalziel’s offi ce but burst in.

“Peter!” said Sandy Glenister, her round farmer’s wife face lighting up with a welcoming smile. “Good to see you. We were just talking about you, weren’t we, Dan?”

“Er, yes. But I wasn’t expecting . . . shouldn’t you still be on sick leave?” said Chief Constable Trimble.

Glenister was sitting in Dalziel’s extra-large chair behind a desk which was as clear and tidy as Pascoe could recall seeing it. Trimble was sitting opposite her so that he had to twist round to look at the newcomer.

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 49

“I’m fine, sir,” said Pascoe shortly. “Couldn’t lie around when there’s so much to do. Who have we got heading up the Mill Street investigation, sir?”

“That would be me, I think,” said Glenister.

“No, I meant from our side,” said Pascoe.

“Our side? I hope that’s what I’m on too.” She smiled.

“Sir?” said Pascoe, addressing himself pointedly to Trimble.

The Chief eyed him speculatively, decided to make allowances, and said, “Peter, in view of the national security aspects of the business, I think it’s reasonable that we follow Home Office guidelines and let the specialists deal with the investigation—”

“Sir!” interrupted Pascoe. “There’s been a major incident on our patch, we’ve got bodies, Mr. Dalziel’s in a coma, the people of Mid-Yorkshire, our constituents, will be expecting their own police force to provide answers. The local media will want to see faces they know, not listen to the meanderings of some imported spin doctor. Our lads need to feel they’re involved instead of being sidelined by a bunch of—”

“Enough, Chief Inspector!” said Trimble, rising.

He wasn’t a very big man, but even Dalziel grudgingly allowed that when he wanted, he could be quite formidable. Clearly he wanted now.

“Decisions have been made. Your job when you return offi cially to work will be to follow and to implement them. I’m sure that Chief Superintendent Glenister will keep you informed of progress, on a need to know basis, of course—”

“You mean they may be things relating to criminal activity in Mid-Yorkshire that I don’t need to know?” exclaimed Pascoe incredulously.

“Has there been a change of government or what?”

Trimble went fiery red. But before he could reply, Glenister said,

“Hey, come on, you two! My da used to say that the English were a cold, unfeeling race, no passion. He should be here now! Dan, Peter’s quite right. I’d feel the same in his position. Home Offi ce guidelines!

What do those wankers know about life at the sharp end, eh? And I could do with all the help I can get. Why don’t you leave me and him to get acquainted and work out a modus operandi?”

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

The Chief Constable thought for a moment, during which his cheeks cooled to their normal healthy glow.

“That sounds reasonable,” he said. “But if you should decide that in your estimation the Chief Inspector needs to rest for the full term of his prescribed convalescence, just let me know.”

He left.

Pascoe said, “You and the Chief seem to be very close.”

“Oh yes, we go way back, me and Dan,” said the woman. “Started out together in the days of auld lang syne.”

And now, thought Pascoe, Dan’s Chief Constable and you’re Chief Super which, making allowances for what Andy called the handicap of tits and twat in the police promotion stakes, puts you several lengths ahead. Definitely one to watch.

She stood up and came round the desk to his side.

“Anything new on Mr. Dalziel?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Well, while there’s life . . . Sorry if that sounds banal, but at times like this, there’s no gap between banal and pretentious. I found that out when I lost my man. Banal’s sincere; pretentious means they don’t give a damn.”

“Your . . . man, was he job?”

“Oh yes. Funny really. We’d been married seven years. I was at the point where I really had to decide, kids or career. Then I woke up one morning realizing I could have both. Just as me and Colin would share the kids, so we’d share his career, which looked set to be glorious. It all seemed so obvious. I’d never felt so happy. And that of course was the day it happened.”

She fell silent. Pascoe didn’t ask what happened. Her motives for telling him this much were obscure. If she wanted to tell him more, she would.

After a while he said, “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. So am I. On the other hand, if it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t be here now. Peter, why don’t you sit there?”

She indicated the chair behind the desk which she’d just vacated.

“If anyone should keep this seat warm, it’s you,” she said. “I’ve got an Ops room down the corridor. Dan asked me if I’d sit in here if I had d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 51

any spare time. With his two best CID officers out of the frame, I think he wants someone senior to make sure things keep ticking over. I didn’t much care for the idea, but like I say, he’s an old friend . . . ”

She smiled the smile of someone who finds old friends hard to refuse.

In fact, guessed Pascoe, what she was probably doing was checking through Andy’s files to see if there was anything there which tied in even remotely with the events in Mill Street. She’d be lucky. Dalziel’s system of paperwork was sibylline.

Left to himself he would have been reluctant to take over the Fat Man’s seat, but now he refused to play coy.

He sat down, looked around, and said, “Someone’s been tidying up.”

“Me, I’m afraid. The way I work. Set things in order, then you’ll see what they mean. Your Mr. Dalziel from all accounts belongs to the opposite school. Ignore chaos and ultimately its meaning will come looking for you.”

“I think rather he had . . . has . . . the ability to set things in order in his mind, but reckons that chaos has its meaning too,” said Pascoe.

“Meaning now I’ve put stuff where it ought to be, he won’t be able to find a thing.” She laughed. “Anyway, here’s the deal, Peter. You’ll have full access to my Ops room. I’ll have full access anywhere I care to go in CID. I’ll consult with you first before using anything I think may be relevant. And I expect you to return the courtesy.”

Seated at Dalziel’s desk, it occurred to Pascoe that the proper response would be to say he didn’t take kindly to folk offering to do him favors on his own CID floor, but he swallowed the words and said as mildly as he could manage, “That sounds reasonable. Why don’t we stroll along to your Ops room now and you can bring me up to speed?”

He rose, went to the door, opened it, and stood there to usher her out.

For a moment she looked slightly nonplussed at the speed with which he was moving things along, then gave him the open matronly smile again and moved through the doorway.

The CAT Ops room bore the Glenister trademark. It was as tidy and well organized as she’d left Dalziel’s desk. Three computers had been set up on a trestle table at the far end. Not a spare inch of power 52 r e g i n a l d h i l l

cable showed. On a wallboard were pinned six photos, three showing the remains found in the ruins of Mill Street, each connected to a head shot of a man, two of them distinctly Asian in coloring and feature, the third less so. Beneath each photo was a name. Umar Surus, Ali Awan, and Hani Baraniq.

“Surus and Awan are positive IDs,” said Glenister. “We have dental records, and in Awan’s case, DNA. Baraniq isn’t positive yet but we’re eighty percent sure.”

“You’ve shown these pics to Hector?”

“Naturally. Could be his
sort-of-darkie
was Awan, and the other possibly Baraniq, though he’s even vaguer there. I’ve tried to push him beyond
sort of funny, not so much a darkie
but no luck. I hope we never have to have poor Hec up on the witness stand.”

She spoke with a smile.

Pascoe thought, Two minutes on our patch and already she’s making our jokes.

He said, “Look, what Hector doesn’t see is most things. But what he says he does see, you can usually rely on. His shortcomings are verbal rather than optical.”

This wasn’t just a knee-jerk Hector-might-be-an-idiot-but-he’s-
our
-

idiot reaction. Pascoe had once spotted Hector sitting on a park bench, notebook open on his knee, eyes fixed on a pair of sparrows dining on a discarded cheeseburger.

“Making notes in case you have to arrest them, Hec?” he’d inquired jocularly as he came up behind.

Hector had reacted as if caught committing an indecent act, jumping up so fast he dropped his pencil stub, the while regarding Pascoe as if he carried a fl aming sword. At the same time, he was ripping the page out of his notebook, but not before Pascoe glimpsed what looked like a sketch of the two birds.

“Can I have a look?” Pascoe had asked.

With great reluctance Hector had handed the sheet over.

Smoothed out, it revealed what proved to be a lively and accurate depiction of the feeding sparrows.

“Please, sir, you won’t tell anyone, please,” said Hector tremulously.

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 53

“This is good,” said Pascoe, returning the sketch. “I didn’t know you could draw, Hec.”

“But you won’t tell anyone,” repeated the constable anxiously.

It now struck Pascoe that it wasn’t being reported for misuse of his offi cial note-book that bothered Hector so much as the idea of his colleagues knowing that he drew pictures. Everyone needs a secret, Pascoe thought. Most of us have too many. But if you’ve only got the one, how precious must that be.

“Of course I won’t,” he said. “Carry on, Constable!”

And he’d kept his word, not even sharing Hector’s secret with Ellie.

So he certainly wasn’t going to be specific with Glenister, who said doubtfully, “If you say so, Peter. Now is there anything else we can bring you up to speed on?”

“Maybe.”

He went to the computer table and tapped the shoulder of the operator who looked to have the least happening on his screen.

“Could you bring me up the Mill Street SOCO file?” he said.

The man glanced up at him, blank faced.
Blank
was the right word here. He had a regularity of feature which made you think android. His mirror and photographic images were probably indistinguishable. In his thirties, Pascoe guessed, but metro-thirties rather than up-north-thirties. The jacket draped over the back of the chair and his open necked shirt said bet-you-can’t-afford-me loud and clear. His blond hair had more gel in it than Dalziel would have let pass without some crack about an oil change. And he had eyes the color of slate and just as hard.

The eyes held Pascoe’s for a moment then the man turned to look at Glenister.

Pascoe also turned to face her, his head cocked to one side, his lips pursed in exasperation, his eyebrows raised interrogatively.

She said, “Listen in, laddies. This is DCI Pascoe. What he asks for, you give him. No need to come running to me like I’m your mam and you need your nose wiped. OK?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the other two responded with a crispness born, 54 r e g i n a l d h i l l

Pascoe guessed, of past refusals by their boss to hear anything that wasn’t loud and clear, but the blond’s only response was to bring up the file. He then rose and offered Pascoe his chair.

Glenister said, “Peter, meet Dave Freeman He has been known to speak.”

A smile touched Freeman’s lips without getting a grip and he said, “Hi.”

“And hi to you too,” said Pascoe, sitting down.

Though not in the same superleague as Edgar Wield, who it was rumored could hack into Downing Street to check out what antiwrinkle cream the PM used, Pascoe regarded himself as premier division, IT

speaking. As he gingerly accessed the fi le and realized just how extensive and comprehensive it was, the sense of an audience made him a touch nervous and he found himself bogged down in pictures, both still and moving, of the rubble. He lingered here awhile, as if this were where he wanted to be, before moving on to his real goal, a lengthy list of every recognizable item recovered from the ruins.