Well, no, said Ireland. Its just that when I passed on the report to Andy
Oh good. You have told him. So, apart from not feeling it necessary to bother me, what action has he taken?
He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, but not very hard.
Ireland said in a hurt tone, He said hed go along and take a look soon as he finished his meat pie. I reminded him that 3 Mill Street was flagged, in case hed missed it. He yawned, not a pretty sight when hes eating a meat pie. But when I told him Id already followed procedure and called it in, he got abusive. So I left him to it.
Very wise, said Pascoe, also yawning audibly. So whats the problem?
The problem is that hes just passed my office, yelling that hes on his way to Mill Street so maybe Ill be satisfied now that Ive ruined his day.
But youre not?
A deep intake of breath; then in a quietly controlled voice, What Im not satisfied is that the super is taking what could be a serious situation seriously. But of course Im happy to leave it in the expert hands of CID. Sorry to have bothered you.
The phone went down hard.
Pompous prat, thought Pascoe, setting off back to the garden to share his irritation with his wife. To his surprise shed said thoughtfully, Last time I saw Andy, he was going on about how bored hes getting with the useless bastards running things. He sounded ripe for a bit of mischief. Maybe you ought to check this out, love, before he starts the next Gulf War single-handed. Half an hour wouldnt harm.
None of this did he care to reveal to Dalziel.
Not a lot, he repeated. So perhaps youd like to fill me in.
Why not? Then you can shog off home. Being a clever bugger, youll likely know Number 3s CAT flagged? Or did Ireland have to tell you too?
No, but he did give me a shove, admitted Pascoe.
There you go, said Dalziel triumphantly. Since the London bombings, them silly sods have put out more flags than we did on Coronation Day. Faintest sniff of a Middle East connection and theyre cocking their legs to lay down a marker.
Yes, I did hear they wanted to flag the old Mecca Ballroom at Mirely!
A reminiscent smile lit up Dalziels face, like moonlight on a mountain.
The Mirely Mecca, he said dreamily. Had some good times there in the old days. There were this lass from Donny. Tottie Truman. Her tango could get you done for indecent behaviour
Yes, yes, interrupted Pascoe. Im sure she was a charming girl vertically or horizontally
Nay, hod on! interrupted the Fat Man in his turn. You shouldnt be so quick to put folk in boxes. Its a bad habit of yours, that. Tottie werent just a bit of squashy flesh, tha knows. She had muscle too. By God, if theyd let women throw the hammer shed have been a gold medallist! I once saw her chuck a wellie from halfway at a rugby club barbecue and it were still rising as it went over the posts. I thought of wedding her, but she got religion. Just think of the front row we could have bred!
It was time to stop this trip down memory lane.
Pascoe said, Very interesting. But perhaps we should concentrate on the situation in hand. Which is?
Thats the trouble with you youngsters, said Dalziel sadly. No time to smell the flowers along the way. All right. Sit rep. Foot-patrol officer reported seeing a man in Number 3 with a gun. Passed on the info to a patrol car who called in for instructions. So here we are. What do you make of it so far?
The Fat Man had moved into playful mode. Its guessing-game time, thought Pascoe. Robbery in process? Hardly worth it in Mill Street, unless you were a particularly thick villain. This wasnt the commercial hub of the city, just the far end of a very rusty spoke. The mill itself had a preservation order on it and thered been talk of refurbishing it as an industrial Heritage Centre, but not even the Victorian Society had objected to the proposed demolition of the jerry-built terrace to make space for a car park.
The mill project, however, had run into difficulties over Lottery funding.
Right wingers said this was because it didnt advantage handicapped lesbian asylum seekers; left wingers because it failed to subsidize the Treasury.
Whatever, plans to demolish the terrace had gone on hold.
The remaining residents had long been rehoused and, rather than have a decaying slum on their hands, the council encouraged small businesses in search of an address and office space to move in and give the buildings an occupied look. Most of these businesses proved as short-lived as the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, and the only survivors at present were Crofts & Wills, patent agents, at Number 6 and Oroc Video at Number 3.
All of which interesting historical analysis brought Pascoe no nearer to understanding what they were doing here.
Losing patience, he said, OK, so there might be a man with a gun in there. I presume youve some strategy planned. Or are you going to rush him single-handed?
Not now theres two of us. But you always were a bugger for the subtle approach, so lets start with that.
So saying, the Fat Man rose to his feet, picked up a bullhorn from the bonnet of his car, put it to his lips and bellowed, All right, we know youre in there. Weve got you surrounded. Come out with your hands up and no one will get hurt.
He scratched himself under the armpit, then sat down again.
After a moments silence Pascoe said, I cant really believe you said that, sir.
Why not? Used to say it all the time way back before all this negotiation crap.
Did anyone ever come out?
Not as I recall.
Pascoe digested this then said, You forgot the bit about throwing his gun out before he comes out with his hands up.
No I didnt, said Dalziel. He might not have a gun and if he hasnt, I dont want him thinking we think he has, do I?
I thought the foot patrol reported seeing a weapon? What was it? Shotgun? Handgun? And what was this putative gunman actually doing? Come on, Andy. I left a jug of home-made lemonade and a hammock to come here. Whats the sodding problem?
Even diplomatic reticence had its limits.
The sodding problem? said the Fat Man. Yons the sodding problem.
He pointed toward the police patrol car parked a little way along from his own vehicle. Pascoe followed the finger.
And all became clear.
Almost out of sight, coiled around the rear wheel with all the latent menace of a piece of bacon rind, lay a familiar lanky figure.
Oh God. You dont mean?
Thats right. Only contact with this gunman so far has been Constable Hector.
Police Constable Hector is the albatross round Mid-Yorkshire Constabularys neck, the long-legged fly in its soup, the Wollemi pine in its outback, the coelacanth in its ocean depths. But his saving lack of grace is he never plumbs bottom. Beneath the lowest deep theres always a lower deep, and he survives because, in that perverse way in which True Brits often manage to find triumph in disaster, Mid-Yorkshire Police Force have become proud of him. If ever talk flags in the Black Bull, someone just has to say, Remember when Hector and a couple of hours of happy reminiscence are guaranteed.
So, when Dalziel said, Yons the sodding problem, much was explained. But not all. Not by a long chalk.
So, continued Dalziel. Question is, how to find out if Hector really saw a gun or not.
Well, mused Pascoe. I suppose we could expose him and see if he got shot.
Brilliant! said Dalziel. Makes me glad I paid for your education. HECTOR!
For Gods sake, I was joking! exclaimed Pascoe as the lanky constable disentangled himself from the car wheel and began to crawl towards them.
I could do with a laugh, said Dalziel, smiling like a rusty radiator grill. Hector, lad, what fettle? Ive got a job for you if you feel up to it.
Sir? said Hector hesitantly.
Pascoe wished he could feel that the hesitation demonstrated suspicion of the Fat Mans intent, but he knew from experience it was the constables natural response to most forms of address from Hello to Help! Im drowning! Prime it as much as you liked, the mighty engine of Hectors mind always started cold, even when as now his hatless head was clearly very hot. A few weeks ago, hed appeared with his skull cropped so close he made Bruce Willis look like Esau, prompting Dalziel to say, I always thought thad be the death of me, Hec, but theres no need to go around looking like the bugger!
Now he looked at the smooth white skull, polished with sweat beneath the suns bright duster, shook his head sadly, and said, Heres what I want you to do, lad. All this hanging arounds fair clemmed me. You know Pats Pantry in Station Square? Never closes, doesnt Pat. Pop round there and get me two mutton pasties and an almond slice. And a custard tart for Mr Pascoe. Its his favourite. Can you remember all that?
Yes, sir, said Hector, but showed no sign of moving off.
What are you waiting for? asked Dalziel. Money up front, is that it? What happened to trust? All right, Mr Pascoell pay you. I cant be standing tret every time.
Every tenth time would be nice, thought Pascoe as he put two one-pound coins on to Hectors sweaty palms, where they lay like a dead mans eyes.
If its more, Mr Dalziel will settle up, he said.
Yes, sirbut what abouthim? muttered Hector, his gaze flicking to Number 3.
Poor sods terrified of being shot at, thought Pascoe.
Him? said Dalziel. Thats what I like about you, Hector. Always thinking about other people.
He stood up once more with the bullhorn.
You in the house. Were just sending off to Pats Pantry for some grub and my lad wants to know if theres owt youd fancy. Pastie, mebbe? Or they do grand Eccles cakes.
He paused, listened, then sat down again.
Dont think he wants owt. But a nice thought. Does you credit. Itll be noted.
No sir, said Hector, fear making him bold. What I meant was, if he sees me moving and thinks Im a danger
Eh? Oh, I get you. He might take a shot at you. If he thinks youre a danger.
Dalziel scratched his nose thoughtfully. Pascoe avoided catching his eye.
Best thing, said the Fat Man finally, is not to look dangerous. Stand up straight, chest out, shoulders back, and walk nice and slow, like youve got somewhere definite to go. That way, even if the bugger does shoot, chances are the bullet will pass clean through you without doing much harm. Off you go then.
Up to this point, Pascoe had been convinced that the blind obedience to lunatic orders which had made the dreadful slaughter of the Great War possible had died with those millions. Now, watching Hector move slowly down the street like a man wading through water, he had his doubts.
Once Hector was out of sight, he relaxed against the side of the car and said, OK, sir. Now either you tell me exactly whats going on or Im off back to my hammock.
You mean youd like to hear Hectors tale? Why not? Once upon a time
Hector is that rarity in a modern police force, a permanent foot patrol, providing a useful statistic when anxious community groups press for the return of the old beat bobby. The truth is, whether behind the wheel or driving the driver to distraction from the passenger seat, a motorized Hector is lethal. On a bike he never reaches a speed to be dangerous, but his resemblance to a drunken giraffe, though contributing much to the mirth of Mid-Yorkshire, does little for the constabulary image.
So Hector plods; and, plodding along Mill Street that day, hed heard a sound as he passed Number 3. Like a cough, he said. Or a rotten stick breaking. Or a tennis ball bouncing off a wall. Or a shot.
The nearest Hector ever comes to precision is multiple-choice answers.
He tried the door. It opened. He stepped into the cool shade of the video shop. Behind the counter he saw two men. Asked for a description, he thought a while then said it was hard to see things clearly, coming as he had from bright sunlight into shadow, but it was his fairly firm opinion that one of them was a sort of darkie.
To the politically correct, this might have resonated as racist and been educed as evidence of Hectors unsuitability for the job. To those whod heard him describe a Christmas shoplifter wearing a Santa Claus outfit as a little bloke, I think he had a moustache, a sort of darkie came close to being eidetic.
The second man (looked funny but probably not a darkie was Hectors best shot here) seemed to be holding something in his right hand which might have been a gun, but it was hard to be sure because he was standing in the deepest shadow and the man lowered his hands out of sight behind the counter when he saw Hector.
Feeling the situation needed to be clarified, Hector said, All right then?
There had been a pause during which the two inmates looked at each other.
Then the sort-of-darkie replied, Yes. We are all right.
And Hector brought this illuminating exchange to a close by saying with an economy and symmetry that were almost beautiful, All right then, and leaving.
Now he had a philosophical problem. Had there been an incident and should he report it? It didnt take eternity to tease Hector out of thought; the space between now and tea-time could do the trick. So he was more than usually oblivious to his surroundings as he crossed to the opposite pavement with the result that he was almost knocked over by a passing patrol car. The driver, PC Joker Jennison, did an emergency stop then leaned out of his open window to express his doubts about Hectors sanity.
Hector listened politelyhe had after all heard it all beforethen, when Jennison paused for breath, off-loaded his problem on to the constables very broad shoulders.
Jennisons first reaction was that such a story from such a source was almost certainly a load of crap. Also there were only five minutes till the end of his shift, which was why he was speeding down Mill Street in the first place.
Best call it in, he said. But wait till were out of sight, eh?