Hector did?
No. He always looks punch drunk. I mean Glenister. Id best let her know youre sitting up and taking notice.
Fine. Wieldy, do a check on Andy, will you? You know what theyre like in these places, getting good infos harder than getting your dinner wine properly chambré.
Ill see what I can do, said Wield. Take care.
He left and Pascoe eased himself properly upright in the bed, trying to assess what he really felt like. There didnt seem to be many parts of his body which didnt give a retaliatory twinge when provoked, but, ribs apart, nothing that threatened much beyond discomfort. He wondered if he could get out of bed without assistance. He had got himself sitting upright and was pushing the bed sheet off his legs preparatory to swinging them round when the door opened and the ginger woman came in.
Glad to see youre feeling better, Peter, she said, but I think you should stay put a wee while longer. Or was it a bed pan you wanted?
No, Im fine, said Pascoe, pulling the sheet back up.
Thats OK then. Glenister. Chief Super. Combined Anti-Terrorism unit. We met briefly earlier, you probably dont remember.
Vaguely, maam, said Pascoe. In fact I seem to recall being a bit rude
Glenister said, Think nothing of it. Rudeness is good, it needs a working mind to be rude. Id just been interviewing Constable Hector for the second time. I couldnt believe the first, but it didnt get any better. Is it just shock, or is that poor laddie always as unforthcoming?
Expressing himself isnt his strongest point, said Pascoe.
So youre saying that what Ive got out of him is probably as much as Im likely to get? said Glenister. His descriptions of the men he saw are, to say the least, sketchy.
He does his best, said Pascoe defensively. Anyway, surely itll be DNA, fingerprints, dental records, that are going to identify the poor devils in there?
Aye, we should be able to find enough of them for that, said Glenister.
She was mid to late forties, Pascoe guessed, full figured to the point where she fitted her tweed suit comfortably but if she didnt cut down on the deep-fried Mars Bars, shed soon have to upsize. She had a pleasant friendly smile which lit up her round slightly weather-beaten face and put a sparkle into her soft brown eyes. If shed been a doctor he would have felt immensely reassured.
Pascoe said, Youll want to debrief me, maam.
Glenister smiled.
Debrief? I see youre very with it here in Mid-Yorkshire. Me, Im too old a parrot to learn new jargon. A full written report would be nice when youre up to it. All I want now is a wee preliminary chat.
She pulled a chair up to the bedside, sat down, produced a mini-cassette recorder from the shoulder bag she was carrying, and switched it on.
In your own words, Peter. All right to call you Peter? My friends call me Sandy.
Trying to work out if this were an invitation or a warning, Pascoe launched into an account of his part in the incident, with some judicious editing, in the interest of clarity and brevity he told himself.
Thats good, said Glenister, nodding approval. Succinct, to the point. Just what I need for the record.
She pressed the off button on the recorder, sat back in her chair and took a tube of Smarties out of her shoulder bag.
Help yourself, she said. So long as its not blue.
No thanks, said Pascoe.
Wise man, she said. I started on the sweeties when I stopped the ciggies. When I realized five bars of fruit-and-nut a day were going to kill me as surely as forty fags, I tried to go cold turkey and that nearly had me back on the nicotine. Now I treat myself to a Smartie whenever the urge comes on. Just the one. Except if its a blue one. Then I can have another. God knows what Ill do now theyre stopping the blue ones.
She gave him that attractive smile, mocking herself. She really should have been a doctor, thought Peter. With a bedside manner like this, she could have sold urine samples at a guinea a bottle.
Now lets stray off the record, Peter, she said, popping one of the tiny sweets into her mouth (a yellow one, he noticed) and settling herself more comfortably into her chair. Just you and me. Thoughts and impressions this time. And maybe just a wee bit more detail. For a start, why were you really there?
I told you. Inspector Ireland rang me and I went to assist.
And why did Paddy Ireland ring you?
Because of my negotiating experience, I suppose, said Pascoe. But even as he spoke he was registering the Paddy as a gentle reminder that Glenister had already interviewed the inspector.
And because I think he felt that, as the video shop had been flagged by you people, Mr Dalziel might be grateful for some assistance, he added.
And was he?
I think so.
But he hadnt contacted you himself?
He wouldnt care to disturb me on my day off, said Pascoe.
A most considerate man then. I gather he even offered to obtain refreshment for the people inside Number 3.
So she knew about the bit of knockabout with the bullhorn. Hector. Or Jennison. Or Maycock. Why wouldnt they describe exactly what had happened? Even if theyd tried to play it down, theyd have been easy meat for this bedside manner.
He said, Yes, Mr Dalziel did try to make contact with anyone who might be inside the shop.
Who might be? You had doubts?
Our information seemed a bit vague.
Vague? Not quite with you there. Foot patrol sees an armed man in Number 3. Reports it to the car-patrol officers who pass it on to the duty inspector who alerts the station commander. Dont see where the vagueness lies. All by the book so far.
Yes, and thats the way it continued, said Pascoe firmly. Knowing that the property was flagged, Mr Dalziel made sure your people were alerted then proceeded to Mill Street as instructed.
As instructed? Glenister chuckled.
Chuckling was a dying art, thought Pascoe; genuine chuckling that was, not just that pretence of suppressed mirth which politicians still use to make or, more often, avoid a point. But Glenisters chuckle was the real McCoy.
My understanding of his instructions, continued the superintendent, is that he was told to withdraw any police vehicles from Mill Street, establish blocks at its ends, maintain observation from a distance, and make no attempt to approach Number 3. Which bit of his instructions would you say Mr Dalziel followed, Peter?
I dont know because Ive only your say-so that thats what they were, retorted Pascoe, consigning to the recycle bin what the Fat Man had told him as they squatted behind the car. But, if were portioning out responsibility, what Im certain your instructions didnt contain was any reference to the fact that there was enough explosive in the place to blow up the whole bloody terrace! But I guess you didnt know that, else why would it only have a bottom-level flagging?
Glenister shook her head and said sadly, Youre so right, Peter. We should have known that. But youre completely wrong if you think Im here to offload blame. Wrists will be slapped at CAT, have no fear. If your Mr Dalziel got it wrong, then we got it wrong just as much, and hes paid a far higher price. I hope he comes through but the signs arent good. So the only person Ive got who can give me a close-up account of what took place is you. All I want is to be absolutely sure about everything you saw during your time outside Number 3 Mill Street.
Thats easy, said Pascoe. From my arrival to the explosion, I saw absolutely no sign of life in the house, or anywhere else in the terrace. Full stop.
Fine, thats good enough for me, said Glenister, standing up and offering her hand. Well talk again when youre back on your feet. I hope that will be very soon.
But cant you tell me what you think happened in there? demanded Pascoe, holding on to the hand.
Glenister hesitated, then said, Why not? I hear youre a discreet man. In fact you might turn vain if you knew how highly youre rated. Quite the blue Smartie yourself.
She smiled at her joke. Pascoe gave her a token flicker and said, So?
We had the shop flagged as a meeting place, at best a casual message centre, for a group who showed little inclination to move from dialectic to destruction. At some time in the past few days a decision must have been taken to upgrade it to a storehouse for explosive in preparation for an event. We had some non-specific intelligence that something big was being planned in the north.
Like blowing up Mill Street? said Pascoe incredulously. Not exactly the Houses of Parliament, is it?
I said Number 3 was just the storehouse, said Glenister. Though it wont have escaped your notice that the terrace backs on to the embankment carrying the main London line, and your fair city is being honoured with a royal visit the week after next. Be that as it may, suddenly there is a large quantity of explosive on site, harmless enough when being handled by experts. But, as I say, the group who had hitherto made use of the shop were anything but experts. Your Constable Hector disturbed them, your Mr Dalziel made them panic. Perhaps they were simply trying to conceal the explosive more thoroughly and something went wrong. Or perhaps when they saw you and Mr Dalziel moving forward, they weighed a long night in an interview room with you against an eternity in Paradise with a martyrs promised houris. Either way, boom!
She gently disengaged her hand, which Pascoe now realized hed been clinging on to like an ancient mariner eager for a chat.
You take care of yourself now, Peter, said Glenister. The Force cant spare its blue Smarties in these troubled times. I hope youre back at work really soon.
She went out of the room. Pascoe stared at the closed door for a while, then shoved back the sheet and swung his legs on to the floor. He was surprised to find how weak this simple movement left him and he was still sitting on the bed, nerving himself to test his knee, when Wield came in.
Where do you think youre going? demanded the sergeant.
Im going to see Andy.
Not now youre not, said Wield.
Something in his tone alerted Pascoe that the sergeant wasnt just coming the nurse-substitute.
Why? Whats happened? he demanded.
I asked the ward sister to check how Andy was doing in Intensive Care, said Wield. She was talking to someone there when all hell broke loose at the other end of the phone. Pete, his heart stopped. Theyve got the crash team working on him now, but from what the sister said, its not looking good. Pete, we need to face it. This could be the end for Fat Andy.
7 dancing with death
Andy Dalziel is in the Mecca Ballroom, locked in a tango with Tottie Truman from Donny.
He feels as light as a feather. His feet hardly seem to be in contact with the floor, his muscles responding to every modulation of the music as if the notes were vibrating along his arteries rather than through his ears. And he can feel the blood pulsing through Totties veins in a perfect counterpoint to his own rhythms as they move inexorably towards that blissfully explosive moment of complete fusion
But not on the dance floor! Its all a question of timing. In search of delay, he makes his mind step back and take in his surroundings.
The Mirely Mecca has changed a lot since his last visit which washe cant recall when. Never mind. The ceilings higher now and the soaring windows, spring-bright with coloured glass, wouldnt disgrace a cathedral. The walls are lined with long tables, covered in white linen cloths on which rest a royal banquet of everything he loveson one table crowns of lamb, barons of beef, loins of pork ridged with crackling, honey-glazed hams; on another roasted geese, Christmas turkeys, duck with cherries, pheasant adorned with their own feathers; on a third whole salmon, pickled herring, mountain ranges of oysters and mussels. Yet another is crowded with desserts: bread-and-butter pudding, rhubarb crumble, Spotted Dick, and his childhood favourite, Eves Pudding.
And there, by a table laden with bottles of every kind of malt whisky hed ever tasted, stands Peter Pascoe, an open bottle of Highland Park in one hand and in the other a king-size crystal tumbler full to the brim which he is holding out in smiling invitation
Later, lad, he mouths. Later. First things first. Dance till the music reaches its climax, then straight out of the door into that dark alcove at the end of the corridor to reach his and hers
After which, being a gentleman, hell wait a decent interval of mebbe a minute and a half before heading back inside for another helping of Eves Pudding
But just as he begins to wonder if he can hold out any longer, the music changes, accelerating from the sensuous pulse of the tango into the mad whirl of a Viennese waltz. His muscles obey the new commands effortlessly though his mind wonders what the fuck the band leaders playing at. Round and round and round he spins, till the high walls and coloured windows and laden tables retreat to a blur of Arctic whiteness and Totties body, which during the tango had been a comfortable armful of warm softness moulding itself ever closer to his, begins to feel like a sackful of old bones.
Now he too is beginning to feel tired, as if age and exertion and all the excesses of a life spent in mad pursuit of God knows what are at last catching up with him. He wants to rest. Surely Tottie would want to sit this one out too? He nuzzles his lips against her ear to whisper the suggestion, but he cant find it. The cheek pressed against his no longer feels soft and warm but cold and hard and smooth.
He moves his head back to look into his partners face. Instead of the lustrous brown bedroom eyes of Tottie Truman, he finds himself peering into the deep shadowy sockets of a skull whose toothy leer and vacant gaze have something familiar about them.
Then recognition dawns.
Dalziel laughs.
Hector, lad, he cries. I always said thad be the death of me, but I never meant it so literal!
The skeletal figure does not reply but its grip tightens round the Fat Mans broad frame and he finds his weary legs being urged into an even wilder dance which feels as if it will only end when those bony arms have squeezed out of him everything that makes up the life forcesun and wind and air and rain, good grub and mellow whisky, light and laughterand whirled what little remains away into some icy eternity.
For a moment he is lost. He, the great Dalziel, who on his day has danced from dusk to dawn and then washed down the Full British Breakfast with a tumbler of whisky, has no strength to resist as Death, or Hector, bears him off to oblivion.