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Hector listened politely—he had after all heard it all before—then, when Jennison paused for breath, off-loaded his problem on to the constable’s very broad shoulders.
Jennison’s 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 we’re out of sight, eh?’
‘I think me battery’s flat,’ said Hector.
‘What’s new?’ said Jennison, and restarted the car.
Unfortunately his partner, PC Alan Maycock, came from Hebden Bridge which is close enough to the Lancastrian border for its natives to be by Mid-Yorkshire standards a bit soft in every sense of the term, and he was moved by Hector’s plight.
‘I’ll get you through on the car radio,’ he said.
And when Jennison dug him viciously in his belly, he murmured, ‘Nay, it’ll not take but a minute, and when they hear it’s Hec, they’ll likely just have a laugh.’
As a policeman, he should have known that the rewards of virtue are sparse and long delayed. If you’re looking for quick profit, opt for vice.
Instead of the expected fellow constable responding from Control, it was duty inspector Paddy Ireland who took the call. As soon as he heard Number 3 Mill Street mentioned, he gave commands for the car to remain in place and await instructions.
‘And then the bugger bursts in on me like he’s just heard the first bombs dropping on Pearl Harbour,’ concluded Dalziel. ‘Got me excited, till he mentioned Hector. That took the edge off! And when he said he’d already called it in, I could have wrung his neck!’
‘And then…?’ enquired Pascoe.
‘I finished me pie. Few minutes later the phone rang. It were some motor-mouth from CAT. I tried to explain it were likely all a mistake, but he said mebbe I should let the experts decide that. I said would this be the same experts who’d spent so much public money breaking up the Carradice gang?’
Pascoe, the diplomat, groaned.
Six months ago CAT had claimed a huge success when they arrested fifteen terrorist suspects in Nottingham on suspicion of plotting to poison the local water supply with ricin. Since then, however, the CPS had been forced to drop the case against first one then another of the group till finally the trial got under way with only the alleged ringleader, Michael Carradice, in the dock. Pascoe had his own private reasons for hoping the case against him failed too—a hope nourished by Home Office statements made on CAT’s behalf which were sounding increasingly irritated and defensive.
‘What’s up with thee? Wind, is it?’ said Dalziel in response to Pascoe’s groan. ‘Any road, the prat finished by saying the important thing was to keep a low profile, not risk alerting anyone inside, set up blocks out of sight at the street end, maintain observation till their man turned up to assess the situation. Why’re you grinding your teeth like that?’
‘Maybe because I don’t see any sign of any road-blocks, just Maycock smoking a fag at one end of the street and Jennison scratching his balls at the other. Also I’m crouched down behind your car with the patrol car next to it, right opposite Number 3.’
‘Who need road-blocks when you’ve got a pair of fatties like Maycock and Jennison? And why move the cars when anyone in there knows we’re on to them already? Any road, you and me know this is likely just another load of Hector bollocks.’
He shook his head in mock despair.
‘In that case,’ said Pascoe, tiring of the game, ‘all you need do is stroll over there, check every-thing’s OK, then leave a note for the CAT man on the shop door saying you’ve got it sorted and would he like a cup of tea back at the Station? Meanwhile…’
It was his intention to follow his heavy irony by taking his leave and heading for home and hammock, but the Fat Man was struggling to his feet.
‘You’re dead right,’ he said. ‘You tend to fumble around a bit, but in the end you put your white stick right on it, as the actress said to the shortsighted cabinet minister. Time for action. We’ll be a laughing stock if it gets out we spent the holiday hiding behind a car because of Hector. Where’s yon bugger got with my mutton pasties, by the way? We were mad to trust him with our money.’
‘My money,’ corrected Pascoe. ‘And you misunderstand me, I’m not actually suggesting we do anything…’
‘Nay, lad. Don’t be modest,’ said Dalziel, upright now. ‘When you’ve got a good idea, flaunt it.’
‘Sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘Is this wise? I know Hector’s not entirely reliable, but surely he knows a gun when he sees one…’
As a plea for caution this proved counter-productive.
‘Don’t be daft,’ laughed Dalziel. ‘We’re talking about a man who can’t pick his nose unless someone paints a cross on it and gives him a mirror. If he heard owt, it were likely his own fart, and the bugger inside were probably holding a take-away kebab. Come on, Pete. Let’s get this sorted, then you can buy me a pint.’
He dusted down his suit, straightened his tie, and set off across the street with the confident step of a man who could walk with kings, talk with presidents, dispute with philosophers, portend with prophets, and never have the slightest doubt that he was right.
Interestingly, despite the fact that little in their long relationship had given Pascoe any real reason to question this presumption of rightness, the thought crossed his mind as he rose and set off in the footsteps of his great master that there had to be a first time for everything, and how ironic it would be if it were Ellie’s tender heart that caused him to be present on the occasion when the myth of Dalziel’s infallibility was exploded…
At this same moment, as if his mind had developed powers of telekinesis, Mill Street blew up.
3 intimations
Ellie Pascoe was asleep in the garden hammock so reluctantly vacated by her husband when the explosion occurred.
The Pascoe house in the northern suburbs was too far from Mill Street for anything but the faintest rumour of the bang to reach there. What woke Ellie was a prolonged volley of barking from her daughter’s mongrel terrier.
‘What’s up with Tig?’ Ellie asked yawning.
‘Don’t know,’ said Rosie. ‘We were playing ball and he just started.’
A sudden suspicion made Ellie examine the tall apple tree in next-door’s garden. Puberty was working its rough changes on her neighbour’s son and a couple of times recently when the summer heat had lured her outside in her bikini, she’d spotted him staring down at her out of the foliage. But there was no sign, and in any case Tig’s nose pointed south towards the centre of town. As she followed his fixed gaze she saw a long way away a faint smudge of smoke soiling the perfect blue of the summer sky.
Who would light a fire on a day like this?
Tig was still barking.
‘Can’t you make him shut up?’ snapped Ellie.
Her daughter looked at her in surprise, then took a biscuit off a plate and threw it across the lawn. Tig gave a farewell yap, then went in search of his reward with the complacent mien of one who has done his duty.
Ellie felt guilty at snapping. Her irritation wasn’t with the dog, there was some other cause less definable.
She rolled out of the hammock and said, ‘I’m too hot. Think I’ll cool down in the shower. You OK by yourself?’
Rosie gave her a look which said without words that she hadn’t been much company anyway, so what was going to be different?
Ellie went inside, turned on the shower and stepped under it.
The cool water washed away her sweat but did nothing for her sense of unease.
Still nothing definable. Or nothing that she wanted to define. Pointless thinking about it. Pointless because, if she did think about it, she might come up with the silly conclusion that the real reason she was taking this shower was that she didn’t want to be wearing her bikini if bad news came…
Andy Dalziel’s partner, Amanda Marvell, known to her friends as Cap, was even further away when Mill Street blew up.
With her man on duty, she had followed the crowds on the traditional migration to the coast, not, however, to join the mass bake-in on a crowded beach but to visit the sick.
The sick in this instance took the form of her old headmistress, Dame Kitty Bagnold who for nearly forty years had ruled the famous St Dorothy’s Academy for Catholic Girls near Bakewell in Derbyshire. Cap Marvell had ultimately made life choices which ran counter to everything St Dot’s stood for. In particular, she had abandoned her religion, divorced her husband, and got herself involved in various animal rights groups whose activities teetered on the edge of legality.
Yet throughout all this, she and Dame Kitty had remained in touch and eventually, rather to their surprise, realized they were friends. Not that the friendship made Cap feel able to address her old head by her St Dot’s sobriquet of Kitbag, and Dame Kitty would rather have blasphemed than call her ex-pupil anything but Amanda.
A long and very active retirement had ground Dame Kitty down till ill health had finally obliged her to admit the inevitable, and two years earlier she had moved into a private nursing home that was part of the Avalon Clinic complex at Sandy-town on the Yorkshire coast.
At her best, Dame Kitty was as bright and sharp as ever, but she tired easily and usually Cap was alert for the first signs of fatigue so that she could start ending her visit without making her friend’s condition the cause.
This time it was the older woman who said, ‘Is everything all right, Amanda?’
‘What?’
‘You seemed to drift off. Perhaps you should sit in this absurd wheelchair while I go inside and order some more tea.’
‘No, no, I’m fine. Sorry. What were we saying…?’
‘We were discussing the merits of the govern-ment’s somewhat inchoate education policy, an argument I hoped your sudden silence indicated I had won. But I fear my victory owes more to your distraction than my reasoning. Are you sure all is well with you? No problems with this police officer of yours, whom I hope one day to meet?’
‘No, things are fine there, really…’
Suddenly Cap Marvell took her mobile out.
‘Sorry, do you mind?’
She was speed-dialling before Kitty could answer.
The phone rang twice then there was an invitation to leave a message.
She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, disconnected, and stood up.
‘I’m sorry, Kitty, I’ve got to go. Before the mobs start moving off the beaches…’
This effort to offer a rational explanation produced the same sad sigh and slight upward roll of the eyes brought by feeble excuses for bad behaviour in their St Dot days.
‘OK, that’s not it. Sorry, I don’t know why,’ said Cap. ‘But I’ve really got to go.’
‘Then go, my dear. And God go with you.’
Normally this traditional valediction would have won from Cap her equivalent of the old headmistress’s long-suffering expression, but today she just nodded, stooped to kiss her friend’s cheek, then hurried away across the lawn towards the car park.
Dame Kitty watched her out of sight. There was trouble there. Despite the bright sun and the cloudless sky, she felt it in the air.
She stood up out of the wheelchair which the staff insisted she should use on her excursions into the gardens, gave it a whack with her stick, and began to make her slow way back to the house.
4 dust and ashes
Later Peter Pascoe worked out that Dalziel had probably saved his life twice.
The Fat Man’s car which they’d been sheltering behind was flipped into the air then deposited upside down on the pavement.
If he hadn’t obeyed the Fat Man’s command to follow, he would have been underneath it.
And if he hadn’t been walking in the lee of that corpulent frame when the explosion occurred…
As it was, when some slight degree of awareness began to seep back into his brain, he felt as if every part of his body had been subjected to a good kicking. He tried to stand up but found the best he could manage was all fours.
The air was full of dust and smoke. Like a retriever peering through the mist in search of its master’s bird, he strained to penetrate the swirling veil of motes and vapour. An amorphous area of orangey red with some consistency of base gave him the beginnings of perspective. Against it, marked by its stillness in the moving air, he made out a vague heap of something, like a pile of earth thrown up alongside a grave.
He began to crawl forward and after a couple of yards managed to rise off his hands into a semiupright crouch. The shifting coiling colour he realized now was fire. He could feel its heat, completely unlike the gentle warmth of the sun which only an hour ago he’d been enjoying in the green seclusion of his garden. That small part of his mind still in touch with normality suggested that he ought to ring Ellie and tell her he was all right before some garbled version of events got on to local radio.
Not that he was sure how all right he was. But a lot all righter than this still heap of something which he was now close enough to formally identify as Andy Dalziel.
He had fallen on to his left side and his arms and legs were spread and bent like the kapok stuffed limbs of some huge teddy bear discarded by a spoilt child. His face had been shredded by shards of glass and brick, and the fine grey dust sticking to the seeping wounds made him look as if he were wearing a kabuki mask.
There was no sign of life. But not for a second did Pascoe admit the possibility of death. Dalziel was indestructible. Dalziel is, and was, and for ever shall be, world without end, amen. Everybody knew that. Therein lay half his power. Chief constables might come and chief constables might go, but Fat Andy went on for ever.
He rolled him over on to his back. It wasn’t easy but he did it. He brushed the dust away from his mouth and nose. He definitely wasn’t breathing. He checked the carotid pulse, thought he detected a flutter, but a combination of his dull fingers and Dalziel’s monolithic neck left him in doubt. He opened the mouth and saw there was a lot of debris in there. Carefully he cleared it away, discovering in the process what he hadn’t known before, that Dalziel had a dental plate. This he tucked carefully into his pocket. He checked that the tongue hadn’t been swallowed. Then he cleared the nostrils, undid the shirt collar, and put his ear to the mighty chest.
There was no movement, no sound.
He placed his hands on top of each other on the chest and pressed down hard, five times, counting a second interval between.
Then he tilted the head back with his right hand under the chin so that the mouth opened wide. With the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, he pinched Dalziel’s nose. Then he took a deep breath, thought, I’m never going to hear the end of this, pressed his mouth down on to those great lips and blew.
Five times he did this. Then he repeated the heart massage and went through the whole process again. And again.
Once more he tried the pulse. This time he was sure there was something. And the next time he blew into the mouth, the chest began to rise and fall of its own volition.
Now he began to arrange Dalziel in the recovery position. This was a task to daunt a fit navvy with a block and tackle, but finally he managed it and sank back exhausted.
All this seemed to take hours but must have consumed only a few minutes. He was vaguely aware of figures moving through the miasma. Presumably there were sounds too, but at first they were simply absorbed by the white noise which the blast had filled his ears with. Another hour passed. Or a few seconds. He felt something touch his shoulder. It hurt. He looked up. PC Maycock was standing over him, mouthing nothings, like a fish in a glass tank. He tried to lip read and got, ‘Are you all right?’ which hardly seemed worth the effort. He pointed at Dalziel and said, ‘Get help,’ without any assurance that the words were coming out. Maycock tried to assist him to his feet but he shook his head and pointed again at the Fat Man. He stuck his little fingers in his ears and started to prise out the debris which seemed to have lodged there. This, or perhaps the simple passage of time, improved things a little, and he began to pick out a higher line of sound which he tentatively identified as approaching sirens.
Time was still doing a quickstep. Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow. In the slow periods he felt as if sitting here in the post-blast smog watching over Fat Andy was all he’d ever done and all he was ever likely to do. Then he closed his eyes for a fraction of a second and when he opened them the smog had thinned and paramedics were stooping over Dalziel’s body and firemen were going about the business before the ruined terrace. Where Number 3 had been there was nothing but a flame-filled cavity, like hell-mouth in a morality play. The Victorian entrepreneurs’ shoddy building materials had offered little resistance to the blast. This was perhaps one of those instances of a Bad Thing eventually turning out to be a Good Thing, which divines through the ages had educed as evidence of God’s Mysterious Purpose. If the walls of Number 3 had shared any of the massive solidity of the viaduct wall against which the terrace rested, the blast would have been directed straight out. As it was, Numbers 2 and 4 were in a state of complete collapse, and the rest of the terrace looked seriously shell shocked.
They were attaching all kinds of bits and pieces to the Fat Man. But not, so far as Pascoe could see, a crane. They’d need a crane. And a sling. This was a beached whale they were dealing with and it would take more than the puny efforts of half a dozen men to bear him back to the life-supporting sea. He tried to say this but couldn’t get the words out. Didn’t matter. Somehow these supermen were proving him wrong and managing to get Dalziel on to a stretcher. Pascoe closed his eyes in relief. When he opened them again he found he was looking up at the sky and moving. For a second he thought he was back on his hammock in his garden. Then he realized he too was on a stretcher.
He raised his head to protest that this was unnecessary. The effort made him realize it probably was. Ahead he could see an ambulance. Beside it stood an all too familiar figure.
Hector, the author of all their woes, his face a cartoonist’s dream of uncomprehending consternation.
As the medics slid the stretcher into the vehicle, he held out both his hands towards Pascoe. In them were two paper bags, partially open to reveal a pair of mutton pasties and an almond slice.
‘Sir, I’m sorry, but they were out of custards…’ he stuttered.
‘Not my lucky day then,’ whispered Peter Pascoe. ‘Not my lucky day.’
5 the two Geoffreys
Andre de Montbard, Knight of the Temple and right-hand man to Hugh de Payens, the Order’s Grand Master, was fishing in the dull canal at the far end of Charter Parker. He sat on a canvas stool, his back against a plane tree, his rod resting on a fork made from a wire coat-hanger. The sun had vanished behind the warehouses on the opposite bank but the air was still warm and the sky still blue, though darkening towards indigo from the azure of the afternoon. His float bobbed in the wake of a passing long boat and the helmsman gave a half apologetic wave.
A man walking his dog paused and said, ‘Anything biting?’
‘I think I felt a midge.’
‘Oh aye? Just wait half an hour and you’ll need a mask. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
As the man moved away, he passed the two Geoffreys strolling slowly along the tow path. Geoffrey O stooped to pat the dog but Geoffrey B didn’t look in the mood for chit-chat. As well as the shared name, they both wore black pants, trainers and T-shirts. But there any claims to being a matching pair ended, thought Andre. Odd relationship. Shrinks would have a field day with it. Useless twats. What do you call a shrink treading on a land mine? A step in the right direction. Himself, he’d always been an effects man, bugger causes. And the effect here had been to make them ripe for knighthood.
Performance was another thing. Soon as he’d heard things had gone a bit pear-shaped, he’d started anticipating how they’d react.
His guess was, Geoff B headless chicken, Geoff O heartless wolf.
He knew he’d got it right even before Geoff B opened his mouth.
When they reached him, they paused as if to ask how the fish were biting. At least that was the impression Geoff O gave, smiling down at him pleasantly. But Geoff B couldn’t manage a smile. He unslung the small rucksack he was carrying over his shoulder and dropped it by the empty catch basket. As he did so, he brought his face close to Andre’s and hissed with barely controlled anger, ‘What the hell was all that about? A communications post, you said, a bit of gear maybe, but not a fucking powder magazine.’
Andre looked at him steadily till he straightened up.
Then he said, ‘Bad intelligence. It happens. Hugh says sorry. But look on the bright side. It certainly made a bang!’
‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Geoff B. ‘It put two cops in hospital. One of them critical, the news says.’
Andre shrugged and said, ‘My info is the stupid sods were grandstanding. If they’d followed instructions and stood off…’
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better? I’m giving notice, if one of them dies, that’s me finished, understand?’
You’re finished anyway, son, thought Andre. One strike and out. Returned to unit.
Geoff O spoke before he could respond.
‘Was the cop who came into the shop one of those injured?’
Andre flickered an approving smile. No bother there. First rule of combat: be prepared for collateral damage. Can’t get your head round that, might as well stay home.
He said, ‘That would have been tidy, but no, he wasn’t. Seems he hasn’t come up with much of a description, though, so I don’t think we need worry too much about him.’
‘For God’s sake!’ exclaimed Geoff B, determined not to let go of his anger. ‘Is that all you’re concerned about? Whether there was a witness?’
Andre looked at him coldly.
‘Mebbe you’d be more concerned if you’d been the one he clocked,’ he said.
That shut the bugger up. He pressed on, ‘Anyway, the cop showing up didn’t stop you from opting to go ahead, did it?’
In the planning the bugger had needed to act like he was in charge, so now let’s see if he could carry the can.
Geoff O rescued him, saying, ‘I made sure he didn’t get a good look at me.’
‘Course you did. Clever thinking. But sometimes being clever’s not enough. You’ve got to be lucky too. Word is that Constable Hector who wandered into the shop is half a loaf short of a picnic and would have trouble giving a good description of himself. So no problem there. In fact, things could be a lot worse. Mission accomplished, so let’s keep our fingers crossed and hope the cops don’t die.’
Geoff O said, ‘I presume you’re holding back the press release.’
Andre nodded approval of the move from personal feelings to practicalities.
‘Yes. Hugh agrees that a cop on the critical list isn’t what we want associated with our opening statement. Shame. Really starting with a bang that would have been. Still, what me and Archambaud have got planned should to make ‘em sit up and take notice.’
‘Need any help?’ asked Geoff O.
Definitely getting a taste for it, thought Andre. Enthusiasm was good. Impatience might be a problem. Needs watching?
He said, ‘No, it’s sorted. Don’t worry. We’re just starting. Lots of work for an energetic youngster. Just be patient. Good intelligence, careful planning, that’s what makes for successful ops.’