REGINALD HILL
THE DEATH OF DALZIEL

A Dalziel and Pascoe novel

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain

by HarperCollinsPublishers 2007

Copyright © Reginald Hill 2007

Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007313228

Ebook Edition © JULY 2015 ISBN: 9780007353590

Version: 2015-06-25

For the peacemakerswhichever god’s children they are

What, old acquaintance? Could not all this flesh Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell…Death hath not struck so fat a deer today.

Shakespeare Henry IV Part 1, Act V scene iv

A Knight of the Temple who kills an evil man should not be condemned for killing the man but praised for killing the evil.

St Bernard of Clairvaux,

Liber ad milites Templi

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Part One

1 mill street

2 two mutton pasties and an almond slice

3 intimations

4 dust and ashes

5 the two Geoffreys

6 blue smartie

7 dancing with death

8 blame

Part Two

1 a tidy desk

2 show business

3 walking the dog

4 dead men don’t fart!

5 age of wonders

Part Three

1 Lubyanka

2 a pale horse

3 kaffee-klatsch

4 burglary

5 all the way home

6 an urban fox

7 Sauron’s eye

8 now it’s safe

Part Four

1 the shock of recognition

2 Rule Five

3 Hectoring

4 Troy

5 fiddle-de-dee

6 Kilda

7 in the mood

8 without fear or favour

9 the decisive moment

10 queen of the fête

11 forgotten dreams

12 the man of my dreams

13 no change

14 the tangle o’ the Isles

15 a shot in the dark

16 the word of an Englishman

Part Five

1 a free lunch

2 promotion

3 melodious twang

4 red mite and greenfly

5 no-name

6 wake-up call

7 safe house

8 to the castle

9 armour

10 mother love

11 a change of direction

12 prison

13 girls and boys

14 a wee deoch an doris

15 a call in the night

16 the full English

17 one last decision

Part Six

1 the very worst

2 wheel of fire

3 singles

4 snapshots

5 wedding gifts

6 hi-yo, Silver!

7 gatecrashers

8 it is written

Part Seven

1 the end

2 really the end

Keep Reading

About Reginald Hill

Acclaim for The Death of Dalziel

By Reginald Hill

About the Publisher

Part One

Some talk of ALEXANDERAnd some of HERCULES;Of HECTOR…

Anon, ‘The British Grenadiers’

1 mill street

never much of a street

west—the old wool mill a prison block in dry blood brick its staring windows now blinded by boards its clatter and chatter a distant echo through white haired heads

east—six narrow houses under one weary roof huddling against the high embankment that arrows southern trains into the city’s northern heart

few passengers ever notice Mill Street

never much of a street

in winter’s depth a cold crevassespring and autumn much the same

but occasionallyon a still summer day

with sun soaring high in a cloudless skyMill Street becomesdesert canyon overbrimming with heat

2 two mutton pasties and analmond slice

At least it gives me an excuse for sweating, thought Peter Pascoe as he scuttled towards the shelter of the first of the two cars parked across the road from Number 3.

‘You hurt your back?’ asked Detective Superintendent Andy Dalziel as his DCI slumped to the pavement beside him.

‘Sorry?’ panted Pascoe.

‘You were moving funny.’

‘I was taking precautions.’

‘Oh aye? I’d stick to the tablets. What the hell are you doing here anyway? Bank Holiday’s been cancelled, has it? Or are you just bunking off from weeding the garden?’

‘In fact I was sunbathing in it. Then Paddy Ireland rang and said there was a siege situation and you were a bit short on specialist manpower so could I help.’

‘Specialist? Didn’t know you were a marksman.’

Pascoe took a deep breath and wondered what kind of grinning God defied His own laws by allowing Dalziel’s fleshy folds, swaddled in a three-piece suit, to look so cool, while his own spare frame, clad in cotton jeans and a Leeds United T-shirt, was generating more heat than PM’s Question Time.

‘I’ve been on a Negotiator’s Course, remember?’ he said.

‘Thought that were to help you talk to Ellie. What did yon fusspot really say?’

The Fat Man was no great fan of Inspector Ireland, who he averred put the three effs in officious. If you took your cue and pointed out that the word only contained two, he’d tell you what the third one stood for.

If you didn’t take your cue, he usually told you anyway.

Pascoe on the other hand was a master of diplomatic reticence.

‘Not a lot,’ he said.

What Ireland had actually said was, ‘Sorry to interrupt your day off, Pete, but I thought you should know. Report of an armed man on premises in Mill Street. Number 3.’

Then a pause as if anticipating a response.

The only response Pascoe felt like giving was, Why the hell have I been dragged off my hammock for this?

He said, ‘Paddy, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m off duty today. Bank Holiday, remember? And Andy drew the short straw. Not his idea you rang, is it?’

‘Definitely not. It’s just that Number 3’s a video rental, Oroc Video, Asian and Arab stuff mainly…’

A faint bell began to ring in Pascoe’s mind.

‘Hang on. Isn’t it CAT flagged?’

‘Hooray. There is someone in CID who actually reads directives,’ said Ireland with heavy sarcasm.

CAT was the Combined Anti-Terrorism unit in which Special Branch officers worked alongside MI5 operatives. They flagged people and places on a sliding scale, the lowest level being premises not meriting formal surveillance but around which any unusual activity should be noted and notified.

Number 3 Mill Street was at this bottom level.

Pascoe, not liking to feel reproved, said, ‘Are you trying to tell me there’s some kind of Intifada brewing in Mill Street?’

‘Well, no,’ said Ireland. ‘It’s 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 he’d go along and take a look soon as he finished his meat pie. I reminded him that 3 Mill Street was flagged, in case he’d missed it. He yawned, not a pretty sight when he’s eating a meat pie. But when I told him I’d already followed procedure and called it in, he got abusive. So I left him to it.’

‘Very wise,’ said Pascoe, also yawning audibly. ‘So what’s the problem?’

‘The problem is that he’s just passed my office, yelling that he’s on his way to Mill Street so maybe I’ll be satisfied now that I’ve ruined his day.’

‘But you’re not?’

A deep intake of breath; then in a quietly controlled voice, ‘What I’m not satisfied is that the super is taking what could be a serious situation seriously. But of course I’m 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 she’d said thoughtfully, ‘Last time I saw Andy, he was going on about how bored he’s 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 wouldn’t harm.’

None of this did he care to reveal to Dalziel.

‘Not a lot,’ he repeated. ‘So perhaps you’d like to fill me in.’

‘Why not? Then you can shog off home. Being a clever bugger, you’ll likely know Number 3’s 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 they’re 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 Dalziel’s 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. ‘I’m sure she was a charming girl vertically or horizontally—’

‘Nay, ho’d on!’ interrupted the Fat Man in his turn. ‘You shouldn’t be so quick to put folk in boxes. It’s a bad habit of yours, that. Tottie weren’t just a bit of squashy flesh, tha knows. She had muscle too. By God, if they’d let women throw the hammer she’d 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…?’

‘That’s 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. It’s guessing-game time, thought Pascoe. Robbery in process? Hardly worth it in Mill Street, unless you were a particularly thick villain. This wasn’t 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 there’d 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 didn’t 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 you’ve some strategy planned. Or are you going to rush him single-handed?’

‘Not now there’s two of us. But you always were a bugger for the subtle approach, so let’s 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 you’re in there. We’ve 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 moment’s silence Pascoe said, ‘I can’t 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 didn’t,’ said Dalziel. ‘He might not have a gun and if he hasn’t, I don’t 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. What’s the sodding problem?’

Even diplomatic reticence had its limits.

‘The sodding problem?’ said the Fat Man. ‘Yon’s 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 don’t mean…?’

‘That’s right. Only contact with this gunman so far has been Constable Hector.’

Police Constable Hector is the albatross round Mid-Yorkshire Constabulary’s 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 there’s 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, ‘Yon’s 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 God’s 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? I’ve 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 Man’s intent, but he knew from experience it was the constable’s natural response to most forms of address from ‘Hello’ to ‘Help! I’m drowning!’ Prime it as much as you liked, the mighty engine of Hector’s mind always started cold, even when as now his hatless head was clearly very hot. A few weeks ago, he’d appeared with his skull cropped so close he made Bruce Willis look like Esau, prompting Dalziel to say, ‘I always thought tha’d be the death of me, Hec, but there’s no need to go around looking like the bugger!’

Now he looked at the smooth white skull, polished with sweat beneath the sun’s bright duster, shook his head sadly, and said, ‘Here’s what I want you to do, lad. All this hanging around’s fair clemmed me. You know Pat’s Pantry in Station Square? Never closes, doesn’t Pat. Pop round there and get me two mutton pasties and an almond slice. And a custard tart for Mr Pascoe. It’s 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 Pascoe’ll pay you. I can’t be standing tret every time.’

Every tenth time would be nice, thought Pascoe as he put two one-pound coins on to Hector’s sweaty palms, where they lay like a dead man’s eyes.

‘If it’s more, Mr Dalziel will settle up,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir…but what about…him?’ muttered Hector, his gaze flicking to Number 3.

Poor sod’s terrified of being shot at, thought Pascoe.

‘Him?’ said Dalziel. ‘That’s what I like about you, Hector. Always thinking about other people.’

He stood up once more with the bullhorn.

‘You in the house. We’re just sending off to Pat’s Pantry for some grub and my lad wants to know if there’s owt you’d fancy. Pastie, mebbe? Or they do grand Eccles cakes.’

He paused, listened, then sat down again.

‘Don’t think he wants owt. But a nice thought. Does you credit. It’ll be noted.’

‘No sir,’ said Hector, fear making him bold. ‘What I meant was, if he sees me moving and thinks I’m a danger…’

‘Eh? Oh, I get you. He might take a shot at you. If he thinks you’re 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 you’ve 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 what’s going on or I’m off back to my hammock.’

‘You mean you’d like to hear Hector’s 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, he’d 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 Hector’s unsuitability for the job. To those who’d 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 Hector’s 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 didn’t 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 Hector’s sanity.

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.’

Geoff B snorted incredulously, but that was to be expected. It was Geoff O’s disappointed frown that Andre focused on.

He said, ‘War’s like fishing. Hours of empty fucking tedium punctuated by moments so crowded they burst at the seams. Learn to enjoy the emptiness. Now, I’m going to pack up before these fucking midges chew my face off. I’ll be in touch.’

He rose and began to reel in his line.

Geoff B said, ‘Tell Hugh, if that cop dies, I’m out. I’m serious.’

‘Let’s hope the poor sod makes it then,’ said Andre indifferently. ‘See you.’

The couple started to walk away. Geoffrey O glanced back. Andre gave a conspiratorial wink but got nothing in return.

Didn’t bother him.

What did bother him was the weight of the discarded backpack.

He checked no one was close then opened it.

Like he’d thought, one weapon missing.

He looked after the two Geoffreys. No prize for guessing which one had hung on.

He recalled a training sergeant once saying to him, ‘You’ve earned yourself a big kiss for keenness, a big bollocking for stupidity. Which do you want first, son?’

He smiled, dropped the backpack into his basket, slung it over his shoulder, gathered up the rest of his gear and set off along the tow path.

6 blue smartie

Peter Pascoe was still having trouble with time.

He opened his eyes and Ellie was there.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Pete, how are you?’

‘Fine, fine,’ he said.

He blinked once and her hair turned gingery as she aged ten years and put on a Scottish accent.

‘Mr Pascoe. Sandy Glenister. Feel up to a wee chat?’

‘Not with you,’ said Pascoe. ‘Sod off.’

He blinked again and the face rearranged itself into something like a Toby jug whose glaze had gone wrong.

‘Wieldy,’ said Pascoe. ‘Where’s Ellie?’

‘At home making Rosie’s tea, I expect. She’ll be back later. How are you doing?’

‘I’m fine. What am I doing here? Oh shit.’

Wield saw Pascoe’s face spasm with remembered pain as he answered his own question.

‘Andy, how’s Andy?’ he demanded, trying to push himself upright.

Wield pressed the button which raised the back of the bed by thirty degrees.

‘Intensive Care,’ he said. ‘He’s not come round yet.’

‘Well, what do they expect?’ demanded Pascoe. ‘It’s only been .. a couple of hours?’

His assertion turned to interrogation as he realized he’d no idea of the time.

‘Twenty-four,’ said Wield. ‘A bit more. It’s four o’clock, Tuesday afternoon.’

‘As long as that? What’s the damage?’

‘With Andy? Broken leg, broken arm, several cracked ribs, some second-degree burns, multiple contusions and lacerations from the blast, loss of blood, ruptured spleen, other internal damage whose extent isn’t yet apparent—’

‘So, nothing really serious then,’ interrupted Pascoe.

Wield smiled faintly and said, ‘No, not for Andy. But till he wakes up…’

He left the sentence unfinished.

‘Twenty-four hours is nothing,’ said Pascoe. ‘Look at me.’

‘You’ve been back with us a lot longer than that,’ said Wield. ‘Bit woozu maybe with all the shit they pumped into you, but making sense mostly. You don’t think Ellie would have taken off if you’d still been comatose?’

‘I’ve spoken with Ellie then?’

‘Aye. Don’t you remember?’

‘I think I recall saying hi.’

‘Is that all? You’d best hope you didn’t make a deathbed confession,’ said Wield.

‘And there was someone else—ginger hair, Scots accent, maybe the matron. Or did I dream that?’

‘No. That would be Chief Superintendent Glenister from CAT. I was there when she turned up.’

‘You were? Did I say much to her?’

‘Apart from “sod off”, you mean? No. That was it.’

‘Oh hell,’ said Pascoe.

‘Not to worry. She didn’t take offence. In fact, she’s sitting outside in the waiting room. You’ve not asked what’s wrong with you.’

‘With me?’ said Pascoe. ‘Good point. Why am I in here? I feel fine.’

‘Just wait till the shit wears off,’ said Wield. ‘But they reckon you were lucky. Contusions, abrasions, few muscle tears, twisted knee, couple of cracked ribs, concussion. Could have been a lot worse.’

‘Would have been if I hadn’t had Andy in front of me,’ said Pascoe grimly. ‘What about Jennison and Maycock?’

‘Joker reckons he’s gone deaf but his mates say he were always a bit hard of hearing when it came to his round. Their cars are a write-off though. Andy’s too.’

‘What about Number 3? Was there anyone in there?’

‘I’m afraid so. Three bodies, they reckon. At least. They’re still trying to put them together. No more detail. The CAT lads are going over the wreckage with a fine-tooth comb, and they’re not saying much to anyone—and that includes us. Of course, they’ve got a key witness.’

‘Have they? Oh God. You mean Hector?’

‘Right. Glenister spent an hour or so with him. Came out looking punch-drunk.’

‘Hector did?’

‘No. He always looks punch drunk. I mean Glenister. I’d best let her know you’re sitting up and taking notice.’

‘Fine. Wieldy, do a check on Andy, will you? You know what they’re like in these places, getting good info’s harder than getting your dinner wine properly chambré.’

‘I’ll 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 didn’t seem to be many parts of his body which didn’t 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 you’re 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, I’m fine,’ said Pascoe, pulling the sheet back up.

‘That’s OK then. Glenister. Chief Super. Combined Anti-Terrorism unit. We met briefly earlier, you probably don’t remember.’

‘Vaguely, ma’am,’ 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. I’d just been interviewing Constable Hector for the second time. I couldn’t believe the first, but it didn’t get any better. Is it just shock, or is that poor laddie always as unforthcoming?’

‘Expressing himself isn’t his strongest point,’ said Pascoe.

‘So you’re saying that what I’ve got out of him is probably as much as I’m 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 it’ll 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 didn’t cut down on the deep-fried Mars Bars, she’d 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 she’d been a doctor he would have felt immensely reassured.

Pascoe said, ‘You’ll want to debrief me, ma’am.’

Glenister smiled.

‘Debrief? I see you’re very with it here in Mid-Yorkshire. Me, I’m too old a parrot to learn new jargon. A full written report would be nice when you’re 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.

‘That’s 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 it’s 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 it’s a blue one. Then I can have another. God knows what I’ll do now they’re 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 let’s 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 hadn’t contacted you himself?’

‘He wouldn’t 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 wouldn’t they describe exactly what had happened? Even if they’d tried to play it down, they’d 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. Don’t see where the vagueness lies. All by the book so far.’

‘Yes, and that’s 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 Glenister’s 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 don’t know because I’ve only your say-so that that’s 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 we’re portioning out responsibility, what I’m certain your instructions didn’t 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 didn’t know that, else why would it only have a bottom-level flagging?’

Glenister shook her head and said sadly, ‘You’re so right, Peter. We should have known that. But you’re completely wrong if you think I’m 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 he’s paid a far higher price. I hope he comes through but the signs aren’t good. So the only person I’ve 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.’

‘That’s 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, that’s good enough for me,’ said Glenister, standing up and offering her hand. ‘We’ll talk again when you’re back on your feet. I hope that will be very soon.’

‘But can’t you tell me what you think happened in there?’ demanded Pascoe, holding on to the hand.

Glenister hesitated, then said, ‘Why not? I hear you’re a discreet man. In fact you might turn vain if you knew how highly you’re 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 won’t 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 martyr’s promised houris. Either way, boom!’

She gently disengaged her hand, which Pascoe now realized he’d been clinging on to like an ancient mariner eager for a chat.

‘You take care of yourself now, Peter,’ said Glenister. ‘The Force can’t spare its blue Smarties in these troubled times. I hope you’re 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 you’re going?’ demanded the sergeant.

‘I’m going to see Andy.’

‘Not now you’re not,’ said Wield.

Something in his tone alerted Pascoe that the sergeant wasn’t just coming the nurse-substitute.

‘Why? What’s 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. They’ve got the crash team working on him now, but from what the sister said, it’s 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 Tottie’s 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! It’s 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 was…he can’t recall when. Never mind. The ceiling’s higher now and the soaring windows, spring-bright with coloured glass, wouldn’t disgrace a cathedral. The walls are lined with long tables, covered in white linen cloths on which rest a royal banquet of everything he loves—on 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, Eve’s Pudding.

And there, by a table laden with bottles of every kind of malt whisky he’d 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, he’ll wait a decent interval of mebbe a minute and a half before heading back inside for another helping of Eve’s 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 leader’s 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 Tottie’s 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 can’t 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 partner’s 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 tha’d 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 Man’s 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 force—sun and wind and air and rain, good grub and mellow whisky, light and laughter—and 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.

Then at the very point of submission, something happens.

New resolve seems to course through his weary limbs like an electric shock. Then another, even stronger. A third…a fourth…a fifth…

Sod this for a lark! he thinks. I’ll give this bugger a run for his money afore I let him dance me off my feet!

Pressing Death or Hector even closer to his chest, he rises on to his toes and goes whirling round the room, once more the leader not the led, faster and faster, till he leaves the wild music trailing in his wake. And this time, instead of blurring out his surroundings, the speed of the dance seems to bring them back into focus. First the high windows with their multi-coloured lights, and then white-clothed tables laden with provender, and finally he becomes aware that the brittle bones in his arms are once more clothed in the warm and yielding flesh of Tottie Truman from Donny.

8 blame

‘He’s stable now, but it was a close-run thing,’ said Dr John Sowden. ‘With anyone else I’d have called it after the fifth shock. But I looked down at the fat old bastard lying there and I thought, I’m not going to risk being haunted by you! And I gave him one more go.’

Dr Sowden was an old acquaintance of the Pascoes, a relationship which had started way back in a close encounter with Andy Dalziel under suspicion of causing death by drunk driving.

‘And that did the trick?’ said Ellie Pascoe.

‘It started his heart beating again. Which is something, but don’t get your hopes up. He’s only back to where he was. Still showing no sign of regaining consciousness. And we’ve no idea what state he’ll be in if and when that happens. You, Peter, on the other hand are looking remarkably spry, considering.’

‘So when can I go home?’ said Pascoe. ‘I feel fine.’

It was almost true. The anxiety caused by the news about Fat Andy, the relief at hearing they’d got him back, and the pleasure of having Ellie sitting on his bed, had seemed to combine as a sort of tonic. John Sowden ought to be showering praise on him for his resilience rather than pursing his lips.

‘Let’s see how you are in a couple of days,’ said the doctor dismissively. ‘Ellie, nice to see you again. Make sure he behaves himself.’

He went out.

‘John ought to brush up his bedside manner, don’t you reckon?’ said Pascoe.

‘I think he’s a bit worried there may be some delayed emotional reaction,’ said Ellie carefully.

‘He’s been talking to you, has he? Don’t tell me he actually used those tired old words posttraumatic stress disorder!’ Pascoe laughed harshly. ‘Listen, if ever I start feeling sorry for myself, I just have to think of Andy lying up there in a coma.’

Ellie took his hand and squeezed it.

‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘I often wished the earth would open up and swallow the fat bastard, but it’s almost impossible to imagine a world without Andy, isn’t it?’

‘Not almost,’ said Pascoe. ‘You said you’d seen Cap. How’s she taking it?’

‘Hard to say. She once told me that the only worthwhile thing she learned at St Dot’s Academy was to deal with crisis and catastrophe by not letting it mark your upper crust. While us plebs scream and shout and run about, people of Cap’s class maintain an even keel and look to the practicalities.’

Pascoe smiled at ‘us plebs’. Ellie’s family were irremediably petit bourgeois despite all her efforts to downgrade them to acquire street cred in the class war. By contrast Cap Marvell, while making no effort to deny her upper-class background and education, had been much more successful in her efforts to disoblige her old connections. Having a secret weapon like Andy Dalziel you could produce at will can’t have been a disadvantage either.

Pascoe liked her in a cautious kind of way. She was good for Dalziel emotionally and intellectually and, one presumed, physically, but her readiness to strain the law in pursuit of her animal rights causes was a ticking bomb for a working cop. On the other hand it struck him as one of God’s better jokes that after many years of heavy-handed jesting about Ellie’s unbecoming behaviour as a political activist, Dalziel should find himself hoist with the same petard.

‘What are you grinning at?’ demanded Ellie.

‘Just smiling with pleasure at having you here,’ he said.

‘I hope so. I can’t stay long. Rosie’s rehearsal finishes at seven.’

Pascoe shuddered. Public performances by the school orchestra in which his daughter played the clarinet were bad enough. He couldn’t bear to think what a rehearsal must sound like.

‘Didn’t she want to visit me?’ he asked plaintively.

‘Of course she did. But no point in traumatizing the kid. I wanted to be sure you weren’t going to be too much of a shock to the system, so I told her the hospital had banned child visits till tomorrow.’

‘I’ll be coming home tomorrow,’ protested Pascoe. ‘I really do feel fine, no matter what the amateur psychiatrists say.’

‘Let’s wait and see what John says,’ said Ellie. ‘They may need to do more tests.’

‘You know me,’ said Pascoe confidently. ‘Show me a test, I sail through it.’

‘Yeah? Well let’s try this one,’ said Ellie.

She leaned forward and kissed him long and hard, at the same time slipping her hand beneath the bed sheet.

After about thirty seconds she pulled back and said, ‘Yes, you seem to be making firm progress.’

‘Better than you imagine,’ said Pascoe rather hoarsely. ‘Test me again.’

‘I think once is enough at this stage in your convalescence,’ she said primly.

‘You reckon? Do you think the NHS trains its nurses in this technique?’

‘Yes, but you need BUPA for that. By the way, that nice matronly woman with the Scottish accent, who is she exactly?’

‘Sandy Glenister? She’s a Chief Super from the anti-terrorist unit.’

‘I thought that’s what she said, but I wasn’t paying too much attention.’

‘So what did you talk about?’

‘I don’t know. You, I suppose.’

‘Me?’ said Pascoe, alarmed. ‘What did you tell her?’

‘What do you think I told her?’ retorted Ellie indignantly. ‘Where you’ve stashed all that drug money you’ve stolen? I was upset, believe it or not, and she was kind.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe placatingly. ‘She does seem very kind. All the same, better check your purse and change your PINs.’

Ellie smiled the smile of a woman confident that no one of either sex could sweet-talk her out of anything she didn’t want to give.

‘I’d better go,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘Last time I was late picking Rosie up from rehearsal, I found her sitting on the school wall, playing her clarinet. There was some change on the ground in front of her, but I suspect she’d put it there herself.’

‘Pity,’ said Pascoe. ‘Nice if she could be self-supporting. Give her my love. And tell her I’ll see her tomorrow.’

‘Yeah. Pete, what shall I tell her about Andy? I think she needs to know how bad things are, just in case…’

‘In case what?’ snapped Pascoe. ‘Sorry. Tell her the truth; that’s what we’ve always tried, isn’t it? But keep it cool, yes?’

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘By the way, they gave me what was left of your clothes. I went through your trouser pockets before I dumped them. Found a dental plate.’

‘It’s Andy’s,’ he said. ‘Clean it up, will you? He’ll want it when…’

His voice creaked into silence.

‘I’ll clean it,’ said Ellie, stooping to kiss him. ‘Now I’ve got to dash. But you won’t be lonely. I think I spotted another visitor lurking.’

She grinned as she spoke and a few moments later Pascoe realized why. The door slowly opened and a dolorous visage appeared, its brow puckered with uncertainty, like a sheep contemplating a gap in the hedge which separated its field from a busy motorway.

‘Hector,’ he said. ‘Nice of you to visit. Or are you just looking for the lavatory?’

He was surprised to hear himself make the joke. Usually he made a conscious effort not to join in the friendly piss-taking which Hector provoked among his colleagues.

Maybe somewhere deep inside, or not so deep, I blame him, he thought. If it hadn’t been for Hector, none of this would have started. Or if someone else had started it, then perhaps Dalziel would have taken it more seriously. Or…

He pushed the thoughts aside and forced a smile.

‘Come in then,’ he said. ‘Have a seat.’

Slowly Hector advanced. Like many lanky men, he walked with his head held low and thrust forward, as if to distract attention from his height. At moments of maximum uncertainty, which were many, the posture was so exaggerated that he put Pascoe in mind of those men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders that Desdemona seemed to find a turn-on. Dalziel, less literary but in his own way just as poetic, had once said to him, ‘For God’s sake, straighten thyself up, lad. You look like someone’s hung your tunic on a coat hanger with you still in it!’

Perched on the edge of the chair, he stared fixedly at Pascoe.

‘So,’ said Pascoe heartily. ‘And how are things down at the factory? I mean, the Station. The Police Station.’

It was as well to be precise in your intercourse with Hector.

‘OK,’ said Hector. ‘I mean, everyone’s dead worried about you and Mr Dalziel, but.’

‘Are they? Well, you can tell them I’m doing fine. And the Super, well, we’ll just have to wait and see.’

There followed a long silence and Pascoe was thinking about bringing the visit to an end with a plea of fatigue when Hector burst out, ‘Is it true he’s going to die, sir?’

‘I hope not,’ said Pascoe, touched by the degree of concern shown. ‘But I’m afraid he is very ill. Look, Hector, you shouldn’t blame yourself…’

‘Blame who, sir?’ said Hector, screwing up his eyes in the effort of concentration.

Whoops, thought Pascoe. Got that wrong, didn’t I. Whatever’s bothering Hector, it’s not a sense of guilt.

‘Blame anyone,’ he said. ‘It’s no one’s fault. Just one of those awful things that can happen to anyone.’

Hector nodded vigorously, very much at home with the concept of awful things that could happen to anyone but which for some reason were more likely to happen to him.

‘I gather you’ve been talking to Mrs Glenister,’ Pascoe went on; then, observing a familiar blankness spreading across Hector’s face, he added, ‘Chief Superintendent Glenister from the anti-terrorism unit.’

‘Glenister?’ said Hector. ‘Joker said her name were Sinister. Her who speaks funny?’

Deafness clearly hadn’t affected Constable Jennison’s love of a laugh, thought Pascoe, for which I suppose we ought to be grateful.

‘Yes, she does. It’s called a Scottish accent. That’s Mrs Glenister all right. I hope you were able to help her.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Hector, very positive. ‘Kept on asking about the men I saw in the shop. Asking and asking. I started getting a bit confused but Mrs Sinister—sorry, Mrs Glenister—said not to worry as the men I saw must have got blown up anyway. Then she helped me with my report.’

‘That was nice of her,’ said Pascoe. ‘And it’s nice of you to come visiting. But I’m a bit tired now, Hector…’

He paused and started counting to fifty. Dropping a hint to Hector was like turning on an old-fashioned wireless. You had to wait for the valves to warm up.

At forty-six, Hector stood up and said, ‘I’d best be going.’

He took a step towards the door. then turned back.

‘Nearly forgot,’ he said. ‘Brought you this—’

Out of the depths of his tunic jacket he took a paper bag which he placed carefully on the bedside locker. Then he set off again, this time reaching the door before he halted once more.

‘Sir,’ he said. ‘I hope Mr Dalziel doesn’t die. He’s been very good to me.’

Then he was gone, leaving Pascoe only a little less amazed than he would have been if the angel Gabriel had popped in to tell him he’d been chosen to have a baby.

He settled back into his pillows to contemplate the nature of the Fat Man’s goodness towards Hector, noticed the paper bag on his locker, reached out and picked it up.

It contained, rather squashed but not beyond recognition, a custard tart.

‘Oh shit,’ said Pascoe.

And suddenly for some reason beyond reason, the barrier he’d been erecting both consciously and unconsciously between himself and the events in Mill Street crumbled like the walls of Number 3, and when the nurse looked in to check that all was well, she found him with his face buried in his pillow, sobbing convulsively.

Part Two

The Days that we can spareAre those a Function dieOr Friend or Nature—stranded thenIn our EconomyOur Estimates a Scheme—OurUltimates a Sham—We let go all of Time withoutArithmetic of him—

Emily Dickinson, ‘Poem 1184’

1 a tidy desk

On the third day, there were many in Mid-Yorkshire not normally noted for their religious fervour who would have been unsurprised to hear that Dalziel had taken up his hospital bed, hurled it out of the window, and walked away.

But in an age of digital TV and the mobile phone, commonplace miracles have gone out of fashion, so the day dawned and departed with the Fat Man still comatose.

Pascoe, on the other hand, did manage to rise and limp away, not through divine intervention, but by dint of nagging Dr John Sowden into discharging him, though only on the strict understanding that he took a minimum of seven days convalescent leave.

On his second day home he announced his intention of dropping in at work to see how things were going.

Ellie’s objections were forceful in expression and wide in range, starting with medical diagnostics and ending with reflections on his mental stability. When she paused for breath, Pascoe said, ‘You’re absolutely right, love. About everything. Only, I feel that, here at home, I’m not pulling for Andy. I know it’s daft, and me going back to work isn’t going to make the slightest difference. But somehow it feels like it might.’

Ellie said, ‘You and your daughter, you’re both mad. But you’d better go. It’s going to be bad enough if the fat bastard dies without you feeling personally responsible.’

In her mind, Ellie had already given up on Dalziel and was gathering her strength to deal with the aftermath of his death. She did not doubt it would be traumatic, like losing a…Here her imagination failed her. Like losing what? No human simile fitted. Humans went. It was their nature. You grieved. You got on with living. But Dalziel, when he went it would be like losing a mountain. Every time you saw the space where it had been, you’d be reminded nothing was for ever, that even the very majesty of nature was only smoke and mirrors.

If anything she was more worried about her daughter than her husband. Peter knew that his reaction was daft. OK, he still went ahead, but he knew. Rosie, by contrast, had reacted to the news of Uncle Andy’s coma with apparent indifference. When Ellie had gently tried to make sure she understood the seriousness of the situation, she had reversed the roles and with the patience of mature experience addressing childish uncertainty replied. ‘Uncle Andy will wake up when he wants to, don’t you see?’

Ellie had promised herself when Rosie was born that she would never be anything but completely honest with her daughter. Often her resolution had been strained close to breaking point, but she’d always tried. Now she nodded and said, ‘Let’s hope so, love. Let’s hope so. But he is very ill and we’ve got to face it: maybe he’s so ill that he wouldn’t want to wake up, and he’ll just die. I’m sorry.’

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 there 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, he was limping, wincing and breathing hard. Edgar Wield followed him into his office 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 co-operate fully. So far that’s meant pointing Glenister and her men towards 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 office 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.

‘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 own men 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, Trimble could be quite formidable. Clearly he wanted now.

‘Decisions have been made. Your job when you return officially 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 there 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 Office 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?’

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 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, ‘Some-one’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 favours 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 non-plussed 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 cable showed. On a wall-board were pinned six photos, three showing the remains found in the ruins of Mill Street, each connected to a headshot of a man, two of them distinctly Asian in colouring and feature, the third less so. Beneath each photo was a name. Umar Surus, Ali Awan, and Hani Baraniq.

‘Surus and Awan are positive ID’s,’ said Glenister. ‘We have dental records and, in Awan’s case, DNA. Baraniq isn’t positive yet but we’re eighty per cent 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 put 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 enquired 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, all the while regarding Pascoe as if he carried a flaming 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.

‘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 official notebook that bothered Hector so much as the idea of his colleagues knowing that he drew pictures. Everyone needs a secret, he 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 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 colour 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, 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 super-league as Edgar Wield, who it was rumoured could hack into Downing Street to check out what anti-wrinkle cream the PM used, Pascoe regarded himself as premier division, IT-speaking. As he gingerly accessed the file 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 photos, both still and moving, of the rubble. He lingered here a while 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.

After scrolling through it twice, he asked, ‘Where’s the gun?’

‘Sorry?’ said Freeman at his shoulder.

Pascoe got in a bit of payback, blanking him for a second before swivelling round in search of Glenister who he discovered had moved across to the wall-board.

‘Where’s the gun?’ he said. ‘Hector reported that one of the men he saw had a gun. There’s no gun mentioned here.’

‘Peter,’ said the woman, ‘despite your admirable loyalty to Constable Hector, you’ve admitted yourself that, when it comes to detail, he’s not the most reliable of witnesses. In fact, wasn’t it Hector’s involvement that made Mr Dalziel so sure there was no man with a gun on the premises that he took the reckless action he did?’

Reckless. Shit on Dalziel, shit on Hector, in fact, shit on Mid-Yorkshire policework generally. He thought he was getting the message.

He stood up and said, ‘Thanks, Dave,’ to Freeman.

‘Any time, Pete.’

Pete. Was this kid his own rank? Or just a cheeky sergeant?

Neither, the answer came to him. The C in CAT stood for combined. Freeman was a spook. Did Trimble know that Glenister had imported non-police personnel into the Station? Of course he did! Pascoe answered himself angrily. He was getting as paranoid as Andy Dalziel about the security services.

Glenister was observing him as if his reactions were scrolling across his forehead.

He went up to her and said brusquely, ‘So what’s the state of play now?’

‘Complex. We’re working backwards and forwards at the same time, trying to trace where all this explosive we didn’t know about came from, and what it was they planned to do with it. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Peter. I’ll get your PC linked to our network here so you’ll have everything at your fingertips and not need to wear a hole in the corridor running along here every time you need an update. But do drop in any time you need to. For obvious reasons we need to have a bit of a firewall between us and the rest of the Station. But as far as you’re concerned, you’re fireproof. And I’m hoping it will be two-way traffic. Anything you think may help, don’t hesitate. You’re the man on the spot. Your input could be invaluable.’

It was an exit-cue if ever he’d heard one.

But for all her vibrantly sincere assurances, as Pascoe returned to his own office he felt less like a protagonist with big speeches still to come than an attendant lord, fit to swell a progress or start a scene or two.

In fact it occurred to him as his ribs twinged and his knee began to ache that at the moment he didn’t actually feel fit enough even for those walk-on roles.

And when Edgar Wield looked in twenty minutes later and found him half slumped across his desk, he made no protest as the sergeant escorted him down the stairs to the car park and drove him home.

2 show business

Archambaud de St Agnan said, ‘Aren’t we too close?’

‘For what?’ said Andre de Montbard. ‘He’s used to being followed. That’s what makes it so easy.’

Ahead of them, the silver Saab turned right into a long street of tall Edwardian houses and came to a halt after about fifty yards. Andre pulled the black Jaguar into the kerb some three car lengths behind.

The driver of the Saab got out. He was a tall, athletically built man with shoulder-length hair and a lean intelligent face with a neat black moustache beneath an aquiline nose. Pausing beneath a street lamp to look back at the Jaguar, he put his hands together and made a small perfunctory bow before running lightly up the steps, inserting a key and vanishing through the door.

‘Cheeky sod,’ said Andre. ‘Thinks he’s bullet proof. He’s due a reality check.’

He got out, opened the back door and took out a sports bag.

‘You OK?’ he said to Archambaud who hadn’t moved.

‘Yeah. Fine.’

Andre said, ‘Listen, it’s OK to be scared. Really. Ones I always looked for were the ones who didn’t look scared first time out. Remember what they did to your uncle, OK? All you’ve got to do is give him a tap, I’ll be taking care of the serious stuff. Crap yourself if you must, so long as you don’t freeze, OK?’

Managing a smile, Archambaud said, ‘I’ll try to avoid both.’

‘So let’s do it.’

They walked quickly along the pavement and climbed the steps of the house. Andre glanced down the list of names by the bell-pushes, selected the one marked Mazraani and pressed.

After a short delay a voice came over the intercom.

‘Gentlemen, how can I help you?’

‘Just like a quick word, sir,’ said Andre.

‘By all means. Won’t you come up?’

They heard the wards of the door lock click open.

‘See? Easy.’

They went inside. There was a lift but Andre ignored it and set off up the stairs.

The flat they wanted was on the second floor. They rang the bell. When the door opened, they went in. There were two men in the room, which was conventionally furnished with a sofa and easy chair, a hi-fi system from which, turned well down, came the voice of a woman singing in Arabic, and heavy oak dining table with four matching chairs. The tall man from the Saab was standing in front of the table, facing them. The other man, in his twenties with a wispy beard, sat in the easy chair. He was smoking a richly scented cigarette and avoided eye contact with the newcomers.

‘Evening, Mr Mazraani,’ said Andre to the tall man. ‘And this is…?’

‘My cousin, Fikri. He’s staying with me for a few days.’

‘That’s nice. Anyone else in the flat?’

‘No. Just the two of us,’ he replied.

‘Mind if we check that? Arch.’

Archambaud went out of a door to the left. After a few moments he came back into the living room and said, ‘Clear.’

‘So now we can perhaps get down to what brings you here. Won’t you introduce yourselves? For the tape?’

Mazraani’s voice was bland and urbane. He seemed almost to be enjoying the situation, by contrast with the other man who looked resentful and apprehensive.

Andre said, ‘Certainly, sir. I’m called Andre de Montbard, Andy to my friends. And my colleague is Mr Archambaud de St Agnan. He’s got no friends. And this lady singing is, I’d say, the famous Elissa? Compatriot of yours, I believe? Gorgeous girl. Lovely voice, and those big amber eyes! I’m a great fan.’

He moved to the hi-fi and turned up the volume, using his index knuckle.

Then he set his sports bag on the table, unzipped it, reached inside and took out an automatic pistol with a silencer attached.

A look of disbelief touched Mazraani’s features but the seated man did not even have time to register fear before Andre shot him between the eyes from short range.

‘Sorry about that, sir, but we wanted to talk to you privately,’ said Andre. ‘So why don’t you just relax and we’ll have that drink.’

Horror at what he’d just seen had paralysed Mazraani. He stood there looking down at the body, blinking now and then as if trying to clear the image from his vision, his mouth open but no words coming out.

Andre nodded at his companion, who looked almost as shocked as Mazraani.

‘Wake up, Arch!’ snapped Andre.

The man called de St Agnan gave a twitch, then reached into his pocket, took out a leaden cosh and swung it against Mazraani’s neck with tremendous force. He gave a choking groan and sank to his knees.

‘There, that wasn’t difficult, was it?’ said Andre. ‘And unless my nose has got stuffed up, you’ve not even crapped yourself yet. Now it’s show time.’

He went back to the sports bag and took out a video camera which he passed to Archambaud. Next came a black hood with eye-holes which he pulled over his head, then a pair of long latex gloves which he put on.

Now he took out a length of polished wood, about two and half feet long, like the extension butt of a snooker cue. And finally he drew forth a bin-liner from which he took a gleaming steel cleaver blade, six inches deep and eighteen inches long, with a threaded tail of another eight inches which he screwed into the end of the wooden butt.

Mazraani was trying to rise. Archambaud raised the cosh again but Andre said, ‘No need for that, Arch. Here, sir, let’s give you a hand.’

He placed one of the dining chairs on its side in front of the stricken man, then pushed him forward so that his head rested over the chair back.

‘Just get your breath, sir,’ said Andre. ‘Arch, you ready?’

‘Do we really need this…?’ said Archambaud uneasily.

‘Main point of the exercise. Just point the fucking thing and try to keep it steady.’

He pushed the tall man’s long hair forward over his head to leave the neck clear, grasped the polished wood of the butt and raised the glistening blade high above his head.

‘You rolling?’

‘Yes,’ said Archambaud in a low voice.

‘Then here we go!’

The blade came crashing down.

It took three blows before the severed head fell on to the carpet.

‘All that practise with logs, thought I’d have done it in one,’ said Andre. ‘You OK?’

Archambaud managed a nod. He was pale and shaking but he still held the camera pointed at the body.

‘Good man,’ said Andre.

He wiped the blade on the bearded man’s robe before unscrewing it from the handle and dropping it into the bin-liner, which he replaced in the sports bag.

‘Now all we need are the credits then we’re out of here.’

From the bag he took a cardboard tube about eighteen inches long out of which he pushed a paper scroll. This he unrolled to reveal it was covered with Arab symbols. After checking it was the right way up, he held it before the camera for thirty seconds.

‘OK,’ he said, replacing the scroll in the tube. ‘You can turn that thing off now. Time to go. You touch anything out there?’

‘Just the door handles and I wiped them.’

‘Great,’ he said, removing the hood and dropping it into the bag. ‘We make a good team. Morecambe and fucking Wise, that’s us. In fact, let’s see…’

He looked at his watch.

‘Four minutes thirty since we came through the door. I gave us five, and I was only expecting one of them. Now that’s what I call show business!’

3 walking the dog

After his first attempt to get back to work, Pascoe spent the next two days in bed. On the third he was feeling recovered enough to insist that he was only going to spend another day on his back if Ellie joined him, which she did, purely on medical grounds, she said, which in fact turned out to be true as she cunningly contrived to leave him so exhausted that when he woke again, it was the morning of the fourth day.

He appeared so much better that Ellie had few qualms about letting him take their daughter’s dog Tig out for a stroll after lunch.

‘You won’t be taking the car?’ she said.

‘Of course not. I’m going for a walk, remember?’ he retorted.

Satisfied that this amounted to an assurance he wasn’t going anywhere near Police HQ, she waved him goodbye before heading into her ‘study’ to get on with some very necessary work on her second novel.

(If asked—which few people dared—how things were going, Ellie would reply that it was one of the great myths of publishing that the most difficult thing of all was to follow up the success of a universally acclaimed first novel. No, the really difficult thing was to produce a second novel after your first had attracted as much attention as a fart in a thunderstorm.)

Now she re-immersed herself in her book, confident that all she needed to do here to produce a bestseller was apply the same subtle understanding of human nature that she had just demonstrated in her management of her husband.

Meanwhile, two streets away, Pascoe was climbing into a car driven by Edgar Wield, who wasn’t happy.

‘Ellie’s going to kill me when she finds out,’ he said.

‘Relax. She’ll not find out,’ said Pascoe confidently.

Wield didn’t reply. In his experience there were two people who always found out, and one of them was Ellie Pascoe.

The other was still lying in a coma.

‘So what’s Sinister Sandy up to?’ said Pascoe.

‘Oh, this and that,’ said Wield vaguely.

Pascoe looked at him suspiciously.

‘Start with this, then move on to that,’ he ordered.

‘Well, she plays her anti-terrorist stuff pretty close, that’s understandable,’ said Wield. ‘But with us being a bit short-handed at the top, it’s been a real help her being an old mucker of Desperate Dan’s. She keeps well back from the hands-on stuff, of course—says it’s our patch, so it should be our call—but when it comes to structuring organization and paperwork, she’s really got on top of things. Now it’s not just Andy who knows what’s going off, it’s the lot of us.’

Pascoe’s suspicions were thickening by the second. Praise from Wield on matters of organization was praise indeed. Well, he was entitled to call it like he saw it. But that crack about Dalziel came close to high treason.

He said, ‘You sound like you’re a convert, Wieldy. Hey, you didn’t tell her I rang this morning, did you?’

‘What do you think I am?’ said Wield, hurt. ‘Anyway, she had to drive down to Nottingham. The Carradice trial’s started and she’s involved.’

‘Involved in the great cock-up, is she?’ said Pascoe not without satisfaction. ‘God, and she’s the one calling the shots in our investigation!’

They drove the rest of the way to their destination in silence except for the excited panting of Tig, who always insisted on having a car window open sufficiently for him to stick his snout out. Basically a terrier, he condescended to treat most humans as equals on condition they fed him, played games to his rules, and took him on adventurous walks, all that is except Rosie Pascoe, whom he had elected Queen of the Universe.

Now as the car came to a halt the little dog tried to squeeze the rest of his body through the narrow gap in his eagerness to explore what to him was new terrain.

‘So here we are,’ said Wield. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘Just take a look,’ said Pascoe. ‘No harm in that, is there?’

They were parked at the end of Mill Street. The rubble of the wrecked terrace had not yet been cleared away and barriers had been set up at either end of the street. A PC Pascoe recognized as a probationer called Andersen regarded them suspiciously till Wield wound down the window and waved.

‘Taking their time, tidying up,’ observed Pascoe. ‘That down to Glenister?’

‘I suppose. But the Council Works Department are still assessing damage to the viaduct wall. Word is it looks OK and they’re starting running trains over it again with a ten miles per hour speed restriction. The diversions were causing absolute chaos.’

‘So bad folk noticed, you mean?’ said Pascoe. ‘What about our royal visitant?’

‘Coming by chopper. What he prefers anyway.’

‘I see the papers are taking it as read that his train was the target,’ said Pascoe.

‘Keeps them happy,’ said Wield. ‘Glenister says she’s keeping an open mind.’

‘So you have been chatting about the case?’ said Pascoe.

‘Like I said, she’s approachable. And the PC in your office is on the CAT network, like she promised.’

‘Very cosy. Have you managed to check how many no-go areas are built in?’

‘Jesus, Pete,’ protested the sergeant. ‘She’s falling over herself to keep us happy. You think I’m going to help matters trying to trip her up? Even if she does hold back a bit, I bet not even Trimble’s got the clearance you need to know all that CAT stuff.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Pascoe shortly. ‘So let’s go and take a look before young Andersen there follows orders and shoots us.’

They got out and went towards the barrier.

Andersen greeted them with a smart salute, then took out his notebook.

‘No need for that,’ said Pascoe smiling. ‘This is sort of unofficial official. Must be a bit boring for you, just hanging around here.’

‘Doesn’t seem much point to it,’ agreed the youngster disconsolately.

‘Not to worry,’ said Pascoe. ‘As long as you’re appreciated where it matters, eh? I’ll have a word with Mr Ireland, see if he can’t find you something a little more testing.’

‘Thanks very much, sir,’ said Andersen, delighted.

‘You really going to start telling Paddy Ireland how he should deploy his men?’ said Wield as they walked towards the ruined terrace.

‘I may suggest diplomatically that there are better ways of nurturing youthful enthusiasm than giving it all the most boring jobs,’ replied Pascoe.

Wield gave a grunt which was in itself a masterpiece of diplomacy, conveying the message You must be out of your tiny mind without getting close to a definably insubordinate phoneme.

Pascoe wasn’t paying attention anyway. He was recalling that day, so close still yet feeling as if it belonged in the historical past, when he’d risen from behind the car and taken those last few steps in the wake of Dalziel.

The wake of Dalziel. Not the best omened of phrases.

He shook it out of his mind and concentrated on the collapsed terrace into which Tig was already plunging with great delight, sending up clouds of white dust.

‘Any traces of asbestos?’ he asked, suddenly alarmed.

‘No, you’re OK,’ said Wield, glancing in a plastic folder. ‘Don’t think expensive fire-retardant materials had much appeal for the guys who built houses like these.’

‘That Jim Lipton’s report you’ve got there?’ said Pascoe.

Lipton was the Chief Fire Officer.

‘That’s right.’

‘What about the CAT stuff? If I know them, they wouldn’t be happy till they got their own experts in to second-guess the local yokel.’

‘Tried to access it, but they’ve got a firewall even Jim ‘ud find it hard to chop down,’ said Wield.

‘So you have been checking!’ said Pascoe, thinking that IT protection that kept Wield out had to be serious gear.

‘Only because I didn’t want to draw attention, this visit being so accidental.’

‘Quite right,’ said Pascoe. ‘So what’s Jim say?’

‘The way this place was built, the blast reduced it to matchwood, which was very handy for the fire. Site of the big bang was definitely Number 3. Relatively small amount of damage to the viaduct wall suggests that if it was their intention to plant the explosive there, they hadn’t yet started their excavation.’

‘Anything on the explosive?’

‘Not from Jim. Not his bag. But it was definitely Semtex.’

‘Your friend Glenister tell you that?’

‘No, I got chatting to one of her officers. Nice lad.’

Pascoe raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Wieldy, I hope you remembered you’re a happily married man.’

The sergeant and his partner, Edwin Digweed, had taken advantage of the new legislation formalizing same-sex relationships soon after it came into force. The Pascoes and Dalziel had attended the ceremony, which was a quiet affair. The party which followed in their local pub, the Morris, was far from quiet, but, rather surprisingly in view of Wield’s profession, neither ceremony nor celebration caused the least ripple of interest in the local media. Surprisingly, that was, to everyone except Pascoe. He’d expressed the hope to Dalziel that, despite the two Eds’ declared determination to live their lives as they wanted, there’d be no intrusive media presence. The Fat Man had replied, ‘Shame. I were looking forward to seeing our Wieldy as Bride of the Month in Mid-Yorkshire Life. But mebbe you’re right. I’ll have a word.’

It was generally believed that if Dalziel had had a word, news of the death of Little Nell would not yet have reached Mid-Yorkshire.

‘Get anything else from this nice lad?’ enquired Pascoe.

‘Nay. Sandy Glenister came along just then and he were off like a linty.’

‘So much for her open sharing policy.’

‘I think you’ve got her wrong,’ said Wield. ‘She answers all my questions, or if she doesn’t, she tells me why. She reckons they were probably setting up a detonator device and something went wrong.’

‘It certainly went wrong for Andy,’ said Pascoe grimly.

‘It started going wrong before that,’ said Wield. ‘It started going wrong when he decided not to follow instructions.’

‘Got that in one of your cosy chats, did you?’ snapped Pascoe.

Wield did not acknowledge the question but after a short silence said gently, ‘Pete, what exactly are we doing here?’

What indeed? thought Pascoe. It was a desolate scene. The hot sunny spell was long gone, the temperature was distinctly unsummerish, clouds scudded overhead on a gusty wind which picked up handfuls of ash and created little dust-devils in the gloomy cleft formed by the looming mill and the railway viaduct. To explain he was here because of some crazy notion that only by finding out exactly what had happened in this place could he hope to keep Andy Dalziel alive would make him sound positively doolally.

He said, ‘A crime was committed here. That’s my job, investigating crime.’

It came out more pompous and dismissive than he intended.

Wield said, ‘So you’re going to do your great detective act and sift through the ashes and find a clue the CAT team missed?’

The open sarcasm was no more than he deserved, thought Pascoe.

Trying to lighten things, he said, ‘No, I’ll leave that to Tig. What have you got there, boy?’

Tig, a great snapper up of unconsidered and often insanitary trifles, came to them like his own ghost, covered in white dust and carrying something in his mouth.

Pascoe stopped to accept the gift, wincing as his ribs reminded him that they might be ignorable when he was dallying with his wife, but at all other times, they could still crack a sharp whip.

It was a piece of plastic, fused into a bolus by the intense heat of the fire.

‘One of the videos, I expect,’ said Wield. ‘The report says there was hardly anything left identifiable.’

Pascoe threw it away, which was a mistake. Tig went after it with a delighted yelp, raising an even denser cloud of dust and ash. He was going to need a thorough brushing before he came in sight of Ellie.

‘We’ve got company,’ said Wield.

‘Shit,’ said Pascoe.

A car had drawn up by the barrier. Out of it stepped a blond-haired elegantly suited figure he recognized as Dave Freeman, Glenister’s attendant spook.

He came towards them, a faint smile on his too regular face.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Nice to see you up and about again, Pete.’

Pascoe resisted an urge to come over regimental and insist on his rank.

‘Just out for a stroll, Dave. With my daughter’s dog.’

On cue, Tig, having retrieved his bit of plastic melt-down, returned to wag his tail at the newcomer. Pascoe was childishly pleased to see some of the ash thus redistributed drift on to Freeman’s immaculate shoes.

‘And you’re out for a stroll too, Sergeant?’ the CAT man said to Wield, who Pascoe noted had slipped the plastic folder under his shirt.

‘Sir,’ said the sergeant.

Wield’s sir coming from a face as expressionless as a quarry wall was so neutral it could have been Swiss.

‘How about you, Dave? What brings you here?’ enquired Pascoe.

‘Just here to see the site clearance people get a start. Sometimes a JCB can uncover something a finger search has missed.’

‘You think you might have missed something?’ said Pascoe with ironic incredulity.

‘It happens. We can only try to be less fallible than the opposition,’ said Freeman.

‘What’s that,’ said Pascoe, ‘CAT calendar quote for July?’

Even Wield looked slightly surprised at this heavy-handed mockery.

‘One thing you did miss, sir,’ he came in quickly. ‘Or mebbe it’s me that’s missed it. But looking through the file I didn’t see any mention of the keyholder at Number 6.’

‘Number 6?’ said Freeman.

‘Yes, sir. The only other premises in the terrace still occupied. Crofts & Wills, patent agents.’

They all looked towards Number 6. The blast from Number 3 had ripped Numbers 4 and 5 apart but hadn’t been quite strong enough to bring down the gable of the end house, which was presumably made of sterner stuff than the internal separating walls. The fire which followed the blast had done its best but there was still a good fifteen feet or so of blackened brickwork standing.

‘Someone checked them out,’ said Freeman off-handedly. ‘Seems they were going out of business and had cleared their office that weekend. Lucky break. For them, I mean.’

‘Funny place for a Patents Agency, Mill Street,’ observed Pascoe.

‘Indeed. Could be that’s why they went out of business,’ said Freeman.

Pascoe didn’t reply but set out towards the end of the terrace.

‘Shouldn’t get too close to that wall,’ called Wield. ‘Doesn’t look very safe.’

Pascoe ignored him. Like a child determined to demonstrate its independence, he went right up to the derelict wall and peered through the gap where a door had been blown out, its aluminium frame still hanging drunkenly from its hinges. Here he had a view down the whole length of the terrace to the matching wall of Number 1 which, having only one intervening house to cushion the blast, had taken a harder hit and at its highest point rose no more than five feet from the ground.

What the fuck am I doing here? Pascoe asked himself. What is it I expect? That those little swirls of dust and ash raised by Tig will shape themselves into the wraith of one of the poor bastards who blew himself up here? And even if that did happen, what would I want to ask him?

He turned away and rejoined the other two. As he did so, two trucks, one of them carrying a JCB, came rolling up to the barrier.

‘Here come the horny-handed sons of toil,’ said Freeman. ‘No rush though, Peter. First thing they’ll do is erect a canvas hut and get a brew going, so plenty of time to complete your examination of the site.’

He’s taking the piss, thought Pascoe.

He said, ‘Right, Wieldy. Let’s be off,’ and with a curt nod, he set off to the car.

‘Seems a nice enough guy,’ said the sergeant falling into step.

‘You reckon? Your type, is he, Wieldy?’

‘Could be he’s a bi-guy,’ said Wield equably. ‘But if you mean, do I fancy him, then no. All I meant was, he’s polite and helpful. You don’t agree?’

‘He’s a spook,’ said Pascoe. ‘Probably a prick too. It’s a condition of service.’

He got into the car. Tig followed dustily, dropping his lump of melted plastic on to the floor and taking his place at the open window.

‘Where now?’ said Wield. ‘Back home?’

‘Not with Tig in this state. He needs a swim in the river, so drop me by the park.’

He reached down to pick up Tig’s trophy, intending to drop it out of the window, but as he retrieved it, he felt something move inside. He raised it to his ear and gave it a shake. It rattled. Wield glanced at him.

‘Thinking of taking up the maracas?’ he asked.

‘Only if I can hold a rose between my teeth,’ said Pascoe, pocketing the piece of plastic. ‘Wieldy, sorry about what I said. About you and Freeman and Glenister, I mean.’

‘No problem, long as you let me take a picture of you with the rose.’

‘You’ll be the first, I promise you that!’

The two men smiled at each other. Wield removed the file from under his shirt and passed it over to Pascoe. Tig barked joyously at a passing starling.

Behind them, in Mill Street, Dave Freeman talked into his mobile phone.

4 dead men don’t fart!

Andy Dalziel is floating uneasily above Mid-Yorkshire.

His unease derives not from his ability to defy gravity, which seems quite natural, but his fear that someone below might mistake him for a zeppelin and shoot him down.

Not that England is currently at war with anyone likely to use zeppelins.

On the other hand what lies directly beneath him does look a bit like a bomb site.

It occurs to him that this might be exactly what it is. Hard to identify even the familiar from above, but isn’t that the old wool mill…and over there the railway line with a no-man’s land of desolation between…?

And don’t the spirits of the dead come back to haunt the place where they passed away?

But he’d shaken off Death, hadn’t he?

A starling circles him twice, then settles on his shoulder.

‘Watch what you’re doing up there,’ says Dalziel, squinting at it. ‘I’m not a fucking statue.’

The bird’s beady eyes fix on his. With its smooth gleaming head hunched down between its folded wings, it reminds him of…Hector!

‘Sod off!’ commands Dalziel. ‘I’m not dead!’

The bird’s gaze communicates an indifference worse than mockery.

The Fat Man feels his gut twist and tauten.

The pressure becomes intolerable.

He breaks wind.

The relief is huge and more than physical.

‘Dead men don’t fart!’ he cries triumphantly.

The starling rises from off his shoulder and flutters before his face as though contemplating sinking its arrowhead beak into his eyes.

Dalziel breaks wind again, this time with such force he gets lift-off and accelerates into the bright blue yonder like a Cape Canaveral rocket. Soon the startled starling is nothing more than a distant mote, high above which an overweight, middleaged detective superintendent at last realizes the Peter Pan fantasy of his early childhood and laughs with sheer delight as he tumbles and soars between the scudding clouds of a Mid-Yorkshire sky.

5 age of wonders

The following day, Pascoe was back at work.

Ellie, as omnivident as Wield had feared, did not take long to find out about the expedition to Mill Street.

She’d been too deeply immersed in her writing to pay much heed when Pascoe and Tig returned from their walk. A swim in the river had removed all the ashy evidence from the dog’s coat and Ellie’s creative absorption had given Pascoe plenty of time to brush the tell-tale dust from his shoes and turn-ups. But when she came down from Parnassus to find him in the garage, carefully sawing a bolus of melted plastic in half, her suspicions were instantly roused and a very little application of that wifely knife, deep questioning, soon probed the truth out of him almost at the same time as he probed a small lump of impacted metal out of the plastic.

‘Wait till I see Edgar!’ she threatened, her anger evidenced by her use of the sergeant’s first name instead of the usual Wieldy.

‘Not his fault,’ said Pascoe loyally. ‘I’m his superior officer. I ordered him.’

‘Hah!’ said Ellie, conveying her low estimate of the authority of orders from such a tainted source. Then, sensing that her husband was less concerned about her wrath at the discovery of his perfidy than he ought to be, she said, ‘So what have you got there?’

‘I would say it’s probably a bullet,’ said Pascoe, holding the distorted sphere of metal to the light. ‘From a gun.’

‘I know where bullets come from.’

‘I’m sure you do. But this is a rather special gun. It’s invisible to a CAT’s eye, you see. Of course, it might just be a metal spool in a cassette, melted by the heat.’

She detected that this rider owed more to superstition than to doubt.

‘So what does it mean?’ she said.

‘I’ve no idea. But it could prove something which in the past only the most fanciful of speculators have even dared hint the possibility of. Hector might have got something right. What’s for tea?’

Next morning he was up at his normal time. Ellie like a master tactician knew when protest was pointless and fed him his breakfast without comment, except to say as he kissed her goodbye, ‘Pete, you’re not going to do anything silly, are you?’

‘Good Lord, no,’ he said. ‘This could be evidence. I’ll hand it over to Glenister.’

But not, he added silently to himself, before I’ve made sure it really is evidence!

Which was why his first call was not at the Station but at the Police Laboratory, where he made it monosyllabically clear to Tony Pollock, the head technician, that he didn’t want it done soon, he wanted it done now.

As a life-long Leeds United supporter, Pollock was well equipped to deal with whatever crap life could hurl, but even he remarked to his assistant, ‘With that fat bastard in a coma I thought we might get a bit of peace and quiet from CID.’

‘Aye,’ said the assistant. Adding, not unimpressed, ‘Never would have thought the DCI knew words like that.’

The result was what Pascoe had hoped for, what he’d expected.

He found Sandy Glenister once more sitting behind Dalziel’s desk.

‘Peter!’ she said with the warm smile. ‘I wondered if we’d see you today. Dave mentioned seeing you in Mill Street and he thought you looked really well.’

‘Yes, I’m feeling much better,’ said Pascoe. ‘Look, something a bit odd. My dog was rooting around in the debris…’

He contrived to suggest that Tig had carried the melted plastic all the way home and chewed the bullet out of it.

‘Interesting,’ said Glenister. ‘Probably nothing, but if you leave it with me, I’ll have our people check it out at the lab.’

‘Been there, done that, got the report,’ said Pascoe. ‘Definitely a bullet. In fact almost certainly 9 x 19 mm NATO parabellum, possibly fired from a Beretta semi-automatic pistol, 92 series.’

He opened his briefcase, took out the evidence bag containing the bullet and the envelope containing the lab analysis and set them neatly on the desk before her.

She looked down at them but didn’t touch them.

‘I see,’ she said slowly. ‘Well, you have hit the ground running, haven’t you? So what do you make of it?’

She hadn’t invited him to sit but he did so now while it was still a matter of choice rather than necessity caused by his dicky knee.

‘It’s obvious. A gun was fired, Hector heard the shot, the round finished up in one of the video cassettes. The big question is, what happened to the gun?’

Glenister sat back and steepled her fingers against her nose. Then she opened her hands and put them behind her head, the movement raising her pompion breasts in a manner which Pascoe had to make an effort not to find distracting.

She smiled at him and said, ‘Perhaps the big question should be left till we’ve looked at the wee ones. Firstly I’ll need to get our CAT experts to confirm the findings of your local technicians. No reflection on their ability, you understand, but we’ve all got our specialisms…Having established it is a bullet, I will want them to look at this piece of plastic you say it came out of. You still have it, I take it?’

‘Yes, it’s at home…’

‘So you didn’t take it to your lab? Perhaps as well. Our people prefer to start from scratch without having to contend with any damage earlier, less subtle attempts at examination might have made.’

Pascoe thought of the rusty clamp in his garage and the rather blunt hacksaw he’d used to get the bullet out.

‘And if they confirm it’s a bullet in a melted video cassette…?’ he asked.

Then we must ask how and when it got there. There may be no way of confirming it was fired from a gun on those premises on the same day as the explosion…’

‘It fits with what Hector heard!’

‘Oh aye. Hector!’ she said mockingly.

Pascoe again found himself reacting to this knee-jerk dismissal of the constable.

He said, ‘Look, just because Hector’s pre-digital doesn’t mean he doesn’t function. He’s managed to identify one of the men he saw, hasn’t he? OK, description-wise he’s no great shakes, but find the right picture and he could still pick out the other.’

His fervour seemed to impress Glenister.

‘You know your own men best, Peter,’ she said. ‘All right. Let’s say he did hear a gunshot and that this is indeed the bullet that was fired. This brings us to what you call the big question: Where’s the gun? Well, you’ve supplied one answer, you and your dog.’

‘You mean it might have been missed?’

‘This was,’ said Glenister lowering her hands to touch the evidence bag. ‘We sifted the debris thoroughly, of course, but what we were looking for were indications of the nature of the explosion, the kinds of explosive used, their possible source. Plus, of course, body parts, remnants of clothing et cetera that could help identify the men killed. If there were a gun at or near the centre of the explosion, it could simply have disintegrated and its fragments been distorted unrecognizably by the subsequent heat.’

‘Unrecognizably? Not very likely, is it?’ exclaimed Pascoe. ‘Not unless your people aren’t as finicky as we like to be in Yorkshire.’

‘Peter,’ she said gently, ‘you’ve done well, but before you slag off the efforts of others, don’t forget it was a stroke of sheer luck that put you on this track. I’ll find where the council are dumping the debris and make my people go over it again. OK?’

Before he could respond, the door was pushed open and Freeman said, ‘Sorry, didn’t know you had company. Sandy, we need to speak.’

Glenister gave a little frown. Maybe she objected to Freeman’s rather peremptory tone in the presence of a native. Who was it held the whip hand in this weird twilight zone the CAT people inhabited? Pascoe wondered.

She said, ‘Can it wait a moment, Dave?’

‘No.’

Well, that was certainly the sound of a whip-crack, thought Pascoe.

Glenister said, ‘Peter, let’s continue this later, all right?’

‘Why not? I’ll see if I can fit you in,’ he said. ‘Dave, good to see you again.’

He left, closing the door firmly behind him and resisting a strong temptation to press his ear to the woodwork.

Instead he went to see Wield and put him in the picture about the bullet.

His reaction was familiar.

‘So Hector could’ve been right. Had to happen! What’s Sandy going to do?’

‘Fuck knows,’ said Pascoe. ‘Get her own examination done, then probably kick the whole thing into touch if it doesn’t fit her agenda.’

‘Pete, you’ve got to wait and see,’ protested Wield. ‘Like I told you yesterday, she really seems to be treading eggshells to make sure we don’t feel sidelined.’

‘You reckon? Well, I think pretty soon you’re going to hear a great deal of crunching underfoot. Something’s happened, and us being on the need-to-know list is even less likely than Hector getting things right. And if you’d care to bet on that, I’ll just run home and get the deeds of the house!’

A man who had left a garden hammock to get blown up on an English Bank Holiday should have learned to distrust certainties.

Fortunately Wield didn’t take the bet. Fifteen minutes later Pascoe got a summons to the CAT Ops Room. When he arrived he was met by men coming out carrying computer equipment. Inside he found Glenister talking animatedly into the scrambler phone. As he approached she finished speaking and handed the receiver to one of her men who unplugged the phone and put it into a box.

‘You’re moving out?’ said Pascoe.

‘Yes, we’re on our way. Wouldn’t have been long anyway, we were just about done here, but something’s happened. What do you know about Said Mazraani?’

‘Just what I’ve seen and read. Lebanese academic, teaches at Manchester, good looking, talks well, dresses smart, claims high-level contacts throughout the Middle East. In other words, all the right qualifications for getting on the talking-head shows whenever they want an apparently rational Muslim extremist viewpoint. What the papers called the acceptable face of terrorism until he blotted his copybook with Paxman.’

This had been the previous month, after the kidnapping and videoed execution of an English businessman called Stanley Coker. Mazraani had been trotted out to give an insight into the motives and mindset of the kidnappers, a group calling themselves the Sword of the Prophet. He prefaced his remarks with a fulsome expression of sympathy for the dead man’s family, which he repeated when asked if he unreservedly condemned the killing. ‘Very nice of you,’ said Paxman. ‘But do you condemn the killing?’ Again the verbiage, again the question. And again, and again. And never a direct answer came.

Next day the papers went to town, led as always by the People’s Voice.

The People’s Voice, the youngest and fastest-growing of the tabloids, was in fact not so much the voice of the people as the rant of the slightly pissed know-it-all in the saloon bar who isn’t fooled by government statements, legal verdicts, historical analyses, or forensic evidence, but knows what he knows, and knows he’s right!

The Voice headline screamed

BEHEADING HOSTAGES IS OK! (so long as it’s done in the best possible taste)

‘That’s the one,’ said Glenister. ‘Well, barring miracles, he’s done his last talking-head show. For the past two days there’s been a rumour that Al Jazeera had received a tape showing an execution, a beheading. But not a Western hostage this time. A Muslim.’

‘So? In Iraq they’ve shown little compunction about killing their own.’ Then it came to him what she was saying. ‘You don’t mean…?’

‘This morning the BBC, ITV and Sky all received copies of what is presumably the same tape. Yes, it’s definitely Mazraani. He hadn’t been seen in any of his usual haunts for several days. We sent a team to visit his flat in Manchester. They were told to be discreet but there was already enough of a smell to bother the neighbours. He was in there, him and his head, quite close but not touching. Plus another man not known to us.’

‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Pascoe. ‘Was he beheaded too?’

‘No. Shot. They want me back over there now. Mazraani was on my worksheet.’

‘This sounds like big trouble,’ said Pascoe.

‘More than you can imagine,’ she said grimly.

‘Well, thanks for bringing me up to date…’ he began.

‘That’s not why I sent for you,’ she interrupted. ‘It will be in the papers anyway. Al Jazeera have said they’re going to broadcast today. No, what I wanted to say, Peter, was I’ve asked Dan Trimble if I can take you with us. He says fine, if you feel up to it.’

Pascoe was gobsmacked and made no attempt to hide it.

‘But why…?’ he managed.

‘Peter, I can’t be certain, but I’ve got a feeling there might be some link with what happened here. Being as involved as you are usually means that judgments get blurred, corners cut. But from what I’ve seen, I get the impression it’s just tightened your focus, heightened your responses. If there are any connections, could be you’re the one most likely to sniff them out. So what do you say? Couple of days can’t hurt, and you’ll only be an hour or so’s drive away.’

Pascoe hesitated, finding this hard to take in. He was given a breathing space by the appearance of Freeman, who gave Glenister a file and Pascoe a flicker of those cold eyes before disappearing.

‘You say you’ve cleared this with the Chief?’ he said. ‘What about your bosses?’

‘They’re fine with it.’

He found himself reluctant to accept the unanimity of this vote of confidence.

‘And Freeman? I bet he jumped for joy.’

‘Not the jumping kind,’ she said with a smile. ‘Though in fact it was Dave who put the idea in my head. You’ve made a big impression there.’

This got zanier.

He said, ‘I’ll need to talk to…people…’

‘Your wife? She struck me as a sensible woman. I’ll have a word if you like, assure her I’ll take good care of you.’

Pascoe smiled.

‘No, I’ll take care of that,’ he said.

‘That’s a yes then. Good. Go and get packed.’

As Pascoe moved away he wondered what Glenister would have said if he’d told her that what really worried him was the prospect of admitting to Wield that he’d got it absolutely wrong.

The sergeant didn’t gloat. That wasn’t his thing, but he surprised Pascoe by saying, ‘Pete, watch your back out there.’

‘Watch my back? It’s Manchester I’m going to, Wieldy, not Marrakesh.’

‘So? There’s funny buggers in Manchester too,’ said Wield. ‘You take care.’

Part Three

Awhile he holds some false way, undebarr’dBy thwarting signs, and bravesThe freshening wind and blackening waves.And then the tempest strikes him; and betweenThe lightning bursts is seenOnly a driving wreck,And the pale Master on his spar-strewn deckWith anguish’d face and flying hairGrasping the rudder hard,Still bent to make some port he knows not where,Still standing for some false, impossible shore.

Matthew Arnold, ‘A Summer Night’

1 Lubyanka

Manchester is monumental in a way that no other northern town quite manages. You can feel it flexing its muscles and saying, I’m a big city, better step aside. The building which housed CAT had all the family traits. It was solid granite, its tall façade as unyielding as a hanging judge’s face. Carved into a massive block alongside a main entrance that wouldn’t have disgraced a crusader’s castle were the words THE SEMPITERNAL BUILDING.

‘Tempting fate a bit, aren’t you?’ said Pascoe as he and Glenister approached.

She laughed and said, ‘Not us. It was a Victorian insurance company. Went bust during the great crash so they paid for their hubris. It’s been used for lots of things since then. We took it over three years ago. Most of your new colleagues refer to it as the Lubyanka, the Lube for short. Whether that’s tempting fate or not, we’ve yet to see.’

They went into a wide foyer which looked conventional enough until you noticed that further progress could only be made through security gates with metal detectors, X-ray screening, and large men in attendance. There were almost certainly cameras in operation too, thought Pascoe, though he couldn’t spot them. Perhaps they were hidden among the summer blooms which filled what looked like an old horse trough standing incongruously at the foyer’s centre.

At the reception desk, Pascoe was issued with a security tag with a complex fastening device.

‘Don’t take it off till you’re leaving,’ said Glenister. ‘They’re self-alarmed the minute you pass through the gate. Removal anywhere but the desk sets bells ringing.’

‘Why would I want to take it off?’

‘Why indeed? It’s to stop anyone taking it off you.’

She said it without her customary smile. Necessary precaution or just self-inflating paranoia? wondered Pascoe.

They went straight into a room with twenty chairs set in four rows of five before a large TV screen. Pascoe and Glenister took seats in the second row. He glanced round to see Freeman in the row behind. Was this indicative of a pecking order? And if so did they peck from the front as in a theatre or from the rear as in a cinema?

As if in answer, the man sitting directly in front of him turned round and smiled at him. Pascoe recognized him instantly. His name was Bernie Bloomfield, his rank was commander and the last time Pascoe saw him, he’d been giving a lecture on criminal demography at an Interpol conference. If he hadn’t pursued a police career, he might well have filled the gap left by that most sadly missed of British actors, Alastair Sim.

‘Peter, good to see you again,’ said Bloomfield.

For a moment Pascoe was flattered, then he remembered his security label.

‘You too, sir,’ he said. ‘Didn’t realize you were in charge here.’

‘In charge?’ Bloomfield smiled. ‘Well, in this work we like to keep in the shadows. How’s my dear old friend Andy Dalziel doing?’

‘Holding on, sir.’

‘Good. I’d expect no less. A shame, a great shame. Andy and I go way, way back. We can ill spare such good men. But it’s a pity it was one of your less indispensable officers who was first on the scene. Constable…what was his name?’

‘Hector, sir,’ said Glenister.

‘That’s it. Hector. From what I read, we’re likely to get more feedback from the speaking clock. “Sort of funny and not a darkie”, isn’t that the gist of his contribution?’

There was a ripple of laughter, and Pascoe realized that their conversation had moved from private chat to public performance. He felt a surge of irritation. Only here two minutes and already he was having to defend Hector in front of a bunch of sycophants who clearly felt very superior to your common-or-garden provincial bobby.

Time to lay down the same markers he’d already put in place with Glenister.

He said with emphatic courtesy, ‘With respect, sir, as I’ve told the superintendent, I think it would be silly to underestimate Constable Hector’s evidence. While it’s true that in his case the picture may take a bit longer to come together, what he does notice usually sticks and emerges in a useful form eventually. What he’s given us so far has proved right, hasn’t it? In fact, with respect, isn’t most of what we know about what happened in Mill Street that day down to Hector rather than CAT?’

This defensive eulogium, which in the Black Bull would have had colleagues corpsing, reduced the audience here to silence. Or perhaps they were simply waiting to see how Bloomfield would deal with this uppity newcomer who’d just called him silly and his unit inefficient.

The commander gave Pascoe that Alastair Sim smile which indicates he knows a lot more than you’re saying.

‘That’s very reassuring, Peter,’ he said. ‘Or are you just being loyal?’

‘Never back down,’ was the Fat Man’s advice. ‘Especially when you’re not sure you’re right!’

Pascoe said firmly, ‘Loyalty’s nothing to do with it, sir. You find us a live suspect and I’m sure you’ll be able to rely on Hector for identification.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Now I think it’s time to get our show on the road.’

He rose to his feet and let his gaze drift down the rows.

‘Good day to you all,’ he said. ‘What you are about to see is a tape played on Al Jazeera television earlier today. It isn’t pretty, but no point closing your eyes. Some of you will need to see it many times.’

He sat down and the lights dimmed.

The tape lasted about sixty seconds, but even to sensibilities toughened by a gruelling job as well as by general exposure to the graphic images shown most nights on news programmes, not to mention the computer-generated horrors of the modern cinema, the unforgiving minute seemed to stretch for ever.

There was no soundtrack. Someone said ‘Jesus!’ into the silence.

After a long moment, another man stood up in the front row. Fiftyish, balding, wearing a leather patched jacket, square-ended woollen tie and Hush Puppies, he spoke with the clipped rapidity of a nervous schoolmaster saying grace before he is interrupted by the clatter of forks against plates. His label said he was Lukasz Komorowski.

‘This is without doubt Said Mazraani. His body was found in his flat this morning with the head severed, preliminary examination suggests by three blows as illustrated in the video clip. The chair, carpet and background in the tape sequence correspond precisely with what was found at the flat. There was a second body in the flat. This belonged to a man called Fikri Rostom who, as you will hear, Mazraani introduced as his cousin. Rostom, a student at Lancaster University, was shot in the head.’

He paused for breath.

Glenister said, ‘What’s the writing say?’

‘It says Life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.’

He paused again, this time like a schoolmaster waiting for exegesis. Pascoe knew it was biblical, probably Old Testament, but could go no further. Andy Dalziel would have given them chapter and verse. He claimed his disconcerting familiarity with Holy Writ had been acquired via a now largely neglected pedagogic technique which involved his RK teacher, a diminutive Welshman full of hwyl and hiraeth, boxing his ears with a leather-bound Bible each time he forgot his lesson.

Pascoe found himself blinking back tears at the same time as Glenister said, ‘Exodus 21.’

Commander Bloomfield twisted in his chair to look at her.

‘I’m glad to see we’re not yet a completely godless nation,’ he murmured. ‘Do go on, Lukasz.’

Komorowski resumed at a slightly slower pace.

‘Verses 23 to 25; the language is Arabic and the source is a tenth-century translation of the Bible by Rabbi Sa’adiah ben Yosef who was the gaon, or chief sage, of the Torah academy at Sura. The Torah is an Hebraic word meaning the revealed will of God, in particular Mosaic law as expounded in the Pentateuch, which is the first five books of the Old Testament of which Exodus is the second…’

He paused again.

‘Tell us something we don’t know,’ murmured Glenister.

Clearly they educated kids differently in Scotland, thought Pascoe.

Komorowski resumed, ‘Below we find the words In memory of Stanley Coker. Coker, you will recall, was the English businessman taken hostage and subsequently beheaded by the Prophet’s Sword group. The flat and the bodies are currently being examined. Full reports will be issued as soon as they are available. Preliminary post-mortem findings confirm the timetable indicated by our tapes. The bullet recovered from Fikri Rostom was a nine millimetre round almost certainly fired from a Beretta 92 series semi-automatic pistol.’

Pascoe turned to look at Glenister, who continued to stare straight ahead.

‘I have the tape here which gives us the timings,’ continued Komorowski. ‘Mazraani, even if he had not discovered the exact location of our listening device, always assumed he was being overheard. Indeed, as you will hear, he refers to our tape. So he always took the precaution of playing masking music. Here is what we have.’

He raised his index finger and a recording started to play.

First sound was of a door being opened.

‘Tape activated by arrival, we guess, of the alleged cousin,’ said Komorowski.

Music began to play, then a female voice began to sing.

‘Elissa, the Lebanese singer,’ said Komorowski. ‘Fikri seems to have been a fan. We can run on here I think.’

The tape gabbled forward then slowed again to normal speed.

‘Fifteen minutes on, the door opens again, Mazraani arrives, beneath the music we can hear greetings being exchanged,’ said Komorowski. ‘Then the music is turned up louder, suggesting that what they say next they do not wish to be overheard. AV are not hopeful of extracting anything useful from this portion of the tape but will continue to try. A minute later…here it comes…’

The singing suddenly sank to a low background and a click was heard.

‘The intercom. Our killers have rung the door bell downstairs,’ interposed Komorowski rapidly.

Now a voice spoke, educated, urbane.

‘Gentlemen, how can I help you?’

‘Mazraani,’ said Komorowski.

‘Just like a quick word, sir.’

This voice, even though distant and tinny through the intercom, had the unmistakable flat force of authority.

‘By all means. Won’t you come up?’

The sound of a door being opened then a pause, presumably to wait for the newcomers to make their ascent.

‘Evening, Mr Mazraani. And this is…?’

The voice of authority again. Northern. Presumably a linguist could get closer.

‘My cousin, Fikri. He’s staying with me for a few days.’

That’s nice. Anyone else in the flat?’

‘No. Just the two of us.’

‘Mind if we check that? Arch.’

Doors opening and shutting.

‘Clear.’

A third voice. Lighter, tighter. Holding on to control?

‘So now we can perhaps get down to what brings you here. Won’t you introduce yourselves? For the tape?’

The urbanity came close to mockery. Poor bastard, thought Pascoe. He thinks he’s just got the law to deal with.

‘Certainly, sir. I’m called Andre de Montbard. Andy to my friends. And my colleague is Mr Archambaud de St Agnan. He’s got no friends. And this lady singing is, I’d say, the famous Elissa? Compatriot of yours, I believe? Gorgeous girl. Lovely voice and those big amber eyes! I’m a great fan.’

And now the singing was turned up to a volume even higher than before.

Lukasz Komorowski let it run for a moment then made a cut-off gesture and the tape stopped.

‘During the next couple of minutes we believe the killings took place. First the shooting, then the beheading. The killers leave. At eight thirty-nine the Elissa CD stops. Five minutes later the recording stops too and is not reactivated until our team enter this morning. Right. Questions? Observations?’

Glenister began to say something but Pascoe cut across her. Make his presence felt. Show the bastards he wasn’t here just to make up the numbers.

‘Mazraani said “Gentlemen”, plural, when he answered the intercom. Like he knew there was more than one of them.’

‘Your point being…?’

‘My point is it suggests he’d spotted them earlier.’

‘Very likely. Mazraani must have got used to being followed. Even if he didn’t see anyone, he’d assume they were there.’

‘Meaning he’d think these two were yours?’

‘Possibly,’ said Komorowski dismissively. ‘Thank you, Mr Pascoe. Sandy…’

But Pascoe wasn’t done.

‘Then why the hell weren’t they?’ he demanded.

‘Sorry?’

‘Why weren’t there any of your men around? OK, I gather you’d managed to lose track of Mazraani earlier that day. I’d have thought the obvious thing to do was put someone on watch outside his flat. At least that’s the way we’d have done it back in good old-fashioned Mid-Yorkshire CID, despite our staffing problems.’

Komorowski put his hand to his mouth as though to inhibit an over-hasty reply and looked down at Pascoe with a speculative gaze. Presumably he was high enough up the pecking order on the Intelligence half of CAT to feel he didn’t need to take crap from DCIs. Pascoe noticed with distaste that his fingernails were cracked and none too clean.

Commander Bloomfield twisted his long frame in his chair and smiled at Pascoe.

‘If I didn’t know you were one of Andy Dalziel’s boys, I think I’d have guessed,’ he said. ‘Thing is, Peter, despite all this crisis talk, we’re desperately short of manpower here in CAT. Probably in real terms even shorter than you doubtless are in your good old-fashioned CID. Result: we’re continually re-assessing priorities. The chaps on Mazraani lost him. Procedure is report it in, return to base for reassignment. As for watching the flat, why waste men when we’ve got a bug inside? Soon as the tape was checked and we became aware there was activity, we’d have had someone round there.’

‘So when was the tape checked?’ asked Pascoe.

Bloomfield glanced at Komorowski.

‘Midnight that night,’ said the man.

‘So you sent a surveillance team round then?’

‘Well, no,’ admitted Komorowski. ‘There’d been no further activation of the tape after the CD finished playing, so it was assumed the flat was now empty.’

‘While actually it was full of dead people,’ said Pascoe. ‘And didn’t whoever checked the tape out wonder who these two guys—what did they call themselves…?’

‘Andre de Montbard and Archambaud de St Agnan,’ said Glenister, who was looking at Pascoe with the gentle smile of a mother proud of her prodigious son.

‘…which to anyone but the brain-dead sound suspiciously like assumed names—didn’t he wonder who this pair were?’

Komorowski now looked like a schoolteacher cornered by a smart-arse pupil.

‘Or,’ Pascoe went on relentlessly, ‘did he make the same error as Mazraani and assume they were official, maybe because he’d got used to working in an environment where the right hand doesn’t always know what the left is doing?’

A silence followed this question, and in Pascoe’s eyes answered it too.

Then Freeman spoke from behind him.

‘Lukasz,’ he said, ‘if Pete here’s quite finished…’

Pascoe glowered round at him. Teacher’s pet, he thought. Get your boss off the hook, earn brownie points.

He said, ‘I’m done. For now.’

‘Thanks,’ said Freeman. ‘Lukasz, these weird names the killer gave—or rather, the man we assume is the killer gave—do we have anything on them?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact we do,’ said Komorowski. ‘But first I should draw your attention to an e-message every newspaper, TV news centre and news agency received two days ago. It read: It would appear that a new order of knighthood has been founded on earth.’

He paused as if inviting identification.

When none came he said, ‘Don’t worry. Of the great intellects who run our press, only one recognized it, and that, curiously, was the sports editor of the Voice. He was intrigued enough to mention it to the paper’s Security correspondent, who passed it to us. We put it on file with a question mark. Now I think the question mark can be removed.’

He paused again and Bloomfield said, ‘In your own time, Lukasz.’

‘Thank you, Bernie,’ said Komorowski, as if taking the remark at face value. ‘In fact this is a translation of the opening words of St Bernard of Clairvaux’s Liber ad milites Templi, written at the request of his friend, Hugh de Payens, to define, justify and encourage a new order of knights Hugh and a few others had just founded. These were the Knights Templar, whose initial function was to protect the many pilgrims travelling to Jerusalem. Although the First Crusade had seen the establishment of new Christian states in the region, it was still a dangerous place for the unwary pilgrim, who provided an easy target both for religious zealots and for common thieves. Rapidly, however, the new Order outgrew its founding purpose and evolved into an independent fighting force dedicated to driving the infidels out of the Holy Land. Eventually it became so powerful that it had to be crushed by the very powers of Western Christendom whose values it was formed to defend. But it is its beginnings not its ending that concern us here.’

He paused again and looked around as though anxious for approval.

Bloomfield said, ‘Good, good. And your point, Lukasz?’

‘Besides Hugh de Payens there were eight other founder members of the order, all French noblemen,’ said Komorowski. ‘One is unknown, possibly Hugh Count of Champagne who was de Payens’ liege lord. Two are known only by their Christian names: Rossal and Gondamer. The names of the others are Payen de Montdidier—incidentally, the fact that Payen here and its plural form in the name of the Order’s founder look like medieval forms of modern paien, pagan, seems to be a coincidence.’

Another pause, another glance around as if looking for comment or contradiction. There was none, unless an audible sigh from Bloomfield could be interpreted as either.

‘Now where was I?’ said Komorowski. ‘Oh yes. Montdidier. Then there are two Geoffreys: de St Omer and Bisol. And finally, and for our present purpose, most significantly, there is a knight called Archambaud de St Agnan, and a future Grand Master of the Order whose name is Andre de Montbard.’

2 a pale horse

Hugh de Payens was galloping his grey stallion across a wide green meadow under an ancient castle’s beetling walls. On either side ranks of armed men held their eager mounts under strict control, their restless hooves rising and falling on the same spot, their heaving breasts creating a dark ripple of muscle that ran as far as the eye could see. Cuirasses glinted in the bright summer sun, pennants bearing lions, bears, griffins and dragons, rampant, courant, couchant, fluttered above them, and high over all floated the broad banners which on a lily-white ground bore the symbol of their purpose and their faith, the red cross.

Then a little bell rang and in a trice the castle became an insubstantial ruin, the mounted men and their flags vanished, leaving the rider hacking gently along the edge of a field on a placid grey mare with nothing for company but a few uncurious cows.

He reined in, took out a mobile, accessed Messages and found a single capital X.

He erased it and urged his mount forward into a spinney of beech trees slimming into willow as he approached a narrow but deep and fast-moving stream. On its bank he came to a halt and slackened the rein so that the horse could crop the long grass.

He speed-dialled a number.

‘Bernard.’

‘Hugh.’

‘De Clairvaux.’

‘De Payens.’

Silence. He counted mentally.

one thousand two thousand three thousand

Dead on three seconds the other voice spoke.

Anything less, anything more, and he would have switched off, removed the SIM card, cut it in half with the pair of electrical wire strippers attached to his belt, and hurled the pieces and the phone into the stream.

‘Hugh, the loose end, there’s been a suggestion it might not be so harmless as we thought. I wonder if it wouldn’t be as well to tie it up. Discreetly, of course.’

A moment’s silence then Hugh said, ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that. It’s not what we’re about.’

‘Of course it isn’t. But in the field sometimes the choice is between collateral damage and protecting our own. Or, let’s not be mealy-mouthed, protecting ourselves.’

‘Our structure protects us.’

‘There are always links. You know me. Andre knows you. The Geoffreys know Andre.’

‘I hope you trust my discretion. I trust Andre. And he says the Geoffreys are reliable.’

‘Are they? From what you reported of Bisol’s reaction to Mill Street, I would have doubts.’

‘He’s concerned about the injured policeman. Removing another as damage limitation isn’t going to make him feel any better.’

‘Properly done, no reason why he should ever know, is there? Look, I don’t like this any more than you do, but I know how easily things can unravel. I’ve already had to put one nosey policeman on a tight rein. The loose end in question seems to be accident prone, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to remove him without arousing either suspicion or further agitating Bisol’s tender conscience. From what you say of him, I imagine Andre would take it in his stride. I leave it with you.’

The phone went dead.

Hugh switched off. His patient horse, alert to signals, raised its head, then resumed cropping the grass as its rider made no movement but sat in thought for a while.

Finally he activated his phone once more, texted an X, and disconnected.

A few moments later the phone rang.

‘Hugh.’

‘Andre.’

‘De Payens.’

‘De Montbard.’

one thousand two thousand three thousand

‘Andre, how are you? I’ve just been talking to Bernard. There’s a little job which sounds very much your cup of tea…’

3 kaffee-klatsch

Two days after Pascoe had gone west, Ellie Pascoe and Edgar Wield met outside the Arts Centre. Wield knew it wasn’t by chance when Ellie, uncomfortable with deception, over-egged her look of surprised pleasure.

She wants to talk about Peter, he guessed, but is worried about looking disloyal.

‘How do, Ellie?’ he said before she could speak. ‘Fancy a coffee at Hal’s?’

He saw he’d stolen her line, and she’d been married to a detective long enough to work out why by the time they climbed up to the mezzanine café-bar in the Arts Centre.

With relief, because she hated masquerade, she took this as an invitation to cut straight to the chase as soon as they’d got their coffee.

‘Have you heard from Peter?’ she asked.

‘Aye.’

‘And what’s he say?’

‘This and that,’ he answered vaguely. ‘Have you not heard yourself?’

‘Of course I have,’ she said indignantly. ‘He rings me every night.’

Every night seemed a large term for the two nights Pascoe had been away.

‘Rings me during the day,’ said Wield. ‘Don’t expect he misses me at night.’

They smiled at each other like the old friends they were.

‘So what’s he talk to you about?’ said Ellie.

‘That and this,’ repeated Wield. ‘Work stuff. You know Pete. Thinks the place is going to fall apart if he’s not there to keep an eye on things.’

Ellie saw that he might have opened things up for her, but he had his loyalties too. This was her call.

She said, ‘I’m a bit worried about him, Wieldy. More than a bit. A hell of a lot. I think he’s got really obsessive about this bomb investigation.’

‘Came close to killing him,’ said Wield. ‘Enough to make you both obsessive.’

‘Meaning, how clear’s my own judgment here?’ interpreted Ellie. ‘Wieldy, if you can put your hand on your heart and tell me he’s fine, that’ll do the trick for me.’

He drank his coffee. His face was as unreadable as ever, but Ellie knew because she’d known it from the start that she wasn’t going to hear much for her comfort.

He said, ‘Wish I could. But it’s not so odd that I can’t. Being close to something like Mill Street doesn’t just go away. I reckon it shook Pete up more than he’ll admit. Since it happened, he’s definitely not been himself. Trouble is, from what I’ve seen of him, what he’s trying to be is Andy Dalziel. The way he deals with people, the way he talks, even, God help us, the way he walks, it’s like he feels he’s got to fill in for Fat Andy. But likely you’ll have noticed?’

‘I noticed something,’ said Ellie unhappily. ‘But he’s a great bottler-up. Stupid sod imagines he’s protecting me and Rosie by clamping down the hatches. He said an odd thing when he went back to work that first time. He said he felt he had to, as if him not being there would lessen the chances of Andy recovering. A sort of sympathetic magic.’

‘Very like,’ said Wield. ‘Look, luv, I don’t think you should worry too much. Either Andy’ll make it and we’ll all get back to normal, or he won’t, and we’ll all get back to normal then too, only it’ll take a bit longer and normal will have changed.’

She’d wanted honesty before comfort. This sounded to her reasonably close to the former and a long way short of the latter.

She said, ‘I just wish he hadn’t gone to Manchester. I suppose we should be grateful to Sandy Glenister for seeing how much it meant to him to stay involved, but I don’t really see how he can be of any use to those CAT people across there…What?’

Wield knew that in the innermost reaches of his mind he had grunted sceptically, but he was certain that nothing in his larynx had uttered even the ghost of an echo of that grunt. Also he had the kind of face which made the Rosetta Stone seem as easy to read as the back of a cornflake packet. ‘Watch his left ear,’ advised Andy Dalziel. ‘It doesn’t help, but it means you don’t have to look at the rest of his face.’

Yet despite all this, perhaps because over the years he and Ellie Pascoe had got very close, and in matters relating to her family she was supersensitive, somehow the grunt had reached her ears telepathically.

‘I said nowt,’ he said.

She said nowt too, which made her point very effectively.

‘All right,’ he said, pushed another step towards honesty. ‘I reckon maybe Mrs Glenister didn’t take Pete with her team just so he could help pursue their investigations over there, she took him to make sure he wasn’t sticking his nose in back here.’

‘But why should she do that? I thought she’d fallen over herself to make sure Mid-York CID were fully involved?’

‘Oh aye, she did,’ agreed Wield. ‘I’m not suggesting owt sinister. It’s just that, once you get into Security, you’ve got to tread very carefully. It were all right long as she were around, but likely she could see Pete were so obsessive, he wasn’t going to stop picking away at things just because the CAT team had moved on.’

Ellie sipped her cappuccino. It left a smudge of creamy brown foam along her lip. She had the kind of strong facial structure which age only improved and the kind of figure which only strong will power in the matter of cream doughnuts and buttered crumpets kept this side of orientally voluptuous. Looking at her, Wield thought of the old gay joke—doesn’t it sometimes make you wish you were a lesbian?

She licked her lip and said, ‘This have anything to do with that bullet Tig found? Pete seemed to think that was a bit of a mystery.’

‘A mystery susceptible of more than two explanations can hardly be deemed mysterious,’ said Wield.

He caught Pascoe’s intonation so perfectly that Ellie laughed out loud.

‘That’s what he decided, was it?’ she said.

‘He certainly got his two explanations,’ evaded Wield. ‘Look, Ellie, I really don’t think there’s owt much to worry yourself about. Give it time. He’ll be back soon—when he rang through yesterday he said he felt he were superfluous to requirements…’

‘Hanging around like a yard of foreskin at a Jewish wedding, was how he put it to me,’ said Ellie.

Wield grinned.

‘Me too. Another one from the wit and wisdom of Fat Andy, I think. Anyway, like I say, he’ll be back in a day or two. And when he is, there’s such a backlog of stuff piling up, he’ll not have time to worry about owt else.’

‘I hope you’re right, Wieldy,’ said Ellie. ‘But all this Templar stuff in the papers today…do you think that it could be connected with the Mill Street explosion?’

The papers had all been running the Mazraani killing on their front pages for a couple of days now. Several of them had used blurry images taken from the video, though none had gone so far as to show the severed head. The Voice had gone as far as showing the moment of first impact, and the same paper had come closest to expressing approval of the killing with the headline NOW IT’S YOUR TURN!

Reaction in the Muslim community, already heated by news of the murders, was brought to boiling point by this and other ultra-nationalist responses. A protest march to the Voice offices in Wapping might have caused a riot if a strong police presence had not prevented right-wing youths from getting closer than shouting distance to the Muslim marchers. Thwarted of its hoped-for images of violence, the Voice had compensated with a front-page photo of the protesters under the headline

RIGHT TO DEMONSTRATE? YES! But where were they when Stan Coker died?

It was only today, however, that the media had made the connection between the cryptic message about the ‘new knighthood’ and the Manchester killing. CAT had kept the lid on the contents of its audio tape, but a second message to the media reading, If the State cannot protect us, then we must look to those who can, signed Hugh de Payens, Grand Master, The Order of the Temple, had let the cat out of the bag, and already there’d been some speculation about a possible connection with the Mill Street bombing.

‘Possible, but far from sure,’ said Wield. ‘But as far as Pete’s coming home’s concerned, I don’t see it making any difference. He’s a man who likes to be useful. If them daft buggers are just letting him tread water, he won’t want to hang around.’

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