Reginald Hill: Death Comes for the Fat Man

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 Center, 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 went 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 rather primrose that forsaken dies, and the only survivors at present were Crofts and 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 for a moment, 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 homemade 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, the 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 toward 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 like, 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 favorite. 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 onto Hector’s sweaty palm 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.”