Reginald Hill: Death Comes for the Fat Man

“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 description, he thought awhile 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 mustache, 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 he 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 teatime 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 onto 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 Harbor,” 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…?” inquired Pascoe.

“I finished me pie. Few minutes later the phone rang. It were some motormouth 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 that 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 roadblocks, 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 three.”

“Who needs roadblocks 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 everything’s OK, then leave a note on the shop door for the CAT man, 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 laughingstock 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 counterproductive.

“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.”