Reginald Hill - Exit lines

'You say Mr Cruikshank was at the airport?' said the DCC.

'Yes, sir. In case assistance was needed.'

'And was it?'

'No, sir. I checked with Mr Cruikshank later. All clear.'

'No doubt Sir William Pledger would be relieved. And you say that this stand-by at the airport was arranged with Customs via Mr Dalziel?'

'So Mr Cruikshank told me.'

The DCC was silent. He's bothered, thought Headingley. He's not sure if he should have known about this. In fact, he'll be searching his files after I've gone to check if the Chief Constable left him any word about it that he's overlooked! It would be interesting to see how the DCC proceeded. Dalziel's assessment of the man's brain was that it had been fossilized so long that if you opened it up, you'd find dinosaur droppings in it. Headingley did not rate it so low. The DCC was treading a delicate path. To over-react and place Dalziel on suspension while a senior officer from another force investigated would have been stupid. Public accountability was the catchphrase of the moment, but in terms of a policeman's career, internal accountability was what mattered, and no amount of protestation of virtuous intent could compensate for lack of bottle. No, he'd need a lot more evidence of improper conduct before the present gentle investigation of the facts of the matter was formalized.

But it's the poor sod doing the investigation who runs the risks! thought Headingley indignantly. He decided on one last attempt to get things out in the open.

'Look, sir,' he said. 'I'm a plain man, a simple copper, and I like to know what I'm at. What I'm saying, if I get asked, you know, officially, what it is I'm doing, what do I say?'

'For heaven's sake, Headingley,' said the DCC. 'You're doing your job, that's all. It's a simple accident. The driver, who does not deny being the driver, was stone-cold sober. The victim, who cannot give evidence no matter what a tired young doctor alleges he heard, was old, had been drinking, was riding a bicycle in a howling gale on a narrow country road at night. Open and shut. Your function is merely preventive. If the Press, or anyone, should start making waves at the inquest, I want there to be an immediate and informed response, that's all.'

Headingley must have looked so unimpressed by all this that the DCC dropped his irritated tone and added with a real effort at warmth, 'Oh, and George, I shouldn't like to miss this chance of saying how pleased I am that you were the officer on the spot when this unfortunate business blew up. It's not going unremarked, you know, the way you're handling things, rest assured of that.'

A promise? A bribe? Worthless old flannel most likely, thought Headingley gloomily. But at least it emboldened him to make one last request.

'Sir,' he said. 'One thing. I wonder if, well, what I mean is, while I'm doing this investigation…'

'Clarification,' corrected the DCC.

'Clarification,' said Headingley, 'it's not all that helpful, from the point of view of discretion I mean, if, well, if Mr Dalziel's around and I sort of bump into him, like yesterday.'

He finished at a rush.

The DCC smiled sadly, sympathetically, consolingly.

'Yes. I understand,' he said. 'I'll make sure that you won't be troubled by such coincidental meetings again.'

After Headingley had left, he picked up his phone and dialled. It rang for at least a minute with no response but he didn't hang up. Another thirty seconds passed, then a voice bellowed, 'Yes?'

'Andy, is that you?'

'Depends who that is.'

'It's me,' said the DCC.

He spoke at length and in friendly tones about the troubled times, the subversive movement's anti-police propaganda, the prurient and sensational press; he spoke eloquently and persuasively; after a while he became aware of a noise on the line, a sort of distant buzz such as might be made by an electric razor in the room next to the telephone.

He paused and said, 'Andy? Andy? Are you there? Hello? Hello? Superintendent Dalziel?'

'If you're going to shout like that, where's the point in using the phone?' said Dalziel's voice reproachfully. 'What can I do for you, sir?'

'Superintendent, when I told you to take some leave yesterday morning, I suggested perhaps a little frivolously that you might care to sample foreign parts. Now I'm suggesting, not at all frivolously, that a short break out of Yorkshire might do you the world of good. I believe they're enjoying some very pleasant weather on the South Coast at the moment. I think it might do you good. What do you say to Eastbourne, perhaps? Or maybe Bognor Regis?'

A few seconds later, the DCC replaced the phone with the gentleness of a man to whom even the softest click could be the last sound that shattered his vibrating ear-drums. But in his head he could hear a voice quite clearly.

George Headingley would have been amused, or perhaps not, to recognize in this voice that same note of polite incredulity which was the dominating tone of his own mental Board of Inquiry.

He said what? And you did what?

I went to play golf, sir.

The DCC rose from his desk and went to play golf.

'Mehr Licht!'

Ellie rang again on Sunday night. She sounded rather more cheerful, though she admitted that it was probably on a false basis.

'Mum says the same. Much of the time, most of the time, he's just like he's always been. Then he'll do something odd. Often it's trivial. He'll go and have a bath twice in an hour, quite forgetting that he's been already. Or he'll not bother with having a bath at all and when she pushes him, he looks puzzled and says he's just had one that morning. He forgets whole days. When he remembers them later, as he sometimes does, it really upsets him, you know, to know he's forgotten. From that point of view, I suppose it'll get better as it gets worse.'

'But he's been OK today?'

'Oh yes. Fine, completely like his old self. When I see him like this, I can't help but feel that all he needs is a course of pills to stimulate the old mental juices, you know, some kind of "upper" like we used to take before exams.'

Not me, thought Pascoe. Not you either, if I remember right. It wasn't just old age which found memory a trouble. As the dull plateau of middle age hove over the horizon, the broken landscape of youth got rearranged into more interesting patterns. But he kept his reflections for a better time.

After Ellie had rung off, he was just settling down in front of the television with a bottle of beer and a slice of cold pie when the doorbell rang. His first reaction was irritation. For some reason he was certain it was Sammy Ruddlesdin, despite the fact that he'd seen the journalist that morning and given him as full an account as he could of progress on the Deeks case.

But the shape he saw through the frosted glass of the front door was unmistakable.

'Hello, sir,' he said. 'Is it a raid?'

'Them merry quips'll be your downfall, Peter,' said Dalziel. 'A lesser man might take offence.'

'There's a lot of them about,' said Pascoe, pressing back against the wall to allow the fat man to pass. 'Are you coming in?'

This last was addressed to Dalziel's neck as he progressed into the living-room. By the time Pascoe had joined him, he'd switched the telly off and was sitting in Pascoe's armchair looking speculatively at the beer and pie.

'Care to join me, sir?' said Pascoe.

'Why not?' said Dalziel. 'It won't do any harm. I'm trying this fibre diet everyone's on about, did I tell you? It's grand, you can eat just about anything as long as it's got fibre.'

'Well, this is pretty fibrous, as you'll find,' called Pascoe from the kitchen. 'Chicken 'n' ham, from the supermarket, not the fruits of anyone's gun, I'm afraid.'

He returned with beer and pie.