Reginald Hill: Exit lines

'Is Abbiss mixed up in this?' asked Pascoe.

'I doubt it. But he did know Kassell well enough to appeal to him when you started leaning. And Barney asked me to lean on you. Likes doing favours, does Barney. Never know when you may need to call them in.'

'Yes. Well I'm glad you weren't driving,' said Pascoe.

'Peter!' said Dalziel in mock dismay. 'You never doubted me, did you, lad? I bet there were cocks crowing twice all over the station last weekend!'

The analogy did not have to be pursued very far to break down, thought Pascoe. It was striking him that the hunt for the hidden heroin was taking rather a long time. The searchers seemed to be going over the pheasants for a second time and the drug-sniffing dog was cocking its leg against a stone mounting-post with the indifference of one who has given up for the day.

'You're sure there was a consignment this week, sir?' he asked.

'Evidently they thought so at the continental end,' said Dalziel. 'Me, all I had to do was assure Kassell that the coast was clear, no special Customs or police activity at the airport.'

'Perhaps he was just testing you out,' suggested Pascoe brightly.

He wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

'Mebbe. If so, you're in real trouble, Peter,' said Dalziel seriously. 'It's one thing cocking this lot up if we find the stuff. But if we don't, well, questions in the House'll be the last of your worries.'

'Hold on!' protested Pascoe. 'None of this is down to me…'

'If you hadn't come in here on the bell with lights flashing, Vernon Briggs wouldn't have run scared, and those lads there who were set to follow him wouldn't have had to make a quick decision whether to grab him or let him go.'

'They made the wrong decision then, didn't they?'

'No. They made the only possible decision,' said Dalziel. 'Not to worry, lad. There's worse things than a career in traffic control. Leastways you only get hit by trucks there!'

The greying man with a sad face approached once more. He shook his head and said, 'Nothing there, Andy.'

'No,' said Dalziel. 'Well, I'm glad it wasn't my idea, Freddie.'

Dalziel was off-loading responsibility like a trainee stripper shedding clothes, thought Pascoe bitterly.

'What do we do now? The house?'

The two men turned to look at the building.

'Up to you,' said Dalziel. 'I'd be glad to get inside myself. It's getting a bit parky out here.'

It was true. With dusk, the wind had dropped but there was sharp edge of frost already in the air, turning breath to visible vapour.

Kassell spoke. 'Superintendent Dalziel, don't you feel the time has come to sit down and talk this over, before you and your friends get too deep in to step back. Sir William's a reasonable man, but once roused, well, he won't hold back, believe me.'

He sounded quietly confident, but Pascoe noticed he made no attempt to move away from Charlesworth and when he looked at the gun in the bookie's hands, he saw why. The hammers were cocked! He took a deep breath and glanced at Dalziel. The thought had occurred to him that if Charlesworth were doing this for the sake of his dead son, he wasn't going to be very happy to see Kassell walk away free.

The front door swung open and Pledger appeared on the threshold, presumably having settled his guests and probably having made his phone call.

He addressed himself to Kassell.

'Barney, what's happening out here?' he asked.

'Those gentlemen down among the pheasants seem to be searching for something, Sir William,' replied Kassell. 'I don't know what it is, but I gather they can't find it. Mr Dalziel and his friend here seem to be debating about whether to extend the search into the house, I myself am limited as to movement because the Superintendent has put me under restraint of Mr Charlesworth, whose gun, you will observe, is cocked and ready for action.'

'This is outrageous!' exploded Pledger. 'I have already made representation at the highest level and I've no doubt that in a very short time, you'll be hearing from your superiors. Meanwhile I demand that Charlesworth here be made to hand over his shotgun. No one is entitled to behave in this manner in this country, not even the police, without special dispensation. So, gentlemen, let's end this farce here and now.'

There was a grimness in his voice which made him, despite his lack of size, a formidable presence.

Everyone was looking at Dalziel.

With a sudden grasp of an essential truth, Pascoe saw that all the fat man's apparent off-loading of responsibility was nothing but a show for his own peculiar entertainment. When the crisis moment came, everyone focused on Dalziel. There was no way he could escape it. Nor, in all the time Pascoe had known him, had he ever shown any sign of wanting to escape it. The grey-haired Customs man called Freddie might be technically in charge of the operation, but the decision as to whether they went into Haycroft Grange and continued the search there would be Andrew Dalziel's.

The decision was delayed by a disturbance behind Sir William. A female voice was raised in a reboant cantillation of obscene abuse, cut off abruptly as Andrea Gregory found herself thrust out into the cold air by Sergeant Wield. The girl glanced round at the curious tableau before her, decided that there was nothing in it to concern her and, focusing on Pascoe, said calmly, 'He was old, what's it matter? They should get put down anyway once they get like that, all of 'em.'

She glanced at Dalziel now, clearly including him in her euthanasia programme. The fat man said to Pascoe, 'Peter, you'd best be getting along, I think.'

'Look,' murmured Pascoe, 'isn't there any way I can help?'

'No. Just get off, that's an order. No need for you to be around when the sparks start!'

Reluctantly, Pascoe gestured at Wield and the Sergeant, who had the girl's arm in a vice-like grip, propelled her down the steps and across the courtyard towards the car.

'Super's in bother, is he?' said Wield.

'Could be,' said Pascoe.

They reached the car and Wield pushed the now quiet and blank-faced girl into the back seat and got in beside her. The driver opened the front passenger door for Pascoe but the Inspector didn't get in.

He was looking towards the stable block, beyond the dead and eviscerated pheasants, with the group of Customs officers standing by, their attention fixed on the house; beyond the more distant group of beaters, also watching the unfolding drama with keen interest; to a shadowy coign of the stable wing where the black, drug-sniffing labrador seemed to be trying to mount some struggling and reluctant partner.

Suddenly the dog let out a long and triumphant howl. Pascoe grabbed the driver's flashlight from the glove compartment and moved swiftly towards the strange couple whose relationship he had already decided was not amatory.

The Customs men too had been attracted by the dog's call, but Pascoe got there first, sending a beam of light thrusting at the dog's new-found friend.

'Hector!' he exclaimed. 'Constable Hector!'

It was indeed Hector, accoutred in an incredibly shabby gaberdine which must have been made for a creature of even greater length.

Guilt and alarm were on his face.

'It's all right, sir,' he cried, trying to push away the dog. 'Mr Dalziel knows I'm here.'

'Does he indeed? But does he know you have this strong attraction for dogs?'

He looked at the terror-stricken constable with growing speculation. Surely he looked fatter than he recalled? Less of a beanpole? Perhaps it was just the gaberdine…

'Hector,' he said. 'Open your coat.'

The constable sighed, like the exhalation from a reed-pipe, looked almost relieved, and obeyed.

'I thought it was fair do's, sir,' he explained. 'I mean, who's to miss 'em, and we do all the work. One was for me mam, the other for me Auntie Sheila.'