Reginald Hill: Death

'Something like that. What did you feed me last night? I've got dim recollections of a Scotch pie. I think there's been a miracle cure.'

'Scotch pie? No, you're still delirious. Stand up.' He stood up and fell over.

'Just a little miracle then. Do you want a lift into bed or are you going to levitate?' Sulkily he crawled back beneath the duvet. 'But I really do feel much better,' he protested. 'Of course you do. Why is it your bouts of illness always follow such a hyperbolical parabola? A simple cold takes you from death's door to the Olympic stadium in one mighty leap.'

'A simple cold? Bollocks. And hyperbolical parabola sounds tautologous to me.'

'I know you're getting better when you start sneering at my style. And I'm glad of it,' said Ellie, setting down the tray. 'It means I can leave you with a clear conscience.'

'Leave me? I know you writers are sensitive, but that's a bit extreme, isn't it?'

'Leave you to your own devices while I try to stop your power-mad child from hijacking Suzie's birthday party at Estotiland.'

'Typical. Gadding off enjoying yourself while I'm lying on a bed of pain,' said Pascoe.

'What happened to the miracle? And if you really want to change places

Pascoe closed his eyes, imagined the party – the noise, the violence, the vomit – and said, 'I think I'm having a relapse.'

But later, after he'd heard the front door close behind Ellie and his wildly excited daughter, he climbed out of bed again and this time, not needing to impress with his returned athleticism, he was able to stand upright and take a few tentative steps with little more counter-effect than a drunken stagger.

He put on his dressing gown and went downstairs. As he made himself a cup of coffee he switched on his official radio. He no longer took sugar, but what better sweetener does a man at home need than to eavesdrop on his colleagues hard at work?

Not a lot on the general frequency. Shoplifting in the town centre. Bit of strife outside the railway station as visitors arriving for that afternoon's football match were fraternally greeted by home supporters. And an accident on Roman Way. Only one car involved and they were still cutting the victim out of the wreckage.

He tried the frequencies that CID normally occupied and on the second of them heard Dalziel's voice asking for a report from Serpent 3. Operation Serpent. He'd forgotten all about that. Funny how a virus could reduce matters of seemingly vast importance to vanishing point. Bowler, who must be in the Praesidium control room, reported that the pick-up van was inside the Sheffield city boundary. Pascoe felt a pang of guilt. It should have been his job to make sure that Mid-Yorkshire's share in the operation was trouble free. At the very least he ought to have rung Stan Rose and wished him luck. He could remember his own first big job after he'd been promoted to DI, how eager he'd been to get things right, to reassure everyone – and in particular Fat Andy – that he could hack it. Too late to get involved now, but he'd make a determined effort to be first with his congratulations. The telephone rang.

He went through to the lounge and picked it up. 'Pascoe,' he said.

'Mr Pascoe! How lovely to hear your voice!' He sat down. It wasn't a voluntary movement and fortunately there was a chair conveniently placed for his buttocks, but he'd have sat down anyway. 'Hello? Hello? Mr Pascoe, you still there?' 'Yes, I'm still here.'

'Oh good, thought I'd lost you for a moment there. It's Franny, Mr Pascoe. Franny Roote.'

'I know who it is,' said Pascoe. 'What do you want?'

'Just to talk. I'm sorry. Is this a bad time?'

To talk to you? Every time is a bad time! He said, 'Where are you, Mr Roote? America? Switzerland? Germany? Cambridge?'

'Just outside Manchester. I got back from the States this morning. Plane was late. I felt a bit knackered, so I hung around and had a shower and a hearty breakfast, and now I'm on my way home. Look, Mr Pascoe, I wanted first of all to say sorry about all these letters I've been bombarding you with. I hope you haven't found them too much of a nuisance, I’ve never given you the chance to say so Mabye I was scared to. I mean, if you didn't tell me direct that you were pissed off with getting letters from me; then I could imagine maybe it was OK, maybe you even quite enjoyed reading them and looked forward to them… OK, that's probably going too far, but writing them has been important to me and I'm sure you can't do your job without understanding how ingenious human beings are at justifying doing the things that seem important to themselves.'

'I understand that very well, Mr Roote,' said Pascoe coldly. 'I think the most persuasive line in self-justification I ever heard came from a man who had just dismembered his wife and two children with a meat cleaver.'

There was a pause. Then Roote said, 'Oh shit. You really are pissed off, aren't you? I'm sorry. Listen, no more letters then, I promise. But won't you at least talk to me?'

'That's what I seem to be doing,' said Pascoe.

'Face to face, I mean. It's amazing, I feel I know you really well, like a… really well. But if you think about it, just about all the times we've talked face to face have been when you came looking for me officially. There's not a lot of scope for conversation in those circumstances, is there? All I ask is one meeting, it would mean a lot to me. I could call round to see you… no, maybe that's not such a good idea. Invasion of personal space and all that. Maybe you could come round to see me. You know where my flat is, don't you – 17a Westburn Lane. Any time to suit yourself. Or just drop in. I'll be spending most of my time there when I get back. I've really got to get down to some hard work on Sam's book. There's a deal of editing to do, a couple of chapters to write more or less from scratch, and I've even been trying my hand at a few of his Imagined Scenes', you know, imaginative reconstructions of events and conversations. It's a device to use with great care, of course, but, as you know yourself, Mr Pascoe, when not a great deal of physical evidence exists, you've got to use all your professional skill to put together a plausible picture of events. Oh God, I'm rabbiting, aren't I? If you could come to see me, I'd be more pleased than I can say. And if I happen to be out, don't disappear. I'm never far away. There's a spare key with my neighbour, Mrs Thomas, she never goes out, arthritis, tell her Francis says it's OK, she always calls me Francis, so if you say that, she'll know you've spoken to me. I'm ringing off now before you can say no. Please come.'

The phone went dead.

Pascoe sat in thought for a long moment. He had, despite himself, been touched by what sounded like a note of real pleading in the young man's voice.

But that was his deceptive art, wasn't it? That was what pleasured the cunning bastard. He'll be sitting there now, that pale face blank as ever, but inside he'll be grinning like a death's head at the thought of the little seeds of fear and uncertainty he's planted in my mind.

He stood up with sudden resolution that seemed to send new strength surging along his arteries to revive his weakened limbs.

Thanks for the invitation, bastard’ he said. 'Don't worry. I'll come!'

He went upstairs and got dressed. If he'd gone back into the kitchen he'd have heard Edgar Wield, code sign Serpent 5, sitting astride his Thunderbird on the South and Mid-Yorkshire boundary line, reporting to Serpent 4 (Andy Dalziel) that he'd just had word from Serpent 1 (DI Rose) that transfer was complete and the Hoard was on its way north out of Sheffield.

And if he'd turned back to the first channel he'd have heard that the registered owner of the crashed car on Roman Way was a Raina Pomona and that the corpse of a young female, presumed to be Miss Pomona, had just been removed from the vehicle.