Reginald Hill - Death

'Sir, Bowman here. We're inside. We've found Mr Belchamber. He's wearing fancy dress. Some sort of Roman soldier's outfit, I think. And he's got a sword stuck in his belly. Ambulance on the way.'

'Not dead then?' said Dalziel.

'Not yet, but it don't look like it's going to be long, sir.'

'Oh, tell him to take as long as he likes,' said Dalziel. 'Keep me posted.'

He tossed the radio back to Wield and said, 'All right, Mr Kilroy, you're the on-the-spot -expert. How do you see the situation here?'

'From the point of view of containment, we've got them bottled up,' said the security man. 'No way out. But no easy way in either to take them by surprise. Defensively, they've picked the best spot in the complex.'

'He's right,' said a new voice.

The door had opened and a man in ARU gear had come in.

'You Curtis?' said Dalziel.

'Yes, sir.'

'So what's the problem? There's only four of them, right?'

The newcomer, a crop-haired man who looked like he worked out between work-outs, glanced frowningly at Ellie.

'It's all right’ said Dalziel. 'You can talk in front of Mrs Pascoe. She's one of us.'

Meaning, thought Wield, if I could think of any way of getting her out of here, I would, but I can't, so let's set on with it!

"Four's enough, depending on how many of them are armed’ said Curtis.

'Only saw one weapon’ said Wield.

'You want to bet money they don't have more?'

Wield shook his head.

'Me neither. The point is, where they are there's no windows. There's an office with one door on to the retail floor. Behind the office there's a series of stock rooms with a service lift. They've immobilized the lift, so our only approach is full frontal on the office door across the display area, which we reckon they've got full CCTV coverage of.'

'All retail sections have their own monitors for on-the-spot surveillance for shoplifters and so on’ explained Kilroy. 'All they had to do was disconnect our link.'

'We could cut off power, but the one thing we've heard from them was someone yelling out, "Anyone touches the electrics and we come out shooting with the little girl leading the way."'

He glanced apologetically at Ellie.

'So they can see us but we can't see them? Bloody marvellous’ said Dalziel. 'So what are your recommendations, Inspector?'

'Limited options, I'm afraid. Either the long game or direct assault full frontal

'You mean stun grenades and CS gas?' said Ellie. 'Andy, for God's sake, tell them!'

'It's OK. We'll do nowt that will risk harming Rosie’ assured the Fat Man. 'What about listening devices? Photo optics? We need to know what's going on in there’

'We're working on it’ said Curtis. 'Like I say, it's hard getting any kind of access’

'He seems to be managing’ said one of the security men before the monitors.

Everyone looked. On one of the screens a figure was striding boldly through a display of men's outdoor clothing towards a line of lifts. A man in plainclothes intercepted him and spoke. He took something out of his pocket, showed it, said a few words, then entered one of the lifts and the doors closed behind him.

'Christ almighty, it's Roote!' exclaimed Dalziel. 'Who's that plonker he spoke to?'

'He's one of mine’ said Rose, pulling out his mobile.

He did a quick dial. The man on the screen took out his phone and put it to his ear.

'Joe’ said Rose, 'that guy you just let get into the lift.. ‘

He listened then said, 'He says it was DCI Pascoe. He showed him his warrant.'

Pascoe slapped his hand to his pocket.

'Shit!' he said. 'The bastard had hold of my jacket.'

'Where's he going?' said Dalziel.

There he is, top floor. Looks like he's heading for the lingerie department’ said Kilroy.

'We'll soon stop him’ said Curtis, raising his radio.

'No!' cried Ellie.

Curtis looked at her, looked at Dalziel.

'Andy’ said Ellie, 'he's doing something. Nobody else is.'

The Fat Man said, 'Pete?'

Pascoe rubbed his hand across his face. Pale before, now all colour seemed erased by the movement.

He said, hopelessly, 'Let him go. Why not? Perhaps… Let him go.'

'Inspector, tell your men not to get in his way’ ordered Dalziel.

'Your decision, sir’ said Curtis, in a tone which said just as clearly, And your career.

He spoke into his radio. They watched as Roote walked off the edge of the monitor.

'He's into the area covered by the dead cameras’ said Kilroy.

Curtis, his radio clamped to his ear, said, 'Sir, my men have him in sight. He's standing looking towards the door of the stock area like he wants to be seen. Now he's walking across the display area. He's at the door. It's opening. He's gone inside.'

'So what do we do now?' said Stan Rose.

They all looked at Dalziel.

He scratched his left buttock like the Count of Monte Cristo beginning to work on the walls of his cell.

'We wait’ he said. 'Pete, lad, you always said yon Roote could talk a rabbi into sharing a packet of pork scratchings. Let's hope that for once you're right about the sod!'

Franny Roote! It really is you. Here, what do you think?'

Mate Polchard was sitting behind a desk on which he had placed a travelling chessboard with magnetic pieces.

On the floor, seated against an open packing case, was Rosie Pascoe, eating a chocolate bar. On her head rested a cirque of gold in the form of two snakes. She glanced at the newcomer, decided he didn't look much fun, and returned her full attention to the chocolate. Nearby a short squat blockhouse of a man in blue overalls was watching. a couple of security screens on which the lingerie retail floor could be seen in its entirety. Of the other two gang members, there was no sign.

Roote advanced and looked at the disposition of pieces on the chessboard. It was an early middlegame situation, the pieces developed, no losses yet on either side, but Black had a bit of a problem in the centre.

'Samisch – Capablanca 1929,' he said. 'Black's knackered.'

'Bit early to be saying that, isn't it?' said Polchard, frowning.

'That's what Capablanca thought. Played on for another fifty moves. He still lost’ said Roote. 'He'd have done better to give in gracefully and go off for a bit of shut-eye.'

'That's how it looks to you, is it?'

'That's how it is, Mate,' said Roote. 'Like you once said to me, the thing about chess is it teaches you to see things that have happened before they've happened.'

'I said that? Must be true. How've you been, Fran? Never came to see me in Wales.'

'You know how it is,' said Roote. 'Out on licence, they see you associating with the king of crime, they don't listen when you say we're just playing chess. Then, later on, I got a new life going. I'm an academic now. A teacher, sort of.'

'I know what a fucking academic is,' said Polchard.

'Do you? Wish I did,' said Roote placatingly.

'Much money in it?'

'If you know where to look.'

‘That's the secret, isn't it? Knowing where to look. That kid there, she's got more money on her bonce than you'll ever see, I'd guess.'

'I get along,' said Roote with a serene smile. 'You know who she is, do you?'

'She keeps telling us her dad's some VIP and he's going to come along and whip our arses. She can certainly talk, I'll give her that. Couldn't think how to shut her up till I found that whoever uses this desk is a chocoholic. Fancy a Mars Bar?'

'No thanks. She's DCI Pascoe's daughter.'

'Is that right?' said Polchard indifferently. 'Bad choice then. Could have been worse, though. Could have been that fat bastard's lass.'

'Still not good, Mate. The security guard that got shot's still alive, by the way.'

'Glad to hear it. Nothing to do with me though. You can't get the help these days.'