Reginald Hill - Death

Pascoe made a call. They sat and waited. The reply came. The car wasn't there.

Shock! Horror! It must have been stolen, declared Liam.

And I'm to be Queen of the May, said Pascoe and arrested him. He tested positive both for booze and coke. Put him in the car and he was going down for a long, long time.

But this didn't prove easy. Robbo vigorously confirmed Liam's story, and several other people at the club recalled hearing the lift being offered and accepted before the two of them left together. The Diablo was found nearly eighty miles away, burned out, despite which Forensic managed to find enough traces of blood to make a match with the dead girl's. So it was definitely the accident vehicle, but the distance involved gave further support to Liam's story. No way would he have had time to drive that far, torch the car and get back home before Pascoe arrived to arrest him. CPS were shaking their heads very firmly.

Then a witness came forward, Oz Carnwath, a student at the local Poly earning some money by working at Trampus's as an occasional barman. He'd been dumping rubbish in the big wheelie bin at the rear door when he saw Liam and his friend cross the car park, each get in his own car, then drive away separately. He'd kept his mouth shut at first, not wanting to get involved, and believing that Liam would get his come-uppance without any help from himself. But when the youth reappeared in the club, boasting that he was home and free, this stuck in Carnwath's throat and he went to the police.

So far Robbo had stuck to his story, though not without uneasiness in face of Pascoe's assurance that, if Liam was found guilty, the police wouldn't rest till he joined him in jail for attempting to pervert the course of justice. But clearly he was even more scared of what Wally Linford would do if he came clean. In addition he must have been mightily reassured to see the firm of Chichevache, Bycorne and Belchamber retained for the defence.

But Pascoe suspected Wally wouldn't put all his trust in legalities, and ordered a close watch to be kept on Carnwath till they got his evidence into the record at the committal proceedings. So far the business with the lost undertaker had been the only scare. And yet…

He saw Marcus Belchamber coming through the main entrance of the court complex and felt relieved that soon the action would commence. Then it dawned on him that Belchamber was alone. No Liam. No Wally.

No sodding trial!

'Mr Pascoe, I'm so sorry, but it seems we are wasting our time today. Young Mr Linford is too ill to attend. Possibly the advance guard of this new flu virus which is rife in London. Kung Flu, they call it, a play I assume on Kung Fu, because it knocks you down and leaves you helpless. I have the necessary medical certificate, of course. Forgive me. I must go and apprise the Bench.'

The man smiled apologetically. One civilized cultured guardian of the law exchanging courtesies with another, both of them engaged in the great pursuit of justice.

And yet as Pascoe left the court he felt more stitched up than the Bayeux Tapestry. '

With Fat Andy being lunched by the Chief Constable and Pascoe locked in mortal combat with Marcus Belchamber, Wield anticipated having the Black Bull pretty much to himself. And if there were any junior colleagues taking advantage of their superiors' absence to linger late, one glower from the most frightening features in the Force would send them scurrying back to their desks.

But the two DCs he saw as he entered the bar showed no signs of scurrying.

They were Hat Bowler and Shirley Novello, deep in conversation. Slightly surprising, as he got the impression that Bowler regarded Novello as his most potent rival. Perhaps, both having been wounded in the line of duty, they were swapping scars.

They stopped talking as he approached.

'Nice to see you, lad,' he said. 'When are you due back? Wednesday, isn't it? Breaking yourself in gradual, is that the idea?'

'Actually, I was hoping to see you, Sarge,' said Hat.

'Is that right?' said Wield. 'I'll just get myself a pie and a pint first.'

'My shout’ said Novello.

As she waited at the bar, she saw Bowler talking earnestly to Wield. She guessed he was telling him the story of returning to his girlfriend's flat and finding it burgled. He'd come in, looking for Wield, but when she told him that the sergeant had gone out at the end of the morning and not reappeared yet, he had started talking to her, not because he regarded her as a confidante, she guessed, but merely as a rehearsal for what he was going to say to Wield. She suspected there was more to his tale than he'd told her, but now that his true audience was here, she'd probably get to hear the lot.

When she returned to the table Bowler was just reaching a rhetorical climax.

'So, you see, it's got to be Charley Penn!' he pronounced with all the fervour of Galileo reaching the end of his detailed proof that the earth went round the sun.

Wield was regarding him with all the enthusiasm of an overworked Inquisition officer who didn't fancy having to attend yet another bonfire at the height of an Italian summer.

'Why so?' he said.

'Because Lorelei's that German-stuff he messes with, and because he hates me and Rye, and because I've got a description… oh hell!'

'Well well well! What's this? A wounded heroes' conference? It's purple hearts all round! And mine's a pint!'

Andy Dalziel had burst through the barroom door, radiating more geniality than a Harrods Santa Claus, but Hat Bowler flinched away from the glow like a scientist in the presence of a reactor gone critical.

How could this be? he asked himself aghast. Hadn't he in his cleverness rung the station and established that Pascoe was in court and the Fat Man wasn't expected back from lunch with the Chief before dusk, leaving the way clear for him to buttonhole Wield in the Bull?

What Bowler hadn't made allowances for was that chief constables earned their extra thousands by being even cleverer than detective constables. Dan Trimble, knowing from experience that lunch with Dalziel could blend imperceptibly into high tea then supper, had arranged to be bleeped by his secretary. The bleep had come with their puddings, the meal already having begun to stretch, but the loss of a creme brulee seemed a small price to pay for an early escape. He made a brief phone call, put on a concerned look, then explained with much apology that urgent business required his instant return to his office. 'No need for you to rush, Andy,' he said as he rose. 'Enjoy your pudding. Have a drink with your coffee. I'll leave the bill open.'

Trimble was a decent man and it was guilt that made him utter these words, but the guilt even of a decent man is a delicate flower and his had faded before he reached his car, leaving him asking himself, aghast, 'Did I really say that?'

Behind him Dalziel finished his bread and butter pudding, sampled the Chief's creme brulee, ordered two more with the comment, 'Tell the chef this is nice nosh, only he don't give a man enough to put in his eye!' then, washing down his Stilton with a large port, he applied himself to the serious business of choosing what malt to drink while his coffee went cold.

Despite this he was on his way back to the station at half past two, which was a lot earlier than he'd anticipated. He was in a taxi, having gone to the restaurant in the Chief's official car, and thinking it a shameful thing for a man to have no better place to go to on an afternoon he'd regarded as taken care of than his place of work, he commanded the driver to divert to the Black Bull.

He paid off the cab with a generous tip which went down on the receipt he collected to send to Trimble's office for reimbursement. The thought of the Chief's face when he saw it (hopefully at the same time as he registered the extra creme brulees and the malts) had filled him with a delight which had bubbled over into his somewhat over-effusive reaction at the sight of Hat Bowler.