Reginald Hill: Recalled to Life

He went out, closing the lounge door firmly behind him. As he opened the front door noisily, he reached into the cloakroom, picked up the suitcase and exited with a slam that shook the stained glass panel.

Separating Maudie's driveway from her neighbour's was a low brick wall. He leaned over and placed the case behind it. As he reached the gate, he heard the front door open behind him. He turned to see Stubbs coming out. He'd always been a distrustful bastard, that Hiller. It was good to know some things didn't change. 'Need something from the car,' said Stubbs as he joined him. 'Oh aye? Hair curlers, is it?' said Dalziel. As he drove away he saw the inspector return to the house without opening his car. He drove slowly round the block, parked outside Maudie's neighbour's and walked briskly up the drive. A window opened as he retrieved the suitcase and he looked up to see a woman viewing him with grave suspicion. 'Yes?' she called sharply. Dalziel pulled the video out of his pocket, and held it up like a votive offering. Are you on line with the Almighty, sister?' he intoned. Are you plugged in to the Lord? I've got a video here that'll turn your telly into the Ark of the Covenant!' 'No, thank you!' she cried in alarm and slammed the window shut. Shaking his head, he returned to the car. It was like he'd always thought. There was no love of religion in West Yorkshire.

'I am not surprised; I knew you were here… if you really don’t want to endanger my existence – go your way as soon as possible and let me go mine. I am busy. I am an official.' 'An habitual criminal is easy to spot. Ask him, "Where were you when President Kennedy was shot?" and he'll say, "I was at home in bed reading a book. I can bring six witnesses to prove it.'" There was a dutiful titter. Perhaps it's the way I tell them, thought Peter Pascoe. He looked at the twenty young faces before him. Children of the 'seventies. Adolescents of the 'eighties. Lawmen of the 'nineties.

God help them. He said gently, 'Who was President Kennedy?' Pause. A lowering of eyes to avoid catching his. Make the question easier.

'What country was he president of?' An uncertain hand crept up.

'America, sir?' 'That's right. Would that be North or South America?'

The irony of superiors is unfair because it forces you to take it literally. He went on quickly before anyone could try an answer, 'What happened to him? Well, I told you that. He got shot. Does anyone know the year?" They probably didn't know this year! No. That was unfair.

He was confusing truth and truism. Everyone remembers what they were doing when Kennedy died. Everyone except a few billion who weren't born; or didn't know of his existence, or didn't give a toss that it was over. Everyone in America, then? Maybe. Probably their kids had the date and data drummed into them with the Pledge of Allegiance. But this lot, why should they be expected to know anything about other people's myths? 'Was it nineteen sixty-three, sir?' 'Yes. Yes, it was.' He looked at the speaker with disproportionate pleasure. Another hand was waving urgently. Perhaps the floodgates had opened and all his cynical doubts about the ignorance of this generation were going to be washed away. He pointed at the hand-waver, nodded, waited to be amazed. 'Sir, it's half past. We're due in the gym with Sergeant Rigg-' He knew Sergeant Rigg. A no-neck Welshman with a black belt and a short way with latecomers. 'You'd better go, then.' He looked at his notes. He still had three sides to go. Before she left, Ellie had warned him to go easy on the midnight oil. (Trying to offer a pastoral substitute for scarcer emotional goods?) He pushed the distasteful thought away and concentrated on her words. 'You start by thinking if you speak very slowly you might spin it out for five minutes. You end by gabbling so fast you're incomprehensible, and even then you've still got bucketfuls of pearls left uncast.' He poured them back into his briefcase and followed the cadets from the room. 'Pete, how'd it go?' It was Jack Bridger, the grizzled Chief Inspector in charge of Mid-Yorkshire cadet training programme. 'So-so. I didn't find them very responsive.' Bridger regarded him shrewdly and said, 'They're just ordinary lads, not post-grad students. At that age all you think about is fucking and football. Secret is to ask the right questions.

Talking of which, sounds like they're going to be asking some funny questions about this Mickledore Hall business.' 'They've started. Full inquiry. Fellow called Hiller, Deputy Chief from South Thames, is leading it. Turned up yesterday even though the official announcement of the inquiry hasn't been made yet.' 'Hiller? That wouldn't be Adolf Hiller, would it?' He pronounced the name with a long A. 'This one's called Geoffrey, I think. Smallish fellow with crooked teeth. Looks as if he's stolen his suit.' 'That's him! Adolf was just his nickname. He were a sergeant here way back, but not for long. Too regimental for old Wally Tallantire. That's how he got his nickname. Some joker started changing his name on notices and lists to Hitler, and it soon caught on.' But he couldn't have been here during the Mickledore Hall case, surely, or he'd not have got this job?' 'No, it was after that.

He got moved around like pass the parcel. He were one of those fellows, you couldn't fault his work, but you couldn't thole his company.' Pascoe said, 'I never knew Tallantire. What was he like? Cut a few corners, would he?' 'That's the way the wind blows, is it? Well, it figures. Scapegoats are like lawyers. The best 'uns is dead 'uns.

As for cutting corners, well, Wally would certainly go the shortest way, once he got a target in his sights. And the Mickledore Hall case was his golden hour by all accounts, the one he reckoned he'd be remembered for. But there's a difference between cutting corners and carving people up.' 'So you reckon he was straight?' 'On the whole, I'd say so. I'll tell you one thing, but. Fat Andy won't take kindly to anyone casting aspersions. Wally was his big hero, he took Andy under his wing, and it needed a pretty broad wing, believe me!' Pascoe grinned and said, 'A bit wild, was he?' 'Wild? He's a dormouse to what he were! He'd still be pounding a beat if it weren't for Wally. But Wally was flying high after the Mickledore case, and Andy flew with him.' Pascoe mused on these things as he headed back to Headquarters.

He tried to imagine Dalziel as a wild young thing in need of protection but all he could get was Genghis Khan in short pants. The image made him smile. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, he felt good. He turned a corner. Ahead, rearing out of a rough sea of rooftops, he glimpsed the huge grey front of the cathedral tower. His mouth felt dry. He tried to make spittle and swallow but couldn't. The palms of his hands were sweating so that the wheel felt slimy against them. The tower seemed to be swelling to fill the sky, while the car shrank around him to a biscuit tin. He braked hard, pulled in to the side, felt the wheels hit the kerb. His heart was racing like an engine with a stripped gear. His left hand fumbled for the seat-belt release, his right for the door handle. His fingers felt weak and unconnected with his mind, more vegetable than flesh, but somehow the door was open, the belt released and he swung his legs out of the car.

An overtaking cyclist had to swerve sharply to avoid collision. She went on her way, swearing over her shoulder. Pascoe paid no heed. He forced his head between his knees and drew in great ragged breaths.

After a while he managed to get some rhythm into his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth, long, slow inhalations and exhalations. His heart too was slowing, his salivary glands resumed a limited service, and his hands began to feel less like a bunch of radishes bound loosely to his wrists. When strength returned to his legs, he stood up and walked unsteadily around the car. He forced himself to think about his lecture to the cadets, what he should have told them about criminal investigation, what he shouldn't have wasted time telling them. The sun was pleasantly warm on his skin, the air tasted good. At last he felt able to get back in and drive away. But he didn't let his gaze drift up to the skyline again. A mile away, a van was backing into Pascoe's spot in the HQ car park. The driver got out and went into the building. Sergeant George Broomfield on the desk said, 'Can I help you?' 'Why not? Sergeant Proctor, South Thames. I'm with Mr Hiller's mob. Got some gear outside in the van. Any chance of a lift?' His cockney chirpiness grated on Broomfield's ear, which would have surprised Proctor who came from Ruislip. 'Doubt it,' he said. 'Not for a while, any road. I don't think I've got a body free.'