Reginald Hill - The Death of Dalziel - A Dalziel and Pascoe Novel

‘What do you think I am?’ said Wield, hurt. ‘Anyway, she had to drive down to Nottingham. The Carradice trial’s started and she’s involved.’

‘Involved in the great cock-up, is she?’ said Pascoe not without satisfaction. ‘God, and she’s the one calling the shots in our investigation!’

They drove the rest of the way to their destination in silence except for the excited panting of Tig, who always insisted on having a car window open sufficiently for him to stick his snout out. Basically a terrier, he condescended to treat most humans as equals on condition they fed him, played games to his rules, and took him on adventurous walks, all that is except Rosie Pascoe, whom he had elected Queen of the Universe.

Now as the car came to a halt the little dog tried to squeeze the rest of his body through the narrow gap in his eagerness to explore what to him was new terrain.

‘So here we are,’ said Wield. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘Just take a look,’ said Pascoe. ‘No harm in that, is there?’

They were parked at the end of Mill Street. The rubble of the wrecked terrace had not yet been cleared away and barriers had been set up at either end of the street. A PC Pascoe recognized as a probationer called Andersen regarded them suspiciously till Wield wound down the window and waved.

‘Taking their time, tidying up,’ observed Pascoe. ‘That down to Glenister?’

‘I suppose. But the Council Works Department are still assessing damage to the viaduct wall. Word is it looks OK and they’re starting running trains over it again with a ten miles per hour speed restriction. The diversions were causing absolute chaos.’

‘So bad folk noticed, you mean?’ said Pascoe. ‘What about our royal visitant?’

‘Coming by chopper. What he prefers anyway.’

‘I see the papers are taking it as read that his train was the target,’ said Pascoe.

‘Keeps them happy,’ said Wield. ‘Glenister says she’s keeping an open mind.’

‘So you have been chatting about the case?’ said Pascoe.

‘Like I said, she’s approachable. And the PC in your office is on the CAT network, like she promised.’

‘Very cosy. Have you managed to check how many no-go areas are built in?’

‘Jesus, Pete,’ protested the sergeant. ‘She’s falling over herself to keep us happy. You think I’m going to help matters trying to trip her up? Even if she does hold back a bit, I bet not even Trimble’s got the clearance you need to know all that CAT stuff.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Pascoe shortly. ‘So let’s go and take a look before young Andersen there follows orders and shoots us.’

They got out and went towards the barrier.

Andersen greeted them with a smart salute, then took out his notebook.

‘No need for that,’ said Pascoe smiling. ‘This is sort of unofficial official. Must be a bit boring for you, just hanging around here.’

‘Doesn’t seem much point to it,’ agreed the youngster disconsolately.

‘Not to worry,’ said Pascoe. ‘As long as you’re appreciated where it matters, eh? I’ll have a word with Mr Ireland, see if he can’t find you something a little more testing.’

‘Thanks very much, sir,’ said Andersen, delighted.

‘You really going to start telling Paddy Ireland how he should deploy his men?’ said Wield as they walked towards the ruined terrace.

‘I may suggest diplomatically that there are better ways of nurturing youthful enthusiasm than giving it all the most boring jobs,’ replied Pascoe.

Wield gave a grunt which was in itself a masterpiece of diplomacy, conveying the message You must be out of your tiny mind without getting close to a definably insubordinate phoneme.

Pascoe wasn’t paying attention anyway. He was recalling that day, so close still yet feeling as if it belonged in the historical past, when he’d risen from behind the car and taken those last few steps in the wake of Dalziel.

The wake of Dalziel. Not the best omened of phrases.

He shook it out of his mind and concentrated on the collapsed terrace into which Tig was already plunging with great delight, sending up clouds of white dust.

‘Any traces of asbestos?’ he asked, suddenly alarmed.

‘No, you’re OK,’ said Wield, glancing in a plastic folder. ‘Don’t think expensive fire-retardant materials had much appeal for the guys who built houses like these.’

‘That Jim Lipton’s report you’ve got there?’ said Pascoe.

Lipton was the Chief Fire Officer.

‘That’s right.’

‘What about the CAT stuff? If I know them, they wouldn’t be happy till they got their own experts in to second-guess the local yokel.’

‘Tried to access it, but they’ve got a firewall even Jim ‘ud find it hard to chop down,’ said Wield.

‘So you have been checking!’ said Pascoe, thinking that IT protection that kept Wield out had to be serious gear.

‘Only because I didn’t want to draw attention, this visit being so accidental.’

‘Quite right,’ said Pascoe. ‘So what’s Jim say?’

‘The way this place was built, the blast reduced it to matchwood, which was very handy for the fire. Site of the big bang was definitely Number 3. Relatively small amount of damage to the viaduct wall suggests that if it was their intention to plant the explosive there, they hadn’t yet started their excavation.’

‘Anything on the explosive?’

‘Not from Jim. Not his bag. But it was definitely Semtex.’

‘Your friend Glenister tell you that?’

‘No, I got chatting to one of her officers. Nice lad.’

Pascoe raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Wieldy, I hope you remembered you’re a happily married man.’

The sergeant and his partner, Edwin Digweed, had taken advantage of the new legislation formalizing same-sex relationships soon after it came into force. The Pascoes and Dalziel had attended the ceremony, which was a quiet affair. The party which followed in their local pub, the Morris, was far from quiet, but, rather surprisingly in view of Wield’s profession, neither ceremony nor celebration caused the least ripple of interest in the local media. Surprisingly, that was, to everyone except Pascoe. He’d expressed the hope to Dalziel that, despite the two Eds’ declared determination to live their lives as they wanted, there’d be no intrusive media presence. The Fat Man had replied, ‘Shame. I were looking forward to seeing our Wieldy as Bride of the Month in Mid-Yorkshire Life. But mebbe you’re right. I’ll have a word.’

It was generally believed that if Dalziel had had a word, news of the death of Little Nell would not yet have reached Mid-Yorkshire.

‘Get anything else from this nice lad?’ enquired Pascoe.

‘Nay. Sandy Glenister came along just then and he were off like a linty.’

‘So much for her open sharing policy.’

‘I think you’ve got her wrong,’ said Wield. ‘She answers all my questions, or if she doesn’t, she tells me why. She reckons they were probably setting up a detonator device and something went wrong.’

‘It certainly went wrong for Andy,’ said Pascoe grimly.

‘It started going wrong before that,’ said Wield. ‘It started going wrong when he decided not to follow instructions.’

‘Got that in one of your cosy chats, did you?’ snapped Pascoe.

Wield did not acknowledge the question but after a short silence said gently, ‘Pete, what exactly are we doing here?’

What indeed? thought Pascoe. It was a desolate scene. The hot sunny spell was long gone, the temperature was distinctly unsummerish, clouds scudded overhead on a gusty wind which picked up handfuls of ash and created little dust-devils in the gloomy cleft formed by the looming mill and the railway viaduct. To explain he was here because of some crazy notion that only by finding out exactly what had happened in this place could he hope to keep Andy Dalziel alive would make him sound positively doolally.