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

They were attaching all kinds of bits and pieces to the Fat Man. But not, so far as Pascoe could see, a crane. They’d need a crane. And a sling. This was a beached whale they were dealing with and it would take more than the puny efforts of half a dozen men to bear him back to the life-supporting sea. He tried to say this but couldn’t get the words out. Didn’t matter. Somehow these supermen were proving him wrong and managing to get Dalziel on to a stretcher. Pascoe closed his eyes in relief. When he opened them again he found he was looking up at the sky and moving. For a second he thought he was back on his hammock in his garden. Then he realized he too was on a stretcher.

He raised his head to protest that this was unnecessary. The effort made him realize it probably was. Ahead he could see an ambulance. Beside it stood an all too familiar figure.

Hector, the author of all their woes, his face a cartoonist’s dream of uncomprehending consternation.

As the medics slid the stretcher into the vehicle, he held out both his hands towards Pascoe. In them were two paper bags, partially open to reveal a pair of mutton pasties and an almond slice.

‘Sir, I’m sorry, but they were out of custards…’ he stuttered.

‘Not my lucky day then,’ whispered Peter Pascoe. ‘Not my lucky day.’

Andre de Montbard, Knight of the Temple and right-hand man to Hugh de Payens, the Order’s Grand Master, was fishing in the dull canal at the far end of Charter Parker. He sat on a canvas stool, his back against a plane tree, his rod resting on a fork made from a wire coat-hanger. The sun had vanished behind the warehouses on the opposite bank but the air was still warm and the sky still blue, though darkening towards indigo from the azure of the afternoon. His float bobbed in the wake of a passing long boat and the helmsman gave a half apologetic wave.

A man walking his dog paused and said, ‘Anything biting?’

‘I think I felt a midge.’

‘Oh aye? Just wait half an hour and you’ll need a mask. Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

As the man moved away, he passed the two Geoffreys strolling slowly along the tow path. Geoffrey O stooped to pat the dog but Geoffrey B didn’t look in the mood for chit-chat. As well as the shared name, they both wore black pants, trainers and T-shirts. But there any claims to being a matching pair ended, thought Andre. Odd relationship. Shrinks would have a field day with it. Useless twats. What do you call a shrink treading on a land mine? A step in the right direction. Himself, he’d always been an effects man, bugger causes. And the effect here had been to make them ripe for knighthood.

Performance was another thing. Soon as he’d heard things had gone a bit pear-shaped, he’d started anticipating how they’d react.

His guess was, Geoff B headless chicken, Geoff O heartless wolf.

He knew he’d got it right even before Geoff B opened his mouth.

When they reached him, they paused as if to ask how the fish were biting. At least that was the impression Geoff O gave, smiling down at him pleasantly. But Geoff B couldn’t manage a smile. He unslung the small rucksack he was carrying over his shoulder and dropped it by the empty catch basket. As he did so, he brought his face close to Andre’s and hissed with barely controlled anger, ‘What the hell was all that about? A communications post, you said, a bit of gear maybe, but not a fucking powder magazine.’

Andre looked at him steadily till he straightened up.

Then he said, ‘Bad intelligence. It happens. Hugh says sorry. But look on the bright side. It certainly made a bang!’

‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Geoff B. ‘It put two cops in hospital. One of them critical, the news says.’

Andre shrugged and said, ‘My info is the stupid sods were grandstanding. If they’d followed instructions and stood off…’

‘Is that supposed to make me feel better? I’m giving notice, if one of them dies, that’s me finished, understand?’

You’re finished anyway, son, thought Andre. One strike and out. Returned to unit.

Geoff O spoke before he could respond.

‘Was the cop who came into the shop one of those injured?’

Andre flickered an approving smile. No bother there. First rule of combat: be prepared for collateral damage. Can’t get your head round that, might as well stay home.

He said, ‘That would have been tidy, but no, he wasn’t. Seems he hasn’t come up with much of a description, though, so I don’t think we need worry too much about him.’

‘For God’s sake!’ exclaimed Geoff B, determined not to let go of his anger. ‘Is that all you’re concerned about? Whether there was a witness?’

Andre looked at him coldly.

‘Mebbe you’d be more concerned if you’d been the one he clocked,’ he said.

That shut the bugger up. He pressed on, ‘Anyway, the cop showing up didn’t stop you from opting to go ahead, did it?’

In the planning the bugger had needed to act like he was in charge, so now let’s see if he could carry the can.

Geoff O rescued him, saying, ‘I made sure he didn’t get a good look at me.’

‘Course you did. Clever thinking. But sometimes being clever’s not enough. You’ve got to be lucky too. Word is that Constable Hector who wandered into the shop is half a loaf short of a picnic and would have trouble giving a good description of himself. So no problem there. In fact, things could be a lot worse. Mission accomplished, so let’s keep our fingers crossed and hope the cops don’t die.’

Geoff O said, ‘I presume you’re holding back the press release.’

Andre nodded approval of the move from personal feelings to practicalities.

‘Yes. Hugh agrees that a cop on the critical list isn’t what we want associated with our opening statement. Shame. Really starting with a bang that would have been. Still, what me and Archambaud have got planned should to make ‘em sit up and take notice.’

‘Need any help?’ asked Geoff O.

Definitely getting a taste for it, thought Andre. Enthusiasm was good. Impatience might be a problem. Needs watching?

He said, ‘No, it’s sorted. Don’t worry. We’re just starting. Lots of work for an energetic youngster. Just be patient. Good intelligence, careful planning, that’s what makes for successful ops.’

Geoff B snorted incredulously, but that was to be expected. It was Geoff O’s disappointed frown that Andre focused on.

He said, ‘War’s like fishing. Hours of empty fucking tedium punctuated by moments so crowded they burst at the seams. Learn to enjoy the emptiness. Now, I’m going to pack up before these fucking midges chew my face off. I’ll be in touch.’

He rose and began to reel in his line.

Geoff B said, ‘Tell Hugh, if that cop dies, I’m out. I’m serious.’

‘Let’s hope the poor sod makes it then,’ said Andre indifferently. ‘See you.’

The couple started to walk away. Geoffrey O glanced back. Andre gave a conspiratorial wink but got nothing in return.

Didn’t bother him.

What did bother him was the weight of the discarded backpack.

He checked no one was close then opened it.

Like he’d thought, one weapon missing.

He looked after the two Geoffreys. No prize for guessing which one had hung on.

He recalled a training sergeant once saying to him, ‘You’ve earned yourself a big kiss for keenness, a big bollocking for stupidity. Which do you want first, son?’

He smiled, dropped the backpack into his basket, slung it over his shoulder, gathered up the rest of his gear and set off along the tow path.

Peter Pascoe was still having trouble with time.