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

He opened his eyes and Ellie was there.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Pete, how are you?’

‘Fine, fine,’ he said.

He blinked once and her hair turned gingery as she aged ten years and put on a Scottish accent.

‘Mr Pascoe. Sandy Glenister. Feel up to a wee chat?’

‘Not with you,’ said Pascoe. ‘Sod off.’

He blinked again and the face rearranged itself into something like a Toby jug whose glaze had gone wrong.

‘Wieldy,’ said Pascoe. ‘Where’s Ellie?’

‘At home making Rosie’s tea, I expect. She’ll be back later. How are you doing?’

‘I’m fine. What am I doing here? Oh shit.’

Wield saw Pascoe’s face spasm with remembered pain as he answered his own question.

‘Andy, how’s Andy?’ he demanded, trying to push himself upright.

Wield pressed the button which raised the back of the bed by thirty degrees.

‘Intensive Care,’ he said. ‘He’s not come round yet.’

‘Well, what do they expect?’ demanded Pascoe. ‘It’s only been .. a couple of hours?’

His assertion turned to interrogation as he realized he’d no idea of the time.

‘Twenty-four,’ said Wield. ‘A bit more. It’s four o’clock, Tuesday afternoon.’

‘As long as that? What’s the damage?’

‘With Andy? Broken leg, broken arm, several cracked ribs, some second-degree burns, multiple contusions and lacerations from the blast, loss of blood, ruptured spleen, other internal damage whose extent isn’t yet apparent—’

‘So, nothing really serious then,’ interrupted Pascoe.

Wield smiled faintly and said, ‘No, not for Andy. But till he wakes up…’

He left the sentence unfinished.

‘Twenty-four hours is nothing,’ said Pascoe. ‘Look at me.’

‘You’ve been back with us a lot longer than that,’ said Wield. ‘Bit woozu maybe with all the shit they pumped into you, but making sense mostly. You don’t think Ellie would have taken off if you’d still been comatose?’

‘I’ve spoken with Ellie then?’

‘Aye. Don’t you remember?’

‘I think I recall saying hi.’

‘Is that all? You’d best hope you didn’t make a deathbed confession,’ said Wield.

‘And there was someone else—ginger hair, Scots accent, maybe the matron. Or did I dream that?’

‘No. That would be Chief Superintendent Glenister from CAT. I was there when she turned up.’

‘You were? Did I say much to her?’

‘Apart from “sod off”, you mean? No. That was it.’

‘Oh hell,’ said Pascoe.

‘Not to worry. She didn’t take offence. In fact, she’s sitting outside in the waiting room. You’ve not asked what’s wrong with you.’

‘With me?’ said Pascoe. ‘Good point. Why am I in here? I feel fine.’

‘Just wait till the shit wears off,’ said Wield. ‘But they reckon you were lucky. Contusions, abrasions, few muscle tears, twisted knee, couple of cracked ribs, concussion. Could have been a lot worse.’

‘Would have been if I hadn’t had Andy in front of me,’ said Pascoe grimly. ‘What about Jennison and Maycock?’

‘Joker reckons he’s gone deaf but his mates say he were always a bit hard of hearing when it came to his round. Their cars are a write-off though. Andy’s too.’

‘What about Number 3? Was there anyone in there?’

‘I’m afraid so. Three bodies, they reckon. At least. They’re still trying to put them together. No more detail. The CAT lads are going over the wreckage with a fine-tooth comb, and they’re not saying much to anyone—and that includes us. Of course, they’ve got a key witness.’

‘Have they? Oh God. You mean Hector?’

‘Right. Glenister spent an hour or so with him. Came out looking punch-drunk.’

‘Hector did?’

‘No. He always looks punch drunk. I mean Glenister. I’d best let her know you’re sitting up and taking notice.’

‘Fine. Wieldy, do a check on Andy, will you? You know what they’re like in these places, getting good info’s harder than getting your dinner wine properly chambré. ’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Wield. ‘Take care.’

He left and Pascoe eased himself properly upright in the bed, trying to assess what he really felt like. There didn’t seem to be many parts of his body which didn’t give a retaliatory twinge when provoked, but, ribs apart, nothing that threatened much beyond discomfort. He wondered if he could get out of bed without assistance. He had got himself sitting upright and was pushing the bed sheet off his legs preparatory to swinging them round when the door opened and the ginger woman came in.

‘Glad to see you’re feeling better, Peter,’ she said, ‘but I think you should stay put a wee while longer. Or was it a bed pan you wanted?’

‘No, I’m fine,’ said Pascoe, pulling the sheet back up.

‘That’s OK then. Glenister. Chief Super. Combined Anti-Terrorism unit. We met briefly earlier, you probably don’t remember.’

‘Vaguely, ma’am,’ said Pascoe. ‘In fact I seem to recall being a bit rude…’

Glenister said, ‘Think nothing of it. Rudeness is good, it needs a working mind to be rude. I’d just been interviewing Constable Hector for the second time. I couldn’t believe the first, but it didn’t get any better. Is it just shock, or is that poor laddie always as unforthcoming?’

‘Expressing himself isn’t his strongest point,’ said Pascoe.

‘So you’re saying that what I’ve got out of him is probably as much as I’m likely to get?’ said Glenister. ‘His descriptions of the men he saw are, to say the least, sketchy.’

‘He does his best,’ said Pascoe defensively. ‘Anyway, surely it’ll be DNA, fingerprints, dental records, that are going to identify the poor devils in there?’

‘Aye, we should be able to find enough of them for that,’ said Glenister.

She was mid to late forties, Pascoe guessed, full figured to the point where she fitted her tweed suit comfortably but if she didn’t cut down on the deep-fried Mars Bars, she’d soon have to upsize. She had a pleasant friendly smile which lit up her round slightly weather-beaten face and put a sparkle into her soft brown eyes. If she’d been a doctor he would have felt immensely reassured.

Pascoe said, ‘You’ll want to debrief me, ma’am.’

Glenister smiled.

‘Debrief? I see you’re very with it here in Mid-Yorkshire. Me, I’m too old a parrot to learn new jargon. A full written report would be nice when you’re up to it. All I want now is a wee preliminary chat.’

She pulled a chair up to the bedside, sat down, produced a mini-cassette recorder from the shoulder bag she was carrying, and switched it on.

‘In your own words, Peter. All right to call you Peter? My friends call me Sandy.’

Trying to work out if this were an invitation or a warning, Pascoe launched into an account of his part in the incident, with some judicious editing, in the interest of clarity and brevity he told himself.

‘That’s good,’ said Glenister, nodding approval. ‘Succinct, to the point. Just what I need for the record.’

She pressed the off button on the recorder, sat back in her chair and took a tube of Smarties out of her shoulder bag.

‘Help yourself,’ she said. ‘So long as it’s not blue.’

‘No thanks,’ said Pascoe.

‘Wise man,’ she said. ‘I started on the sweeties when I stopped the ciggies. When I realized five bars of fruit-and-nut a day were going to kill me as surely as forty fags, I tried to go cold turkey and that nearly had me back on the nicotine. Now I treat myself to a Smartie whenever the urge comes on. Just the one. Except if it’s a blue one. Then I can have another. God knows what I’ll do now they’re stopping the blue ones.’