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

She gave him that attractive smile, mocking herself. She really should have been a doctor, thought Peter. With a bedside manner like this, she could have sold urine samples at a guinea a bottle.

‘Now let’s stray off the record, Peter,’ she said, popping one of the tiny sweets into her mouth (a yellow one, he noticed) and settling herself more comfortably into her chair. ‘Just you and me. Thoughts and impressions this time. And maybe just a wee bit more detail. For a start, why were you really there?’

‘I told you. Inspector Ireland rang me and I went to assist.’

‘And why did Paddy Ireland ring you?’

‘Because of my negotiating experience, I suppose,’ said Pascoe. But even as he spoke he was registering the Paddy as a gentle reminder that Glenister had already interviewed the inspector.

‘And because I think he felt that, as the video shop had been flagged by you people, Mr Dalziel might be grateful for some assistance,’ he added.

‘And was he?’

‘I think so.’

‘But he hadn’t contacted you himself?’

‘He wouldn’t care to disturb me on my day off,’ said Pascoe.

‘A most considerate man then. I gather he even offered to obtain refreshment for the people inside Number 3.’

So she knew about the bit of knockabout with the bullhorn. Hector. Or Jennison. Or Maycock. Why wouldn’t they describe exactly what had happened? Even if they’d tried to play it down, they’d have been easy meat for this bedside manner.

He said, ‘Yes, Mr Dalziel did try to make contact with anyone who might be inside the shop.’

‘Who “might” be? You had doubts?’

‘Our information seemed a bit vague.’

‘Vague? Not quite with you there. Foot patrol sees an armed man in Number 3. Reports it to the car-patrol officers who pass it on to the duty inspector who alerts the station commander. Don’t see where the vagueness lies. All by the book so far.’

‘Yes, and that’s the way it continued,’ said Pascoe firmly. ‘Knowing that the property was flagged, Mr Dalziel made sure your people were alerted then proceeded to Mill Street as instructed.’

‘As instructed?’ Glenister chuckled.

Chuckling was a dying art, thought Pascoe; genuine chuckling that was, not just that pretence of suppressed mirth which politicians still use to make or, more often, avoid a point. But Glenister’s chuckle was the real McCoy.

‘My understanding of his instructions,’ continued the superintendent, ‘is that he was told to withdraw any police vehicles from Mill Street, establish blocks at its ends, maintain observation from a distance, and make no attempt to approach Number 3. Which bit of his instructions would you say Mr Dalziel followed, Peter?’

‘I don’t know because I’ve only your say-so that that’s what they were,’ retorted Pascoe, consigning to the recycle bin what the Fat Man had told him as they squatted behind the car. ‘But, if we’re portioning out responsibility, what I’m certain your instructions didn’t contain was any reference to the fact that there was enough explosive in the place to blow up the whole bloody terrace! But I guess you didn’t know that, else why would it only have a bottom-level flagging?’

Glenister shook her head and said sadly, ‘You’re so right, Peter. We should have known that. But you’re completely wrong if you think I’m here to offload blame. Wrists will be slapped at CAT, have no fear. If your Mr Dalziel got it wrong, then we got it wrong just as much, and he’s paid a far higher price. I hope he comes through but the signs aren’t good. So the only person I’ve got who can give me a close-up account of what took place is you. All I want is to be absolutely sure about everything you saw during your time outside Number 3 Mill Street.’

‘That’s easy,’ said Pascoe. ‘From my arrival to the explosion, I saw absolutely no sign of life in the house, or anywhere else in the terrace. Full stop.’

‘Fine, that’s good enough for me,’ said Glenister, standing up and offering her hand. ‘We’ll talk again when you’re back on your feet. I hope that will be very soon.’

‘But can’t you tell me what you think happened in there?’ demanded Pascoe, holding on to the hand.

Glenister hesitated, then said, ‘Why not? I hear you’re a discreet man. In fact you might turn vain if you knew how highly you’re rated. Quite the blue Smartie yourself.’

She smiled at her joke. Pascoe gave her a token flicker and said, ‘So?’

‘We had the shop flagged as a meeting place, at best a casual message centre, for a group who showed little inclination to move from dialectic to destruction. At some time in the past few days a decision must have been taken to upgrade it to a storehouse for explosive in preparation for an event. We had some non-specific intelligence that something big was being planned in the north.’

‘Like blowing up Mill Street?’ said Pascoe incredulously. ‘Not exactly the Houses of Parliament, is it?’

‘I said Number 3 was just the storehouse,’ said Glenister. ‘Though it won’t have escaped your notice that the terrace backs on to the embankment carrying the main London line, and your fair city is being honoured with a royal visit the week after next. Be that as it may, suddenly there is a large quantity of explosive on site, harmless enough when being handled by experts. But, as I say, the group who had hitherto made use of the shop were anything but experts. Your Constable Hector disturbed them, your Mr Dalziel made them panic. Perhaps they were simply trying to conceal the explosive more thoroughly and something went wrong. Or perhaps when they saw you and Mr Dalziel moving forward, they weighed a long night in an interview room with you against an eternity in Paradise with a martyr’s promised houris. Either way, boom!’

She gently disengaged her hand, which Pascoe now realized he’d been clinging on to like an ancient mariner eager for a chat.

‘You take care of yourself now, Peter,’ said Glenister. ‘The Force can’t spare its blue Smarties in these troubled times. I hope you’re back at work really soon.’

She went out of the room. Pascoe stared at the closed door for a while, then shoved back the sheet and swung his legs on to the floor. He was surprised to find how weak this simple movement left him and he was still sitting on the bed, nerving himself to test his knee, when Wield came in.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ demanded the sergeant.

‘I’m going to see Andy.’

‘Not now you’re not,’ said Wield.

Something in his tone alerted Pascoe that the sergeant wasn’t just coming the nurse-substitute.

‘Why? What’s happened?’ he demanded.

‘I asked the ward sister to check how Andy was doing in Intensive Care,’ said Wield. ‘She was talking to someone there when all hell broke loose at the other end of the phone. Pete, his heart stopped. They’ve got the crash team working on him now, but from what the sister said, it’s not looking good. Pete, we need to face it. This could be the end for Fat Andy.’

Andy Dalziel is in the Mecca Ballroom, locked in a tango with Tottie Truman from Donny.

He feels as light as a feather. His feet hardly seem to be in contact with the floor, his muscles responding to every modulation of the music as if the notes were vibrating along his arteries rather than through his ears. And he can feel the blood pulsing through Tottie’s veins in a perfect counterpoint to his own rhythms as they move inexorably towards that blissfully explosive moment of complete fusion…

But not on the dance floor! It’s all a question of timing. In search of delay, he makes his mind step back and take in his surroundings.