Death Comes for the Fat Man (6 page)

“So when can I go home?” said Pascoe. “I feel fi ne.”

It was almost true. The anxiety caused by the news about Fat Andy, the relief at hearing they’d got him back, and the pleasure of having Ellie sitting on his bed had seemed to combine as a sort of tonic. John Sowden ought to be showering praise on him for his resilience rather than pursing his lips.

“Let’s see how you are in a couple of days,” said the doctor dismissively. “Ellie, nice to see you again. Make sure he behaves himself.”

He went out.

“John ought to brush up his bedside manner, don’t you reckon?”

said Pascoe.

“I think he’s a bit worried there may be some delayed emotional reaction,” said Ellie carefully.

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 39

“He’s been talking to you, has he? Don’t tell me he actually used those tired old words
post-traumatic stress disorder
!” Pascoe laughed harshly. “Listen, if ever I start feeling sorry for myself, I just have to think of Andy lying up there in a coma.”

Ellie took his hand and squeezed it.

“I know, I know,” she said. “I often wished the earth would open up and swallow the fat bastard, but it’s almost impossible to imagine a world without Andy, isn’t it?”

“Not almost,” said Pascoe. “You said you’d seen Cap. How’s she taking it?”

“Hard to say. She once told me that the only worthwhile thing she learned at St. Dot’s Academy was to deal with crisis and catastrophe by not letting it mark your upper crust. While us plebs scream and shout and run about, people of Cap’s class maintain an even keel and look to the practicalities.”

Pascoe smiled at
us plebs.
Ellie’s family were irremediably petit bourgeois despite all her efforts to downgrade them to acquire street cred in the class war. By contrast Cap Marvell, while making no effort to deny her upper class background and education, had been much more successful in her efforts to disoblige her old connections. Having a secret weapon like Andy Dalziel you could produce at will can’t have been a disadvantage either.

Pascoe liked her in a cautious kind of way. She was good for Dalziel emotionally and intellectually and, one presumed, physically, but her readiness to strain the law in pursuit of her animal rights causes was a ticking bomb for a working cop. On the other hand it struck him as one of God’s better jokes that after many years of heavy-handed jesting about Ellie’s unbecoming behavior as a political activist, Dalziel should find himself hoist with the same petard.

“What are you grinning at?” demanded Ellie.

“Just smiling with pleasure at having you here,” he said.

“I hope so. I can’t stay long. Rosie’s rehearsal finishes at seven.”

Pascoe shuddered. Public performances by the school orchestra in which his daughter played the clarinet were bad enough. He couldn’t bear to think what a rehearsal must sound like.

“Didn’t she want to visit me?” he asked plaintively.

40 r e g i n a l d h i l l

“Of course she did. But no point in traumatizing the kid. I wanted to be sure you weren’t going to be too much of a shock to the system so I told her the hospital had banned child visits till tomorrow.”

“I’ll be coming home tomorrow,” protested Pascoe. “I really do feel fine, no matter what the amateur psychiatrists say.”

“Let’s wait and see what John says,” said Ellie. “They may need to do more tests.”

“You know me,” said Pascoe confidently. “Show me a test, I sail through it.”

“Yeah? Well let’s try this one,” said Ellie.

She leaned forward and kissed him long and hard, at the same time slipping her hand beneath the bedsheet.

After about thirty seconds she pulled back and said, “Yes, you seem to be making fi rm progress.”

“Better than you imagine,” said Pascoe rather hoarsely. “Test me again.”

“I think once is enough at this stage in your convalescence,” she said primly.

“You reckon? Do you think the NHS trains its nurses in this technique?”

“Yes, but you need private insurance for that. By the way, that nice matronly woman with the Scottish accent, who is she exactly?”

“Sandy Glenister? She’s a Chief Super from the antiterrorist unit.”

“I thought that’s what she said, but I wasn’t paying too much attention.”

“So what did you talk about?”

“I don’t know. You I suppose.”

“Me?” said Pascoe, alarmed. “What did you tell her?”

“What do you think I told her?” retorted Ellie indignantly. “Where you’ve stashed all that drug money you’ve stolen? I was upset, believe it or not, and she was kind.”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” said Pascoe placatingly. “She does seem very kind.

All the same, better check your purse and change your PINs.”

Ellie smiled the smile of a woman confident that no one of either sex could sweet-talk her out of anything she didn’t want to give.

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 41

“I’d better go,” she said, looking at her watch. “Last time I was late picking Rosie up from rehearsal, I found her sitting on the school wall, playing her clarinet. There was some change on the ground in front of her, but I suspect she’d put it there herself.”

“Pity,” said Pascoe. “Nice if she could be self-supporting. Give her my love. And tell her I’ll see her tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Pete, what shall I tell her about Andy? I think she needs to know how bad things are, just in case . . . ”

“In case what?” snapped Pascoe. “Sorry. Tell her the truth, that’s what we’ve always tried, isn’t it? But keep it cool, yes?”

“Sure,” she said. “By the way, they gave me what was left of your clothes. I went through your trouser pockets before I dumped them.

Found a dental plate.”

“It’s Andy’s,” he said. “Clean it up, will you? He’ll want it when . . . ”

His voice creaked into silence.

“I’ll clean it,” said Ellie, stooping to kiss him. “Now I’ve got to dash.

But you won’t be lonely. I think I spotted another visitor lurking.”

She grinned as she spoke and a few moments later Pascoe realized why. The door slowly opened and a dolorous visage appeared, its brow puckered with uncertainty, like a sheep contemplating a gap in the hedge which separated its field from a busy motorway.

“Hector,” he said. “Nice of you to visit. Or are you just looking for the lavatory?”

He was surprised to hear himself make the joke. Usually he made a conscious effort not to join in the friendly piss-taking which Hector provoked among his colleagues.

Maybe somewhere deep inside, or not so deep, I blame him, he thought. If it hadn’t been for Hector, none of this would have started.

Or if someone else had started it, then perhaps Dalziel would have taken it more seriously. Or . . .

He pushed the thoughts aside and forced a smile.

“Come in then,” he said. “Have a seat.”

Slowly Hector advanced. Like many lanky men, he walked with his head held low and thrust forward, as if to distract attention from his height. At moments of maximum uncertainty, which were many, the pos-42 r e g i n a l d h i l l

ture was so exaggerated that he put Pascoe in mind of those men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders, which Desdemona seemed to find a turn-on. Dalziel, less literary but in his own way just as poetic, had once said to him, “For God’s sake straighten thyself up, lad. You look like someone’s hung your tunic on a coat hanger with you still in it!”

Perched on the edge of the chair he stared fixedly at Pascoe.

“So,” said Pascoe heartily. “And how are things down at the factory?

I mean the Station. The Police Station.”

It was well to be precise in your intercourse with Hector.

“OK,” said Hector. “I mean, everyone’s dead worried about you and Mr. Dalziel, but.”

“Are they? Well, you can tell them I’m doing fine. And the Super, well, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

There followed a long silence and Pascoe was thinking about bringing the visit to an end with a plea of fatigue when Hector burst out, “Is it true he’s going to die, sir?”

“I hope not,” said Pascoe, touched by the degree of concern shown.

“But I’m afraid he is very ill. Look, Hector, you shouldn’t blame yourself . . . ”

“Blame who, sir?” said Hector, screwing up his eyes in the effort of concentration.

Whoops, thought Pascoe. Got that wrong, didn’t I? Whatever’s bothering Hector, it’s not a sense of guilt.

“Blame anyone,” he said. “It’s no one’s fault. Just one of those awful things that can happen to anyone.”

Hector nodded vigorously, very much at home with the concept of awful things that could happen to anyone but which for some reason were more likely to happen to him.

“I gather you’ve been talking to Mrs. Glenister,” Pascoe went on; then, observing a familiar blankness spreading across Hector’s face, he added “Detective Superintendent Glenister from the antiterrorism unit.”

“Glenister?” said Hector. “Joker said her name were Sinister. Her who speaks funny?”

Deafness clearly hadn’t affected Constable Jennison’s love of a laugh, thought Pascoe, for which he supposed they ought to be grateful.

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 43

“Yes, she does. It’s called a Scottish accent. That’s Mrs. Glenister all right. I hope you were able to help her.”

“Oh yes,” said Hector, very positive. “Kept on asking about the men I saw in the shop. Asking and asking. I started getting a bit confused but Mrs. Sinister—sorry—Mrs. Glenister said not to worry as the men I saw must have got blown up anyway. Then she helped me with my report.”

“That was nice of her,” said Pascoe. “And it’s nice of you to come visiting. But I’m a bit tired now, Hector . . . ”

He paused and started counting to fifty. Dropping a hint to Hector was like turning on an old-fashioned wireless. You had to wait for the tubes to warm up.

At forty-six, Hector stood up and said, “I’d best be going.”

He took a step toward the door then turned back.

“Nearly forgot,” he said. “Brought you this.”

Out of the depths of his tunic jacket he took a paper bag which he placed carefully on the bedside locker. Then he set off again, this time reaching the door before he halted once more.

“Sir,” he said. “I hope Mr. Dalziel doesn’t die. He’s been very good to me.”

Then he was gone leaving Pascoe only a little less amazed than he would have been if the angel Gabriel had popped in to tell him he’d been chosen to have a baby.

He settled back into his pillows to contemplate the nature of the Fat Man’s goodness towards Hector, noticed the paper bag on his locker, reached out and picked it up.

It contained, rather squashed but not beyond recognition, a custard tart.

“Oh shit,” said Pascoe.

And suddenly, for some reason beyond reason, the barrier he’d been erecting both consciously and unconsciously between himself and the events in Mill Street crumbled like the walls of number 3, and when the nurse looked in to check that all was well, she found him with his face buried in his pillow, sobbing convulsively.

QPART TWO

The Days that we can spare

Are those a Function die

Or Friend or Nature—stranded then

In our Economy

Our Estimates a Scheme—

Our Ultimates a Sham—

We let go all of Time without

Arithmetic of him—

— E M I LY D I C K I N S O N ,

“ T H E D AY S T H AT W E CA N S PA R E ”

( P O E M 1 1 8 4 )

1

A T I D Y D E S K

On the third day, there were many in Mid-Yorkshire not normally noted for their religious fervor who would have been unsurprised to hear that Dalziel had taken up his hospital bed, hurled it out of the window, and walked away.

But in an age of digital TV and mobile phones, commonplace miracles have gone out of fashion, so the day dawned and departed with the Fat Man still comatose.

Pascoe on the other hand did manage to rise and limp away, not through divine intervention, but by dint of nagging Dr. John Sowden into discharging him, though only on the strict understanding that he took a minimum of seven days’ convalescent leave.

On his second day home he announced his intention of dropping in at work to see how things were going.

Ellie’s objections were forceful in expression and wide in range, starting with medical diagnostics and ending with reflections on his mental stability. When she paused for breath, Pascoe said, “You’re absolutely right, love. About everything. Only, I feel that here at home, I’m not pulling for Andy. I know it’s daft, and me going back to work isn’t going to make the slightest difference. But somehow it feels like it might.”

Ellie said, “You and your daughter, you’re both mad. But you’d better go. It’s going to be bad enough if the fat bastard dies without you feeling personally responsible.”

In her mind, Ellie had already given up on Dalziel and was gathering her strength to deal with the aftermath of his death. She did not doubt it would be traumatic, like losing a . . . Here her imagination failed her. Like losing a what? No human simile fit. Humans went. It d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 47

was their nature. You grieved. You got on with living. But Dalziel, when he went it would be like losing a mountain. Every time you saw the space where it had been, you’d be reminded nothing was forever, that even the very majesty of nature was only smoke and mirrors.

If anything she was more worried about her daughter than her husband. Peter knew that his reaction was daft. OK, he still went ahead, but he knew. Rosie by contrast had reacted to the news of Uncle Andy’s coma with apparent indifference. When Ellie had gently tried to make sure she understood the seriousness of the situation, she had reversed the roles and with the patience of mature experience addressing childish uncertainty replied, “Uncle Andy will wake up when he wants to, don’t you see?”

Ellie had promised herself when Rosie was born that she would never be anything but completely honest with her daughter. Often her resolution had been strained close to the breaking point but she’d always tried. Now she nodded and said, “Let’s hope so, love. Let’s hope so. But he is very ill and we’ve got to face it, maybe he’s so ill that he wouldn’t want to wake up, and he’ll just die. I’m sorry.”